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hyunniesgirl · 11 months

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Another Love | part 1

Summary: you've been hopelessly in love with Han since you were children. One night you confess your feelings to him.

Words count: 8,539

Warnings for this part: lots of angst, drunk people, drunk Han is petty asf

A/N: So I made that pool asking if I should post this fic in chapters or a 20,000+ words chapter and the long ass chapter won but at the time my mind told me I would be able to finish the whole fic before posting it... Jokes on me I need validation and feedback for me to write so yeah let's do this in chapters, sorry

A/N2: I had this idea for quite some time now but got suddenly inspired listening to the song another love.

You're done. Really, you can't take it anymore. You've known Han Jisung since elementary school, you have been basically joined at the hip since then, your parents even became best friends because of you two.

You don't know exactly when you fell in love with him, was it on your second day at school when he invited you to play with him because he noticed you were all alone? Was it when someone made an awkward joke about your messed up hair cut in second grade and he picked a fight with them? Maybe it was the very first moment you laid eyes on him, joking around with everyone and being the most popular kid in the classroom. You really can't remember, but the thing you're sure of is: Han Jisung doesn't like you back.

You've always known that, but inside you there was a tiny bit of hope that one day he would wake up and suddenly love you back.

That didn't happen though. You are now 23 and he has never ever shown the smallest amount of romantic interest in you.

"That's fine", you thought to yourself, ever since you realized your feelings for him, "I'm going to stay with him his entire life, that doesn't sound so bad"

Until it started to sound really bad. What are you gonna do? See him getting a girlfriend, then getting engaged and eventually married? Would you always be there on the sidelines listening to his lovesick whines about the woman he loves so much? Would you be the godmother to his children? By then, would you have gotten over him already? Or would you keep this up forever, marrying someone just because you can't stay alone and being in love with your best friend for the rest of your life? That was the moment you knew you had to stop, you can't keep this up.

Coincidentally Han broke up with his last girlfriend a few months ago, you thought that would be a good opportunity for you to be his rebound, yeah, pretty dignified of you.

So you dress up really pretty, hair up, a dress that always made Han compliment you and to finish it off—the necklace he gave you on your 12th birthday.

You think this is it, this is the day you're going to tell him how much you love him and maybe, just maybe he will contemplate giving you a chance.

When he arrives at your shared apartment, with two cans of beer and fried chicken, you give him a cheerful greeting, setting the table and trying to gather courage to speak.

"So, how was practice?", you begin, maybe some small talk will help you relax.

"It was good, we are almost done with the album", he says, typing something on his phone. "How was your day?", he asks, putting the device on the table and looking at you.

"Good, I had class in the morning and tutoring in the afternoon", you take a sip of your beer, "one of the mothers actually recommended me to other parents and I'm gonna start tutoring more students next week"

He smiles, "that's good, you're really smart"

You blush, bringing the back of your hands to your face to try and lessen the hot skin of your cheeks with the cold of your hands.

"Actually, I want to talk to you", you start, it's now or never.

"Sure-", Jisung stops mid sentence when his phone buzzes. "Just a minute", he looks at the screen and smiles, your heart sinks at the sight. You know that smile too well, you have seen it dozens of times. You feel your insides turning over. It's the smile meant only for the person he likes.

"Hey, Lia. Yeah, totally, I can talk right now", he picks up the call and once again asks you for a minute lifting his index finger, he walks towards the balcony and closes the glass door after going through it.

He's laughing about something, is she even that funny or is he just trying to win her favor? She's pretty, you know it. All of his girlfriends looked like models. You sigh, looking at yourself and feeling awful, suddenly you don't feel pretty anymore, you actually feel ridiculous.

Why did you think things would change just because you got brave enough to speak up? Jisung sees you as a best friend and nothing more, you have to come to terms with that.

Your mind is rushing, thinking about what you're going to do now? Can you keep being friends with him? Yeah, of course, he's your best friend, you won't end your friendship because you can't control your feelings. But you'll need time, right? You won't be able to get over this unrequited love if you keep seeing him everyday, doing everything with him and sleeping in the same house.

"So, what do you want to talk about?", he asks, sitting again. You didn't even notice he had come back inside.

You sigh, you'll tell him about it all and then you'll find the strength in you to move on.

"I like you", you say so low you're not sure he heard you. But he did, he smiles and chuckles.

"I like you too, we're best friends for a reason", he stretches his arm to take a fried chicken.

"No, I like like you", you admit, hugging yourself, feeling cold suddenly, you look around and see Han left the door to the balcony open. "I've been in love with you since I can remember", you complete.

The look on his face would be funny if it wasn't tragic, his brows are furrowed in confusion and his eyes have a very familiar look: fear. Of course, he's afraid of losing his best friend, you already guessed that much.

"Y/N I-", you notice his breathing quickening. "I'm sorry, I never knew", he says, shoulders slumping, his arms dropping to the side of his body.

"Yeah, I know you didn't", you say. He's still staring at you with so much hurt in his eyes. Jisung knows he will have to turn you down and it's going to hurt him a lot, but not as much as it will hurt you and he never ever wanted to hurt you.

"I'm sorry, I don't know what to say", he takes a deep breath, "I never thought about you in that way, I'm really sorry, I don't feel the same"

You're not going to cry, you decided that the moment you saw fear in his eyes. It's not his fault you like him, he can't fall in love with you just because you love him. You're not going to cry and make him feel worse than you can tell he's already feeling. But listening to those words it's worse than you could have expected, you feel like the world is crumbling around you.

"I know you don't", you smile sadly.

He looks more confused now.

"Then, why did you tell me?"

"It's just… I'm done with all this", you reply, getting up from your chair.

"Done with our friendship?" Han can feel all the air leaving his body while he waits for your answer.

You chuckle, fidgeting with your foot.

"No, I don't think I could ever be done with that", you smile trying to reassure him and he feels so relieved. "I can't keep doing this, I can't continue seeing you with other people and stay hurting alone"

"I can stop bringing people to the apartment and I'll never talk about them around you", he says trying to help and your stomach sinks a lot more. Why does he have to be so sweet?

"Actually, I'll need some time", you clear your throat, "I think I'm going to stay with Seungmin for the time being, he is looking for a roommate"

Han's eyes widen and he gets up, walking towards you.

"What are you talking about? Are you going to move out?"

"It's not something definitive, I'm going to stay there until he finds a new roommate and come back after that", you take a step back, noticing how close he is to you. "Luckily by then I'll be over you, I think I just need some personal space for now, where you're not there everytime I look, or your things aren't mixed with mine or your scent isn't around every room"

"Will you still speak to me?", he asks, he wants to hug you, to hold you in his arms and say how sorry he is for not feeling the same. But he knows he can't, the best thing he can do is to keep his distance from you right now.

"I think we should keep it restricted to apartment things for now, I'll keep paying my half of the rent since my things will still be here"

"You don't have to pay if you're not here"

Ever since Jisung started making good money he insisted that you didn't have to pay for rent since you only work part time as a tutor to pay for your living expenses but you always refused. Even though he earns a lot more than you it wouldn't be fair for him to be the only one paying and honestly, you felt that if he was the only one paying for it, you would feel too much like you were a couple.

"No, I'll pay you. This arrangement doesn't change the fact that we still share the apartment"

He nods, looking down, the awkward silence making you sick.

"I'm really sorry I hurt you", he whispers and all the crying you avoided over this whole conversation threatens to come out at that exact moment.

"It's not your fault", you say, "I'm sorry I made things awkward, just give me some time and we'll be back to how things were, okay?", you give him a reassuring smile even though you're not sure things will ever go back to the way it was.

You wake up feeling like shit, you cried your eyes out the moment you stepped into Seungmin's apartment. He was so sweet to you, staying awake until you calmed down and even offered you his room for you to sleep but you refused. He was already doing you a favor by letting you stay on his couch until he found a roommate.

You sit, stretching yourself, you slept pretty comfortably but all the stress from last night left your muscles sore.

"Are you feeling better?", you hear Seungmin's voice and look at the kitchen, he's making coffee. That reminds you of all the days you woke Han up with a nice and hot coffee so he wouldn't be in a bad mood waking up so early.

"I don't think so", you answer, shaking your head like that would make your thoughts disappear. "Can you get me some of that?", you ask and he smiles.

"Already on it", you start tidying up the blanket and the pillow you used.

"What are you going to do today?", Seungmin asks while you sit at the table.

"I have some tutoring to do and class in the afternoon, maybe I'll go shopping with Hannah later"

"That's good, try to keep yourself entertained at least for the next couple of days", he hands you the mug and you nod.

All your friends knew about your crush on Han and you made all of them swear they wouldn't tell him. You were afraid things would be awkward now, since Han was their friend before you met them, but they all showed you support now that you had confessed.

Hannah had offered you to stay with her, but she has a roommate that's really strict about everything in their apartment and you don't want to cause trouble to your friend by staying there. Luckily Seungmin's last roommate had moved a couple of weeks ago and he was looking for someone new, but by the way he's picky that's not going to happen so soon.

"Since I'll be staying here and you won't accept money because I won't be using a room, the groceries will be on me and I won't accept no for an answer", you say finishing your coffee and getting up. Seungmin sighs, rolling his eyes.

"I know you're going to buy it anyway, so I'll accept it"

"Then send me a list of whatever you need and I'll buy it tonight or tomorrow", you blow him a kiss, picking your bag from the floor and heading to the bathroom.

You take a long, hot, refreshing shower and pick some comfortable clothes to go to your tutoring session.

Seungmin's already gone when you go back to the kitchen, there's a message from him on your phone.

Minnie: I left some sliced fruit in the fridge for you, eat before going out.

Minnie: I'll send you the list later btw

You smile, having someone taking care of you is nice. For a second, it makes you forget the reason why you're there to begin with.

You feel like crying again, but you can't show up to your students house with red eyes and a puffy face.

The parents that are near each other usually ask you to teach their children together in longer sessions. That strengthens the bond the kids have while strengthening the connection between the families. That usually happens when the families are wealthy, they see an opportunity in their children's friendship to get on each other's good side.

Your parents started hanging out with Jisung's parents too, not because of connections but because you two were always in each other's houses. Once, you broke your arm falling from a tree you tried to climb following Han, his mother had to call yours and calm her down on the phone the entire time your mother was driving to the hospital to meet you. That day you got scolded by both and after they finished the lecture they looked at each other and smiled, bonding over the fear of something happening to their precious child.

When they went out to buy some coffee and talk, Jisung sat by the side of your hospital bed, lips pouting and tearing up.

"I'm sorry I dared you to follow me all the way up there", he says, taking the hand of your good arm and holding it.

"It's okay, now at least I have an exciting story to tell the others", you say and he smiles, whipping his eyes.

The noise of the gate opening wakes you up from your daydream, you have to stop thinking about Han if you want to get over him.

The kids come running in your direction the moment the housekeeper opens the door.

"Miss Y/N, look I got a 9.5 on my test", the girl smiles brightly showing you the paper with the grade marked in red.

"Woah, Misu, you're so smart, I don't think you even need me anymore", you bend to her height and she pouts, sometimes she acts like a little child when she's already 12.

"Of course I need you, you're the prettiest and smartest person I know", she says and you hear someone clear their throats by the stairs. It's Misu's mother.

"If I didn't agree with her I'd be hurt", she says and you smile.

"Good morning, Mrs. Kim, I only helped a little, Misu's really smart", you say and the girl shows you her white teeth, looking at her mother and waiting for some praise.

"Of course she is", she pats the girl's head. "Eun, aren't you going to say hi to Y/N?"

The boy is a few months younger than Misu but a lot more shy. You saw him coming with her when you arrived but got so engrossed in your conversation that forgot he was there in silence.

"Hello, miss Y/N", he says, polite as ever.

"Hi, Eun, did you get a good grade like Misu?"

He nods, showing you his test with 9.8 marked in red.

"He's smarter than me", Misu pouts.

"Congratulations, Eun", you say, patting his head, making him blush and you smile. "I think you are both really smart and I'm here to help you get even smarter"

Mrs. Kim tells you to go ahead and start the lesson and invites you to stay for lunch. You were pretty lucky with the parents you met till now, all of them were nice to you and cared a great deal about their children so it's a lighthearted job to do.

The kids are indeed smart, usually you don't have to explain the same thing more than twice and they always ask a lot of questions during your time with them.

A week goes by since you last saw Jisung, fortunately he didn't try contacting you. You're sure that if he did you'd break hearing his voice and would beg for him to like you back, giving up on any pride you still have left.

You arrive at school an hour before your classes begin, you're meeting Hannah at the cafe nearby so you can talk a bit.

You look at your phone, there's a message from her saying she's on the bus but the traffic is awful so she might be a little bit late.

You choose a table by the window, contemplating if you should order already or wait till Hannah arrives.

Looking outside, you remember the moment you heard the news that you got into this university. Yours and Jisung's family were at your parents house, you both were seated on the couch when you received the message saying the college entrance results came out. You couldn't type your information, you were trembling so much Han had to do it for you.

When you read your name and the word "accepted" you actually screamed, making your mother drop the plate she had in hands. Your father and Han's came running to see what happened when Jisung showed them the screen.

Your mother and father embraced you, telling how proud they were of you and Jisung's parents did the same, like you were their own daughter.

Jisung wrapped his arms around your waist and lifted you up, spinning you and making you burst out laughing. That moment was so good, you wanted to stay there forever.

"Earth to Y/N", you hear Hanna's voice and snap out of your thoughts, sighing. "Is everything okay?", she asks, worried.

"Yeah, I'm good", you say and she narrows her eyes, knowing you are not telling the truth.

Hannah left it at that though, you are going through a hard time and she doesn't want to push it.

Honestly, she don't expect you to be fine. Your lifelong crush had rejected you and to make things worse he is your best friend, so yeah, of course you are not okay.

"Then, I'm going to order", she drops her bag in the seat in front of you, "your usual?"

You nod, seeing her walk to the cashier. You met Hannah three years ago, when you started college. She's the total opposite of you, really outgoing and a total social butterfly, it seems those are the people you attract seeing how Han is the same.

She sat by your side on the first day, making a random joke and making you laugh, that's how she became your best friend. You didn't even have to tell her about your one sided love, she had to see only one interaction between you and Jisung to know exactly what was going on.

She is the one that urged you to tell him about your feelings and was very adamant about you moving on from him, she couldn't let you waste all your 20's being in love with someone that didn't like you back… or not the way you wanted to.

"So, I heard about a party", Hannah says, putting the pager on the table and sitting in front of you.

"There's like a hundred of those, you have to be more specific", you joke and she rolls her eyes.

"You know that guy from English literature? The one that dyed his hair pink last semester?"

"Yeah, it's kinda hard to forget about him", you laugh.

