#I also never finished rendering this and hardly even started to be honest

[splashammil]

The bride and her ugly ass groom

[luanagmteixeiraart]

Days and days working on her foundation, those same long weeks of heat, locked in that room where she works day after day. Although the wars have finally ended, but still everything was not good in the life of the girl who now works normally without being the goddess of war and justice, Saori hardly had a day of rest, always with her face in the papers and practically not having time for next to nothing, but at least she could live her life like a normal girl and not worry about the world in her hands. All of her saints were now living their normal lives, given an opportunity to have a well-deserved rest. And one of them in particular was her beloved Seiya, who like her, was also working and a lot, and this was even traveling for more than 8 years away practically.

— It's been over 9 years now that he hasn't come back. All couples living together happily and I wanting Seiya here with me again, why is life so unfair sometimes? Right now that we can have a normal life as a couple... Why is that?

Despite being always focused on her duties as boss of the Graad foundation, she always wanted the opportunity to finally have a life together with Seiya, who is also the boy's greatest desire, was what most left the girl in the mood. and determination. When she went to get another paper from a corner of the table, she noticed the small calendar in front of her.

— Damn it! There will already be the most important date of my life, which is our date... I remember as if it were yesterday... I'll never forget that day...

...

Minutes later and without much fuss, the woman manages to finish half of the day's paperwork. Seeing that it was already over, Saori decides to stop to rest, she decides to go out to the center of Tokyo, Japan. She was living in an apartment together with Seiya after they both started dating, but she still kept in touch with her former employees of his old mansion, mainly Tatsumi, this one who kept calling to see how the girl was doing, because he knew that Saori was alone and Seiya was not present with her, common that Saori was already used to her Butler. The loneliness in her home was undeniable, she even cried because of this damn insulation and the fact that her beloved brunette was far away from her for those long years of service in which he rendered.

When she entered the master bedroom, she was hopeless, Saori couldn't face this same room without remembering Seiya. She still remembered a specific day when, after moving into the apartment, in the same afternoon, they were making out for a while in her room, exchanging passionate kisses and caresses before he worked, and as always, he was so passionate and devoted to her...

...

While getting ready, Seiya comes out of the bathroom after taking a relaxing shower, he sits on the bed and puts on his pants to go to work. When suddenly, the purple-haired woman enters their room and ends up walking towards him, giving him a pet and kissing him on the cheek in surprise, making him smile in the process. Seiya reciprocates and takes her by the lap and pulls her to the bed, but without interrupting the passionate kiss. The couple continued making out on the bed, Saori puts her arms around her, deepening the kiss even more while the brunette caressed her body.

— I'm the luckiest man in the world to finally have her with me! — thought the happy boy.

But to Seiya's unhappiness, he realized that he was almost late for work and couldn't stay with his wife for that long, as much as he wanted to.

— Saori, I need to go or I'll be late for my service.

— It's okay, I'm sorry if I disturbed you, I just wanted...

— Not! Of course you're not disturbing anything, I also wanted to spend some more time with you. Lately I hardly give you decent attention because of my work, and it's been putting me down to be honest...

— I know, I don't want to be a problem for you. I love you.

— I love you too, you are my reason to be. Never forget.

...

— Ah Seiya... You're missed here... my life isn't the same without you here with me...

Even with those memories in her head, the woman started to see some clothes to go out, grabbed a dress and some high-heeled shoes and then did some makeup touches on her face, grabbed her purse and left the room of her apartment. After a few seconds in the elevator, there was the woman heading towards the exit gate of the building. It was still in the afternoon, in a rather pleasant summer climate, with the last rays of the sun in that late afternoon, the wind blew lightly her silk hair and the skirt of her dress along with the trees, a perfect weather for the girl relax, it was a very good feeling to feel, and it left anyone with a light spirit like a butterfly.

— The feeling of being freed from the tightness of work is totally different... I wonder if Seiya feels the same thing, surely he must feel...

When Saori least expected it, she was already passing by the square of sakura trees, the so beautiful flowers that represented love... Since she was right there, the girl sat on one of the wooden benches and was admiring the beauty of those flowers, when some of her sweetest thoughts flashed through her mind again:

...

Seiya and Saori were sitting together and leaning against a tree in the sakura square. Saori was snuggled on the boy's chest, while he stroked her hair and squeezed lightly in her embrace. And that's when Seiya said:

— In this square there are the most beautiful flowers, but not quite like the one I have here beside me.

And as always, Saori was flushed and embarrassed with her boyfriend's admiration, she knew that nothing else would be so beautiful but her own for him, which made her happier and more loved.

— Ah Seiya, you always talk just to make me embarrassed! - She said red, as always. The brunette chuckled and continued.

— Well, it's absolutely true! You're important to me, you're my reason for living, you know that, and that's why I'm the happiest and most loved man in the world to finally have you by my side!

And then the girl couldn't take it, threw herself on top of the boy and began to stamp his face, who in turn held her on his waist while making intimate caresses on the girl and wanting to keep her to himself, never to let go.

— Hey, Saori... I'd like to ask you something...

— Yes?

— After so long with our battles and with no rest or a moment for us, I wanted to know if you want to… date me.

Before Seiya finishes his question, Saori kisses him with ardor and affection, Seiya responds to his beloved soon afterwards with passion.

— Yes! YES! I want! It was everything I wanted in my entire life!

...

— How I wish you were right now, beside me, on this bench and looking at these trees with me, but you're so far away…

It was almost night, almost late in the afternoon, Saori got up from the bench and left the square and soon went to the market to pick up some things that were missing at home, even though she lived alone. Every time he entered the market, he remembered her moments with Seiya, they both got used to having fun shopping, they were so happy with that dating life, until the day that Seiya's job managers forced him to work out, and that it made Saori's heart cry for his lack.

...

Seiya's life in that office was quite cramped and suffocating, it felt like he had a thousand tasks to do in one day, his duty as a sales manager was demanding and demanding. The man needed to track and oversee just about everything, from monitoring sales teams, calling customer orders and other businesses, and identifying their needs to defining the best possible service.

— I think that now I'm finally going to be able to finish everything I should have done today, the only thing I want is to fall to the ground and never wake up! - Said the dark-haired man, dead tired - but at least it's no worse than facing saint and ultra-powerful gods like it used to be.

The boy was living a normal life, was freed from his life as a saint of Athena and now all he needed to do was go on with his life normally, and especially for a woman he had fought so hard to finally live together, this was Saori.

— I need to continue, I need to do my best and everything for her! Even though it's a very tough and difficult job... How I wish she were with me now... - said the boy sadly.

After a while, the brunette manages to finish practically everything he should have done by nightfall, as the boy saw that he stayed working until the afternoon and hardly anyone was heard in that building, as everyone had already left by then. Seiya sits in a chair near the window and the image of a beautiful woman with purple hair appears in his mind, the day he carried her in his arms for the first time...

— I see you've managed to finish everything, sir. Ogawara. — a old man's voice comes out of nowhere in the room, Seiya looks back and it was mr. Kenishi, the boss of the building where the brunette works.

— Sorry boss! I didn't even notice you came in here. But I managed to finish everything, I just stopped to rest and...

— And thinking about your girlfriend again, right?

— What?! How do you know?

— Seiya, it's not news to me and for your co-workers that you don't stop thinking about Saori during or after work. We totally realized from your general way, it seemed that your mind was far away, not only in your service, but in something else, which in this case is this woman - said the older gentleman sincerely and looking at the embarrassed brunette in front of you.

— But now being serious and being more open and sincere, I really understand her longing for her. When I was practically your age, I've been through that too and I know how it is, a good part of your colleagues feel the same way too. After all, you've practically been here for over 9 years, and so I can imagine you couldn't stand being this far away from her anymore.

— And I can't stand it any longer. You'll never understand how important Saori is to me, I fighting so hard for her so that we could both have a life together, I couldn't live so far away from her, it was like I had returned to that time where we didn't have a moment alone, only disgrace after disgrace. She is my life...

— You've said the same thing to me many times, and I already know it. Maybe me and the others will never understand how big is your love for her. But at least we all want you to be happy with her anyway. But anyway, I have some very good news, and I think you'll like it - the older man said smiling, but Seiya was still sad and didn't want to hear any more business only from his work. But even so, his boss started to explain about the news.

— So, since you've been working all afternoon, you ended up missing a meeting I had this afternoon with your colleagues. But I'll sum it up for you before I leave, and it's important that you listen. Lately, the company has had a relatively good growth, thanks to our service, fulfilled orders and other things that were great too, but that's not just what I said at the meeting.

— Yeah, that's really great, but what's the other news you said?

— Well, given this great progress the company is making, I'm thinking of giving you 5 months of vacation. Because as you, especially you, and the others were for a long time working and not having any rest, I want to give you this worthy break, as if it were some kind of reward for your great work. I'm really looking forward to giving you this opportunity to relax, and especially to enjoy with your families.

— Wait... You mean I...

— That's exactly what you're thinking. You will be free from the service for a while and will be able to see Saori again without any problem.

It seemed that a wave of happiness took over the brunette at that moment, he could finally be free from work and everything to be able to return to Saori after so long away from her, it was everything he wanted in life.

— My God, I don't believe it! For such an opportunity I will see Saori again!

— I see you really loved the novelty — replies the gentleman happily — but for now, you need to stay here for about three days, to finish some things that were missing and you won't be able to finish everything now. After all, you are the sales manager here.

— I know, but at least I'll be able to see her. I'm really happy!

— I know, I can imagine you're really happy. Anyway, you are already released, you can go home now. Good night Sir. Ogawara.

— Perfect! Thank you very much for the conversation, I'm really happy. Well, I'll go, see you tomorrow. - finished the boy going to get his things to leave and with a smile plastered on his face.

— These young people in love... — said the old man, laughing.

...

After shopping at the market, Saori returned to her apartment apparently calm, even remembering Seiya sadly, because despite that, she couldn't do so much, because it was his job, and it was a good thing that paid off for them, but which was pretty demanding too. Saori speaks to herself as she enters the living room:

— I can't do anything about it, after all, it's their rules, however unfair it may be, because Seiya is one of the most important parts of the company... — said the girl in her mind.

Then, the girl enters the kitchen to put away the things she had bought. However, when she least expected it, the living room phone rang, that wasn't even new to Saori, it could possibly be those annoying calls from operators offering cell phone deals, internet or even Tatsumi calling her once more to find out about her status , things she had already gotten used to. However, when she answered the phone and answered "hello" to the person on the other end, surprisingly it was none other than her boyfriend Seiya.

— Goodnight My Love! It's a beautiful night tonight, don't you think? — said the brunette on the other side in an amused tone, he looked like a playful boy.

[santodomingos]

          ╰   *   BIOGRAPHY  ━━  APPLICATION  ━━  TIMELINE                                 ━━  WANTED CONNECTIONS .

BASIC INFORMATION

FULL NAME. Bellamy Santo Domingo.

MEANING. Fine friend, handsome companion.

REASONING. The name was hand-picked by his grandfather, before his passing. He gave no explanations, but a small poem was written in his notebooks regarding this particular name.

NICKNAME(S). Bell, Bee, Bella, Santissimo (with teasing undertones).

ALIAS. Benvolio.

BIRTH DATE. 8th of October, 1994.

BLOOD TYPE. AB-.

AGE. Twenty four.

ZODIAC. Libra sun, Scorpio moon, Pisces rising.

GENDER. Agender. He doesn’t speak much about this, however, as he was raised in a very traditional and conservative family.

PRONOUNS. He/him. Bellamy has a feeling he’d be more comfortable using “they/them,” however, since he fears possible reprimands, especially from his father, he only ever attends to these pronouns when around people he considers safe.

ROMANTIC ORIENTATION. Panromantic.

SEXUAL ORIENTATION. Demisexual.

NATIONALITY. Italian.

ETHNICITY. Spanish, Japanese, Indigenous Brazilian.

RELIGION. Roman Catholic, with some Zen Buddhist influences.

CURRENT LOCATION. Verona, Italy.

LIVING CONDITIONS. Bellamy lives in a comfortable but rather small apartment in the San Zeno neighborhood, close to the Basilica di San Zeno Maggiore.

AFFILIATION. The Montagues.

THREAT LEVEL. Moderate to high. Proceed with caution.

BACKGROUND

HOMETOWN. Verona, Italy.

SOCIAL CLASS. Upper class.

EDUCATION LEVEL. Law Bachelor (University of Verona), currently studying for a Master’s Degree, with a specialization for International Law (started in the University of Rome, will conclude it in the University of Verona). Has presented many international symposiums, for his extensive research in the field. Has a summer course in the Hague Academy of International Law and many academic honors tied to his name.

FATHER. Celestino Santo Domingo, another generation of the family raised for war. Often called the best torturer inside the Montague ranks, he has served Damiano and his name since he was only a teenager, and became known as Lo Sciacallo di Verona. The Santo Domingos also have a traditional vineyard  &  winery, to cover most of their shady dealings, and are well respected amongst the townsfolk.

MOTHER. Cordelia Asahi Santo Domingo, née Oliveira. Daughter from an immigrant family, ended up in the mob to try and pay off her parents’ debts. Cold and ruthless, was mostly known for being a strong tactician. 

SIBLING(S). None. Cordelia went through a second pregnancy when Bellamy was five to six years old, however, she ended up having a miscarriage. This was very hard on both of his parents, and was one of the reasons why Celestino hardened up his up-bringing of Bellamy.

BIRTH ORDER. Only child.

CHILDREN. None.

PET(S). A calico cat Bellamy himself rescued named Lucky. She is partially blind. 

OTHER IMPORTANT RELATIVES. Balthazar Santo Domingo (deceased) and Reyna Santo Domingo, née Salazar, grandparents from his father’s side. Francisco Oliveira and Ayumi Oliveira, née Yamamura, grandparents from his mother’s side. His father has at least three siblings, and Bellamy has plenty of cousins.

PREVIOUS RELATIONSHIPS. Bellamy has never dated, although his father did try to make him date one of his friends’ daughter. Other than that, he has maintained a clean record, although he has had some romantic encounters that never went much farther than a few dates.

ARRESTS? None, although he has both run from the police  &  rescued some of his friends from it quite a few times.

PRISON TIME? No.

OCCUPATION & INCOME

PRIMARY SOURCE OF INCOME. Montague soldier and bodyguard.

SECONDARY SOURCE OF INCOME. Research scholarship.

TERTIARY SOURCE(S) OF INCOME. Family funds, originated from the vineyard and winery, from which Bellamy takes a small percentage of. He saves them up and applies them as he sees fit. Bellamy also gathered some income from publishing articles.

SPENDING HABITS. Bellamy hardly ever spends his money on himself. He has very little physical belongings, excluding his books. He only splurges on his loved ones and, even then, he is more particular to meaningful gifts, no matter how small. 

SKILLS & ABILITIES

PHYSICAL STRENGTH. 8/10. Bellamy has been trained in martial arts since he was a child, and he is constantly exercising (it shows).

OFFENSE. 6/10. As much as he knows how to cause damage, this is merely a matter of preference, as Bellamy tries to avoid direct and immediate action, to not cause much harm to himself and others.

DEFENSE. 9/10. This, again, is the result of his ideological vision for peace. He much rather stay on the defensive, and he is good at being a shield.

SPEED. 7/10. He is a big guy, there’s only so much he can do. 

INTELLIGENCE. 8/10. Bellamy, albeit raised in a family of warriors of the best kind, also has a tactician as a mother, and was gifted with the soul of a philosopher. He has above average intelligence, can self-teach himself anything he puts his mind to, and is quick to analyze a situation.

ACCURACY. 7/10. His aim wavers, although not by lack of training. His father is very pushy with gun use, but Bellamy is not very fond of it, by the surprise of many. If he is forced to use a gun, he goes for non-fatal, but incapacitating, shots.

AGILITY. 8/10. His background as both a dancer (yeah, that’s a secret) and a martial arts connoisseur has provided Bellamy a lot of grace in his movements, and he has a good control over his body.

STAMINA. 9/10. Intense training since childhood does pay-off. He can go all night long, baby :eyes:. 

TEAMWORK. 7/10. I mean, listen. He can work well in groups, but people tend to underestimate him and the way he does stuff a lot, which can be quite annoying to Bellamy, especially if we’re talking life-threatening situations. As long as you trust his abilities, he can work well with you. 

LANGUAGE(S) SPOKEN. Italian, Portuguese, Japanese (his first languages, proficiency), Spanish, French (mild proficiency), Latin, Classic Latin, Greek, German, Dutch (self-taught, he can understand and read, but not speak them very well).

DRIVING. He can ride both cars and motorcycles, having one of his own. He can manage to change tires and doing basic repairs, if needed be. His mother taught him how to jump start a car.

SWIMMING. Bellamy loves to swim, and it remains one of his favorite activities to this day.

PICK A LOCK. One of the first skills his father taught him.

FIGHTING. Judo, Krav Maga, Muay Thai, Kickboxing, Aikido.

SKILLS. Combat knives, stealth, negotiation, diplomacy, basic medic skills, knowledge of the law, parkour.

PHYSICAL APPEARANCE & CHARACTERISTICS

FACE CLAIM. Marlon Teixeira.

EYE COLOR. Caramel.

HAIR COLOR. Brown.

HAIR TYPE/STYLE. Long hair, often messy. Bellamy doesn’t cut it often.

VOICE. Bellamy has a deep, comforting voice, best described as the perfect timbre for singing lullabies or reading poetry. He is a baritone.

GLASSES/CONTACTS? Bellamy uses reading glasses, as not to strain his eyesight. 

DOMINANT HAND. Naturally, it was his right hand. However, his father made him train both of them for combat and shooting purposes, so he is now ambidextrous. 

HEIGHT. 184cm or 6 feet.

BUILD. Athletic, with well-developed muscles, since he has been physically active since his childhood.

SKIN TONE. Bellamy has a healthy tan, which gives him a golden glow.

TATTOOS. He has one tattoo, and it is very well hidden on the side of his hips (yes, it’s a secret. yes, it’s thexy).

PIERCINGS. None.

MARKS/SCARS. Bellamy’s whole body is covered in scars, both big and small, from strenuous training, abuse, and self-harm. 

USUAL EXPRESSION. Bellamy is often serious, but he can easily soften up his expression as soon as someone searches for an emotional response from him. He smiles easily, although these are not his most honest expressions.

CLOTHING STYLE. Bellamy has a very simple and modest style, with functionality being the key element. His wardrobe is filled with neutral colors.

JEWELRY. He wear a ring his grandmother gifted him at all times, but in a necklace. Bellamy also always carries his grandfather’s rosary with him.

PERFUME. He doesn’t use any, but his shampoo smells strongly of vanilla and strawberries.

DIET. Bellamy tends to skip some meals, as he often doesn’t take care of himself very well. His diet, however, is very healthy and balanced. He avoids red meat, often eating only fish. He does have a big sweet tooth, but he is pretty good at controlling himself.

PHYSICAL AILMENTS. None, but he has a slight bone malformation on his left hand that has been corrected with surgery.

PSYCHOLOGY

JUNG. INFJ, the Advocate (Ni - Fe - Ti - Se).

ENNEAGRAM. 9w1, the Negotiator. Tritype: 925. 

MORAL ALIGNMENT. Neutral good.

ARCHETYPE. The Caregiver.

TEMPERAMENT. Melancholic.

ELEMENT. Earth/water.

PRIMARY INTELLIGENCES. Verbal-linguistic, bodily-kinesthetic, interpersonal.

VICE. Envy.

VIRTUE. Temperance.

APPROXIMATE IQ. 124.

MENTAL CONDITIONS. Chronic depression, insomnia.

SOCIABILITY. Bellamy is very approachable and is also a great listener. He won’t often start interactions, but he knows how to navigate through people and the way to get to their hearts.

EMOTIONAL STABILITY. Moderate to low. Bellamy is way too good at repressing his own emotions, but this often leaves him spiraling after some months.

ADDICTION(S). He isn’t the type of person to be easily rendered by addictions of any kind, as he tends to be very careful with most things. Bellamy smokes, but even then, his packs of cigarettes often take months to finish.

DRUG USE. Bellamy uses sleeping pills with some frequency, and he is now taking Fae’s Blood as well, in order to fight his smothering feelings of depression and hopelessness. 

ALCOHOL USE. Bellamy does not drink often, as he has a very low alcohol tolerance. He only drinks alone in his apartment, while reading a book and getting ready for bed, or in the company of people he really trusts.

PRONE TO VIOLENCE? No. Bellamy opts for violence as a last resort, although he does have certain berserk buttons that can make him act differently.

MANNERISMS

SPEECH STYLE. Bellamy is very careful with his words, weighing them in before anything rash can come out of his mouth. He is never loud, and tends to approach most conversations with a persuasive tone to it, often offering a compromise to easily gain over others. He is very empathetic in handling information people offer him.

QUIRKS. Drinks tea after every meal. Can only sleep well if he has someone by his side (when he doesn’t, he hugs a plush bear he got as a gift many years ago). Has extremely quick reflexes and doesn’t take very well to sudden and abrupt approaches.

HOBBIES. Reading, swimming, painting, horseback riding, cooking, chess, gymnastics, running, learning new languages, going to museums and art galleries, dancing.

HABITS. Goes to church at least three times per week, although he often doesn’t attend masses anymore. Doing stretches and yoga once he wakes up and before bed. Drinking tea after every meal. 

NERVOUS TICKS. Bellamy has trained himself to become unreadable, but he still messes around with his hair, depending of the situation at hand.

DRIVES/MOTIVATIONS. To keep his loved ones safe and protected.

FEARS. Being worthless, unloved and abandoned. Seeing his loved ones die or get harmed. Failing to meet up his family’s expectations and subsequently disappointing them.

POSITIVE TRAITS. Wise, protective, loyal, diligent, nurturing, humble, just.

NEGATIVE TRAITS. Self-sacrificing, insecure, passive, repressed, can have sudden outbursts of emotion, hypocritical, self-destructive.

SENSE OF HUMOR. Bellamy doesn’t often cracks up with laughter, and he is not one for sarcasm, either. He has a subtle sense of humor, you could say, and he only lets himself go and enjoy some fun when feeling absolutely safe.

DO THEY CURSE OFTEN? Not at all. Bellamy is very polished in his speech, and he is a wordsmith of sorts. He will hardly ever curse.

FAVORITES

ACTIVITY. Horseback riding.

ANIMAL. All of them. Bellamy is just a big animal lover.

BEVERAGE. Red or rosé wine.

BOOK. Persuasion, by Jane Austen.

CELEBRITY. Bellamy knows absolutely nothing about celebrities, and I mean nothing.

COLOR. Regarding clothing, Bellamy prefers neutral tones (white, grays, and browns, especially). In general, soft orange is his pick.-

DESIGNER. He is a thrift shopper! No money to expend on futile things, especially for himself!

FOOD. Sukiyaki.

FLOWER. Sunflowers.

GEM. Moonstone.

HOLIDAY. Easter.

MOVIE. Princess Mononoke.

MUSICAL ARTIST. Chopin.

SCENT. Spices, herbs, natural scents in general.

SPORT. Fencing.

WEATHER. Soft rain in a warm day.

[janeofcakes]

Keep your Friends Close...: Chapter 7

Hello, everyone! I’m sorry I didn’t get this up earlier in the week. That was my plan after the last short and suspenseful chapter, but the editing gods would not cooperate until last night and this morning. This one is definitely longer though. Definitely. I hope you all enjoy it and it brings respite in these crazy times. On the upside, how much time do we all have for reading now, am I right? I haven’t been able to read anything for months, but I’ve read so many OmegaJohn stories this month already. Love it! I think I might try some reverse Reichenbach next. Anyway, enjoy!

