#but it's mostly me making an assumption and then asking him to confirm it

[luveline]

𝐬𝐢𝐜𝐤 𝐨𝐟 𝐦𝐚𝐲𝐛𝐞 | 𝐚𝐚𝐫𝐨𝐧 𝐡𝐨𝐭𝐜𝐡𝐧𝐞𝐫

You worry your boyfriend is ashamed of you. This is very much not the case. Or, 5 times Hotch hid your relationship (+1 time he didn’t).

7k words, new-ish established relationship, lots of fluff between angst, hurt/comfort, fem!reader, civilian!reader, reader calls him aaron mostly

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The security for Aaron's building is weird. Weird as in extensive, intimidating, and extremely intricate. 

You'd really wanted to minimise his stress — the whole reason you're here is to bring him a forgotten sheet of paper that must've slipped out at your kitchen table from one of his case files because you don't want him to have to make up a new copy — but you're too scared to go in. 

You pull your phone out reluctantly and dial in his number, eager to hear his voice even if the security detail a few feet away are freaking you out. 

"Hotchner." 

"Hi, handsome," you say softly. 

There's a small pause. For a split-second a nightmare situation runs through your head, his low voice asking, Who is this?

"Hi, honey." 

You beam so wide it aches, forcing a pleased little breath from your mouth. 

"What do you need?" he asks. 

"I'm outside of your building but I'm too afraid to come in. I'm not sure they'll let me. I need a badge, right?" 

"You're outside." 

You pick at the hem of your sweater, a loose thread marring your otherwise pretty outfit. You'll admit to dressing up unnecessarily to see him. Nice clothes, your most subtle perfume. 

"I found something confidential this morning, a piece of paper. I didn't read it, I promise."

"You really shouldn't be here," he says. 

Your smile abruptly drops. You press the phone closer to your face and wait, hoping he's not talking to you. When it's clear that he is you cringe, the silence pervasive and the most awkward it's ever been with him. 

"Sorry." Your apology is quick, quiet. "I thought it would be easier for you. I didn't mean to… overstep." 

"It's not that. It's busy. Would you hang on to it for me? Maybe I can come and get it tonight, bring dinner." 

You love how he says it. It's not a question, not an assumption. And it's a relief. If he wants to see you on a night where you hadn't planned to get together, he can't be mad at you for being here. 

"Yeah, please. If you want to." 

"I want to. Okay?"

Not for confirmation, it's shorthand. You okay? 

"Yeah. Okay. Have a good rest of your day, handsome." 

"Bye." 

You like to think you can hear the sound of his phone clicking shut, imagining him at his desk in one of his neat suits with a case file open in front of him. You're not sure on the specifics of his job but you know he looks good doing it, and you also know he's very, very busy. You don't take his clipped goodbye as anything but efficiency. 

Maybe you should. 

—

The next time Aaron inadvertently hurts your feelings is in person. 

Compared to him, you wouldn't say you're an incredibly exciting character. Your day job is tame, your hobbies are invaried. You like to watch TV, see movies, you enjoy people-watching. When you hold that stuff up to his job, his profiling, and his hobbies (seriously, who likes triathlon?) you feel rather immature. 

You know deep down that hobbies are hobbies and that your job doesn't define how special you are, but when you're with someone like Aaron who lives and breathes his profession it can play with your head. 

"Is there something interesting about my shirt?" he asks, a murmur under the sound of the TV. 

You look up from the hem of his nice button down and smile, a half-smile. You want it to be more genuine than it is. "Don't you already know?" 

"What do you mean?" 

"You can tell I'm…" You frown, dropping the starched material of his shirt from between your fingers. "I've given myself up, haven't I?" 

"A little," he concedes sympathetically. 

You huff your defeat and let your cheek fall into his chest. Nice to seek comfort from him, nicer for him to give it to you, his arm rising from behind your shoulders to hook around your neck. 

"I'm not profiling you," he says, voice close to the top of your head, "I'm wondering what you're thinking."

You relax under his touch, his big hand settling in the curve of your neck. A semi-hug. It doesn't take long for you to melt into his front completely, your unhappy thoughts dissolving with any tension and leaving only a want to kiss his stupidly nice neck.

