#the effort involved i am in awe

[mechanical-sunchild]

I'm vehemently against AI art, and I don't care if it's the 'only way for you to manifest what you look like in therian/kin form' or 'the only way for you to be an artist'. If you use AI for art/post AI art I don't want to be around you. Using your kin/theriotype and/or species dysphoria as an excuse for using it is very narrow minded and ignorant.

#personal post #ok to reblog #I would actually rather only 'almost' have a correct image of my internal self by #my own awful drawings or a picrew I'm given permission to share or #vague images that sorta look right but not from free sources #than use AI art which is full of stolen artwork #if one day AI starts being regulated so only consenting artists are involved I'll change my mind #but until then I don't gaf how pretty that picture is you may as well have just traced some art and called it your own at least that #would require some effort #and before you go off I'm phys disabled can't draw am poor and have 'types that I cannot visualise or draw easily without help too

[7amaspayrollmanager]

I should stop but u know what's really bothering me is that there are people online going "these protests are not helping you're not helping the people of gaza at all with your boycotts they're meaningless" and like linking the website to some peace group in tel Aviv like "these are REAL activists who are making change" and its like- the people of gaza the medics, the journalists, every day people that I follow asked us to protest. And have said that it warms their hearts when they see the protests on their phones with whatever little connection they have. To zionists, the people of Gaza genuinely are not even active voices in the struggle unless they can exploit them if they direct their frustrations towards Hamas as they're starving bc of Israel's siege. That's how awful they are

There is a page on instagram that should have more followers and its @gaza_coalition and its a group of gazans running the page and one of their latest posts is asking people around the world to protest on new years eve. This is late but I'm still going to post this because I am really sick of people just assuming that the hours and effort that palestinians and allies in cities around the world are putting into organizing protests and boycotts for the people of Gaza "don't actually care for Palestinians." As a palestinian get fucked this has been the greatest solidarity we have ever seen on a global stage and the people of gaza need boycotts, need the protests, need the direct action

ID/ Direct your efforts towards organizing demonstrations on New Years Eve, demonstrate in front of American embassies, key decision-making centres, and establishments of involved actors and entities to exert pressure on the United States, its allies, and all those complicit in the ongoing massacres in Gaza.

GLOBAL CALL FOR SOLIDARITY PROTESTING GENOCIDE ON NEW YEAR'S EVE CEASEFIRE NOW OPEN THE RAFAH CROSSING AND LIFT THE BRUTAL SIEGE IMPOSED ON GAZA

After an excruciating 82-day period marred by a genocidal war targeting the Palestinians in Gaza, the Security Council issued a hollow resolution, stripped of any substantive reference to an urgently needed ceasefire, succumbing to American pressure and veto. This cowardly act not only granted lsrael the audacity to persist in its slaughter of Gaza's populace, but it also exposed a reprehensible collusion within the Arab and international community.

Consequently, we vehemently refuse to accept the celebration of the New Year while cannons persist in obliterating families, maiming and killing innocent children. We call to mobilize our collective strength on this momentous occasion, transforming it into a global protest against the unrelenting massacres and their supporters. Since the initial moments of this aggression, the United States, along with its allies in Israel, has fiercely rejected any prospects of a ceasefire.

Many governments have conspired against reaching a ceasefire, perpetuating their historically hostile policies towards Palestinian rights. This culmination of tyranny was exemplified by the article by the Foreign Ministers of Germany and Britain, characterised by insufferable conceit and a gross distortion of facts. The cessation of aggression and the very notion of a ceasefire are derided as a "blow to peace," as if this imaginary concept can only be achieved at the expense of the lives and dignity of our martyred children.

For a brighter future, humanity must unite in the face of this rampant tyranny, a relentless affront to the sanctity of life and the principles of justice.

End ID

[wife-of-all-dilfs]

lionfish, seahorses, and dolphins, oh my! | f. odair

masterlist

anon's request: noo bc i've been thinking about this for a while (all the time) imagine the reader from district 8 who's with finnick always sewing random fish patterns into his clothes or any cloth-related items bc of his district!!!

warnings: just some cutesy fluff, very very mild suggestive themes

notes: i couldn't not write this request it's so cute. very rushed because i've got another fic in the works ;) stay tuned my beautiful readers <3

word count: 800

Finnick would always invite girlfriend!reader to District Four because this man has major attachment issues, so you practically live at his house and are both attached to the hip. And one day he would find this little lionfish embroidered onto the cuff of his favourite sweater, which oddly resembles the colour of his hair.

His first instinct would be to call out to you. "Sweetheart?"

And you would respond with a "Hm?" from another room in the house, sneakily sewing something onto another item of his clothing. He would be curiously inspecting the little creature that had taken up residence on his shirt as he padded through the house to your whereabouts.

Just as he entered the room you were in, he would begin, "Why is there a—"

He'd cut himself short as he looked up and saw you sitting comfortably in a lounge chair, legs tucked beneath your body, a soft, knitted blanket draped over your lap, and a sewing kit lying on the side table. In your hands were a pair of his pants.

One of his eyebrows raised. "You've got my pants."

You looked up to find him standing in the doorway. "I do," you replied.

He took a step closer. "And you're sewing them."

"I am."

Another step. "And there's a fish sewed onto my sweater..."

You simply smiled at him—an adorable proud little smile. God, you looked so cute he genuinely felt to urge to lean down and pinch your cheeks between his fingers, but then he remembered he was your boyfriend, not your grandmother.

"Not that I'm not in absolute awe of your sewing abilities but—" He chuckled, shaking his head— "why?"

You shrugged, piercing a sewing needle through the waistband of the pants in your lap. "You're from District Four; fishes are kind of your thing, are they not? Plus, it's pretty," you said, then your voice lowered to a soft murmur. "Like you."

His stomach fluttered and he almost giggled like a little girl at your words. Once he got close enough, he kneeled beside the chair you were sitting in, watching as your delicate fingers manoeuvred the needle and yarn into the outline of a seahorse. He smiled to himself.

"Do you think I should start weaving clothes for you? Considering your district's all about making clothes and stuff," he said with a smirk.

"Like a dress made out of netting? It wouldn't leave much to the imagination."

"You won't hear this mouth complaining," Finnick said, the image of you walking around the house clad in a black net dress overcoming his mind.

Your cheeks warmed with a horrible blush and you decided to focus your attention entirely on the seahorse in the effort to overcome the sudden lewd thoughts involving his mouth.

Finnick continued watching in amazement as you managed to turn a few colours of yarn into a beautiful seahorse on the waistband of his pants. He wondered how many other pieces of clothing of his you had managed to infiltrate with various sea creatures. When his eyes caught on a bright blob of colour on the underside of the shirt sleeve he was wearing, he smiled, knowing he had gotten his answer.

His gaze flickered back to you, observing the look of concentration on your face as you sewed—the gentle crinkle of your furrowed brows, the subtle curl of your lips, and every now and then, the small twitch of your nose like that of a bunny, the pink of your blush adding to the image.

He couldn't help but prop his folded arms on the arm of the chair, chin resting on his forearms as he shamelessly and blatantly admired the changes in your facial expressions. He noticed as your eyes began to occasionally flicker toward him, your attention increasingly beginning to drift.

A few minutes later, you exhaled a heavy sigh. "You're so distracting."

"You're so adorable," he replied almost dreamily.

There it was again. The humiliating pink flush of your cheeks.

He grinned, humming a quiet laugh as he rose to his feet to plant a kiss on the top of your head.

"Can I make one request?" he asked.

"Perhaps."

His eyes fell to the lionfish on the shirt in his hands, eyes sparkling with child-like joy. "Sew some of these onto your own clothes so we can match."

A wide smile stretched across your lips.

Within the next week, you and Finnick were a giggling mess, sporting matching sweatshirts embroidered with big blue dolphins, each one's blowhole featuring a small red heart just above.

#wife-of-all-dilfs ✍️ #finnick odair #finnick odair x reader #finnick odair x you #finnick odair x fem!reader #finnick odair x oc #finnick odair x y/n #finnick odair imagine #finnick odair fanfic #the hunger games fanfiction #the hunger games #catching fire #mockingjay #mockingjay part 2 #sam claflin

[stealingyourbones]

*slowly shuffles a wooden box of finger bones towards you* so I have two ideas for you

So, what if ghosts like, really screw with video technology, so it all kind of looks corrupted at all times- so when Danny starts recording like a blog of daily like in amity park (maybe as a way to cope with Trauma) and he posts it, maybe people outside of amity could think it’s all just like, an ARG or analog horror- if you want to go with dc/dp here, tim could be trying to solve a nonexistent mystery

For idea two, do you know ab the mystery flesh pit? If you don’t it’s basically an unreality where a gigantic super organism is turned into a National park and it’s then shit down when the organism basically coughs in its sleep and destroys a lot of stuff-( also be warned, there is a lot of body horror involved in this, so if anyone’s sensitive to it maybe don’t look at any content!) so maybe Giant Danny is taking a nap and some villains find the GIANT GHOST TAKING A SLEEP and decide to hook him up to be used as like, a battery or Lazerus pit (if you go the route of his blood being lazerus water) and the heroes get involved trying to figure out what’s happening

oh man that would be so fun. Danny just takes a little school project 10 minute documentary of the town and doesn't think too much of it when he submits it to Youtube so he can send it to his teacher.

A week later and every ARG/Analog Horror nerd on the planet has heard about this brilliantly well produced video called "Amity Park"

Now knowing this, He decides to have some fun. He takes ominous shots of mundane Amity life and splices them between the more normal scenes of himself and his friends having fun and hanging out.

He amps up the uncanny level. Throughout all of his videos, he starts to tell a slightly dramatized version of his life, not the Phantom stuff, but his life as a Fenton.

The whole world watches in awe and delight as this refreshingly new Analog Horror channel posts nearly twice a week with some of the most stunning CGI that they've ever seen. I mean 'c'mon, Sentient food. A child living in the house of two mad scientists who casually mention dismembering and destroying ghosts at the dinner table. An honest to god crazy scientist lab with a massive portal to this 'Ghost Zone' just in their basement?! Yeah, whoever made this has an absolutely incredible imagination. (Some people are even dissing it since this GZ really just feels like a warped version of The Backrooms but it's fine, it's unique enough that it makes up for it.)

------

I am a hoe for any and every topic that Wendigoon talks about in his videos so I very much so know about the Mystery Flesh Pit. (Video is linked but be warned; Benji isn't joking when they say that it's a LOT of body horror.)

I'd like to propose that Danny isn't even on earth, he's on a different planet that has collected his blood and harnessed his core for energy on a massive scale, helping create and produce items that benefit their world greatly.

To Danny, Their mining, harvesting, and energy draining efforts are the equivalent to bacteria moving around his body. He's so massive that this civilization isnt impacting him in the slightest.

The JL get called because this strange planet superorganism is now moving and it's causing the destruction of an entire civilization.

They fly over to the planet and they notice something very very wrong with the shape of the planet.

First and foremost, the two eyes spanning the equivalent width of Texas that stares up at their ship is new.

#sorry if this makes no sense yall im so tired #danny phantom #dp x dc #dc comics #writing prompts #dpxdc #dp x dc prompt #bones replies #benjis-art-and-reblogs #homie i could kiss you ty for somehow mentioning my favorite ARG/funky worldbuilding work of all time

[potionpeddlerpatchy]

word count: 8.3K

paring: Bakugou x fReader

warning(s): oral(f! receiving), dirty talk, tit worship, slow soft sex that turns to rough sex, breeding, creampie. I think that's it, sex after a confession always leads to good fluffy sexy stuff.

authors note: well, this took longer than I was hoping for so I do hope it was worth the wait! I don't typically write Bakugou as I am never confident I can do him justice, but I do know how much everyone loves him (and I too find the dork just a lot of fun) - so to my Bakugou stans I hope I did good enough and I hope you all enjoy a surprisingly long fic of our favorite gremlin~🔮

You had meant to move about a month ago; you had gone through the whole process of finding the right apartment that fits your budget, was in a decent neighborhood, and was close enough to both yours and your friend's place of work. All that effort, months of it, was supposed to accumulate into one big celebratory day where you both moved all your things into your new home.

However, your family had other ideas. And thus, you were a helpless passenger flying between family members as they took their sweet time to say goodbye to you; unable to stop them from milking the melodramatics of your moving to a city so far away for who knows how long.

And your poor friend, who technically now was your roommate, had to move all her things by herself. To settle into a new place, routine, and life in a city also foreign to her, on her own. It was not the plan, but then again when did anything go according to plan for the pair of you? Despite her reassurance otherwise, you still felt awful about your false start.

But it wasn’t all bad. Your family gave you plenty of gifts to help kickstart your new adventure, items that would be more than helpful for living on your own and away from family and their abundance of resources. And your friend became quite friendly with the new neighbor.

Their meet-cute was something you missed while you were away visiting family. How he seemed to come to her rescue while she was struggling to get all her boxes up the four flights of stairs to the apartment - and of course, there was no elevator in the old building - how polite he was, how adamant that he help her out, how strong he was. All of it was something she gushed about to you on the phone that night, and you couldn’t help but giggle along with her.

Of course, it didn’t stop there. It seemed every day that led up to you finally moving into that place with your friend, she was on the phone with you talking about another encounter she had with the new neighbor. How he helped her bring her groceries up, helped her with building some of the new furniture sets you both bought, how he would come by to ensure she was okay - everything and anything. You knew basically all there was to know about the man before your friend even let you know his name.

Though you could understand why.

Kirishima Eijirou was a pro-hero after all, and despite being the friendliest one out there, he did want to uphold a semblance of privacy. It was only a few days before you moved in that you both found out his name and occupation; it was a bit of a surprise, but neither you or your roommate would blab about him to the media. After all, you were neighbors. If his privacy was to be infringed upon, yours would be too.

Besides, you didn't want to ruin the budding relationship that was forming between the two of them. If the media got involved, it would be ruined before it started.  So, you had no problem keeping your lips sealed tightly about it all.

You finally did meet Kirishima when you stumbled up the seemingly endless flights of stairs with your roommate, with the many boxes of your stuff. And you had to admit he was one of the sweetest, most infectiously friendly, men you had ever met in your life - and unlike your roommate, you took full advantage of the help he offered.

From there you got to enjoy the new bliss that was this adventure. Setting up your bedroom; adding decorations to the shared spaces; going grocery shopping for the foods you liked; and the overall fun you found, being in each other's company. This new routine was built of comfort, not the chaos you were previously used to; one you were happy to come home to. Though, that being said, you could never really find time to go out or socialize with your friend - at least not one-on-one anymore.

Kirishima was usually always there, greeting you with that same cheery smile whenever you emerged from your room in the morning to start your day. Whenever you came home from an errand or work, there he was on your couch cuddled up with your roommate. When you answered the door, there he was, greeting you with the same amiable demeanor.  You always returned the smile, always gave happy greetings back - again he was a nice guy - but after a few weeks of seeing him constantly, of becoming the (unwilling) third wheel to this honied new romance with your friend, it started to wear thin.

Bakugou could say the same.

All Kirishima could talk about was his new girlfriend. Bakugou couldn’t even begin to count the number of times he heard of their ‘chance encounter’ as if chance had anything to do with it - they lived next door. Their meeting each other was bound to happen, one way or another. And he couldn’t even begin to count the number of times the plans he made with his best friend were called off last minute for this girl.

It’s not like he wasn’t happy for Kirishima. He was glad to hear that after the hustle and grind that comes from their line of work, his best friend had finally started to date again. The pain caused by lack of privacy, and by lack of time to spend on romance or new relationships, in general, was no small thing. Bakugou knew that pain better than anyone… but this borderline obsessive, lurid behaviour Kirishima had towards his newfound relationship was starting to rub him the wrong way - the puppy love of it all made Bakugou want to gag.

And his best friend's new girlfriend had the worst roommate - bar none.

Bakugou could recall the awful encounter vividly. It was a Friday afternoon. He was on his way to start his evening patrol, walking over to Kirishima’s place as the redhead was to join him. But of course, Kirishima was not there, or at least he was not answering the door. After minutes of pounding and yelling, Bakugou figured the bastard was where he always was, at his girlfriend’s place. Stomping his way over, he barely had a chance to properly knock on the door before you swung it open - the look of utter annoyance and anger in your eyes as you looked up at him was something he would never forget.

“He’s not here.” That was all you said before slamming the door in his face.

Bakugou was never before left so stunned or speechless, at least not by an every day, quirkless, person, and he didn’t like it if the intentional stomping of his heavy boots and the huffing chest was anything to go by. Both Kirishima and his girlfriend got an earful about it when he finally managed to find them.

And to make matters worse, the next time he was to hang out at Kirishima’s place - to relax and unwind with a boy's night out - you were there. What was supposed to be a night getting drinks and letting go of all the stresses of their job turned into a movie night in - as that is what his girlfriend and you had planned, and Kirishima, unsurprisingly, wanted to join - forgoing the original plan, as if it was nothing. Bakugou visibly fumed in the doorway as he debated whether or not to join - with Kirishima convincing him of the latter.

And there he was, sitting on the opposite side of the couch from you, as the large single-use chair he wanted to sit in was occupied by Kirishima and his girlfriend. Bakugou truly wondered if he could resent his friend more than he did at that moment as he stared blankly at the screen before him - not bothering to even pay attention to the movie he was so rudely coerced into seeing. 

As the night neared its end, though, so did the height of that resentment. He watched from the corner of his eye as you scooted yourself a little closer to him; eyes shy and unsure as you gazed at his profile - Bakugou couldn’t help but lift an eyebrow in interest, eyes shifting to you and making you pause your movements.

“I want to apologize for the other day…” your tone was begrudging, he remembered that, as you began to explain your horrible behaviour when you both first met. How you had the worst headache and couldn’t get out of work, and the noise he was making caused you to snap. Bakugou simply shrugged his shoulders in acknowledgment after you were done, but that was all before his eyes moved back to the screen; yours followed suit after another beat with a nod of your head.

You thought maybe he had ignored your apology, given the dismissive way he regarded it, and you could not fault him for that. Nor could you fault his attitude towards you and the situation he was in that night, it was clear he had not wanted to waste his time watching a stupid movie a random stranger had picked out - you certainly didn’t want to if you had the choice. So, you simply chalked it up to him having a rough day and not wanting to deal with you and your silly excuses for your shitty behaviour.

But after that day, whenever he would be looking for Kirishima, you could barely hear his gently rapping at your door or the heavy boots as they walked across the hallway - a far cry from your first encounter.

In fact, most of your interactions with Bakugou were a light year from the initial two you had with him. You knew who he was, it was hard to ignore when his face was almost always plastered in the news or on screens in the city, and given what you could tell he was a bit brutish - standoffish and quick to anger - very much like how he was when you first had the pleasure of meeting him. It was supposedly a part of his charm, but you found nothing charming about it, that was until you extended that olive branch with your apology. The way he spoke to you after that, the softer tone - one that was almost hushed - always surprised you; it almost didn’t fit who he was but somehow you still liked it. You knew he did it because he was worried he might aggravate you, and your possible headache, further but it was the courteousness that made you start to warm up to him.

And Bakugou could say the same. He didn’t want to admit it, but you were fairly sweet - always apologizing when you would have to tell him his friend wasn’t there and giving him a fairly wise suggestion on where they might be; your tone and demeanor soft, always catching him off guard; as every time he knocked on your door he was expecting an incensed tone. And your eyes… Bakugou had always expected them to look cruel, to have the sharp hue they previously had when he first gazed into them. He was always surprised by how gentle they were, looking up at him. They continuously ambushed and captivated him, and he couldn’t stand it. He hated how pretty they were.

And it all just got worse from there.

At least that was how Bakugou saw it at first. He knew you probably did too, given the exhausted, almost fed-up expression you’d share with him whenever the pair of you crossed paths once more, in some shape or form, by the lovestruck pair. 

“I suppose misery loves company, and evidently, we seem to be her favourite kind.” you would murmur to him, in a mirthful tone, with a shrug of your shoulders before diverging paths in a fruitless, and endless, search to find - and subsequently, make sense of, - those lovesick two you call your closest friends. It wasn’t long before you found yourselves being dragged along on all the errands and lunches they had planned; being a forced pair to endure and join in on an afternoon or evening out for whatever they had planned.

“I don’t understand, why do they feel the need to invite us?” You would ask him, voice hushed as you both would walk a few steps behind them to avoid any ire from your complaining.

“As if I would know.” Bakugou scoffed, his ever-present scowl being turned in your direction “Not like I want to spend my free time here being a third party to their lovely bullshit.”

“Fourth party, I was here first” Your quick response would make his scowl soften, as you would smirk up at him; though it was only ever briefly as his gaze always made you shy “Maybe that’s why…”

“Why what?”

“Why they drag us along.” 

“Care to explain?” Bakugou asked, eyebrows furrowing as he regarded your shrugging shoulders.

“You haven’t figured it out? And here I thought you were smart!” 

“You fucking brat.” Bakugou couldn’t help but playfully shove you away, a smile forming on his face as your soft giggles filled the air as you stumbled about to try and regain your footing “Come on, out with it.”

“I think the reason….” You began, trying to keep your voice down once more to avoid suspicion. “I think the reason they drag us along is that they feel bad. It sucks when you're alone around a couple, but it's more tolerable when there is someone else in the same shoes as you.”

“I mean, yeah sure… but why not just leave us alone? Why invite us in the first place?” he asked, eyes fixated on the couple ahead of him as they started to make their way into a popular café; the destination of this trip. 

“Your guess is as good as mine.”

“I guess, misery loves company. And we’re her favourite kind of company” Bakugou shrugged in a manner that was mimicking you.

“Oh, so you do listen to what I say!” You mocked, as you began to walk across the threshold of the café through the door Bakugou had opened “And here I thought nothing I said got through that thick skull of yours.”

Your giggles filled the air again as you felt his hand push at your shoulder causing your feet, and stride, to stumble as you tried once more to regain your balance - his herculean body shoving you away effectively stopping you from entering the café. The adrenaline rush of falling made your laughter even louder when you landed on the pavement; whether you were injured you couldn’t tell, you were too preoccupied at laughing at the man who had now closed to café door on you, watching through the glass as he muttered, with a smile, that you were a ‘fucking brat’.

~

Double dates, would be the most appropriate word for what followed, but you were always hushed and told differently when you would bring that word into play.

“I just want to see you get out of the house, to have some fun!” is what your roommate would defend with each time you griped and groaned at her for being forced into another ‘activity’

“You know, it would be nicer if it was just the two of us,” You’d shoot back, eyes glued to whatever task you were currently doing, knowing her puppy eyes were a weakness of yours. “Kirishima doesn’t always have to be there.”