----

'Cause love's such an old fashioned word and love dares you to care for the people on the edge of the night and love dares you to change our way of caring about ourselves. This is our last dance. This is our last dance. This is ourselves under pressure.                                                                                                       -- Queen, Under Pressure

Weight and power establish velocity, along with time and distance. Assign a figure for each skater based upon average velocity and it further simplifies the equation. Exertion of power can be determined more easily. If velocity equals…

Sherlock’s eyes snap open when a loud bang reaches his ears. He is lying on the over-sized sage green couch in the condo’s living room. Sherlock bought it knowing he would spend hours on it within his mind palace, likely falling asleep on it most nights. He frowns mightily when he hears the bang again.

Glancing at the wall clock and furrowing his brow, Sherlock considers who the hell would come to his door at this hour. Greg? Another bang on the door and he sits up. It can’t be about Molly. He spoke with her just that evening. He had sneaked out of the stadium around 8:30 and gone straight to Ford. Well, almost. There was a stop for her favorite ice cream on the way. They had talked and joked as they ate the contraband treat.

“Seriously, Sherlock, you have to stop coming here every night,” Molly had chided. “I know you’re behind on all that extra work you do after hours. You’d have to be by now.”

“Nonsense. My calculations and strategies for upcoming bouts are coming along perfectly,” he told her around a mouthful of chocolate chip cookie dough. “Besides, there is nothing in this world that is more important to me.”

“I’m flattered,” she laughed and then took on a more serious tone. “There’s nothing wrong with letting someone else in, you know.”

“What?” he had seen her knowing expression as soon as he looked her way, even though she quickly shifted her eyes away and into her ice cream pint. “Molly, no. It’s not like that.”

She returned her gaze to him and smiled broadly. It was his turn to look away, cheeks pink. 

“Oh, come on. I’ve seen the way you look at him.”

“Molly, I can’t.”

“Why on earth not? You’re equals within the organization.”

“I know, I just…” Sherlock finally met her eyes again. “I swore off that sort of sentiment after Victor. You know that. Caring about someone that deeply is not an advantage.”

“Oh, Sherlock, I know he hurt you. I’ll never forgive him for that, but you shouldn’t give up that part of yourself,” Molly touched his arm, putting her own Chubby Hubby pint in her lap. “You shouldn’t deny yourself the chance to be happy.”

“I am happy.”

“Sherlock,” she admonished. He sighed and looked down at his ice cream, prodding it with his spoon.

“You really think I should risk it?” he had asked after a moment.

“I don’t think it would be a risk with this one,” she answered solemnly.

Clearing his mind to focus on the here and now, Sherlock rises from the couch and walks briskly to the foyer as another pound to his front door sounds through the hall. He leans in close and peers into the spy hole to see John Watson’s head and torso. Sherlock steps back, his mind confused by the man’s presence and his stomach already doing those annoying flips.

“John, I wasn’t expecting…” Sherlock begins while opening the door. John pushes in, effectively shoving him out of the way and shuts the door quickly. He looks Sherlock over as though he is looking for...what? Then he scans as much of the condo as he can see from where they stand, going so far as to take a few swift steps in to peer down the hall suspiciously. Befuddled, Sherlock watches his movements closely and takes a quick step back when John suddenly advances on him.

“You’re okay?” John asks distractedly, still glancing around. “He’s not here?”

Sherlock blinks, now utterly confounded. He is about to ask John what the hell he is talking about when he finally notices what John is wearing. Sherlock typically sees everything one has to tell in a glimpse, but the combination of the doctor’s odd behavior and the effect John has on him in general, much as Sherlock hates to admit it, renders his powers of observation moot. Finally observing everything John has to tell, Sherlock finds himself astounded and more than a little confused.

John is in Sherlock’s condo, standing in right front of him in nothing but a pair of boxer shorts and a t-shirt. A somewhat clingy t-shirt at that. One that hugs every curve and muscle and dries Sherlock’s mouth in an instant. As he swallows hard, he notices the dark red stain of blood on the tee’s shoulder right at the top of John’s arm.

“Blood,” Sherlock blurts suddenly. 

“There’s no one here,” John faces him, finally finished scanning his surroundings like a startled animal.

“You’re bleeding,” Sherlock announces, eyes now roving over John’s body and searching for other signs of injury.

“You’re alone.”

“And from your hip too.”

John puts his hands on Sherlock’s shoulders and pushes him back until he bumps into the door to his condo. Sherlock looks at him with an expression of annoyance and he hopes not arousal. John pins him to the wall with deadly serious eyes.

“You’re sure there’s no one here? You haven’t seen anyone?”

“There’s no one here!” Sherlock’s voice raises in irritation. “Jesus, John.”

The doctor stares at Sherlock for a moment with stormy dark blue eyes that slowly begin to lighten. The anger and seriousness on his face smooths into something softer. He releases his hold on Sherlock and shuffles backwards, relieving the tension and what little space there was between their bodies. Sherlock, however, is not going to let him off that easily. He closes the gap again and touches John’s shoulder just under the blood. John flinches, but does not pull away.

“Sorry,” he mutters.

“What happened?” Sherlock asks, trying no to notice the flip in his stomach at that first touch.

“What?” John looks to his shoulder to see Sherlock’s long fingers, probing around gently to get an idea where the wound is. “Ah, shit.”

“It’s fine. It’s fine. Just come with me,” Sherlock takes hold of the hand on John’s uninjured arm and guides him through the condo.

“Christ, I need to put more energy into finding a permanent flat,” John declares with humor in his voice. “This is a bloody palace.”

“It’s one of the bigger ones in this building,” Sherlock tells him as they walk. “If I’m not buying a house, I might as well still have what I like.”

“Which is?”

“Space,” he says as they enter a large bedroom with a vaulted ceiling. John stops about ten steps in and looks around the room in apprehension. Meanwhile, Sherlock drops his hand and continues walking to a door on the far wall.

“Sit,” he gestures at the bed and disappears into the en suite. He opens a cupboard and removes a plastic case. He also grabs two hand towels to sop up blood, knowing he will likely need more than the kit has to offer.

When he returns, supplies in hand, John is not sitting on the bed. He is standing stalk still right where Sherlock left him. He stares, eyes shifting around the room slowly like they are drinking in every detail. Sherlock follows his gaze to a chest of drawers and settles on the photo of him Molly that sits upon it. He looks back at John and clears his throat.

“John?” he steps forward.

“What? Oh, right,” John says, regaining his focus. He starts for the bed, but stops. “Sorry, I can’t do this. I’ll ruin your sheets.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Sherlock smirks. “Wouldn’t be the first time.”

Completely taken aback by the joke, John just stares for a full ten seconds while Sherlock opens the med kit. He watches as the tall man sifts through its contents in search of peroxide, gauze dressings and bandages. Sherlock observes him from the corner of his eye, wondering if John is actually going to sit down and let him tend to his wounds or needs to be prompted again. One thing, he sure as hell is going to explain how he was hurt and why he is running around Detroit in a t-shirt and underpants. Not that Sherlock is complaining, of course, but he is hardly going to tell John that.

“Do you want me to put a towel down before you sit? Because you are going to sit on the bed,” he says, meeting his wide eyes. Are his pupils bigger than the lights should allow? They are certainly beautiful. Blue like the ocean, clear and open. Then John blinks and looks down at his feet as he shifts them. 

“No, it’s…” he looks back at Sherlock with honest embarrassment.  He bites his lip and it is absolutely adorable. Sherlock almost flinches when his stomach flips this time. “Actually, yeah. I’d feel better about it.”

Sherlock’s lips turn up and he huffs out a breathy laugh.

“Okay,” Sherlock heads for the en suite again and tosses a look over his shoulder. “Be right back.”

When he returns this time, John is standing closer to the bed. He looks nervous, holding one hand in the other and wringing slightly. Sherlock smiles reassuringly, trying to ease John’s mind. He steps in close and drapes a thick dark green towel on the bed. When he stands straight again, he and John are face to face, inches apart. John’s mouth is open and he is breathing more heavily than he should be. His pupils seem even larger than before. 

Sherlock shifts back, but is still close. His gaze falls to John’s chest as it rises and falls, the thin fabric of the shirt pulling taut over his pectorals. Sherlock can just make out the darker outline of a nipple before he forces his eyes back to John’s face, trying desperately not to stop on the man’s lips.

“Are you all right?” he asks quietly. “You’re breathing fast. Is it the pain?”

“What?” John replies breathlessly.

“The pain. Is it bad? Does one wound hurt more than the other?”

“No, it’s not bad,” John swallows deliberately. “They’re just flesh wounds.”

“Are they? Why don’t you sit down and let me take a look?”

“I could just do it myself.”

“John, please.”

They share a look. It is very serious and intentional. Is it Sherlock’s imagination or is there heat in John’s eyes? He is certainly trying to keep it from his own. His hand is on John’s, holding it gently, though he does not remember putting it there. John’s hand is warm and soft. God, he wants to hold it forever. He wants to learn everything about this man, spend the rest of his life touching and holding and memorizing every inch, every thought, every dream he holds dear. It all comes upon him so suddenly that their one point of contact feels like the key to a secret door, opening and revealing a part of himself he never knew existed. Sherlock has never felt this way in his life. He had loved Victor, to be sure, but did not feel anything even close to this. It is amazing. And...Jesus Christ, he is completely fucked.

“Please, allow me,” Sherlock whispers in a rough tone. John looks at him without blinking. The very tip of his tongue darts out to lick his lips. It lasts only a millisecond, but the sight of it sends Sherlock’s stomach to flipping and makes him weak in the knees. 

“All right,” John breathes. Without pulling his hand away, he turns slightly and sits on the edge of the bed. Swallowing hard and trying not to think about the fact that John Watson is sitting on his bed right in front of him, Sherlock reluctantly releases John’s hand and takes some gauze from the kit. 

“Take off your shirt.”

Did he really just say that? Sherlock nearly rolls his eyes in sheer embarrassment. Instead, he shakes his head minutely and then tries to adopt a more professional air, picking up the open bottle of peroxide. Placing the gauze on its top, Sherlock tips the bottle and saturates the gauze.

When he turns to John again, he means to speak, but the words die in his throat and come out as more of a gasp. John is just pulling the t-shirt over his head, tousling his blonde hair as it sweeps past it. He drops it on the bed next to him and looks at Sherlock expectantly, but the coach just gapes. John is gorgeous. His sun-kissed skin looks smooth and almost silky, stretching over his pectorals to his shoulders and down over the mostly defined muscles of his abdomen. There is not a single hair on his broad chest and his nipples are peaking from the slight chill in the air conditioned room. He looks like an underwear model and Sherlock’s mind floods with ways to worship every inch of his body.

“You used to surf in Anaheim,” Sherlock remarks instead, clearing his throat and keeping his tone even. John blinks.

“How did you… You see people, right. How do I keep forgetting that?” John smiles and then winces when he moves his arm.

Sherlock places his left hand on John’s bicep to hold him steady and touches the wet gauze to the wound right at the curve of his shoulder. The skin around John’s eyes tightens slightly as he watches the gentle ministrations clean away blood to reveal an angry dip where the skin was split open and the muscle marred.

“I don’t see, John,” Sherlock corrects as he works, “I…”

“Observe,” John finishes.

“And deduce,” Sherlock continues, looking at John with pin-point focus. The doctor’s eyes rise from the wound to meet his disarming silver gaze, steady and true. Sherlock feels warm, color rising into his cheeks and he feels light-headed. The air around them is heavy with promise, and the glimmer on John’s face is peaceful and welcoming. Looking at him, Sherlock is suddenly struck by the feeling that he has found someone who can truly understand him and the way he thinks, the way he sees the world. Molly has seen it too, but can it be? Could John really be what she thinks he could be? It is a concept Sherlock had given up hope of finding after Victor. At least, he thought he had.

“It’s the tan, right?”

“And the physique,” Sherlock says before thinking and immediately closes his eyes, cursing internally. John just laughs.

“I’m afraid that’ll change once I’ve been here a few more months.”

“You can always join a gym,” Sherlock suggests. As he works, he takes notice of the wound’s odd shape and angle. It is oddly familiar and yet, like none he has ever seen before, and he has seen quite a bit throughout his ten years in derby. This is different. What kind of object would make a mark like this?

“I’m always at the stadium just like you,” John says with a smile, “and I’m not one for going to a gym in the middle of the night. Or getting up at the bloody break of dawn.”

“You could use the exercise equipment at the stadium then. The ladies are usually out of the building by 8-8:30.”

“Oh, I’d feel a little odd doing that. Wouldn’t want to intrude on the off-chance someone is still there.”

Sherlock shrugs as he places a bandage and begins taping. John looks right at him, sparing none of his attention for anything but the man before him.

“How do you keep yourself fit?” John asks in a light tone, brows near his hairline. “Midnight jogs in the park?”

“Of course not,” Sherlock laughs, finishing with the bandage. “I have a few pieces of equipment here.”

“Do you?” John asks thoughtfully. “God, I need to get myself a real place. Having my own equipment would be perfect.”

“And your leg.”

“What?”

“Your leg. It’s also injured.”

“My...right! Right. Of course,” John looks both flustered and relieved. He leans over so his hip is easier to see, clenching his teeth in pain as he goes.

Sherlock bites his lip and ghosts his hand over John’s hip and thigh without touching the fabric of his boxers. He looks at the doctor with great unease. There is definitely more blood on the boxers than there was on John’s tee and it looks fresher. He wets his lips, unable to believe he is about to make his next suggestion.

“This would be a lot easier if you lie down,” he says almost timidly, “and less painful.”

John’s eyes go wide and his lips part in shock. It only lasts a second before the doctor schools his expression, looks at his hip and then back at Sherlock.

“Yeah, okay,” he says as though convincing himself. “Right. You’re right.”

John sits up again and takes a deep breath. With his teeth biting at his lower lip, he lowers himself down slowly and then turns onto his side carefully. It’s the most goddamn erotic thing Sherlock has seen in his life. Bending his good arm and supporting his head on one hand, John looks up at Sherlock. He gives him a pained and hesitant smile.

“Ready?”

“I was about to ask you that,” Sherlock answers with a small smile.

“All right then,” John wets his lips and slips his fingers into the waistband of his boxers. Sherlock’s brain stops as he watches John pull the waistband down to reveal a hipbone, the wound and skin much lighter than the rest of John’s body. Sherlock’s mouth goes dry. 

Absolutely. Bone. Dry. 

His gaze slides along John’s torso and stops on the exposed skin. He can just see a smattering of light curls that disappear into the boxer shorts. He blinks and shifts his eyes to the wound quickly, hoping John did not notice.

“This one could be deeper,” Sherlock mutters nearly to himself, as he grabs one of the hand towels and presses it against the wound. John inhales sharply, but does not flinch.

“I’m inclined to agree, but won’t know until you clean it up,” John’s voice is tight. “It hasn’t stopped bleeding. Could need stitches. You up for this?”

“Of course,” Sherlock bristles. “I have seen countless injuries on the track.”

“Yeah, but did you have to stitch them up on the fly?”

Sherlock meets his eyes. Truthfully, he has not. But he has come close. Sherlock readies a new piece of gauze and wets it with peroxide. When he is ready, he moves the towel aside and leans in closer. John’s body twitches at Sherlock’s first touch and again periodically as he cleans the wound. It is much deeper than the other one and very similar with that odd shape. Sherlock furrows his brow, trying to place it. 

“Why not a house?” John’s voice is quiet and pained.

“What?” Sherlock’s hand stills. He turns his gaze to John, his brows raised in question.

“Why haven’t you bought a house? You’ve been here a long time,” John asks, referring to their previous conversation, clearly trying to distract himself.

“Ah, well,” Sherlock fumbles for words. Sherlock hates being off-balance, taken by surprise. He struggles for equilibrium. “Houses are meant to be shared, not kept by a single man.”

He pauses in both word and action. The two men lock eyes in a very serious gaze.

“The home I grew up in was full of love. It was bright and airy. So was Molly’s. It just doesn’t seem right to have one all to myself.”

“Did you share one with Victor?”

“No,” Sherlock replies after a moment. “Not his style. We lived in an upscale apartment downtown. It was right where he needed to be, both for his work and social life.”

They are silent for a few minutes. It is awkward and yet, not. Sherlock feels very comfortable and calm, even as his nerves remain edgey. His grey eyes suddenly dart to where his own hand rests on John’s hip, a reminder to stay still while he works. He can feel the warmth of the skin under his hand. A light sweat breaks out on Sherlock’s forehead and his heart rate picks up. It sounds so loud in his ears and John must be able to hear it. They are too close for him not to.

“I understand,” John finally says in a quiet voice. “It’s never felt right to me either.”

The look they share takes on new life, a new purpose that they both feel down to their bones. A connection, a common bond, and Sherlock makes up his mind in a split second. John Watson must stay in his condo tonight.

Sherlock straightens and removes the gauze, and his hand, from John’s hip. The angry mark on his skin looks so hateful, marring what is otherwise a gorgeous landscape. Sherlock clears his throat and looks at John, nodding toward the wound.

“So what do you think, Doctor?” he asks cheekily. “Do I need to find a needle and thread?”

“No, I don’t think so,” John chuckles. “A couple of butterfly strips will do it. D’you have any in that first-aid kit of yours?”

“As a matter of fact,” Sherlock gives him a smartass grin, brows still raised. He places the gauze he is holding back on John’s hip, fingertips grazing the soft skin, and then reaches for John’s hand. He places it gingerly on the gauze. “If you would be so kind.”

“It would be my pleasure,” John jokes.

With a smile on his face, Sherlock turns to the kit and begins rifling through its contents for the strips. He knows he has seen them before and is certain he has never used them. Just as he sees them, his hands slow to a stop and eyes lose their focus, as he stares blankly at the kit. John’s wounds are from bullets grazing his body. Sherlock has seen examples just like them in the medical books he studied while Anderson was the team doctor. He wouldn’t trust that man to place a band-aid on a scrape, much less execute decent stitches. Sherlock had felt more secure knowing he could step in, or at least watch to make sure as little was bungled as possible.

Sherlock’s gaze comes back to reality and darts to John’s shoulder, then his hip. He feels the packaged butterfly strips between his fingers, but his mind remains elsewhere. A cold chill drips slowly into his veins as a singular horrifying thought reverberates in his head.

Someone fired shots at John.

Someone attempted to murder John.

Sherlock’s eyes fly to John’s face. He was relaxed and cracking jokes earlier, but now wears an expression of curiosity that creeps in the direction of worry. Sherlock looks away as he tears open the package in his hands. He has placed the first one in seconds and then the other.

“Nicely done, Dr. Holmes,” John jokes, eyes bright and amused again. “Now all we need is a bandage and you’ll be doing my job. I don’t think I’d be very good at yours though.”

“Who shot at you, John?” Sherlock asks without preamble. He pins the doctor with such an intense glower that John cannot possibly look away or avoid the question. His smile fades.

“You really cut to the quick, don’t you?”

Sherlock cocks a brow.

“Have I ever given indication to the contrary during our association?” he asks, but it is not really a question.

John purses his lips, raises his brows and tilts his head to the side in both a thoughtful gesture and one that acquiesces the point. Sherlock leans closer and rests his hand on John’s thigh, just under the wound. He watches John’s face as he glances down at Sherlock’s hand and then lifts his gaze to look at the coach full in the face. His features are wary, but otherwise unreadable. Sherlock squares his jaw. Nothing is going to keep him from finding the truth. 

“Who was it, John?” his tone is soft, but firm. Sherlock has not heard anything quite like it from his own lips before. He wonders silently at this man’s power over him and wishes he had some, any power over John. Is he going to tell him the truth outright or try to pass this off as nothing? He trusts Sherlock, but will he trust him with this?

John watches Sherlock for a moment with the same scrutiny that Sherlock studies him. John seems to consider something and then looks resigned, sighing heavily. He sits up and raises a hand to cup the back of his own neck.

“I don’t know,” he says. “He was all in black with a knit cap pulled over his face.”

“A balaclava.”

“If you want to be technical about it, yeah. Either way, I couldn’t see his face.”

“He was in your apartment?”

“Longer than he expected to be. He said he was on a schedule,” John’s voice is harsh and Sherlock’s eyes widen in surprise. He had not expected the attacker would have spoken to John and the fury simmering just beneath the surface of John’s words makes Sherlock wonder what else was said. He is suddenly and inexplicably compelled to lighten John’s mood.

“He can’t be too happy about the delay your kicking his ass has caused.”

John’s eyes go from hard with anger to soft amusement in seconds. A rather unceremonious burst of laughter pops from his lips, now turned up in a smile.

“I wouldn’t say I kicked his ass,” he remarks, “but I don’t mind fucking up his plans one bit.”

“His intention was murder,” Sherlock says with a hint of a question in his voice.

“Without a doubt.”

“Why, John?” Sherlock is suddenly on his knees before the bed at eye level with John. His voice is tense as he tries to find anything at all in the wing he has marked for John that would warrant such an attack. “Is there someone from Anaheim who would want to hurt you? Do you have any enemies?”

“Normal people don’t have enemies, Sherlock,” he answers sharply.

Sherlock jerks back as though he has been slapped in the face. He instantly recalls a conversation they had about the Demons and their coach, James Moriarty. His ‘arch enemy’ Sherlock had called him and John had laughed.

“But why do you two hate each other so much?”

Sherlock knew John had heard different theories from most of the ladies. HardOn’s rendition was the most colorful, as one would expect. Sally’s would be the most accurate. She was there after all, but she had declined to offer an explanation out of respect for her coach. Sherlock had never told anyone what had actually transpired, always dodging the questions with declarations of reps or laps, but John had been nothing but honest with him at their dinner at Angelo’s. His face hid nothing and his obvious pleasure in Sherlock’s company had gotten the better of the coach, as it so often does.

“We had just beaten the Demons badly. It wasn’t for the championship or even a play-off bout, but Moriarty was pissed off,” Sherlock had said with a growing grin. “He made some disparaging remarks about Molly and I…”

“Yeah?” John asked with anticipation. He had looked like a child at Christmastime, his bright blue eyes shining.

“I punched him.”

John howled.

“In the throat.”

John’s laughter died in his throat. He looked at Sherlock in shock and Sherlock thought his chin might actually hit the floor.

“No!” John said in a choked whisper. “You didn’t.”

He laughed so hard when Sherlock nodded and he nearly slipped right off the bench they were sitting on.

“Coach!” HardOn had suddenly yelled form the track. “Stop mistreating Ph.D. He can’t take care of our sorry asses if you keep bustin’ his.”

Hella hooted as she rolled by her partner, slapping her ass on the way. Sherlock had signaled for more laps and then glanced at John as his laughter grew even louder, tears actually beginning to roll from his eyes. Sherlock had grinned at the reckless abandon.

“Shit,” John’s voice draws Sherlock’s eye and pulls him from his thoughts. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that the way it sounded.”

“It’s fine,” Sherlock mumbles.

“It’s not,” John persists. “I wasn’t thinking of you. I wasn’t thinking at all.”

Sherlock is looking away and rising to his feet, desperately wishing this conversation would end. He picks up a sterile bandage packet and tears it open, swiftly putting the bandage in place. It surprises John enough that he almost recoils, but Sherlock grabs his hand roughly and shoves it toward the bandage.

“Hold this.”

“Sherlock.”

“It’s fine. Just leave it. I need to get this bandage on and then you will tell me everything that happened.”

John stares at him pointedly while he tapes the bandage down. Once he is finished, he packs up the first-aid kit and closes its latch. Sherlock considers returning it to the en suite, but knows it is the coward’s way out. He has never shrunk back from anything in his life. He is not going to start now. Instead, he meets John’s eyes and sees a fierce determination there that matches his own.

“I didn’t see him when I got home, but he was there,” John begins without being asked. 

He goes through everything that took place and in as much detail as he can. Sherlock cringes when John gets to the fire escape and alley. The bastard came so close to finding John there and would have surely killed him where he stood. No place to run. Sherlock does not interrupt, forcing back his fear and worry for John. 