When Yunho came to school with pink hair a rumor of him becoming an idol started going around, everyone tried to be nice to him and all that shit but it turned out he just lost a bet.

"He's hosting this party in like a really big fancy place to celebrate his graduation", she finishes.

"That's nice", you say, fidgeting with your fingers under the table.

"Hmmm, are we going to go or what?", she asks and you glance at her.

"Were we invited?"

"Ahm, you're hot and I'm hot, why wouldn't we be invited?"

You laugh, knowing what she's doing. Hannah is more sensible than you give her credit for, you really thought she would ask about everything that happened on that night, but instead she has been trying to distract you for the past week and that is really nice of her.

She smiles, seeing you smile. Hannah knows you never give enough credit to yourself, you never think you're pretty enough, funny enough, cool enough or smart enough even though you're those things and much more. She approached you on your first day because there's just something about you, something bright and cheerful. When people are upset, mad or sad you always do your best to make them feel better, so Hannah felt this was her time to cheer you up.

The pager buzzes on the table and she gets up, going to the counter to get your orders.

You look at her coming back with a big grin in her lips, handing you the coffee with a note glued to the cup sleeve.

"To the girl with the yellow cardigan, I see you coming here often and I think you're cute, maybe we can hangout sometime? If you're up to it, text me: xxx xxxx-xxxx"

You blush, looking at the counter and seeing the cutest guy looking at you with flushed cheeks. He's so red you can see it from where you're seated. He smiles waving at you and you wave back.

Hannah has one eyebrow lifted looking at your interaction and you feel your cheeks even hotter.

"So, are you going to text him?", she asks, reading the note and you sigh.

"I don't think so", you say, sipping at your coffee.

"Why not?"

"I don't think it would be fair to someone if I start something with them when I'm still in love with someone else", you answer and Hannah sighs.

"Yeah, you have a point", she pouts, "but like, maybe messing around a little won't hurt? I mean, he's not in love with you or anything, you can talk with each other and see where things go"

Hannah's right and you know it. Even though it's still too soon, you should try meeting new people, you're not going to get over Han just by staying away from him.

This feelings, you have it with you for so long, it's hard to let it go. Loving Han is the only romantic feeling you have ever known, it's scary to walk off of this thing you know so well to something completely new.

You have to, though. It's the only way for your friendship to keep existing. So you nod to Hannah, taking your phone out of your pocket and dialing the number written on the cup, seconds later you're typing a message.

You: Hey, it's the girl in the yellow cardigan, my name is Y/N btw

You send and hear a ping, you thought he would have his phone on silent mode and sudden embarrassment creeps up when you see him taking his phone out of the pocket of his apron.

Cute guy: Hey, I was afraid of making you uncomfortable, so let me apologize first. I just didn't know how to approach you

Cute guy: Ah, and I'm Heeseung

You change the name in his contact before replying.

You: it didn't make me uncomfortable and thank you for calling me cute.

Heeseung: you don't have to thank me for telling the truth.

You giggle, it's interesting to feel like this, even though you can tell it's something temporary.

You: lol, you're really smooth.

"Let's go?", Hannah says, smirking at you and you blush. You nod, picking your things up and getting up from the table, you wave goodbye to Heeseung before going out and he smiles brightly at you.

>><<

The morning after you went away, Han woke up feeling awful, all the things that happened the previous night coming back at him at the same time. He was sure the moment you walked out of the door, giving him your best smile and trying not to cry was the saddest he ever felt in his entire life. You were his best friend, you were everything to him, he felt like shit because he never noticed your feelings. He doesn't know what he would have done if he knew, but maybe he could have been better, talking less about his relationships and especially not bringing his hook ups to the apartment.

He got up, feeling like crying everytime he had to pass by your bedroom door, knowing you were not there and wouldn't be for far too long, all because of him. The bell rings and he runs to the door, hoping it's you, hoping you'll tell him everything was a joke and that you didn't actually like him. Even though he knows you wouldn't press the doorbell since you know the password and he knows the hurt in your eyes when he said he didn't feel the same as you was no joke.

So it was no surprise when he opened the door and found Chan and Changbin there. They did tell him they were going to stop by in the morning to pick him up but with all the things that happened he just forgot about it.

"Are you okay? You look like shit", Changbin says entering the house.

Chan looks at Han, worried.

"Are you sick?", he asks, "where's Y/N?" He knows you wouldn't leave Han alone if he were sick, but you would have shown up already by hearing Changbin's loud voice.

"She's gone", Han says, running his hands through his hair.

"What do you mean?", Chan asks with wide eyes.

"She- she confessed to me and I turned her down", he says, maybe he should have told you he could like you back, that way he wouldn't be feeling this way and you'd still be there with him.

"Shit", Changbin says, his lips pressed in a thin line.

Han looks at the both of them, why don't they look surprised?

"You guys knew about it?" He asks, a little louder than his usual voice and the boys exchange a look. "Woah, thanks for the heads up"

He shouldn't be mad at them, it's not their fault, but he's already too mad at himself so he doesn't know where else to put the blame.

"It was not our place to tell you", Chan says.

"Does everyone know?", Han asks and Changbin nods, "so I was the only one? Am I dumb or something?"

Chan sighs, "it's not really your fault for not knowing, you probably are used to the way Y/N looks and talks to you because you're best friends since you were children, but to the people outside it is pretty clear from the get go that she likes you"

"But where did she go? Are you not friends anymore?", Changbin asks the difficult questions and Chan glares at him.

"She said she will be staying with Seungmin till he finds a roommate and then she's going to come back"

"She probably just needs some time", Chan says, putting a hand on Han's shoulder trying to reassure him, and he really hopes that's the case.

>><<

You've been texting Heeseung for a few days now and he's pretty nice, he's a dance major and works part time at the cafe to pay for living expenses the same as you do with tutoring.

Hannah had convinced you to go to Yunho's party and get wasted, saying you need the college life experience the most now that you had your first heartbreak but you don't want to think about that, you want to forget that you ever loved Han Jisung.

So you drink a whole bottle of wine before leaving for the party, Seungmin's coming with you and Hannah will meet you there. You are looking good, or maybe it's the alcohol that makes you feel good, your hair is down, you're wearing a black lace cropped top you borrowed from Hannah, with a much lower neckline than you are used to, high waisted jeans and black boots.

The party is already crowded when you and Seungmin get there and it's really a fancy place like Hannah told you.

"Let's grab a drink", you yell to Seungmin.

"You should drink water, you're already drunk", he demands and you show your tongue to him.

"Nooooo, don't be a killjoy"

He sighs, it's hard to convince you of something when you're sober, it's even harder when you're drunk.

"You can have a drink after you drink a cup of water", he tells you and you nod, sounds like a win win for you.

After drinking a whole cup of water you show it to him, waiting for a praise and Seungmin rolls his eyes. What are you, a 10 year old?

"Good job, now you can drink", he gives you a cup with something mixed in it, "but you have to drink some water for each drink you take, okay?"

"Okay, dad", you joke, sipping your drink.

Seungmin knows a lot of people at the party and you feel left out every time someone approaches him so you're really happy when Hannah shows up, with a much taller boy accompanying her.

"Look who I found", she says pointing at him.

"Heeseung?", you scream, startling Seungmin who's close to you.

"Jesus, Y/N, calm down", he says putting his hand over his ear, "I'm a singer, I can't lose my hearing", he says and you pout, whining an apology even though you know he's not really mad.

"I didn't know you were gonna be here", Heeseung gets closer to you, side eyeing Seungmin.

"I didn't want to come, Hannah made me", you tell him, "this is Seungmin, he's my friend"

He nods at the boy by your side, relaxing to hear you call Seungmin a friend.

"Hey, Minnie, let's go dance?", Hannah says and Seungmin narrows his eyes suspiciously.

"I don't dance", he answers, crossing his arms and she sighs.

"For fucking sake, just come with me", she says and Seungmin follows her without more questions, he knows too well not to mess with her when she gets angry.

"You look really pretty", Heeseung says, bending a little to lessen the difference in your height. You blush even though it's not as good hearing him saying that as it was when Han complimented you, but you're trying to get over that, aren't you?

"Thanks, you look hot too", you hiccup, you don't have a filter when you're drunk. He smiles, turning around on the table and pouring you a cup of water.

"Drink this, it's going to help", he hands it to you.

"Thank you, you're so sweet and handsome", you yell again but he doesn't flinch like Seungmin did.

"You can't keep saying these kinds of things and not want me to kiss you", he says and you smile, sly.

"Who says I don't want that?", the moment he comprehends what you just said his face reddens, and he thought he was being bold.

"Once you sober up we can talk about that", he tells you and you pout. You wanted to kiss him now, maybe if you did all the hurt you were feeling would go away. Maybe you just needed someone to make you forget about Jisung.

"But I want it now", you cross your arms, behaving like a child that didn't get their way.

"Do you like dancing?", he changes the subject. Your face brightens with his question.

"I LOVE dancing", you show him the choreography to queencard that's playing on the dance floor and he laughs at your messy steps, he's sure you're much better at it while sober.

"Then drink this and let's dance", he hands you another cup of water.

"Seungmin told me I could have a drink after a cup of water, but this makes two cups of water and no drink", you point out and Heeseung can't help but find the drunk you really cute.

"This water will help you so you won't have a bad hangover tomorrow", he says and you nod, that's a good point.

Super by seventeen starts playing and you finish downing the water, grabbing Heeseung's hand and dragging him to the dance floor.

Being a dance major, of course he knows the steps and he's so good there are moments you just stop and watch him in a daze. Actually, he knows the steps to every song playing after that too, you dance so much you're all sweaty and your legs are tired. You're totally sober now, feeling ecstatic. It's so good being at a party having so much fun.

You're jumping and smiling until you see him.

You stop in your tracks seeing Han Jisung staring at you from the other side of the dance floor, your smile fades away as soon as your eyes lock with his.

He looks sick, he lost a lot of weight considering the short period of time you haven't seen each other and he wasn't smiling like he always did. He takes a step in your direction and you automatically step away, your stomach sinking.

You're feeling your heart beat so fast it's overlapping with the loud music, you gulp feeling your legs weaken, why the hell are you having this reaction? He's the same Han Jisung you've known since you were a child, the only difference now is that he knows how you feel about him.

You can't avoid him until you get over your feelings, that won't work and you know it, you have to get used to being near him feeling nothing other than friendship, but you can't see him at that moment, you just can't. You're having fun, there's a handsome guy with you and you want to like him and not Jisung.

You grab Heeseung's hand and pull him away from the dance floor, walking outside so you can breathe some fresh air.

"Did something happen?", he asks, looking confused and worried.

"It just felt stiff in there for a moment", you say and he nods.

You didn't want to explain to him why you were not speaking to your best friend and how messed up your relationship with Han is right now. You want to forget about it and your way of doing it is right by your side, handsome and available.

"So, about that thing you said we could do once I sobered up… I'm sober now", you say and he blushes, analyzing you for a moment to see if you are telling the truth.

The last drink you took was more than an hour ago and you drank so much water after that, it's a miracle you still don't have to use the toilet.

"I don't want to do something you'll regret later", he says and you appreciate how considerate he is. But right now you don't want someone considerate, you want someone that'll sweep you off your feet and help you forget what you so desperately want to. So you get closer, caging him against the wall and tiptoeing, trying to get closer to his face.

"If you don't want to, it's okay. But if you're holding back because you think I'm drunk, I'm not", that was his cue to kiss you. His lips crashing sloppily onto yours, hands cupping your face then moving down to your waist. You wrap your arms around his neck trying to get closer than you already are. He's good, you've kissed enough people in your life to know that, yet you feel sick.

You feel bad and like a horrible person because you just know he can't compare to Jisung even though you never kissed your best friend.

You feel bad thinking about someone else while kissing Heeseung, he's so nice and sweet and you know he's not fooling around, if you give him the chance he's going to truly like you and you're only using him.

You step away sighing, seeing his brows furrowed and the confusion in his eyes.

"Was it that bad?", he jokes but you can see he's feeling hurt. "I'm not trying to brag, but I never got a reaction like that after a kiss"

You smile apologetically, looking for words to explain yourself.

"It was great and you're great", you begin, "I think you're too sweet, that's why I can't lead you on"

"What are you talking about?" he asks, even more confused.

"I'm in love with someone else and I know it sounds awful, I did try to get over him with you but I feel like you'll really like me if we don't stop right now and I'm not sure if I'll be able to be that person for you", you look at him, seeing the disappointment in his face. "I'm sorry, I'm a terrible person and you can hate me if you want"

He stares at you for a few moments, sighing and giving you a reassuring smile after.

"I don't think you're terrible, I think you're truly brave for coming clean like that", you're relieved, you were afraid he would say something mean and even though you feel like you deserve it, you're really fragile right now. "Thank you for telling me before I got too deep into this and I don't know, maybe we can be friends?"

"Absolutely, I would love that"

"So, do you want to go back inside?", he asks and you shake your head.

"I don't think so, I should probably go home", you say, you don't want to go back there to see Han again.

"Do you want me to take you home?"

"It's okay, I'm going to text Seungmin and see where he's at but you can go inside, I'm going to stay here and get some more fresh air"

"Alright, I'll see you at the cafe"

You nod, seeing him walk away. Woah, you just let that masterpiece of a man go because you can't forget about a fucking unrequited love. You curse yourself, slapping your forehead.

After that, you text Seungmin telling where you are and asking where the hell he and Hannah went, sending the same message to her and waiting for their answer.

You sit on the grass, taking a deep breath. You feel a bit sick after seeing Jisung, you never thought you'd feel that way. Never in your worst nightmares did you think you would be afraid to talk to him, maybe you're scared of talking to him and feeling nothing, what if all of this was just in your head and you just needed some time apart to figure it out?

You hear steps close to you and pray it's not some horny couple trying to fuck near you, however, the moment you lay eyes on your best friend you actually wish it was a horny couple.

You get up in a jump, your stomach sinking and your head spinning. Why does it hurt so much suddenly? It feels like your chest is being torn apart and you can't do a thing to make it better.

Jisung looks worse up close, he has huge bags under his eyes and he's too pale.

You're worried about him, even though you can't have the luxury of that. Not when your insides are all messed up and you want to throw up. You walk past him without saying a word, you can't handle this right now, but he grabs your wrist holding you in place. You don't look at him, staring at the floor trying to get out of his grip.

"I miss you", he says and your heart drops to your stomach. Why is he doing this to you? It's not like being apart from your best friend is fun to you. "Can't you look at me?", he pleads but you can't find the courage to do that yet. "Please", but he sounds so desperate, you force yourself to do it.

You look at him, he's obviously drunk. Who the hell let him drink this much?

