#as i was frankly embarrassed by the mistakes on it (it doesn’t lie flat and is not a square)

[fingertipsmp3]

So I got commissioned yesterday and I was kind of nervous because I haven’t crocheted in a long time and have never made anything for this person before, but she is apparently beside herself with happiness over the colours I picked & the fact that I agreed to the commission, so I think this is going to go well

[beautifulterriblequeen]

Autistic Sherlock - Molly

The relationship of autistic!Sherlock and Molly has been building for two seasons, and the scene in “The Reichenbach Fall” where Sherlock talks to Molly the night before he jumps off the roof means something entirely different to me now. I used to be confused by it, hate it even. Now, I love it.

I LOVE IT.

Sherlock is an asexual autistic. He’s not good with humans, but he’s especially not good with female humans. Molly is educated, though, and he understands the same thought processes she uses to do her work at St. Bart’s. He trusts her as someone with similar forensic skills to his own. He trusts her work. He doesn’t just bully her around when he wants something. He likes her. He tries to tell her the things he believes she wants to hear from him. As an ace and an autistic person, he doesn’t really know what those things are, so he takes guesses. Sometimes he gets close. Sometimes he misses terribly and hurts her feelings. But he keeps at it. He doesn’t find another coroner to help him out. He likes her.

After he embarrasses her and frankly makes a fool of himself at the Christmas party in his flat in “A Scandal in Belgravia,” he reads the room, sees how he’s hurt her feelings, how others are responding. He feels terrible. He was trying to be funny, to impress everyone, because he doesn’t know how to be cool around women. It bombed terribly. He was nervous. How often does Sherlock Holmes have a party at his flat? (Whose idea was that, anyway?) His fortress of solitude was invaded by a bunch of allistics all at once. It threw him, he made a miscalculation, and as a result, he hurt his friend’s feelings.

But he apologized, immediately and directly. Sherlock never apologizes. Even when he pushed John away in “The Hounds of Baskerville,” he never directly apologized. He just made sugary coffee. But to Molly, whom he values but never knows how to connect with? He was off-balance so much that the only fix was a direct statement. He apologized to her, wished her Merry Christmas, and gave her a peck on the cheek, a traditional English Christmas greeting. He owed her that much. 

Molly Hooper is the only person Sherlock had ever kissed up to that point. He knows she likes him as more than a friend. He doesn’t speak that language, being ace, and he figures he’s probably sending fifteen wrong signals to her by kissing her on the cheek, but nothing else will do, and he can’t do nothing. Not for Molly. He likes her. He can’t have her being sad and upset, in his flat, on Christmas.

In “The Reichenbach Fall,” Molly tells Sherlock that he looks sad when he thinks John can’t see him. Sherlock tells her, “You can see me.” She replies, “I don’t count.” The rest of that conversation, where she repeatedly describes her position in their relationship as far further down than Sherlock ever intended, and where she will not let him correct her, informs him that he has been friending wrong all this time. She tells him that if he needs anything, he can have her. Her help. But she assumes he won’t want it.

He is taken aback, flustered, confused. Molly doesn’t feel valued, and that’s his mistake. He does value her, her helpfulness, her organization, her skills. He values how she doesn’t give up on him, like so many have. She’s one of his very few friends. He never berates her, like he does Anderson. He never belittles her, like he does Donovan. They don’t respect him, and he judges them for it. But Molly. Molly adores him. Molly believes him. Molly is impressed by him. Not only is all that rather flattering, but it’s a far cry from the usual prejudice, revulsion, and defensive anger he gets from most people.

Yes, he’s weighed her affection for him and found it relatively constant no matter what he does. He’s taken her for granted, assuming correctly that she will be there for him no matter what. But he’s missed how his brusque manner makes her feel along the way. Until she tries to excuse herself for existing.

Sherlock knows what it’s like to have people wish he didn’t exist. He’d never wish that on anyone, let alone someone precise and caring like Molly. He needs to remedy the situation.

When Moriarty’s Final Problem becomes clear, and Sherlock realizes that his rival intends for him to die in disgrace, Sherlock hatches a great plan, and he does so by utilizing Molly’s expertise. It’s the perfect storm of opportunity and necessity, bringing in the coroner he’s indebted to at precisely the moment when he needs a corpse identical to himself. Molly, faithful Molly, helps Sherlock out. She does everything he asks of her. And she keeps his secret afterward. She is a true friend. He doesn’t really deserve her. But he does need her.

There’s a shit ton of pseudo-sexual overtones to their quick conversation in the St. Bart’s lab. He steps close, tests her resolve by asking if he were less of a man than they both think he is, would she still help him? “What do you need?” is her immediate response. And Sherlock, hearkening back to her previous offer, simply says, “You.” Yeah, it looks like he’s gonna get laid the night before he dies. But that’s just the shallow veneer on the top. Underneath, he’s simply speaking her language. She said, “You can have me.” So he says he needs her. All of her. Her friendship, her expertise, her loyalty, her trust. What else would he possibly want? He’s had all those things all along. He just needs them one last time. 