“But he’s always so busy with his work!” She would pout, using that to her advantage as well, “It’s the only time I get with him! Please? You know how hard it is to find time with the both of you! Can’t you just come along, this will be the last time, I promise!”

She always said that. Always promised that this would be the last time you would be dragged along on another ‘outing’ that they had planned; last time she - they - would combine the need to hang out with a friend and go on a date. You would always sigh and agree to join, despite knowing the truth of the matter at hand, because…. well, she was right. Trying to find time to spare for both your social and romantic lives was difficult when you had to spend most of your time working so you could stay financially afloat.

Besides, you always had company. And Bakugou was slowly starting to prove to be your favourite kind of company.

He made being dragged along from event to event more tolerable. Whether that be having to help pick apples in a local orchard, or having to be a part of the standard photoshoot which followed, Bakugou made everything bearable. You couldn’t help but enjoy his snapbacks at Kirishima when being told to look or pose a certain way. His pained smile in every photo taken made you laugh so hard you could barely breathe.

Hiking and going to Farmer’s markets were tolerable too; you weren’t surprised that Bakugou was good at going uphill in uneven terrain; he was a prohero after all. But you were surprised, and grateful, at how good of a guide he was - always taking the lead so he could warn you of any possibilities to get hurt; lending a hand when needed without any sort of ire or condescension. And Sunday morning market runs turned into less of a chore when being guided to the best stalls, having someone hand pick the best items there, and having them use their fame to get you the best prices.

Traversing the many museums your roommate wanted to go to became quite the respite. Though you were perfectly fine splitting from the lovebirds and exploring on your own, it was nice to have a presence beside you; and you couldn’t deny how surprised you were whenever Bokugou would share with you a fact he knew about many of the exhibits you crossed.

And of course, traveling miles to see the country's largest aquarium was a real treat; one you suspected was a way for your roommate to apologize for always being dragged along to do the things she wanted to do. How you clung to her arm the whole time and dragged her (and the party) excitedly along to each giant tank to point out every marine animal that was housed there - rambling on and on about all you knew. And Bakugou, though he would tease that you were acting like a child, enjoyed seeing the way your face lit up again and again as you rambled on without a care; grateful you were never looking his direction, not knowing if he could live with the embarrassment of you seeing him look at you so softly.

Despite the forced proximity, you found a lot of enjoyment in spending your free time with that hotheaded man. And Bakugou could only agree that you made all these pointless so-called adventures convivial and worth giving interest to.

And those movie nights? The ones which were originally the bane of Bakugou’s existence? He found himself enjoying them the longer he stayed in your semi-forced company. He liked your commentary. He wanted to hear the little facts and details you’d point out as you mumbled into the popcorn you were trying to eat. He especially liked all the quick and smart jokes you would make on the more terrible movies that were chosen, knowing that his evening would actually be entertaining rather than tremendously painful to sit through. Over time, he longed to have you sit closer to him, to have you move from where you always sat at the other end of the plush couch to be right by his side. He yearned to feel your warmth against him, to hear what your whispers would sound like in his ear.

It was right where you belonged. That’s what he thought every time you would lean closer to him in some form or another; whether it was to move out of others' way, or to inform him of whatever thought crossed your mind. It’s where he wanted you to be.

Bakugou didn’t want to admit it, but he knew there was no way to deny it or try and convince himself otherwise, that he was starting to fall in love - or at least as close to love as he had ever experienced before - with you; that what started as him resentfully having to be around you morphed into something he was excited for; something he genuinely longed for.

But of course, his luck in romance was never as strong as it was everywhere else. And that unluckiness took, in this case, the form of his other prohero friends.

It was at the New Year's Party that they all held every year, a small get-together of close friends to celebrate another year together, and this year was Bakugou’s turn to host. And of course, Kirishima was going to bring his girlfriend; everyone was super excited after all to meet her. And Bakugou was hoping, though he would never admit it or ask, that you would be there too.

He couldn’t help the way his eyes lit up when you saw your figure enter his apartment, following behind the couple you came with; as you exclaimed a “Happy New Year!” towards him and the group your eyes were greeted with.

And he couldn’t help the way he bit his lip as his eyes raked over your figure. The outfit you were in, though it was cute - and in line with how you normally dressed - was a little more risque than normal; and he couldn’t help but wonder, all the blood in his body turning hot over the thought of, if you did it for him.

But things started to fall apart when Kaminari and Sero introduced themselves. You spent the whole night giggling and joking with them as if they were old friends. It was something that took Bakugou months to achieve, and yet, somehow, the pair managed to coax all of that out of you so easily. And your attitude, your presentation, was so unlike how you were with him. You were more demure than Bakugou had ever before witnessed. He’d never seen you act so shy, all bashful and blushing. It made his heart hurt and his blood to boil in anger as he watched it all, his whole night ruined by seemingly harmless interactions.

After that, both men started joining you whenever there was an outing - suddenly tables at restaurants were seating six instead of four. And his beloved movie nights, the one time and the chance he had you to himself - to be the only one so close to you -  were infiltrated with two extra bodies that sandwiched themselves between him and you.

He hated how endearing, and appealing, they were; and how it was working on you so effectively. Bakugou wasn’t a stranger to their lovable personalities - they were his closest friends for a reason. It was just, he wanted nothing more than to be the one to make you smile like that, to make and hear you giggle that obnoxious but cute giggle, to tuck your hair behind your ear and have you be unable to look him in the eye after, to have you fall asleep against him whenever the movie nights ran too long. All of it, he wanted to do all of it with you.

But he figured, maybe, he wasn’t the right man. 

Perhaps you were looking for someone more like Kaminari, who was spontaneous, adventurous, and fun-loving; who would take you on endless surprise dates, and have you guess on where it might be - always having it end up being the most fun you ever had. Someone to continuously, unabashedly fawn over you, and make you laugh at the dumbest things.

Or, maybe someone like Sero, who was so effortlessly charming no matter what he did. A partner who can make you both smile so brightly and have a blush burning your cheeks with one simple word. Someone who could make you feel like the most special person in the world with just a touch, who could pull you into a dance at just the right moment. 

Why would you ever want him? The loud, angry, brutish hero everyone saw him as?

Bakugou started to pull away. To slowly stop being a part of the so-called ‘outings’, or helping with errands, or coming by on movie nights. He began to focus all his attention back on his hero work like he did before he met you, to divert all of his time, energy, and focus back on his goal of becoming the best hero he could be, to attempt to erase you and the thoughts of domestic content out of his mind. To try and avoid you at all costs, to spare him the heartbreak you inadvertently caused whenever he looked at you. 

But he couldn’t avoid it forever - he knew that - the inevitability that he would need Kirishima, and subsequently have to go on a hunt to find him was always looming in the back of his mind; how it would ultimately lead to you. Bakugou knew the day would come, and it did, it just took longer than expected. He needed to ask Kirishima if he could cover a patrol shift for a hero who called in sick; and though Bakugou would take it in a heartbeat if he could, to avoid the possibility of you, he was off-field duty until he finished the mountains of paperwork from his last mission  - and he ran out of options.

He walked up to your door, that familiar off-white he had grown used to seeing, and made sure to rapt as gently as he could - like he always had - for your sake, as he waited for an answer; his breath caught in his throat, almost suffocating on the air from the awkward nerves that consumed him which came from showing his face after so long.

“Please don’t let her answer, please not her, please….” he pleaded like a mantra in his mind, but of course it was you, answering the door and greeting him with your usually soft surprise and beautiful eyes.

“Hi stranger, you just missed him.” You mumbled out, body leaning onto the open door you were half hiding behind “He left in a hurry, something about going on patrol to fill for another hero or…. Yeah”

There was a pause, and Bakugou knew you left it for him; knew that you wanted him to say something like a ‘thank you’ or ‘see you later’ or an acknowledgment of his lack of presence, lately. Instead, he began to turn away from you, unable to say anything, or be confronted any longer by your wide, sad eyes. 

“It’s been a while… “ You mumbled, starting the conversation again, not wanting him to leave, “You know… since I last saw you.”

“Yeah, been busy.” Bakugou shrugged, trying to play nonchalant, as he stepped away from your door.

“W-well-!” You blurted, your loud tone startling not only you but Bakugou, causing your head to bow sheepishly  “I-if you’re not busy or anything…. would you, um, like to come and join me for a movie?”

“A movie?” Bakugou asked, a smile briefly twitching on his lips over your behavior and invitation.

“Well, yeah. It’s Friday and normally everyone is either here or at Kiri’s for our usual movie night, but tonight it’s just me. And… and…. I-I’m really hoping you’ll join me…”

You were fiddling with your fingers, a nervous habit you had when you were unsure of something, or wanted something you didn’t know if the other person would want too. And how was Bakugou supposed to say no to that?

“What movie?” He grumbled, trying his best not to be affected by the bright smile that overtook your face as he further pushed through your door to enter your apartment.

“I-I haven’t picked yet, don’t really know what kind of mood I’m in, ya know? You, um, can choose what you like!” The last bit of your sentence was harder to hear as you went into the kitchen to get some more snacks and another drink for your newfound company.

“Where is everyone?” Bakugou asked, plopping down on your couch, as he began to fuss with your remote, and its less-than-responsive connection to your TV, to boot up your streaming service.

“Well… my roomie is out of town to visit her family; it’s her mom’s birthday.” You gave a smile as you began to set the items in your down on your small coffee table.

“What about Sero and Kaminari?”

You paused your motions for a brief moment, not expecting them to be brought up before you shrugged “I’m not sure, I haven’t really seen them much lately either - probably scared them off, you know how I get some days.”

“You’re not that bad.” Bakugou scoffs, trying his best not to be affected by your mirthful smile “What kind of movie do you want? Good or bad?” 

“Uh… a bad one. It's been a tough week and I could use a laugh” You smiled before settling in on the couch beside him and handing him a drink; a bowl of popcorn nestled in your lap.

The silence settled over you both as the movie began to play; the sounds of its action and dialogue broken only by whenever you decided to share some of your commentary on the plot, and tell your jokes, varying degrees of laughs over it all. Before long, Bakugou couldn’t help but join in; as if the month spent apart never happened, and you both fell back into that blissful comfort you had built up, enjoyed, and so grieved in its absence. 

“I missed you.” You whispered out as the movie’s credits began to wash over the screen; it was so faint, yet Bakugou heard it like thunder in his ears, as his bewildered eyes fell on you.

“What?”

“I missed you. Things aren’t really the same, or as fun without you around…” You mumbled a little louder, unable to bring yourself to look at him during your confession; the silence returned, falling upon you, much like the night you first apologized to him - it crushed and consumed you as it did then, causing you to change the subject.

“You wanna watch another one?” You leaned forward to grab the remote, passing it over to him “Cause we can! You can put on one of your favourites, I know you’ve been trying to show some of them to me for a while.”

“Sure.” was all he could muster as he grabbed the control to play yet another movie. Trying his best to not be affected by the leaning of your body into his side once the opening scene began to play.

There was less talking this time, Bakugou knew it was because you were sheepish over your little confession, and his lack of response to it, and just wanted to hide. And he just didn’t know what to say, was never good at easing situations like these. Though after a while the silence became more palatable as you both gazed at the screen ahead. Though that tentative peace was disrupted when your arms snaked between his arm to encase it in a weird sort of hug.

“H-hey!” He didn’t mean to jump, or try and pull away at what you did, but he couldn’t help but be startled by it “What’s this all about, huh?”

“N-nothing, I’m sorry, I’ll just stop…” you began pulling away, and though you tried hard to mask it, the warble in your voice still came through.

“Don’t stop.” Bakugou spoke firmly, fully turning towards you and holding your shoulders to keep you in place so you could hide or run from him “Just tell me why you’re acting like this. Tell me what’s wrong.”

“Nothings wrong!” You began, the tears in your eyes welling and blurring your vision “I just really really missed you, okay?”

“No, not okay! Why are you crying, I doubt you missed me so much over that.”

“I’m… I’m worried you don’t like me anymore… that I did something to make you hate me.”

“I’m not mad at you” Bakugou sighed, shoulders losing all tension as he gazes down at you “Or hate you. Just really busy with hero work right now.”

“That’s not true,” you sniffled, though the firmness in your voice and the stern look in your eyes as you gazed back at him, caused him to almost flinch “That’s not true, and you know it. Hero work didn’t make you suddenly get up and leave one day, didn’t make you just stop wanting to be around me, or talk to me. So, why did you?”

“Because… because… I… I just…” Bakugou began, trying to find the right words but unable to get his tongue to form any of them.

“Bakugou, please, just be honest with me!” You exclaimed, eyes pleading with him to just say anything, trying to push away from him in your anger, but to no avail; his grip on your shoulders just got stronger.

“I like you okay!” He finally managed to blurt out “But of course, you didn’t notice with stupid fucking Kanimari and Sero taking all of your goddamn time lately! And how they began hogging you, how was I supposed to react, huh? Was I supposed to be okay with them being so fucking friendly? To have them make you smile and laugh that stupid laugh yah have and make yah so fucking happy when that’s all I wanted to do! I like yah a lot, but I figured with all of this it meant you didn’t like me back, so I just fucking went away, okay?

“You’re such an idiot.” You whispered after an almost stunned pause, shaking your head as you gazed at him, watching as his chest rose and fell rapidly while he tried to regain his breath.

A giggle bubbled up your throat as you bit your lip to hide the smile crossing your face, eyes still glued to the clueless man in front of you; watching as his brows began to furrow even further in anger over your response. He never did get to voice a syllable of his anger before your lips pressed to his, your hands coming to cup the side of his face to pull him a little closer - a little deeper - into the kiss.

You pulled away far too quickly for Bakugou’s liking as his lips tried to follow yours; you giggled again at him, and he finally opened his eyes to look down at you, his smile mirroring your own when you whispered out “I like you too.”

This time, he kissed you, his smile could be felt against your lips at your confession; overjoyed that his feelings were actually reciprocated. It didn’t take long before the movie was forgotten over the mutual want, and need, to make up for the lost time. Bakugou quickly took control; tilting your head back, cradling your neck, and keeping you in place as he deepened the kiss - taking the lead and dominating it with a satisfied hum.

And how quickly those soft, sweet kisses, with little giggles and murmurs of sweet nothings in between when your lips parted, turned into something headier; heavier as the two of you grew louder. The smacking and sucking of lips as they continuously connected felt frantic as the minutes passed like nothing, saliva coating your chins as you both refused to part - to catch even one breath. Your hands wandered down his chest, pulling him by the soft cotton fabric of his t-shirt to hover over you as you shifted to lay fully down on the soft cushions.

The change in position is what finally snapped Bakugou back into reality, out of his spell your soft lips had lured him into, as he finally pulled away from the kiss; tugging your hair gently to stop you from trying to chase after another as he did his best to dull the burning ache in his lungs.

You weren’t making it easy for him though, arching your back to snuggly press your chest to his as you stared up at him with those lust-filled eyes, making his body grow hot and pants tighten as you begged him to “Please don’t stop.”

“You sure you wanna do that, beautiful?” He masked his shaky, broken, breath with a hum and he nudged his nose with yours. “Think you’re ready for all that?”

“Of course, I am.” Your bottom lip sticking out in a pout “More than ready! Please, Katsu?”

“You’ll be the death of me, you know that?” Bakugou sighs out, lips attacking yours once more as his hands move to hike up your legs so his knee can slide, and rest, between them.

The resulting gasp that leaves your lips when you feel his knee press up against your cunt is met with a chuckle as he begins to travel his hot kisses across your cheeks and down your neck; tongue lavishing the smooth skin he finds there, marring it with small nips and sucks as he calloused hands wandered underneath your sweater; your skin jumping at the newfound friction as he slowly began dragging the fabric upwards and off your body.

Your skin erupted in goosebumps when it met the cold air, though you really couldn’t mind when he followed suit, his gloriously chiseled chest - one you knew took years to build - was before your eyes and at your fingertips. Bakugou allowed you a moment to drink it all in, to get your fill, before nudging your curious hands away in favour of resuming the task at hand.

His lips trailed over your newly exposed, supple flesh, down the valley between your breasts, and inhaling the scent of your skin and his rough palms began to roll and squeeze at your mounds through the soft cotton bra you decorated them in.

It all felt so heavenly, and though your heart swelled at the fact, and thought, that he was willing to go slow for your sake, it just wasn’t enough for you, if the small whimpers and wiggling of your hips were any indication. You needed, craved, more of his touch.

“Katsu, please!” You finally whined, body too hot to lay comfortably still or endure this slow torment anymore. “Stop going so slow, I need more!”

Your complaint ended with a strangled cry as you felt his teeth sink harshly into your hardened nipple, the fabric doing nothing to dull the ache.

“Stop whining…” He grumbled out, voice low as his teeth tug once more at the abused bud, before letting it go “Been waiting a long time for this, and I’m gonna do it right, ya hear? So just lay back and let me do what I want.”

You merely let out a whimper and nod in response, his chuckle and mummer of ‘good girl’ going straight to your core and he continued his adoration of your chest; the latches of your bra finally slacking as he removed the only barrier between your sensitive skin and his warm breath. His lavishing turned more aggressive as he began to nibble, kiss, nip, and tug at the supple flesh - leaving his marks wherever he saw fit - with your moans and mewls spurring him on further.

“What did I say?” Bakugou growled, hands shoving your wiggling hips back down onto the couch.

“I can’t help it!” You sob, hands coming up to tug at his hair in frustration “Just wanna feel more of you, wanna feel you inside, please!”

“God, baby,” He groaned, head ducking down against your chest to try and regain the resolve he just lost; shaking his head after a moment, shushing you with a kiss before you could whine once more,  “Not yet… but promise I’ll make you feel good, give you want you want, okay?” 

Without another word, Bakugou swiftly pulled both your sweats and panties down your leg; baring your bottom half to him and the heady air of the room you were in, kissing one of your calves while settling your legs to sit comfortably on his shoulders. His thumb began tracing up and down your wet folds as he marveled at the sight.

“Such a pretty pussy, baby…” He whispered out, his other thumb joining to spread you open further, enjoying the way your thighs jumped as his hair tickled them as he leaned in close for a better look “So, so, pretty.”

He wasted no further time before confidently swiping his tongue up and down your glistening cunt; relishing in the broken moan you let out when his tongue began circling your clit; all restraint leaving him when your hands tugged at his hair as his lips finally wrapped around your little button, sucking mercilessly.

He was utterly filthy with the way he ravished your cunt, the amount of spit he gathered between his mouth and your pussy as he abused your poor clit with onslaughts of tongue flicking, was obscene as his slurping could be heard over everything else in the room as he tried to taste more of your sweet juices. He watched your pretty head thrash from side to side, and listened to you wail as he dragged his tongue up your fluttering hole, just to shove himself deep inside you.

You were losing your mind to the pleasure, your hips unable to stay still as your moans and cries of pleasure were released unabashedly like a mantra to the gods above; nails digging harshly into the pillows nearby and your lover's scalp as you tried desperately to ground yourself, to little avail, as you begged and whined for him to let you cum.

Your sounds were beautiful, and Bakugou couldn’t deny, they were certainly doing something to his ego, but they were also going straight to his cock, twitching and aching for you, uncontrollably. And if he wanted to avoid a noise complaint, and not cum in his pants like a teenager, he had to do something.

“Stop squirming!” Bakugou groaned, pinning your hips once again within his iron grip “Told you to stop it, you brat”

“M’sorry,” you hiccuped, thighs twitching and squirming over the need to gain some of the lost stimulation “I’m… M’just close, wanna cum.”

“You will, baby,” Bakugou hummed, arm stretching across your body to have his fingers tap at your lip “Open wide, and suck on these like a good girl, okay?”

You do so without a word. Lips part to accept two of his thick digits into your waiting mouth; tongue swirling almost instantly as you hollow your cheeks, he could feel the gentle vibrations of your moans when the pads of his fingers pressed down on your tongue.

“Such a good girl,” Bakugou groaned, the sight alone almost made him come undone, as he leaned back down to continue what you so rudely interrupted.

You did as you were told, sucking so diligently on Bakugou's fingers as he continued to push you over the edge; moaning, though muffled, was constant as you tried to maintain a rhythm. - afraid that he might stop again.

Not that Bakugou would. You were driving him wild, and now he wanted nothing more than to make you cum; first on his face, and then on his cock. Talking between breaths about how pretty your pussy is, how good you were, how he’s gonna stretch you open, all while fucking you with his tongue; his sucking and slurping filling the air in between his words. All this while trying to keep his composure from the sight of your debauched face messily sucking his fingers to keep quiet; feeling your drool run down his wrist. 

It didn’t take long. Bakugou’s words, sinful tongue, and moans against your cunt made your eyes roll to the back of your skull, causing you to let out a strangled cry as your toes curled and thighs twitched - doing their best to crush his head as he continued to slurp and suck your cunt; cleaning you up; hands pinching and squeezing at your hips to try to soothe your shaking body.

“You think you’re ready for more, babygirl?” Bakugou asked voice strained as his hands began frantically fumbling with his belt “Ready for me, baby?”

“Y-yes… ah-!” Your cry ended with a small whimper as you felt Bakugou slap the tip of his cock against your puffy clit

“You sure?” He teased, tone mocking your own as he slots his heavy cock between your folds; chuckling at the way your twitching little hole tries to suck him in “Want me to fuck you?”.

“Yes, please! I want you so bad, only want your cock, want it to fill me up, want it so bad, please!” 

“So fucking needy…” Bakugou cursed, slowly pushing his thick cock head into you, gritting his teeth at just how tight you were for him “But so fucking good.”

His hips meet yours with a snap, causing you to cry out as tears cling to your lashes; not used to the feeling of being so full. His hand, still wet with your drool, pinches your cheeks together slightly to force you to look back at him.

“Eyes on me, got it?” He commands, though gentle in tone, waiting for you to nod your head before pulling out to thrust into you again.

His pace is deliberate, thrusting into you slowly, deeply, hitting every spot that makes you see stars; your mind still a little hazy, and body still too sensitive from the most recent orgasm, as your muscles jump and twitch at every drag of his heavy cock as you cling to him. Moaning his name as your nails dig into his back, watery eyes doing their best to stay on him as your face heats in embarrassment and blood rushes to your ears; barely able to hear the groans that pass his bitten red lips.

Bakugou was relishing, savoring, the feeling of your walls clamping down on him, milking him as he watched those tears threaten to fall from your beautiful eyes as you gaze up at him; your hot breath mingling with his own as your lips brushed his with every heavy thrust in, tempting him to lean down to connect them fully.

As heavenly as it was; you need more, more, more.

“Katsuki, more please!” You sighed, pulling him into a brief kiss to entice him further. When your request was met without change; his pace still agonizingly slow, your lips formed that familiar pout. “Come on Katsu, faster! You said you would fuck me!”