"It doesn't matter," you say. 

"You sure?" 

You lift your head from his chest. He has to lean back to meet your eyes and he does it unflinchingly, a bemused smile playing on his lips. 

"I'm good. Better, if you would…" 

"Yeah?" he asks quietly, leaning down, down. 

You can't withstand his charms. He knows exactly how to get you, his smile and his eyes, his lashes kissing in the corners as they close. 

He's imposing in the best way, a heavy presence that overwhelms you. All you can think about is the way he nudges his nose with yours to encourage your head back and the heat of his lips as they touch your own. His arm tightens behind your head.

You try to rise onto your knees, hands vying for his neck and his pitch dark hair. You're doubly pleased when you feel his mouth turning up into a smile, a mirror of your own. 

"Slow down," he chides gently. 

You're about to say something unlike yourself, something loud and brash. Speed up, Hotchner. You're hopped up on the giddiness that comes with being close to him. You're just about to say it when his phone rings. 

He gives you a short, hard kiss. 

"Hotchner." 

You sit back in his lap, his hand sliding to the small of your back to keep you close as his face clouds with confusion. You attempt to climb off of him because you're not a sack of sugar — you're probably giving him numb thighs — but he won't let you.

"Garcia," he says eventually, "is this an emergency?" His tone makes it clear to you that whatever it is Garcia is saying, it's far from an emergency. 

His hand climbs up, over your shoulder. You shudder as he tugs your earlobe, a mild and thoughtless gesture. You're so busy shivering you almost miss his playful eye roll. 

"I haven't changed my mind. Yeah. Thanks for the invitation, but I'm perfectly happy where I am tonight." 

Whatever Garcia says makes him laugh. If you weren't sitting as close to him as you are you wouldn't have heard it. 

"Have fun. Bye," he says succinctly. He snaps his phone closed in one hand, the other dropping from your ear to your shoulder. It's heavy with a remorse you can't allow. "Sorry."

"Doesn't matter," you assure, tilting your head toward his hand and pretending to size him up. You don't know how to profile, but you're a good guess. 

"You're not telling me something." 

"No?" He blinks in surprise.

"No. You've been invited somewhere with your work friends, and you usually go. Why not tonight?" 

"I think that's obvious." 

"You don't have to flake on your friends for me, Aaron." 

He smiles as you say his name. "Like I told Garcia, I am perfectly happy where I am." 

You hide your face in his neck lest he see your doped up smile. "You have nice friends," you murmur, working your hands under the hem of his shirt. 

"I think you'd love Garcia after the infinitial terror." 

"I think I would too. She's good to you, after all. Makes me like her… Maybe one day we can all go out for drinks." 

You don't have to be a profiler to feel the way he tenses. 

"Yeah," he says. It sounds very much like Probably not. 

That's a strumming hurt. Aaron is so nice, so so nice, and he treats you like you're gold dust. He does all the movie boyfriend stuff like flowers, silver earrings on your birthday (with tiny diamonds!), dinner reservations at dauntingly fancy restaurants. And he does stuff you didn't know men did, like calling you near every night to make sure you had a good day, and praising even your smallest achievements, and leaving notes in places he knows you'll find them on hard days. You don't know how he knows when days are hard, he just does. 

You'd figured all of this stuff meant he must really like you, might even love you though he's yet to say it, and that's why his lack of enthusiasm stings. 

Why doesn't he want you to meet his friends? He's obviously very proud of what they do at the BAU. They're not the issue. 

It's you. 

You cuddle him as a pit forms in your chest. 

"You're tired?" he asks.

Funny how it's his comfort you crave when he's the one who's hurt your feelings. You're a little lopsided being upset with him, and you know if you tell him how you feel he'll try to make it up to you, but you're too afraid of the other alternative — a fight. Right now his arms are a sanctity you wouldn't trade for anything. You hope he feels the same. 

You're not sure anymore. 

"Yeah," you say roughly. 

Your eyes burn as he pats your back. "Let's go to bed, honey." 

You'll just… have to prove you're someone worth showing off. 