It’s the sweetest thing ever. An ace autistic guy asking his female friend for help in a desperate hour of need when everything is on the line. And she listens, believes him, and drops everything to help him. It’s the epitome of friendship.

Oh, there’s calculation going on. Sherlock knows Moriarty has been watching him. So if he’s been neglecting Molly, Moriarty won’t think she’s important. Moriarty never has his goons point a gun at her in order to force Sherlock to jump. He’s not watching her. Sherlock knew she’d fly under Moriarty’s radar. But he doesn’t lie to her, try to flatter her. He’s honest. All his risks, all those calculations, are between him and Moriarty. Molly is safe, and Sherlock intends that she stay that way.

After he comes back from the dead, he asks her to solve crime with him. That’s how much he trusts her. And she does. That’s how much she trusts him.

[farklelucas]

ok katie i've been thinking about your gay version of the nanny and i was hoping you'd indulge me and write a fic where cecil and niles wake up after sleeping together for like the dozenth time and are caught by maxine and fran bc that'd be comedy gold!

hjrktjrke iconic!!! if anyone who is not mauricio is wondering: yesterday i made a post about my ideal gay version of the show the nanny (which you can find here if you haven’t read it, and even if you have, i’ve made a couple changes so it makes more sense askdl) and clearly implied that niles and cecil (aka c.c.) get together As They Should even if maxine and c.c. think they should be together due to comp het. anyway this is for you man!

Cecil wakes up at 7 AM, as per usual, with a rather tense headache, swearing softly as he draws his arms into himself and gradually sits up, straining the aching muscles in his back from sleeping on a strange mattress. This, of course, has been happening more and more recently - where he wakes up with a wine-induced headache, in an unfamiliar bedroom, tangled up in the sheets of another man, his arms wrapped around him. Well, not that the bedroom is all that unfamiliar to him anymore; not after the fourth, or fifth, or… dozenth or so time. No, by now, he could rattle off little facts about the room (and, more surprisingly, its inhabitant) like he could about nearly anything he had an interest in.

The room was not nearly as extravagant as Maxine’s, or even Brighton’s or Maggie’s, he noted, from the rare occasions he had caught a peak inside; it was more of a servant’s quarters, if anything, with a plain tan ceiling and light brown walls. What it lacked in natural charm, however, was made up for with decor. Pictures of Niles and various people in his life; Niles and Fran in London, each doing the forced perspective kind of picture to make it looks like they were each licking a side of Big Ben. Niles and the children when they were younger, Maggie walking by his side and Brighton tugging on his hand and Gracie up on his shoulders, Niles’s eyes practically rolled back in his head. There’s quite a few of Niles and Maxine, one of them drinking champagne together and one of them at a skii resort and one of them hugging after one of Maxine’s shows debuted. Even Sylvia made it on the wall, sneaking in the background of one of the family photos. Pictures of ex-boyfriends and Niles’s little sister and his parents too. Cecil notices a distinct lack of his own face and, while affronted, decides not to comment. They are supposed to be enemies or something, after all.

He glances at the body beside him. Key words being supposed to be; they aren’t really good at it. He guesses it’s his own damn fault. If he hadn’t come onto Niles… or was it the other way around? He was content to blame Niles for this. Regardless of whom came onto whom, it was Niles’s fault for being so frustrating and handsome. Even now, still snoring in the early hours of the morning, he was handsome - perhaps even more handsome than normal, now that he wasn’t making snide comments or sneering. Normally, Cecil would have left by now, climbed out of bed and made a run for the shame of it all. But today, maybe because of the wine headache or the crick in his back, he let his eyes and, frankly, mind stray. He was content to ogle the flat planes of Niles’s back, and the moles that dotted his spine in a small constellation. He let himself examine the man’s flat brown hair, sticking up in the oddest of angles from his tossing and turning in sleep. His lower back is just exposed by the sheet and - when did Niles lose his blankets? Sheepishly, he realizes he must have hogged them during the night, and begins to cover Niles back up. He must be freezing, after all. It’s only the decent thing to do.

Ugh. Since when did he do things that were decent?

Faster than he can blink, though, as his hands hover over Niles with the dark blue quilt, there’s a quick knock on the door. There’s a squeak as it’s pushed open, and a soft “oh!” of surprise. His knuckles tense, and he turns to the door, the words “this isn’t what it looks like” falling from his lips before he can even think about it.

For a moment, Maxine just stares at him, her eyebrows arched and lips caught in an o shape. She blinks at him, and he stares at her, praying she’ll just realize she’s sleepwalking and stumble like a zombie out of the room. But she doesn’t; of course she doesn’t. After a moment of shock, her face schools herself into one of realization and neutrality. And then, one of distinct amusement. A few years ago, that look would have been surprising, even unnatural coming from Maxine. But now, after years of Fran Fine living in her home, it’s more commonplace than not. “I didn’t say anything,” she says, suggestively, implying that she wanted to say something even if she hadn’t.