“You want me to fuck you, hah?” Bakugou growled, sitting up to push your legs into your chest, not bothering to care that his nails were digging into your skin “I’ll fuck that pretty little cunt until you’re screaming my name until you’re begging me to cum inside you.”

Each of his words was emphasized by a rough thrust of his hips, each drag of his length against your inner walls so perfect, making your eyes flutter and threaten to shut from the intense pleasure. His muscles rippled from the increased speed as his hips met yours, again and again, making sure his pelvis bullied your clit with each forward motion; cock burying itself even deeper inside you and hitting that spongy spot in your aching cunt that made you gush - soaking his coarse pubic hair and making a mess of you both.

Your cries of his name and tears of pleasure were met with mocking whenever you wailed out that it was too much; his rough tone growled at you to, “take his cock, like the good little brat you are.”

“Yeah, you wanted harder, so you fucking take it.” He snarled, pushing your legs even closer to your chest; lifting you higher as his balls pressed firmly against the curve of your ass; cock buried inside you to the hilt as his tip kisses your cervix. “M’gonna fill you up with my cum, n’you’re gonna keep it all in this sloppy pussy, yeah?”

“Y-yeah…” You mumbled with a nod, eyes glossy as your walls twitch around him.

“Good fuckin girl.” 

His grip tightens as his pace picks up to an even more brutish one, heavy cock bullying its way into you to pound that spongy sweet spot to make you gush and squirm for him. He was so close and wanted nothing more than to feel you sweet cunt milk his cock for all it was worth.

Your eyes finally closed due to the surmounting pleasure and pressure in your core; eyes rolling back once more as your nails raked down his back, leaving angry, red lines in their wake, and causing Bakugou to hiss in pain and pleasure. Wailing out his name one final time before cumming, hard; whimpering in overstimulation of the final few thrusts it took before Bakugou finally filled you up.

The weight of Bakugou’s body was comforting as he lay atop you; peppering kisses along your chest and neck as you both tried to recover from such intense pleasure. You pulled his head from your neck to press your lips to his in a final, and much needed, sweet kiss.

“You okay?” Bakugou whispered, eyes scanning her face for any signs of pain or discomfort, singing in relief when you nodded your head.

“Sorry I made us miss the movie” You giggled breathlessly, turning your head to the TV and watching the credits scroll across the screen.

Bakugou smirks, grinding his hips against yours and making you gasp “We can miss another one if you want.”

#bnha x reader #mha x reader #bnha smut #mha smut #bakugou katuski x reader #bakugou x reader #bakugou katsuki smut #bakugou smut #mha bakugou #bnha bakugou #bnha oneshots #mha oneshot #bakugou x you #🔮.the peddler brews #🔮.potion for bakugou

[yeahxsurexokay13]

so american - mason mount

summary: mason and british singer-songwriter y/n y/l have sparked dating rumours since pretty much the beginning of their friendship. intrigue escalates when fans discover y/n's involvement in olivia rodrigo's new song.

y/n.updates

Liked by fan19 and 1.803 others

y/n.updates Y/n and Mason Mount at the F1 qualifying in Barcelona today via the @/f1 Instagram.

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fan1 it still catches me off guard to see them together

user1 are they dating?

y/n.updates No! Just friends :)

fan2 i thank y/n attending that england match every single day a photo of these two together makes it to the internet

user2 HOW AM I JUST FINDING OUT THESE TWO KNOW EACH OTHER

fan3 Love to see them enjoying themselves. 💖

fan4 idk if I wanna be y/n or mason........ maybe just a fly in the room

y/n.updates

Liked by fan5 and 2.024 others

y/n.updates Mason and his family attended Y/n's charity concert at the O2 yesterday!

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fan1 y/n girl if you won't date him, i will

fan2 I WAS THERE!!! Mase and his sister were so cute dancing and singing along to all of the songs

y/n.updates aw!!! ❤️

fan3 despite their efforts, they're never beating the dating allegations

fan4 This is so heartwarming🥺

fan5 Y/n must be so happy to have Mason and his family supporting her 😊

y/n.y/l

📍 los angeles

Liked by kelseaballerini and 2.019.032 others

y/n.y/l took a small break from the studio yesterday

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fan1 Can't wait to hear what you've been working on!

oliviarodrigo HOT

y/n.y/l NO YOU

fan2 you're so pretty 😍

declanrice Look at you driving on the right

masonmount she's so american

liked by y/n.y/n

fan3 hope you had a fun day off ❤️

fan4 new music soon, hopefully? 🙏🏼

y/n.y/l 🤐🤐

fan5 come back to the UK soon, we miss you😢😭

y/n.updates

Liked by fan22 and 2.301 others

y/n.updates Y/n at Standford Bridge with Mason and some of his teammates after Chelsea's match against Manchester City.

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fan1 did mason dedicate his goal to her?

user2 i don't think he did

fan2 just two pals hanging out after a game....

fan3 I don't buy the 'just friends' story anymore lol

user1 Can't blame fans for shipping them! They would make such a cute couple

user2 what's Kepa looking at?👀

fan4 They keep saying they're not dating, but they're always together 🤣🤣

fan5 at this point, I think they're just messing with us

fan6 i love seeing them support each other 🥹❤️

y/n.updates

Liked by user19 and 2.081 others

y/n.updates Y/n is credited as one of the writers behind Olivia Rodrigo's new song 'So American'!

user1 I had a feeling there was something special about that song

fan1 um guys............

fan2 this is EVERYTHING to me

user2 y/n and olivia together? pure magic

fan3 Can we start a petition for a collaboration?🙏🏼

fan4 IS THIS WHY SHE WENT TO THE US?

y/n.updates not necessarily! She often goes to write and record to the US 😊

fan5 she needs to hurry up and release music of her own 😭😭😭😭😭🙏🏼🙏🏼🙏🏼

#singer!reader #mason mount x reader #mason mount imagine #mason mount smau #social media au #football smau

[thenightfolknetwork]

Hello. I'm, um, not entirely sure how to talk about this. I hope it's okay if I misspeak. I'm a human, right, so I think that needs to be clear more than anything, but I've been very involved in the creature community for years now. I live by a great big lake and I always liked to walk down the shore late at night or early in the morning, you know, just to try and get out of my own head, and one night ages ago I accidentally tripped over someone's jacket and twisted my ankle. It was a gorgeous fur jacket, too, not like any kind of fur I'd seen in a jacket before, but just stunningly soft and thick as Hell.

Now, of course I didn't take it, that'd be awful, but also I had just hurt myself in kind of a nasty way and so it wasn't like I had anything else to do but sit by the shore next to the jacket and waited, and yeah, a few hours later one of the lake seals popped its head out of the water, looked at me for a good long while, and then...well, I mean, you know how the rest of the story goes, I'm sure.

Anyway, it's been a few years now and I've become really close to this family. I didn't really know anyone in my town before meeting them and I'm not on speaking terms with my own folks, so in a lot of ways these people have become my family, and it's an honor that they trust me to keep guard of their cloaks and such when they go out. But I've got this problem, right, and it's just...over the years it's felt less and less like I fit in with other humans. All my friends are nightfolk now, my family hates me even more because they're bigots--in this night and age, can you fucking believe it--and it's just like every night I get further and further away from the shore.

I'm just scared because...I don't *want* to stop drifting away. I've had dreams of joining them down there in the lake, practically every night for months on end. I've tried doing research into methods of joining the community but I don't want to become a vampire, I don't fancy any lunar-aligned nonsense, nothing has felt right except selkies, but I can't decide if I'm just self aware enough that I need a push from an outside viewer to try and accept something I already know full well...or if no, actually, that little voice in my stupid head that won't go away that keeps calling me a fraud, an invader, an appropriator--what if the reason it's not going away is because it's right and I really don't belong?

Just...please be honest with me. Am I a complete asshole for spending hours every day trying not to just outright beg my family--sorry, chosen family--to help me sew myself a cloak, or is there something to this?

First of all, reader, please rest assured. As long as you are speaking from a place of kindness and a willingness to learn, you don't need to worry about using all the correct terminology. I always try to listen generously when people come to me in need, and I encourage our followers to do the same.

Unfortunately I can well believe that bigots like your biological relatives still exist. I'm glad you've been able to extract yourself from their hateful society, and have found comfort, support and kinship among the nightfolk.

You say there is a little voice in your head calling you a fraud, casting doubt on the validity of your feelings. As much as you might want to push it away and stop your ears, I want you to listen to that voice, just for a little while. Pay attention to the language it uses and what ideas it seems to have about the world.

And then ask yourself: is this my voice? Does that sound like me? Or does this sound like a last, desperate, wriggling remnant of the people I've worked so hard to distance myself from?

Every one of us is raised with a narrative, a story about the world and our place in it, and how we should treat the people around us. We're told that story by our parents, by our teachers and schoolmates, by television and books and a million other sources. The story is so vast and so all-encompassing, it takes an enormous effort to be able to see any single part of it clearly.

Imagine, then, how hard we have to work to realise some of that story is untrue, or harmful, fed by hatred and fear. To start untangling ourselves from the rotting, strangling roots of the story we've known all our lives, and start planting something new and fresh and honest.

It sounds to me like this little voice is one of those lingering strands of the story you were raised with – one where liminality is nothing to admire or strive for, and where you cannot be trusted to know your own mind, and your own needs. It's time to tell yourself a better story.

You've found people who honour you with their trust and who make you feel supported and loved, as you deserve. You admire them, and want to be like them. None of this sounds “stupid” to me.

This is not a decision to be taken lightly. By all means, take your time, and talk your feelings through with your family. But I think you already know what story you want for yourself, reader – and for what it's worth, I think the world will be better for its telling.

#answered #the nightfolk network #monstrous agonies

[littlespoonevan]

I watched the first three seasons of 911 back when that was all that had aired and just didn’t keep watching after the break between seasons for whatever reason. I also didn’t really get buddie, I just thought it was a beautiful friendship. I’m now on a rewatch and just got to the end of season 4 and boy am I all in, Buck’s reaction to Eddie getting shot and the aftermath really made me get it. Anyway, I was wondering if you have any fic recs for a buddie newbie? I’m probably gonna speed through the rest of the show in a few days and need something else to occupy me hahah

hey bud, welcome back to the world of 911!! 🥰 okay so i have some previous fic recs that i've posted here and i also have 489 bookmarks on ao3 which you can have a scroll through here (i only ever bookmark something for rereading or reccing purposes so can confirm i've read and loved them all)

but i'll do my best to make a somewhat cohesive list below of some of my personal faves. i have no doubt i'll probably leave some out accidentally but they'll definitely be in my bookmarks so 100% check those out too!! ❤️

The Nearness of You by allisonRW96 / @homerforsure

Eddie reassured himself that he could do this. Other teams coming in were probably going to be staying at the same hotel in the same double rooms and it was very possible that none of them were going to be having sex. Or even lying awake at night thinking about it. Or: Buck and Eddie go on a work trip.

Leave the Light On (I'll Be Coming Home) by HMSLusitania / @hmslusitania

“We’re here for our grandson,” Helena says. “Chris is still sleeping,” Buck says. “I meant, we’re here to take him back to Texas,” Helena clarifies. “Yeah,” Buck says. He’s too tired, way too tired to be tactful. “Over my dead body.” -- An accident on a call leaves Buck with custody of Chris after Eddie is... missing presumed. While they navigate their new family circumstances -- and fight to stay together, despite Eddie's parents' best efforts -- a John Doe wakes up in a coma ward with no memory of his own life beyond the knowledge he has a son named Christopher and, somehow, he needs to get home.

To Build a Home We Deconstruct Our Rituals by letmetellyouaboutmyfeels /@letmetellyouaboutmyfeels

After the shooting, Eddie realizes he needs to put some things in place. Like who will get his assets if he dies. Who will speak for him if he ends up in a coma. What might happen if his family contests Buck's guardianship. Luckily, he's got a simple easy-peasy solution that won't result in insanity, catastrophe, or heartbreak: Marry Buck.

standing on the brink of emptiness by woodchoc_magnum / @woodchoc-magnum

In which Eddie is struggling in the aftermath of being shot, learning how to take care of himself and realising he's in love with Buck; and Buck is dating Taylor, taking care of Eddie and Christopher and trying to figure out why he's so goddamn confused about everything.

across our great divide (a glorious sunrise) by catchingpapermoons 

“We’re working on it,” Maddie explains, shooting Chimney a look. He nods seriously. “In couples therapy.” “Huh,” Eddie says, and then he thinks about it. "Do you think Buck and I would benefit from couples therapy?" — or, Eddie gets Buck to come to couples therapy with him.

darling, the future's better than yesterday by rarakiplin (gmontys)

Eddie, ten years younger, in this awful 2010, blinks up at him. He's still sitting slumped on the curb, and for a second Buck thinks he might tell him to fuck off, but then his eyes fall shut and there’s something — aching and painfully vulnerable in the bend of his mouth, the faint tension in his brow. “My…um, girlfriend, I guess. She’s pregnant.” “Holy shit,” Buck says. - or, buck deals with some wonky dimensional/time travel and then breaks up with his girlfriend. eddie, obviously, is involved.

i'm here (i’m yours for the taking) by farfromthstars / @buckactuallys

“Everyone!” Around forty heads turn, and Buck shifts on his feet uncomfortably at the attention. “This is my old friend Buck and his husband, Eddie.” “Uh,” Buck makes, turning to Eddie with wide eyes. Eddie's looking just as stunned. “Connor, I think you got–” He cuts himself off when Eddie wraps an arm around his waist. ~ at the winter wedding of an old friend, buck and eddie pretend to be married to each other. the plan has no weaknesses, obviously, not even mistletoe or anyone’s secret feelings… they call it the season of giving i'm here, i'm yours for the taking

Your Fingerprints Smeared on My Heart (Lead Me Back to You) by letmetellyouaboutmyfeels

In 1880, Evan Buckley of the arriviste set is sent out west to oversee his family's railroad and recover from a broken heart - and meets Eddie Diaz, cowboy. When fate tears them apart, they make a promise: find each other again. In 2018, Buck walks into his fire station in Los Angeles - and meets Eddie Diaz, new recruit.

no kingdom to come by waywardrenegades

Family, FaceTime, guilt trips, phone calls, church, heart healthy meals, and learning how to let yourself be happy. Whatever that looks like. or; when his father experiences a health scare, Eddie flies to El Paso.

when i was shipwrecked (i thought of you) by catchingpapermoons 

Buck walks toward Jee-Yun’s room, still talking, and Christopher trails after him, asking excited questions in response, and Eddie’s smile grows. He wants this forever. Everything, every part of it; Buck, Christopher, and him—that’s all he needs. And— Oh. Oh no. He shuts his eyes for a moment, inhaling sharply. He’s looking at Buck, and feeling something strictly not platonic at all. or: Eddie needs to learn how to let himself feel, and one step at a time, he learns how to do just that. (And he falls in love with Buck along the way.)

i don't swim and you're not in love by hattalove / @hattalove

She turns to Eddie and says something else, but Buck is busy fighting the headrush he gets at the sound of Ana Flores calling Eddie and Christopher 'the boys'. Like they belong to her already. God, what’s wrong with him? What is this? or, eddie cooks, chris domesticates a slug, and buck tries to figure out why he hates his best friend's girlfriend. to everyone's immense shock and surprise, it goes badly.

everything's coming up milhouse by hammersmiths / @bucktommys

LAFD Updates (@L*A*F*D_Metro) LAFD Alert: Red-level traffic on Gardiner Road this morning. If you are trying to get into the city centre consider taking Westerley Lane. buck 🔥🔥 (@firebuck) so true bestie or, Eddie mans the LAFD Twitter account. Buck tries to be supportive.

said i couldn't stay, but it's different now by hattalove

“I think,” he says, watching Karen pull Hen out onto the dance floor, their eyes never leaving each other’s, “I think I’m just—sad.” Maybe. That feels like a close enough word to describe this gaping maw right in the center of his chest. It’s only really there sometimes, taking little bites out of him, easy enough to ignore, but today is worse. “About being single at a wedding,” Eddie says, not a question. Buck shrugs. “Sounds stupid when you put it that way.” or, the one with the four weddings (feat. a drunk karen wilson, shania twain, a single cheerio, and some confessions over cubed fruit).

cause i'm tired of sleeping alone by rarakiplin (gmontys)

Buck goes on dates now. Not often, and never with the same girl twice in a row, but he goes on dates. And the thing is — the thing is, Eddie can’t be mad about that, because he goes on dates too. - or, five (ish) times eddie and buck go on dates with other people, and one time they go on a date with each other

so far from being free by allisonRW96

"That’s Daniel. He was our brother. Buck doesn’t know what to do with the past tense. He never had a brother. He’s always had a brother. He gained one and lost one in the same breath and it feels impossible. But even if Buck was capable of doubting Maddie, the truth of her confession is evident in the way it throws every facet of his childhood into sudden perfect clarity. That yawning, arctic absence. The unnamable fear. The impenetrable target of his parents’ approval that he was never, ever going to be able to hit. That they didn’t want him to hit. He has a brother. A dead brother who has haunted Buck’s steps for his entire life."

don't let the tide come and wash us away by writerforlife

Buck develops a relationship with the ocean, avoids talking about the day Eddie was shot, realizes he might be in love, and drives. Order may vary. (a fic for the "Buck is going to break all the way down in season 6" truthers)

dance, for all that we've been through by catchingpapermoons 

The Los Angeles Ballet’s 2022-2023 season ends with a bang with their fresh take on a ballet staple, Swan Lake. Artistic Director Bobby Nash is in his eighth season with the Los Angeles Ballet, and it has flourished under his direction. However, his associate, Eddie Diaz, is the one whose reimagining of the choreography has caught our attention... (or, Eddie Diaz moves to L.A. to restart his dance career, and ends up choreographing a show, finding a family, and falling in love. Not necessarily in that order.)

I'll Scrawl it on Every Wall I See by letmetellyouaboutmyfeels

When Eddie joins the 118, he and Buck don't exactly hit it off on the right foot. Or continue to walk on the right foot. In fact they kind of can't stand each other. Good thing they each have a beloved anonymous pen pal to share their daily woes with, someone completely unlike their insufferable coworker. Or, in which Buck and Eddie love each other before they know each other, and know each other before they love each other. When Eddie joins the 118, he and Buck don't exactly hit it off on the right foot. Or continue to walk on the right foot. In fact they kind of can't stand each other. Good thing they each have a beloved anonymous pen pal to share their daily woes with, someone completely unlike their insufferable coworker. Or, in which Buck and Eddie love each other before they know each other, and know each other before they love each other.

never felt this way before (yes i swear) by withoutthetiger

It’s the summer of 2022, when Buck no longer wants to be called Evan, and it only occurs to his parents to mind. It’s after the pandemic – or so they say – and before whatever hell will befall the world next, when Buck can’t wait to join the LAFD in September, and he doesn’t know if he’ll ever meet someone as gently strong and fiercely protective as his big sister. It’s the summer he goes with his family to the One Eighteen Ranch & Lodge. *** A Dirty Dancing AU, set in Texas in 2022, featuring a whole lot of familiar faces in a not so familiar place.

Fragile lines (and wasted time) by Mellaithwen / @mellaithwen

“Hey Buck,” Christopher says a little shyly, before reaching out to grab Buck’s foot through the hospital blankets—shaking it in the same way he’s woken his father up on many a bleary-eyed morning. The familiarity of the gesture makes Eddie’s head spin. But of course, there’s no response from the comatose man on the bed. “I thought you said he was sleeping,” Chris mumbles, angrily swiping at his cheeks, and Eddie’s already broken heart shatters all over again for whatever hope his son had just lost when his expectations were so cruelly dashed. . While Buck sleeps, and dreams in the aftermath of the lightning strike, Eddie tries desperately to hold himself together.

Don't Take the Money by HMSLusitania

“You know, being stuck here isn’t actually the end of the world,” Chimney says, coming up to the table and picking up one of the smoke detectors. “It just feels like it, Buck. Trust me, I know.” “I’m pretty sure it might actually be the end of the world,” Buck says. “Considering this is the sixth time I’ve lived this day.” Chimney stares at him for a beat and then his eyebrows lift. “Wait, are you like – dude, are you in Groundhog Day?” OR The post-lawsuit time-loop AU literally no one asked for.

keep your eyes on the road by iriswests / @fcntasmas

Buck used to speed through yellow lights; now they’re his favorite part of the drive. -- or; a glimpse into buck and eddie’s developing relationship, told through ten moments stopped at a traffic light

Hot Ghost Problems by ebjameston

The ghost would prefer to go by Buck, if Eddie wouldn’t mind. +++ [Eddie is the newest firefighter at the 118. Buck is the ghost haunting the 118. Unfortunately for both of them, Eddie's also a witch and needs to put Buck's spirit to rest, because that's what witches do. Turns out, Buck's spirit? Super not interested in being put to rest. Very interested, however, in flirting with Firefighter Diaz, who is just trying to survive his candidate year. (Also turns out, Buck? Super not dead.)

as lucky as us by hammersmiths

One of the first things Ravi learned when joining the 118 was to, under no circumstances, think too hard about Buck and Eddie’s relationship. But brother, they could try make his job easier. “I mean, I get it,” Buck’s saying, overhead, and Ravi’s knee-deep in literal human crap and even he can smell that shit from a mile away. “You and Tommy have a lot in common.” or, Ravi continually suffers as a third-wheel.

#anon #asks #911 related #buddie fic rec #happy reading anon!!! #like i said this is only a tiny list in comparison to the amount i've read and loved

[fitzells]

Evan Buckley and children. That’s it. That’s my TED Talk.