By the time the doctor is finished, Sherlock’s eyes are closed and his fingers steepled before his chin. He visualizes it all in his mind, trying to keep his emotions at a distance. He has not been to John’s apartment, but knows the building and general layout for a unit. He watches the man grab John from behind in the kitchen and the ensuing struggle. Sentiment momentarily gets the better of him and he physically flinches when the second bullet grazes John’s hip. He breathes deeply and follows John out the window and down the fire escape. 

The whole incident makes him sick to his stomach, but the kitchen is the worst. The thought of a murderer holding John close to his own body from behind, a most vulnerable position indeed. The image stirs within Sherlock an emotion he isn’t sure how to process. Fear and protectiveness, like he was wronged somehow right along with John. It does not make sense. John is not his to protect and yet, there it is, front and center. Sherlock cannot ignore it or his feelings for John. He has tried, of course, since the moment he walked into Greg’s office to meet the doctor. Even though there are no organizational rules preventing them from exploring an attraction, there is still an obstacle and it is the most important. Sherlock’s own heart. He allowed himself to be vulnerable with Victor and paid the price. Recovering from it would have been impossible had he not thrown himself into coaching and derby. He had vowed never to be in that situation again. Since then, Sherlock has never felt the desire to open that door in his mind palace, not even a crack.

Until now.

And it was not a decision. That dinner with John changed everything. The door wasn’t just opened, it was forced from its hinges. In spite of it, Sherlock has tried to board up the doorway and move on. He may have feelings for John, strong feelings, but cannot risk his heart again no matter how persistent it is. Because John would have nothing less than his whole heart and losing it, losing John would destroy him. 

John.

So open and honest and yet, such a mystery. John would tell him anything if he only asked, even the personal and painful. John seems so responsive when Sherlock’s resolve slips and finds himself flirting, but truth be told, Sherlock is not entirely certain of John’s interest or orientation, for that matter. The stories of his past relationships are just vague enough that Sherlock has not gathered whether they were with men or women or both. They all have ambiguous names like Chris and Jamie, and are just short enough to provide the gist with no real details. Sherlock still cannot seem to deduce him either, not to the extent that he can everyone else. John cannot possibly know how he confounds Sherlock.

When he opens his eyes, John no longer sits on the bed before him. In fact, John is not even in the room. Sherlock’s eyes look from side to side sharply, his brow furrowing with worry. Is John even in the condo? Sherlock jumps to his feet just as the en suite door opens and the man in question appears in its frame. He still wears only boxer shorts and Sherlock feels his knees weaken a fraction. Flip. Stop it!

“Hey. Sorry,” he says quickly, noticing Sherlock’s distress. “I needed the loo and I didn’t want to interrupt.”

Sherlock cocks a brow and gives him a questioning look.

“Your thoughts. You were in your mind palace, yeah?”

“I was,” the coach answers. “For too long it seems. My apologies.”

“No worries,” John’s hand is at the back of his neck again, his brows raised. “I guess I should call the police.”

“No.”

“No?”

“It’s late and they will keep you in the station for hours,” Sherlock explains, making no attempt to keep the disdain from his tone. “You may as well get some sleep. Waiting to tell them in the morning won’t make much difference.”

“But they should start looking before he disappears,” John protests.

“Oh, they won’t catch him,” Sherlock almost chuckles as he approaches John.

“What?” he asks incredulously.

“I’m afraid the police force is far from competent.”

“What? Jesus, Sherlock.”

“But reporting the incident is still a good idea. Better to have it on record in case…”

“In case what?” John’s hands are on his hips. Well, one is more on his waist. Sherlock says nothing. “In case he comes back?”

“It is a possibility, John.”

“I know it is. That’s why I plan to be very careful when I go back.”

“You can’t go back there,” Sherlock tells him abruptly. John’s fixes a glare on him, anger burning dangerously beneath his skin and tinting his cheeks. His mouth is a thin line. He watches Sherlock, biting the inside of his cheek. The coach diplomatically backpedals before John has a chance to speak. “Not tonight anyway. Not until the police look over your apartment and interview the neighbors.”

John narrows his eyes and exhales a steady breath. To Sherlock’s surprise, John remains silent instead of arguing or simply telling him to mind his own fucking business. After a moment of waiting, Sherlock decides this is far worse than shouting. The air is thick with John’s anger and the weight of anticipation is overwhelming. Sherlock’s lips part, placations at the ready, but he remains quiet when John’s features transform right before his eyes. The hard lines soften and his muscles relax.

“Yeah, I suppose that makes sense,” he concedes reluctantly, “but I don’t have my wallet for a hotel. I don’t even have any clothes.”

“You’ll stay here,” Sherlock states as if the decision has already been made and then immediately flinches. Did he learn nothing from his previous misstep? John Watson does not like to be told what to do. He tries for a lighter tone that suggests more than it commands. “I have a spare room.”

“Oh, Sherlock, I couldn’t,” John starts, raising a hand in protest. Sherlock silently blows out a breath of relief that he has skirted the line and John has not taken offense. He shrugs, his confidence returning.

“Why not? You’re here already and you’re right about your state of dress, especially considering the blood. You can’t go anywhere looking like this.”

John’s eyes drop down his own body and Sherlock’s can’t help but follow. Good god.

“You’re right. Of course, you’re right,” he nods with a small smile. “Thank you.”

***

Sherlock stands in his own spare bedroom, surveying everything to make sure he has not forgotten something. John is looking back at him and holding a dark blue t-shirt in his hands. Sherlock hopes it fits well enough. There is a pair of sweatpants in one of his drawers that is far too short for him, but he is quite certain it will fit John well enough. He just has to find them before they talk with the police in the morning. John does not know it yet, but Sherlock intends upon going with him to his apartment. He has already composed the all-team email stating he will not be in the stadium for morning workouts. He has also resolved to look over every inch of the apartment. Sherlock Holmes is no detective, but he will damn well solve this mystery so he can look the man who tried to murder John in the eye when he breaks his nose.

“Well, I hope that fits you,” he tells John. “I’m not exactly your size and your shoulders are a bit broader than mine.”

“Yeah, a bit,” John chuckles and jokes. “Thanks for noticing.”

Sherlock studies him for a moment, taken aback by the apparent flirtation. He wets his lips and glances away. He cannot be reading this correctly. John is not flirting with him. He can’t be flirting with him. He is joking. That’s what it is. He is making light of all this, of the situation.

“I’ll work on finding those sweatpants,” he says in lieu of a real response.

“Thanks,” John replies, dipping his chin in embarrassment. He looks up at Sherlock from under dark lashes that have no business being so long. Flip. “I’m sorry about all this. I hate to impose.”

“It couldn’t be helped,” Sherlock tells him honestly. “I’m glad you came.”

“Yeah, about that. When I first got here I was really abrupt and a little…” he closes his mouth suddenly and stares. “Wait. You’re...you’re glad I came?”

“Yes,” Sherlock answers before he can think better of it. He looks at John, who is very clearly surprised. Anything more than that is difficult to read. Sherlock crinkles his brow in frustration. This would all be so much easier if he could deduce John properly. Of all the people he has ever met, why does the one person whose innermost feelings he most wants to know have to be so damn impossible to read? “We are friends and I want to help.”

“Oh, right,” John looks disappointed and his face falls a fraction. Why?

Sherlock decides quickly that may not have been the best thing to say, but he has no idea what he should have said instead. He clears his throat and gestures to the closet door.

“Extra blankets are on a shelf in the closet,” he explains. John’s gaze follows his hand and then Sherlock as he turns to walk toward another door. “This is the bathroom. Go ahead and use the towels and washcloth hanging on the rack.”

Sherlock squats and opens the cabinet beneath the sink. He pulls out a mid-sized sand pail. It bears the image of the Grinch from the 2018 remake. Molly had begged Sherlock to go with her and they gave him the bucket as soon as he entered the theater. It was some promotional thing and he was the umpteenth person. Dull. He would have refused had they not filled it with popcorn. Sherlock could eat his weight in popcorn.

Once the film was over, Sherlock knew he would never willingly part with it. He felt a certain kinship with the Grinch. Badly hurt in his past, unwilling to let it happen again, shutting out people and feelings, a single friend by his side. He has not mentioned how easily he can put himself in those shoes because Molly would just feel sorry for him, no doubt. She would also not appreciate being equated to Max, the dog and would staunchly disagree. She sees a side of him that no one else does. If they had not grown up together, he probably would have shut her out too. The changes in Victor and their divorce had hurt him so deeply, he did not think he would allow anyone but Molly into his life again. Then he met John and, just like with Cindy Lou Who, everything changed. He supposes John would also not appreciate the comparison.

Sherlock takes a toothbrush still in its unopened package and a small tube of toothpaste from the bucket. Replacing the bucket and standing, he catches John’s curious eye.

“Have a lot of overnight guests, do you?” John smirks, already knowing the answer.

“Dental samples,” Sherlock supplies as he sets them on the sink. “I don’t discard things that could be useful. I’ll get you a comb while I look for the sweatpants.”

“No, Sherlock, I’ve already imposed enough.”

”It’s no trouble at all, John,” he says firmly, placing both items on the counter. John’s lips are curled into the beginnings of a smile when Sherlock looks to him again. The coach actually gives himself a once-over before asking, “What?”

“I appreciate it,” is all he says.

Sherlock finds himself smiling back. Neither one says a word. The two men simply face one another, smiles inexplicably growing into grins. Sherlock could stay this way all night and all day tomorrow too. He would love nothing more than to have John as a house guest for any length of time, sharing stories and jokes. And a bed, his mind supplies so coolly it is like something they were always meant to do. 

Sherlock gives his head a quick shake to dispel the images forming in the John wing of his mind palace and slams the door shut before his cheeks are so pink John will think he has a fever. Shifting backwards a step and worrying his lips, he meets John ‘s eyes again. He suddenly feels ridiculous, like he is tucking John in for the night. Not trusting himself to speak, Sherlock turns and walks to the door. When he looks back at John, the man wears yet another unreadable expression. Sherlock shrugs toward the hall and smiles somewhat awkwardly.

“Good night, John.”

“Sherlock, wait,” he steps forward in a rush, tossing the t-shirt on the bed. They are only a couple feet apart now and Sherlock can already feel heat radiating from his cheeks down through his neck and into his chest. He watches as John bites his own lip and wards away the thought of doing it to John himself. John looks at him apprehensively, visibly debating whether or not to share what is on his mind.

“Do you…” John begins, but stops immediately. His features alter into something more decisive and his voice is authoritative when he speaks again. “This has something to do with Billy.”

Sherlock’s brows furrow over narrowed eyes. His mind instantly begins testing and weighing every possible scenario.

“Someone tried to poison him to get him to leave and now as soon as you have another competent doctor, someone tries to kill him? No,” John shakes his head. “It’s too damn coincidental.”

He pauses to run a hand through his hair and cover his mouth in thought. When he removes it, he also shuffles his feet closer to Sherlock’s, bringing them even closer.

“I don’t know exactly how Molly figures into this, but…”

“Saving her is reason enough to eliminate you,” Sherlock finishes for him as it begins to snap into place. John must believe the same because he is already nodding. “It’s Moriarty. It has to be.”

“Now, Sherlock,” John’s face fills with doubt, “don’t rush to any conclusions.”

“I’m not rushing to anything. It makes perfect sense. The bastard wants to win and will do whatever it takes to do it.”

“But murder?”

“Any. Thing,” Sherlock pins John with cold grey eyes. “He has no scruples. His moral compass is skewed. Classic personality trait.”

“Personality trait? Are you saying he’s some kind of psychopath?” John’s tone is incredulous.

“No,” Sherlock replies thoughtfully. “He’s a sociopath.”

John purses his lips and shifts his weight. His hands rest on his hips and he looks at his colleague skeptically.

“Sherlock, there is absolutely no proof that Moriarty has anything to do with this,” he lifts his hand in placation when Sherlock opens his mouth to protest. Against his better judgement, Sherlock remains quiet to hear the doctor out. “I’m not saying I don’t trust your judgement. He is definitely a suspect. I just don’t want you to convince yourself that we should only focus on him is all. It could easily be someone else, anyone else at this point.”

“Fine,” Sherlock says. It makes sense. It does. John is not wrong, but Sherlock still believes Moriarty is behind all of it. Everything he knows about the man, every experience they have shared is all the evidence Sherlock needs. However, solid physical proof is what police will require. All the more reason to go with John to his apartment in the morning, which he might as well mention now while he is at it. “I’m going with you to meet the police tomorrow.”

“What?” John starts. “No, you don’t have to do that.”

“And I am going to search your apartment myself once they’ve gone,” he continues. “I’ve little confidence in their abilities. I will solve this mystery myself.”

“What? Like on Scooby Doo?” John snorts. “ ‘Looks like we have ourselves another mystery’.”

Sherlock shoots him an indignant glare.

“Sherlock,” he takes a step and rests his hands on Sherlock’s shoulders, shaking his head. “This along with coaching and everything else you have on your plate? No. Besides, it’s too risky. We’ve both seen how dangerous this is. I have the bandages to prove it.”

Sherlock meets John’s earnest gaze with one of his own. His voice is quiet and deadly serious.

“Molly is my family. I will place myself in the line of fire to protect her every time. You know that. Failure means the murderer will try again. And she isn’t the only target. So are you. I cannot allow that.”

“Sherlock, I’ll not have you risk your life for me,” he replies shortly. He moves his hands from Sherlock’s shoulders and shakes his head. “That is something I will not allow. I will not put you at risk.”

Sherlock looks at the doctor wickedly and lets out a dark chuckle.

“I’d like to see you try to stop me,” his lips curl upward into a smirk as he watches John with a gleam in his eye.

John presses his lips into a thin line and for a moment, Sherlock thinks he might tell him what a stubborn asshole he is. But the anger and frustration quickly fade from his face, making way for a broad grin and bright eyes. Sherlock could look at those blue eyes for a hundred years and it still wouldn’t be enough.

“Another time,” John breathes.

Their eyes are locked on one another. The human eye can say so much without words. John’s are open and honest, conveying his every emotion so articulately. But there is also something that remains so clearly hidden, just beneath the surface. What Sherlock wouldn’t give to know what it is.

Without realizing it, Sherlock has drifted quite close to John. He knows he should pull back, but has no intention of doing so. John smells so good. Cinnamon and vanilla with a unique musky scent that must belong to John alone. Sherlock inhales deeply, wanting to memorize every detail of it, of this moment because they will never be this close again. John will snap out of this spell and step away, a window in time to be suffocated with shutters and never reopened.

But John is not stepping back. His blue eyes explore every inch of Sherlock’s face as though he has the same idea Sherlock does, but that cannot be. John does not feel the same way and Sherlock feels so many things at once - joy, safety, adoration, comfort and... He feels like he is home. Not just in his condo, but home. 

The air around them crackles with electricity and oh, Jesus, he wants to kiss John. It would be so easy. Just lean down, angle his neck, close the gap. Sherlock knows full well John’s lips would be soft, perfect. John is perfect. He does not bore Sherlock, has never bored him, could never bore him. John is funny and intriguing, honest and mysterious. Sherlock loves it all. He could easily spend a night or week or month or forever with John and never know exactly what would happen like he does in anyone else’s company. People are idiots. John is brilliant.

Fear flashes across Sherlock’s features and a chill runs down his neck, spreading into his veins until he can feel it in his fingertips. Did he just profess love for John? No. He tries to deny it, but the proof of it appears around every corner he turns within his mind palace. Fuck! Fuck! What the fuck is he going to do now? It was one thing when it was just an attraction. He can live with suppressing an attraction, but love? With someone he works with and sees every day? Someone he is friends with? If he takes this chance as Molly suggested and it ends like Victor, he will have nothing to fall back on. Derby and skating, his very life blood, will remind him of John.

Sherlock jolts backwards and plants his hand on a nearby dresser to keep himself steady. His breaths are coming rapidly and he holds a palm to his chest. His distress clear, John lurches forward to help, putting a hand on his arm.

“Sherlock!” his voice is urgent and full of worry. “Are you all right?”

“M’fine,” he nods, straightening up. “Fine. Just tired.”

Sherlock shrugs away from John’s touch, leaving his hand hovering alone between them. By the time it is back at John’s side, Sherlock is at the door with his hand on the knob. 

“Good night, John,” he whips the door closed and collapses against it, heaving a great sigh. Tipping his head back until it rests against the door, Sherlock’s gaze drifts up and focuses on the ceiling.

He is in love with John Watson.

He is in love with John.

He is so fucked.

----

And at least one idiot knows he’s in love! Hooray! But if, or when, will he give in and let himself show it? If/when will he admit it to John? What will John think? What will he say? Just what were his past relationships and how have they shaped who he is and how he views love? So much we don’t know yet and so much time to learn.

I hope you enjoyed this chapter, my friends. Don’t hesitate to ask me anything or just say hi. I love you all! Stay safe.

[dreamy-heichou]

can u do 55. "I remember you dying in my arms. I don't want to go through that again.", please? thanks ♡

Thank you for the ask anon! ♡ Since you didn’t specify anything, I choose hurt/comfort for this prompt, hope you’ll like it! :)

Send me a prompt

55: I remember you dying in my arms. I don’t want to go through that again.

WARNING: Mention of (past) character’s death

************

Eren is trying his best not to look in front of him, or more specifically at the very intimidating man cornering him in a part of the room they are both in. Alone. After hours. So, even more alone. He has tried his best to avoid him ever since he was transferred to his office. He had hoped to never see him in this life, had been thankful for the last 25 years he didn’t,because he had no idea how to react if they met.

He still has no idea how to act in his presence to be honest. The moment he was introduced as their new head of department, Eren tried to make himself small, hoping the man didn’t have any memories of the past, but his prayers weren’t answered. The moment Levi Ackerman laid his eyes on him, Eren knew he remembered. And how could he avoid his new boss on a daily basis? It wasn’t in any way easy, but he somehow managed.

Until today.

As soon as he finished his work, which had made him stay a bit later than normally, Levi took his arm and led him to his office, locking the door behind them and trapping Eren in a corner, his hand on the wall beside the brunet, preventing him from leaving.

Levi looks murderous and utterly pissed, and Eren can easily understand why. It has been three months since he came here and they still haven’t talked since that moment. Eren knows Levi wants to talk, but he himself doesn’t want to. He has actually been dreading this moment, however now he has no choice but to face his fears. Face the man he used to love. Face the man he still loves but has sworn not to get involved with ever again.

“You’re not going anywhere until you tell me why the fuck you’re avoiding me.” Levi growls at him, his eyes on fire.

“I have no idea what you are talking about, M. Ackerman.” Eren feigns ignorance, still hoping to get out of this situation and go back to ignore the short man standing in front of him.

“Don’t play that little game with me Eren, I know you remember.” Levi spits out, his anger obviously rising at Eren’s reply. “And I’m having a hard time understanding why you’re acting like that if you do. I’m tired of your bullshit, so just tell me the truth.”

Eren can’t look at Levi in the eye, not when all he can see when he does are flashes of a distant memory he hoped to forget. That specific part of their lives had haunted him for years until it finally disappeared and got buried under other memories. However, the moment Levi came back into his life, the memory came back with him and was now haunting him once more. He thought avoiding the source of it would at some point make it go away, but it was difficult when he could see Levi’s face every day at work, even if they weren’t really interacting.

“Yes, I do remember. But I hardly see how it changes anything.” Eren sighs before staring as coldly as he can at the older man. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I would like to go home.”

Eren takes advantage of Levi’s frozen and surprised state to remove his arm and make his way towards the door. He hardly takes two steps before he can feel two strong hands grabbing his collar, and the next second his back collides harshly with the wall, knocking the air out of his lungs for a few seconds and forcing him to close his eyes in pain. When he opens them again, Levi is fulminating with rage, his teeth tightly shut and his lips trembling.

The brunet tries his best not to show the fear he’s actually feeling in that moment, but also the pain that shoots through his heart at thestate he rendered Levi in. This is for the best, he tries to convince himself while making an unimpressed face in front of the man’s fury. This is what’s best for the both of us.

“What are you getting all enraged about, huh?” Eren grins mockingly, letting a short snort which infuriates the man further. He just has to stay in character and then they’ll both be free.

“Stop acting like an asshole, it doesn’t suit you. And try to be honest for once in your goddamn life!” Levi spits out, his face coming dangerously closer to Eren’s face. He can almost feel his hot breath on his skin and he tries his hardest not to let it get to his head.

“I’m not the one pinning someone against a wall.” Eren answers calmly, tone even. “You want me to be honest with you?”

“That would be fucking nice.” Levi replies, his teeth still gritted together.

“I didn’t want to see you again. But I can’t afford to find another job, so I guess I don’t have a choice but to see your face on a daily basis.”

Levi’s grip slowly lessens on his collar until his hands come to rest at his sides, his eyes wide open, looking all over Eren’s face for some clues, probably hints of his dishonesty. However, as he seems to find none, he suddenly looks crestfallen and resigned, his gaze directed somewhere at the brunet’s chest.

“Is that so…” He softly murmurs.

Eren musters all his resolve not to hug him here and there, the disappointment in his tone still echoing in his head. It’s for the best,it’s for the best, he chants in his mind, making another attempt at walking to the door. He is once again interrupted, but this time in a more gentle and surprising way.

Levi is encircling his waist with his arms, his head hidden in his back, and Eren can feel his forehead through his spine. The sudden embrace is enough to make him stop in his track and he grips the doorknob tightly with his right hand, his teeth hardly sunken into his bottom lip, almost to the point of making himself bleed, in order to force his body not to move instinctually. Every fiber of his body is telling him to hug the shorter man back but his mind is screaming at him to ignore it. It’s a battle he can’t even predict the outcome.

“I wanted to see you.” Levi’s voice is muffled by his shirt where his face is still hidden, but Eren listens to him carefully, his heart beating incredibly fast. “Ever since I can remember you, I’ve been looking foryou. When I finally found you I was so… happy. I couldn’t wait to see your face again. Be able to touch you, hold you, kiss you, just like before.”

There is a small pause and Eren is holding back his breath, willing himself not to tear up. He can’t cry, not now. He’s so close to his goal. He can’t back away now. He took a decision years ago in case that day would come. He won’t change his mind now. He can’t.

“I wanted to see you…” Levi says again, hugging Eren more strongly, bringing him closer to his body, as if he can’t bring himself to leg go. “But I never imagined you wouldn’t want to see me.” He can feel Levi nuzzling his nose into his back before eventually resting his cheek against it. “After everything we went through back then, after everything we shared, I guess I just thought you’d feel the same. After all, you promised me we’ll always be together, no matter what.”

Eren’s head shots up at his last sentence, his blood starting to boil inside his veins. Flashes of a day he has tried over and over to suppress from his memories flood his mind, and he’s the one gritting his teeth now, breaking Levi’s embrace and turning around to push him away from him.

“Don’t you dare talk about that day!” He can feel both anger and despair overwhelming him and suddenly his chest is too tight and his stomach heavy.

“Eren…?” Levi looks back at him with utter confusion, probably not expecting him to react violently after his cool demeanor of earlier.

“You can’t bring this up like that! Not after you-”

Eren chokes on the words and brings a hand to his mouth, feeling really sick and nauseous. His legs are suddenly too weak to support his body and he falls to the floor, eyes closed, vaguely registering Levi’s voice calling his name once again.

“Eren! Are you okay?”

Eren doesn’t answer him, can’t anyway. He’s still trying to prevent himself from throwing up, desperately trying to ease his stomach by chasing the images flashing before his eyes. The sight of his lover hurt and wounded, his face as pale as the snow in winter and his uniform tainted in crimsonred. He can still hear his voice, low from exhaustion and hoarse after coughing up blood, as they exchanged parting and loving words, promises they’d never be able to keep in this lifetime. He can feel the cold hand he put on his cheek, telling him not to cry, as warm blood spilled around them and on his hands. He can see the life slowly disappearing from his blue eyes, turning them grey, as he gave his last breath, inside his arms.

The memories are too fresh and vivid in his mind in that moment, but the warmth of Levi’s hand on his cheek bring him back to the present, tears forming in his eyes as he looks back at the very much alive man kneeling in front of him. Once he realizes where he is and what is happening, Erensmacks the hand away and moves back until his back is against the door, trying to get away.