—

Your plan, loosely titled 'Get Aaron Hotchner to Show Me Off,' is going about as well as you'd thought it would. 

If Aaron doesn't want me to meet his friends there must be a reason. You've been thinking about it and it can't be a coincidence that he hadn't wanted you to return his paperwork a few weeks ago. That must've been something significant. 

But what? 

You start with your hair. Aaron has expressed a lovely and heaping handful of times that he thinks you have pretty hair. He plays with it often, usually when he's limp and tired from a long day. You've always taken care of it. Now you're going to the extreme — hair masks, hair appointments you can't afford, anything to make it look perfect. 

It doesn't work toward the plan, though your boyfriend certainly notices. 

"Your hair," is the very first thing he says when he sees you, stopping only in his smiling assessment to kiss your cheek in greeting. 

"Is it okay?" you ask, turning your face to one side. 

"More than okay. Do you want to go in?" 

So it's kind of a bust. But that's okay, you weren't expecting to get a haircut and magically be invited to team dinners. You persevere, and eventually you forget the plan for the night when Aaron promises to show you how much he likes your new look with a hand at the small of your back. 

Phase two, your clothes. 

You dress as nicely as you can but you're no fashion guru and you can't afford an entirely new wardrobe. You get a bunch of magazines and look for fall staples. What's in this year, and how do you style it? You buy a couple of pieces that fit your budget and try to work around them. 

Aaron's favourite are the new corduroy pants. They aren't a great fit. 

"They're too tight," you lament, pulling the fabric from your thighs where they hug snugly. They're a desaturated sort of burgundy, not bright by any means but a good 'pop of colour'. 

"I know," he says. 

You gawp at him, and when he gets his fingers on the buttons afterward, you break. 

"You like them?" you ask worriedly. 

"What makes you think I don't?" 

"Besides how eager you are to get them off of me?" 

He hooks two fingers in your belt loops and holds your gaze as he tugs them down. "I like them." 

A good time, but still no dice. You suppose a new look, besides looking smarter, doesn't actually prove your merit as a girlfriend. Maybe he wants something a little more concrete before he introduces you to people. Maybe things aren't as good for him as they are for you, and he doesn't see the point. 

That particular thought sparks a wave of panicked tears. 

The next time you see him, it's like he can tell. You wonder if he has x-ray vision, some sixth sense for tear stains that he has yet to tell you about. He's been gone for a few days in St. Louis, and when he'd come back he'd spent the weekend with Jack, so it's a whole seven days since the last time you saw him and your worries have festered. Not even his doting phone calls had kept the thought at bay. 

Maybe I'm not a good girlfriend. 

You open your door and there he is in a quarter zip with an overnight bag, matte suit cover draped over one arm. 

"Hi," you say, unsure. 

"Did I get uglier while I was away?" he asks seriously. 

You startle. "No, of course not." 

He smiles and meets you in the doorway, your head dipping back to accommodate. "I think I've had it too good," he says lightly, bringing a tentative hand to your cheek. "Are you okay?" 

You're trying to work out what he means, and when you do your heart skips. "Handsome!" you say urgently. "Hi, handsome. No, you didn't get uglier, I'm sorry, I wasn't thinking, and-" 

He kisses you. It's malaligned because of your parted lips, but it's good. You'd really missed him. 

"You're definitely still handsome," you murmur. 

"Doesn't count. I begged for it-" 

"No!" you deny, lifting on tiptoes to give him another kiss and stop his slander. "It does count because you're always handsome, I promise. I think I slept too much and miswired my brain when I woke up." 

"I don't mind that you didn't call me handsome," he says firmly, "now let me in. We have dinner to make." 

"Right, sorry."

Aaron frowns at you, then. It's weird. He frowns at his phone, at the TV, at nothing, but he doesn't frown at you. 

"Is something wrong?" he asks as you traverse down the hall. You hold your hands out for his suit and bag to take to your room and hang up, ignoring his question. He doesn't give them to you. "Is there?" 

"No." You smile as you say it. 

You're an awful liar, especially with him. He makes you more nervous than anyone because he's your boyfriend and because he's a literal human lie detector. 

"You didn't even try." 