STOP IT 😭😭😭😭

he wants to be a dad so badly it hurts!!! and seeing how gentle he is with christopher and jee-yun (legitimately the world’s best found parent and uncle to them both) you just melt into yourself because you love him so much and want to give him all the babies!!!!!!!

and if you’re pregnant he’s always talking to and kissing your belly🥹🥹🥹🥹 and reading articles and sending you links to things that supposedly ease pregnancy pains and soothe both mum and baby🥹

I AM A GIRLDAD!BUCK TRUTHER OKAY!!!!! because he just emits that energy to me i can’t deny it any longer… with a newborn he’s cuddling non stop, changing her, feeding her, staying up all night just to help you out because you deserve all the rest in the world!!! buck is 100% in awe of how you grew a human inside of you and will not allow you to lift a finger where ever possible

also he’s such an involved dad who would never ever dream of making his child grow up in an environment that made them feel anything close to how he felt growing up. he’s putting 100% of his effort into being the best partner and dad so his family can have such a cosy happy little life (MY HEART IS BREAKING AND HEALING SIMULTANEOUSLY)

ballet recitals/soccer games/school plays/music concerts … you name it he’s there!!!!! no matter what his child grows up to be he is just so happy!!! and proud!!!!! of his baby!!!!! 

okay night give buck all the babies pls (send me more buck thoughts before i burst i love him)

#❤️‍🔥anon #evan buck buckely #buck buckley #evan buckley fanfiction #evan buckley imagine #evan buckley x reader #911onfox #evan buckley fluff #evan buckley angst #evan buckley smut #evan buckley fic #evan buckley blurb

[dckweed]

here's part two of jake and babygirl, i'm actually really really in love with them and it may or may not be because i constantly have baby fever. anyway, im thinking about making this a fun lil series that you guys can send in any prompts or requests for that come to mind ! silly, angsty, fluffy whatever doesn't matter, just figured that since this started off as a request that i could continue on its life that way as well..

i want to be completely honest with you guys, for the past two months now i have been in eating disorder treatment 3 hours a day 6 days a week..as of this week, ive been stepped down to 3 hours a day 4 days a week and will be completely stepping down from treatment by the end of the month..this has taken up alot of time, and alot of attention and typically by the time my day is over i am completely spent and mentally drained and haven't been putting much effort into you guys, but as part of my treatment i am going to start posting at least twice a week (if not every day) as a way of self care, because fic writing is genuinely a form of self care for me.

thank you for being patient with me, and please feel free to send in asks!

warnings: pregnancy! jake being completely soft for his babygirl but also being completely angered by her situation..morning sickness mentions, food aversion mentions, just floofy fluffness okay? use of y/n once, but other than that is just babygirl as usual. not super long but i love it. part one

'STAY WITH ME, PLEASE..' jake 'hangman' seresin

A week into your vacation Jake had convinced you to go to an obstetrician after learning that you hadn't seen one yet, concerned for your health and the health of the little thing in your womb, whom he was already attached to, even if it wasn't his. It was there that you learned that you were almost eleven weeks along, Jake sat in the room with you, holding your hand as the ultrasound tech dims the lights. He squeezes it as she squirts more warm jelly on your tummy than you thought necessary and digs the wand in at an uncomfortable angle, moving it and the gel around your skin. You were just barely showing signs of a baby bump, and you were shocked to find out just how big the baby actually was by this point.

"How is it already that big?" Jake asks exactly what you were thinking, making the tech chuckle. He was in complete awe, there was really a tiny little being inside of you, you were growing a life form and there was nothing more beautiful than that to him in that moment.

"They grow so much faster than you realize," The woman says, a pleasant smile on her face as she stares at the screen, typing a few things in with her free hand, Jake noted from his position that they were measurements. "Would you like to know the sex?"

"Yes!" He blurts out before you could even process the question, you stare at him eyebrows furrowed, confused as to why he was so eager and amazed by something that he hadn't helped create. You thought it was wonderful though that your best friend was wanting to be so involved and caring despite your situation.

"Well, dad, you're having a little girl.." She says, catching you off guard by the mention of Jake being the dad and by the fact that you were having a daughter. Jake squeezed your hand, and even in the darkness of the room you could have sworn that he was a little teary eyed.

"Isn't that amazing, babygirl?" He asks, looking over at you. Your eyes are glued to the screen, not bothering to correct the woman on Jake not being the father, it was a difficult situation to explain and you weren't quite sure you were up for it today. Tears form in your eyes as you think about the little girl growing in your womb, who would never know her daddy. You had to admit that that was probably a good thing, he didn't deserve either of you if his initial reaction was to just leave and never come back.

You knew Jake felt the same way too, you didn't even have to ask.

"This all feels like such a fever dream.." You say softly, your head leaned against the window of his truck as he drives through the streets, away from the obstetricians office. You had a print out photo of your baby in your hand, staring down at it as you rubbed your stomach absentmindedly, your mind running in circles.

"Why's that?" Jake asks, glancing over at you for a mere second, not wanting to take his eyes off of the road for too long.

You look at him, wondering if he realizes just how fucked up the situation is. "Jake, I am pregnant..my boyfriend, the father of my baby left me because he swore i was a whore and that you were actually the father, and that was before i even knew for sure that i was pregnant.." You say, word vomit spewing from your mouth before your brain could even process what was happening. "I've just found out that i'm having a little girl who's not going to have her daddy in her life, and honestly good riddance but..but..oh my god Jake what am I going to do? This wasn't part of the plan..my daddy is going to be so disappointed in me..oh my god my mama would be so fucking upset..."

You hadn't even realized that you were crying, or that you were starting to panic, the weight of the situation fully sinking in on you. "Oh my god Jake, she's never gonna meet my mama..oh my god.." Jake doesn't know what to do, but he knows he can't let you keep crying like this. He pull's over into a parking lot, right at the beach and near a bunch of shops, pulling his truck to a stop in the first empty spot he saw. There are tears streaming down your face at this point as the thoughts of your father and your dead mother run around in your head, he had never seen you like this before but he knew that it was probably just the hormones.

"Hey," He says, his voice soft and sweet, his warm body encompassing yours as he slides across the front seat towards you, having lifted the center console up. He unclips your seatbelt and pulls you towards him, holding your head against his chest, your ear pressed right where his heart is. He had done this with you a thousand times before, the sound of his heartbeat had always brought you back to earth when you would have moments like this. "you're okay, i got you babygirl, i always got you.." He whispers, his lips moving in your hair as he presses a soft, comforting kiss to the crown of your head. Somewhere, in the back of your mind, you wondered if he knew that these were the things that made you feel like he loved you in more ways than he let on, the things that gave you the smallest glimmer of hope.

You close your eyes, listening to his heartbeat and the slight rumble in his chest as he whispered things to you, slowly but surely calming you down. After a while you let out a shaky breath, your eyes opening to see the people milling about the small shopping center. "Where are we?" You ask, voice thick from the crying. Your head hurt and your eyes were heavy, you wanted to go back to his apartment and sleep, preferably in his arms, like you used to when you guys were younger.

"We're not too far from home," He says. Home..You liked the way that sounded coming from his mouth, it was always nice to hear it. "Do you want to get out and walk around? Go sit on the beach." You shake your head, sniffling softly. He kisses the top of your head once more, rubs your shoulder with his large hand. "Okay babygirl, let's go home..you look like you need some rest." He wasn't wrong, between the morning sickness that had been plaguing you in recent days, and the stress of everything, you hadn't been getting enough rest.

You manage to stay awake for the rest of the ride back, letting the gentle breeze through the open window soothe you. Jake doesn't say a word, but you see a look on his face, his eyebrows furrowed like he was thinking really hard about something. "Jake?" You ask, turning to face him, wondering what was on his mind.

"Stay." He says, looking over at you as he pulls up to his apartment building, the truck rolling to a stop. "..I..You should be here with me, you should've been with me from the beginning, but I was too chickenshit to man up and ask." You're shocked, and start to open your mouth, wanting to stop him. "Let me finish, damn it!"

"I haven't gone a day without talkng to you or thinking about you since the day I met you, and it's not just because you were my best friend, because you always will be that, no matter what, it's because i've been in fucking love with you since day one. And maybe i'm dumb because it's taken me so long to realize it, because everyone i've ever dated knew it but dammit i know it now, and have for a long time.." He rambles, you're unsure of what to make of this, your brain still processing that you were hearing him correctly. "I..know that this isn't the ideal situation, and i know that that little girl isn't my blood, but dammit i don't care because i already think of her as my kid, and i have since i found out..I can't let you walk away, not without knowing how i feel..I want to be with you through this, and through everything else in life so i can take care of you the way that you deserve, because Y/N, nobody else in this world is ever going to love you like i do.." You feel yours well with tears and subconsciously you pinch yourself, hoping to god that you weren't dreaming. "So stay with me, please.."

"Oh, Jake.." You whisper, tears spilling once more from your eyes. You can't make any other words come out of your mouth so you just nod your head and you watch his body sag with relief before you unbuckle your seatbelt and rush forward into his already waiting arms. He squeezes you tight and presses a long kiss to the top of your head as you hiccup.

"Hey, no more tears, babygirl, okay?" He whispers, leaning your head back as he brushes the tears away with his thumb, you lean into the embrace, a smile gracing your lips as your arms go around the back of his neck.

"They're happy tears, i promise.." You say, leaning forward to press your lips against his. You had though about this moment so many times in your life, and none of your wildest dreams had every prepared your for the real thing. Jake kissed you like a man starved, his hand on the back of your head, fingers scrunching up in your hair as he presses you as hard against him as he can. You groan at the possessiveness of it, pulling back after a moment to catch your breath. You can't help but let out a chuckle, leaning your forehead against his. "You picked one hell of a time to finally fucking say it, Seresin."

"Hey! You could've said it first too you know!" He says and you can't help but laugh, relishing in the way he smiles at you.

Jake & Babygirl taglist: @bellaireland1981 @sky0401 @memoriesat30 @bat-luna-cat @memeorydotcom @mayhemmanaged

#kara writes #jake seresin #top gun fanfic #top gun imagine #top gun #top gun maverick #hangman #top gun fanfiction #top gun x reader #top gun movie #top gun fic #jake seresin fanfiction #jake hangman seresin x reader #hangman seresin #hangman fluff #jake seresin fanfic #jake seresin x you

[lurkingshan]

Japanese QL Corner

I am currently watching four different Japanese qls every week (is this real life?? I’m not used to this kind of bountiful access to Japanese media) and I don’t want them to get lost in the shuffle amongst the bigger Discourse shows, so I’m going to start posting this little round up at the end of each week. These are all on Gaga and I highly recommend watching!

Chaser Game W

Finally a high quality gl, we have been waiting so long. And this one is making some really interesting choices, namely in making one of its leads deeply unlikeable. It's clear that Harumoto broke her heart in a deeply foolish way (I smell noble idiocy), but Fuyu's revenge for her hurt feelings is way over the line of what anyone could consider fair. Not only did she pursue this job just to personally harass her ex, she is a terrible boss who is abusing her employees to work out her personal grudges, and she's awful to her husband, as well. This show is smart enough that I trust they have a point with this (likely one that will involve commentary on misogyny and traditional gender roles) so I am hanging in to see what it is.

Sahara Sensei to Toki-kun

This one is the latest in the Drama Shower line up, and it is really not working for me on the whole, but Toki is a great character and I wish I could port him to another show. This week's episode spent a baffling amount of time filling in a backstory for Sahara that we already understood, and didn't even connect it thematically to the ongoing plot in any meaningful way. In fact, given the backstory we saw, it made even less sense that Sahara would be encouraged to pursue a relationship with Toki. This show just feels very confused about both the social conventions of its universe and what it's ultimately trying to say. Looking forward to it wrapping next week and seeing what Drama Shower has on tap next.

Sukiyanen Kedo Do Yara ka

I LOVE THIS SHOW. Sakae is such a kind soul, and Soga is a dear. I love that this show is exploring the reality of what it looks like for an "opposites attract" pair to actually try to find common ground. Sakae falling for Soga at first sight, only to realize they have nothing in common and he will have to work hard to build a bond with him, is such a delight. And I like that it feels reciprocal and Soga is also making a sincere effort. And this show is doing nice things with the side characters, too. Tatsuta is a great Get A Grip Friend for Sakae, and Kazuyo is such a sweetheart that I really hope she'll stick around rooting for this pair once she inevitably gets let down gently. Also loved getting a glimpse of the exes this week and hope to see more filled in there.

Ossan's Love Returns

I am saving this one for last on Fridays going forward, because it's such a great note to end my week on. I already posted last week about why I'm so in love with it, and this week continued the love fest. This show is SO FUCKING FUNNY while also having some really awesome messages about relationships and love at any age. I love the way Maki and Haruta are given the same cute couple moments we'd see for younger bl pairs, and the casual affection between them really stands out among more reserved depictions of Japanese couples. Highlights this week also included father-in-law bonding, Takegawa trying out a Bachelor-esque reality show in his quest for a diaper partner, Chief continuing to be an absolute delight in every scene, and several new twists in the mystery of the neighbors (loved that Haruta was having all the same reactions to that backstory that I was). ONSEN EPISODE NEXT WEEK, BABY!

#chaser game w #sahara sensei to toki kun #sukiyanen kedo do yaro ka #ossan's love returns #japanese bl #japanese gl #japanese ql corner #shan shouts into the void

[jesusagrees]

Hyuna is awful. Here's why...

I have seen posts or comments talking about how "she might not know what he did" "she could just be oblivious" NO! The Burning Sun scandal and all those involved were EVERYWHERE. She knew. And she knew those involved.

This isn't just disappointing, this is flat out DISRESPECTFUL and just...straight up MEAN GIRL behavior.

All I can think about are those victims and all the girls who looked up to Hyuna. Our sweet girl Goo Hara. Hara and Hyuna were FRIENDS. I am not upset that Hyuna is dating her ex boyfriend, that's not the issue here. The issue here is that Hara is no longer here with us. This woman took HER LIFE because of a man just like those men involved in the Burning Sun scandal. She took HER LIFE!

Goo Hara dedicated her time and efforts in the last months of her life trying to help the victims of the Burning Sun scandal, tried bringing those involved to light to help expose and help the victims get help to heal.

She did everything to save them when nobody was there to SAVE HER.

And this man, who admitted to watching the videos, who was INVOLVED and knew about the crimes but did NOTHING is just as guilty. This is a big slap on the face to the victims, to women, and to her friend Goo Hara.

Hyuna deserves the heat. Let her burn while holding that man's hand. So be it.

Let her career end.

#hyuna #kim hyuna #burning sun #rip my sweet sweet hara

[l4long-winded]

vi. the puzzling case of clara grace and intricate, convoluted emotions

summary: there are a few ways that you and sherlock reconcile. one involves a bed, the other involves a carriage, a dance, and then there's the matter of the revolver. what was once unclear begins to be disclosed, but it can only be unveiled to a willing, open, and observant eye. you're going to find what's there as well as what you want to be there (cavill!sherlock x afab!reader)

reflection: i apologize for how long it took me to write this chapter. i also apologize for the behemoth that this installment is, but i had a certain vision that i wanted to portray so desperately. i pondered breaking this chapter up into several parts, but seeing that i intended this as the end, i kept it as is. i have been planning to write more involving this relationship, but i am not sure if i should. if that is something that any of you are interested in, please let me know. i intend to work on other projects as well from a geralt fic and a new idea that i have. thank you to everyone who has read. as always, feedback is always appreciated and encouraged and i hope you all enjoy!

warnings: seamstress!reader, emotionally-stunted!sherlock, reader has a nickname, close proximity, investigation, murder mystery, original characters, enemies to lovers, vulnerability, near-death scenes, sexual tension, kissing, dirty talk, praise, vaginal penetration, vaginal fingering, loss of virginity, implied breeding kink if you squint, rough and soft, grief, past deaths briefly mentioned, angst, fluff, revelations, overthinking, flashbacks (please let me know if there are other warnings i need to add)

word count: 19,551

previously: concealed feelings and abstract attitudes

( this work has been cross posted to ao3 )

Teeth, lips, tongue—you’re acquainting yourself with the mouth of another, greeting your moans that Sherlock swallows incessantly, almost like he’s gulping for air. He’s a wall of muscle mass visibly speaking, but it’s a different phenomenon to experience said muscle mass pressing you back into the actual wall of this flat behind, the door nearby since your shared eagerness only carried you both in by a few steps. You’re hardly concerned with how far you’ve made it in, instead wrapping your legs tightly at Sherlock’s waist as he supports you and holds you up. The surface gradually fades away as he deposits you from it to then walk blindly to his bedroom. You’re still hanging on, secure he’ll protect you, and miraculously through listening to his instincts (he’s always right, you’re not shocked), he pushes the door open, his forearm strung around your midsection as he uses his other hand. You can sense his desperation’s desire to cling to you and not let go for a moment.

You’re still connected with him as he lowers you to the mattress. There’s conflict heavy in his shoulders because he’s caught between meeting your affection bar for bar and standing straight up to get a better look at you. You gradually make the decision for him, hands landing on his chest to lightly push him up. You sit up on your elbows as he lifts away from you, his chest heaving in his departure, eyes scanning you over with interest you can only describe as lust. Sherlock removes his undershirt that he was clad in, the buttons already undone, and drops it carelessly to the floor. You’re familiar with the image of Sherlock shirtless, but it doesn’t mean you’re not any less astonished. You’re gazing up at him in awe, awe that is seemingly swimming in his eyes the very same as he turns his attention to his robe adorning your figure. Except where part of the fabric is hanging off one shoulder due to your combined efforts. And said exposure beckons Sherlock in closer; he reaches for the robe’s belt sitting atop your waist, your hips jutted out, body language’s permission granted for his exploration.

“You’re not…” he inhales deeply, like he’s preparing himself. Sherlock knows something and you know it too. You can’t help the sly grin threatening to take over your expression breaking free.

“You’re not wearing anything underneath,” he resigns, saying it as he says every conclusion he comes to as a statement, as a cold, hard fact. Albeit he’s not revealing a mystery’s answer to a curious audience, he’s confirming the thought that crossed his mind at the initial sight of your bare shoulder. He would’ve guessed it earlier if he wasn’t so preoccupied with entangling his mouth with yours. His adam’s apple slowly rises and sinks as he restrains himself, as he allows his hand to divide the seams of his robe, as your naked breasts become visible to him for the first time.

“Surprised?” You tease, but it’s more breathless than you care to admit because of how Sherlock’s drinking you in. Your flesh rises as he offers you solely his fingertips. He lets them linger from your neck to your collarbone, hesitantly traveling down the curve of your left breast.

“Pleasantly,” he finally replies and you think To hell with it and lift yourself up enough to wrap your arms around his neck and pull him back into another searing kiss. His chest hair tickles against you, the thick patch sliding over your quickly hardening nipples. He surrenders to your invitation and follows you up the bed as you scoot up its length in the meantime, until your head meets one of his pillows above.

Sherlock descends and mouths along your jaw and then your neck, he takes advantage of the dip there to suckle onto a spot and taste your skin. Your breath catches in your throat, your mouth falling open as you whimper in reaction, hypersensitive to his every touch and graze. If you thought the light stubble stimulated you before from just kissing, then you’re critically mistaken when it catches on your susceptible flesh as he lowers his head to your clavicle. From gripping his hair for some kind of purchase, you let your hands wander down the width of his back, not wanting to claw down it in your attempts to remain in a semblance of composure. That’s when you feel the waistband of his trousers, the reminder set of how you haven’t seen him without them there, hiding away the arousal you felt heavy against your inner thighs earlier at Mrs. Thomas’s. Depraved, but careless regarding that truth, you whine out your displeasure and snake your hands beneath his frame to work the button of his trousers open. Unlike Sherlock’s sixth sense (learned from the structure of his well-developed cognitive map), you’re not gracefully unlatching the damned thing despite your previous experience with this detail of clothing. You fumble and clumsily brush your yearning knuckles along his bulge by pure accident, fleeting warmth you crave but are unable to indulge in further because Sherlock abruptly pulls his hips away like he’s been stung by a wasp.

Your mouth goes dry watching him rise up from your neck, his jaw hanging slightly open. Your throat wishes to beg for his return back, but you stop yourself from doing so seeing his fingers clutch at the fabric bunched at his crotch, his hips bucking in efforts to readjust himself. You’re affecting him greater than you initially thought. You feel rather petulant under his gaze right now, small for being selfish and pushing, an impatient brat flushing in a richer pigment from your head to your toes.

“Can’t think, can you?” Sherlock asks, but you both already know the answer. “Everything’s done with great difficulty. Breathing, holding still, practicing restraint.” He trails off, observing your features and especially the way he notices your eyes trace down to where his hand is slipping the button of his trousers properly out of its position. He continues to speak with you, intent on watching, commemorating the intrigue in your hungry pupils as he removes the next button, then the next.

“In your case, undoing a pair of trousers…” It’s a whisper and the air of it hits your cheek from how close he is. “You’ve rendered me a mindless vessel for weeks,” he confesses, to which you had no knowledge of, and then he follows it with a gritty promise that has your spine arching, “I’m going to do the exact same thing to you.”

A reply barely has any time to form because you’re being kissed again, your vision blocked from viewing his length. With your fervor and effort, you use your calves to push the material down his waist to his thighs and thankfully, Sherlock pushes them out of the way alongside you until they’re being kicked and shucked away from his legs and ankles. You try to kiss Sherlock back, but your leaking center comes into contact with the crown of Sherlock’s length suddenly and your lips come apart in a gasp, one he takes advantage of by shifting his tongue into the space as if it was his invitation. He grunts in response to the whimper that leaves you as you greedily attempt to roll your hips up to gain friction. One particular roll accomplishes the goal, your weeping slit running up his shaft in one fluid motion, surprised noises vibrating against your mouths from how good it felt, from how needy you both are for each other.

But, much to your dismay, Sherlock removes your legs from his waist to press them down into the mattress at the apex of your inner thighs, preventing you from continuing your forlorn, silent pleas. There’s a slight stretch in the muscles and in a way, you feel shy from how your most sensitive area is being displayed so lewdly, sure to try and close your thighs if Sherlock glances down for a peek. He doesn’t, as much as he wants to seal his mouth around that tender pearl, instead glowering at you with sincerity in his eyes.

“We’re going at my pace,” he warns. You feel like you might lose your mind if he doesn’t fuck you this instant, your lip tucking away in a pout you would normally be ashamed of. Though, currently being at his mercy is making your cunt spill over with desire.

“But, b-but, I can take it—” You babble and protest, to which Sherlock squeezes your thighs to admonish and quiet you down. It achieves its desired effect as you clamp your mouth shut and stare up at him with pleading flutters of your lashes. He almost caves.

“I know, I know, believe me, slow isn’t easy for either of us at this moment,” he breathes heavily, his voice sounds like sex, “but I won’t risk hurting you. You’ll take what I give.” He’s stern and to the point and it offers you a bit of clarity. You completely forgot about your virginity, how this is not only your first time with Sherlock, but your first time with anyone ever. That’s why you’ve felt guilty during this ordeal, because you’ve been rutting up into him for more and more while he’s been successfully supervising his control. It’s not because there’s a lack of longing on his end, his protruding length and orally fixating mouth prime examples, but because in all of this, he’s recalled the seriousness of the situation. Clearly, he holds a candle above you in knowledge of this as he does in everything else, besides sewing, so of course he surmised you a virgin ignorant to the incoming physical and emotional sensations involved with this plunge. And yet, as you watch the dilation of his pupils in real time, the way his biceps flex as he holds himself back, and the light glistening of every sinew and bulk of him from the pure heat radiating between you, you brace your hands at his shoulders and allow need to talk for you.