Levi’s hand hangs in the air until he balls it into a fist, his face looking both worried and forlorn at Eren’s reaction. He sits on the floorin front of him but not without leaving a small distance between them, giving Eren the space he needs. However, it doesn’t really help the brunet regulate his breathing, his mind still plagued by past memories and his body fighting against an incoming panic attack.

“I- I can’t do this, Levi.” He articulates painfully.

“What do you mean?” Levi frowns, not really following his train of thoughts.

“I just- I can’t. It’s too much.” He takes his head in his hands, shaking it dismissively, tears running down his cheeks. “I can’t go through that again.”

“Through what? Eren, I have no idea what is going on.”

“You! Dying in my arms! I can’t, Levi!” Eren keeps on shaking his head, his hands on his ears, trying to block the outside world. “I can still remember it clearly, watching you go as I sat there, powerless! And I don’t want to go through that again! I can’t, Levi, it’s… I just can’t! It’s too much!”

“Eren, hey! Look at me!” Levi takes the brunet’s hands away from his ears, trying to gain his attention, his eyes shining with a new kind of determination. “You won’t have to. There are no Titans and we’re not soldiers anymore. Nothing is going to happen to us. We’re safe. I’m not going to die, I promise.”

“How can you promise that? You could die anytime! There’re so many things that could kill you! Outside on the street, on the road, even at your house! No one is safe anywhere!” Eren screams at him, his tears turning into ones of frustration.

Levi looks at him silently, letting him rant until he’s done, looking as serious as ever. He releases Eren’s hands in order to cup his face, forcing the younger man to look at him in the eye.

“Yes, it’s true. I could die anytime. I’m only human after all, so are you. You don’t have your Titan powers anymore. If you’re hurt, you won’t heal like you used to. And so what? We’re supposed to live in the fear of dying one day? I won’t lie, it’ll happen. To you, to me, to everybody. But it doesn’t mean we can’t live in the meantime. On the contrary, that’s exactly why we should live our lives to the fullest, because we don’t know what we’ll happen.

“You think I want to go through that too? See you dying as I’m left all alone? Nobody does, Eren. But that doesn’t mean we should let that fear control us. Is that what you want? Be controlled by your fears? Let them rule your life?”

Eren looks back at Levi with wide eyes, surprised at the scolding he just got. Levi is right, of course he is, but Eren can still remember the pain he felt that day. He can still feel it torn his insides and squeeze his heart, as well as the guilt at the knowledge it happened because of him. He was the one responsible for Levi’s death. If he had just listened… He can’t be the reason why Levi isn’t going to die of old age. He doesn’t want him to be hurt because of him again. He just wants him to be safe and happy.

“B-but… It was m-my fault. You d-died because of m-me.” Eren sniffs loudly as Levi gently removes the tears from his face. “I-I don’t want to hurt y-you again.”

“Eren, apart from breaking my heart, you won’t do me any harm in this world.” The raven murmurs as he softly presses their foreheads together, still looking deep into his eyes.

“I-I…”

Eren has no idea what to do now. He has been so dead set on having nothing to do with the man if they ever came to cross path, but now that they are facing each other like this, all he wants to do is to burry himself into his embrace and feel his lips on his.

Levi is right about something: he is letting his fears control him, and that isn’t a way he wants to live his life. He wants to be brave, like he used to be, not letting anything or anyone getting in his way, followinghis dreams and his heart as he once did. He needs to get a better grip on himself. He needs to move on.

“Someone once told me a good way to erase bad memories. Do you want to know how?” Eren’s interest is picked and his eyes start shining with hope as he nods furiously at Levi. “The best way to do that is by overwriting them with good ones.”

Eren’s eyebrows furrow in front of the simplicity of the reply, a little confused.

“That’s it?”

“That’s it.”

Levi is still cupping his face with one hand as the other one gently brushes his hair, looking at him with so much fondness that his heart becomes heavy, for once not because of pain or loss, but because of love and tenderness. He can feel the feelings he had so strongly tried to push away in a little corner of his mind slowly getting out of their little box and filling every cell of his body with warmth.

“So, Eren… What do you say about making new memories together?”

Levi is smiling at him, with his lips slightly turned upwards and his eyes cracked just a little with hopefulness, and it’s all it takes for Eren to smile back at him, letting hope settle inside his chest once more, leaving behind all his bad emotions such as fear, pain and guilt. He has been fighting endlessly and aimlessly for a while now, but he doesn’t have toanymore. He can use all his energy to fight for a brighter future instead of fighting to protect himself from an agonizing past.

“I’d like that.”

[icecreambeach]

Prompt: An unexpected hug, McHanzo.

This was fun! Trying something with more conventional OW tropes, turned into something I really did not predict. Unexpected hugs and more! Tried not to spend too much time on it cuz you KNOW I’ll turn it into a monster if I don’t. :] thank you mataglap for my first prompt!!! 

People more or less take one look at Hanzo and assume he doesn’t want to be touched. Everyone in Gibraltar is worldly enough to know that, culturally, it just isn’t a big thing, and Hanzo is nothing if not a traditionalist. That and the forty foot wall of spikes that is his general personality make it an unspoken assumption that anyone who might think of patting him on the shoulder, or rubbing his back, or playfully touching him in any way should expect to leave the encounter without a hand. Even Reinhardt, who treats everyone from small musicians to floating robots like members of the same bizarrely-close football team, followed suit from their very first encounter. Everyone gives Hanzo a wide berth and he does nothing to contradict them – if anything, he seems proud to be singular, to be afforded the kind of wordless barrier often associated with passing royalty. He wears his physical isolation with a raised chin and guards his alone time like a precious commodity. Exposed tattoo like a warning: beware of dragons.

Which is why Jesse, despite fucking Hanzo every night for going on two months now, doesn’t so much as stand within five feet of the man in public. It’s definitely not for lack of wanting – even looking at Hanzo puts all kind of romantic impulse in the gunslinger’s fingers. But Jesse’s been through too many haphazard ‘relationships’ to screw this one up now – not when their connection seems so tenuous already, not when his heart is so far out on a limb. His rapid-fire approach to everything cannot be allowed to burn through this tender gift he’s been lucky enough to receive in this, a relatively late part of his probably-short life, when so much else has already been turned to ash.

That, and he’s not even sure Hanzo wants people to know they’re together. Everything the archer does is well-thought-out, purposeful. Even when he walks, he never wavers or stumbles. It’s one of the things Jesse loves most about him, but it also means that if he’s not making eyes or asking outright, then he probably wants Jesse to follow suit. He’s amorous enough when they’re alone – if a little rough and to-the-point. Jesse can deal with the lack of touch the rest of the time.

Except that he really, really can’t. He’s been a hugger since he was little and physical affection was a missed commodity during his bounty hunting days. In Overwatch, everyone’s a soldier, and that implies a certain closeness inimitable in the outside world. Jesse could easily be labeled as ‘handsy’ when it comes to his fellow teammates (especially the old guard) and no one seems to mind. Far from it – they practically encourage him. Lena is always throwing her arm around his waist, Angela is always giggling under his bear hugs, Genji actually holds his hand now and again, Lucio gets a big kick out of linking their arms like a gentleman, and he’s smacked Reinhardt’s ass so many times, he hardly realizes he’s doing it anymore (though he can barely withstand the reciprocation). His magnanimous lack of personal boundaries is so famous that every time he falls asleep on the rec room couch, he usually winds up waking to someone else resting on his shoulder, or in his lap, or, like Hana did that one time, snoring atop his chest, using his pecs as pillows.

The burning fact that Hanzo is the only one willfully left out of this touch-circle is how Jesse winds up burning his and everyone else’s breakfasts one steel-gray morning. Earlier, the archer heard someone knocking at Jesse’s door and basically hid in the bathroom while Angela poked her head in to remind Jesse that it was his turn to cook. He was out of there as soon as she left, not a touch nor word exchanged. Not even a look. Since leaving his dorm, it’s all Jesse’s been able to think about, and now he’s snarling down at a cast iron pan full of burnt bacon.

He scoops it up, dumps its contents into the trash and then lets it slam back down on the burner.

Lena, used to the gunslinger’s short-lived bursts of temper, sidles up to his side and rubs his arm. “Oy, it’s alright. There’s more bacon in the fridge.”

“You mind taking over? Sorry, I just,” he sighs, rubs his barrel-chest through his white tee, “Not feeling myself this morning.”

“Sure. Go and sit, lad. Let Auntie Lena handle this. You like beans, right?”

“Love ‘em,” Jesse sighs, seating himself beside Genji. More people trickle in, but Jesse keeps his head in his hands.

“You look like you had another late night,” Genji remarks, that usual coy, leading tone. “Thought Angela said to ‘take it easy’ with the hard stuff.”

Jesse glares, rubbing his trapezius. “What’re you, her enforcer?”

“Yes,” trills Angela, ruffling Genji’s hair as she passes him on the way to the coffee maker. “Genji is my enforcer.”

Genji, with his visor lowered, is even more insufferable with the doctor around. But he gestures kindly at Jesse, wordlessly asking him to turn around and face the ovens. “Let me show you something Zenyatta showed me.”

Too tired not to trust him, Jesse straddles the table bench and lets Genji sink his hands into his shoulders. The relief is instantaneous – nothing like a dexterous pair of metal hands to ease out the tension – but, if he’s being honest, it’s not very deep. Jesse’s back has got more knots than a bondage party.

“Ah, you should try it like this!” Jesse hears Reinhardt behind him, then a larger hand is clasped at the back of his neck, working its side muscles. “This is what they do in the spas in Berlin!”

“Ow,” says Jesse, though he’s leaning into Reinhardt’s hand.

“If you want a really good massage, you should let Lucio try,” says Lena, half-turning as she cracks fresh eggs. “He’s got a healing touch!”

“Why, thank you, Lena,” says Lucio, also from behind Jesse. “Scoot over, Genji. See, man, it’s the lower back you gotta focus on, that’s where it allllllll happens…”

Jesse laughs low in his throat as now three men all address his mess of muscles. He lowers his head, obviously in ecstasy. Glowing at the attention. A neat little buzz leaks into his bloodstream, renders him light-headed. “Y’all're gonna kill me.”

“Such great teamwork,” laughs Mei from somewhere to his right.

“Hey, I better be next,” says Hana from somewhere to his left, cracking open one of her carbonated tea drinks. “You know how sore I get playing games?”

“Perhaps we should look into a full-time masseuse,” drawls Angela, drinking her coffee near Lena. “Or maybe Winston could design one.”

“Robotics are not my forte,” says Winston, somewhere near the pantry – Jesse assumes he’s building his own breakfast, “And it seems like… you’ve… got it all figured out…”

His drifting off doesn’t register until Jesse glances up at Angela and Lena’s semi-stunned faces, both focused somewhere over his head. Already in a daze from the endorphins, he raises a brow, but doesn’t truly notice something’s off until all three pairs of hands leave his body at once. He doesn’t even get the chance to open his mouth – two hands, feels like Genji, return to knead hard into his neck, making him issue an involuntary groan and tip his head forward again. Typical Shimada – incapable of sharing.

Angela continues, totally unperturbed. “Anyway, it would probably be an unwise allocation of resources. We still have to repair the security drones, don’t we?”

“Actually, those are all done,” Winston says, cheerful. “Torbjorn finished them last night.”

“Where is that man? Sleeping in?” Reinhardt joins Angela in Jesse’s line of sight, also getting more coffee. His gigantic mug is shaped like a very cute lion. “Another one staying up all night?”

Genji’s hands on Jesse’s back lower from his neck to his shoulder blades, working in seamless, soothing patterns. Lingering on the toughest spots. Jesse will owe him big after this, and he says so – or, he thinks he does. It’s getting hard to focus.

“You are one to talk,” Angela hums, holding her mug like it doesn’t have a handle, pinky out. “I heard you hammering away with Brigitte into the wee hours of the morning.”

“And how would you know,” laughs Reinhardt, “If you were not also awake to hear us?”

Genji’s hands work down to Jesse’s sides, folding and squeezing over his love handles. Okay, getting a little handsy there, Genj…

Lena, stuck in the middle, looks back and forth between them, pretends to move the pans like they’re about to fight. Angela smirks: “I’ve been caught.”

“I think we’ve all got a few more late nights ahead of us,” says Winston, who seats himself on a stool fit with wheels – the bench tables don’t quite agree with his physique. “But it shouldn’t be for much longer. Now that Athena’s running at full capacity, we don’t even…”

Jesse kind of blurs out after that. Genji is digging his thumbs into Jesse’s lower back in a way that’s making him have to hold in the groans. He actually lifts up his right hand to bite the knuckles as the ninja shoves his own knuckles against the bunched muscle just above Jesse’s glutes. God, he’ll get Genji whatever he wants after this. He hasn’t been touched like that in ages.

Except that his groin is starting to pay attention, and that just ain’t right. Genji’s hands are smoothing up and down his back now, slow and absorbing, with considerable affection. It’s enough to pump something warm and syrupy throughout the gunslinger’s muscles, down to the tips of his toes and back up again.But it does seem like he’s finally finishing up. Good, that was getting a little –

Then his hands circle around to the front and he hugs Jesse, head on his shoulder, warm and secure – possessive, even. Rubbing his jaw into his neck.

“Alright, now,” Jesse grunts, “That’s a bridge too far, there, Gen–”

Then he turns his head and stops just centimeters short of Hanzo’s lips. Hanzo, head over Jesse’s shoulder, smiles and pushes his forehead into his neck. Now that the stupor is passing, Jesse can smell his fresh shower, feel the warmth of his firm arms, sense the embarrassment that urges the archer to give Jesse one final squeeze before standing up and sitting proper at the table.

Everyone eats, everyone talks, but Jesse spends the entire time hyper-focusing on the touch of his thigh against Hanzo’s beneath the table and avoiding Genji’s annoyingly smug glances.

- - -

“Hey, c’mere, you.”

Hanzo turns with a raised brow as his wrist is seized and pulled. Jesse tugs, and he allows himself to be tugged, until their chests are pressed together just outside the mess hall.

“Good morning.”

“Good morning, yourself,” Jesse hums, his eyes dancing with energy. “Feel like I just had one-too-many shots of espresso. Baby – where’d you get hands like that? You got dragons in your fingers, too?”

Hanzo chuckles, strokes Jesse’s beard. “Maybe.”

“I mean it, Hanzo, that was something else. Is that…” He suddenly looks down at his arms around him, “Is this okay?” He glances to the side, where the others are filing out of the mess hall at their leisure.

“Of course,” Hanzo mutters, assessing Jesse’s shoulders with more rubbing hands.

“It’s just you – I know you don’t – wait, why you been so stand-offish then?”

“I had thought… you did not initiate anything in front of the others. I assumed you wished to be discrete.”

“Well, shit, I thought you wanted that! You didn’t initiate anything, either. And you ran outta here this morning like you got caught with your hand in the cookie jar.”

“You are the one who is always…” Hanzo sets his jaw, raises a brow. “You always have your hands on everyone else.”

“Again – I thought you wanted me to keep my hands to myself.”

“I thought you would…”

“What? Just do whatever the hell I want?” Jesse chuckles, looks at Hanzo like he’s ludicrous. “I wanna give you what you need, Han. I ain’t gonna start pawing at you if you don’t say so. Y’seem to like your space.”

“I do,” Hanzo strokes up from his shoulders to his jaw, “I also like when you invade my space.”

“Lord have mercy,” Jesse groans, halfway to scooping Hanzo up entirely, “You’re a goddamn heart-breaker. Always surprising me.”

Hanzo only chuckles, not quite knowing what to say to that. There are many things he doesn’t understand about Jesse, apparently – he’d assumed, all this time, that the gunslinger did not want his open affections, and that he preferred his status as a flirtatious yet independent loner. That they were better off keeping to their own respective status quo. He’d never been one for public displays of physical affection (or even private ones, for that matter), but something about Jesse makes him want to try new things. To take a few steps beyond the boundaries he’s known for so long.

“So, what? You saw me getting a back rub and got too jealous to resist?”

Hanzo scoffs, thumbs Jesse’s nose. “Am I to stand by and watch you be manhandled by my brother and two others?”

Now it’s Jesse’s turn to chuckle, pulling Hanzo fully into his chest for a proper embrace. Gliding his natural right hand across the shaved hair at the back of Hanzo’s head, holding tight around his waist with his metal arm. Breathing him in.

Hanzo splays his hands across Jesse’s back, breathes back. “Thank you.”

“For what? Being wrong all this time?”

Hanzo reaches up, re-adjusts with both arms around Jesse’s neck. “For trying.”

Jesse holds Hanzo around his middle, smiling against his head. Finally feeling him in his entirety; meeting him where he’s at.

[llexeh]

Do You Remember Tijuana? - Steve Rogers / Tony Stark

Part 1 of “Steve Is Going to Lose His Damn Mind”

Summary: He had a sudden urge to just go to bed. Maybe he was too old and his age was finally showing. He wasn’t certain he could still blush after the super serum, but it was a blushable situation. So, yeah, he had been in the army and they were all filthy and he wasn’t actually as much of a prude of people made him out to be. But it was still a blushable situation.

He knew he should have just given Natasha her present and maybe a hug. But Steve was many things, and he thought supportive was one of them. He was right in that assumption, but at what cost?

Warnings: edible dicks, deepthroating competition, alcohol consumption 

Rating: explicit

Pairings: Steve Rogers / Tony Stark, Darcy Lewis / Bruce Banner

Tags: pre-slash, crack treated seriously, slowburn, everyone is alive, wild Dr. Foster

Word count: 6087

A/N: This has been on Ao3 for ages, I’m still trying to get the whole series finished and I’m posting it on here in a desperate attempt to kick-start my fanfic productivity. You may have noticed the “crack treated seriously” tag, it’s there for a reason. This is ridiculous and ooc for the most part, but I also love it enough to share it with everyone who will read it. This has not had the loving touch of a beta, so excuse whatever mistakes I’ve missed.

The first time he was left speechless by how attractive Tony was, it felt a lot like being hit by a train. Steve didn’t have the best track record with trains. (Ha! Track record.) When he was young, he watched people get on them and never return. He dropped Bucky from one. He watched helplessly as the one he was on sped wildly through Seoul. So the first time he realised he was attracted to Tony Stark, it felt like he turned his head and all of a sudden he was standing on the railway and headlights were closing in on him, there was no time to move aside, and his breath was stolen from his lungs.

There had been hints, and even half formed thoughts when in between insults and petty arguments, Steve thought Tony was above average. Which, he thought, as he recovered from the train running him over, was complete bullshit. And not only was Tony above average, he was god damn beautiful. Steve just gave up: his mind was a mess, and he figured this was what happened when people survive train trampling. Which was no one. Except for Bucky, but that was falling off a train, and Steve just gave up again. It was pointless.

He needed a stiff drink. It was hardly the first time the need arose, and he was perfectly aware he couldn’t get drunk, but it was more the sharp pinch of the alcohol on his tongue, the soothing way it burned its way down his throat that he wanted. It was anchoring in a way few things were. Fighting was one of those things, but Natasha was terrifying, and this was her birthday party. And on top of that, Steve genuinely cared for the redhead and wanted her to have a good time. And she was terrifying. So unless she instigated some group brawl, that was not an option.

There were plenty of bottles pretty much everywhere around the large common room in the tower, but Steve also needed a dark corner to brood for a little. There was a poignant desire to lament his inability to get drunk. Because maybe if he could, he’d pass out and it would finally get quiet in his head. Like many other things that night, that wasn’t an option. So he sat down and drank scotch straight from the bottle, trying to attract as little attention as possible.

Maybe if he thought of it tactically, as if it were a mission he needed to plan. He took a deep breath and another swig from the bottle. Situation: the reality he found Tony Stark attractive. Extra information: not only did he find his fellow Avenger attractive, he was rendered speechless, mid conversation with… someone because he found him so attractive. Problem: he found Tony Stark attractive. Gosh, Steve was well happy no one could actually read his mind. They’d either pass out with the sheer stupidity that floated around, or pass out from laughing too much.

The problem wasn’t that Tony was a man, or even that he was a fellow Avenger, or that he was Howard’s son, or that he was a dick most of the time, or that even if he was remotely attracted to men, he wouldn’t go for Steve’s righteousness and stubbornness and whatever it was that annoyed him about Steve. Oh, wait. Those were the exact problems. Maybe not the Tony being a man part, because Steve always knew he was a bit not-straight. And coming back into the modern day and age, he quickly adjusted to the fact that he didn’t need to stick a label on himself. It was a stark contrast to going into a battle against the Nazis with the distinct thought that some men wear a uniform better than others.

So, tactically. Problem: Steve was currently speechless halfway through a bottle of scotch that did absolutely nothing to him (while everyone was having a blast) because he found his friend hot and there was no way anything would come of it for various reasons. There, that was the most compact way of putting it. Steve was thankful the babbling in his head didn’t translate into his reports. Solution: drink the entire bottle, put on a smile, and join the party before someone asks questions.

The train metaphor, Steve figured, came from the abruptness of the entire thing. It was all going fine. Natasha’s birthday was coming up and she made a point to not say anything about it. It was all a bit uncertain anyway – her age, her exact date of birth – all of it buried in triple classified files hidden in underground bunkers under a lake in Switzerland; or something. The intel was her birthday was on the 22nd of November, and they accepted it as such.

She didn’t plan anything, didn’t mention it at all, and Steve was fine. He’d bought her a hand carved wooden jewelry box from a thrift shop in Brooklyn months before. It reminded him of her with its intricate edges and vintage finish, and Steve was a sucker for gifting people things he thought they’d like. He was ready to wrap it up and present her with it at midnight if she was around, or for breakfast, and he was absolutely fine with it. In hindsight, he would have preferred it, if only to avoid a metaphorical train. Steve was less and less fond of trains with each passing minute.

Clint approached him at lunch a couple of days before with a smile (first sign of trouble), a notepad (signs two-to-five of trouble), a pen (!), and confetti on his shoulders. Steve nearly turned around and walked away. He might have looked young, but he was starting to think he was essentially an old man – what was that line in the film? Too old for this shit?

The short conversation went along the lines of:

“We’re throwing Tasha a party, tell your friends.”

“All of my friends live here, Clint.”

“You need to get out more, Cap.”

“Okay… Does she want a party?”

“It’s a surprise.”

“She’s gonna shoot all of us, Clint. And some of you are more prone to dying than others.”

“We’ll duck. She can’t shoot all of us at once.”

“She can if she gets a grenade launcher. The rest she’ll thigh-strangle to death.”

“It’ll be fine, Cap, you worry too much. Here, shopping list. Hide everything in your room, we can’t order online, she’ll know. Thanks!”

It turned out everyone was excited about it, so Steve went with it. He volunteered to be in her line of fire, shield up for when she reacted to the surprise. It went as well as expected: she walked into the dim room, shot at his shield, and pretended to be very surprised while wearing a cocktail dress and high heels. Her smile was bright however, and Steve found it endearing.

“Clint,” she started walking towards the marksman, “I know this is on you. Come, we’re doing tequila.”

Clint actually groaned. “Tasha, anything but that! Remember Tijuana?” He shuffled his feet towards the bar where Tony started pouring shots.

“Do you?” Natasha asked with a laugh. She turned to the people gathering at the bar. “Thank you so much for wanting to celebrate with me. Now drink!” She passed shot glasses to everyone and set the tone for her party.

Thor placed a crown on her head, naming her their queen for the night as soon as the bottle of tequila was finished. Someone put some lounge music on, and Steve was pleased to see his friends enjoying themselves as they mingled.

It was all very informal, with just the Avengers and their close friends. Vision trying to be inconspicuous in his white button down, drifting around Wanda as close as possible without clinging to her. Quicksilver speeding around the room smiling at Maria Hill in that downright shameless manner that made Fury cock his head ominously. Pepper and Maria converging to the side to complain about managing what were basically children. Bruce chatting to Jane and pretending not to be dumbstruck by Darcy’s pin-up dress and hair. Sam and Bucky to the side, chatting animatedly about sport, Steve guessed. It looked like a promising night. No trains in sight.  