You cover your face with both hands and groan dramatically, spinning around and away from him. You don't want him to see how flustered you are. 

"Don't make fun," you beg. 

"You're embarrassed." 

"Teach you that at the Bureau, do they?"  

You stop in the doorway of the kitchen, distracted by your own racing thoughts when suddenly there are two long arms needling around your waist and pulling you backward. You gasp a laugh and squirm uselessly to escape. 

"I'm sorry," he says quietly. 

You tip your head back, hands falling from your face in surprise. "What for, handsome?" 

His laugh fans out over your face but when he speaks again there's no humour there, only sincerity, "For being gone so long." 

"Well don't be. You can't exactly help it, Agent Hotchner," you hum. 

"Oh, don't." 

"Going out and saving the world takes time. I knew that when I met you, 'n I know it now. You don't have to say sorry." 

"I'm not apologising for my work. I'm apologising that we've," — his nose presses into the highest point of your cheek — "been apart." 

"I did miss you," you relent. 

He presses his lips to your cheek. "I missed you too." 

It's a nice distraction. You'd missed one another, and now you're together. You forget for a while what you'd worried, and only when he leaves again do you remember. 

Maybe I'm not a good girlfriend. 

You're not stupid enough to think Hotch is using you for anything, or that he's insincere. You're level-headed, though. His affection for you isn't necessarily permanent no matter how genuine. 

You don't want to be overbearing. The offers start slow. 

I can wash that for you. Of course I'm sure, I'm great with whites. 

Maybe I could make you lunch tomorrow. You can take it in, spare yourself the federal cafeteria. 

Yeah, I got them shined for you. They were looking a little dull at the toes. 

"Do you want me to press these?" you ask. 

Aaron looks up from where he's sitting in bed. You'd been out on a foray to the bathroom and have come to a stop by his bedroom door where a pair of black slacks hang in wait for the morning. 

He pushes a darling pair of reading glasses up the bridge of his nose. "No." 

"Are you sure? It won't take five minutes." 

"I'll do it in the morning." 

"I can do it for you, then. Just wake me up," you say, pushing back the sheets on the empty side of his bed. Your socked foot bumps his thigh as you pull up your legs. "What are you reading?" 

He puts his book on the nightstand, takes off his glasses. It's too bad. He really suits them.

"I want to talk to you about something." 

You laugh and slide down onto the flat of your back. 

"What?" he asks, confused, the tiniest hint of amusement in his eyes. 

"It's unlike you to start that way. You always cut around the fat." You bring his bed sheets up to your nose and squint at him. "'M I in trouble?" 

"Depends." 

"On what?" 

"You know I care about you." 

Your heart somersaults. That feels very much like a break-up opener, and he must see your anxiety on your face. He wrangles your hand from under the sheets and leans over you, his face in your eyeline, his fingers massaging yours until they ache in the good way. 

"Do you know how much?" he asks. 

"Is that a trick?" 

"No." 

You wait in case there's something he's going to add. When there's nothing, you pull the sheets to your chin and tamp down your perplexed pouting. 

"Yeah, I know how much." 

"I'd like to tell you how much." He pulls your joined hands toward his jaw. "I know I'm not always here, but I'm always thinking of you. In roundabout ways." 

"What ways?" you ask. Self-indulgence.

Aaron Hotchner indulges you. 

"I see," — he kisses your hand — "trees. I've seen a thousand trees, but when I see the bigger ones I wish you could see them too." 

It's a dropping sensation, near uncomfortable, that's how gutted his confession makes you feel. "You do?" 

"Sometimes women walk past me and I swear that it's you because they smell like your perfume. Flowers growing through cracks in the sidewalk. Lights through the jet window." It's the kind of stuff you like to point out to him when you're together. 

He stares at you, a long, reassuring look. 

He deserves a better reply, but all you can say is, "I think of you all the time, too." 

"I love that you want to take care of me, but you don't need to wear yourself out." 

You bite the inside of your bottom lip. So that's what this is about. Aaron has profiled you, and now he's being the gentleman that he is and assuaging your fears. 

"I'm not," you say quickly. 