“Please, Sherlock, I don’t think I can go on any longer without…” Fuck, you’re realizing this is harder to say with his intense gaze fixated on you. Have his eyes always been that shade of deep royal? “W-without you inside me,” you stutter. Your face washes over with fire and you would’ve been embarrassed if it weren’t for the same fire you see flash in Sherlock’s eyes.

“Fuck, stop talking,” he mutters, but there’s extra motivation that trembles the shoulders you’re holding onto as he reaches down to grasp himself at his base. You catch a glimpse, careful not to linger in staring because then you’re positive a fear would grow from his size. Like the rest of him, it’s impressive to the point of where it could possibly cause you to question his insertion, so you focus on his features and wait in pure anticipation.

No matter the speed in which Sherlock complied with your request, he’s still maddeningly slow dragging the tip of himself up and down your entrance. It sears you from the outside, your legs twitching from how badly you wish to slither them back around him, how they convulse from how fervid it feels to inch away from the sensation and conflicting it is to chase it all the same. There’s one hand still wrenched onto your thigh so there’s little motion that you can do. The worst part has to be how you can feel him pulsating repeatedly. Sherlock ignores primal instincts urging him to slide right in, his underlying wish in all of this being your absolute pleasure. He gathers your slick on himself and you’re close to begging him again when you begin to feel a decisive push forward, a spreading sting passing throughout your core as he settles in deeper, slow on his intrusion. You bury your head into his neck as you squeeze your eyes shut, yelping from how the action involuntarily caused your resisting walls to clamp down on him at the same time. Sherlock chokes and finally releases your thigh to slam his fist down into the pillow adjacent to your head, like he did with the desk, a tell in his supposed composure much like the one in his throbbing cock stretching you with every pulse that alerts you how he’s still fucking growing whilst inside of you.

“You feel… so warm. So, so tight,” he gasps, perhaps in a bit of shock of his own, “Relax. Breathe for me, yes, yes, just like that.”

Your inhales and exhales come at his command, but each one is shakier than the last. Due to how lubricated you are, and how Sherlock cradles you caringly against him, the pain from all of this fades into a dull ache. With your attention on your breath, a blissful sigh manages its way through as Sherlock shifts himself, discomfort there, and then beautifully replaced by something you believe feels heavenly. A harp’s twang echoes in your head. Your taut limbs slacken and you didn’t even know how rigid you were until then. Sherlock did, he’s been in tune with every nerve, every flex, and every sound that’s come from your body, willing himself to not only satisfy you, but to act on those pesky fantasies that have snuck on him for almost as long as he’s known you. It’s indecent to think about your estranged neighbor bent over the desk you’re supposed to be attending to professional work on. Sherlock’s immunity to your charms is and was nonexistent and honestly, everything could’ve been easier if he just left the two of you as enemies and ignored your existence until you inevitably moved away. But what a crock of shit that is. He’s nestled so deeply in your folds that he doesn’t care how lost he is, if this is a distraction from getting his much needed night of sleep, he just has this parroting thought blaring in his mind to move, move, move.

Your head slips from his neck, forehead pressing against his. There’s a shyness in how you enclose your arms around his broad neck and shoulders. Maybe, just as he has, you’ve come to the crashing revelation of how intimate this really is, how ultimate and permanent he’s now etched himself into your life. He’s wedged inside of you and whatever is to happen next, it can’t subtract away this physical connection, it can’t be denied that Sherlock Holmes is your first lover. Sherlock listens to his brain and pumps gently, slowly inside of you, groaning like your cunt’s the first he’s ever filled/stuffed. Surely, the ache subsides but battles with another, and that’s the ache of wanton need, each push inwards and each pull out gratifying and yet not enough to kindle the overwhelming shrill of the flame bubbling within you.

“God,” you peck Sherlock’s lips despite the oxygen being driven from your lungs with every undulation of his hips, “please, please,” you say for the second and third time tonight. He acquiesces enough to push in just a little faster, your throat catching on a whine as you tremble from the pleasure overtaking you. Sherlock plants his mouth on yours, halting any other pleas that transform into hiccupping moans against him, such that he captures and reignites with every thrust he offers. You can’t help the yearning in you that increases, working on Sherlock’s time and pace like he promised, so you know he’s drilling into you so sweetly on purpose.

Logically, to you, he did so because he didn’t want to hurt you. You appreciate that sentiment, but from how your heart is racing to the point of where you can hear it reverberate in your ears, slow is winding you up tighter and tighter. It wrings your body up like a rag being twisted and turned to release the moisture sitting in its cloth. You need more and more, stretched and primed for him to speed up and show you what he held back. It almost felt like being let in on a secret, like how you wanted to know about the details of his investigation. You want to know what Sherlock will do if he gives in to his own pleasure, if he will become as single-minded as you are, let feeling and emotion instruct him rather than the inquisitive nature of his mind. You don’t want parts of him—you want all of him.

You lift a hand to cup Sherlock’s cheek, among your continuing please, please, please without anything specific in mind, the holy word chipping his resolve away by the passing minutes, between the kisses Sherlock’s mouth steals from you after each one. They linger, either short or lasting, varying in time, varying in pressure, but never relenting. Using your hold on him as he exchanges a particularly sharp thrust, you mutter an impassioned “uh” against him having not expected it (it elevated you to a new height), one leg coming up at his waist to hook around his hip. Just as you theorized, and just as he knew, it sinks his tip to the hilt. In reaction, he grunts, “how the fuck did you get tighter,” under his breath and you feel prideful for throwing him slightly off track. Using this to your advantage, your thumb presses into the gentle divot in his cheek, and then you experimentally tug his bottom lip between your teeth. He pants and you hear the masculine noise pour out of him at an increased volume. It’s then that Sherlock creates distance between your heads, his forearm tucking under your thigh to lift it higher on his torso, his hand coming to rest at your side from underneath.

“Couldn’t help yourself, could you?” His thumb digs into your hip bone, his fingers clutched into the flesh gathered at the side of your waist. The new angle begs a deep stretch in your thigh, but he exacerbates the test of your flexibility by using his other hand to pin your opposite thigh to the bed much like he had done earlier when he deprived you. Your walls quiver around Sherlock’s cock, constricting him because of how accommodating to him they’ve become. He fucks you harder, an accumulative speed and pressure that doesn’t have any obstacles or road bumps, just a smooth crest upwards that has you keening beneath him, arching and praying his name to the ceiling. He’s no longer purring out short grunts, but allowing them to slip past his parted lips as he pounds you into the spot you slept in that morning.

“This is what you w-wanted?” He’s completely breathless, but he still manages coherence, not that you’re jealous of it at the moment because you may be forgetting grammar and basic linguistics, but you’re also forgetting your own name. You recall it when Sherlock moans it and you cry out from the utterance, from how he fucks you closer and closer towards mania. 

“yesyesyesyes,” you repeat, your blunt nails scraping over his shoulder as you reach a peak, something washing over you like an eruption. Your arms cling to Sherlock, holding him close as you confine your face back to his neck and feel the shudders of your first orgasm. You don’t understand it, you’ve never experienced anything like it, but you tremble as you feel soft tears gather in your lash line. Sherlock curses from how your body convulses and how it does so around his girth, but he generously fucks you through it.

Your hold loosens on Sherlock, but your clinging remains. You’re clutching him like a savior, whining as he continues to pump in and out of you. He might have continued if he wasn’t so fucking exhausted, close to his climax himself, but he can’t be that irresponsible as much as he wants to fill you with his seed. You gasp as he slips out of you, your channel clenching around nothing, your bud swollen and sensitive. You watch as Sherlock grasps his length and immediately releases himself onto your stomach, his hands detaching from your body to press into the mattress below, to stop himself from crushing you because his frame slumps forward and he has to give in as he lowers himself to his forearms caging your head in. You’re both gasping, inhaling and exhaling air by the mouthfuls, and Sherlock is pressing a majority of his weight into your frame. Somehow, you don’t feel boxed in, but safe and protected. You appreciate how he didn’t roll away from you, how his sweat slick skin glistens with his lamp’s light, how he looks at you in awe and slight worry.

“It was… wonderful,” you say in efforts to appease this aforementioned worry, and you absolutely fucking mean it. It’s not because you’re saving his ego, but because you’re satiated, boneless, floating despite being firmly underneath him in space and time.

“You did perfect,” he whispers, again not because he’s coddling your brain or even heart, but because he’s proud of you, in pure astonishment of you, hopelessly enthralled by you. At the praise, you feel this urge to intertwine yourself further with him as if he isn’t already as close as he is. Your hands cradle his face as he smiles and leans in to kiss you.

Sherlock yanks a bedside drawer open and removes a handkerchief from it, then he lifts up away from your body to clean your abdomen. He’s delicate as he attends to you and then himself, the soiled rag set aside so he could get back to being settled in with you. Something in Sherlock feels awfully drowsy, the sleep deprivation and his stolen remnants of energy to blame, and he can’t envision laying anywhere else other than where his head sits on your heaving breasts. You run your fingers through his curls, spent, your eyes heavy. Someone should say something in the afterglow, but it’s not about thinking right now. You could feel the silence getting louder, your eyes slipping closed and then gradually coming back open to relish in how Sherlock’s mass blankets you with weight and heat. You only finally let yourself sleep when you can hear the light snores coming from the detective laying atop of you, his rhythmic breath nuzzling the swell of your right breast, content that he’s getting the sleep he’s missed out on for weeks.

Sherlock gingerly rolls to his back when the sun decides to beam its light through his curtain. It disturbs him, but with how high it is in the sky, he wonders the hour of day and how long he had been asleep. Clarity finds him like an old memory. It’s in bits and pieces and then it comes crashing in altogether. He’s missing that impending stress in his neck and shoulders that would usually wake him with a startle when his body felt he slept for too long when he could be tangled with his work instead. He should be plenty able to solve his case like he told himself he would and now his brain is back to its optimal setting and functioning, reset presumably from the mind-blowing sex, but he instead remembers your beautiful face, your harmonic moans, and your welcoming legs.

He sits up and realizes you’re no longer in bed with him at this. He scans along the length of the room, the robe you two got rid of at some point in the night on the floor next to his trousers. Sherlock groggily stands to his feet, he flings on the robe, and then opens the door of the room, the smell of food wafting through the air. His stomach growls, but he’s not padding towards the kitchen because he’s hungry, but because he’s searching for you. He ultimately comes across you there, your back to him, his button-up on your frame that goes just past your posterior. You soon turn around to lay the eggs in the pan on top of the toasted bread on the counter. You both lock eyes and you could feel the blood rising up to your cheeks with how he glances at your choice of outfit. If he could call it that.

“Are you going to be a thief and ransack my closet later, as well?” He wouldn’t be that opposed to the idea. Thus far, you modeled his coat, his robe, and now his undershirt better than he did. There’s also something particularly domestic about how you don his clothes. He feels an inkling of possessiveness. The gestures unspokenly cement you as his in some form and for some reason, that thrills him.

“I don’t have to ransack anything to get into your trousers, Shoulders,” you reply. Your voice is a lot more airy than it usually is no matter the teasing tone you adopted. You’re rather confident for someone who’s still behaving so coyly, especially with the way Sherlock’s jaw slackens at the implication.

Sherlock chooses not to answer verbally. Instead, he slowly approaches you until you could feel the counter press into your back from how you went the opposite direction. It’s not in avoidance, the same goal present to tease as before, and it’s displayed with how you initiate the kiss he intended on doing himself at this close proximity. He hums his approval, lifting you immediately by your thighs. If you’re not mistaken, you’re not, he seemingly has an affinity for your legs wrapped around him. You comply with this silent desire and earn another noise of approval, sighing against his mouth as he leads you to his kitchen table. Sherlock lowers himself to sit into his chair with you in his lap, his hands settling at the small of your back as you use the leverage to press your mouth against the sharp lines of his jaw. Your mouth relocates his in no time, his manspreading legs creating distance between your own as a consequence.

There’s a collective soreness from your affairs, you’re thoroughly reminded from the stretch currently sitting in your hovering thighs, but it doesn’t hinder you from attending to Sherlock. If anything, you wish to guide his hand down where you need him most, shifting your hips against the quickly hardening length underneath. His hands don’t halt your motions, perfectly fine with your bucking movement as it’s allowing him friction. The morning wood he woke with is particularly sensitive so he will indeed be susceptible to receive whatever you could possibly offer him at this moment. As far as aspiration goes, he’s thought about having you in his lap this way countless times. In fact, the thought recently snuck up on him only yesterday while he paced the floor and you laid in his bed completely unaware of the daydream haunting him, the murky image of your frame rising and falling on him while his head and mouth buried into your chest.

He thinks about sex more than one would presume and with you, it crept up on him and stalked him after you met, attacked him while he bathed, while he read, while he was supposed to be deciphering this puzzling case he had no choice but to bring you into. So, now that he’s practiced a mere fraction of these wants and vicious reveries, he’s no longer resisting their insistence and no longer censoring the depictions of your bare form or muffled moans. He’s a primary witness of real stature who holds a firsthand account of how supple your naked breasts are, how you babble nonsense lost in the throes of passion, how you climb octaves when you crest and how marvelous your walls feel through the process. If he thought it difficult to think before, he’s surely in for a debacle regarding anything productive from here on out harboring this intensive, yet fascinating, insider knowledge.

A stomach growls. Neither of you are sure who it came from entangled this heavily, but you sigh out against Sherlock’s mouth and depart from it with great reluctance through pressing your palms against his shoulders.

“Breakfast first,” you murmur, cupping his jaw and stroking his cheek. On the upstroke, your thumb meets the scratch of his stubble.

“It could wait,” Sherlock insists. It’s enough to convince you, really, but then you hear that growl again and now you’re both certain of who it came from. Especially when said perpetrator closes his pretty eyes in defeat. You smile before you steal another kiss.

It’s difficult standing from where you sit, but you do eventually detangle yourself from Sherlock. He relinquishes you as you clamber back to the food you left behind on the counter, adjusting himself in the process to will his current… dilemma to go away. He attempts to shift his focus after he realizes his eyes are lingering where his shirt ends and where your flesh begins, turning his head towards the table in his efforts. His gaze lands on the discarded letter from yesterday that he somehow read a numerous amount of times without absorbing any information. He recalls his humanity during issues like this, scorned by his lack of energy and by his betraying insomnia, by his overactive mind trapped inside a body with physical boundaries despite purposely exercising to combat that. But now that the temptation is there, he reaches for the letter, a glance taken from it to you who returns with two plates, one steaming in front of him. The Sherlock from yesterday most likely would’ve put this away, or perhaps excused himself to read it alone, but after his behavior, and the proper sleep to assess said petulant behavior with clarity, he believes it necessary to at least give you a choice.

“Do you still wish to know the details of my investigation?” He asks, and expectantly, you snap your head in his direction in the middle of placing your own plate down to the table. A clink of the glass resounds and then there’s a beat of quiet, your stare on him searching his face for a sign of regret, for jest, for anything negating his words. As always, he’s as serious as serious gets, never one to mince his speech, compassion embedded in how he uplifts the inner corners of his eyebrows.

You’re blindsided. After yesterday, you were certain Sherlock wouldn’t divulge anything related to his case. After last night, you pushed the concept into the far recesses of your mind to focus on him and solely him. As your head travels back to your interactions together and how he closed himself off, you’re not positive you want to open Pandora’s box. But you would also be deceptive if you didn’t admit to your ever-growing curiosity.

“If… if you want me to, then yes,” you begin, trusting his judgment, “but only if you do. I never wanted to muddle your work. I just wanted to help.” And you still do. You hope that your cautious glances at him can convey that without putting yourself out on a limb in the position of a fool.

Sherlock slowly nods his head and his eyes divert from yours to stare at the letter in his hand. You were tempted to read it, but you didn’t have any time to do so at Mrs. Thomas’s considering your previous predicament leading to her arrival, nor did you in Sherlock’s company traveling back to your shared building. If anything, you quickly disposed of it to quench that temptation and leave the arguments from before in the past to carry on with this intimate connection you and Sherlock transparently have with each other. Whatever it is, it’s deeper than the contents of this letter, than the aspects of his case, than losing his… friendship. Or whatever you two are calling it now.

You almost rush syllables out to deny the question seeing the visible contemplation on Sherlock’s features. This is a vital decision and it could very well be life threatening, because at this point, you’ve educated yourself on Sherlock’s previous cases through small talk with your clientele and old newspapers, all of which he closed in due time despite the danger surrounding. That’s not what scares you. What scares you is becoming privy to this part of his livelihood to then be ostracized, pushed away by his inability to accept succor, by his inability to properly undergo the emotions flitting throughout you and himself. Say, that bullshit you convinced yourself before is wrong, you do have a grasp of how to read Sherlock. It’s that grasp that urges you to waive this all away, eat your breakfast, and distract your earnest thoughts from their incessant need to know more by straddling Sherlock’s lap and having him instruct you when to surge and when to plummet.

Great, now that’s firmly back in your mind. To appease your overthinking, you grasp your toast and take a bite. The crunch is louder than initially thought, but it makes sense since neither of you two are saying anything. You chew slowly to ease the tension, startled when Sherlock suddenly speaks.

“Clara Grace of Beckenham, age fifty-three, was pronounced deceased at the scene at 6:43 pm on Wednesday, September 3rd, 1884. The murder instrument? Presumably, to the police anyway,” he gives you a knowing look, “a simple revolver. To me?” The correct observation, his eyes convey. “It was the revolver M1882, produced exclusively in Switzerland. There were remnants of black powder and the 308 diameter bullet left behind a clean orifice in Clara’s chest. Which would mean our suspect most likely shot her at a close distance, face to face, and they may have an affiliation with the Swiss army and such an outrageous claim could be enough, and was enough, for our dear police officials and her family to subtract yours truly’s aid moving forward in the investigation.” He clears his throat at this, his gaze set on the table, on the food, but you know he’s looking right past it.

So, not only is Sherlock’s involvement unwanted by the police and unwanted by the victim’s family, he carried on with an investigation of his own. Sherlock didn’t tell you these details because of his ego (okay, maybe a small part of it was that), but because he doesn’t have proper authorization and from how he won’t meet your gaze, it’s possible he’s embarrassed. You don’t say anything, waiting for him to continue and leap over this disappointment he carries in his features.

He eventually does with a shake of his head. “Clara’s parents were sparing in their accounts. They left for the theater, came home early, and then found Clara dead. Her father was in shambles, sobbing as they covered Clara’s body with a sheet. Her mother was quieter, however, less hysteric. When I resolved the matter of the murder weapon and how it could have possibly been someone Clara knew given the close proximity, I was soon told by her father, once he calmed, that I would no longer be needed. Thus, I no longer had access to their home nor possible suspects.” Sherlock’s tongue runs along his upper row of teeth, sucking on them so harshly that his jaw pops. You’re not sure what to say to him. The only dead body you had seen in your lifetime belonged to your father and it was after his heart afflictions, not due to someone inhumanely claiming his life. You grieve for Sherlock’s frustration. He barely had anything, it seems, and yet ironically more than the police.

“Regardless,” he continues, “I acquired evidence. A piece of fabric, fabric that you seemingly specialize in because I was unable to locate it in over thirty establishments,” he clicks his tongue at you, to which you shyly grin because he wouldn’t have had to take that journey if you had helped him from the beginning, “and this fabric came with dried blood. Clara’s blood, I’m sure of it. Now, believe me when I tell you that nowhere on this woman’s outfit did it appear to be missing even a loose thread. Which means this fabric came from—”

“The suspect,” you breathe, pieces falling together in your head. You look at the letter and then the other piece of fabric on the table that you.. that you took from Mrs. Thomas’s. The implications of this… you can feel your head reeling.

“Yes… the suspect. This entails the suspect to be wealthy as that factor is the commonality amongst your clientele and as agitating as it was visiting all those businesses, it has narrowed down the possibilities and confirmed it for me. This does not mean that any of your clients are murderers,” Sherlock reaches for your hand. He seems to know what’s currently lurking through your head as you level him with teary eyes. Your trust is breaking the more he explains this. You don’t know what to think having visited these homes so recently of people you thought were at least good natured. While he’s reassuring you of the likelihood, it’s not completely unfound and he knows that. Anyone and everyone could be guilty.

“If they are not involved themselves, then they might have connections to the true culprit. Remember, your clothing is not solely worn by the retrieving consumers, but also by their friends, by their family, by the complete strangers they may have donated it to. Though,” he sighs, his thumb repeatedly stroking back and forth on your hand. There’s always a catch. You squeeze his hand back to try and lessen his worry.

“Though this line of thinking may all change if I read you this letter. I attempted to do so last night, but… I faced distractions.” His grip tightens a fraction on your hand. It’s a lovely memory to recall and since it happened so recently, both of you succumb to the fragments that hit at you. Still, you gesture to the letter.

“You can go on,” you bravely reply. He slants his mouth.

“Are you certain? Whatever may lie in this letter could be telling of your companion and the state of your companionship with—”

“Please, Sherlock,” you contest. You gradually remove your hand from his so you can sit taller, your expression morphing with confidence other than the blemish of ignorance. “I have to know.”

It’s heavy being here at the table with Sherlock like this. The letter you stole from Mrs. Thomas could unveil more than you could bargain for, but there’s this white knight in your heart craving the truth, craving justice for a woman you didn’t know even if it comes at the cost of erasing the idealized image you held of someone you thought you did.

“Very well,” he relents. He flips the letter, “For Blanche, with love,” he announces. A bit of relief floods you at this because it means that this letter is addressed to Mrs. Thomas and not something she wrote. You still prepare yourself as he reads.

“My dearest Blanche, this is quite possibly the longest we have undergone without seeing one another. I know we have faced our trials and distances in the past, but this certainly feels different. If I were to be honest, I would tell you how it feels as if a part of me is missing. I would tell you how lost I am, how heavy I carry my heart, and how I think of you every day. It has worsened the longer we have been apart. This rail system has stolen plenty of my time from you and so I am proposing a plot that requires your initiative and word.

“I have pondered retirement. This would mean we would see each other daily, no longer concerned with distributing our activities, reconciling at our own pace to do our own biddings. I know we were reluctant in our youth to even think of such an endeavour, but now we are blessed with enough wealth to last us and then some for the rest of our lives. I made a vow to spend that measure with you and I hope you share this ambition. I am ready for this next chapter and to say goodbye to the last one, but I can only do so with your hand in mine.

“I ask you to contemplate this decision well. There are many ventures we can accomplish together with this newfound time. We could travel anywhere, we could move to a different country, we could settle down further where we are. We could renovate the house or keep it as is and go on those peaceful strolls that you love. There are endless prospects. I won’t officially retire until I have your input. Seeing that I will be returning Saturday, October 25th, I do anticipate our reunion. Forgive me for being unable to be there earlier in the day, but I am sure I will be arriving just in time for our planned outing. We can continue this discussion then. I will see you at the ball. Travel with caution and mind your surroundings. Love, Edmund.”