About two hours in, Rhodey lost to Steve at arm-wrestling for the seventh time. He was about to ask for a rematch, when Natasha asked to replace him. She sat down on the bar stool opposite him, smiling widely. On top of what Steve assumed was an actual crown, she now sported a plastic tiara adorned with large silver stars that bobbed whenever Natasha moved. Her eyes were as focused as always, but there was a subtle flush to her cheeks.

“Think you can win, Tasha?”

“I don’t know, Cap. Will you let me?” She cocked her head to the side, flirty as always. The stars on her head dangled dangerously.

Tony materialised to their side with two more shot glasses. “He’s an honest guy, Natasha. Of course he won’t let you win.” He downed his and gave the other to her.

“Not even if I ask nicely?”

Steve laughed. “I value my life. Wouldn’t want to insult you.”

She nodded. “Let’s make it interesting. I’ll bet my tiara and you can bet…” She looked around trying to find something. Her smile broadened. “Ah! You lose and I get to set you up on a date!”

“Is that still happening? Okay then.” He placed his elbow on the bar and wiggled his fingers. Natasha grabbed it and signaled Tony to count. It was more difficult than with Rhodey, Steve will give her that, but in the end he was victorious.

She graciously admitted defeat. “Fair and square. Well, ignoring the super serum and the days you spend in the gym.” She disentangled the plastic tiara and placed it on Steve’s head. “I still get to set you up on a date cause it’s my birthday and you owe me for the thing in the place,” she told him.

He laughed and gave up trying to dissuade her. He’d just have to find a way out of this one as always. “You’d think there were no more people I can say no to,” he said jokingly.

“Oh, Steve. I’m only on J. We’ve got a long way to go,” she informed him.

Tony poured her another shot and drank his from the bottle. “I’ve got an updated list of Stark employees you can use. And Friday made a folder called Operation Date on the common server to simplify your mission,” he offered.

“Excellent,” Natasha said covering Steve’s groan.

The music changed to something more familiar to Steve; Bucky stopped by his side on his way to the dance floor. “Watch this,” he told them with a shit eating grin. He quickly grabbed Darcy and pulled her close. Steve groaned again.

“I swear to god, if we have a code green I’m getting the largest electromagnet in the tri-state area and I’m hanging him in Times Square,” Tony told them.

They kept an eye on Bruce as Darcy and Bucky eased into a swing dance. He had a small smile on, wiping at his glasses absentmindedly. Without the threat of a Hulk-out (and Steve was certain Bruce had more self-control than to lose his shit over this), it was actually amusing to watch. His eyes swept Darcy’s figure up and down as she moved, looking like he was trying to convince himself of something or the other. Steve grudgingly admired Bucky’s plan, but even if it worked out fine for everyone, he was still going to get punched in the non-metal shoulder for being a dick.

Once their dance was finished, Bucky put on a show of bending over Darcy’s hand and kissing it delicately. He offered his arm and led her to where their little group was gathered. Her fingers shot out towards Tony and she wiggled them in a silent plea for alcohol. Tony indulged her with a laugh.

“Well, that’s the most physical I’ve been in ages,” she told them after a quick succession of straight-from-the-bottle tequila shots.

“That’s because you keep skipping your damn training and I get bored of looking for you,” Natasha said casually. “I’m keeping track, by the way. You owe me twelve miles and four kickboxing sessions.” Darcy just grabbed the closest vodka bottle and started chugging. “And a hundred and fifty push-ups,” the redhead continued unfazed.

Bucky leaned into Darcy in a show of support. “Think how much ass you’ll kick,” he told her.

“Yeah, no, Lover Boy. There’s no motivating me, like, ever.”

“Lover –"

“It’s from a movie,” came the voice from behind them. Bruce was standing there casually, arms crossed over his chest, his glasses sliding down the bridge of his nose.

Steve remembered watching it late one night when he couldn’t sleep. “Isn’t it with the ghost guy?”

Tony snorted and offered Bruce a glass of bourbon. “Yeah, no,” he said, repeating Darcy’s words. “On the right track though, so props.”

Bruce took the drink and sipped it slowly. Steve felt like he was caught in some odd power play between people who had more of a life than he did. He poured a shot of tequila and downed it just to adhere to their standards. Tony poured him another one.

“Imagine betting on Rogers in a drinking competition. You’d make millions!”

“You already have millions,” Darcy told him with a laugh. She pulled away from Bucky and pat his cheek. “Thanks for the dance, Footloose. I better go find Jane before she has too much to drink and decides to strip.”

Bruce choked on his drink. “Dr Foster wouldn’t…?”

“Dr Foster definitely would,” Darcy told him. “College was a weird time. Don’t ever look up her arrest record.”

When she left them Tony was already on his phone. Bruce made a vague noise, gesturing wildly with his half empty glass. After several failed attempts at words, he nodded and followed her general direction. Once he was far enough, Steve turned and punched Bucky as he promised himself he would.

“Ouch, Rogers! I’m wounded!”

“You will be if you keep this up,” Steve replied. “You have no business with these nice people, leave them alone.”

Bucky grinned. “But it’s so much fun, Stevie! Besides she looked great, and who was I going to dance with? You? You have eight left feet. You’re like a clumsy spider whenever you even think of a dance floor.” Steve punched him again in the same spot, really hoping it would bruise, at least for a couple of minutes. “You know, when you were just a scrawny kid in Brooklyn and I fought all your fights –"

“I thought you couldn’t get drunk, Buck. What is this, memory lane? You always did this and I had to listen to you for hours. Hours, Buck.”

The former assassin had the cheek to look offended. “Just because you’d have died if you drank too much…”

Tony choked on tequila and turned his back to Natasha for help. She hit between his shoulder blades a couple of times. “Thank you,” he told her. “I feel I’m watching Grumpy Old Men on cable during a storm when there’s nothing else on.”

Steve was confused and was about to ask what he was on about when drumrolls flooded the large common room. Clint’s voice could be heard over the noise, belting out Happy Birthday horribly off-key. It was Natasha’s turn to groan. Steve felt almost vindicated.

Clint was carrying a huge tray of what looked like reasonably sized jell-o dicks. Steve wasn’t sure what he was seeing, but he had a Bad Feeling about it. Not like when a villain would pop out of nowhere before breakfast and coffee, but close.

“Loaded with vodka, just like you like them” Clint told Natasha. He deposited the tray on the edge of the coffee table, turning to the people sitting on the sofas. “Hurry up, make some room.” Natasha groaned again, louder than before. Steve put on his best patronizing smile and pat her shoulder.

They walked to where Clint was standing proudly admiring his work. Steve counted fifteen identical phalluses in various colours wobbling on the tray. He had a sudden urge to just go to bed. Maybe he was too old and his age was finally showing. He wasn’t certain he could still blush after the super serum, but it was a blushable situation. So, yeah, he had been in the army and they were all filthy and he wasn’t actually as much of a prude of people made him out to be. But it was still a blushable situation. There were things he couldn’t shake despite everything he’d seen. And jelly dicks on a tray was one of them, apparently.

“Clint, why?” Natasha’s voice gave away some annoyance, but mostly humour. So at least she liked it somewhat.

“Remember when I had that bartending thing in Vegas? Well, there were a shit-ton of bachelorette parties and this was popular with the ladies.” He shimmied a little and promptly burst into laughter.

“I’m assuming they weren’t chewing them in front of the strippers,” Sam said casually.

“Not until much later, no,” Clint replied. “Deepthroat competition!” he said and Steve wasn’t even sure who groaned the loudest.

Jane took a step forward, and Darcy’s hand shot out to catch her shoulder. She tried her best withering glance, but it seemed the good Dr. Foster had gone to the dark side. Steve was proud of his reference, even if he had yet to watch Star Wars. That was a new thing he’d started doing, where he privately googled popular references just so he wouldn’t be lost in conversation. He just hadn’t gotten around to watch everything he missed being frozen, and that made the cheating thought a bit less poignant. Jane nodded at Darcy, and Darcy shook her head, so Jane nodded louder, and Darcy just sighed and took a step forward too. Steve recognized it for what it was: solidarity. He’d done enough stupid shit for Bucky to know it intimately.

“What is this deepthroating?” Thor’s voice managed to boom even when he didn’t mean it to.

In the slightly tense (and also curious) atmosphere in the room, his question seemed to make everyone burst into laughter. The god’s confused expression almost made Steve take pity on him, but Pepper was quicker.

“It’s when you suck on – ah, how to – ” Her inability to not be helpful left her stranded halfway through her sentence not really knowing how to go on. “Tony?”The scientist lifted his hands in a clear sign of not-touching-this-one-it’s-hilarious-to-watch-you-struggle. Pepper looked around some more, her cheeks starting to redden.

Maria Hill of all people chose to lean forward, resting her elbows on her knees. “Dick sucking, Thor.” She prodded a jelly dick with her finger and then looked up at the god. “But really deep.” The entire room burst into laughter again.

Thor’s face lit up and he brought his hands together as he did before a fist fight. “Ah! Of course, it makes sense now. So, a competition,” he said and Steve knew that look.

Jane giggled, Pepper touched her hand to Maria’s shoulder in a sign of gratitude, and Darcy released another long suffering sigh. Wanda stepped closer, looking like she wanted in. Pietro shuddered somewhere to his right, and said a quick “Wanda, no,” to his sister. She smiled viciously. Steve was certain he would never understand their dynamic, even though there was a part of him that envied the feeling of belonging in a symbiosis of that nature.

“Tony, remember when we –"

“Rhodey…”

“Tony…”

“Rhodey!”

“Tony!”

Natasha stepped forward and knelt by the end of the coffee table. She looked up at Tony with a smirk. “Well, it is my birthday…”

“For the love of god, we don’t even know if you were born or if you hatched from a large egg!” Tony exclaimed.

“Come on, Stark. It’s gonna be like that time we were stranded in Atlantic City. I remember you taking off your shirt and well, are we still banned there?”

“Rhodes, I made that disappear from your record, I can bring it back.”

Clint interrupted their little spat. “Okay, okay, enough. Show of hands if you wanna suck fake dicks for Natasha’s birthday. She’s obviously gonna do it so we might as well show some solidarity…”

Jane put both her hands up, Maria joined her with one. Darcy’s finger lift up. Thor put one of his hands up and the other snaked around Jane’s shoulders. Steve couldn’t even begin to think about their sex life. Mostly because it was wrong to give it that much thought, but also because he wouldn’t even know where to start. To his surprise, Bucky put his hand up.

“What?” he asked. “Remember Jacques bet me I couldn’t stick a bottle of beer down my throat? I won that one.”

Steve rolled his eyes. He didn’t actually remember. His best guess is he was agonizing in a corner about making Peggy like him. He tried not to choke on air when Tony’s hand went up following Rhodes’s. “You are going down. Literally,” he heard the scientist say. Pepper joined them as well, downing her entire champagne flute. Bruce ran his hand down his face.

“Captain?” he heard Sam ask him with a smirk.

“Oh, I’ll pass,” Steve said with a small smile. “The serum removed my gag reflex, it wouldn’t be fair.” He was happy to make his friends laugh, but he was still not going to slobber over some vodka filled jelly dicks. Even though he could. And he would probably win. Still wasn’t doing it.

After a brief rearranging, the contestants sat or kneeled around the table. Everyone moved out of the way, and Clint made sure to put some raunchy music on before getting in position. He dished out the jelly dicks on cake plates and got Vision to count to three. As soon as the word was said, they all bent their heads and went for it.

Steve took a moment to observe without looking like a pervert. Pietro had given up on his disappointment and was cheering on Wanda in typical supporting-my-twin-forever way. Wanda, for her part, kept her eyes down and opened her mouth wide to slide down on the thing. Vision seemed mildly amused by it. Steve wondered briefly how lust worked in his case, but the snort coming from Rhodey’s general direction stopped his thought. The man was trying his best not to choke on both the jelly dick and his laughter, leaning heavily into his palms on the table. Pepper wasn’t faring much better, pulling back and clutching at her chest to try and stop laughing.

Sam sat opposite Bucky, both of them staring at each other. Steve was trying to decide if it was flirting or competing, but he came up short. Fury sat on the side of an armchair, drinking whiskey from the bottle, probably lamenting how much money went into the Avengers Initiative. Steve couldn’t blame the man. His good eye was starting to lose focus, and Steve felt a slight pang of jealousy at the ability.

Thor and Jane were holding hands on the table, both of them trying to accommodate as much as possible down their throats. Jane seemed to be doing better, but it could have been the fact that she wasn’t smiling like an idiot. Thor… not so much. Darcy kept her eyes trained on Bruce. The scientist still had his small smile on, Steve was glad to see. Even if it looked vaguely pained, like he didn’t know what to do with his hands, or how to lean on the sofa better. Darcy pulled back, smirked at him, actually had the audacity to wink, and wiped at the corner of her mouth before taking most of the thing down her throat. For the first time since their competition started, Steve felt some inkling of arousal.

The whole thing was arousing in a way he supposed, but these were people he would be giving coffee to the following day when their hangovers wanted to kill them. They were the people he lived with, worked with, went to die for, trusted, and cherished. And for some reason, watching them try to deepthroat wasn’t exactly touching yourself material. Especially when half of them were at various degrees of hysterics, abandoning their task altogether in favour of laughter. Darcy was… different because Darcy was putting on a show. And Steve was many things, but not made of stone.

For some, it was a bonding experience – see Jane and Thor. For others, it was an excellent story – see Rhodey and Pepper. For others, it was blatant flirting – see Darcy and Bruce (who was cocking his head to the side; and Steve was absolutely certain that Dr. Banner was the only person in the world to watch their love interest perform a lascivious sex act and find it adorable.)

Clint pulled back to cheer on Natasha who was still going strong in the middle of them all, golden bejewelled crown crooked on her head. Steve felt proud of her determination, and also slightly turned on by the way her lips held on to the jelly.

Fury clicked his tongue from Steve’s side and it spoke volumes about how distracted Steve actually was. “Aren’t you glad you’re their leader?”

Steve nodded. “Hey, if all else fails, at least they can suck dick.”

Fury snorted in his glass. “I’m wondering who Clint used for the mould.”

“I don’t think I –”  

Freight train.

Tony leaned on his elbows, bending the jelly dick so he could suck on it and also look straight ahead. His eyes seemed glued to Steve’s thighs. He figured, as a last desperate thought, that the scientist was staring at whatever was in front of him, and at the highest point he could without rolling his eyes. Steve wanted to ignore the way the man’s throat bulged as he relaxed it to accommodate the phallus. He really, really did. But he’d seen the Godfather, and there was a bit there where Michael gets hit by lightning when he falls in love and Steve had no idea why that was where his mind took him, but it damned felt like Thor unleashed his thunder god power right through his spine. Tony swallowed around the thing, and Steve would swear until the end of time that the bottle of tequila he didn’t realise he was holding most definitely didn’t shatter in his fist. He was utterly speechless. And would you look at that, he could blush.

There was a vague sound of Rhodey whooping and Natasha clapping and Bucky cursing softly and Darcy laughing and Clint patting Tony’s shoulder. It all registered in the back of his head, including the proud look Tony threw him, and Maria inviting them all to eat a bunch of dicks. Steve turned away and walked to a bottle of scotch, conversation with Fury forgotten.

He welcomed the relative quiet and solitude while he tried to command his thoughts to re-enter some sort of order. He went to run his hands through his hair and of course he’d forgotten and watched the man he was suddenly aware he was attracted to deepthroating a jell-o dick while wearing a plastic tiara. Because being frozen for seventy years wasn’t ridiculous enough. He uselessly drank some more.

The music had changed by now, and everyone swapped impressions about their competition while swaying to it. Or at least he thought they were, he didn’t care all that much. Tony was showing Natasha his throat, explaining something about it and Steve’s mind brought back the image of the bulge, and what it treacherously decided to paint as heat in Tony’s eyes. Steve really wanted to get drunk. And yes, it wasn’t his party, but he could cry if he wanted to.

Bruce sat next to him, and if Steve were to chose, the man was probably his safest bet. With his kind eyes and gentle demeanour, at least he wouldn’t get chewed for being less than subtle. Steve handed him the bottle and they shared it between them in companionable silence. When Bruce pulled a second one from seemingly nowhere, Steve nodded his thanks.

“At least I can get drunk,” Bruce offered, and Steve found himself laughing. It was useless to think people hadn’t noticed his reaction, but this, this he could deal with.

“Well, I’m not a quitter. At least there’s less for all of you to drink, and that makes me happy.”

“Vicious,” Bruce said. “Not your normal mood, but I like it.”

“She’s really into you,” Steve said, not really caring at this point. “You should ask her out –”

“Yeah, no,” he repeated her earlier words, and Steve couldn’t help but find it endearing. “I tend to kind of break things when I get out.”

“Then ask her in. At least some of us would be home, if it makes you feel better.” Steve drank some more. “Besides, she’s not the type to anger people. Unless you can Hulk out from laughing too much.”

Bruce snorted. “Never happened before. I don’t laugh much.”

“From someone who has absolutely no idea what they’re doing to someone who’s conflicted as all hell: just spend some time with her. She’s probably the second kindest person I’ve ever met.” Bruce was too polite to push. “After you, I mean. Bruce, she’d be good for you.”

The scientist turned to face him. “Okay, are you sure you can’t get drunk? Cause you’re saying some liquor-wise things right now, some of which are complete bullshit,” he laughed.

Steve joined him. “Trust me, you’d know if I were drunk.”

“Well, I’ve got a nice buzz to get me to sleep, so I’m gonna cherish it and maybe improve it.”

“Bruce –"

“Steve, don’t. We can sit here all night with me getting drunker by the minute, and you staying as sober as always, and I could be listing a thousand and one reasons why it wouldn’t work. And honestly, I’d rather have a drink with a kindred spirit and then go to bed.”

Steve was many things, but not made of stone, and not a quitter. And focusing on someone else took his mind off his own shitty thoughts. Steve was many things, and even maybe a bit selfish. “So she’s younger than you.”

Bruce nodded vehemently. “Exactly! A whole life ahead of her!”

“So choosing for her is the way to go?”

There was a pause. “Well, no. But I’m making a conscious decision to not get her caught in this even if she thinks it’s what she wants.”

“So you’re choosing for her.”

“And she’s way out of my league!”

“Right.”

“And she’s funny and kind and perky and I’m not.”

“Okay…”

“And I can’t offer her stability or a family.” Bruce drank, passed the bottle to Steve, waited, took it back, and drank some more. “Or going out clubbing!”

“Of course.”

“Stop agreeing with everything I’m saying, Steve. It’s a low tactic.”

“Absolutely.”

“And she –"

“She’s beautiful,” Steve interrupted.

“So beautiful,” Bruce agreed with shining eyes. “She has this small smile on sometimes and a frown on her left side when something doesn’t make sense. And her face lights up when she talks about something she’s interested in.”

“Mhm.”

“And she knows I prefer almond milk and makes sure to add it to all the cups of coffee she brings me.” Bruce sighed. “And in the afternoon she makes my tea for me and brings me food sometimes when she knows I’ve been to busy and forgot to eat.”

“And of course, you do nothing similar for her,” Steve told him casually. He knew the only reason Bruce was so talkative was a lethal combination of misery and alcohol.

“Well, there was that exhibit I recommended. And I save her dinner every now and then.” Bruce sighed again. “I put away all the mugs in the labs so she doesn’t have to.” There was a long pause before the scientist spoke again. For a while, Steve thought he’d fallen asleep. “Oh, I also named a star after her. I mean she’s never going to know, but it’s just one of those things –"

There was some reward in staying sober when no one else did. Steve was certain to remember the moment Darcy Lewis stepped on the steel ledge at the bottom of the bar, leaned over the tall structure, gripped Bruce’s shirt, and pulled him for a kiss. And Steve was lonely and kind of miserable so he watched them because the warmth in his chest was beautiful, and it was so much better than the loudness in his head.

When she pulled back, Bruce was dazed and very confused. He managed a weak “What?”

“I stood and listened to you go on and on about this and that and maybe I’d have walked away and processed everything and then come up with a plan. But then you mentioned the fucking star, and I swear to god Banner, you’re the worst!” Darcy told him in one breath. She looked at Steve and grabbed the bottle out of his hands with a quiet “thanks,” then poured a glass and downed it.

“I… am?” Bruce asked uncertain.

“Yes! I spent the last six months of my life trying to find a way to be close to you, and you go and do some dumb shit that I can’t even begin to understand.” She turned to Steve. “Like, how do you even name a star after someone?” Steve shrugged helplessly.

“Darcy…”

“Don’t you Darcy me! With your stupid curly hair and your glasses,” she took a deep breath when Bruce unconsciously pushed them back up on his nose, “and your rolled up sleeves, and your kindness, and your smiles! Acting like you can decide what’s best for me.” Bruce had the decency to flinch at her accusation, his face flushed at her aggressive compliments.

“I just don’t think…” he started.

“That’s the thing. For someone so fucking smart, you’re being an idiot.” She turned to Steve. “Now, you. Both this dummy and myself and kinda drunk and I need you to bear witness to all this for when he’s trying to deny it all in typical fashion.” Steve nodded solemnly, trying to hold his laughter in. Everything was surreal. His entire life was a joke. “Now, you’re gonna get up,” she said, pulling at Bruce’s hand, “and walk with me over to that massive armchair. I’m gonna climb in your lap and you’re gonna tell me every reason you have for not wanting me –"

“But I do!”

Darcy was unfazed. “And I’m gonna counter-argue with my vast debate skills – what?”

Bruce sighed and walked around the bar. He rubbed his face with both his hands and pulled Darcy in a hug. “I want you more than I’ve ever wanted anything.”

Steve really wanted to get drunk before he punched someone for being stubborn and impossible. Bruce. Before he punched Bruce and got him to Hulk out and Steve was going to stop that train of thought right there. Trains. God damn it.

“So…?”

“So I think you can do better and I’d rather not waste your time,” he finally admitted defeatedly.

“I swear to god,” Darcy said and lifted her head to kiss Bruce again. The warmth in Steve’s chest was back, and maybe he wasn’t dead inside yet. She broke their kiss again, and stayed glued to Bruce’s side as she walked them away. “Thanks, Steve, you’re the best!” she said loudly, and Steve wanted to duck. Everyone who heard her turned to look at him.

Trying to at least look normal, Steve lifted his hand to salute them and touched plastic. He forgot about the tiara again. No, seriously. His life was a joke. He gave up completely and just let his head fall forward on his forearms. The metal on his back made it clear who it was that came to comfort or confront him – he had no idea.

“So, Stevie. Should I get Stark to dance with me as well? It seems to be working tonight,” he said and Steve could hear the smugness in his voice.

He lifted his head to look his oldest, best friend in the eyes. “Fuck off, Buck.”

Next part

Masterlist

This can also be found on Ao3.

Send me opinions and thoughts and random things, ily all x

[upstartpoodle]

The Cornish Way (Chapter 5)

Rating: G

Pairing: George x Elizabeth, Francis x Demelza (background), Caroline x Dwight (background), Verity x Blamey (background).

Summary: Elizabeth visits George for dinner, and they move to a new stage in their relationship.

Previous chapter

It was the hottest day of the holiday so far, and George had left the windows of the cottage wide open so as to let the barely noticeable breeze into the stuffy house as he busied himself in the kitchen, barely paying attention to the sounds of chirruping songbirds, bleating sheep and buzzing bees which were floating in from outside. For the first time in two weeks, he had a task to fulfil, something concrete to work towards and now, for all that he had spent the beginning of the holiday longing for something to do, he could not quite tell whether he was happy about this particular thing or not.