Cecil feels his face heat up, and stomach twist in an unpleasant way. He had long since given up on Maxine after she had come out of the closet, but old habits die hard, and he always hated being embarrassed in front of her. “Maxine,” he says, on a sigh, “please don’t say anything.”

She holds her hands up in a placating manner, but she still has that damn devilish smirk. “Again, nothing! I said nothing!”

He stares at her, trying to cool his blush. “Seriously,” he replies. “Niles would kill me if he knew you knew.”

“Mum’s the word,” she says, raising a hand to her heart. “Consider my lips sealed.”

They sit in silence for a moment, staring at each other. Cecil glares and Maxine smirks. Then he sighs again. “Is this,” he begins, cringing, “something we need to talk about, or…?”

Her eyes open, in surprise or embarrassment, and she stammers, “Oh, uh, oh my, I think I hear Fran calling me.” She hooks a thumb over her right shoulder. “I suppose I should -”

“What do you mean? I’m over here, honey.” Oh, no. Oh God, there is only one way this could possibly get worse. As the nasal voice and the sound of clicking high heels become closer and closer, Cecil pleads with his eyes for Maxine to close the door and pretend this never happen, tell Fran some lie to explain why he and Niles were talking in such hushed voices. But it’s too late. Fran arrives in the doorway, with a pressed rainbow jumper and teased hair and her phone in her hand. When she looks up, she startles at the sight of Cecil. Then she blinks. And then, she laughs.

It’s not that high-pitched, nasal nonsense that typically leaves Cecil’s blood boiling, but it is close. It’s more of a silent cousin, as she heaves out a breath and slaps herself on the knee. “Oh, this is beautiful,” she says. “Absolutely amazing.”

“Now, Fran,” Maxine chastises lightly, “Cecil has asked for our discretion, and I promised him he would have it.”

Fran nods, sagely, then holds up her phone and snaps a picture. Cecil blinks, dazed by the flash, and Fran smiles at him. “That’s going on the wedding cards,” she says, and Cecil drops his head into his hands, his face flushing more than before in both anger and embarrassment. “I’m gonna go wake Gracie.” With that, she’s gone, and Maxine and Cecil are alone again.

Maxine sighs and shakes her head. “I’ll see to it that she deletes that.” She smiles quite awkwardly, then reaches her hand for the door. “I’ll leave you to it.” She closes the door behind her with a soft thud.

The thud, is apparently, what does it, and Niles groans as he wakes. He stretches like a tired cat, then rolls onto his side, blinking in surprise when he catches sight of Cecil. Then he smiles, an uncharacteristic action for him, and leans on his hand. “You stayed,” he says softly, and it’s unfair that Cecil’s heart twists the way it does, but it does.

So, of course, because it’s Cecil, he scoffs. “Yeah, well, my mistake.” He’s not sure he’s able to wipe the stupid and peculiar look of awe or contentment off of his face, but maybe just this once it’s okay. Maybe change is okay.

Niles, bless him, just grins and sits up, reaching out for him. Cecil lets himself be pulled into an embrace, Niles’s arms around him as he presses soft lips to his shoulder. “Yes, well, I was worried - the forecast called for rain today, I was afraid you’d melt away while getting on your broom.”

Some things, however, Cecil thinks, will never change.

[heartslogos]

newfragile yellows [1064]

The house should have been an easy target. Beyond easy, it should have been effortless.

They’d cased the place out for a whole two damn months — not exclusively that one, of course. What a waste of time that would be, casing a single house in the middle of the suburbs for two months. Six days out of seven it’s empty. The lights rarely go on and stay on. A car is almost never in the driveway — though if there’s one in the garage that remains to be seen. The sprinklers do go on and off, but that’s automated. The mail goes directly through a slot in the door so it was hard to tell if it was being picked up or not so they tested it by sending a fake package to see if it got brought inside. It did after a day — or it was stolen by porch pirates.

The point is, the house should have been easy pickings.

There was no security alarm sign posted on the windows or the doors or anywhere on the yard. There were security cameras, sure, but those are easy to avoid and who knows if anyone’s even watching?

The one little green and white bungalow with the little sedan and its neat manicured yard with its charming collection of ferns lining the walkway was supposed to be a low-hanging gimme.

It wasn’t supposed to be this.

“I can’t fucking believe,” the man behind Patrick growls, a deep bass that vibrates every bone in Patrick’s stunned body, “That you were just gonna lie there and wait for it to happen. What the fuck, boss?”

The woman, still in gentle repose on the sofa — as though Patrick and Julienne didn’t carefully pick the back door lock, as though they didn’t see her asleep and look at her and wordlessly bring out the chloroform.

Just because it was supposed to be easy didn’t mean they weren’t prepared for it to be difficult. There was always a chance that there would be someone in the house.

They didn’t fucking plan for this, though —

“Well, I thought maybe it was a test,” the woman on the couch says, crossing her legs at the ankle, drumming her fingers on her stomach.

“For who?” The man with his arm locked around Patrick’s throat demands, incredulous, "Who the fuck is this supposed to test?”