The absence of sound is prevalent when Sherlock finishes reading the letter. Truthfully, a portion of you feels corrupt and unsettled for listening to it because of the intimacy the letter described. You hardly knew Mr. Thomas, having only met with him twice in your tenure, once at your family home, and another when you stepped up to take over your father’s business. You don’t know how Sherlock could stomach disrupting the privacies in the lives of others, but it doesn’t leave you with a pleasant feeling. You feel guilty for even thinking Mrs. Thomas could commit such an atrocity when she’s actually a lonely woman away from her hardworking husband. At least, that’s how you view this. You don’t see the connection that Sherlock does so you’re incredibly surprised when he instantly stands from the table, the legs of his chair screeching on the floor from how suddenly he pushed it backwards. You watch with confusion as he knits his eyebrows inwards.

“The rail system. He wasn’t talking about the Metropolitan Railway,” he proclaims out loud. As many of his discoveries are, Sherlock says it more to himself, but he corrects this immediately after and looks to you. You’re still not following, but you do stand from your chair and lean over it to try and grasp ahold of what he means.

“Then which did he imply?”

“The railway network being attended to elsewhere… in Switzerland.”

The hesitation in Sherlock’s voice depicts to you how he must’ve figured this out already while he read the letter. You hold a hand to your mouth at this startling revelation, the familiar lines and wrinkles of Mr. Thomas’s facial structure coming to your head as you think about what Sherlock is leading you towards. That guilt from seconds ago manifests into denial, your head shaking back and forth as you wordlessly stare at Sherlock. You know he’s right in his assumption, and that’s what exacerbates it for you, unable to believe that Mrs. Thomas’s husband could execute someone. There still isn’t a motive, you tell yourself. Maybe on the offhand chance, Sherlock is wrong for once. The connection to Switzerland is a coincidence and Mr. Thomas did not have a revolver specially akin to the nation.

However, as your head spins back to the content of his letter to Mrs. Thomas, you glance down at the lone piece of fabric you found alongside it locked away in that desk full of cat figurines. Your heart thuds faster, your head whipping back to Sherlock who appears as if he’s thinking of comforting words, anything he could do or say in this situation. While you appreciate the sentiment, you tap the surface of the table.

“Where’s the fabric you found?”

“Lily, I know this is a plethora of information, but—”

“Where’s the fabric from the crime scene? I need you to bring it to me at once.” You demand. He seems to catch on to your urgency and he starts to move as he calls back, “In the study,” on his way out of the kitchen.

You ground yourself to reality by placing your palms facing downwards on the surface of Sherlock’s kitchen table. The events from yesterday replay in your mind, the elite class referring to the same ball both Mr. and Mrs. Thomas will be present at. Then you think back to the specific purchases you’ve relayed in the past two months or so, but there’s no direct confirmation when the fabric in question was sold or what it specifically belonged to since you have a scrap and Sherlock presumably also has one too short to recognize. In your desperation, you recall the first time you met Mr. Thomas. He stopped by to greet your father, all smiles, a comical top hat on his head which he removed with enthusiasm as you practically bounced into the room for a better view.

You were too young to understand the business lingo they engaged in, pieces and sentences of their conversation lost, but you weren’t too young to understand the blissful expression on his old face, how he spoke of love and its rekindling because he mentioned struggling at the time with his wife, Blanche. He kneeled down to your level, insisting to your father that you hadn’t interrupted anything important. He beckoned you to come closer with his hand, but as a shy child, you remained in your spot unmoving. That’s when he reached for one of his coat’s pockets, a coat your father made, and then retrieved a handful of farthings that glinted under your home’s lamp. Your eyes widened with intrigue, possessed by your childlike curiosity and greed as you thumped over and took the farthings from him. You counted them as he chuckled over you, still relatively hulking even bent down. His knee popped as he slowly stood and told you the history of farthings and how they were made, much of which you tuned out to stare at the currency in your little palm. When you looked up, you noticed the handkerchief sticking out of the pocket that held the coinage and the way he smoothed his vest like a gentleman.

Sherlock returns into the kitchen and noticing your current gaze, he places the other scrap of fabric alongside the one you’re staring intently at. Side by side, you know what item of clothing these scraps came from and while there is more missing, you don’t require it to comprehend the weight of this observation that Sherlock couldn’t have caught on his own.

“What is it?” He asks.

“The fabric is from a handkerchief. Mr. Thomas’s handkerchief.”

The horse’s hooves of your carriage trot nonchalantly along the busy streets of London, and you assume there are other carriages nearby from the sound of offbeat steps creating something resembling white, background noise. You cross your leg over the other, the heaviness of your dress’s layered skirt becoming apparent during the action since the material ruffles and bunches in the process. Sherlock glances at you at the contention point of the noise and then he awkwardly reverts his gaze forward again to the curtain concealing away your coachman. You wish he would talk to you instead of entertaining this silence you accidentally fell into, but you also understand how there’s an upcoming event you two must remain focused on. It’s vital you don’t stray away from the objective, the possible perpetrator of a murder case Sherlock’s chased at this ball you two were currently en route to. You probably should’ve denied Sherlock’s invitation that he felt he owed you after roping you into his investigation through releasing the nuances and details, but you couldn’t withstand the idea of waiting at home in anticipation as Sherlock brought an old family friend to justice on his lonesome. That’s if Sherlock could find anything through questioning Mr. Thomas directly, the very plan of your night. Sherlock explained to you that he was still missing a motive.

In a twisted way, it offered you the opportunity to get dressed in your best attire. You don’t recall when you last wore something this extravagant, when you last were able to choose from the assortment of clothing at your disposal for your own prerogative. Secretly, you also wished to pick an option that would be eye-catching not only for the ball’s attendees, but for Sherlock. You got your wish since he froze in his spot once you opened the door to your flat and stepped past the threshold. To him, you floated further into his sight as if you had wings, the obsidian bows and tule dipping around your biceps in gentle sleeves connecting to your sweetheart corset brushing him as you walked past and reminded him of the carriage ride you both had to catch if you desired to arrive on time.

Sherlock wore the suit you tailored for him as well as the tie you picked out. The difference became all clear to his regular clothing because of how it hugged the hard lines of him while still highlighting his frame and bulk. It took extra time than your other projects did and you realized you ran low on azure products while placing it together having adjusted an already-made-suit, but the end result was worth it. How you found the time in the midst of developing deep feelings for him, embarrassing yourself to him in a drunken manner, arguing with him, fucking him, and deciphering a mystery case’s answers is beyond you, but you worked miracles in the past before.

“You look…” Sherlock breaks the silence, but his voice is uncharacteristically soft. You turn towards him and he still faces the curtain as he wrestles with what he wants to say. If he looks at you, it’ll be worse for him. You’ve stumped him of his speech and his mind is currently blanking as he tries to locate the words conveying how you make him feel, how one glance robs his breath, and how your appearance commands full attention. As clever as he is, in all his wits and skills, this is seemingly a game he doesn’t excel in. His attempts come with strain, his emotions crumpled for what reason you don’t know, but you nudge your shoulder against his and he looks at you with admiration despite it all.

“Thank you,” you respond to the unsaid compliment that hangs in the air. You slyly grasp his hand and lace your fingers together, the hold led into your lap. His knuckles linger on the golden lace adorning the opaque tule of your skirt beneath it. “So do you,” you finish in a whisper.

You two remain that way. Sherlock’s grateful for how you don’t press, albeit a touch disappointed in himself for not being able to fully articulate what’s in his head. Frustratingly, he doesn’t fully comprehend what’s going on with him, either. There are feelings, that’s already a realm he’s unfamiliar with, but to add further to it, he doesn’t know what these feelings are. They don’t logically spell out their motives nor their purpose like everything else he approaches in his life does. Humanity is exceedingly simple, driven by its selfish nature and complex emotions and so he shouldn’t have any issue with unraveling whatever it is he feels for you, and yet the gossamer web has no rhyme nor reason. It taunts him, it laughs at him, it encircles his head in a vague question he barely can read despite it entrapping him for what feels like ages now. The puzzling case of Clara Grace is coming to its solution, undeniably because of how all answers reveal themselves in time, but what of the puzzling case involving him and you?

“We never slept together, did we?” You question, saving him from his thoughts while simultaneously ushering in others he thought you wished to avoid. He looks at you quizzically and you quickly correct yourself even though he already knows what you’re referring to.

“I mean, before. When I fell asleep in your flat. We didn’t do anything of that nature, did we?” You’re sheepish as you stare at your hand in his, the unit you’ve created still in your lap. He doesn’t know where this is coming from nor if this is the appropriate time to discuss this, but he might as well if you’re willing to no matter the hour or where you two are heading.

“Did you believe we did?” It’s a logical assumption if you wake in someone else’s bed after a night of consuming wine.

“Perhaps. I thought we did something, but I didn’t know what. You approached me with such seriousness and so I attempted to connect lines that weren’t there and..”

“You came to the conclusion that we had intercourse and I was searching for a way to reject you?” He continues for you. You meet his gaze then, because that implies you thought him as someone that sleazy and you quickly clear the air.

“No, no, well, yes, but not exactly,” you clarify and Sherlock furrows his brows in rare bewilderment. “I thought that the conversation could possibly lead there and I wasn’t ready for it. Whatever we did while I was drunk, I wasn’t ready for the consequences.”

Understanding now encompasses Sherlock’s features, much to your relief. He seems to be thinking of something, “That’s why you wanted to pretend as if nothing happened. Self-preservation.”

You chew on your lip. This definitely isn’t easy, almost as difficult as you foresaw it before just as he did. But if you’re going into a mission with grand players and high stakes, you don’t want anything possibly holding either of you back sitting between you any longer.

“And I didn’t want to lose you,” you confess quietly and you can see Sherlock’s shoulders lower in surprise. That’s not what he expected. His mouth parts like he could add something, but he doesn’t. You sigh, your head tilting down in shame. “I’ve lost my father, I haven’t seen my mother nor my sister in months, the friend I made in Mrs. Thomas came because of work and now I’m about to have a hand in possibly sending her husband away to prison. You’ve been a steady factor during this time. Forgive me for trying to hold on as best as I could manage.”

That’s who you are now. You don’t want your world to crumble all over again so you must tighten your vise on what’s present to prevent it from happening again. Yet, the guilt from attempting to control life and its ups and downs, from attempting to control Sherlock and his appearance in your day-to-day activity, it’s catching up to you. You gradually pacify the pressure you have on Sherlock’s hand, because as much as you would hate it, it’s not up to you whether or not he stays or doesn’t. He has his own autonomy and if he believes it as correct, then he can walk away from you when all of this is done and you have to stand by and let him. Not wanting to ruin your makeup by thinking of this, you breathe evenly to halt the tears threatening to fall over your lash line. You only gasp when Sherlock reinforces his hold on your hand, his grip now the dominant one.

“You asked me to lay with you… that night. I didn’t know if it was you or the alcohol in your system speaking, so I chose to forego the opportunity, but believe me, it was with great, great reluctance.” His jaw hardens, his mind begging him to stop talking because of how he’s discussing with you what he held back for days, private information that he wouldn’t tell to anyone else, not even to himself out loud in front of a mirror. “While you slept, I couldn’t bring myself to. My mind preoccupied itself with your safety, with what your reaction would be in the morning, if there was a way to salvage our,” he loses his speech then, not sure of the label he could give the two of you. He settles for gesturing back and forth between you and him in the miniscule space among your bodies with his opposite hand. You get it immediately. “I planned to encourage nothing but friendship. You’ve been a distraction to me. Doing anything with you, whether it was as simple as laying at your side and falling into a shared slumber, I needed to establish our boundaries.”

For a split second, Sherlock notices a tendril of emotion cross your face. He’s never been good at reading these allusive signs, but he recognizes the antecedents before particular behaviors. That tremble of your lip and how you rapidly blink your eyelids, he’s seen you do it. He’s seen you do it before you’re about to cry. That means you’re hurt. He’s not sure why a sense of panic envelopes his chest, hurriedly tucking his knuckles under your chin with his free hand to rectify his words.

“But then you dismissed it and… and I was… I believed… I wanted… ah, fuck,” he blurts. Seldom is he this tongue tied. Seldom is he at a loss for words, able to direct an audience as they hung onto every syllable he uttered. You’re attaching yourself to every one he currently struggles with all the same, but it’s somehow harder. Everything is with you. He can’t think properly, evidently can’t speak properly, but goddamn it, you pull him back with how you flutter your glassy eyes at him, and how you maddeningly tilt your head at him. Enola was right. You’re pretty. You’re so, so fucking pretty. It makes him stutter. It makes him stupid.

“I thought you regretted it. Not just the alcohol intake, but… I thought you regretted what you asked of me. I thought you regretted being with… with me.” It’s Sherlock’s turn to be contrite. He doesn’t do this. He doesn’t talk about the things that make him.. human. He doesn’t expose his weaknesses and this is surely one, his flesh peeled back for your discretion, to pick at his bones, and he’s ashamed of himself to feel anything that isn’t confidence, self-certainty, or inquisitive. But after you laid out your fears, the overbearing trepidation of loneliness that he can relate to (though, he would never say it), he couldn’t remain quiet of what his subconscious desperately needed to release itself of.

Much to his surprise, you don’t stomp on his confession and its vulnerability, you don’t judge him for his antics as Mycroft would, and you don’t tease him for his revelations as Enola would, either. Instead, you smile, and it feels as if the carriage ride stops. You kiss him, his knuckles still along your chin, the movement causing them to touch the delicate, silk choker’s eggshell rose replacing your usual charm necklace for the night. He changes his hand’s position to cup your jaw, inadvertently deepening the kiss by shifting your head for better leverage. Your hand kneads his, your other reaching for his wrist. It doesn’t pull it away as he initially thinks, but it maintains his hold, ensures he remains there. It’s completely unnecessary to him. He’s not going anywhere.

Neither of you have the time to escalate this as much as you both desire it. The door to your carriage comes open to the left of Sherlock and he retracts his mouth from yours. It’s not because he’s embarrassed to be caught like this by the coachman who clears his throat awkwardly in front of you and the carriage, but because Sherlock hates being interrupted. He huffs out his displeasure, releasing your jaw and hand as he straightens his coat and thinks to himself, I surmise the carriage did actually stop.

He descends the single step, peering at the coachman who won’t look at him for some odd reason. Before Sherlock extends his hand out to you, he lifts an eyebrow in question at the other man.

“Does something concern you?”

“No, Sir, I,” the coachman trails off. He glances at you and then back at Sherlock before he ultimately stares at the floor again. “It’s… her lipstick is all over you.”

“Focus. Am I losing you, Lily?”

“I am focused!” You lie, swiftly tearing your gaze away from his sculpted jawline to the crowd of people watching the couples who litter the dance floor, you and Sherlock among said couples who practice the same choreography. Being this close, his scent permeates your nostrils like a pheromone, beckoning you closer to his neck that your lips crave to kiss and drag along. You didn’t know that dancing with Sherlock would rile you this way and render him so desirable, but it’s probably also the alarming fact that he prohibited any other forms of affection since you stained him so horribly and thoroughly back at the carriage. He eventually got himself clean, with the help of the coachman, and he glared at you for snickering to yourself, accusing you softly in your ear of allowing him to enter this event without giving him notice had the coachman not said anything. You protested that your own lips had to be salvaged by the concoction you brought along in your purse, but he’s been weary ever since.

It must be because he’s now in detective mode. As much as your heart soared when he asked you to dance, he reassured you it was because it was the best way to survey the ball’s participants, scope who came in and who went out. Regardless, you couldn’t refrain from swaying to the music, leaning into him closer than necessary, your hand lingering on his chest and shoulders as he pulled you into him after twirling you at a distance. It’s not like he’s in any better shape. You’re so concerned with trying to maintain your composure that you’re failing to notice how his jaw tightens and flexes, how his hands draw your hips in flush against his body, how he inhales your perfume indulgently with every lack of proximity. He’s never enjoyed dancing. Not like he’s enjoying it with you. He should’ve known this experience would be so distinct since you flip every assumption on its head.

“I see Mrs. Thomas,” you alert when your heads are centimeters apart.

Your gaze is over his shoulder, his own in the opposite direction. He nods, still searching through the crowd. He only has your description to go off with Mr. Thomas and his memory of a photograph that sat at Mrs. Thomas’s shared residence. You would definitely know him and could assess if you saw him, but Sherlock knows how dangerous that could be and he’s not letting you anywhere near the man if he can help it. Your part in this is to lead Mrs. Thomas away while he confronts and restricts Mr. Thomas without making a scene. He did tip the police off of his discoveries, but with how they excluded Sherlock from this investigation already, he doesn’t know what time they will show up if they even decide to. Like most things, which were more apparent when he started this career, he has to do this all himself. In all his credibility and fame, it’s been ages since he’s been shunned this way. It proves to him that he only has himself to count on.

Well. Himself and you. You, who looks up at him, ready and willing to carry out your set duty while he carries out his own. He’s suddenly regretting that rule he implemented, reluctant to depart from your frame. He eventually slips his arms away and fights off the demand within him urging him with great pressure and insistence to kiss you.

“Good luck. Find me if you feel anything is wrong or if you happen to run into Mr. Thomas.” He walks with you from the dance floor, a few glances taken your way that have been conducted from the moment you stepped in here together. It’s probably because Sherlock is such a renowned and “eligible” (according to the papers, anyway) bachelor. Pride sinks into your posture.

“I will. Be careful, I’ll see you soon.” Although you two can’t kiss, you do embrace Sherlock. It’s decisive and as quickly as you slotted yourself into his arms, that’s how quickly it’s over. He yearns for the attachment, your lips close to his ear as you murmur “time will explain” and flee from him thereafter.

He soundlessly parrots your words to himself and watches as you cut through the sea of people. He weaves among the patrons himself to ensure you find Mrs. Thomas with his own eyes. From this distance, he sees you greet her and she beams when she recognizes you. After a bone crushing hug, she looks around and then stares at you, presumably asking about where Sherlock is since this is not an event you attend alone and only days before, you lied to her and said you were dancing with him. He can only imagine what the conversation is between you as you hook your arm with hers and begin to walk her away from the thick of the people. He cranes his neck to view until you’re out of sight and while he would rather be in your company, he braces himself for what’s to come.

Sherlock is unable to pass through the attendants unnoticed. Without you at his arm, the attention from unmarried women comes in heaps, one after the other asking him to dance, some not-so-subtle caresses of his biceps as he does his best to appear dapper and without an ulterior motive for his visit. Then there are the officials who realize it’s him, among them by the name of Inspector Lestrade, whom Sherlock doesn’t recognize, who tries to apologize for the expulsion he had no part in, to which Sherlock asks if Lestrade received his note from the night prior. Lestrade confirms it, ready for Sherlock’s signal, and then they part as Sherlock continues his search. At least more than two individuals are searching for Mr. Thomas and he notices other police officials sipping away at glasses of champagne. It’s both irritating and relieving to see. Irritating because this case could have possibly been solved sooner had they just involved Sherlock from the beginning. Relieving because their presence and abundance means your safety is guaranteed and for once, his top priority isn’t bringing someone to answer for their crimes, it’s you.

He grows impatient as he scans more faces, greets people with politeness Mycroft taught him, speaks fondly when they ask him about you since they saw you enter with him and dance with him. In his haste, he pauses at the glasses set for champagne and wine. There are usually service providers who pour and distribute, but he doesn’t see any in sight and concludes to himself that they must be attending to other elites and people of importance. So, he partakes in opening a bottle himself, the smoke from the chilled glass rising up and stroking the length of his nose in pure, fleeting cold. As he chooses a glass, he hears a nearby exchange between a woman in pearls and another woman in rubies. So much for scolding Enola about eavesdropping. What she doesn’t know cannot be used against him.

“Did you attend the funeral?” Pearls inquires, her hand tucked at her elbow, the other nursing a glass of champagne.

“No, her father wasn’t quite fond of inviting his ex-mistress. Or perhaps her mother wasn’t,” Rubies replies and Sherlock has to blink away how staggering that statement is. They’re in public, this should be the last conversation they engage in. He’s aware he shouldn’t continue listening, but he does anyway to occupy the void that comes with pouring his glass to his desired volume.

“Shame. You missed out on the entertainment.” Pearls slyly nudges her friend and masks a wicked grin with a sip of her glass.

“Oh, please. A funeral filled with weeping men and women over a harlot? How depressing,” Rubies mutters aloud. Sherlock can’t believe what he’s hearing. Well, he can. He’s heard outrageous sentences come from wealthy mouths. It’s the entitlement.

“Clara was not a harlot,” Pearls retaliates in a hushed voice through her gritted teeth. At this, Sherlock’s head snaps up. They still haven’t caught wind that he’s listening nor how invested he now is in this topic of discussion.

“That’s up for debate,” Rubies says, but she leans in closer. Like she wants to hear the secret Pearls desperately wants to tell her. “But go ahead. What was so entertaining? Did Clara rise from the dead?”

Pearls lightly smacks Rubies on her arm. Sherlock is sure it’s in good nature since they both snicker.

“No, no, no, nothing of the supernatural sort,” she drops her voice an octave. Sherlock has to strain his ears to hear. “Get this… I was sitting with Peter during the ceremony when suddenly he taps my thigh. He says, ‘Darling, darling look,’ and I look around and do you know who I saw?”

“Who?” Sherlock is not religious, but he finds himself praying silently as he steps closer.

“Edmund. Thomas.”

“No, no he did not,” Rubies gasps, and Sherlock’s eyebrows fly to his forehead. What the hell was Edmund Thomas, the possible murderer, doing at Clara Grace’s, the victim’s, funeral?

“He was standing like a ghost meters away and he had to be chased off by Matilda. It was embarrassing and even more so when she tried to explain herself to Nicholas,” Pearls continues. Sherlock recognizes those names. Matilda and Nicholas Grace. Clara’s parents that Sherlock barely had time to question before they and the police excluded him. Sherlock is no longer concerned with the glass of champagne he’s poured himself. He doesn’t even hide the fact that he’s listening now, his mind racing as he attempts to deduce why Edmund would possibly attend Clara’s funeral.

“Guess love really does make people do crazy things. I think Matilda is taking that secret to the grave with her before she tells Nicholas.”

“Hey, and so are we. Clara didn’t want anyone to know. Especially not Blanche.”