The task in question was that of cooking dinner. That in itself was hardly all that alarming—he could cook well enough, which was largely the result of having frequently been relegated to the job during his university days, as it had soon become apparent after little more than a week of living together that neither Unwin nor Caroline could cook to save their lives (Dwight, fortunately, had been something of an improvement in that area). No, what had him so flustered was the knowledge that the dinner in question was not just for himself—there was another person visiting that evening whom he very much wished to impress.

A few days after their visit to the beach, George had finally plucked up the courage to ask Elizabeth round to dinner. Ever since she had accepted, he had done nothing but stress over what he should cook, how he should cook it, what ingredients to buy, how well he would be able to make it, whether she would like it and a whole number of other things that threatened to send him into a nail-biting frenzy, for all that he knew it was ridiculous. In the end, he had settled on a salmon dish, and had spent most of the day looking up recipes and trawling around Truro searching for ingredients. Now he only hoped that he would be able to pull it off, especially since as the time of Elizabeth’s arrival drew nearer and nearer, his confidence in his cooking abilities was diminishing with alarming rapidity.

If he were to be honest with himself, he considered as, having finished chopping the potatoes and carrots, he reached over for the courgette he had bought earlier that day and started cutting it into slices, it wasn’t simply the prospect of having to cook that was making him nervous about that evening. He didn’t quite know what Elizabeth was expecting from his invitation—well, in truth he wasn’t even sure what he was expecting either—but whatever he might or might not have implied, it still felt as if they had entered new territory, somehow, when he had made her the offer. Before, their relationship had seemed so new and…and innocent in a way—a few lunches, a nice day out—but this felt more…serious perhaps wasn’t the right word but…weighty, significant. When thinking on this, he couldn’t help but remember that the last and only proper relationship he had ever been in was with—God—Margaret back at university, and he suddenly felt woefully inexperienced, worried that he would make some awful blunder or be insufferably awkward or something else excruciatingly embarrassing that would make him seem like a fool in front of Elizabeth. For surely a woman as wonderful and as clever and as beautiful as her would expect something entirely different from anyone she might consider—

His train of thought was cut off abruptly as his tablet, which lay a little way away from him on the table, made a loud, obnoxious ringing noise, and he started, cursing. He floundered slightly for a moment before reaching out to grab it and flipping back to the cover, frowning down at it. It was an incoming Skype call.

“God, Caroline, your timing…” he muttered to himself before propping the tablet up on the table and accepting the call. An image of an alarmingly shrewd-looking Caroline appeared on the screen, Horace curled up sleepily beside her on the sofa.

“You’re still alive then” she said by way of greeting.

George raised an eyebrow at her.

“Is there any particular reason why I wouldn’t be?” he asked exasperatedly.

“Oh well,” replied Caroline with a shrug and a dry smile, “since I hadn’t heard any complaints about lack of work recently I was beginning to worry about your wellbeing. How is life in sunny Cornwall, by the way? And what are you doing?”

“I’m cooking. What does it look like?”

Caroline rolled her eyes.

“George, nobody actually puts an effort into cooking while they’re on holiday,” she said matter-of-factly. “You’re meant to be relaxing, not stressing out over cutting slices of cucumber or whatever the hell that thing is to exactly the same size.”

George opened his mouth to argue, but upon glancing down at the chopping board, he realised with no small degree of sheepishness that he had indeed—though not entirely consciously—been trying to cut his slices as evenly as possible.

“It’s a courgette,” he retorted instead. “And logically, since I’m on holiday, I should be allowed to spend my time however I want. And besides, I still have to eat.”

That remark earnt him one of Caroline’s famed withering looks. He liked to think that he was accustomed enough to them not to be too affected though, and he concentrated on finishing cutting up the courgette before piling up the slices next to the rest of the prepared vegetables and moving onto the herbs.

“Oh come on, there’s no way that’s all for you!,” his friend’s voice, rendered tinny by the speaker, called from the tablet. “You eat like a bird at the best of times! So come on, spill the beans. Who are you trying to impress?”

George was sure that the moment he stilled at her words, he had given himself away. Nonetheless, he made a valiant (if poorly-executed) effort to head her off.

“What? I’m not—”

“Oh yes you are! A certain young lady by the name of Elizabeth, perhaps?”

In his shock, George accidentally beheaded the sprig of parsley he had been attempting to dice.

“I—what?!,” he spluttered. “How do you know about Elizabeth?!”

“Aha!,” came the triumphant cry from the tablet. “So you admit it then!”

There was a long silence, filled only by the smugness that he could feel radiating off Caroline all the way from London.

“…Dammit” sighed George, and turned his attention back to the parsley. He knew when he was fighting a losing battle.

There was a soft sound of a door clicking, and into the picture on his tablet screen came Dr Dwight Enys, looking tired but relieved to be home. Caroline turned to greet him, sending him a bright smile, and he headed over to her, leaning over the back of the sofa to press a soft kiss to her cheek. When he pulled back, he noticed George, and sent him a polite smile.

“Oh hello, George,” he said. “How is the holiday going?”

George smiled back. He and Dwight had always got along well enough—really, the other man was so kind and mild-mannered that it was difficult to imagine anyone ever disliking him, even if they had both found during their university years that their views of the world differed a great deal—but he doubted either of them would have described the other as a close friend—at least not like how he thought of Caroline, or Francis. As such, their interactions always tended to be a little more polite and a little less relaxed, despite the length of time they had known each other for.

“Well I’m currently being menaced by your fiancé so its debatable at the moment” he said a little drily.

Dwight huffed in amusement and, shooting him a look of sympathy, headed over to the couple’s open plan kitchen, where he could be seen busying himself with the kettle in the background.

“George has got a lady friend!” Caroline called without turning round, so that George could see the full extent of the wicked grin on her face. He scowled at her.

“Oh…um…congratulations…?” came the faint sound of Dwight’s voice from the kitchen, causing his fiancé to snort with laughter.

“How did you even find out?” asked George with a put-upon sigh. He had finally managed to start dicing the parsley properly, although if Caroline were going to start dealing out many more shocks he would start fearing for his fingers more than his ingredients.

“You know me—many hidden talents,” replied Caroline with a wink. “I’m a woman of mystery.”

He could hear Dwight chuckling into his newly-made cup of tea at the kitchen counter, and she turned round and stuck her tongue out at him, which only made him laugh harder.

“And how did you really find out?”

“Uncle Ray saw the two of you together in Truro,” she said, waving a dismissive hand. “Now come on, tell me everything. Who is she?”

George was sure that, even through the slightly hazy image on the screen, Caroline would be able to see the blush that was creeping its way over his cheeks. He had learnt long ago that there was no hiding anything from her, no matter how much he might try. He had also learnt, however, that that knowledge would likely never stop him from attempting it.

“She’s a friend of Francis and Verity’s,” he answered her, determinedly not making eye contact. “We met when I was out for coffee with Francis and she offered to keep me company since I had nothing to do. It’s nice. She’s very nice. That’s all.”

He winced as he heard Francis’ words about Demelza coming out of his own mouth—no doubt he had given himself away just as thoroughly as his friend had done over his own romantic interests. In all honesty, he didn’t quite know exactly why he was trying to hide the full extent of the matter from Caroline. Perhaps he just wanted to keep it private a little longer, or at the very least avoid her teasing for a time, especially tonight, when his stomach was twisting itself in knots over what might or might not happen that evening.

“And have you kissed this very nice friend of Francis and Verity’s?,” came the shrewd reply; the answer must have shown clearly on his face, as Caroline’s eyes immediately widened along with her grin. “Oh, you have! And she’s coming over tonight, and you’re making her…dinner.”

The amount of innuendo she managed to pack into that one word, George reflected grumpily, should have been made illegal. As, he added mentally, should suggestive eyebrow waggling.

“Oh yes, very well, you’ve rumbled me,” he sighed. “She’s coming round for dinner this evening, so I’d appreciate it if you didn’t make me chop off my fingers before she arrives, thank you.”

“Your fingers are perfectly safe from me,” Caroline said solemnly. “But you can hardly blame me from being intrigued! It’s about time that you found someone.”

“Caroline, please don’t remind me of my non-existent love life right now.”

She must have sensed something in his tone, as, accepting a steaming mug of tea from Dwight as he came to sit beside her on the sofa, she suddenly dropped her teasing façade and sent him one of her penetrating glances, the force of which was not muted in the slightest by the Skype camera.

“Don’t worry, I’m sure it’ll be fine,” she said seriously. “I know you—you’ll fuss yourself into a frenzy over everything and it’ll do nobody any good. Just make sure that you have a good time, hmm?”

George tried to smile but he suspected it had come out more like a grimace. He knew she was right, that all he was doing was getting himself worked up, but he couldn’t bring himself to stop.

“Well, I’m sure you’ve got a fair bit to do, so we’ll let you get on” said Dwight, who was trying in vain to settle an excited Horace, the little dog clambering all over him in an attempt to greet him. He sent him a small smile as the pug sat up on his hind legs and started licking his face, which George returned, hoping his nervousness didn’t show too clearly on his face. They said their goodbyes and, just as Caroline leaned forward to cut off the call, he heard her voice float clearly through the speaker, a hint of mischief having once again crept into her tones.

“Make sure you tell us all the juicy details!”

And with that the image disappeared, leaving George to sigh long-sufferingly down at his diced parsley, fighting back a blush.

“With friends like these…” he murmured to himself as he returned to his preparations.

Elizabeth checked her hair self-consciously in the car mirror for what felt like the umpteenth time as she pulled into the driveway of the little holiday cottage, worrying slightly at her lip as she tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear, carefully inspecting her make-up. She didn’t generally make much of a habit of wearing it—on most days she found that she’d rather have the extra ten minutes in bed in the mornings than the faff of putting it on—but that didn’t mean she was averse to wearing a little lipstick and eyeshadow on special occasions. Now she wasn’t quite sure if she had made the right decision. Did it look garish? She had tried to go for a reasonably subtle look, as she usually did when she chose to wear make-up, but now she was beginning to think that putting any on at all had perhaps been too much. And—oh dammit, had her lipstick smudged?

With a sigh, she reached over to the passenger seat where she had put her bag and began rummaging through it. She hadn’t packed a great deal out of the ordinary—her purse, her make-up, her umbrella, the little sketchbook that she took everywhere with her no matter what the occasion. There were, however, a couple of items that she had, in the end, decided to take with her to cover the possibility of…staying the night, and upon seeing her overnight things tucked neatly away as she searched for her make-up bag, she found that she was even less certain of that choice than she was about the lipstick. She wasn’t quite sure how far George’s invitation to dinner had extended, nor what might have been implied in the offer, but nevertheless she had decided to prepare for (and if she were be honest with herself, hope for in equal measure) the eventuality, and now she could only hope that George wouldn’t think that she had been too bold in making such an assumption.

Eventually, she managed to pull out her makeup bag and, after touching up her lipstick and mascara a little, stepped out of the car and onto the driveway. It was a beautiful warm evening, the slightest of breezes catching loose strands over her long hair in its lazy grasp as she stood for a short while, partially to enjoy the fragrant smells and soft sounds and the sight of swallows and house martins swooping for insects over a nearby pond, and partially to calm the nerves which had begun creeping up on her bit by bit the entire day. She had, after all, arrived at the cottage a little earlier than expected, so there was no sense in rushing when he may not be ready for her yet anyway.

She watched the swallows darting about for another couple of seconds before she turned towards the cottage and, a little hesitantly, rang the doorbell. A few moments passed and then the door opened to reveal a slightly and rather surprisingly dishevelled George, apron draped over his white shirt and dark jeans and tea towel in hand, the sleeves of his shirt rolled up at the elbows, exposing his bare forearms. His usually neat hair was a little disordered and ruffled, as if he had been running a hand through it, and his cheeks were flushed ever so slightly pink. He looked a little sheepish upon realising the state that he was in and, suddenly knowing that she wasn’t the only one who was a little nervous about tonight, she couldn’t help but find it rather endearing.

“Sorry I’m a bit early,” she said apologetically. “I’ve brought some wine.”

She held up the bottle which she had brought with her, a little needlessly in hindsight, but George took it from her nevertheless, smiling as he stood aside to let her into the hallway. It was a cosy little place, charmingly rustic in appearance, and with a homely feel to it that instantly made her feel welcome, and at that thought she felt a small, soft smile tugging at the corners of her lips.

“Oh you didn’t have to—”

Elizabeth tutted.

“Nonsense. It’s the least I could do considering you’re cooking for me. I wasn’t quite sure what you’d like so I got a Chardonnay—I hope that’s alright.”

It was, he assured her as he led her through the hallway and into a surprisingly spacious kitchen, where several pans were laid out on the hob. The smells coming from them were undeniably delicious and, much to her embarrassment, she felt her stomach, which, given that she had been hard at work painting all day, hadn’t been properly fed since her small lunch at midday, give a loud growl in response. George, fortunately, had not noticed, too taken up with simultaneously trying to make sure nothing on the hob burnt and rummaging through the draws in search of a corkscrew to open the wine bottle. After a short while he found one and, pulling two wine glasses out of one of the overhead cupboards, he poured out a small amount for the both of them and handed one to her. She took it gratefully but didn’t drink from it—considering how little she had had to eat in the day, she thought she had better wait until the meal was finished to start drinking too much.

“Was your journey alright?” George called over his shoulder. He was back at the hob, stirring what appeared to be a saucepan full of potatoes with a spoon, and despite his warm welcome, that slightly anxious, agitated demeanour which she had noticed when he greeted her still hung over him like a cloud. Flitting across the kitchen from task to task, he reminded her a little of a bee darting from flower to flower in search of nectar, or perhaps the swallows that she had seen hunting insects over the pond.

“Yes, it was fine,” she said. “No stand-offs with any tractors this time, fortunately.”

He turned briefly towards her, sending her a swift smile, and she returned it, setting down her wine glass on the kitchen table with a soft clink. Then, before she quite knew what she was doing, she was heading over to him, stilling his fluttering movements with a light, whispering touch to the small of his back. He responded to the faint pressure of her fingertips, turning to face her, his expression a touch apprehensive.

“Don’t I get a proper welcome?” she murmured.

Her palm flattened out against his back, gently encouraging him to move closer to her. Her other hand came to cup the side of his face, and he leaned into her touch, his eyes bright as he held her gaze searchingly. His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed, and then he leaned tentatively forward and she moved to meet him in a soft kiss.

She could feel the tension in his muscles ease as he melted into the touch, and she pressed herself close against him, slipping her fingers into his soft hair, relishing the thought of messing it up further. His right arm moved to encircle her waist, his left hand gently cupping the back of her neck, and she let out a soft gasp at the contact, parting her lips under his to encourage him to deepen the kiss. She let out another gasp as he followed her direction, and would have lost herself fully to the touch, but she was becoming increasingly aware of a strange, bubbling sound encroaching on the edge of her hearing, and she drew back with a slight frown.

“Is something boiling?”

“Oh dammit, the potatoes!”

George had, fortunately, managed to save the potatoes in time, and a little while later, they had settled out on the patio with their finished meal in order to best enjoy the lovely weather. The food was, in Elizabeth’s opinion, excellent, the salmon creamy and flavoursome and the accompanying salad light and refreshing in the warmth of the summer evening, and it was made all the better, she could not help but think, by the way George had ducked his head to hide his happy little smile, pale cheeks flushed slightly with pleasure at her sincere compliments. The more they sat and ate and talked, working their way slowly through the bottle of wine she had brought with her, the more she felt her nerves beginning to fade away. George too seemed to be more relaxed, more open—no doubt at least partially the effect of the alcohol, which he had confessed to her he didn’t tend to drink often, or in large quantities.

In the end, they had curled up together on a small wooden bench in a hidden alcove of the little cottages garden, surrounded by beautiful, fragrant white roses with the darkening sky above, where faint, twinkling stars were just beginning to appear against their silky blue backdrop. It was cooler now, but pressed into George’s side, head on his shoulder, his arm resting loosely at her waist, she felt warmer than ever. She glanced up at him, tracing the lines of his profile with her eyes—his strong jawline, the elegant slope of his nose, his heavily-hooded eyes, shining bright in the starlight—and though they had been sitting in companiable silence for a little while now, she was possessed with the sudden urge to say something.

“Thank you for tonight,” she murmured quietly, shifting so that she could nestle as close to him as possible; she could smell the scent of his cologne amongst that of the roses, and her eyes fluttered shut briefly as she took it in. “I’ve had a lovely time.”

He turned to glance at her, his face half in shadow, but she could still see his soft smile in the semi-darkness.

“It was my pleasure—it was the least I could do considering everything you’ve done for me these past couple of weeks.”

He moved slowly, hesitantly, and she moved to meet him in a gentle kiss. There was a little more shyness to the gesture than usual, as there had been to him throughout the evening, even as he begun to relax a little more, and she pressed herself more firmly against him, deepening the kiss. Her left hand slipped into his hair, pulling him close, and her right, which had been resting on his shoulder, trailed along the open line of his throat, exposed by the collar of his shirt, and down to his chest, where she could feel his heartbeat racing beneath her palm. He made a soft noise, muffled by the kiss, but there was something about it that made her pull back, watching him in concern.

“Elizabeth…I haven’t—,” he said falteringly, not quite meeting her gaze. “It’s been awhile since—”

And with that, Elizabeth suddenly understood. He was watching her a little apprehensively through his long lashes, pupils blown wide so that the blue of his irises could barely be seen amongst the black. She smiled at him reassuringly, leaning in to press a soft, fluttering kiss to the corner of his lips, the hand in his hair moving to stroke soothingly along his cheek.

“There’s nothing wrong with that,” she said, pressing another fleeting kiss to his lips, smiling as he leaned into the touch, making a soft, involuntary noise in the back of his throat. “It’s been awhile for me too.”

He still looked unsure, but when she kissed him again, he responded passionately, hand sliding into her hair as he pressed against her, and she moaned quietly at the gentle, whispering touch, eager for more. Eventually, they broke apart for air, breathing heavily, and, reaching for her hand and twining her fingers with his own, eyes glittering in the dark, George stood and led her back inside.

George woke up to the trilling song of a blackbird coming from the beech tree outside the window to his bedroom and a satisfying ache in his limbs which he hadn’t felt in years. He stretched out with a yawn, enjoying the warmth of the sunlight, muted by the thin curtains as it streamed down onto the bare skin of his back, exposed by the bedcovers bunched up at his waist. With a quiet murmur, he shifted onto his side and, blinking against the morning light, propped his head up on his hand to smile affectionately down at the still sleeping woman beside him.

Elizabeth was lying half on her side, her lovely face pressed into the pillow. A slight smile was playing around her full lips, dark eyelashes fluttering against her pale cheeks. Her soft curls were trailing, tousled, down the curve of her spine and across the arch of her cheekbone and, on impulse, he reached out and brushed the silky strands away from her face and tucked them behind her ear, his fingertips outlining the shape of her jaw down to her bare shoulder. She shifted a little at the touch with a soft, contented sigh, and he couldn’t help but be entranced as he regarded her, the light, dappled from the billowing curtains and the rustling leaves of the tree outside, danced across her smooth skin, burnishing it golden. She was so breathtakingly beautiful that, not for the first time, he was struck by a slight sense of unreality, as if he couldn’t quite believe that this were not all some wonderful dream that his mind had conjured up for him. Well, he considered as he lay his head back down on the pillow, eyelids fluttering and smile broadening, if it were, he didn’t think he’d ever want to wake up.

He lay beside her a little while longer, wondering if she might wake up, but she didn’t stir, and eventually he decided to get up in order to make breakfast. Slightly reluctantly, he slipped out from under the covers and reached over to his dressing gown, which was draped neatly over the chair beside the bed. Wrapping it around himself, he turned back to Elizabeth, worrying at his lip as he wondered what to do. She looked so peaceful that he hated the thought of disturbing her, but he knew he should ask her what she wanted before going off to make it. With that in mind, he shook her gently by the shoulder, calling her name. She woke on the third attempt, rubbing her bleary eyes with the heels of her hands.

“Morning,” she said, sending a slow, sleepy smile, before something seemed to occur to her and she stilled. “It is morning…isn’t it? What time is it?”

“Don’t worry, it’s not the afternoon yet,” George chuckled, glancing at his watch. “It’s twenty to ten.”

“Oh good. I was worried I’d slept half the day away there.”

She stretched out languidly, shifting onto her back. George did his level best not to stare, but it seemed that, despite his best efforts, Elizabeth had not failed to notice his reaction. Moving one arm to rest behind her head on the pillow, her other hand trailing over her bare stomach, where the bedcovers had bunched up around her slim waist, she sent him a flirtatious grin which he couldn’t help but tentatively return, feeling suddenly shy once more.

“I…um…I…would you like some breakfast?” he managed to say, feeling a blush rising in his cheeks. Elizabeth’s grin broadened at the sight.

“Oh, yes please. Here, I’ll help.”

She made to sit up but George shook his head.

“Oh, there’s no need, Elizabeth,” he was quick to assure her. “I was just wondering what you would like.”

Elizabeth settled back down on the pillow with a wry quirk of her lips, and once again George found himself struggling to concentrate on the task at hand. The look of mischief in her eyes told him that she knew exactly what kind of effect she was having on him, and he felt the blush in his cheeks intensify.

“Well, if you insist,” she replied. “What is there?”

“I…I’m not really sure actually. A near endless supply of savoury muffins probably, since Mrs Paynter’s made it her mission to feed me until I burst.”

Elizabeth laughed.

“Oh, well, in that case…I don’t know. Surprise me” she said coyly.

After rifling through the fridge and the cupboards for something a little more interesting than cornflakes, George settled on pancakes. It wasn’t ideal—they weren’t exactly his speciality and though at least he wasn’t prone to burning them, he had never quite mastered the fancy flip—but when it came to ingredients, his options for what he could make were fairly limited. In the end, they turned out alright, and he served them up on a plate alongside a bottle of syrup, a bowl of strawberries, a pot of thick, creamy yoghurt and two glasses of orange juice, which he took back into the bedroom on a tray.

“Do I smell pancakes?” hummed Elizabeth eagerly from the bed as he came through the door. She was, mercifully, wearing something now, but upon realising what it was—namely his shirt which she had helped remove the previous evening, rumpled and creased from its time discarded on the floor—he wasn’t quite sure if it would be less distracting than she had been without clothes. The thoughts racing through his mind at the sight must have been obvious to her, as she grinned mischievously up at him upon seeing the look on his face.

“Well it was getting awfully crumpled just lying there on the floor.”

“I…,” George was temporarily lost for words. “I…pancakes. Right.”

He headed over to the bed, placing the tray down and slipping back under the covers beside her. As he settled down, she shuffled up so that the gap between them was closed and she was pressed into his side.

“Ooh yes, I always love a good pancake,” she said, pulling the top one onto the first of the two empty plates he had placed on the tray with a little grin. “My dad used to make them for me when I was little. He was a pretty dab-hand with a frying pan and a spatula if I do say so myself.”

“Ah well, I wouldn’t hold out for these being good,” George replied drily. “I don’t think I’ve been blessed with quite the same affinity for frying pans and spatulas when it comes to pancakes, I’m afraid.”

Elizabeth made an odd sound that was halfway between a laugh and an affectionate tut, reaching for the syrup and drizzling it over her pancake. Then she took up her knife and fork and cut out a bite, lifting the fork to her mouth and chewing thoughtfully. George couldn’t help but wait a little apprehensively for her verdict, his own breakfast as yet untouched, and she set him a reassuring smile.

“Like I said, I love a good pancake,” she said. “You know, I think you’re a lot better at a fair few things than you think you.”

George didn’t quite know what to say to that. He had always thought that he’d had a fairly realistic view of his capabilities, but he did suppose that he had a tendency to expect perfection of himself. To hear her genuine compliments though, given freely, without any ulterior motive…it was…well… nice. Elizabeth seemed to sense that he was at a loss to how to respond, as she gave him a friendly, gentle nudge and a soft smile.

“Come on, eat your pancakes,” she teased him, “else Mrs Paynter will start feeding you double.”