"What is it?", you sound more spiteful than you were planning and his eyes widen, releasing your arm from his grasp.

"Do you hate me now?", he asks and you sigh.

"Of course I don't hate you, you're my best friend", you say that but for some reason it doesn't feel right, it doesn't sound like the truth.

"Can't you come back home? I feel like shit everytime I wake up and you're not there"

"I told you I need time", you say, running your hands through your hair.

"Are you going to forget about me by fucking some random dude?", he asks and you glare at him, eyebrows furrowed in confusion.

"I don't understand how that's any of your business"

"It is, because you told me you love me but you act like you never want to see my face again", he scoffs.

You feel mad, what's he trying to say? Should you keep hurting just because you love him?

"I can't sit around forever, waiting for you to look at me", you say and he steps closer to you.

"I'm looking at you right now, I- I'll be good to you, I'll like you back", the moment he finishes saying that, you can't control the tears running through your eyes.

Is that supposed to be good? He would be forced to date you so he could have you close to him?

"Why are you doing this to me?" You ask and he takes a step back startled with you tears, suddenly sobering up, "it's not easy for me to be away from you, you're my best friend, but I do have some bit of dignity left in me and I won't accept less than I deserve, even if that less is the man I love with me", you wipe your tears seeing him step closer, trying to reach your hand and you step away, "don't come close to me right now, I could never stay with you knowing you don't love me, you should know that"

You turn around trying to get away from him but stop on your tracks seeing Hannah, Seungmin, Chan and Changbin right there looking at you awkwardly. Of course, the humiliation is the cherry on the top. You pass through them feeling so embarrassed you want the earth to swallow you.

The ride home is awkward and silent. Hannah and Seungmin keep exchanging looks while you look out the window trying to figure how your life became this mess.

You really should have dated Jeongho when he asked you out in middle school, it was around that time that you realized you liked Han more than just a friend—when Haneul asked to be his date to the school festival and you wanted to punch her so hard. Maybe if you had dated that boy at that time you would have forgotten the feelings you had for your friend, maybe you would have brushed it off as some childhood crush, but no, you rejected Jeongho while Han went with Haneul to the school festival and you third wheeled the whole event earning nasty glances from her every time your best friend played two times the same game so he could win you a plush too.

Back then you still thought everything would be okay, if only you had him everything would be okay.

You start bawling without notice, crying so much you can't even breathe. Seungmin stops the car and Hannah gets to the back, hugging you and caressing your hair while whispering that everything will be fine and you really want to believe her.

You don't know how you got into Seungmin's apartment, you guess he carried you inside after dropping Hannah home but you're not sure. It's sunday so he's not up yet for you to ask and it doesn't actually matter, what matters is the absolutely pathetic scene you made at the party and in the car. You want to bury yourself into a hole and never come back, how the hell are you going to face your friends after they saw you being humiliated by Han like that?

You know he was drunk, of course he was. You know he didn't mean it, he was hurt and drunk and people act on feelings not reason when they are like that. But does he think you have no pride? Does he really think you would date him knowing he doesn't like you back?

It's different when you confessed to him, you knew he didn't like you that way. But if he told you that there was something there, that he was not going to promise you anything but someday he may like you back, that's all you needed to hear. However, that didn't happen. He told you with all the words that he doesn't like that way, that he doesn't feel the same way as you do, there was no room for interpretation, no room for what if's.

You get up, in need to distract yourself. This week is going to fly by, you have tutoring lessons using up all your free time so you just have to get through the day.

There are a lot of messages on your phone, you really don't want to read them because you know that other than Hannah's, it's awkward comforting words from your other friends.

Hannah: call me when you wake up

Hannah: let's go eat something delicious, what do you think? It's on me.

Hannah: are you still not up or are you ignoring me?

You: I just woke up, calm down girl

You: why would I ignore you though? I just have to brush my teeth and eat something then I'll call you.

Binnie: morning babes

Binnie: Hannie is such an asshole

Binnie: I'll date you if you want, you're hot it's a win win for me

You chuckle to Changbin texts, he's so sweet in the weirdest way.

You: I mean, you're hot too

You: I think we'd make an awesome couple

Chan: good morning, Y/N

Chan: we didn't hear anything last night, so please, don't be awkward or embarrassed around us.

You: good morning Channie, I know you heard

You: you should have matched your story with Changbin before texting me though

You: it's okay, alright? Of course I'll be embarrassed for the time being, but we're friends I won't be embarrassed forever.

You leave your phone on the couch and go to the bathroom. You look like shit, smeared makeup, hair disgusting and you're still wearing the same clothes. You turn on the hot water, taking your clothes off and entering the shower, the warmth embracing you as you feel more relaxed.

You put on something comfortable, it's Sunday, you're going to ask Hannah to come by and you're going to order takeout.

You call her number while eating because you know she's anxious.

"Hey babes, good morning", she picks up, cheerful as always.

"Good morning", you say, biting the toast you just made.

"So, what about going out and eating something really good?", she asks.

"Hm, I'm actually not in the mood to go out? Can't you come by, we order something and watch that movie you've been bugging me for the last month?"

"Yeah, sure. We can do that", she answers and you are happy she doesn't sound upset or disappointed. With all the shit you're pulling lately you're scared your friends are going to get tired of your bullshit and stop talking to you. You used to think no one wanted a friend that's always crying and whining, but they showed you that real friends help each other.

"So what time are you gonna come?"

"I will just take a shower and wait for the bus, so in maybe like an hour?", she guesses and you nod forgetting she can't see you.

"Okay, see you then"

You decide to clean the house while waiting, Seungmin is pretty organized and clean so there's nothing too difficult. You'll just wash the dishes and vacuum a little.

Hannah arrives later than she predicted, Seungmin is already up and cleaning his room. He scolded you because it's his day to do the dishes and you shouldn't have done it because it's not fair to you.

You think he's being extra nice to you because of what happened the night before and it's true, he was really scared when you cried in his car.

He has known you for almost five years and he never saw you cry like that, even on the night you came to his house after confessing to Han you didn't cry like that. This time was different, you had a soul crushing cry, he wanted to stop the car and go to the back to hug you the same as Hannah, but he knew you were already being comforted by the perfect person.

Han is his friend, he could never choose between you two. But he couldn't deny it, that was a dick move, how could he ever say that to someone that likes him? He basically told you that he could pretend to like you if you stayed with him.

And of course, Seungmin understands the fear of losing a friend, but doing what he did just increases the chances of you never wanting to see his face again.

You are seated on the couch, watching the movie Hannah is obsessed with at the moment. She already watched it five times alone and asks anyone she can find to watch it again with her, she even repeats some sentences together with the characters.

The pizza you ordered is almost gone, you didn't know you were so hungry until the smell hit your nose. Luckily or thanks to Seungmin and Heeseung, your hangover is not that bad and you want it to stay that way so you keep drinking lots of water.

You got through the day thanks to your friends, they kept you entertained the whole time so you wouldn't overthink or even think about Han.

You are doing that just now, looking at the ceiling in the dark room. You want it all to be a dream, maybe you would wake up tomorrow and still be in middle school, you'd take the opportunity and get over him at that time, that would have spared you of some big problems.

----------------

A/N: So, I don't know how many parts this fic will have. If you like what I write please reblog or let me know in the comments, feedback give me motivation to keep writing.

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laughing-with-god · 11 months

Text

Unsaid Vow I

(This is the first 1.7k of the 10k chapter that is available right now on my Patreon. Please join for early access plus beta content!)

Synopsis: You always knew when you weren't wanted. And the way things are going in your marriage with Jungkook, a divorce is looking more and more likely. While he's getting closer to a woman at work that you're certain he's having an affair with, you're planning your escape with your four-year-old son. However, five years of marriage did not expose you to a certain side of your husband. A side of Jungkook that only gets triggered when you try to leave and break apart your perfect 'family'.

Warnings: Yandere behavior, graphic language, violence/murder, women bashing on other women, heavily implied infidelity, bad parenting, absent father, broken family vibes, very slow buildup bc Jungkook doesn't really snap until you leave him so just give him a min lol, inexperienced author writing for a five-year-old.

Also looking for new fic art for this if anyone's interested!!

Read first: Prologue

“I’m a grown man.”

These were the words that greeted you and effectively pulled you out of your weary slumber.

You drowsily rubbed your eyes and rolled over, yawning as you took in the sight of your son staring at you bemusedly from beside your bed.

If you weren’t used to this behavior from Hugo already, you perhaps would've screamed at the sudden creepy sight of a child with a solemn expression saying odd things to you before the sun has even risen. Yet, you have grown accustomed to the old man your toddler was.

“Good morning to you too, bud.” You groaned tiredly, already searching your thick bedding for your phone in order to check the time. Your alarm hadn’t even gone off yet, which told you it was earlier than you had originally planned to wake up. But what was the point of having plans when you had a child? They had a talent for ruining them.

“I’m five today.” Hugo ignored your greeting, getting right into the point with furrowed brows as he held up all five fingers, each one representing a year of his life.

“Yup, I know dumpling.” You chuckled, finally pulling out your phone and opening it to see ‘6:03 am” staring back at you. “Believe it or not, the day you were born was quite memorable for me too.”

You cringed as you thought of the 20 hour labor that preceded Hugo’s birth. How could you ever forget that hellish day?

“Mom, it’s my birthday.” Hugo told you, tone serious as a heart attack.

“Yes, happy birthday love.” You smiled at your son, trying not to let him see the exhaustion you secretly felt. “I suppose there’s no way I can talk you into going back to bed for another hour or so?”

“No. You always say ‘the day starts when I first open my eyes in the morning”. Your son parroted the saying back to you with a proud grin.

Hugo once went through a phase where he wouldn’t want to leave the bed after waking up, simply wanting to stay in pj’s all day long and watch cartoons amongst his stuffies.

It took a while to get your little homebody to actually stop this habit and begin getting up to ready himself for the day whenever he woke up. You used to tell him that the day starts whenever he opens his eyes in the morning, however on days like these where he wakes up super early, he now does not see the point in lying in.

“Right, that is a good point.” You softly relented, mentally scolding yourself for yet another parenting tactic backfired. “How does some breakfast sound?”

“Mom, I have a prop-pre-preposaa-”

“Proposal?” You offered, swinging your legs off the side of your bed.

“Yeah, that.” Hugo nodded to himself, most likely taking note of the proper pronunciation of the word so he can use it again in conversation. “I think it’s time we talk about coffee.”

“Coffee?”

“You and daddy are always saying that coffee is for grownups. Today I’m five, which means I’m older, which means I should be able to have coffee.” Hugo reasoned this to you while twiddling his thumbs, a nervous habit he does when he wants you to say yes to something he knows is unrealistic.

“Mmm...” You hummed, pretending to think hard about the offer. “What if I gave you a very light coffee? A beginner version to get you ready for the real thing when you’re older?”

Hugo looked conflicted, but after reading your face and correctly assuming that’s the best he was going to get, he nodded solemnly in reluctant agreement.

With one final huff you shoved yourself off the king sized bed, standing to your full height and throwing your arms up in a stretch. “Why don’t you wait in the living room for me bud? I’ll be right out.”

The freshly turned five year old happily nodded up at you before exiting your bedroom, leaving you alone once again.

You turned your attention back to the bed in which you just rose out of. More particularly, you stared at the other side of the bed, the side in which your husband was supposed to sleep on.

It was a direct opposite of your messy side, crisp and neatly made; the fluffy pillows, pressed sheets and silk duvet being perfectly in place. Yet, this wasn’t an ode to Jungkook’s neatness and attention to detail.

No.

Jungkook hasn’t been sleeping in the same bed as you for a while now.

Your husband always preferred to rise early, given he was a man who liked to follow a strict morning regime which could easily be thrown off if he slept in even a minute later. Up at 5:30. teeth brushed and face shaved by 5:40. Breakfast, coffee and newspaper consumed by 6:00.

Then right before taking his leave, Jungkook would pack himself a bag of work clothes and make a quick protein shake, given he would then head to the gym where he would get his morning workout and shower from. Then from the gym, he would head straight to work.

A few months ago, he suggested sleeping in the guest room.

You had asked why, bewildered at the request.

Sure, you two didn’t really cuddle anymore. Sex was also rare. But you figured that the least you could do as husband and wife was sleep in the same bed amicably. Had you started kicking him in your sleep or something?

“I’d notice you begin to kinda stir when I first get up and go about my routine. I don’t want to wake you up or be a bother.” He had said.

That didn’t really make sense to you.

You have always been a deep sleeper. And even if you did wake up for a second, you’d clearly see your husband getting ready for the day, roll over and go back to sleep.

It was such a lame excuse, you just shrugged and bitterly told him that he hogged the blankets anyway.

It wasn’t true, but Jungkook didn’t comment.

You trudged over to the ensuite bathroom and quickly did your morning routine.

When you came out of your room and into the living space, you saw Hugo glued to the giant flat screen in a trance-like state as he watched his usual morning cartoons. The sight tugged a small smile out of you, although the mother in you didn’t like how close he was.

“Hugo, back up from the screen! Bluey isn’t going anywhere. Your eyes will go bad.” Your son wordlessly obliged and scooted back, not breaking eye contact with his favorite family of puppies. “What would you like for breakfast ‘Mr. grown man’?”

“Blueberry pancakes…and don’t forget my coffee!”

“You got it, birthday boy.”

The kitchen, dining and living room were open concept, so you multi-tasked watching Hugo while whipping up his breakfast. You never were much of a cook and you still aren’t even after motherhood, but you did commit to learning your son’s favorite dishes.

The process was over quickly, you having made this recipe countless times and knowing it like the back of your hand.

You set a plate on the island table, calling Hugo over while you secretly mixed some instant hot chocolate in a mug.

The five year old jumped up and grinned at the meal, saying a quick “thank you” before digging in with all the grace a five year old could possibly have.

“And of course, your coffee.” You tried not to smile as you handed him the cup.

“Thanks mama.”

The mini-Jungkook took a gulp, then stared seriously at the contents of the mug, swishing it around in some faux detective work.

“Something wrong, dumpling?”

“It tastes…fa-fam-”

“Familiar?”

“Yes. Is coffee always this sweet?”

You laughed, now moving to the real coffee maker to make your own cup. “No, this is the kid version. It might taste like chocolate because chocolate has caffeine in it too.”

Your little old man huffed to himself but nodded in agreement, simply not knowing enough to dispute your logic.

Your old coffeemaker grumbled awake, croaking and hissing as you pressed the worn-out buttons for your usual morning brew. Jungkook always made fun of you for the ancient machine, but even after he had bought a much more expensive and up-to-date one, you stubbornly remained loyal to yours.

“So buddy, what do you want to do today? We can go get new books, hit up the toy store, maybe even visit the aquarium?”