The woman shrugs her, entirely unaffected by the tableau around her.

Julienne is pinned under the man’s foot, barely moving under the crushing threat of its weight. Patrice doesn’t dare to speak and can barely breathe around the iron vice of the arm locking his head in place.

“Well. They could have been some of Leliana’s newbies and they were giving them a good hazing to see where they’re at,” the woman casts a speculative glance at Patrick. “I mean. They look nondescript enough to be Leliana’s.”

Patrick doesn’t know if that’s a compliment or not and frankly he doesn’t think he has the luxury of caring right now.

“Or it could be a test for you,” the woman continues, eyes moving to the man who single handedly took Julienne and Patrick down like he was skimming a newspaper. “Are there others?”

“Just these two,” the man says. “What were you going to do if I didn’t show up?”

“Of course you’d show up. It’s your job. Also you adore me,” the woman beams.

“Boss,” the man sounds both exasperated and besotted. Patrick’s mind has given up on comprehending what’s going on right now.

“Alright, fine, I have this,” the woman calmly reaches behind herself and pulls out a thin, but clearly sharpened and well maintained dagger. “The one under your foot was in prime position to get this straight to the jugular and the one in your tender embrace would’ve gotten a foot to the crotch to get me some space and then a nice palm to the throat, ear box, and knee to the nose. Satisfied?”

The man grunts. “For now.”

The woman finally sits up, bare feet planting on the floor and her entire demeanor shifts. She goes from strange woman in pajamas sleeping the couch to some kind of monster wearing the disguise of a woman in pajamas. It’s something in the eyes, Patrick thinks. It’s something in the eyes that turns off. Some kind of light or glimmer.

“Now,” she says, voice entirely the same but somehow more sinister as she balances the flat of the knife on two of her fingers, “Let one of them talk so we can find out if this was a benign home robbery gone wrong or something else.”

“Which one?” the man asks.

The woman looks between Patrick and Julienne. She nods towards Patrick.

The arm around his throat releases, but before he can do much more than suck in a deep breath a hand closes around the back of his neck and shoves him to his knees, holding him there.

The man’s next words are low and burning against the shell of Patrick’s ear.

“Do not make us have to burn this house down because you do something stupid.”

The woman’s lips twitch up into a smile. “I don’t think it’s going to come down to that.”

“It better not. This is the perfect house,” the man says, “Perfect location. Neighbors don’t give a shit. It’s only two hours from a private airstrip. Local police couldn’t care less. It took us ages to set this place up. I’m not losing it because of two punks barely out of high school who thought they were tough shit.”

“Well, I’m sure that if they ever thought they were tough shit you’ve thoroughly disabused them of that notion.” With an expert flick of her wrist the knife jumps up into the air, glittering and terrible, and she catches it by the hilt. “But enough of us talking.”

She points the knife at Patrick.

“Time for you to share with the class. And be honest. I know it’s rather embarrassing. But part of being an adult is owning up to your mistakes. And if you don’t own up to that, you’re going to have to do something else. Probably something worse. Trust me on that one. I’m very creative and I’ve had tons of inspiration. I can definitely think of something worse.”

[robronsecretsanta]

Fanfic: Falling For You

For the beautiful, insanely talented @littlelooneyluna who is a constant bright light in this fandom. I thought there was no better gift to give the Queen of AUs than a mini AU of her own. Hope you enjoy it Nicole and Merry Christmas! xxx

Falling For You

Trust Adam to pick the worst possible place to go on a double date.

“It’ll be fun!” he’d said, biting his lip just to stop himself laughing. “You’ll enjoy it, I promise.”

Only that had been a lie, because now here he is accepting a pair of skates off some spotty teenager and about to risk life and limb on a frozen bloody lake. And if that isn’t bad enough, he’s also being forced to go on a date with Vic’s brother. It’s like someone is making him live out his own personal festive nightmare.

“Ever done this before?” Robert asks, lacing up his own skates and standing with an infuriating amount of ease. Aaron glares at his scuffed, plastic boots that are already squeezing too tightly around his ankles and hurriedly ties them in a double knot.

“Not since I was a kid,” he answers gruffly, making an attempt to stand only to fall back down on the bench with a thud. He doesn’t bother looking up at Robert, he already knows the bloke will be smirking.

Smug git, Aaron thinks, no doubt a bit uncharitably. He hasn’t been all that bad so far - a bit of a show-off, definitely full of himself, but probably no worse than some of the guys Aaron has been out with. And he’s fit, if Abercrombie and Fitch is what you go for.

“Need a hand?”

The offer has a degree of arrogance attached to it and Aaron’s stubborn pride means he shakes his head almost immediately, pushing himself upright once again, only this time just managing to stay standing.

“I’m good,” he replies, finally chancing a look in Robert’s direction. The green eyes staring back at him are teasing, and the only reason Aaron can’t see his grin is because he’s hidden it behind his coat collar.