With a soft chuckle, he complied (they were, admittedly, not too bad as far as his usual attempts went), his spirits higher than he remembered them being in a long time. Yes, he thought as they sat there, laughing and talking whilst they worked their way through the pancakes and strawberries, enjoying the warm breeze that was wafting in from the open window, this holiday was, all in all, turning out far better than he ever could have expected.

Next chapter: George’s holiday is coming to an end, and he and Elizabeth go out to dinner.

[tomeandflickcorner]

OUAT Episode Analysis- Chosen

Oh, yay!  This episode was directed by Lana Parrilla!  Um…okay.  I honestly have no prevailing opinion of her as a person, but…really?  Does Lana have any experience in directing? It just seems like a weird choice. Was it just that they didn’t have anyone else to sit in the director’s chair for this episode and she was the only one who volunteered to step in?  Were they just throwing her a bone to make her happy?  Is that what this was?

To be honest, however, I really don’t feel qualified to properly judge how the directing for this episode was handled.  I have not studied filmmaking at any point in my academic career, so if you’re asking me if I think Lana did a good job, you might as well be asking me to critique a documentary on quantum physics.  I am not the one to ask.  You’re better off asking someone like @mrs-emma-swan-jones.  She’s the film major, not me.  I’m just here to focus on the actual story.

This episode opens in the Land of Oz.  No, it’s not Parallel Oz.  This is Oz Prime.  (Though it’s possible there isn’t a Parallel Oz.  If there is, there’s no evidence of it.)  Anyway, it’s in that period of time when Zelena ruled over Oz, after banishing Glinda to that Pocked Dimension.  But Zelena goes on the warpath when she learns another witch is encroaching on her territory.  She goes off to try and drive this witch off.  This particular witch ends up being the same witch that Parallel Hansel and Parallel Gretel faced.  Which means Parallel Hansel and Parallel Gretel were actually native to Oz and not Parallel Enchanted Forest the way we were led to believe.  Okay, that’s kinda a weird direction.  This means there were two different Hansel and Gretel stories unfolding in the same universe.  (Because I believe it’s been established that Enchanted Forest Prime and Oz were part of the main universe while Parallel Enchanted Forest and the Wish World were in a separate universe.)  But I guess it’s like they said in Doctor Who.  Nothing is impossible.  Just highly unlikely.

So, Zelena barges into the Gingerbread Witch’s gingerbread cottage, where we not only see this particular witch isn’t currently blind, but she has managed to imprison Young Parallel Hansel and Young Parallel Gretel.  Zelena starts to attack the Gingerbread Witch, but before she could even attempt to finish off her rival, the fight is interrupted by Young Parallel Gretel, who begs Zelena to save them. Because the Gingerbread Witch plans to sacrifice the two children in some kind of ritual.  Of course, Zelena has no intention of helping the twins as she’s at that point where she’s only focused on getting back at Regina for what Cora did and generally doesn’t care about anybody else.   But this results in Zelena getting distracted long enough for the Gingerbread Witch to get a chance to direct a magical attack at Zelena, who is blown right out of the Gingerbread House.  This magical attack apparently severely weakened/injured Zelena, as she passes out in the middle of the woods a few moments later.

An undetermined amount of time later, Zelena regains consciousness and finds herself under the care of a blind man named Ivo.  He explains that he found her half frozen to death and brought her back to his cottage to help her regain her strength.  At first, Zelena isn’t willing to accept his help, still focused on her goal of driving off the Gingerbread Witch.  But Ivo insists she stay until she’s well.  Zelena ultimately has very little choice as she can barely walk, so she ends up sticking around.  However, she quickly learns that Ivo is the father of Parallel Hansel and Parallel Gretel when Ivo explains that he has been searching for his missing children every night, but to no avail.

So now, we have Zelena, regaining her strength under the care of the father of the two kids she neglected to help. And it’s made visibly obvious that the more time Zelena spends under Ivo’s care, the more she starts to genuinely like him.  Perhaps even to the point when she starts to fall for him.  This, of course, leads to her regretting her earlier actions when she refused to help save Ivo’s children.  As such, when Zelena becomes well enough to move about on her own, she ends up returning to the Gingerbread Witch’s place.  But this time, she isn’t motivated by territorial feelings.  She simply wants to save Young Parallel Hansel and Young Parallel Gretel and help reunite them with their father.  She even magically removes the Gingerbread Witch’s eyesight, with the intention of transferring it over to Ivo so he would no longer be blind.  Unfortunately, once the now blind Gingerbread Witch is incapacitated and Zelena enters the Gingerbread House to free the twins, she is horrified to find their cages empty.  Which leads to her believing the Gingerbread Witch already killed them before she could get there.

Filled with remorse and sorrow, Zelena returns to Ivo’s cottage to break the news to him.  However, when she arrives, she learns that Young Parallel Hansel and Young Parallel Gretel had somehow managed to escape from the Gingerbread Witch on their own.  How they managed to do so is never explained.  But now Ivo is angry at Zelena because he now knows that Zelena knew where his children were and didn’t tell him.  He goes on to accuse her of taking advantage of his hospitality and angrily dismisses her, even refusing to accept her offer to restore his sight, claiming he doesn’t need his sight to see what kind of person she really is.

Okay.  The thing that bothers me the most about this scene is the fact that I seriously have no idea what more Zelena could have done in this flashback story.  Sure, she intended to leave Parallel Hansel and Parallel Gretel to their fates at the start of this episode.  But you could clearly see Ivo’s kindness to her, and her growing affection for him, was affecting her and making her regret her actions.  And the moment she fully recovered from the Gingerbread Witch’s suckerpunch of an attack, she promptly went back to try and fix her mistake. She TRIED to do the right thing in the end.  It wasn’t her fault Parallel Hansel and Parallel Gretel managed to escape on their own before she got there.  In addition, I don’t think she had any sinister reasons for not telling Ivo where his children were once she figured out their connection.  Seriously, what would telling Ivo that have accomplished? If Ivo tried to go off on his own to save his children, the Gingerbread Witch would have undoubtedly killed him in an instant, and Parallel Hansel and Parallel Gretel would still be stuck in the same predicament.  Zelena even points that out.  Not that they bothered listening to her logic.  So in that regard, I really think Ivo was really being unfair to Zelena.   I mean, I guess it kinda makes sense and they’d apparently heard of Zelena’s reputation, being natives of Oz and all.  But Zelena tried to help them in the end, and they were all completely unwilling to even consider giving her a second chance.  Because they’re obviously prejudiced against witches or something.  And that just really irks me.  This is probably the #1 trope that just gets under my skin the most- when you see these two characters bonding and forming a connection with one another, but then one of the two learns the other one did something bad before they even met and they instantly start to loathe the person, as if that bad thing they did before they even met completely renders the bond they were forming null and void.

Also, while I’m thinking of it, why do they have such a prejudice against witches in Oz?  Sure, Zelena had a nasty reputation as the Wicked Witch, which was probably not undeserved, but….we’ve seen that there were three other witches. Remember Glinda and those other two witches who they didn’t bother to actually name?  Granted we never really saw how they interacted with the population of Oz, but the impression I got was that they were benevolent and loved.  At least, they were kind and welcoming to Young Dorothy when she first appeared in Oz.  So what’s with the whole ‘there’s no such thing as a good witch’ viewpoint that was going around in this episode?

Anyway, when Zelena sees that Ivo and the children are turning their backs on her, and even rejecting her offer to help restore Ivo’s sight, she reacts negatively by throwing the cure for Ivo’s blindness into the nearby fire.  But as she turns to leave, Young Parallel Hansel grabs a knife and pretty much threatens to kill her for what she’s done.  Though I’m not entirely sure what exactly he feels Zelena doesn’t deserve to walk away from.  If it’s because she didn’t help them earlier, that’s hardly fair because she did have a change of heart and tried to come back for them.  They were just too dismissive of her to listen to her explanation or give her a chance. Is he angry at Zelena for throwing out the cure for his father’s blindness?  If so, that makes even less sense, because Ivo had just stated his refusal to accept the cure anyway.  Confusing motivations aside, Zelena scoffs at Parallel Hansel and, in order to put the angry boy in his place, I guess, she magically directs the flames in the nearby fireplace at Young Parallel Hansel, resulting in him getting that burn scar on his arm.

So now we know why Parallel Hansel is targeting Zelena in present day Hyperion Heights.  Of course, Zelena doesn’t initially know this until she heads over to the police station with Margot in tow to report that she was the next target of the serial killer.  While there, Zelena confronts Rumpelstiltskin about the matter, asking for his help. Even though the reason why they EVER try asking for that man’s help continues to elude me.  Especially in this matter, as it’s clear there’s no love between Rumpelstiltskin and Zelena.  However, he does inform her that he’s learned the serial killer is Parallel Hansel, enabling Zelena to fill in the blanks.  She begs Rumpelstiltskin to help her fight against Hansel.  But not because she’s afraid for her own life.  Because Zelena admits that she’ll deserve whatever Parallel Hansel has in store for her.  No, Zelena’s main concern is for Margot/Robyn, who is purely innocent in regards to the situation.  To appease her, Rumpelstiltskin brings Zelena into his evidence room closet, where he stores all of his accruements.  But instead of giving her a weapon that she could use to defend herself against Parallel Hansel, he gives her that Emerald Medallion that she wore back in S3.  Which is something I thought we’d seen the last of. He goes off on this whole spiel about how the only way Zelena can get through this ordeal is by accepting her past is a part of her and whatnot.  And I’m like, yeah, that’s great, dude.  She asked you for a way to defend herself from Parallel Hansel.  She wasn’t here for a therapy session.  Stop trying to be Archie.

Meanwhile, Parallel Hansel is holding Henry prisoner, in the hopes that Henry will help him in his quest for revenge against Zelena.  But because Henry still isn’t awake, he believes Parallel Hansel is simply delusional and has only adopted the alias of Hansel to cope with the loss of his sister.  Through this scene  (which I felt had subtle undertones that reminded me of the S1 episode Hat Trick, when Emma was held hostage by Jefferson) we get to hear Parallel Hansel reminisce about the many adventures he’d shared with Henry, after he’d adopted the assumed name of Jack in an attempt to put his past demons behind him.  Though, Parallel Hansel does mention a particular venture when he and Henry ended up killing a bunch of giants, which led to Henry dubbing his friend ‘Jack the Giant Killer’.  That part raised a few questions for me.  In Enchanted Forest Prime, the giants were the good guys.  They were a peaceful group who simply wanted to be left alone. Or have A&E forgotten about Anton and his brothers?  I guess it’s possible that the giants of Parallel Enchanted Forest were not as benign as the ones that were featured in S2, but it’s hard to know for sure as we get no context behind this particular story.  Especially since last episode showed Henry raring to slay a dragon despite the fact that he knew three Dragon People personally.  Please, Henry.  Don’t tell me you ended up following in Granduncle James’ footsteps.  You’re supposed to be the good one!

Anyway, Parallel Hansel goes on to explain how he relished in his new identity as the heroic Jack, and how great it felt to be a completely different person.  But when he saw Regina and then Zelena being incorporated into the New Nevengers, his grudge against Zelena, and his deep-rooted prejudice against witches, started to eat away at him, despite his best efforts to overlook their presence. Which does shed some light onto the mystery of the whole Parallel Hansel/Nick issue.  He’s basically a witch-hating bigot who tried to start over with a new identity that led to him being viewed as a hero.  But when he found himself in the continued presence of the very people he once sought to destroy, his true identity and perceived identity began to clash with one another.  What an interesting concept exploring the debate of Free Will vs Determinism.

In an attempt to escape, Henry attempts to play along with Parrallel Hansel by pretending that he believes him. He suggests that Parallel Hansel untie him so he can use his Authorial powers to help rewrite Parallel Hansel’s story. (Kudos to the acknowledgement that Henry is the Author by the way.)  But Parallel Hansel isn’t fooled, as he knows Henry all too well from their adventures together in Parallel Enchanted Forest.  He knows Henry can only use his Arthur Powers when it’s absolutely necessary, and his offer to use them to aid a villain in order to trick them into letting him go is a common tactic of his.  So he doesn’t fall for Henry’s trick.  Instead he tries to prove to Henry that what he’s saying is the truth, by showing him the papers he stole from the lady doctor after killing her.  The ones that showed that Henry was Lucy’s biological father, not Nick.  As he shows him the proof of Lucy’s true parentage, Parallel Hansel explains that he somehow regained his memories that day at the hospital, shortly after getting the bloodtest. However, even though Henry is the Truest Believer, he’s also the son of Emma Swan, and has ended up just as stubborn as her.  So he refuses to believe what Parallel Hansel is telling him, insisting that the document naming him as Lucy’s real father is just a forgery, and that the woman Parallel Hansel is calling Zelena is just an ordinary woman named Kelly.  Henry’s ongoing refusal to believe disappoints Parallel Hansel, but he still refuses to be swayed from his path.  So, knowing that Henry will managed to free himself from the ropes on his own, knocks him out so he won’t be able to stop him from going after Zelena.

While all this is going on, we see Rogers has received a report that Henry’s car was found abandoned on the side of the road.  This information puts him on the alert, especially when he called the airline and learned Henry never boarded his plane.  Rogers then meets up with Jacinda to question her if she’d heard from Henry at all, so she shows him the text that she got from when Parallel Hansel pretended to be Henry.  Upon seeing the text, Rogers, having spotted a gingerbread house kit in Jacinda’s car, which she claimed had come from Nick as a gift for Lucy, urges Jacinda to look again at the text, asking her to see if she can spot anything unusual about the text.  Upon taking a second look, Jacinda finally took note of the fact that the text message addressed her as ‘J,’ which is something only Sabine called her.  But Rogers, remembering the Guys Night Out a few episodes back, recalls that Nick had also referred to Jacinda as such. His suspicions are confirmed when Jacinda admits that Nick does indeed have scars on his arms, but deciding time is of the essence, he doesn’t tell Jacinda what he’s just figured out, simply telling her to get home right away and not answer her phone for anything.  Immediately after giving her his warming, he speeds off in his car, making a beeline for Nick/Parallel Hansel’s apartment.  By the time he arrives, Parallel Hansel had already left to locate Zelena for their final confrontation, but he is able to free Henry, who had just regained consciousness.  So Henry is free to return to Jacinda’s apartment unharmed, where she and Lucy give him a warm welcome.  Though I’m left wondering if they even know he was abducted by a serial killer who turned out to be Lucy’s cursed father.  Regardless of that question, the reunion is a rather sweet one, especially when one looks at the way Henry embraces Jacinda and Lucy.  Even though he hasn’t consciously accepted the fact that they’re his wife and daughter, it’s as if his subconscious does know.

As for Zelena, she has barricaded herself in Regina’s bar, having left Margot at the police station for her protection.  Why Zelena hadn’t remained there herself is anyone’s guess.  While she’s hiding out, the phone starts to ring, and since Regina is nowhere to be found, Zelena is forced to answer it herself.  To her surprise, it turns out to be Chad, her fiancé that has been trying to contact her throughout the episode.  Admittedly, I do end up chuckling at the fact that the fiancé is named Chad.  Because I can’t hear that name without thinking of this:

 Before Zelena can come up with an explanation as to why she hadn’t been returning his calls (which was because she was afraid of how Chad would respond if he knew the truth about Kelly), she discovers that Parallel Hansel has actually taken Chad hostage in order to draw Zelena out of hiding.  Although I can’t figure out how Parallel Hansel managed to get his hands on Chad. Sure, Henry let slip the fact that Zelena/Kelly had a fiancé, and it’s later stated he managed to abduct him by claiming to be an EMT that had come to fetch him after Kelly was injured when her bike got hit by a car.  But how did Parallel Hansel even know what he looked like?

Either way, Zelena now knows she has no choice other than go confront Parallel Hansel.  Because Chad had nothing to do with their dispute and does not deserve to get dragged into this.  So she heads off to save Chad and face Parallel Hansel.  So they have this whole scene with Parallel Hansel taunting Zelena, telling her to let Chad see her for who she really is, and Zelena pointing out that he can’t go around blaming her for the choices he and Parallel Gretel made, or kill other people for her mistakes.  In the end, Parallel Hansel lunges in for the kill, but Zelena manages to get the upper hand.  But she refuses to kill him, even to save her own life.  Instead, she simply manages to knock him out before going to help free Chad.

In the aftermath of the confrontation, while waiting for the police to come pick up the handcuffed Parallel Hansel, Zelena tries to come up with a way to explain things to Chad without getting into the whole fairy tale bits, telling him that she was a different person before they met, and she had hurt a lot of people.  She explains that, when she was with Chad, she finally felt free of her past, but she goes on to tell him that she won’t hold it against him if he decides to call off the engagement, as he didn’t sign up for any of her past baggage.  However, Chad ends up being much more understanding than Ivo was, stating that when he gave Zelena/Kelly the ring, he was signing up for everything, even the parts of her that he doesn’t know.  He points out that Zelena had every opportunity to kill Parallel Hansel but she didn’t. That alone proves that, whatever she might have been in the past, she was a different person now.  As such, the engagement is back on, much to Zelena’s delight.   I do wonder if Chad believes that Zelena/Kelly was involved in the Witness Protection Program or something.  Margot certainly seemed to think so when she started to excitedly ask her if she was a crime boss in the past.  Regardless, it looks as if Zelena is no longer going to be involved in future episodes, as she plans to return to San Francisco with Chad, with Regina letting her know that she won’t hold it against her should Zelena leave before the curse is broken and Henry is cured of his poisoning.  Because Zelena deserves to find happiness.  However, Margot admits that she wants to stay in Hyperion Heights because of her budding friendship with Tilly.  Zelena approves of this, probably knowing that Margot has met Alice’s cursed persona of Tilly.  But before she leaves, Zelena gives Margot old Emerald Medallion, asking her to wear it as her maid of honor at the wedding.

Now, what about Parallel Hansel, who is in police custody?  Well, this is when things get a bit confusing.  Throughout the episode, we got this weird subplot with Facilier approaching Drew/Naveen, reminding him of the fact that he’s still indebted to Facilier. Part of Facilier’s plan for Naveen to earn Sabine/Tiana’s trust is so Naveen can get access to Sabine’s food truck in order to get Facilier some of the powdered sugar used for the beignets.  Because Facilier needed to sprinkle some of that powdered sugar onto a voodoo doll of Parallel Hansel.   Facilier then takes the sugar covered voodoo doll to the police station where he manages to slip into the interrogation room where Parallel Hansel is being held without being detected by the cops.   Facilier starts monologing, explaining that he was the one who woke up Parallel Hansel because he planned to use him as an attack dog of sorts against the Coven of Eight. Particularly Gothel herself.  But Facilier is angry that Parallel Hansel got sidetracked by his personal vendetta against Zelena and got himself caught as a result. As punishment, Facilier kills Parallel Hansel with the voodoo doll.

I’m admittedly rather disappointed that they just killed Parallel Hansel off like that.  There’s so many wasted opportunities now.  We’re probably never going to see Jacinda and Lucy react to the knowledge that Nick turned out to be a serial killer.  And imagine how Henry will feel once he wakes up.  It’s clear that he and Parallel Hansel/Jack were close friends.  And now Henry’s going to have to come to terms with the fact that there was a side of his friend he never knew, and he won’t even have a chance to talk about it with that friend.  Not to mention I really wanted to see Parallel Hansel come to understand where he went wrong.  Maybe even to the point when he lets go of his prejudices and his anger at Zelena. Instead, he’s unceremoniously killed off.  But then again, it has been a while since the show really let people just be people.

Though I’m wondering what the significance of the powdered sugar is going to be.  What was the point of Facilier sprinkling some of the powdered sugar onto the voodoo doll?  Is this going to end up being his attempt at framing Sabine for Parallel Hansel’s murder? Because I think it’s pretty much been indicated that Facilier was the one who framed Tilly for the murders of the Lady Doctor and Blind Baker.  And how does Naveen/Drew fit into all of this?

Now, I’ve seen a few people comparing Parallel Hansel to Greg Mendel/Owen Flynn, the guy who harbored a grudge against Regina back in S2B.  I can sort of see where they’re coming from, as there are certainly similar elements.  Owen Flynn adopted the alias of Greg Mendel during his quest to find out what happened to his father, and developed a strong grudge against Regina, who had separated father and son in the first place.  And Parallel Hansel clearly adopted the alias of Jack and harbored a grudge against Zelena for burning him, and for not saving them from the Gingerbread Witch.  And both were killed off rather abruptly, before they were granted an opportunity to make peace with their tragic backgrounds and let go of their grudges.

However, I think this is where the similarities end.  In Greg/Owen’s case, Regina knowingly separated father and son, and later killed the father in cold blood.  And when she was confronted by Greg upon her recognizing him as the little boy she’d once known, she showed no sign of remorse over what she’d done and even lied about it to his face.  She only admits her crime after being tortured, but when she does, she virtually gloats about it.

Zelena, on the other hand? While it’s true she was in the wrong when she initially neglected to help free Parallel Hansel and Parallel Gretel, and was also wrong to burn Parallel Hansel’s arm, she genuinely did try to do the right thing and reunite the children with their father.  And when Zelena learns that the serial killer who was targeting her is Parallel Hansel, you do see that she feels remorse for what she did.  And in their confrontation, while Zelena does make a few witty remarks, she never actually taunts Parallel Hansel over what she did to him.  In fact, she even admits straight out that she deserves whatever Parallel Hansel might have in store for her.

To be honest, I felt this whole backstory with Zelena and Parallel Hansel had more in common with Killian Prime and Boy Baelfire than it did with Regina and Greg/Owen.  During their brief time together, Killian Prime and Boy Baelfire were forming a legitimate bond, with Killian Prime coming to love Baelfire as a surrogate son.  And I think it’s extremely possible that Killian Prime would have sincerely changed and given up his desire to get revenge on Rumpelstiltskin in order to be a proper father figure for Baelfire.  But the moment Boy Baelfire finds out about Killian Prime’s previous connection to his mother, he instantly closes himself off, letting that one issue completely overshadow everything he and Killian Prime had previously shared and refusing to even give Killian Prime a chance to prove his desire to change. Which, in turn, results in Killian Prime closing himself off as well, allowing Pan’s minions to abduct the boy. Yeah, just change the names and faces, and this new backstory of Zelena’s is exactly the same as that particular chapter in Killian Prime’s life.  Taking that into consideration, it’s rather ironic that Zelena and Wish Killian (whose backstory is supposed to be identical to Killian Prime’s) will probably end up being co-in-laws one day.

So, with that, we’re down the final five episodes.  And it appears the next one is going to focus on the backstory behind Alice’s alliance with Rumpelstiltskin.  And Facilier is involved somehow.  Maybe now we’ll finally know why Facilier is after the dagger.  And why Rumpy Rumps went all Crocky again.  That aside, can we please just have everyone else wake up already?  Because the only people who aren’t awake now are Henry, Parallel Ella, Tiana, Wish Killian, Alice and Robyn.  And it’s really starting to frustrate me, because those are the people I want to wake up the most.  Because those are the people I’m genuinely interested in this season.

(Click here to read more Episode Analyses)

[vincevangothh]

Writing prompt: Neil and Andrew talking about touching and consent

ao3 link: http://archiveofourown.org/works/11382927/chapters/25487493

oK so i’m an absolute mess n i wasn’t sure how to take n this n i’m sleep deprived n it’s past midnight n i have a feeling this may be horrendous but it’s too late i’ve committed now also this kinda became angsty?? but it get better i swear and i managed to avoid triggering shit so i guess there’s one achievement

Like most moments or conversations that hold even a sliver of significance, it starts on the roof. The autumn air is just cold enough to make skin hurt, just cold enough to be an anchor and remind them where they are, who they are, how things are - to stop them from sinking a little too deep into their own minds - and such sensation intermingled with that of each other’s presence is enough to leave Neil feeling so soft and safe he really can’t even try to suppress his smile as he shifts his body around to face Andrew, the crunch of gravel beneath him as he moves grounding him even more. He’s finally himself, finally able to smile at the notion of being completely himself, trying more and more to clutch tightly to that sense of self and it feels like flying, equally unequivocally freeing and undeniably terrifying.