Both women abstain from their gossip at the sound of glass shattering. One even gives a shriek that Sherlock hears having rushed away from the table right after he accidentally bumped into the corner of it. Neither of them noticed him, their eyes locked on the puddle of champagne on the floor, heels clacking as they maneuver away from the shards of glass that burst near them. A servant hurriedly runs over and calls for help to clean the mess, and that’s the last that Sherlock hears because he’s dashing through the crowd now, his thoughts crashing against each other in waves grander than the ocean could muster. His heartbeat drums in his ears, his target in Mr. Thomas not his intent now because doubt is filling him. Not the doubt that Mr. Thomas is not the culprit, he fucking knows that now, but the doubt attempting to convince him that maybe he is and not the hunch Sherlock currently has. Sherlock is doubtful because for once in his fucking life, he wants to be wrong. He wants to be wrong more than he can feel his heart rate quickening.

If I were to be honest, I would tell you how it feels as if a part of me is missing, rings in his head, the convenience of finding the fabric in the desk, the disappearance of one old woman, being coincidentally locked in a room where said fabric and other evidence lied. Everything repeats itself and it doesn’t stop at one time. He can hear voices overlapping, his own, yours, Mrs. Thomas’s, Matilda’s, Nicholas’s, Lestrade’s, Enola’s, Mycroft’s. They’re all trying to tell him the same thing. Images flash, the letter, the fabric, the key, the blood, Clara, the letter, the key, Clara, Rubies, Pearls, Mrs. Thomas, Mr. Thomas, you, you, you, you, you, you, a handkerchief, Switzerland, the revolver, you, you, Clara, the key, the letter, Mrs. Thomas. Mrs. Thomas. Mrs. Thomas. Mrs. Thomas. Mr. Thomas and Clara. Mr. Thomas and Clara. Mr. Thomas and Clara.

I would tell you how lost I am, how heavy I carry my heart.

I am ready for this next chapter and to say goodbye to the last one.

How could he have been so blind? He has a motive now, perhaps the most important part of this investigation besides the murder weapon, which he still did not have. Love is a vicious motivator, he’s known this, and yet, he didn’t realize it despite reading the letter and dealing with the trapping door days ago. Edmund was talking about Clara in the letter, an emptiness referred to that had initially puzzled Sherlock, but it’s becoming clearer to him the more he runs around the ball.

I remember when Edmund and I would dance randomly. Being in love and all, made you spontaneous.

Mrs. Thomas. Mrs. Thomas. Mrs. Thomas.

He catches up to Lestrade, and Lestrade attempts to question what’s gotten into Sherlock, but Sherlock cuts him right off.

“What, what is it? Did you f—”

“Never mind Mr. Thomas, it’s not him, it never was.”

“But your note and explan—”

“I know what the hell I wrote,” Sherlock snaps and earns a few concerned looks thrown his way. He doesn’t care, his hand grasping Lestrade’s sleeve in a death grip. “It’s Blanche Thomas, she’s the one. She shot Clara, she… she…”

Sherlock abruptly stops speaking. He could hear his panting, but at the same time, he doesn’t feel any oxygen being driven out of him. Everything surrounding him goes mute, even Lestrade who pats his shoulders and demands he tells him why Sherlock thinks it’s her. He ignores Lestrade, his expression going blank as he contemplates what he had just done. He got the murderer wrong. Wrongwrongwrongwrongwrong. But as that word echoes through the recesses of his brain, he mulls over its implication. And that’s the horrid, stomach twisting implication that you’re currently with said murderer. In his diligence and caution to ensure your safety, he led you right into the danger’s arms. He did the exact opposite of what he originally intended and now Mr. Thomas is the last person on his mind.

Sherlock speaks your name. He says it again after Lestrade repeats it in complete confusion. Then, he’s gripping Lestrade again, fury in his irises.

“She’s with Mrs. Thomas, we have to find her!” He orders, breaking into a sprint as Lestrade stumbles backwards.

In the midst of Sherlock opening door after door in the building, Lestrade signals his men and then they’re on the hunt themselves, the entirety of the ball in shambles as women screech and men protest. There are slams of the doors they push open, others ushering out the people who fail to form single file lines marching out of the establishment. No one understands the fiasco that’s ongoing, but due to the police being frantic, every patron within the building becomes so. Eventually, Sherlock climbs up a staircase leading up two flights. He attempts to search through the endless amount of rooms, catching couples off guard who took to them to engage in what they should be engaging in their private houses. He rolls his eyes as they try to explain themselves, slamming the door to then do the same with the next and then the next and the next.

There’s one white door with a golden frame that he tries and as soon as he steps through, a gun points right at him. He stops in his tracks, his blood running cold and not for the plain fact of how Mrs. Thomas points a M1882 revolver at him, but for how she’s wound an arm around your waist, the two of you right up against the balcony’s handrail. He doesn’t move a muscle. At least, not in his legs or arms, but the ones in his jaw flex in unbridled anger, his stare intense as he locks it with Mrs. Thomas. Gone is the facade he first saw when he met her outside of your shop, gone is the forgetfulness she feigned when he broke her door’s handle, gone is the sweet and tender expression of an old woman, present is the slickness of a master manipulator and a scorned lover. She’s been right under his nose this entire time.

“You were right, dear. He did figure it out,” she states, hinting that she must’ve unveiled herself to you before his discovery. He wonders why you didn’t come find him, her patronizing tone causing him to step forward only for her to point the gun from him to you, and that alone tells him all he needs to know. The tip of the revolver presses into your ribcage and he once more refrains from coming any closer, every morsel within him screaming for him to think, Think of something, anything. He eyes the balcony, the revolver, and then your face. There’s fear, but there’s also disappointment.

“It’s over, Blanche. Release her, she has nothing to do with this,” he declares, willing for the police to not enter at the wrong moment. If she’s crazy enough to murder Mr. Thomas’s mistress at close quarters, he doesn’t put it beneath her to try and do the same to you. He has to separate you two first. It’s crucial you’re away from the mayhem before there is anything enacted.

She laughs. You once thought it to be sweet, but now you can’t think of any other adjective to describe it besides deranged. “She doesn’t? Isn’t she the reason you visited me two days ago? Isn’t she the one who stole from my desk?”

“You planted that evidence for us to find,” Sherlock spits, his teeth grinding as he watches Mrs. Thomas press that revolver into your covered flesh harder as a consequence. Mrs. Thomas clearly doesn’t appreciate being patronized. He wonders how she held herself back from people consistently underestimating her and fawning over her in her old age. You do nothing but grimace, pleading with your eyes for Sherlock to stand back.

“And who are you to judge me for it? Who are either of you to judge me?” She asks, her gaze hardening. Sherlock misses that confused elderly act she pranced around in before. “I wrapped up the evidence for you practically in a bow and both of you still managed to muck it all up. She could’ve left with you unscathed, but no, she had to guide me here. Ask question after question about my marriage, try to run off when she caught an unlucky glimpse of the gun in my purse that is now going to be acquainted with her guts.” Mrs. Thomas clicks the hammer back, her expression serious, although regretful. You gulp as you stare at Sherlock, the concern on his features ripping away at you more than this terrifying predicament.

“Stop, stop,” he bargains, his hands flying in front of him to indicate his surrender. “You don’t have to do this. You care about her, I know you do.”

“I care about her? Look at you, you care about her!” She exclaims in hysterics. “Here you are, close to groveling when you hardly know her,” Mrs. Thomas turns her head towards you, “Here he is attempting to save your life, he’ll promise you the world, dear, he might even marry you and kiss the ground you walk on for the first few years, but it all ends the same. You’ll find him years from now with someone younger, try twenty years younger, and you’ll feel the same rage that I do. Women in love never win. We lose. We always lose.”

She’s bitter and vengeful, it’s a dangerous combination. Sherlock hates how you’re caught in the middle of it and you hate that even though she’s pressing a gun into your ribs, you mourn for her struggle. She didn’t deserve what Edmund did to her, no one did… but Clara didn’t deserve to be hurt, either. You’re conflicted since Clara clearly knew about Mrs. Thomas and still met with Edmund anyway, from what you gathered from Mrs. Thomas’s ramblings before Sherlock arrived, murder and framing someone else for it couldn’t be the solution. You’re not sure what exactly that solution could’ve been, but if she had confided in you, maybe you two could have found it together. This is what you told Mrs. Thomas before Sherlock appeared. You attempted to reason with her and appeal to the scraps of humanity left within her, but Clara and Edmund have rendered Mrs. Thomas into something you couldn’t bargain with. The sole reason you kept up your efforts to persuade her into freeing you was because of the glimmer of restraint in Mrs. Thomas’s eyes. She didn’t want to do this. She pointed a gun at you and threatened you to be silent, but she did it with hesitation, with shaking hands, with longing glances confirming she thought of the same memories you had with her along with your father and mother.

Your empathy gallops valleys, it shouldn’t end like this, and you think you should say something else so Mrs. Thomas won’t take any drastic actions. You certainly don’t wish to die today, but it would be much worse to die in front of Sherlock, powerless despite his size and intellect, to which Mrs. Thomas knows because she’s not breaking her grip on the revolver for a second. If Sherlock gains any leeway, then Mrs. Thomas would not stand a chance. He’s stronger, younger, faster, and because of this, Mrs. Thomas digs her gun until it uncomfortably greets the bone underneath all your layers.

“You’re right,” Sherlock says, and you blink at him in reaction because of all the things he could’ve said, that’s not what you expected. He’s always so keen on proving himself right rather than declaring someone else with that title, so you and Mrs. Thomas stare at him dumbfounded. There were a string of things that Mrs. Thomas said as well so you’re both wondering which in particular he’s referring to.

“Not about the affair part, but about me… caring. I do care for her. Eminently. Undeniably. Profusely,” he looks at you, steady despite how hard this is for him. You think back to the carriage. How his lips moved, how no words came from his mouth, how his shoulders fell in defeat as he allowed you to take the reins. “You can condemn all men, brand and categorize women according to your philosophy, but I would never, ever do that to her. If you pull that trigger, you’re not punishing Edmund—you’re punishing me. You’re punishing her. And I will make sure that I thoroughly pay it back tenfold.” Sherlock states this as he states everything. As a cold. Hard. Fact.

Dissension collects on Mrs. Thomas’s face. Sherlock is sure he can see her bottom lip wobble, but then the gun is back in his direction. He sucks in his breath, straightening his posture to accept his fate because at least it’s not pointed at you. He readily stares at the barrel of the gun, catching through his peripheral as you begin to move and with a decisive push of your hands, you knock the gun right out of Mrs. Thomas’s hand. You don’t know what possessed you to act so bravely, but this is the leeway you and Sherlock needed. Sherlock cuts across in the opposite direction of its aim, a bullet shot at the floor and ricocheting into the wall behind. The gun hits the floor with a thud, and so does Mrs. Thomas, the force of your shove enough to propel her to the ground since she is still a feeble, old woman. Neither you nor Sherlock dive for the gun to get it away from her, instead running into each other’s arms. The breath you held sputters out sporadically, breathing as if you just ran miles upon miles as Sherlock cups your face into his large hands. He examines you for any injuries, tilting your head as you grasp his wrists.

“Are you alright?” He asks, but it’s rushed, almost pained. He presses his forehead to yours, eyes shutting.

“I… I apologize,” he croaks, the first time you’ve heard it from him, but it doesn’t even apply, “I shouldn’t have- I should’ve known-.. It’s all my f—”

“Don’t, you’re here now. I’m okay, we’re okay, it’s you and me.” 

Sherlock latches his mouth to yours, breaking his own rule, his broad arms wrapping around your waist to haul you into him, distance nowhere to be found between your warm bodies. Your arms find their home at his neck, and as impassioned as the kiss is, it’s more than longing or desire. It’s all the things he can’t say, it’s trembling from how close you came to the worst, it’s his and your shared fear of losing one another when you just found each other. You’re so enraptured with Sherlock and he with you that neither of you notice Mrs. Thomas crawling for the gun. It’s the rotation of the cylinder that alerts the both of you, your gazes landing on Mrs. Thomas who aims the gun at you two from her seated position on the floor.

Sherlock steps in front of you, much to your dismay, his arms pushing you back behind him. You look over his shoulder, your head shaking for Mrs. Thomas to not do this, to have a second thought, and you can see her reluctance as her eyes meet yours. Then, the door bursts open, Lestrade leading the charge of men bolstering in with firearms. They push past you and Sherlock and surround Mrs. Thomas and from Sherlock’s sheer size, he can see over the officials and watch as she lowers her gun in defeat and raises her hands. Sherlock holds you in his arms protectively as they book her, even as he explains everything to Lestrade.

As they have her in bound wrists, that’s when the ever elusive Mr. Thomas arrives. He was late because he stopped to visit Clara Grace’s grave.

Blanche Thomas confessed to the murder of Clara Grace and to the attempt of framing her husband Edmund Thomas for it. Edmund had no idea Blanche found out about his affair, but she insisted this had been ongoing for years, solely acting out after he sent her a bouquet of flowers when she knew he was with Clara. She waited for him to leave for his job in Switzerland and then she struck once Matilda and Nicholas Grace left home to catch a train. She cleaned the revolver of Clara’s blood with Edmund’s handkerchief and intended to leave the gun behind, but couldn’t do so due to how Matilda and Nicholas came home early. Inspector Lestrade and the police force agreed that Sherlock would’ve solved this case sooner had he been granted access to the case’s witnesses and the preliminary suspects and because of this, they apologized thoroughly to Sherlock and after Sherlock told them of your involvement, they apologized to you as well. For having to become entangled as an expert advisor in clothing manufacturing and for not finding your location sooner. Clara’s parents, on the other hand, refused to comment. It was the sound of the gunshot that ultimately led the police to find you, Sherlock, and Mrs. Thomas on that balcony.

After everything, that’s the part that enraged Sherlock the most. If it had not been for their negligence, you could’ve possibly died, and he answered every question and remark with visible irritation he didn’t bother to hide. The self-blame bloomed throughout his chest, but you reassured him how nothing happened and how Mrs. Thomas’s deception was on her and no one else. A portion could be blamed on Clara and Edmund, but Clara met her bitter demise, and Edmund’s affair would be soon shared in the papers as there were journalists and reporters at the scene initially attending the ball for their own sake, later leaving with yet another one of Sherlock’s adventures, and another case closed. The masses would go wild when they found out about how Mrs. Thomas was skeptical about Sherlock when he coincidentally first appeared to ask about Mr. Wright’s beautiful daughter and how she counted on the both of them finding the planted fabric and letter in her desk drawer. They would get a kick out of how she shoved the end of a small fork into the keyhole of her door to trap Sherlock and you inside of her living area while she hid the revolver in another room. Sherlock wasn’t so pleased learning that certitude, either.

To appease the impact of Sherlock’s rage and gain his favor back, Lestrade recruited an officer with the task of giving you and Sherlock a carriage ride home. You accepted it seeing that he wouldn’t utter a word without agitation thick in his accent, hanging onto his arm as you were both escorted to it. The entire time, the rouge from your lips covered Sherlock’s mouth. He knew. You wondered how he could still be so intimidating to Lestrade in that state.

He doesn’t say anything during the carriage ride home. He’s not mad at you, more so at Mrs. Thomas for what she tried to do to you and what she did do to Clara, at Mr. Thomas for being unfaithful, at Clara for harboring the secret, and at Matilda and Rubies and Pearls and whoever the fuck Peter was for not alerting the police of this connection. At most, Sherlock grasps your thigh through your dress’s skirt and his hand never leaves until the carriage strides into a gradual and smooth halt. That’s when he acquiesces, slips his hand from you, and then offers it to help you out of the carriage. He doesn’t hold your hand as tightly as he held you back at the balcony, but his grip isn’t wavering, either. He walks with you to your flat, still wordless, still littered with worry as he looks at you, and as you unlock the door, you turn towards him.

“My bed isn’t as substantial as yours is,” you crack, playing with your fingers instead of meeting the intensity of his gaze. A storm’s actively brewing in his pupils, clouds of anger left behind from everything tonight, lightning flashing as he recalls. His knuckles uplift your head by tilting your chin up, steering your gaze back to his with tenderness contrasting the hurricane lurking in his eyes. While his irises are practically cobalt in his grudge, his affinity for you lingers there somehow, somewhere among the clouds and impending disaster. His care. Eminent. Undeniable. Profuse.

“But?” he resumes where you paused. Of course he knew there was a but. There’s also the diminutive victory that is his first utterance of the night since the fiasco absent of irritation and his temper, something for you alone to relish in. His voice is as velvety as you remember, and that sounds melodramatic, but considering how you faced death and escaped her clutches, you deserve to be.

“But there’s sufficient space for the two of us if you wish to come inside with me. I could utilize the help in removing my dress as I definitely required it by donning it earlier.” You deem this the correct response as Sherlock’s thumb traces your bottom lip, the leftover rouge on it staining his thumb just as it did his blemished mouth.

“Pity. I would’ve certainly helped. I suppose I could rectify it by aiding in your conundrum now, it’s only fair.” Your smile widens, removing his hand from your chin to guide him into your flat, the door shut and locked behind.

It’s dark in your home, so you depart from Sherlock to light your oil lamp nearby. Once it glows with life, you pivot on your heel and collide with his broad chest. Through the almost pitch black, he followed you here to this spot, and you can see the flame dancing in shadows on his features. The storm’s officially melted away and now, you sense the aftermath. There are hints of grief with how he drags you into him by your hips, and you understand him because just as he almost lost you tonight, you almost lost him. You want to ask him about what he said, what he declared to Mrs. Thomas with finality and belief in his words, but it’s transparent neither of you are going to be able to talk about this until you’re both comfortable again. That may be tomorrow or a week from now, but near death experiences don’t have specific timelines for how quickly one can move past their atrocities. For now, the both of you can indulge in one another’s company, indulge in what you both could’ve gone on without through one person’s skewed judgment.

You moan into Sherlock’s mouth, his hands on your hips keeping you flush to him while his body contrastingly backs you up until your dress meets your sofa’s back. He turns you around in one fluid motion, your hands grasping the edge of the backrest, pulse after pulse rapidly thrumming against your ass even through the layers of your skirt. You shudder as his hand traces the lacing of your corset, eager for him to release you of your clothed prison, arching as his fingertips draw along the lines of your shoulder blade.

“Fine, fine work,” he compliments your dress, or perhaps some higher power for your figure, two of his fingers maneuvering upwards until they’re able to tuck under the thick band of your choker and you inhale shakily, it holds your esophagus down just right for your head to become delirious with need. “I don’t think I can remove it. I think I want you just like this,” he breathes next to your ear, gooseflesh trailing your skin at the severe implication of what his words mean. He kisses the point where your neck and shoulder meet sweetly as his hands begin to toy with the golden lace. “I’ll be careful not to rip it.”

By the handfuls, Sherlock bunches the first layer of your skirt up until his hands meet the next layer of obsidian tule. Then that fabric starts to push up and in the midst of it, you attempt to step out of your heels and from how close Sherlock is and how he’s exposing part of your legs in this endeavor, he pinches your hip in warning. You freeze where you are, noticing how he’s stopped bunching the fabric up as he originally intended. You almost whine, but you remain quiet because you know from his arousal that he can’t wait for long.

“Leave them on. Like I said, I want you just like this,” he repeats and then to punctuate his sentence, the heel of his palm slides right between your shoulder blades and he pushes down on that spot until you bend at the waist and use the couch for support. You’re standing on your tiptoes, the heels of your shoes barely meeting the wooden floor beneath, but you consider this the point of Sherlock’s manhandling. He needs this sharp and he’s setting you up to where you will feel everything he wants you to, a thrill bubbling in your belly the more you think about it.

Once the tule is out of his way, next comes the fleshy netting, and then finally the silk that glided along your smooth legs with every step you took tonight. Those same two digits that further constricted your choker a minute ago find your dirty secret, and that’s how you decided against your bloomers, a hopeful feeling within you that something like this would happen. His reaction doesn’t fail to meet your standards, a curse flying from under his breath as he curls his fingers in the crevice between your outer lips. You whimper at the touch, bracing yourself on the couch because you have nowhere to turn to in this position.

“No undergarments, no decorum. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were scheming for me to fuck you in that carriage, or perhaps at the ball in some private room,” he circles your entrance with his index finger. The wetness that he collects is then properly used to smother your clit and you keen, desperately moaning his name, gravitating a majority of your weight on one foot.

“Shh, shh,” he quiets you. You do your best to lower the volume of your voice as he slips his finger away from your clit, back to teasing your clenching hole. “So, which was it? The carriage? The ball?”

Before you can answer, Sherlock’s index finger plunges home, your walls gripping it immediately. You rock your hips for friction, but he remains stagnant as he awaits your reply. You’re already wound up tight, maybe from the corset hugging your ribcage, or maybe from how you teeter on your footing, or maybe from how your cunt should be filled, but you’re not ashamed of succumbing so quickly to his teasing.

“Both, both,” you confess, your voice high pitched and strained. You sulk as he slides his finger out, panting along the sofa. This interlude of nothing doesn’t last thankfully.

“Good answer. I’ll save the knowledge for next time,” he whispers, and you would’ve ruminated with this imagery if it weren’t for how you peered at him from the side of your head and saw him undoing the buttons of his trousers. Unlike your coyness two nights ago, you opt to watch him free himself, but his opposite hand turns your head away, “just feel me” mumbled near your ear.

You oblige him, not just doing so by ensuring your head’s positioned forward, but by gradually closing your eyes shut. The low light and warmth of the oil lamp adds onto the experience, a mostly opaque void behind your eyelids as you hone in on how he skillfully holds the layers of your skirts at your hip and eventually guides himself to your entrance. The head of him breaches first, your lower jaw falling open with a hushed breath that remains that way through the entirety of Sherlock’s cock filling you. Your walls grip him with soft spasms, and although you can hear the hiss that comes from him, he doesn’t push in faster, nor does he halt, it’s just a smooth and perpetuated glide until he’s as deep as he can be, the action resembling a train pulling in to its station. You’re unbearably warm through all of this, warmed by the layers you still have on, by the layers Sherlock has on, by his frame curving along yours, by the overwhelming and comforting heat of his girth, by an invisible and unidentifiable wave washing throughout your chest. He expands further within you the more you two relish in and savor this moment, the time between each of his pulses increasing, but the pulses themselves are heavy and achingly acute against your stretching walls.

“Tell me I can move,” Sherlock heaves, his voice as strained as his control currently is, a sign he’s been holding his breath for as long as he’s been sheathed inside of you. Even now, he’s holding himself back. His feelings and where they are only presented themselves because of how dire the circumstances became, from how he viewed you as close as you were to that revolver and that balcony. Without saying it, he’s ushering his resolve into your capable hands, not willing to hurt you unless you ask him to do so. If today, and the days that have passed, has told you anything, it’s how almost everything is out of your control despite how both you and Sherlock have tried to hang on with gritted teeth. Him and the prowess of his intellect, you and the prodigal responsibility bestowed upon you. Your life hasn’t been easy and with the addition of Sherlock, it’s bound to become more difficult, but for once, as this man buries his nose into your neck to hold himself off, you don’t care about soft and easy. For the first time in a long time you’re in control and it’s your overwhelming aspiration to have Sherlock lose his entirely.