“Let’s get this over with,” Aaron grumbles with a roll of his eyes and starts for the exit. It’s freezing outside, the sky a dusky violet with the threat of snow, and Aaron huddles deeper into his coat as he waddles precariously over to the rink. There are clusters of people already out on the ice, weaving between each other at a speed that Aaron finds frankly alarming.

“Scared?” comes a voice from behind him and he immediately turns back to shoot a glare in Robert’s direction.

“It’s just frozen water. Nothing to be scared of.” He’d been aiming for defiant, but somehow it comes off as petulant and it only makes Robert grin wider.

“If you say so,” he replies with a light-hearted laugh, moving round Aaron to step onto the ice—

—and immediately starts gliding effortlessly round the rink. Aaron is torn between disbelief and sheer, unfiltered rage. Of course the dickhead would be good at this.

“You joining us?” calls Adam from over the far side of the rink, waving along with Victoria to him. And despite every cell in his body screaming at him to turn and run, he knows it’s no longer an option. Plus he really wants to wipe that smug smile off Robert’s face.

“Just coming,” he shouts back, gripping hard to the railing as he puts one sharp blade onto the ice.

Don’t fall. Don’t fall. Don’t fall. Don’t fall.

He breathes out harshly through his nose, teeth gritted with determination, as he places his other boot onto the ice, wobbling like mad as he tries to find his balance. Around him kids are shrieking with delight, skating into each other like tiny human dodgems. It’s bloody terrifying.

“That’s it, lad!” he hears Adam laughing from somewhere in the distance but he’s concentrating too much on not breaking his neck to look up. If he just stays perfectly still…

The sharp hiss of blades over ice in front of him makes him startle. One minute he’s standing and the next his legs have gone from under him and he’s being held up by a pair of strong arms that feel irritatingly strong and warm.

“What are you doing?” Aaron demands, struggling out of Robert’s hold while simultaneously knowing that if he manages to break free he’ll end up flat on his arse.

“Taking pity on you,” comes Robert’s deadpan response, still with his arms looped around Aaron’s waist. “Come on, I won’t bite.”

They start moving before Aaron can fully understand what’s going on, and then he freezes, literally paralysed with fear as Robert starts skating backwards, his hands now sliding to grip Aaron’s forearms as he leads him across the rink.

“Wait, wait- You can’t see where you’re going,” Aaron stammers, panic making him seize up. Robert only grins, eyes dancing as he picks up speed.

“We’re fine.”

“We’ll crash into someone!” Aaron protests, still too traumatised to actually make any move of his own. Robert rolls his eyes, slows them down again just as they reach the other side of the railing. He doesn’t let go of Aaron’s arms though, keeps hold of him as he says:

“Aaron, I know what I’m doing, all right?” His voice has dipped lower, softer, and it coaxes out something in him that Aaron tries very hard to repress.

“Trust me,” Robert finishes, squeezing Aaron’s wrist lightly before gently tugging him back towards the centre of the ice. And Aaron goes. Just a few encouraging words from a near-stranger and he’s practically a puddle on the floor.

Idiot.

He lets himself be guided back out onto the ice, seizing up only when a stream of teenagers shoot past him. Robert pulls him a little closer, smiling out of reassurance this time rather than mocking, and Aaron can’t seem to do anything except swallow hard. Strangely enough, out of all the scenarios he’d played in his head while imagining this strange blind date, he’d never once considered it going well. His track record with guys has been poor at best lately, just a series of duds that left him wondering if he was better off on his own. And yet now here he is, gripping onto a bloke he’s barely spoken to and has only heard bad things about, being led round an ice rink like something out of a bloody Disney film.

“You’ve gone quiet.”

Aaron jumps, having been lost in his thoughts, and ends up skidding a little over the slippery surface. Robert’s hand leaves his wrist for a second before coming to rest on his waist, steadying them both while Aaron gets his balance again.

“Just trying to concentrate,” Aaron mumbles, heat rushing to his cheeks. God, he can’t believe he’s reacting like this. Why can’t the ice just crack open and swallow him whole?

Robert slows his own skates so that Aaron ends up drifting closer into his orbit. “Maybe that’s the problem,” Robert says quietly, head ducked just a little so only Aaron can hear him. “Maybe you need to stop thinking so much.”

They’re barely moving over the ice now, and somehow Robert’s put his other hand on Aaron’s waist without him realising. He’d mind if it was anyone else. He’s shrugged off dates who thought they could put their hands on him before he wanted them to, but for some reason he doesn’t have an issue with it right now.

“Maybe you’re right,” he replies, voice a little weak and hoarse. He can’t look at Robert anymore, too afraid of saying or doing something he’ll definitely regret, or that will at the very least embarrass him. Flirting’s fine when it’s in a darkened club and no one’s watching, it’s a bit different in the middle of a packed ice rink with his best mates standing just a couple of metres away.

Then again, he’s not even sure if this is flirting. Somehow it’s already gone beyond that, like they’ve skipped the awkwardness and confusion and gone straight to… Aaron’s not sure what. Aaron’s not sure of anything right now.