“I wanna help set up for my party, mommy.”

Well, “party” wasn’t quite the right word for it.

Hugo had no friends. It was tough for a kid like him to make any. At this age and as a boy, most of his peers would meet and form relationships in little league or rough housing at the local park.

Your son was different. He preferred reading to sports, hated the outdoors and was generally a shy kid who tended to tear up when anyone other than his family tried speaking to him.

So this year, his birthday party was an intimate circle of family and family friends. You hoped that by next year you could host an actual kid birthday party, as Hugo would be in school and have classmates by then.

“That’s very sweet of you, but there’s time to do both.” The boy looked at you skeptically. “We can go to the bookstore across the street after breakfast and I’ll let you pick out some new bedtime stories. Then we can go to the aquarium and have lunch there. And on our way home I’ll stop by the store to get some stuff for the party, and you can get a toy. Sounds good?”

Hugo frowned, then peeled back his pajama sleeve to look at his submarine-themed watch. The act seemed a little pretentious to you, given he didn’t yet know how to read clocks.

“Fine mommy, but we should be quick. Also you need to ask our guests if they have any food aler-alergeez-”

“Allergies? Yes bud, I’ll be sure to send them a text.” You rolled your eyes.

With that, Hugo quietly finished his breakfast as you sipped your coffee.

When you two were done, you both got dressed and ready for the day’s activities.

Before leaving the apartment, you were sure to send a text to your husband.

‘Be home by 6 please. Hugo’s birthday party starts at 6:30 and he needs you there.’

#yandere jungkook #bts #yandere bts #jeon jungguk #jungkook fic #jungkook x reader #yandere bts fic #yandere imagines #bangtan boys #bts x reader

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barblaz-arts · 1 month

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Stephanie Beatrice had played my 3 favorite characters (Rosa Mirabel and Vaggie) and since I watched Encanto and B99 I have my head canon that Vaggie have both Rosa and Mirabel personalities.

Any way, I just want to know what is your head canon or theory about her? ( specifically about Lute calling her weak and why the other exorcist hate her)

Since she is your girl, I would love to read your essay about her.(I’m joking you don’t have to write that much I just like to read your post)

Thank you

"My girl"... Am I just "that one artist who's the biggest Vaggie stan" to you guys? (I won't mind it!)

Oh man! I do have some ideas! A lot of my headcanons were already kinda sorta mentioned in my fic/art tho, so sorry if you're not getting a lot of new info

- I have this headcanon that Vaggie's always been "softer" than the other Exorcists, which is what I assume Lute meant when she said she "always knew [Vaggie] was weak". I know it probably has more to do with how little time each episode has, but what if Lute was so ready, already behind Vaggie when she let that kid go, because she knew this wasn't the first time Vaggie spared a sinner? Maybe that was just the first time Lute actually caught her. Maybe she's always had her suspicions, when Vaggie's kill count would lower every year, and she'd sometimes find Vaggie saying a sinner got away somehow despite cornering that demon moments ago.

- although she's gotten used enough to her lack of depth perception when it comes to her hand eye coordination, especially when fighting, i like to think her reading ability could never truly go back to the way it used to be, so she has trouble reading/ writing/texting (if you notice, i always showed instances of this in my fic ;> )But because she's the hotel manager she still has to deal with them because of paperwork and shit, so she has prescription glasses that help. I'd wanted to include a scene in the First Guest where Vaggie almost cries after seeing Charlie thru the glasses for the first time, because she didn't think Charlie could be any more beautiful, but i scrapped the idea because I couldn't expand the concept enough to an actual scene that could be relevant to the overall fic. I probably should have just mentioned it in a paragraph or something, but by the time i remembered id already posted the chapter I intended to add it in. Maybe I'll use it for another fic.

- she prefers femme clothing so she doesn't really have a reason to do this, but she learned how to do all kinds of ties so that she could do Charlie's whenever

- she grew her hair to compensate for her lost wings

- she wasn't exactly a great cook before she Fell, but she was pretty capable when she lived alone in Heaven. Cooking for Charlie tho gave her the motivation to get better and actually enjoy it

- an angel trait that she could never truly abandon is being a stickler for rules. She's very strict on everyone and herself with these things, within reason. So even when she and Charlie started dating, she insisted that they can't sleep together until they've had their third date. When they're on the clock, they have to be professional and avoid flirtatious advances in front of staff and guests. Charlie didn't mind because she prefers privacy too.

- Vaggie's physical appearance slightly changed gradually the longer she stayed in hell. As an angel, her sclera was paler, her incisors duller, and her skin grayer. But as time passed, her sclera got more and more peach/pink, fangs sharper, and skin more purple toned

- i still like to think that Vaggie's old backstory back when only the pilot was out (having died in 2014 in her early twenties who worked as a sex worker in El Salvador) was still true. Maybe it's just because I've liked Chaggie since pilot, and I've grown really attached to that backstory. I also just really don't want Vaggie to be Heavenborn for some reason. Among the cast she just seems the most grounded to reality to me, so having her revealed to have never been human and born "divine" just doesn't seem right to me. I also just think it'd be cute and funny if it turns out she's chronologically the youngest in the hotel even tho she's basically everyone's strict not-mom.

- idgaf what Adam says, I wanna think that "Vaggie" is short for "Evangeline". I used to have these 2 coworkers in their late 50's to 60's who had Evangeline as their government name, but one of them goes by "Vanj" and the other "Vajee". Being older Filipino women who aren't really too fluent in English, they never thought there was anything wrong with that when they grew up with their nicknames. I like to think that the case was the same if Vaggie used to be human. I'm not sure how common English is in El Salvador, but I'm willing to bet it's possible she could have been given that nickname as a kid by an older family member who didn't know a lot of English. Also Evangeline makes more sense to have been the name of an angel cmon now...

#asks #hazbin hotel #i love any excuse to talk about vaggie

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predestinatos · 4 months

Text

“I Know” — CL16 + MV1

chapter 1 chapter 2

summary: the game doesn't stop once you leave the court OR part 2 of my challengers fic.

word count: 2.5k

tags: charles leclerc x fem! reader x max verstappen, smut, angst, fluff, everything really, complex relationship, implied cheating but also not how you expect it. MINORS DNI - WARNINGS UNDERNEATH

note: i have been loving writing this and exploring these characters and their dynamics. this chapter is shorter BUT that's because charles won in monaco and i felt like this would be a good celebration :) i hope u all enjoy it lovelies!

warnings: fingering (fem!receiving), dirty talking (a lot)

12:55AM

"Actually, I came here to tell you to lose" you said, crossing your arms in front of your chest defensively as the man looked down at you.

"Did you, now?" he asked, a finger raising your chin up towards him. Another joke, another teasing moment you couldn't run away from, couldn't resist despite your attempts at doing so.

He saw you merely nod. Part of him exhaled a short laugh, but another looked away from you. He was better than this. Better yet, you were better than this, much better. He also knew you were looking at him precisely how he wanted you to, a pleading in your eyes to succumb to the inevitable – but also a pleading to move away, to delay that inevitably for as long as possible.

He knew if he looked down again it would be over. You bit your lip as you stared at his tight jaw, at hints of a growing stubble across his face, at how everything about his body seemed to be a fight against itself.

"Charles" you called, unsure if he had heard it. He couldn't bear hearing your voice calling his name, and the stark, sudden change from his confident attitude to this restrained one was visible as he closed his eyes and swallowed dryly. "Hm?" was all he could reply. Was all he could bear to mutter without giving away the turmoil of his own mind.

"You're in the way."

YEARS EARLIER.

Max's hand was on your inner thigh and fighting against his mind to go much higher than that. You noticed the mole on his upper lip as he spoke, mostly because you tried to focus on his face more than his touch, afraid of letting it consume you.

"Did it actually matter? The winner?" he asked you. He pondered this many times after the match, head going back and forth between answers.

"It did to you both" you answered. He wasn't expecting it, really, yet he understood what you meant completely. Something about his relationship with Charles changed, and contrary to what was expected, it did so for the better.

"He thinks he knows what he wants" Max heard himself say, eyes locked on yours. He dared his hand to move upwards, just slightly, as if you wouldn't notice. As if his touch didn't make itself feel across your entire body.

"And what is that?" his face was so close to yours you were dizzy from holding back, dizzy by the sheer need you had to taste him again.

"Winning."

You raised an eyebrow at his answer, so bold yet calculated, hinting at something else, something more.

Both of you seemed aware of how talking about the other man ignited even more desire in you, excited you even more than it probably should.

"But he forgets why he wants it, what he truly wants. I never did." he continued, brushing your hair away from your neck in order to gain better access to it.

It was too much for you - how he seemed to know the right thing to do to send you just over the edge, to drive you to the limits of madness as your body yearned for him.

You took a deep breath, "Hm and what is it, Max?" he left sloppy, wet kisses along your neck now, as he realized he had won, pulling away only to smirk triumphantly, to admire his victory, looking at him almost completely disheveled already.

"You" his hand was as far up as it could now, leaving you completely vulnerable to how much he affected you. "So wet... And for who?" his question was a dare, a test of your honesty as his fingers brushed your clit. You could deny it, sure, but he knew the truth.

"For you" you said; an answer that was rewarded with a finger dipping slowly inside you, every inch of it felt as Max pushed inside you. He had to fight himself hard as he felt you tighten against his finger. Had to fight the urge to consume you fully right there and then because most of all he wanted to win.

"Why for me?" he asked, regaining control or convincing himself of it, another finger entering you and feeling how nicely you accomodated for him and him only. He was hard, his body craved the feeling of you around him, your wetness and heavy breath driving him to insanity and yet... and yet he let it hurt a bit. For he knew the long term pleasure would be bigger.

"Because you won" you answered, succumbing to him as his fingers curled inside you.

2:45PM

Cameras flashed in your direction inside the bustling studio. For brief minutes, your mind was focused on nothing but your own body and the camera, movements flowing through you and evoking new poses as you modeled.

It was good; to be distracted from Max, his tournament and the stress added to it. Too good to be true as you looked past the lights and photographers to a figure standing behind them, one that you were all too familiar with.

And now you were distracted once again, the double negatives not making positive. He was fit - tennis was doing him good, just as it was Max. His shoulders were broad and biceps more prominent in his polo shirt which hugged him tightly. He could only be mocking you. His awareness of how the timing conditioned every interaction between you and him couldn't go unnoticed - provocation written across his face as he admired you.

"Can we take 5?" you heard yourself say, unable to focus now that his presence haunted every picture like a ghost.

Charles watched as you got closer to him, wondering when exactly did he let you stray so further away from him, taking Max alongside you. He was a dick, really. His attitude was never the most humble or polite, not like his (now ex) best friend, who seemed to be more composed even in his nervousness.

Charles composed nature was more arrogant and overconfident, despite concealing little to nothing about his actual feelings. He wasn't familiar with insecurity the way Max was, so he never learned how to fake it that well.

You stopped in front of him, holding a cup filled with fruit as hunger crept up inside you now that you weren't focused on work.

"What the fuck are you doing here?" you asked, a loud whisper, a soft yell that made Charles wonder how that could even be possible. It clicked, then. Max could yell silently. He couldn't. But it wasn't sad to notice this, it actually amused him, the irony of him being the odd one out but also the inescapable one, the one unpredictable factor in both of your lives.

"Hello to you too, sweetheart" he replied, taking a grape from your cup and popping it into him mouth as he smiled. His boasting attitude made you roll your eyes. It took all the restraint in the world not to snap back at him.

He liked that about you. How your eyebrows furrowed, how your mouth turned into a slight frown of annoyance. How easy it was to get under your skin. How he knew that you loved it.

"Just came to say hi and wish you two luck for later" he continued, not wanting to part ways from you just yet, knowing he hadn't pushed all of your buttons yet.

"Max doesn't need your good luck" you replied. You noticed how you were always more defensive of him, sometimes almost mothering him.

Charles' cool toned eyes looked down at you as he bit his lip. He got you, now. He knew that. "But you do."

"I don't need anything from you" the cup was now becoming humid in your hands, threatening to slip as you tightened your grip on it.

"Are you sure?" his question was risky. Maybe too risky. He wasn't careful, evoking ghosts of Christmas Past into the conversation; things you had agreed to act like they didn't happen because pride spoke louder than lust in the list of sins.

You turned around now, tired of listening to him, irritated at the image he had brought to the table of your minds. Your body on his, his hands gripping your hair tightly as your legs wrapped around his waist.

"I'm not you side piece" he said. No, he chanted, teasingly, daringly. And as he saw you stopping in your tracks he knew he had hit a nerve, got you precisely where he wanted yoi.

"The only piece you are is a piece of shit"

YEARS EARLIER.

If Charles focused hard enough - really, really hard - maybe he could fight his own body against reacting as hard as it was to Max's secrecy regarding what happened between you two.

"You know, I don't kiss and tell" he said, hands behind his head as he layed down in his bed. They shared a room - they always did, it was natural, something they did so often they didn't even think about it anymore, like breathing or riding a bike,

"You're such an asshole, I'd never do this to you" Charles replied, fake annoyance in his tone as he threw his pillow at his friend's face.

"I may be. But I'm the asshole who won" the pillow flew to its initial place once again, hitting Charles' bed and then the floor, almost in a defeated position itself.

Charles knew something had had happened, mainly because he thought about it so much he knew he had made the thought into a reality. Maybe he was going insane, looking at Max and imagining you under him, your bodies intertwined and faces filled with pleasure. He wondered if it was jealousy or lust that filled him - if there even was a difference. And if it was jealous, who or what was he jealous of?

Running a hand through his hair, he tried to focus. He was upset because he lost. It didn't matter what, he would always be upset over losing; yet this time it pained him more. He had lost to both of you, lost to himself by being left out of something he so desperately wanted.

"I'll beat you someday" Charles said, trying to keep up the joyful mood.

"Will it matter then?" Max asked. It was an innocent question, yet it was also a test: to his own rationality, to Charles' emotions and to where they stood in their friendship.

They locked eyes with each other and for a second the room was so quiet it might've been paused by someone's remote, the silence engulfing them both like a wave.

But as soon as it came, it disappeared. And Charles shrugged, picked up his pillow from the carpeted hotel floor and replied "I think it will to her"

Max allowed himself to close his eyes for a second, wondering if he should speak or not. He laughed at his own twisted thoughts, questioning his own morality as he felt his blood pumping through his veins.

"You know this just makes it hotter for me, right?" he asked his friend in the bed only a bedside table away frim him. "You wanting my girlfriend, all intense and shit."

Charles knew this. He was fighting similar feelings, knowing part of your allure also lied in their own desire for you.

What they didn't know is that you shared these thoughts, your attraction towards both of these men relying not only on their own selves but on their fight for you and each other.