 Andrew’s eyes on him contrast the cool air, the gaze burning into his cheek as his left index finger reaches towards the other side of Neil’s face, digging into the flesh of his cheek hard enough to redirect his line of sight to Andrew. Neil finds himself once again trying to suppress a smile at the fact even Andrew Minyard wants attention sometimes, no matter how unconventionally he gets it, but this line of thought gets halted in its tracks when he hears the words “Yes or no?”

“It’s always yes with you,” is Neil’s default answer at this point; it comes slipping out of his mouth like a reflex. It’s enough - Andrew leans closer to him, his hands slide up to cup Neil’s face, it’s all very slow and sensual and the sunset makes everything feel eight times more wondrous and they’re so close he can see the blonde tips of Andrew’s eyelashes and even they are getting blurrier and it’s good. It’s really, really good.

But they don’t kiss. Their lips brush against each other and it’s uncharacteristically soft and warm and Neil’s just about to start applying more pressure even if it is against his better judgement when Andrew mutters “Stop saying stupid shit.” against his mouth before pulling back, leaving Neil cold and confused. And ever-so-slightly irritated, even if he knows he shouldn’t be and a horrible guilty feeling arises in his stomach at such a thought.

“We’ve had this discussion before,” he says boldly, eyes trained on Andrew’s as the hands on his face slide down to either side of his neck. “It’s hardly my fault that you can’t accept the truth.”

“I’m not the one with issues with the truth.” Andrew replies flawlessly, his face falling into a blank expression and his voice clear and bored all over again and Neil’s irritated at such a sudden regain of self-control and the recollection of such a topic again.

“I told you I’d stop lying to you. I promised.”

“And yet here we are.” Andrew’s hands slip away from Neil’s skin and the cold feels even more biting now, on areas that had just been almost on fire. He shifts until his body is facing the edge of the roof again, legs hanging off the side, no longer looking at or even acknowledging Neil’s presence - an easy indicator that he’s trying not to feel something for Neil again (his guess this time is annoyance).

“I’m not lying to you.”

“You are.” Andrew’s eyes map the sky. “‘Always’ is a lie.”

“‘Always’ is a word,” Neil snaps back.

“Words have meanings, idiot.” Andrew says, and it’s as close to acknowledgement as Neil knows he’s going to get. “‘Always’ isn’t trustworthy.”

“Why?” Something somewhere inside of Neil already knows the answer to this question, he thinks, but it seems necessary to ask anyway. He’s not always the greatest at judgement, apparently.

“I don’t trust you to say no.” Andrew replies, and there it is. Cards on the table. And now Neil finds himself turning away, legs hanging off the side of the roof and body facing outwards, watching the sky instead of the indeterminable expression on Andrew’s face, because it’s too much. Looking at Andrew is too much. There’s a horrible feeling rooted somewhere inside him that he can’t quite place but it feels like it’s about to consume him and there’s a lump in his throat. He wants to ask for more - for an explanation, but the words “I don’t trust you” have successfully rendered him utterly speechless. He remembers that feeling of smug pride that had filled him when his words had been enough to render Andrew speechless, and the thought is good but at the same time bittersweet. He can’t help but hope Andrew isn’t feeling that same sense of achievement.

Andrew’s legs are kicking, he notices, and it’s almost a good sign. There are parts of Andrew he can read like a book at this point, and kicking his legs puts him off balance. Enhances his fear. Makes him feel something. Allows him to claim any feeling his revelation has conjured up to be fear. Andrew may be unapologetically honest, but Neil had long since learned that this rule applied to everyone except Andrew himself. It’s one of his greatest flaws - as much as he won’t admit it, he cannot accept certain truths about himself, so he tries to find other ways to explain things, to trick himself into thinking the way he wants to.

He’s also a man of few words, thus Neil expects the conversation to end there unless he can find his voice again and prompt him to continue. He knows for now that they’re stuck at a stalemate, both of them too stubborn and too exhausted to try and continue such a tedious and meaningful conversation, and eventually the silence becomes much too raucous for Neil’s liking. He goes inside.

The conversation isn’t brought up again until they go to bed. Andrew is already lying down with a book in his hand when Neil walks into the room, nose wrinkling momentarily to stop his glasses from sliding down his face, and that single movement is enough to make all of his frustration from the evening dissipate, until Andrew shifts backwards so his back is pressed firmly against the wall and he pulls the covers out in offering, his eyes never moving from the book. That single movement is enough for all of Neil’s confusion and probably misplaced annoyance to come hurtling back, and even though he accepts the olive branch and slides in next to Andrew, this time he can’t hold his tongue.

“If you don’t trust me to say no,” he starts, eyes trained on Andrew to search for a hint of acknowledgement, to no avail, “then how can you trust me to say yes?”

It’s probably harsh, he knows that, but it’s a thought that can’t leave his head and he’s never quite been able to master the art of tactful speech - his form of tact comes in silence instead, usually.

Andrew places the book down on his lap, closes his eyes and runs a hand through his hair and it’s the closest to a loss of control that Neil’s seen from him all day. His heart thumps a little louder.

“I don’t know if I can.” He replies, his tone not quite as even as he seems to have tried to make it, betraying the sense of resignation curled around the words. But it’s not enough - perhaps Neil is a junkie after all because he finds himself needing more, needing better, and he feels absolutely pathetic, but he says something anyway.

“But you have been.”

“It’s not that I don’t trust you,” Andrew’s response is so immediate that it startles Neil slightly. They’re facing each other now, lying parallel to each other and somewhere along the line Andrew’s taken one of Neil’s hands to play with his fingers and stare at, and Neil is finding it harder and harder not to get distracted. “But I do not know if I can trust you if I want to try something new.”

“Why?” Neil’s voice is softer now, hoarse and barely above a whisper, all frustration far gone.

“You have a martyr complex.” Neil opens his mouth to protest, but Andrew reaches the hand not currently occupied with his and places an index finger over his lips to shut him up. Neil kisses it without even thinking. “I do not trust you not to get too distracted by my progress. You think about my boundaries so much that I cannot trust you not to forget your own.”

Neil is holding Andrew’s hand to his mouth now, kissing his palm and sliding his own spare hand against it while Andrew’s other hand bends and stretches his fingers. For the first time that night Neil realises how intimate this is, how much trust every touch and every word possesses, and though he’s never quite forgot it, sometimes he doesn’t quite realise the extent of such a thing.

“I’ve never heard you say no.” Andrew finishes with, and Neil knows the hidden meaning behind that. ‘I need you to be able to say no.’

“I’ve never needed to,” he replies, kissing the tips of each of Andrew’s fingers, because it’s the truth and he knows that what Andrew needs is reassurance and honesty, so that’s what he’ll give him.

“Let’s make a new deal.” Neil finally suggests, and this, this, is enough to make Andrew’s gaze finally shift to his face again. And it’s good, feeling the glare of hazel eyes silently encouraging him to continue. “I promise to always say no when I need to, no matter what we’re doing. And in return, you can promise to always respect that no,” he states, quickly adding on the end: “not that I don’t trust you not to respect that no anyway but you’re the best person I know at keeping promises.”

He knows he’s said something right when Andrew’s face stops looking bored. There’s still no determinable expression etched into his features, but it’s no longer stuck in such a tight leash, instead appearing calmer and yet angrier all at once.

“I hate you.” Comes the reply, solid and reassuring as ever. “167%.”

“Is that a deal?” Neil simply asks, pulling on both of his hands so that he can hold both of his and Andrew’s close to his chest, a ghost of a smile hanging off the corner of his lips.

“Deal.” Andrew responds, leaning instantly forward and kissing Neil like he’s stuck in a desert and Neil is an oasis - everything he wants and everything he can’t have. Everything he doesn’t want to want. A pipe-dream.

send me your aftg prompts!!!

[imaginesnkdorks]

“Thank Goodness for Crazy”

| 01 | 02 | 03 | 04 | 05 | 06 | 07 | 08 | 09 | 10 |

Part VI: A Day in My New Life

Pairing: Erwin/Reader;

Summary: Reader is just your regular gal from our world, but that changed one day when she woke up in the world of Titans. Giving a fake name to Erwin Smith who found her, she tries to understand the world she’s thrust upon and to survive in it. And try she did. And she thinks she could be Mulan, now. But then she found out it wasn’t that easy.

Note to self: think twice before enlisting for the military. Mulan sure made it seem easy. With just one round of “Make a Man Out of You”, they’re all experts at hand on hand combat and at firing missiles.

Me? I’m a heap on the floor, with my body aching all over.

My chest moves up and down rapidly as I try my best to catch my breath. A gentle laugh rang around; it was almost musical. Then a hand reached out to me.

“Come now, just one more round and we’ll call it a day.” My teacher Erwin said, urging me to grab his hand.

“No... hah, … Can’t we … ahh … take … a break? Hah” Impossible. I can hardly lift my head, let alone the rest of my body. Erwin then laid down beside me, both of us staring at the smog free sky.

As I lay there catching my breath, I can’t help but remember the look on Erwin’s face when I told him I wanted to join the Survey Corps.

His eyes were like saucers, and you don’t need to be a master of observation to say that he was surprised out of his mind.

I really don’t know if I should take it as a complement or as an insult.

Anyhow, once he recovered from his state of surprise, he gave me his answer: “No.”

“What do you mean no?” I practically yelled at him. Seriously, my voice was so high-pitched it rivals Bernadette’s voice from the Big Bang Theory.

“It’s far too dangerous! You saw how it is outside the walls, you were in the middle of it all!”

For a moment there I just stared at him with my mouth hanging agape. I gotta say, hearing Erwin scream at me is scary. I felt like I’ve done something terrible and I sure am going to pay for it bigtime.

Also, I’m taken aback by his intensity. Like, what is your problem, Erwin? Is he that concerned about me?

Composing himself, he spoke again. He was still obviously on edge, but he did his best to keep his tone in check. It was painfully obvious.

“There is a high number of casualty every expedition, and most of them are new recruits. New soldiers who spent the last three years training.”

With a sharp, intake of breath I finally found my voice, “alright. I understand, but that’s why I want you to teach me. Come on, if you think I’m not ready then don’t let me out the wall. Please?” And I gave him the best puppy eyes I could muster.

 A poke on my cheek tore me from my thoughts.

“What are you smiling about?” Inquired Erwin, a playful grin on his mouth.

“I was smiling? I can hardly breathe; I doubt I was smiling.” I said. Clearly, my argument is weak as I can breathe perfectly fine now. Apparently, my little flashback was a good five minutes.

Erwin just looked at me, the bastard doesn’t believe me. Ugh.

Yielding, I told him the truth, “I was thinking about how I convinced you to train me. You looked so funny with your eyes all big and round.”

He laughed at that. “Well, it was the last thing I thought I’d ever hear from you.” Turning his body sideways to look at me, he went on, “You just doesn’t seem like someone who’d hurt a fly.”

Mimicking his move, I looked him straight in the eye and told him in the most serious tone I could, “you thought wrong.” I also threw in the most wicked smile I can do.

We soon forgot to resume training and spent the rest of our time talking. We mostly talked about my world as Erwin is tight lipped about his childhood.

So I spun some crazy, wonderful world for him based on Pokémon and Game of Thrones. The thing about Pokémon masters and their trustworthy partners catches his attention. I think we’re both thinking about controlling titans.

“I’ve been a soldier for almost two decades, and I’ve never seen a single titan that can be domesticated.” Bingo. He is thinking about it, too.

“Yeah, well that would just be crazy.”

And our topic went to the most random things, like food, animals, fish and plants that can be found within the walls. It was very limited – they don’t even know monkeys. It took me ten minutes just to describe monkeys. Who would’ve thought it’d be hard to convey? It’s like trying to describe a fucking color.

The sunset alerted us that we wasted yet another day on idle chatter. Honestly, we train for like, three hours a day. In between Erwin’s busy schedule and my motor-mouth, we can’t get much done.

The grass crunched as Erwin stood up, he then offered his hand and helped me stand.

By this time, almost every other officer is in the mess hall. I’ve been here for a while and I’m glad to say that I’ve made friends.

“Andi!” Hange squealed when she saw me enter. This woman’s so noisy! She literally grabbed me violently away from Erwin, and dragged me to “our” table. Turns out she just finished crafting a net for catching a titan.

Erwin soon arrived and can’t do anything aside from sighing and shaking his head in exasperation. He knows he can’t win against Hange when it comes to handling me.

You might have guessed that Hange can be really rough. I don’t really mind, but there are times she leaves bruises. I don’t really know if this crazy bitch loves me or hates me. But I guess it’s just that she’s excited like all the freaking time.

Erwin, on the other hand treats me like I’m breakable. To be honest, it makes me feel nice. But most of the time it’s disappointing to be thought of as someone weak. I think I get where feminists are coming from. But that’s neither here nor there.

The only person who acts pretty much normally around me is Nanaba, whom I thought she was a really cute guy at first. And let me just say that the first few days between us was awkward. Don’t ask why, I feel embarrassment all over again.

Anyways, Hange was still blabbering about god-knows-what as we eat. I assume it’s the usual titan crap. Honestly, after the initial excitement, I soon got tired of hearing about it. I was so successful in tuning her out that I didn’t realize someone else was talking, and was talking to me.

“Damn Erwin, you broke Andi!” My dear friend Nanaba complained. Apparently, she’s been talking for a while.

“What?” I asked to no one in particular. I can feel my cheeks heat up as I become flustered about this.

“I was asking if you’d like to spar some time. You’ve been training for a month now, and by Erwin at that. I’m sure you’ll do fine against me.” Nanaba answered. Her face was so freaking serious I can’t help but just swallow some nonexistent saliva, as my throat was suddenly dry.

I’m nervous, of course! I’ve only been training for almost a month, and only on basic hand on hand combat. Nanaba, on the other hand has been a soldier for a couple of years, and has spent three years before that training.

I guess my fear was apparent – I don’t know which gave me away; my skin probably turning a sickly green, extreme goosebumps you’ll think I have to poop, or my hand shaking – that Mike, the equivalent of a bomb-sniffing dog spoke up, “you’re scaring her Nanaba. Turn that evilness in your eyes down a notch.”

Good thing it was him that spoke. Nanaba tends to listen more to him, I’ll make sure to remember that so I could tease her. And boy, I’ll take pleasure in her flustered face.

I was just starting to recover from anxiety when Erwin spoke up, “I wouldn’t be so confident if I were you, Nanaba.” And with that, a cocky smile played on his lips. Unexpectedly, Mike was the one who answered him.

“Really now, Erwin? Nanaba can do jabs in her sleep.”

“Wonderful. Andi here can render a man unconscious with her powerful roundhouse kick. I’m not sure if a mere jab would be effective against that.”

“Oh, that’d be difficult. But it wouldn’t be a problem if the kick didn’t hit in the first place.”

Oh my god. I guess wherever you are, boys will be boys. The rest of us watched in awe as this goes on back and forth between them. Me and Nanaba had the same face, a mix of surprise and annoyance.

Damn Erwin haven’t even taught me the kicks. All he did was make me punch a bag and work on my foot work, we’ll lay down trying to breathe that’s only me, though), talk, then call it a day.

I haven’t even learned how to operate that zip line thingy they call a 3DM gear.

Dinner time ended with Erwin and Mike passive-aggressively “attacking” each other. I honestly can’t tell if those were friendly jabs or not, but I seriously couldn’t care less because I am going to have a duel with Nanaba a week from now!

Hange, being the asshole that she is decided to make the event “fun” and have bets. And this only hyped up the boys, like they’re the ones fighting.

The walk back to my room was silent. I can’t deny that I’m both pissed and anxious about the events, and when I’m like this I really don’t want to talk. Good thing Erwin was silent as well. As we reached our rooms and I opened my door, Erwin broke the silence.

“We’ll begin training tomorrow at five in the morning.” His face was so serious you’d think he was outside the walls facing off one on one with a titan.

All I did was mutter a weak “ok.” He then ruffled my hair and went off to who-knows-where. I guess he’ll be making a special training regimen for me, his room is right next to mine! I gulped and made a silent wish, “this better make me a fucking good soldier someday.”

Copyright © 2017 by imaginesnkdorks. All rights reserved

[cloudbattrolls]

Two Birds

Erikaa Josiet || 1st Timeline, 6.8 sweeps

“Again.”

Cherie winks at you from their nonchalant slouch a foot and a half below you, and your scowl only seems to cheer them up, as usual. But there’s something to be said for unflinching pep in the face of dark, desolate odds.

Circumstances otherwise known as your weekly combat lesson.

You push against them again, your blade to theirs, and as they yawn you want to throw them off of the palace roof. 

Your instructor is equally as bored by your display, but couples it with a curl of her scarred lip like she just smelled meowbeast piss. 

“Again, Josiet.”

It’s pointless! Small as Cherie is, lower-caste as they are, they’re still stronger than you. Sweat drips down your pale forehead, so unlike the dark, unstained features of the cobalt.

You position your feet differently in the dust of the training yard, trying to shut out the scuffles of your classmates around you. That’s the only good thing about these sessions - everybody’s too busy trying to hit everyone else to gawk at you.

Cherie actually yelps when you come at them from an angle they weren’t expecting, and they fall onto the dirt with an amusing thud, dropping their blade as their dreadlocks splay out.

You look at your instructor, whose expression hasn’t changed.

“That - “ says the cerulean, voice delicately inflected with disdain. “ - was surely one of the most tragically comedic exchanges I’ve ever seen. Dolcez, a limbless rust with no psiionics could have caught you off guard. If you don’t respect your opponents, they will kill you before the fight has even started.”

You savor the warmth of the moment, but then she turns her gaze on you, fingers steepled as the moonlight glints off of her armor.

“Josiet...” She lets your name hang, and your face burns. “...your technique was poor. If Dolcez hadn’t been such a dozy idiot, your little trick wouldn’t have worked at all. A troll who was half awake would have read your body language and adjusted accordingly. You’re far too obvious with your reactions; your face and shoulders are an open book, and you’re very lucky your ears can’t give you away.” She finishes, flicking one of her own large, rounded ones.

What do you know? Your caste’s pupas aren’t even good enough to train with us. You’re barely worth more than a teal.

You hold your tongue and mutter your thanks, trying to drive the dull purple flush from your cheeks. Cherie’s now vertical again and busily brushing dirt off their clothes, hardly seeming interested in the instructor’s words at all.

You sigh, and position yourself for another attempt.

--

“’Oneffly, I don’t - ”

“Are you ever going to learn to chew with your mouth shut, Cherie? I’ve seen prettier sights in the lusus pens during cleaning time.”

They roll their eyes at you, but swallow the mouthful anyway before busily shoveling in another. You don’t know they can even eat; you’ve barely poked at your meal. None of it seems appetizing. Granted, you feel that way about the palace food at the best of times, and it’s one of the few things you can agree with the rest of your class on - but Cherie never seems to care.

“Anyway, I was saying...I don’t even see the point of making us learn to fight. We’re gonna be commanders, ain’t we?” They say, slipping back into that obnoxious rust slang you keep trying to break them of.

“The only thing you’re going to be commander of is the reject brigade. And there is so a point; every highblood has to learn to fight. It’s against the spectrum if we don’t; we have to know how to defend ourselves from monsters and lower-caste rubbish and each other. Plus, aliens! Duh!”

‘Duh’ is a bad habit you’ve picked up from them, but you can’t help it - there’s something so satisfying about tacking it onto a sentence when you need to make a point.

“What, aliens? Don’t we just blast ‘em from space?” They say, bemused. “Seems like the right way to do it. Asides - Besides, I don’t have to worry about any of you bunch stabbing me. You’re all too busy squabbling with other and you forget to look down.” They say, taking more enthusiastic bites of...whatever the hell they’re eating. Mashed potatoes? You hope so.

“One night you’re just going to piss somebody off so much they remember you’re there, trust me.” You retort grumpily. “You didn’t answer me about lower castes, and how can you eat that garbage anyway?”

“It’s this or starve.” They say, shrugging. “Plus I don’t know anything about lower castes.”

You snort at their first comment - the sugar glider troll is as round as you are thin, not in any danger of withering away in the near or even distant future. But the second thing they say has your eyebrows narrowing.

“Cherie, you told me you grew up among - ”

“Shh! Not here.” It’s the look of alarm on their face far more than their words that actually renders you silent. You’ve never known the blueblood to look this urgent about anything.

So you nod, and finally will yourself to take a bite of your own food.

--

The two of you are busy feeding your secret nest of birds again, both fresh from the showers, when they finally speak.

“Yeah, it was rusts. But I can’t tell you anything about them. All I can say is that everything the proctors teach is wrong, but I don’t know what the truth is.”

Your features are quizzical, but for once, Cherie isn’t quick with their tongue, and their gaze is focused outward, not looking up at you at all. For once, you decide to be patient.

“They say that rusts are the lowest, and that’s true I guess, but they also say only idiots can be caught off guard by them, or hurt by them. I think they make that up to keep us from being scared.” They say, and laugh, but it’s not a happy sound.

“The palace rusts, I guess they’ve been trained all proper. They’re probably not a threat, elsewise they wouldn’t be allowed to serve us. But mine...haha, I say mine, they weren’t anybody’s. Not the Empire’s, anyway. Not in Kuikiro. I must’ve been the only troll above yellow for miles; I never saw someone who wasn’t low until I was five. 

These rusts, they knew it was just me and Gliderdad...I’m strong, so they gave me all the jobs that they couldn’t do, or what strained their psi, or whatever was dirty and unpleasant I guess. I didn’t even have a cobalt’s stipend, thanks to some jade making a mistake. Wasn’t like I could just leave. But oh, Eri...they made the most beautiful things. I went to Dimasqa, when I was five and a half, and there’s so much art...I forgot I was hungry, looking at that, thought I could drink it all in and live off it.”

Why were you even hatched a cobalt at all? You ask them silently. They’d make a much better lowblood, or maybe green. This answers so much about them. Almost too much; you feel uncomfortable at how honest they are. This isn’t how highbloods should be with one another.

Yet...you don’t entirely mind. What’s wrong with you?

“They’re a lot like highbloods, only they die more quickly, and they have powers. But they’re not stupid workers, either. They tried to see how long it took me to bleed heavily, and I think they were really just curious - they didn’t understand that a blue felt pain, or could get malnutrition. S’why I’m short, you know. With wrigglers who weren’t me, some of them were even kind and shared their lusii...” They pause and shake their head. “So I don’t understand rusts. At least highbloods follow some kind of order - fight things, kill things, boss people around.”

You sit there, having long run out of food for the birds, blinking as you try to absorb all of this. 

“Couldn’t you use your powers?” You say in a small voice. You know Cherie has psi, though you’ve never seen them use it, and the proctors have never mentioned it outside of that one conversation you eavesdropped on.

They shake their head. “I don’t know what they do. I’m too weak to use them on my own. Only time I ever got close to making anything besides sparks happen was when some maroon tried fiddling with my pan, but somehow I latched onto him and started sucking his power out, and I felt the world crackle around me; then I got kicked over by his friend. So I know they’re really cool, but your guess’s as good as mine for how they’d come out.”

You actually feel slightly sympathetic toward Cherie; you may not have highblood strength, but psiionics you couldn’t even use would be almost as bad. Something you know you have in you, but always just out of reach.

“That must be hard.” You murmur out loud, without even realizing it’s coming from your mouth and not just your pan until their face lights up with the goofiest grin you’ve ever seen. You immediately regret saying anything, ever, and squawk in protest; but it’s too late, they’re hugging you and you make an exaggerated face of disgust as the little blueblood cuddles you - or as much of you as they can reach, anyway.

“I knew you’d understand, Eri!”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever, at least it explains why you’re so annoying and weird.” You grumble half-heartedly, looking up to hide the purple flush on your face. 

That cerulean is right. You really need to learn to control your reactions.