“Ready to go again?” Robert asks and Aaron nods, keeps his eyes trained on the ice rather than on the cold-nipped flush to Robert’s cheeks that is painfully endearing.

He doesn’t protest when Robert’s hands stay pressed against his ribs, nor does he say anything when Robert picks up speed a little, leading them further into the centre. He hears Vic shout something and turns to see her giggling with Adam in the corner, the two of them obviously finding it hilarious that he’s clinging onto Robert for dear life. It probably does look like something from one of those trashy romance novels, Robert as the blond hunk and Aaron as his damsel in distress.

The thought almost makes him snort and Robert mistakes his small smirk for enjoyment.

“Think you might be getting the hang of it now,” he comments, easing them apart just a little. And it’s true, Aaron does feel more stable now, but there’s a tiny, selfish part of him that wants them to stay like this, holding on to each other.

“Not sure about that,” he says, playing it down as he curls his fingers into the thick wool of Robert’s coat. He dreads to think what Adam’s doing right now if he’s watching Aaron literally clutching at Robert… Probably filming the whole thing to show Cain.

“You’re being hard on yourself,” Robert’s saying, oblivious to Aaron’s inner turmoil. “Look, I’m going to take one hand away, okay?”

That jolts him out of his thoughts. “What?”

“Just one hand, that’s all,” Robert answers softly, already pulling back. Aaron lets him but only because the alternative would make him seem even needier than he’s already acting. He wobbles a little at first and grips harder onto Robert’s only available arm, but he does manage to stay upright, even takes a few carefully placed steps without needing Robert’s help.

“Not so bad, is it?” Robert jokes, grinning wide. He looks like a boy, giddy and a bit reckless, and it draws Aaron closer even though he tries hard to fight it. There’s just something about him that Aaron can’t bring himself to look away from.

They catch each other’s eye and Aaron has to bite down on his lip to keep himself from grinning back. “It’s all right,” he concedes, and it’s not much of an admission but Robert laughs all the same.

“Careful, you almost cracked a smile, there.”

Aaron rolls his eyes. “Funny.”

Robert only winks at him, evidently having the time of his life. Aaron can’t help but think the feeling’s mutual.

They’re out in the very centre now, kids slipping and sliding all around them, Adam and Vic too wrapped up in themselves over in the corner to notice Aaron and Robert. Small mercies, he thinks with relief as he turns back to Robert.

“I’m gonna take the other hand away now as well,” Robert announces, loosening his grip even as Aaron shakes his head.

“I don’t think—”

Robert lets go anyway, smiling encouragingly as he tries to skate back a bit. “You can do it,” he says, only he hasn’t seen the little girl whizzing past right behind him.

“No, Robert—”

Aaron reaches out on shaky legs, grabs his hand, but his balance is way off and Robert isn’t expecting to be yanked forward. One second they’re both standing and the next they’re a pile of limbs hitting the ice hard.

Robert’s half on top of him, legs tangled, and he lets out a muffled grunt as he pushes himself back into a sitting position.

“Okay, maybe it wasn’t such a good idea after all,” he says, rubbing his shoulder and grimacing.

“Pillock,” Aaron grumbles, severely aware that the entire ice rink are pointing and laughing at them for being so stupid.

“It does prove one thing though.”

Aaron sighs, looks up at him reluctantly. “Yeah? And what’s that?”

Robert leans in, smile quirking the corners of his mouth and that teasing glint back in his eyes. “You’re falling for me already.”

It takes him a second to get the meaning and then he groans, a hand over his eyes as Robert laughs loudly.

“Do me a favour and don’t ever use another cheesy line on me again.”

“I’ll win you round, Dingle.”

Aaron wrinkles his nose, even if part of him kind of likes Robert calling him by his surname. “Never gonna happen, Sugden.”

Robert just sighs in response before somehow managing to get to his feet. He looks down at Aaron before offering him a hand. “Need some help?”

Aaron thinks about refusing but then imagines himself trying to get up on his own and thinks better of it.

“Thanks,” he says, frozen fingers curling round Robert’s hand as he’s hauled up. He slips a little on the ice but Robert’s still got their hands clasped together to keep them steady.

“Fancy a break?” he asks, looking over towards the railing where a space has just opened up. Aaron’s never been so relieved.

“God yeah.”

Robert leads them over to the edge of the rink. “So, have you had any fun or has it just been one big disaster?” he asks once they’re both able to lean against the wooden fence.

“Definitely wouldn’t have been my first choice for a date,” he replies, but gives Robert a smirk to let him know he’s not being serious. Or not completely, anyway.

“But…?” Robert wheedles.

“But, it’s not been-”

“Someone’s keen!” It’s Vic, now skating with Adam out on the ice, but she’s currently looking over at the two of them. Aaron glares back, pissed off at being interrupted.

“What you on about?” he yells back and Vic laughs, gesturing above their heads. Robert and Aaron give her a confused look before glancing up, only to find they’re standing directly under the mistletoe.

“Fuck.”