11:00PM

You fidgeted with your wedding ring, looking at the way it adorned your long fingers. You looked at his hand then, both so different from each other.

You were a good wife, weren't you? You supported Max, you listened to him and you made him laugh. You cared about him more than anything else, though that was harder to admit.

Aren't people allowed to have flaws? Wasn't Charles his flaw as well? Wasn't he on the back of both of your minds, wasn't he just another reason why you loved each other so much?

"He went to my workplace today" you said as his head rested on your lap, smooth skin caressing his face. His body stiffened, yet it didn't seem like nervousness was the emotion affecting him.

"I think he's nervous." You continued, knowing his silence was a code for you to keep going.

He chuckled at your words. "About playing against me or you watching him?"

"I think it's more about you watching him than anything." More silence followed. He didn't want to argue with you, not when your touch felt so comforting and your words melted into his ears. "He likes you"

"He respects me" This time he retorted, his hand holding your arm as if in an attempt to wake you up from whatever sleep you were in.

"Same difference" you shrugged.

"For you, it is."

#f1 #formula 1 #formula one #f1blr #f1 fandom #charles leclerc #f1 fanfic #f1 fic #charles leclerc x female reader #charles leclerc fanfic #charles leclerc imagine #charles leclerc smut #charles leclerc x reader #f1 smut #max verstappen x reader #max verstappen fanfic #max verstappen fic #max verstappen x you #max verstappen smut

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piscespetals · 11 months

Text

summary: in which sevika becomes your roommate. read part two here

content: this fic is 4-5 chapters long. i'm still trying to figure out if i should condense it to 4 or keep it at five. mostly gay pinning, fluff, angst and small slivers of smut (not very good at smut writing but i'm trying)

word count: 5k

thanks for reading!

Chapter One

It all started when your best friend told you she was moving out…

You both shared a flat, and for the last near decade or so, everything had relatively been good.

Until it wasn't.

“I know it's kind of bittersweet but,” Mel shrugs, looking down at the ice cream cone in her hand. Remnants of the vanilla treat gather above her top lip. You almost say something but she licks it away with one clean swipe of her tongue. “Alicia has been talking about this for almost a year. And I think it's time we take the next step.”

Alicia is Mel’s long-term girlfriend. Honestly, you should’ve seen it coming. It's a miracle that they haven't already moved in together considering how long they’ve been in each other’s lives. You should be happy for them. You really should. But a part of you keeps thinking about the upcoming renewal of the lease and the empty space that’ll fill up Mel’s side of the apartment once she leaves.

The two of you have been living together for a huge chunk of your adulthood. Honestly, the thought of returning home to Mel has been your norm for almost as long as you’ve been filing tax returns.

And now—she’s moving.

Leaving.

Just like that.

“Oh,” She croons. Her ice cream cone nearly falls as she scooches closer to you. “Don't cry.”

Your tears drip down your cheeks before trailing the slope of your jaw.

You aren’t surprised. This reaction is warranted. You aren't good at goodbyes.

Actually, no—this isn't quite a goodbye.

But it sure as hell feels just as painful.

There's not enough breathing exercises that’ll prepare you for the life transition that's doomed to happen. A chapter of your adulthood is closing right before your eyes. Mel will move out, marry Alicia, and have annoyingly cute babies. You’ll be the designated bestfriend–turned–aunt that will always feel stuck; left behind.

It will be horrible.

“Nothing will change,” Mel comforts. She tries to multitask the art of devouring her ice cream while slinging her free arm around you. Her bubbling optimism is nearly comedic compared to your wallowing spirits.

“Everything will change!” Your voice cracks, body jerking as your lungs cause you to inhale sharp uneven gasps. “You've replaced me with Alicia as your roommate. Is she asking for the best friend title too?”

“Oh god—babe,” Another lick of her ice cream. She's trying to contain her laughter. The nerve of her! “I’ll always be your best friend. You know that.” She squeezes your shoulder. “Everything will be okay. I promise.”

Your eyes burn more and another melodramatic wail leaves you.

The image of you–old and decrepit–in a nursing home comes to fruition. You're in the bed, smelly and miserable, while Alicia and Mel stand before you. They're old too, but far more beautiful. Far more accomplished. Less lonely. Still married. Still happy.

Oh, and their kids are probably there in the room too; asking Mel why “their Aunt hasn't been properly groomed?”

Mel is absolutely wrong.

Everything will certainly not be okay.

After a few days of sulking, you have a change of heart when Mel says, “I think I’ve found you a new roommate.”

Suddenly, the imminent doom of Mel moving out doesn’t seem so harrowing. Of course it still saddens you–she’s your best friend after all–but you’re no longer burdened with the stress of trying to find her replacement.

You and Mel butt heads about a ton of senseless things, but she never disappoints you on the most important matters.

So if she thinks that someone is suitable enough to be your roommate, then you have hope that she’s right.

“Who?” Your head snaps up as you look at her. She stands on the other side of the kitchen island, elbows leaning against the wooden countertop and chin resting in her palms. You were mopping the floor–a truly rare occurrence for you–when Mel came out of her room to announce the good news.

“You know how Alicia goes out with her teammates every now and then?”

Your memory travels to the brief conversations of Mel mentioning this in the past. Alicia used to be a college athlete during her undergrad. Apparently, she still has a budding relationship with a few of her old teammates, and likes to go to dinners with them to catch up every few months.

“Well,” Mel continues. “Her friend, Sevika, hasn’t been able to come to the dinners these last few years because she lived up north for a while. But she’s back in town. And I guess she doesn’t like the place she’s at. Apparently, it’s too close to the city. Too hectic. She’s been looking at places in our neighborhood. And when Alicia mentioned it to me, I just figured...”

You nod slowly in understanding, “Oh.”

“I mean, it’s kind of working out perfectly…rather coincidental but I just thought it would make you feel better if your next roommate wasn’t a complete stranger.”

“Do you know her well?”

“I’ve hung out with Sevika countless times before she moved away.” The brown irises of Mel’s eyes become distant; as if she’s drifting off to another time. “God, that feels like so long ago somehow... But I think you’d like her.” Her lips pull into a small smile. “She seems a bit remote at first but it’s all fun and games. I promise.”

“Okay,” You shake your head, trying to wrap your brain around it all. “And you’re sure that she’s–I mean, not that I don’t trust your word. I’m just nervous, I suppose. She isn’t like–”

“Sevika’s good people,” Mel laughs, gazing at you with understanding. “But I get it. So here’s what I was thinking… We can host a brunch and invite her over? That way you can meet her formally and get to know her. Maybe show her around the place? As much as I want this to pan out great, it’s still your decision to make at the end of the day.” She pauses a few beats, trying to gauge your reaction. “What do you think?”

Your hands fiddle with the top of the swiffer handle as you weigh your options. You had put together a more elaborate and time consuming plan prior to today; which would have consisted of flyers and roommate interviews and even Facebook posts. Of course, posting to Facebook would have been the last resort; an addition to the plan that you only added out of mere desperation. But it was a plan nonetheless.

Mel’s offer is more tempting.

“Okay,” You sigh, squeezing the handle of the swiffer. “But if this doesn’t work out, then you owe me ice cream.”

She beams, clapping her hands together excitedly.

“And not the cheap kind,” You add. “I’m talking Cold Stone.”

Mel doesn’t appear to be fazed. Instead, she turns on her heels, making her way back to her room. “I’m gonna call Alicia and let her know!” The exclamation has a song-like lilt to it; a clear indication of her delight.

You bite the inside of your cheek, fighting off a grin while you carry the swiffer to the trash can.

Your thumb absentmindedly plays with the stringy bracelet decorating your right wrist; a gift that Mel gave you over ten years ago when the two of you first became friends. It’s nearly falling apart now, but still a staple piece in your daily attire. You find yourself looming over the possible outcome of tonight’s gathering–for the ‘nth time–as your stomach stirs with unease.

It’s not like you haven’t been obsessively ruminating over this very evening. It’s all you’ve been able to think about ever since Mel helped you plan it last week. But despite all of the preparation, your mouth still remains dry.

You’re seated at the dining table, with Mel to your right and Alicia right across from her. Sevika faces you directly, which is a circumstance you tried to desperately avoid upon Mel’s suggestion.

“How do you guys like the food?” Mel asks. “I can proudly say that I’ve managed to keep the kitchen intact while I was preparing it.”

Alicia’s eyes twinkle when she glances at her girlfriend. “It’s good, honey. Thank you.”

A pair of alert grey irises flicker to you: Sevika’s.

The woman studies you with a gaze that is piercing and direct. She takes you in fully–something that she’s been doing all night–which makes you feel as if you’re under inspection. You can’t decide whether or not you like that about her.

“It was nice, Mel.” You reply. You wolfed down your food the minute your plate was served. So now you’re just awkwardly waiting for everyone else to finish their meal.

You usually don’t eat so quickly, but the task gave you something else to distract yourself with, rather than Sevika’s scrutiny.

But despite doing everything possible to avoid her stare, you can’t help but notice the calm and leisure way she eats her food. From what you’ve gathered, she doesn’t seem fond of mixing meals with conversation. But there’s still a pleasant way that she dines.

The oscillation of her jaw, especially with every chew, is a trait that you find particularly distracting…

“So, are you enjoying your return to town?” Mel inquires, turning to Sevika. She’s always had the talent of conversing with the least willing.

It takes a few seconds for Sevika to shift her gaze away from you.

You feel your muscles relax when she does.

“Yeah, it’s been good,” Sevika’s voice adopts an amiable timbre; a pattern you’ve picked up on every time she addresses Mel. “The traffic sucks on the east side, but that's nothing new.”

Mel hums in understanding. “Well, I think you’ll like it here.The people are quieter. Life is slower.”

That’s when Alicia takes that as her cue to wrap her arm around Sevika’s shoulder. They’re both nearly the same height, only Alicia is leaner.

“It’s good that you’re back home,” Alicia butts in. “You’re getting wrinkles. You’ve been frowning too much.”

Sevika rolls her eyes. “I’ve been perfectly fine.”

“Is that so? I heard…”

You’re ripped from their conversation when Mel wraps her fingers around your bicep. She leans into your ear, whispering, “Let’s go to the kitchen.”

You follow her without question.

It’s not until you’re grabbing the fruit salad out of the refrigerator when she says, “How are you liking her so far?”

You bite the inside of your cheek while carrying the dessert to the counter.

“I don’t know.” You try to sort through your feelings to find some sort of opinion–anything–that can help you identify your stance. But it’s to no avail. “She’s a bit intense, don’t you think?”

“Well,” Mel snickers. “I suppose.”

You glance up at her, noticing the way that she’s covering her smile with her hand. She flutters her eyelashes coyly, “But is that not a good thing? You’ve been staring at her all evening.” She continues, wiggling her eyebrow.

“Please don’t.”

“What? I’m just saying…”

“There’s nothing that needs to be said.”

“...the tension has been palpable ever since you laid eyes on her. You don’t have to make it into a bad thing, babe. You both are grown adults here.”

Your jaw is clenching when you mutter, “Well, you're off-base on this one.”

You think you hear her laugh again, but you don’t have the energy to entertain it. Instead, you turn around and march back to the dining room.

Your eyes are slightly droopy from the combination of wine and dinner that sloshes in your belly.

Under the haze of the ceiling lamps, you stand with your arms folded across your chest.

“This would be your room,” You’re mumbling. Sevika hums beside you, only a few feet away. She’s so far yet so close. Too close.

Yet not close enough.

You feel silly for thinking such thoughts.

It must be the wine.

The floorboards creak underneath her weight as she inspects the room. It has a fair amount of space in it. It’s larger than your room for sure. The connecting bathroom is smaller than yours though–a bargain that you and Mel made over a decade ago.

Sevika travels to a nearby wall, inspecting the paint job for a few seconds before peering at you.

Despite the warmth emanating from the heating system, a cool shiver runs through you.

Your voice dips with humor when you explain that, “Mel painted it a while back.”

You examine the way she pushes her tortoiseshell glasses up the bridge of her nose. A vein from her right forearm flexes due to the movement.

She smiles, poised and reposeful.

“Figures,” That’s when you notice the fullness of her lips—her prominent cupid's bow, and how well they look when spread into a grin like that.

She stretches her arms above her head, back arching as she seemingly holds back a yawn. You fight the urge to do the same, eyes trailing over her physique before you can stop yourself. Sevika looks strong–really strong. Her arms are thick bands of pure muscle and her broad shoulders barely concave from the movement.

She’s wearing a long-sleeved button up, which has a toffee silk-like material. You don’t realize how low her black slacks are sitting on her hips until the hem of her shirt rises. A happy trail peaks through, as well as deeply grooved muscles.

The sight feels sacrilegious and simultaneously pious. Your eyelids are heavy, droopy, when her muscles relax and her arms fall to her sides. You draw your attention back to her face. She’s caught you, eyebrows lifted and lips pursed to the side–an attempt to mask her amusement? You don’t know. Or at least, you don’t want to.

With the sudden pounding of your heart, you gesture behind you, “I can show you the laundry room?” Your desire to escape has never felt so prominent until then.

You're beginning to realize that she makes it hard for you to breathe when you’re around her.

Laughter rings in the air between everyone–Sevika, you, Alicia and Mel–while Alicia tells a funny story about a customer she had a few days prior. You’re wearing one of your nighttime sweaters now, a glass of wine in your hand, while all of you sit in the living room.

Sevika cards her hand through her hair. It’s no longer in its bun, meeting the sides of her face with buoyancy. The length is much longer than you initially thought, stopping a few inches below her neck; a feathery cut that frames her face quite perfectly.

She sits with her legs parted, left arm resting along the back of the couch. Her fingers lay a few inches from your right shoulder. With a mere flex of her hand, she’d be able to touch you.

Amidst the ring of Alicia’s voice–she’s going into detail about another story now–you turn to Sevika and ask, “Are you a heavy sleeper?”

You receive a better angle of her chiseled jaw when she tilts her head, expression contemplative while she thinks of an answer. You aren’t sure why it takes her so long since it’s not necessarily a loaded question to ask, but still—you allow her to think.

“Not really,” Her eyes dart back to you. “Is that a deal breaker?”

“I'm not sure,” You blink through a daze, overcome with an unexpected wave of tranquility due to her regard. “I listen to music sometimes in the middle of the night. It helps with my insomnia.”

“...Well, is it loud?”

“Not all the time. But you may hear it faintly.”

A nod. “Then that’s fine with me.”

You swivel the wine in your hand, “Besides going out for work, a lot of my hobbies consist of me being at home. You’ll probably see me a lot.”

“Not a problem.”

“I’m not incredibly messy or dirty but…” Your palms sweat from the loose confession. “I’m not a neat freak. And I don't like mornings. I'm really grumpy any hour before 11. Like—I will not speak if I can avoid it. And I’m a terrible cook.”