“You can move,” you swiftly grasp his hand on the sofa’s edge after you feel him slightly shift, stopping him so you can convey what you want. Sherlock stares into your eyes, confused, but waiting regardless. The pace of his pulsing speeds. “But no thinking. I want you to feel me, too,” your lips graze his, a trembling sigh spills into your mouth from him. You can feel that tremble in the hand you hold, the ensnarement on himself he won’t dare to release. “Give me everything.”

“It won’t be gentle,” he admonishes, catching onto what you’re implying and what you’re asking for.

“I don’t need gentle,” you rebuke, watching how his expression goes from confusion to self-discipline and finally to pure lust.

Something plays at his lips, but whatever it is he fails at saying, it’s soon forgotten as he presses his mouth against yours, his hips surging back and then forward with poignancy that leaves you teetering all over again. You break the kiss to cry out as Sherlock begins to do as he was told, as his instincts steer him and not the thrall of his all-too-consuming thoughts. Your hands find purchase on the edge of the sofa your hip bones are scraping against, white knuckling the backrest as Sherlock thrusts into you without abandon, with the pressure and pace he sets being above what you imagined. He pounds into your cunt without constraint nor pause, the sofa’s legs lightly skidding against your floor from the sheer force. You can feel your eyes rolling into the back of your head as your back arches and seemingly grants him the access necessary to thrust in deeper, your mouth agape to accommodate a succession of incoherent moans. As for Sherlock himself, he’s focused on fucking you into the same oblivion he finds himself in when you come across his mind, panting as he chases after what his body craves instead of what his usual contemplation convinces him into. The tule of one of your skirts scratches at him and in reaction, he juts his palm out to push it and the other layers up again, the provocative image of his cock spearing in and out of you greeting him in its tantalizing view.

“You have such a pretty cunt,” he mutters, much to your surprise. If the heat before was bad, it’s attacking you cruelly now from his praise, fire tempering within you, licking at your skin from underneath. Sherlock reinforces his grip at your hips, his hands claiming you under your dress on top of your bare skin. His thumbs stroke along the flesh of your posterior, over the top swells of your rounded cheeks because otherwise, his hips are forcefully clapping against them. The backrest’s edge has found the same thumb shaped bruises Sherlock left behind days ago, a soaring sting that you welcome with the influx of sensations that come with being railed wide open for Sherlock and his withstanding stamina.

“Pretty back, pretty hair,” he says, rambling on with items you never thought would come from Sherlock. He could barely compliment you back at the carriage, but then again, the circumstances are massively different. You can’t form your own words of praise and what you feel for him, not with how he’s thrusting into you, so you have no choice but to hear him, but to whine as one of Sherlock’s hands leaves from your hip, his digits tracing your bare shoulder.

“Pretty throat,” he gruffs, his fingers trailing higher and higher along your shoulder until they brush along your nape. You shiver at the touch, craning your head upwards. Whilst doing so, Sherlock’s hand rounds to the front of your neck, his palm pressing flat against your larynx, flat against the silk rose of your choker, smashing the fabric you cautiously sewed in place as his fingers drape and almost engulf your throat in the process. It’s not enough to choke you, the corset is doing a more efficient job of that, but when you swallow, Sherlock feels it. He feels the way it shifts your esophagus, and suddenly, he adds a guiding pressure to your neck, straightening your posture by it with your compliance.

You gasp for air as you stand taller, now more weight back on your heels that were teasing your floorboards before. Your head falls back into one of his broad shoulders as his hand remains atop your neck, the other abandoning your hips entirely to press into your abdomen, right above where the backrest’s edge digs into your corset. He can’t pull his hips back as much as he wants at this angle, but he’s now undulating them against you, the tip of his cock endlessly and frustratingly flirting with a spot inside of you that’s pushing you closer and closer to that unfamiliar euphoria you only felt once, and that was with Sherlock.

“Fuck, f-fuck, you’re so fucking pretty, it infuriates me,” his hand goes along the boning of your corset until it reaches your heaving chest, “it haunts me.” He dips under the corset, past the ebony fabric holding your breasts up, and the calluses meet your skin as he explores until he’s able to cup one of your tits from underneath. The lack of space already is propelling the air from your lungs, as is his cock and heavy hand on your neck, so this isn’t helping you any. But he soon grants you a semblance of reprieve by slipping your breast out of the corset, your reward in how his thumb rolls along your pebbled nipple.

You’re a goner. You’ve been a goner. Since the very moment you marched up the staircase and confronted Sherlock over his fiddle, you’ve been subject to falling. Now, you are subject to fall off the cliff’s edge he’s pushed you towards. He doesn’t cease the delicious thrusts he gives you, nor the soft hold he has on your larynx, nor the stroke of his thumb on your nipple, and there’s something about your head becoming dizzy as you near your climax. It could be due to how you can barely breathe. It could also be due to how your legs are shaking. Whatever it is, you stutter out a breath, his name, and squeeze your eyes shut as you hit your peak with something close to a shriek. You clamp down on Sherlock’s length, hiccupping and close to downright sobbing as you feel electricity in your spine, in your clit, tingling in spots of static in every portion of your being.

“That’s it, I’ve got you,” he says, supporting your weight as you drench his cock in your cum, as he continues to fuck you through it, as his hold on your breast keeps you from falling forward. You’re twitching, panting in the aftermath, bracing yourself on the sofa.

He can’t last much longer. Not at the rate he began, or the way your heat tightened around his cock. Once he’s certain you won’t crumble on your baby deer legs, he retracts from you, one hand bracing on the sofa’s backrest, the other pumping himself twice. Although he is no longer seated inside of you, he imagines your wet heat surrounding him. He imagines shooting his seed while sliding his cock inside to your hilt. It’s not the same, but it’s over for him. He cups what he can in his hand as he finishes himself off, inhaling and exhaling deeply behind you. To appease his breaths, he rains a trail of affection with his lips along your shoulder. Both the air he expels and the drag of his mouth kiss at your sensitive flesh.

“Are you alright?” God, his voice still sounds so heady, most likely hazy from his orgasm, and from what you two just did. It’s deeper than it usually is. “Didn’t hurt you?” He speaks against your skin, unable to truly depart from it.

Adrenaline is what helps you pivot back around. You’re still wobbly on your own two feet, but you gather enough strength to grasp his tie and pull him in for a kiss. He sputters, but returns it. Your arms wind around his neck and one of his attempts to wrap around your waist, but it stops itself. His other hand lifts near the space away from the both of you and even though your eyes are closed, you can feel the motion. It causes you to cease your kissing, your eyes finding his stained hand that he sheepishly glances at and then back at you.

“As much as I wish to hold you,” he gestures, though, he seems bashful of the pearlescent mess there and on his fingers. Sherlock fully expects you to sneer or at least mimic the bashfulness he’s sinking into, but you don’t. He’s in the midst of lowering his hand when you reach for his handkerchief, the one in his pocket matching his tie, and then utilize it to clean it. Sherlock observes as you cleanse his hand of his cum, perturbed by the benignity, by how many strands of defiant hairs have slipped free from your updo, his doing. He’s staring at you in fondness, with a soft grin on his features, and although you want to ask why he’s visibly jovial, you’re too pleased with the fact that he’s assuaged in the rage built from tonight. Besides, you don’t need to be a detective of his skills to understand what possibly conciliated his irate mood.

“Thought I said no thinking,” you pipe up, discarding the handkerchief, your gaze looking up at him from under your lashes.

“How do you know I’m thinking?” He hums as you begin to remove his tie. Then the buttons come undone to his vest by your fingers.

“Well… you get this far away look in your eyes. Your eyebrows pinch together… the bridge of your nose slightly scrunches, your lips fall into a flat line. I can see your dimples flash as your jaw tightens—”

“Are you deducing me, Lily?” He narrows his eyes at you, shrugging the vest off as you push it off his shoulders. He feels far more liberated by the action. You busy yourself with the buttons of his undershirt now. It’s possible that an image of you and him undressing one another in a domestic routine floats by.

“Funny way of pronouncing seducing, but yes, I am. I’ll be sure to welcome you naked in my bed if you would so kindly take this off,” you remove the last button of his shirt, and there isn’t any hesitation in how Sherlock removes that next as well. It falls to the floor as forgotten as his vest is. He gently laughs at your cheeky response, a bit of pride in him that you’re starting to pick up on his habits, nevertheless if you use them against him. It’s quite possible you’ve been looking at him as much as he has you. Then again, he’s vastly attuned to you, so you have some competition.

“You think yourself clever,” he muses, “In my defense, I presumed the no thinking law only applied to the sex we just had.” He watches as you are in the midst of removing a clip from your hair, your head slightly jolting from the blatant use of that word. But there isn’t any reason to be vague, you two have now seen each other naked, and he knows what your face looks like when you cum. Regardless, he revels in the pigment of your skin adopting a rosy hue. The clip in your hair is removed and then another, and another. Soon, it’s down, free of any tools, of any worries. You stretch the choker around your hands and then pull that over your head. Then you gesture for him to help, turning your back towards him. He begins to undo the lacing of your corset.

“No, it applies when I opt for it. And I am currently opting for it. You’re much more carefree when you think less.” You breathe correctly and evenly for the first time since you adorned your dress, each lacing that he pulls free giving you relief. The soreness settles further in so you know you’ll have to deal with that in the morning. You don’t think Sherlock would oppose relaxing for a day after everything you’ve both gone through tonight. He might need some convincing, but you’re learning what exactly persuades him and how you can institute it.

“If I thought less, the world would tear itself apart,” he replies, finally reaching the bottom. Then he aids you in its elimination. You’re pivoting on your heels, stepping out of your skirts, and then your shoes. During this, Sherlock is dropping his trousers to become as bare as you are. The sheets are going to be incredibly warm tonight. You lose the height that brought you closer to Sherlock’s face, but unlike when you first met him, you’re not intimidated. You stare up at him with the same gleam in your eye that you find in his.

“Ah, ah, there you go, easy, detective,” your hand pats his bare chest, but it lingers there once it touches. “Don’t think about the world. Think about me.”

“I was thinking about you,” he says before he can stop himself, clearing his throat at the intimacy his confession entails. It seems as if thinking less prompts the vulnerability he hates to display to anyone. Except, you aren’t just anyone. He sees your gaze soften, your hands cupping his cheeks.

“Thinking of how pretty I am?” You mean it as a tease, a reference to how he babbled on and on about how pretty you were during sex. But with how he’s looking at you, it came out a lot softer than originally intended. Tenderhearted. A whisper, even. You didn’t know you could feel so cherished in something once described to you as uncomfortable, the source being an elderly woman who wanted to advise you about the affairs of man and woman. You’re glad Sherlock’s proved her wrong.

“Yes,” he confirms and your head swims. “I’m thinking about how pretty you are.”

There isn’t anything else left to say. You can see and feel the sincerity radiating off him. There are a number of ways that either of you could ruin this, but you’ve had enough of the talking, instead reaching up to kiss him with fervor. He kisses you back, naturally, his arms lifting you as he clumsily navigates the space of your flat. He’s unfamiliar with the floor plan, so you’re kind enough to whisper directions along with sweet nothings into his ear, giddy that he follows and lowers you into your bed. You shift the blankets so you can travel underneath them, holding the sheets away from your body as an invitation for Sherlock to join in.

He doesn’t tell you the truth, the full truth, behind his thoughts, the ones that formed as he gazed at you with post-orgasmic clarity. Sure, he knows you’re pretty, that’s something he’s always known, and it snuck up on him heavily while he buried himself inside you and allowed his hands to roam your body through their own discretion, but there were other ideas bursting into his head. Concepts, really. He couldn’t decipher them and their complexities still, but whatever it is that you make him feel, it’s beyond answers, it’s beyond concrete and definitive laws. There is not one straightforward result nor explanation for him to pick apart and analyze as a scientist, or a physicist, or a chemist, or even a logician. Deductive reasoning can only take him so far and if he is to look back on the year he’s had, there are limitations to how he views the world despite his heightened awareness and inability to miss the details. This is raw and indistinguishable for someone like him. You’re a woman who he’s drawn to magnetically, a phenomenon he never thought would happen to him. And as he looms over you, those… concepts spring back to life. Admiration. Wonder. Affection. Worry. Care. Avidity. Humanity. Beauty. Lust. Luck. Loss… L…

He normally would scrub his brain if it dared to consider that last thing. But here you are, blinking up at him with those long lashes, nuzzling your nose against his, kissing his mouth with enthusiasm and adoration he hopes he replicates, gratifying him with the parting of your legs so he can be as close as your bodies can warrant, and he thinks he can. He can let his brain stray there. He thinks he might be in…

He doesn’t know if he is. But as his cases have taught him, anything is possible.

#henry cavill #l4l.writes #sherlock holmes #enola holmes #henry!sherlock #sherlock holmes x reader #beyond answers #henry cavill x reader #henry cavill imagine

[7thleveldown]

Trees and Tennis Balls

Another random bit of fluff involving Stiles...

Word count: 3,018

“Hey, didn’t you break your wrist doing something exactly like this?”

You couldn’t help the smirk from forming while watching Stiles’ antics. Why exactly he felt it was quite so important to get back a tennis ball which he’d been throwing around, you had no idea. It had really been your fault that the ball was now in the tree, as you had crept up on your best friend before wrapping your hands over his eyes. It had made him jump so violently the ball was launched into the air, and was wedged in some branches. Branches he was now trying to climb up to. This would not end well.

“What happened on that day is something we do not talk about. That was between me and the tree.” Stiles was a little more than a foot off the ground, and already had bits of twig and leaves in his hair.

Stiles had been 12 when he decided to spend his summer seeing how high he could climb a particular tree in the park. You had been there when he fell, landing badly on his arm and cutting his eyebrow open as his head hit the ground. You had screamed the place down until someone came running. It wasn’t the broken bones or the blood that had caused your scream. You could still remember the abject terror you felt at seeing the boy you knew so well laying so unnaturally still.

“Ooookay. Something you want to tell me? Are you two still in a committed relationship?” You couldn’t help the mocking tone as you giggled a little at his continued efforts.

“What? Oh my God, no. Just no. Look, I may have some skills in climbing trees, I never said anything about getting down from them!” he grinned, before his smile dropped away when he saw your face. “Hey, it’s okay. Where’s that smile gone, hmm? Show me that smile, sweetie, and I shall leap through these branches, without fear!”

You tried to smile at him, your gaze faltering to the ground as the memories kept resurfacing. You nibbled your lip, a nervous habit that you knew Stiles would recognise, no matter how much you tried to hide it. You heard a thump as his feet landed back on the ground, before his shoes appeared in your field of vision.

“Eyes up kiddo, my face is up here!” Stiles put his index finger under your chin to gently raise your eye line. “It’s okay, y’know? Here I am, back on terra firma.” He spoke more softly, knowing what was going through your head. You smiled, taking a deep breath to clear your mind.

“Sti, is it really that important? Can’t we just leave it?”

“Nope, not happening. I have a distinct emotional attachment to that ball, which you can only be in awe of.”

“Right… So how about we get it without you having to risk life and limb, never mind dignity?”

Read more on AO3!

#7th writes #stiles stilinski #stiles stilinski imagines #teen wolf #stiles stilinski x reader #dylan o'brien #i will always be a little bit in love with stiles #stiles stilinski fluff #stiles stilinski fanfiction

[strwberri-milk]

May I request some fluff involving Kaeya's S/O tending to Kaeya's hair? Washing it, brushing it, braiding it or just playing with it in general. Kaeya's hair is long and undoubtedly soft and NEEDS to be touched and caressed so much (much like Kaeya himself).

Bonus points: S/O is very good at braiding and, when they're feeling playful, they do up Kaeya's hair in incredibly elaborate braided styles that get all the people of Mondstadt staring in awe at Kaeya for the rest of the day, and he basks in the attention like the peacock he is while making it no secret it's his S/O's handiwork, and when S/O undoes said elaborate hairstyle at the end of the day, it's a slow & sensual & tender experience, lots of gently running fingers through Kaeya's locks & sneaking kisses on his face & shoulders

cries screams and **** i love that shit so much i fucking grrrr

Kaeya's used to doing his hair by himself now. He's been doing it alone for a while now, so it's not like it's something weird to him.

However, once you started to play with his hair he realised just how much he liked it. It not only kept you so close to him, but it also was such a soothing sensation to him, making him melt into you with happy sighs.

He trusts you enough to not really think much about any potential consequences that could come up from you being given free rein of his hair. Honestly, as far as he's concerned, you're probably going to do amazing, and if you don't it's all water under the bridge because he spent time with you as you did it.

He can hear you shuffling around behind him almost nervously, taking a sip of his drink and reading his book with a hidden amused smile.

"Sweetheart? Is something wrong?" he asks, finally turning to look at you.

"No, nothing. I just..." he can tell you want to ask him something, gesturing for you to crawl into his lap. You do so, maybe less gracefully than he thought but he easily catches you, kissing your cheek.

"What is it? What do you want?"

"Can I do your hair?"

The look you give him melts his heart, your puppy dog eyes are totally unneeded but definitely useful if he was considering saying no. Instead of replying, he just turns his back to you, letting his hair out and chuckling to himself at the happy noise you make as you run off to get your things.

Your touch is warm and lingering, pressing soft kisses against his scalp and resting your hands on his shoulders as you plan your next move, hmming and haahing from behind him.

He laughs whenever he feels you getting distracted, tangling your fingers through his locks and messing with them. It's quiet and you can barely hear him, but he is so happy to know you're having such a good time combing through his hair.

When you're done he can't help but whistle lowly at the sight of himself in the mirror. He preens a little, facing this way and that way to admire the braids and loose curls that perfectly frame his face. He's glad he's got some errands to run now, happily showing off his hair. Every time someone comments on it he tells them how you put so much effort into it, flaunting just how much you love him.

"It was such a long day. I felt like a walking advertisement for you," he teases when he's finally able to relax, sitting between your legs and leaning against the mattress.

"So? Is that a bad thing?" you scold, pulling on his scalp as you undo his hair to mess with him.

"Yes. It was awful telling everyone just how in love I am with you," he laughs, tilting his face up for a kiss.

You take your time taking his hair down, eventually ending up on the floor behind him. You're leaning against him, massaging his scalp as you press kisses against his neck. He hums happily, leaning back against you as well as you brush out his hair, pulling you around so you can work on his bangs.

"Any longer and I might fall asleep," he yawns, putting his arms around your waist.

"You can sleep. That's fine."

You pull him into your chest, cupping his hands in your face and peppering him with kisses. He falls into you, sighing in contentment and letting you spoil him with attention, practically crawling into your lap as you continue to lavish him with kisses until you decide to persuade him into the bed. You finish up as he burrows into the sheets, continuing to mess with his locks until the two of you fall asleep together.

#kaeya x reader #kaeya fluff #kaeya alberich x reader #genshin x reader

[bloodpen-to-paper]

Its an early Thursday morning. 6:00am, on the dot. I’m waking up at this hour because I’ve accidentally become slightly nocturnal again, and had fallen asleep at about 7pm the night before. No matter, I think as I chase away the last remnants of sleep. Time to check the news.

Its there, at the top of the Twitter trending tab, that I see it: 

BREAKING: Buckingham Palace says Queen Elizabeth II is under medical supervision because doctors are "concerned for Her Majesty’s health." 

Many of the Royal Family are at her side. The people of the United Kingdom are preparing for the worst. I feel adrenaline coursing through my veins.

Tumblr, I think in a moment of hysteria. I must go to Tumblr. They must be in a state of euphoria over the news.

I head over to Tumblr.

I check the trending page, expecting “Queen Elizabeth” or “down with the monarchy” or something of the sort to be at the #1 spot on the tab.

Surely, at the very least, “crab rave”

Right?

...

I stare blankly at my screen. I am in a state of shock. Too stunned to speak, some may say.

How? I beseech. How is this trending over the Queen of England’s health scare? The one that may very well cause of the end of the British monarchy as we know it?!

But I’ve been on this Hellsite longer than I’ve been able to formulate intelligent thoughts. I know they wouldn’t trend Undertale this high for no reason. And if its a new Deltarune update, well, I certainly can’t complain. I am a fan of the franchise, after all.

So I check the Undertale tag.

“AND WITH THAT, SANS UNDERTALE HAS OFFICIALLY BEEN CROWNED ULTIMATE TUMBLR SEXYMAN”

As the Sisters Moirai would have it, I had peacefully slept through a war. A war of ultimate consequence, that would decide the fate of two illustrious*, two remarkably renown communities, nay, kingdoms, over who could win perhaps the greatest, most dangerous prize. A prize which has spilt endless miles of bloodshed in its pursuit, which has devastated entire lands, decimated people in both mind and body until they were completely and utterly unrecognizable.

The prize, the title, of who was to be... the Ultimate Tumblr Sexyman.

The contenders: Sans the Skeleton of the hit RPG “Undertale” and Reigen Arataka from the popular shonen anime “Mob Psycho 100”

As it was transcribed, the battle had met many close encounters, but in the end, Sans the Skeleton would come to win the crown and claim victory over Reigen by a total of 420 votes (i shit you not it was 420 votes exactly i cannot believe you assholes managed to get it by 420 votes yall are actual meme trash and i am both disgusted and awe inspired by your cursed efforts)

Though I was unable to experience the spectacle myself, I had bore direct witness to the fallout. The internet now had an abundance of Super Smash-like fan content of Sans and Reigen engaged in combat, and there was an apparent brief rise in S̵͖̫̿̌ạ̸̛̎̚n̶͔͈͗͂̄s̷͉̚m̴͌͋͜͝a̴̻͚̺͛͆ē̶̤̔͗d̶̛̖̰͒͊a̷͙̜͙̾͗. Toby Fox himself has gotten involved by using Twitter to publish fanfiction. That was perhaps the hardest for me to accept.

Thus, it was on September 7 of the year 2022 that the battle of Sans vs Reigen had occurred and concluded. From what I had heard, it was a legendary event that would be seared into the minds of every Tumblrina, and forever remembered throughout the tales of human history.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I took more psychic damage waking up to all of this than I did the day my father ended up in hospice after having a stroke on a school day so thanks for that and have a good one

* “well known, respected, and admired for past achievements”; yes I knew some of you would struggle with this one

#this was actually really fun to write lmao #love this hellsite #queen elizabeth #queen elizabeth ii #uk politics #tumblr #tumblr sexyman #undertale #sans #sans undertale #mob psycho 100 #mp100 #reigen arakata #sanssweep #reigensweep #also every sentence in the second to last paragraph starts with T #for some reason