Robert glances down at him. “Just the reaction I was hoping for.”

Aaron knows he should laugh it off, diffuse some of the tension, but he can’t seem to stop his heart racing enough.

“We don’t have to—”

“You don’t want to?” There’s something vulnerable about the way he says it, as if he’s genuinely hurt by Aaron’s rejection. It’s surprisingly adorable, a word he would never have considered thinking, especially about Robert Sugden.

“Do you?” Aaron asks, confusion mixing with just a little bit of hope.

Robert’s answering smile is bashful. “Well it is Christmas.”

“And?”

“It’s the time for giving.”

And just like that, Robert’s back to being the teasing git from before.

“I thought I told you not to use cheesy lines on me.”

“It was worth a shot,” Robert says with a grin, before sobering. “Seriously though, we don’t have to.” His voice has gone soft again, like when he told Aaron to trust him, and Aaron can’t refuse him now. He’s not even sure he wants to.

“No, it’s… It’s fine. Let’s just do it.”

“Loving your enthusiasm,” Robert scoffs, but he’s already ducking his head, eyes gentle as he searches Aaron’s for any sign of doubt.

Aaron says nothing, just lets his eyes dip shut as Robert captures his mouth in a kiss that has them both leaning in, wanting more. Robert’s nose is cold against Aaron’s cheek and he’s pretty sure their hands have now frozen together, but it doesn’t matter. Nothing matters except how safe he feels right now, how weirdly happy he is in Robert’s arms.

“Merry Christmas, Aaron,” Robert whispers against his mouth, and Aaron doesn’t even try to hide his smile now.

“Merry Christmas, Robert,” he says quietly before tilting his head up to press their lips together again. It’s chaste and warm and sweeter than anything Aaron’s ever tasted before. Robert’s hand comes up to cup Aaron’s cheek, thumb stroking along his jaw, and Aaron presses closer still, ignoring the wolf-whistling from Adam behind him.

“See, I told you I’d win you round,” Robert murmurs even while they’re still kissing, looking almost smug as he gives Aaron another toothy grin.

“You wish, Sugden,” Aaron grumbles, cheeks flushed with happiness now rather than embarrassment. Robert just gives him a soft look before tangling their fingers tighter.

“I do, Dingle,” he replies quietly. “I really do.”

[amusewithaview]

Unbind me, Darcy/Stephen Strange. (Oscar Isaac version ;p)

A/N: hiding most of this under the cut because it gets a lil frisky.

“I don’t hate you, but I am deeply annoyed with you for touching the thing,” Darcy said frankly.  Darcy was incapable of saying anything that wasn’t frank, lately, and it was all because of Jane and her insatiable curiosity.  “I told you to keep your grubby science fingers out of the magic stuff, but nooooooo…  You were all ‘magic is just technology we don’t understand, Darcy’ and ‘what harm ever came from reading a book, Darcy’ and now I cannot tell a lie to save my soul and Hawkeye keeps asking me questions.”

As if on cue the door opened, admitting a smirking Clint Barton.

“Gotta go, Janey,” Darcy said hurriedly, hanging up the phone and dropping it like a hot potato.  Hands free, she immediately stuck her fingers in her ears, shut her eyes and started singing the first song that came to mind.  For some ungodly reason, it was Miley Cyrus’s Party in the USA.

Seconds later, there was a warm hand wrapping around her wrist, tugging her fingers away just far enough that she could hear him, the fucker.

“Aw, don’t be like that, Darcy-doll, I brought the solution to all your problems!”

“Butterflies fly away,” she sang at him aggressively, trying to tug her hand free.

“Ms. Lewis?”

She jerked in surprise, turning her head to see Dr. Strange smiling at her.  Her head snapped back to Clint so fast that her neck cracked audibly.  “What is he doing here?” she hissed urgently.

“Your problem is a magical one, and Strange is our source for all things - ”

“Strange, yes,” the man in question sighed.  “You make that joke every time.”

“Still funny,” Clint said, shrugging.

“No, it’s really not,” Darcy told him.

He immediately got a downright evil look on his face.  Darcy had a split second to desperately attempt to plug her ears but it was too late, he was already affecting a wounded pout, saying, “I don’t understand why you’re being so mean, Darcy-doll.  Why aren’t you happy to see Dr. Strange when you know he can fix all your problems?”

The bitch of it was, the curse made her give answers to every question she was asked as long as she was able to perceive the question.  She was able to twist her words and give partial answers only if they were absolutely true.  None of her political science courses had prepared her for this, but after two days she was kind of getting the hang of it.

“I’m not happy to see Dr. Strange because you’re in here and you’re going to ask me questions about things I don’t want to say in front of him,” she snarled.

“Mr. Barton, please leave,” Dr. Strange said firmly.

“Aw, c’mon - ”

“Now.”

With much grumbling, the archer left the room.

“Thank you,” Darcy said.

“It’s no trouble, the truth can be a double-edged sword,” he said, a bitter twist to his lips and a far away look in his eyes.