She looks away from you momentarily, lips rubbing together as her hand flexes. You grow rigid at the motion; she’s only inches away from coming in contact with your shoulder. Then her fingers relax. She looks back at you. Her lips part, “Are you trying to get rid of me?”

“Depends. Is it working?”

Her left eyebrow twitches. “You call the shots. If you don't think it’ll work, I can look into renting somewhere else.”

“I'm just trying to be transparent with you as much as possible.”

You don't want any surprises. The last thing you need is the false hope of thinking this will work just to ultimately have the infamous roommate disagreements that you've heard too much about.

You got lucky with Mel.

For 13 years, you’ve managed to have the best roommate dynamic. But now she's leaving soon. And you fear that those 13 years have just been a fluke.

If Sevika is truly serious about moving in, you need to make sure that it'll be a right fit.

“Do you have any kids?” You find yourself asking.

She lets out a gusty breath; a dry chuckle mixed with a hint of disbelief. For a second, you fear that you've offended her.

But then she's replying, “God no.” She grins with her head slightly shaking. You swear she leans a few inches closer as she adds, “Do you?”

You blink. You swallow. You try to not get distracted by the swirling grey of her irises. They're quite pretty. Too pretty. Unbelievably pretty.

“Definitely not.”

Her grin widens, “Okay, so we at least have that in common.” She allows her eyes to flicker to other features of your face; your eyebrows, then your cheeks, then your nose. “Are there any other incriminating questions that you have?”

“Of course.”

She laughs again and her eyes fall shut. There's a part of you that wants to draw closer to her at that moment. But you remain where you are; as if you’re resisting the tug of a rope.

“Okay,” She mutters, voice a gentle hum while her lips remain pulled into a grin.

“Does that annoy you?” You find yourself asking. It’s a silent test. You want to know if this will turn her away. Is she willing to answer your long list of questions? And if she is–will you find something about her that you don’t like?

“No, I don’t mind at all.” Her eyes flutter open slowly, blazing a stormy grey when they land on you. “Ask however many questions you need.”

Her hand flexes once more. This time you feel it. It’s the slightest graze, and too fleeting for it to feel real. The tip of her forefingers brush against the material of your shirt, at the very top of your bicep, before she’s running her hand through her hair. It could have been an accident–a mere sweep due to her close proximity–but you guess you’d never truly know.

Your breathing falters. She blinks at you with a placid expression, seemingly unfazed.

“Okay,” You clear your throat, shifting your weight restlessly. You try to put more distance between you two by subtly scooting a few inches to your left.

“...Going to get some more wine. Be right back!’ Mel calls.

The bubble around you and Sevika bursts.

You’re submerged into the sound of the TV playing an Old Navy commercial. Alicia stares at the screen with droopy eyes, feet propped up in the recliner chair and hands clasped together as they rest on her stomach. She hums lazily at Mel’s announcement. Faintly, you begin to hear Mel rummaging through the kitchen: the clanging of silverware, the rush of running water, then the thump! of a closing cupboard. The calming livelihood of Mel and Alicia’s existence buzzes around you. But you somehow find yourself turning back towards Sevika because, although you don't want to admit it, she’s a new enigma that’s hurdled into your life.

She beholds you with remarkable patience, elbow now resting against the back of the couch as she cradles her temple with her hand.

“So…” She says, voice laced with an expectation. She’s waiting on you.

“Right,” You nod. You shake your head in an attempt to clear the brain fog. Must be the alcohol... "Do you smoke?”

Sevika does smoke; she has a preference for cigars.

She’s a tattoo artist, which you never pinned her for. But after a few seconds of contemplation, it makes sense. She tells you that it’s been her career for a long time now.

She’s quite the morning person and a bit meticulous about her living environment. She likes to cook and happily divulges in burning incense. She doesn't have very many friends, but the ones she does have are practically her family—who, she assures with an unwavering gaze, are people that, “You will love.”

She doesn't watch much television, but she does have a knack for sports. “I like to have my friends over on game days,” She admits, sending you a sidelong glance. “Would that be something you're okay with?”

Not much time passes before you're nodding your head yes.

Sevika has no siblings and no parents. Her parents passed away a while back–a fact that you seemed more saddened by than her–and left her their house, which is why she moved out of town a few years ago.

When you ask her why she’s decided to return, she doesn't answer.

It’s your only question that makes her come to a full stop.

When the night ends and she’s getting ready to leave the apartment with Alicia quickly behind her, it’s the only question that's lingering in your mind.

And after Mel closes the door, bolts it shut and asks, “Any red flags from Sevika?”

It’s the sole reason why you find yourself hesitating, wanting—for some strange reason—to tell Mel yes. Even though every fiber of your being knows that the true answer is no.

Sevika’s vehicle is exactly the sort of car you’d picture her in. A sleek black Ram 1500 sits in front of you. Your eyes are wandering. You can't help it. You don't want to make it into a thing. It's only a truck after all…

But you've always admired cars, especially the big shiny ones.

“I would have showed you this days ago had I known you’d be so pleased,” Sevika muses. That's when you draw your attention back to her. "I didn't know you liked cars so much."

She's gazing at you with the smallest form of a smirk on her face. You want to wipe it off; you feel vulnerable somehow. Exposed.

Your blink wordlessly, breath shallowing and palms clamming up.

How is she so infuriatingly good looking?

Then, as if you've suddenly become aware of everything else about her, you're taking the rest of her body into account. Her bulging biceps are flexed due to the moving box in her arms. Small beads of sweat collect at the base of her neck…some sliding into the dips of her collarbones. Her hair is pulled into a low bun, highlighting the clenching of her jaw as she chews her gum; minty breath wafting towards you. Your stomach dips.

“Shut up,” You mutter.

Her grin widens. She laughs. You struggle to suppress one yourself.

She doesn't say anything else.

You stand awkwardly by her truck as she turns to walk into the apartment.

A part of you doesn't know what to make of this. Here you are, moving a woman that you've just met into your apartment, with no idea of how this will turn out.

You feel like you're floundering through life. Surely, everyone else your age is settled down with a family and a secure living environment—not stressing over the prospect of a new roommate. This situation feels too…juvenile. It would make sense for a younger version of yourself to be facing roommate insecurity. It would make sense for your younger self to grow uncharacteristically flustered and perturbed around someone like Sevika.

But not now. No—certainly not now.

The sound of Sevika’s footsteps pull you from your reverie. When you glance in her direction, the first thing you notice is the quirk of her eyebrows. You shift your weight, wringing your hands as you work up the courage to say, “I can help,” You clear your throat. “If you want.”

She’s in the middle of grabbing another box from her car but stops mid-reach from the sound of your offer. She cranes her neck, lines appearing in her forehead as she mutters, “I’m good.”

You take offense to that. Does she think you're weak? That you're not strong enough to carry a few stupid boxes? Or worse—has she already found a reason to dislike you?

Goosebumps trail up your back.

“I’m strong enough, you know.” You find yourself tilting your chin up defiantly.

“Is that so?”

“I may not be ripped like you,” You fold your arms across your chest and you hear a snort. A fucking snort! “But I don't do pilates for nothing."

That's when she stands upright, two stacked boxes now in her arms. She manages to rest them on her left hip, closing the back door in one swift motion.

"Yeah?" Then she’s tilting her head slightly, appraising you with an expression that nearly sets you on fire. "You think I'm strong?"

The world around you spins and you're nearly knocked off balance.

There's a part of your spirit that uncurls. Heat plants a seed in your gut then burns, burns, burns.

Perspiration has gathered at the base of your neck, and one bead of sweat drips down the slope of your spine. Then another. You're scowling at her, a reaction that she seems to enjoy, when you feel the drip of one more.

She takes your silence without question. Her irises trail down to your crossed arms then back up to your face before continuing. “You don't have to lift a single one of those pretty fingers for me.” Then you feel her warmth—her touch—at the tip of your chin. It's a small brush with her index finger, yet strong enough to tilt your head before she's pulling away. Then she's grabbing the boxes with both of her hands, snickering under her breath while adding, “But since you seem like the adamant type—be my guest, darling.”

Your legs tremble when she brushes past you.

For the rest of the evening, you allow her to settle into the apartment without your help.

“Sevika?” Your voice is scratchy from lack of use. “Can you help me?”

You're frustrated because you can't find your favorite mug. The entire kitchen is spotless—a sort of clean you haven't seen in ages. You're grateful for Sevika—truly, you are. But due to how organized it all is, you now have difficulty locating everything. The way she cleans and sorts through the apartment is completely different from your way.

Irritated, you call her name again. But no answer.

You know that she’s in her room because her door is closed. It’s only been a few days since she’s moved in but you’ve started to notice that she likes to leave it open when she's not in there.

You sigh, storming to her room. You have a taste for tea, something you've been craving all morning. And now that you've finally finished your work, you’d been so excited to drink it.

But now you're completely turned about by the state of the kitchen. Nothing is where you usually keep it.

“Sevika!” You practically bark, voice growing thin. “Are you awake?”

You're about to knock on her door—a disturbance that would surely wake her if she's in a deep slumber—but then it flies open. And there she stands, wearing a pair of boxers and a tank top. She appears to have just showered, hair seemingly damp and towel in her hand. That familiar woodsy scent of hers hits you like a tide wave, but this time it’s tenfold stronger than what it usually is.

“Is there a reason why you're shouting my name at 10 AM?”

You swallow thickly. Your mouth has suddenly become dry. “I can't find the mugs.”

Sevika blinks slowly then mutters, “What?”

“The mugs. They're a type of cup, cylindrical in size? Often used to drink things like coffee, tea, hot ch-”

“They're in the cupboard by the refrigerator.”

“...”

Your eyebrows furrow. “Why are they in there? I’ve never put them there before.”

“You could barely reach the cupboard they were originally in—”

“That's why I have a stepping stool!”

“So I figured it would be easier if they were moved to one that's more accessible for you. I told you about this Tuesday. Do you not remember?”

“...You never told me that.”

“Yes,” Her jaw grinds. “I did. You were talking to Mel on facetime and nearly ate shit when grabbing that awfully gaudy mug you like,” Oh. “So I told you that I would move it to the cupboard by the refrigerator,” Oh. “And you looked me right in the eye, smiled and said you thought that was a great idea.” Fuck. “...Do you not remember that?”

That’s right.

You did say that.

Your heartbeat skips from the piercing silence.

God, she's going to think you're crazy now.

Sevika sighs.

Shoving down a mountain of guilt, you shift your weight, “I’m sorry. I don't think I actually processed that conversation when it happened.”

She isn't quick to reply, and you're not sure where to go from there. So you add, “Um, would you like some tea?”

As a peace offering, you make Sevika a cup of tea the next morning too.

The third day is when you have to go back to work, so you force yourself awake earlier than you want. There's still a small chip of guilt weighing on your shoulders that morning, so you fix Sevika a cup of tea again.

You also do it for that following morning because it's Saturday. Who wouldn't want tea on Saturday?

Sunday is a lazy day for Sevika. But somehow she's already in the kitchen when you stumble in at a harrowing 8am. She's waiting for the toaster oven to sound when you pull two mugs out of the cupboard. Even after the appliance dings, she lingers with you in the kitchen, silently eating her toast while you prepare the kettle. Ten minutes later, she’s drinking her tea while her elbows lean against the island counter.

You hold onto your mug tightly and listen to the chirping of the birds in the distance. The only other sound that is audible are her even breaths.

You don't know how you've settled into such a routine after 8 days of living with her. But somehow, standing in the middle of the kitchen together with nothing but comfortable silence, you think that you’ve found the oasis of serenity.

#au writing #piscespetals writing #fanfic #sevika #sevika x reader #arcane au #arcane netflix #fluff #arcane women #divorced!sevika #sevika x y/n #sevika pls marry me #sevika x you #roommate!sevika

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swga-ficrecs · 1 year

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long fic recs

this is a list of fics that are, well, long regardless of the trope and plot. for voracious readers who aren't satisfied with short-length writing. all these fics are considered holy grails because i don't read long fics if they aren't well-written. all fics are finished unless noted otherwise.

✒️ unfinished

yoongi

third wheeling by @untaemedqueen i absolutely love everything about this. it's a lot of my favorite tropes in one giant fic. the characters are complex and fleshed out, the pacing is good, and i love the writing style. the smut is well-written and, though the catalyst for the plot, well-paced that it doesn't feel like a smut-centric fic.

suit & tie + drabbles by @jungshookz this is is a long fic but in bullet points, so i can only imagine how long this could've been if it was written in full sentences. another fic where yoongi does a 180°, but their dynamic is adorable from the beginning. not a lot of drama, a good fic to go back to if you want something lighthearted. you can probably tell by now that i love ceo fics.

desolate by @angelicyoongie this fic is long but has a very straightforward style of writing that's easy to follow and understand. it's one of the few hybrid fics i've read where they fight for a hybrid's right to freedom. i love how much yoongi opened up and changed throughout the fic. it's one of those fics where the idea of a hybrid isn't romanticized.

the deal by @untaemedqueen a great introduction to syndicate fics if you're looking for one. this is a chaptered fic that isn't too long and is easily digestible. it doesn't touch on mafia-esque activities so much. i have a thing for romance fics where the stone cold character evolves into a romantic, and this tickles that itch.

jimin

balletteacher!jimin x ballerina!reader by @jungshookz ✒️ this bullet point mini-series should be considered a full series already, considering the length of each drabble and how many of them exist. this is a forbidden romance between a teacher and a student with different personalities, so it's interesting and endearing how they developed their feelings over time.

i want to be with you by @oddinary4bts

a lengthy oneshot of strangers-turned-lovers and how love grows slowly between two people who are worlds apart. very well-written, i dreaded how quickly i finished reading it. i love how human jimin is in this fic. the oc is very relatable as well—very realistic and not overtly romanticized. i can easily identify myself in her if i were in her shoes.

taehyung

maybe i do by @chateautae another fic that is a mix of my favorite tropes. this fic has fewer but longer chapters. another smut-filled fic that doesn't feel overworked and serves as a good break between dramatic scenes. i love how both characters developed throughout the story.

jungkook

please love me by @ahundredtimesover i loved the complexity of the characters and how they navigated through their situation. they both had to do a lot of growing up in this fic, and it was done in a well-paced manner. the drabbles also give a lot of insight to this universe. i go back and read the drabbles a lot.

evolution of a lover's heart by @jeonstudios

a heartwrenching masterpiece. i waited a long time for this to be finished, and it did not disappoint at all. one of the most emotional and resonating fics i've read so far. my heart feels for both of them so much. the kind of love that people wish they would have.

the boy with galaxies in his eyes by @oddinary4bts

an emotionally captivating and heartwrenching oneshot that i never expected to read. both characters were well-written and well-fleshed out, it was easy to fall in love with them and understand their actions. the writing itself was really magical too—flowed so smoothly, it didn't feel as long as it actually was. an absolute hidden gem that everyone should read!

4-7-8 by @jiminrings

not the longest of fics, but a great read nonetheless. i read this a while back, and it was only after i reread it that i was able to truly appreciate the characters and their development. it has a very realistic plot that tugs at my heartstrings. everyone deserves this kind of partner and love.

our first and last by @thedefinitionofbts ✨️

if you love the concept of alternate universes and soulmates, this is a must read. the author utilized scientific concepts that i had a hard time grasping and, at the same time, supported the plot really well. i'm so glad i came across this fic.

multi-member

sanguis duology + (ongoing) oneshots by @borathae absolute monster of a fic, probably one of the longest ones i've read. even though i was annoyed at mc's stubborness, i think it was a driving force throughout the fic. i also never imagined the pairings in this, but i enjoyed the ride. there were some parts where i felt the author could've woven details better to make the story smoother, but it's charming in the sense that i need to think and connect the dots from previous chapters.

a place called home by @agustdakasuga i keep re-reading this fic every few years. i loved how each hybrid came into her life and how they eventually stayed. i also appreciate how each hybrid's personality isn't necessarily stereotypical. great pacing in each chapter, good to read if you like chaptered fics that aren't very long.

the road to you by @bonvoyagenoona

a slow burn masterpiece. this fic is a rollercoaster of experiences that is complemented by terrific writing and pacing. it's very instrospective, which is something i personally like. it has a little bit of everything and a good amount of smut, but it all works wonderfully together, the words flew by quickly.

#swga-ficrecs

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stxrvel · 8 months

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i don't wanna live forever (1)

summary: reader couldn't stop having deaths in her life ever since the Supersoldier serum came into her life. no matter how hard she tried to stay sane, it seemed that life didn't want to give her a break. until, one afternoon, she learned that one of her old friends was alive… (you guys know im bad at summaries, but please give this one a chance)

pairing: bucky barnes x f!reader

words: +4.5k

warnings: angst, major character deaths, canon deaths¿?, bad words, english is not my first language! thoughts of revenge and death, this is like an introductory chapter, so the buckyxreader interaction is low, but it'll get better, i promise!

note: holy fuck guys. i just spent like five hours writing and editing this and i fucking love it. its been a while since ive been this proud of a work, im actually scare the emotion will disappear, but i really want to rejoice in this one. i wanted to write something a little different from my usuals, maybe a little common in the fanfiction world, but i started and i simply could not stop (or maybe just approach this bucky fic from another perspective). so this is the first part and i'll try with all my heart to keep this going because it was fucking insane, at least for me. i really hope you all like this as much as i do! feel free to leave any comment! thanks always for all the support!! see you next time <3

part 2 ; part 3 ; part 4

When you went into the Supersoldier serum project with Steve, you thought you were going to change the world. Of course, at that time when technology was relatively new any invention felt like the beginning of a new era. That's how it was all sold to you and it was how you expected everything to turn out… Until you realized that it was all really a waste of effort and time.

They were just propaganda for war. Not to stop it, to promote it. To motivate it.

You tried, on several occasions, not to think too much about it. You tried to stay out of it as Steve sometimes asked you to, even though even he didn't want to, as Bucky asked you to when you lay on his shoulder to cry in the little time you had free between trips. It was a great burden of guilt and helplessness.

Until you and Steve, with the almost imposed help of Peggy and Howard, rescued Bucky from the evil hands of Johann Schmidt and his nefarious organization, HYDRA, that, unbeknownst to you, would haunt you for a long time to come. It was only after that, after spending several sleepless days on edge thinking about what might be happening to Bucky, that you and Steve were finally able to go out and contribute something. Destroy HYDRA and the Red Skull's plans.

Of course, you realized that not everything could go right when, the one mission you couldn't attend, Bucky didn't return. And then Steve didn't come back either.

“Do you think this will ever end?” you had asked Bucky the day before his last mission.

“Of course it will,” he had answered without hesitation, moonlight illuminating his clear eyes, squeezing your hand as if it was all he wanted to do for the rest of his life. “And after that we can begin to live as it should be.”

But there was no after that, because you never recovered from losing him. From losing them both.

“Are you okay?” Peggy approached, in the middle of the afternoon when the sun was streaming through the stained glass windows of the church, illuminating the spot where Steve's empty coffin had been, because they didn't even find his body. They didn't even think there was any of it left.

You barely moved your head to acknowledge her presence, moving the prayer slip they had recited throughout the mass between your hands. Your eyes were crystallized, in tears that no longer even made the effort to flow, because you had already spent too many days and nights crying. Peggy had been on the other side of the church, sitting next to Howard while the priest spoke, because you had refused to be near them in those moments. You didn't want to be near them.

“As well as one can be,” you slurred, finding that it had been a long time since you'd last used your voice for anything other than cursing and crying disconsolately.

The people had already left, probably an hour or more ago. The empty coffin had already been brought out, all the flower arrangements had been picked up, and the priest was preparing for the evening mass. You knew you had to leave, you knew Peggy and Howard were there waiting for you, but you felt stuck at that moment. You didn't want to leave, you didn't want to get ahead, you didn't want that life if it had to be this cruel.

You heard Peggy's sigh, before she took a seat next to you, a short distance away, averting her gaze to look at Christ on the cross.

You didn't know if you were selfish to be so closed off to your friends at this moments, because they must be grieving as much as you were, but you didn't know how to deal with the future possibilities. Bucky and Steve, great men and soldiers, one even with enhanced abilities, had not been able to make it through the punishment of war. What if Peggy and Howard were the same? What if they too had the cruel fate of dying at the hands of injustice? Could you deal with that? With everyone gone?

Maybe you could open up to them a little more because if not, who else? Turning away from them was not going to ensure their survival in this hate-filled society. Maybe you could protect them, like you couldn't protect Steve and Bucky. Maybe you could make a difference, because you had the chance to.

“You know,” Peggy spoke again, rearranging herself on the bench and crossing her legs, “Steve always knew this was how it would end.”

Her wistful, mournful, fragile voice sent a shiver through your body. Peggy didn't consider herself someone to show herself vulnerable in front of others no matter how close they were, even in those things that hurt her the most, in those things that affected her personally and made her eyes water instantly, she always tended to shut down. And at that moment you didn't dare interrupt her because you knew it would probably be the only time she would talk about Steve in a long time.

“Sometimes we'd talk, between tour trips, and he would tell me that wasn't what he wanted to do, even when he had to convince you otherwise,” her clasped hands would occasionally squeeze between words, blinking rapidly to fight back the tears. “He didn't know if he'd made the right decision.”

You could almost picture him, backstage at the foot of the stairs with that notebook he carried everywhere and wouldn't let go, Peggy at his side nostalgic, as helpless as the others. It reminded you of the times you'd had similar conversations with Bucky, desperate to find a purpose, a way through so much fog.

“The first time I saw him so sure of himself was when he asked us to help them look for Bucky,” she mumbled his name, as if trying not to scare you away by saying it too loudly. “Ever since then it seemed like he'd found that spark…”

“Until Bucky died,” you whispered, the words cutting through the cold and silence, Peggy shifting on the bench contritely.

“He lost something of himself from that day on, it wasn't hard to tell. The next time I heard him so sure after spending days lost, it was on that call from the plane.”

Peggy paused, raising her hand to cover her mouth as her voice faltered. You turned to look at her, wishing you could rip the pain from her soul and leave it in yours. She was trying to contain her emotions, breathing deeply, and in that moment you wondered what life might be like from now on, with the specter of grief following you around, waiting for the next time the dead knocked on your doors, unexpectedly, without allowing you to say goodbye.

“He had told me he wouldn't die in peace until he could get it all over with. And he took it all with him. And I hated him so much for it…” Peggy sobbed, her labored breathing standing out between words. She kept looking straight ahead at the stained glass windows, the expression on her face hard and scowling despite having tears rolling down her cheeks, as if she were trying to blame something for what had happened. Her reproachful eyes fixed on the Christ.

Her wails echoed through the walls of the church, the father on the dais sending them a look of sorrow. He had offered you water, thirty minutes after everyone at Steve's wake had left, when they kept walking, and you stood there.

Another empty casket.

“Ladies,” Howard's voice reached your ears amidst all the physical and emotional numbness. You could barely notice Peggy wiping under her eyes with the pocket square that was surely part of Howard's suit, as she took breaths to get up. “We should go now.”

You heard him walk, his slow, careful steps stopping just behind you. There, on his feet with his chest tight, he rested a hand on your shoulder and gave it a squeeze in support. He knew it was the most you would allow him at a time like this, deciding not to pass up the opportunity to let you know he was there. You sighed, feeling a heaviness take over your body as you stood up.

“Yeah, let's go.”

The next few months passed in a blur. Maybe too fast, maybe too slow, you weren't sure anymore.

Peggy continued to work at the Strategic Science Reserve for a couple of years, calling you from time to time to help her with some jobs. You kept a low profile, practically a fugitive from the state, while trying to live a halfway normal life in Europe. A lot of it thanks to Howard really.

Life had become a rather monotonous routine when you stopped getting so many calls from Peggy and Howard several years later. You knew they were fine, but not being able to return to the country filled you with anguish every day. And trying to lead a normal life became too complicated when you looked in the mirror and it seemed like not a single day had passed since you were in that capsule of Dr. Erskine's with Steve.

Until Peggy called one day asking you to come back. She told you that it was safe, that there would be no state officials waiting for you at the airport, but even if that had been the situation, you wouldn't have hesitated for a second to buy the first plane ticket and fly to see them again. To Howard and Peggy, to melt into an embrace, longing for the lost years.

You had thought that contributing to the fight in World War II had earned you a ticket to at least be recognized in the military, but all you gained was the government with their mad scientists looking for you to try to recreate the Supersoldier serum. Peggy didn't want to risk you and Howard gave you no choice by giving you a plane ticket to Finland with your bags packed.

You wasted many years not being by their side, unable to keep the promise you had made them in your head to be close by to protect them, to watch over their safety.

But when you left the airport there was only Peggy, and maybe that should've told you everything.

Her hair already looked gray, the effects of gravity and time present on her face. You hated to think that you shouldn't have looked any different from the way she saw you last time when she waved you off at that same airport. Her warm gaze was the same, raising her arms with held back tears to encircle you in a big hug. She tried hard not to sob against your shoulder, you felt the choppy movement of her breath against your chest.

She looked so different and the same at the same time.

You walked to her car a moment later, her trying to carry your suitcase and you telling her you were perfectly fine carrying it on your own. Amidst a smile, she walked into the driver's door and you frowned as you saw the empty passenger seat.

“Where's Howard?” you spoke as you sat down, after stowing the huge suitcase in the trunk of the car. The way you moved to buckle up, you didn't notice the way Peggy froze in place, her hands clenching the steering wheel so tightly that her breath hitched from the effort.

“We're going to see him,” was all she said, but she was very good at hiding that something was wrong. Only for a little while.

During the trip, even though you tried to ask things about them, about what they had been doing during this time, you didn't miss the way her shoulders were tense or her eyes very alert. Something bad had happened and Peggy was trying to hide it from you.

When she pulled up in front of a church, you already knew what had happened without her answering a single one of your questions.

Howard had died.

You two had sat next to Howard's son Tony, his spitting image, in complete silence as the prayers went on. At that moment you didn't know what had happened, hoping it had been a quiet and peaceful death, because you didn't know if you would be able to endure another violent death.

Peggy gave you all the details when the mass was over, after the coffin was taken away, and you hadn't felt such fury in so many years. Not since the deaths of Bucky and Steve had that adrenaline rush of anger returned to run through your body as violently as it did at that moment, when Peggy told you that he had been murdered along with his wife. All to steal some prototypes of Dr. Erskine's serum. The damned serums with which everything had started.

This time there was a body in the coffin, but there was also a culprit. Someone to point the finger at and take it out on for years of anguish and pain.

You were at Peggy's house, staying for a few days, when she told you that wasn't all.

Peggy had a suspicion that HYDRA hadn't disappeared when Steve crashed that plane into the ice. Her suspicions generated panic in you, because Bucky and Steve had died for that, now apparently Howard, only for it all to have been for nothing. The feeling of carnage that ran through your whole head made you nauseous, years of helplessness and pain pent up in such a small body had to find its way out somehow.

“It was a man, according to the information I've been able to gather,” Peggy spoke, taking a seat across from you in the dining room of her living room, after pouring you a glass of lemonade. “He didn't die from the crash. He had a concussion. He was hit in the head. His wife died from asphyxiation.”

“Does Tony know?”

“No,” Peggy shook her head quickly, one hand over her heart as if the mere thought caused her physical pain. “It didn't even occur to me to tell him something like that.”

“And he was looking for the serum,” you recalled, a bitter feeling planted in the back of your throat, the memories of the disastrous times during the war coming back into your head like a blinding flash.

“He took them. We don't know who he is or who he works for, but whoever they are, they must have been following us for a long time to know about them.”

“You mean years,” you arched an eyebrow, your fingers touching the cool exterior of the glass seeking some reassurance.

“Possibly. That project isn't recent,” Peggy nodded, drinking her lemonade with a grimace. You stared at the liquid almost finished from her glass, a wrinkle forming between your brows with each passing second and you kept wondering why.

“But what the fuck was going through that asshole's head?” you spat angrily. Rage at already the amount of lives that serum had taken with it and at Howard's recklessness. Rage at the reaper who seemed to be following in their footsteps for some reason, rage at that damn man and whoever his damn boss was.

“It was the only option, Y/N,” Peggy turned her gaze, meeting your eyes with a strange glint.

“What do you mean?” you were almost afraid to ask, your friend's gaze suddenly turning evasive. You watched her run her fingernails over the glass of the tumbler, lost for a moment in thought. The way her shoulders slumped forward in defeat caused a pressure in your chest that made it hard to breathe. Peggy shouldn't be going through these things at this point in life.

“Howard was working with the Pentagon, as a contractor or something. They had found you. Howard felt cornered and they made him sign an agreement.”

With your incredulous look on her face, Peggy didn't dare look back at you for a few seconds. So much had happened since you had left and it seemed that you had only been told about the things you weren't going to care about so much. But if you had known that you wouldn't have cared much about giving some of the state officials their comeuppance. You would've liked Howard to trust you enough to tell you, not live in as much fear behind his back as the last few years must've been. You didn't like the way Peggy's lips curved downward, as if she, too, would've preferred to make another decision had she known this was how it was going to end.

“Howard assured them that he could recreate the serum, and told them he would as long as they left you alone.”