“So, can you fix me, Doc?”

“Stephen, please,” he said absently and began to circle her slowly, fingers reaching out and brushing against the air around her every so often.  After the third pass, she started to feel a little dizzy watching him and shut her eyes.

This turned out to be a mistake because without sight to distract her, her other senses clamored for attention.  She could - unless she was very much mistaken - actually feel his magic shifting and twisting around her as he felt for the edges of the curse that she was entangled in.  It… honestly (and she was nothing but honest at this point in time) felt like fingers gently stroking over her skin.

“Could you maybe keep the magic to yourself?” she squeaked.

“I’m sorry,” he said, stopping immediately.  He looked at her with some concern and a little confusion.  “Am I hurting you?”

Oh fuck.  “No, it doesn’t hurt.  It feels good, too good.”

“Too good?” he asked, startled.

Shitsticks.  “Yes, it feels like you’re touching me all over and it feels really good.”  At this point she was staring at the ceiling because she knew her face had to be on fire.  She was thanking all the gods, even the Asgardian ones, that she’d worn a thick sweater because she didn’t need to give him a visual aid to back up the ‘feels good’ comment.

“I do need to try and feel the curse,” he said, somewhat apologetically.  “If you’d prefer, I can reach out to my colleagues and see if someone else could assist you.  I can’t guarantee that their magic won’t have the same… impact.”

Darcy chewed her lip.  “I’d rather it be you than a stranger.  Guess I’ll just… lie back and think of literally anything other than you feeling me up with your magic because my BOB died last week and I haven’t had a chance to replace him.”  She clapped her hand over her mouth, eyes going wide with horror because she had not meant to say that.  She had meant to say ‘lie back and think of England.’

“I think it would be best if I pretend I didn’t hear that,” he said.  The tips of his ears had gone red - with embarrassment, she assumed.

“I’m so sorry,” she blurted.  “God, this is like a nightmare.  I hate this truth-blabbing thing and I feel like I should be kept away from everyone, for their safety and mine, but especially you!”

“Especially me?” Stephen echoed, almost as if he couldn’t help himself.

It was like once she started she couldn’t stop - “Because I like you and I think you’re really attractive and I just know I’m going to say something stupid every time you look at me and look, here I am, totally doing what I was scared I would do and mmphgm.”

He had stepped closer to her and brought one hand up to cup the back of her neck and the other to cover her mouth gently but firmly.  “For the moment, please just nod or shake your head,” he told her, looking distinctly frazzled.  “Does it hurt you when I keep you from speaking the truth?”

She shook her head.

“And am I right in thinking that you truly do not wish to speak anymore in my presence until this curse is lifted?”

She nodded her head.

“I will attempt to refrain from speaking or asking you any questions, then,” he told her and started to remove his hand.

Darcy immediately grabbed his wrist and pressed his palm against her lips again, a pleading look on her face.

“You would like me to continue covering your mouth?  As a failsafe?”

She nodded.

“You’re comfortable?” he asked, looking a little concerned.  He shifted the hand in her hair, settling it so that he was cupping the back of her neck.

Darcy nodded again.

“Very well, then I will continue.  Please let me know if you experience any discomfort.”  So saying, he went back to the magic touching, only this time, with him only a few inches away and his hands on her body, it felt far more intimate.  This was a bit not good for Darcy.

She tried to stifle the urge a moan but even as a subvocal sound it still vibrated in her throat and - with his hands where they were - she knew he could feel it.  His magic was moving faster now and his brow was furrowed with concentration.  It was devastatingly attractive to her, made her want to poke at him, break his focus on the magic and make him focus on her.

“Please stop moving,” Stephen said tersely.

Darcy hadn’t even realized she’d started shifting, squirming a little in place.  Her front brushed up against him a little (mostly her boobs) every time she did so.  She reached out, needing something to grab to ground herself, and gripped his hips, shuddering as his magic fluttered against her skin almost as if in response.

She was going to need a new BOB and a pack (or twelve) of batteries to get this clusterfuck out of her system.  The magic shifted suddenly, and instead of light touches it felt like warm, firm hands stroking along her skin: down her spine, across her arms, running the length of her legs.  Darcy couldn’t stifle a moan this time, hands clenching on Stephen’s hips convulsively.

“Almost got it,” he told her, and she watched avidly as a bead of sweat trailed down from his temple.  She wanted to lick it, and him, all over.

The magic reached a crescendo, squeezing her tightly, and then gone.

Slowly, carefully, Stephen slid his hands from her mouth and neck to her shoulders.  “How are you feeling, Darcy?” he asked her carefully.

Like I want to throw you down on the nearest flat surface and ride you till the rest of your hair turns white.  “Fine,” she said, voice throaty.

“I will go ahead and assume that was a lie.”

“I’m fine, really,” she insisted.  And desperately horny.

“Good,” he said.  “Now that the magic is taken care of, I hope you won’t think me too forward but - ”  He closed the gap between them and fit his mouth over hers, lips warm and firm and maybe just a little bit magic.