“Fucking asshole…” you closed your eyes, scrubbing your face with your hands. The rough skin of your hands rubbed against the delicate skin of your face, years of combat and mistreatment foreseeing a harshness that reminded you every day of what you'd had to go through to get to that moment.

“I only found out about it after it happened. I didn't see it for like a whole week,” Peggy shook her head slightly, her eyes glistening in the pain of the memories. You shook your head hard, a more violent reaction than you could have anticipated.

“That stupid… stupid asshole! What the fuck made him think I couldn't defend myself?”

“He was trying to do the right thing,” Peggy finally searched your eyes, meeting the red rims that told her you were holding back too hard breaking in front of her, only using that pain mixed with rage to keep you sane.

“And look how that turned out!”

Peggy stretched her hand across the table, with a pleading look asking you to lower your voice, averting her gaze to the hallway. You followed her gaze, for a second forgetting where you were, forgetting that her family was with you behind the doors where you were plunged into darkness. It was past midnight.

You took a second to calm yourself, trying to drown out the uncontrolled emotions and taking deep breaths to calm your fluttering heart.

“And if what you theorize is true…” you regretted the moment those words left your mouth; you didn't even want to finish the sentence.

“Do you think it is?”

“I don't want to,” you shook your head instantly, closing your eyes, the thought sounding illogical inside your head. Your hands on your chest trying to contain the storm of feelings that was making chaos inside your head. “That would mean that everything we did, everything Bucky, Steve and Howard did and sacrificed, was in vain. It will all have been in vain.”

You spent several weeks with that thought in your head, working hand in hand with Peggy, and the organization you barely knew as SHIELD, to track down the whereabouts of the killer of Tony's parents and the one responsible because the Supersoldier's serums were, surely, in the wrong hands.

And yes, it was many years of fruitless missions and dead ends, with you running every field mission and Peggy calling the shots from the New York facility. Every time you felt close to discovering something, it seemed that the enemy rejoiced in your failures and still couldn't understand how they were always three steps ahead.

However, you had to leave the missions when Peggy became ill.

The silent, lethal Alzheimer's.

During the first months in the hospital, she still recognized you. She also recognized her husband and children. But after the first year, she frowned every time her children walked through the door. After a year and a half, her husband had to remind her that they had been married for about forty years.

After two years, she was still only remembering you, Howard, Steve and Bucky. Her whole life during her time in the army was all you talked about, sometimes you would tell her how much more time had passed than she remembered and always, without fail, she would ask you how much you had done in Europe for so long by yourself.

She cried every time she remembered Howard's death. She cried every time she remembered her children. Out of her mouth came a thousand apologies that no one would accept, because there was nothing anyone could do to prevent what had to happen. You wished she had been a serum test subject instead of you.

For several years, missions to find Tony's parents killer were sporadic because you spent more time around Peggy than at the SHIELD facility. She was the only thing you had left of everything you'd ever had, of when you held the world in your hands. She was the last thing keeping you tethered to that reality, keeping madness from flooding your reason. How could you have so many years ahead of you when that was all you had to live for? A life full of the dead, full of pain and suffering. What kind of karma were you paying for?

You were leaving the SHIELD facility, after another failed mission, when Nick Fury stopped you in front of the exit. You almost rolled your eyes right under his watchful gaze, tired of having to meet him anywhere, and exhausted from his comments about this vengeance project or whatever he wanted you to be a part of.

You still didn't know how, being such an exemplary agent, Coulson had fallen into his nets.

“Miss L/N,” the man stopped you with his words, his hands behind his back and a tense stance that caught your attention.

“Fury,” you nodded in his direction, hoping he'd be quick because you were running late for your weekly visit with Peggy. “Do you need anything?”

“I'd like you to come with me somewhere,” Fury approached tentatively, his one eye fixed on your wary expression, which shifted to boredom the moment you thought you knew what he wanted.

“If this is about that project, I've told you a thousand times-”

“No,” he interrupted you, moving forward and removing his hands from behind his back. “It's not related to that. I really want you to come with me.”

“You look agitated, but I need-”

“I'll take you to see Peggy myself after this.”

You didn't like that he knew your routine, even though you weren't doing enough to hide it from the other agents. But Fury looked nervous, even though he was hiding it very well, trying to keep his cool as he looked for ways to convince you.

You figured it wouldn't be a big deal for you to go off the deep end for once. After all, Peggy never remembered you were going to see her.

You set off in Fury's armored vans, not quite sure where you were going, but sure that it was urgent, because he had taken it upon himself to let his driver know that you had to get there as soon as possible.

You took that time on the trip to come up with a new strategy for the next mission because what you were doing up to that point wasn't working and you felt too close to throwing in the towel, figuratively speaking. You could spend years following a ghost, but you wouldn't give up on finding Howard and Maria's killer.

Before the car pulled up to one of SHIELD's secret sections, they passed the giant, imposing Stark Tower. You never saw Tony again after that time at his parents' funeral, not even during his visits to Peggy because you always made it a point not to cross him. You didn't think you'd be able to look him in the eye while you knew his parents had been killed without being able to tell him. You had promised Peggy in her lucid moments that you wouldn't tell him anything until you could find the culprit. You didn't want to initiate that pain if it had to be kept repressed, as yours once was, and probably still is. You had learned, some time after the funeral, that he was living with Edwin Jarvis, and you were glad to know that he would have good companionship to keep him company in such hard times.

Fury, a handful of agents and you entered the vans through the entrance to what appeared to be the parking lot of an old warehouse. Upon entering, the first thing you noticed was the number of armed agents that seemed to be guarding the place, not at all discreet to how SHIELD used to do things. You weren't sure if Peggy would authorize something like that, but you couldn't question the Director's decisions. It wasn't your place.

“What's going on here?” you frowned, watching as every meter there was another agent and another agent. You got out of the car without waiting for an answer from Fury, moving directly toward the entrance where most of the agents were concentrated. You barely noticed their looks in contradiction, running their eyes over you and then over the man trying to catch up to you, dubious as to whether or not they should move. “Move.”

“Wait,” Fury's voice stopped the command in the agents, who turned back to look at you as you sent Fury a confused look.

“What's all this mystery, Nicholas?” the man startled almost discreetly at your tone of voice, the agents stirring uncomfortably, but kept the serene expression that was getting on your nerves. “What the fuck did you do?”

“We got a call from the Arctic.”

“From the Arctic?”

You tried to ignore the way the hairs on your neck instantly stood up, your body alerting you to something your mind still couldn't comprehend. You felt like a deer face to face with a predator, expecting the worst.

“The Colonel informed us of something that might interest us,” Fury's cryptic voice echoed in your ears, drowning out the flicker of uncertainty vibrating from your head to your toes. “They found a plane.”

You didn't even answer him. Your heart began to pound wildly, cornered, ready to have your head bitten off. The tension in your shoulders intensified, with the involuntary movement of your hands as you broke into a cold sweat. The mere implication of his words caused an emptiness in your stomach, a sense of longing and fear you hadn't felt before.

You looked at Fury, trying to find in his gaze the gleam of a lie, but there was nothing there but assurance. There was nothing but recognition and understanding in his gaze, but that didn't make the emptiness in your stomach and the tight chest go away. It didn't make the feeling of being outside your body go away.

You barely remembered to move in the direction of the door, the agents instantly moving out of your way, pushing it so hard that one of them flew out. You moved your eyes around every corner of the room, the cream-colored walls generating a great repulsion in you. And there, in the midst of all the confusion and the storm, a confused and disgruntled face looked back at you. A face you never thought you would see again.

Steve Rogers was standing a few feet away from you, barely comprehending what was happening around him and instantly recognizing you. Your chest compressed once again, the tears you held back for so many years even in your loneliness making their own way into your eyes, endangering to end that mask you wore everywhere you went.

Steve was actually there, looking back at you with his eyes shining in recognition. You didn't know if he was as surprised as you were to react or you looked so bad that he didn't know if he should approach you or not. You just knew it was him, it really was him right there in front of you. He wasn't dead. Steve wasn't dead. He was alive. Ah, he was so alive.

The broken sob that suddenly left you was loud enough to make your friend shed his stupefaction and stride over to where you were. You barely managed to cover your face, between sobs, wails and disbelief, feeling your knees give out, surrendering to the weight of the pain, when his strong arms grabbed your shoulders before you hit the floor. Preventing your fall, as you had wished so many times before.

You cried against his shoulder, when feeling him against your body you knew there was no doubt it was true. You moved your hands away from your face, wrapping them around his waist as tightly and lovingly as you hadn't hugged anyone in so long. Surely the last time you hugged someone like that was when you saw Peggy on your way back from Europe.

Steve wasn't far behind, his arms around your shoulders just as tightly, his chin against the crown of your head, moving from side to side trying to hold back the loud sobs that shook your body.

You couldn't believe it, but it was true, he was right in front of you.

Steve was alive. He had come back to your side. You didn't even want to ask why.

And there was nothing else you could think about for the rest of your life.

#stxrvel talks #bucky barnes x reader #bucky fanfic #bucky fic #bucky x you #bucky fluff #bucky barnes angst #james bucky barnes #bucky barnes #bucky x reader #bucky #james bucky buchanan barnes #winter soldier #the winter soldier #steve rogers

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doodlinge · 3 months

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my writing tips, that i think people will find useful:

- write dialogue first and THEN make a scene around it.

i like to do this sometimes for multiple reasons. first, if you’re in a flow of good ideas, getting dialogue done will be a future GAME CHANGER. you don’t have to be stuck fussing over little word choices because you just do it when you have a good idea, and it works! fuss over it now, save time for descriptions later. second, the characters you’re writing usuuallly wont be able to read eachother’s minds. we people do everything by communication and talking! so, map out what you want your scene to look like through dialogue! i like to do mine as a screenplay or movie script, so that way i can ensure that the characters are speaking Like Real People (tm). and THEN I READ IT OUTLOUD >:)

- map out your chapters before you start to write. seriously, do it.

so, personally, my favorite part of fanfiction and writing is the planning stage. and i like doing it on paper, but we’ll get into that after this. first, you get the idea, the spark in your brain that could make an AMAZING story, comic, or au. that’s the general premise to work off of! write that down, if you need. next, do a VERY rough draft of what you want to happen—specifically, the 3 main points of your story: the beginning event, the middle event or climax, and the ending event, or your point A, B, and C. work off of and build up (or build down) from each of these core events of your story, planning the small events that lead up to The Big Guy (or B). these ideas or premises for each leading event can and probably will be VERY, VERY rough, but once you’ve got the rough idea of what will probably happen done, you can get to work on MORE PLANNING (sorry guys. learn to enjoy it)

- PLANNING PART TWO BABY WOOO (plan out your chapters. and if it doesnt work when you’re writing it, that’s okay!)

this is what you will do before you write your chapters, that works for me way better than just going in with no plan. personally, when i started to write the fic i’m currently writing, i mapped out all the rough details that i want to happen in the climax chapter of my story, because most people find the middle the hardest part. since i already had an rough idea of what would have happened before the climax with my previous planning stage, i already was able to connect how all of the buildup would lead into the climax of the story pretty easily. every action in your story will have a consequence, big or small, and that all will lead up to your protagonist bursting into tears or the main couple confessing their love or the final, epic battle between the protagonist and antagonist! if, when you’re writing, the rough idea you had just isn’t working out, you can either a: redo it completely if it’s a huge problem, or b (my favorite): work around it in the moment and improvise. i ended up making my fic’s climax way better just because of the extra scenes i added in while writing, but since i had my original plan to work off of, everything was a lot easier.

- make every scene with a motive to accomplish

most people know this one, but i thought it was good to add in. whether it’s to flesh out the world around your characters with fun and shenanigans or to give the audience a little more insight into a character who will be useful in the future, every scene and every chapter should have a purpose. when people act, they also like to give their characters motivations, and for a while, i wasn’t sure how that could connect. however, now i understand. let’s say a character is trying to motivate another one to be brave and face their fears, but character a is actually only interested in their own interests. character a’s motivation is to be self-serving—they’re not as concerned with helping character b, but instead, they want to help themself. this shows a lot about character a! when you have a purpose for every story beat and a motive for each character, it can help you flesh out the character much better.

- show don’t tell (and what i interpret that as)

okay, so for a while, i had NO idea what show don’t tell even meant. i LOVE writing about my character’s thoughts, their interests, their perspectives on what’s going on around them. character analysis is one of the best parts, for me! but there are ways to show what a character is thinking without the use of heavy description. for example, take this part from the fic i’m currently working on right now:

the character i’m writing for had not mentioned her mom the entire chapter, but when you go back and analyze her character throughout it, you can see major hints that part of why she who she is stems from her trauma with her mother. when she connects to an older adult female figure and feels understood, the issues she has are shown and not told, clear as day. by using dialogue and trusting your audience to connect the dots about your characters, you can make a better-written story! remember motivations; sometimes, characters don’t even know they have the motivations that they do, and the audience has to figure it out based on context clues. leave room for intrigue and mystery! think; if you were this character in this situation feeling the way they felt, what would you do? what would you say? why would you say it, and what would that reveal about you?

- write one story beat per day and WRITE ON PAPER

the word count, for me, doesn’t matter. if the quality of your writing is good, and the pacing gives audiences room to breathe, then that’s enough! quality over quantity, in my opinion. if you’re not up for writing, PLAN CHAPTERS! plan scenes, plan events! plan dialogue, make it fun! that is writing too. for me, when i have the planning done, i go with the One Story Beat Per Day Rule. if you get one small event done each time you write, you’ll be finishing The Big Event you wanted to accomplish in no time. and if you’re in the middle of a big story beat and you just need a break, i’d say to take one…. and later, come back with a notebook and a pen and think. paper has helped me write better because the flow of thought just keeps going when i’m focused, and i think it might work for a lot of people.

- remember, YOU CAN DO THIS! MAKE IT FUN!

writing and finishing stuff is really, really hard. but if you get one small thing done for the characters in your story, comic or au each day… you’ll eventually have an amazing, finished story. make it fun for yourself. listen to music, act out the scripts, use color theory, analyze your characters and don’t make it a chore! every small step contributes to getting to the top. make something you will love to write, and that you will love to read. make something for yourself, because in the end, if you enjoy it, the audiences will enjoy it.

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l4long-winded · 10 months

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

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

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

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

word count: 19,551

previously: concealed feelings and abstract attitudes

( this work has been cross posted to ao3 )

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Then which did he imply?”

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

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

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

“Where’s the fabric you found?”

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

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

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

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

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

“What is it?” He asks.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Does something concern you?”

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

“Focus. Am I losing you, Lily?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Edmund. Thomas.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What, what is it? Did you f—”

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

“But your note and explan—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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