He understands that you're saying I'm not wearing myself out rather than I'm not taking care of you. You are taking care of him, the best that you can, the best that he'll allow. 

"I can press my own pants," he says, leaning down for a kiss. "I can shine my own shoes." He kisses you again. You screw your eyes closed as the warmth of his breath heats your cupid's bow. "I can do my own laundry." He pulls back, dropping your hand in favour of your neck. His thumb pushes against your windpipe gently, palm hot over your skin. "I'll accept the lunches, if you're sure you don't mind making them." 

You feel as excited as you did the very first time he touched you, chest full of a dizzying pleasure, heart bump-bump-bumping a racing rhythm. His thumb strokes a lazy quarter circle into your neck. He can probably feel your pulse, see the way your eyes have blown. 

"I love making them," you say, breathless in earnest.

"The team think I'm spoiled." 

"You aren't spoiled." You're adored, you want to say. You cup his cheek instead. "You'd be spoiled if I brought them by everyday." 

Aaron doesn't stay with you and you don't stay with him enough to make him lunch everyday. He might get one or two a week, and that's when he's home. 

"Wouldn't that be nice," he mutters, his fingers pushing between your neck and the pillow underneath. 

You hike up on to your elbows slowly to avoid headbutting him. "Well, I could." 

His easy, loving smile flattens. "No." 

"I wouldn't mind. My lunch break is super long and it only takes me ten minutes to get there. We could have lunch together." 

"That's not going to work." 

"Okay." You wish you could take it as calmly as he says it. You sound choked up. You are choked up. 

"Sweetheart, the office is a war zone. Half the time I'm not there." 

"I get it," you say, dropping flat onto your back again. 

"Sweetheart." 

"Handsome," you mirror, putting on your best unaffected smile. 

You can't hold it very long, his concerned brows too much to deal with. You turn your head to the left and turn off the lamp on the nightstand, throwing at least half of your expression into darkness. 

Aaron doesn't give up. Does he ever? He cups your cheek and pulls you back to face him. 

"I can't promise any lunch dates. But I was thinking we'd go out for dinner next week, Friday," he begins hopefully, "somewhere nice." 

It feels like an apology and you're desperate to take it. 

"I don't need somewhere nice, s'long as you're there 'n not in Kansas, or Colorado, or Idaho, or New Jersey-" 

He hums and drops his head until his nose lies against your own. "Gonna go through all fifty?" 

"You'd like that, wouldn't you, Hotchner?" 

"I love your voice," he says agreeably. 

Disarmed, you let him charm you, and you let him push it all out of your mind. Plan foiled, your fears fall on the backburner for a third time. 

—

His fourth rejection is the first that feels entirely intentional, though you won't know until later. 

Mostly because Aaron pushes you. 

Far from cruel, the two of you are actually out walking in the city when he forces you into an alleyway, your fancy drink sloshing down the front of your sweater. 

You laugh in surprise and almost roll your ankle, hands clinging to his coat to stop an unfortunate fall. 

"Holy shit, Hotchner, learn to be a gentleman," you say as he presses up against you. "What are you doing? I'm soaked, you're gonna ruin your sleeves." 

He kisses you hard. It's a surprise, your head jumping back against the wall to find his hand already there to protect it. 

It's worth noting that Aaron is a sweetheart in practically every aspect of life. He once apologised after having walked in on you changing, which is ridiculous because most of the nights where you're together he insists on getting you some sort of undressed (even if it's just to help you into your pyjamas).

Needless to say, he's never kissed you like this. Your emotions spike so suddenly you laugh into his mouth, a girlish peel of giggles that you'll regret afterward but can't stop for the life of you. 

He shushes you. "Sorry," he whispers, as ill-composed as you've ever heard him. "Sorry, just-" He cuts you both off with another bruising kiss. 

Your laughter fades into sighs and little gasps for air. Somewhere near the alleyway opening a group of people pass by, a jovial series of cheers and friendly laughter trailing behind them. Aaron presses you further into the wall behind, and slowly, slowly winds down. Weirdly, you think his last couple of pecks feel sorry, softer and sweeter. 

Your lips buzz. 

"Why'd you buy me that fancy drink if you were gonna tip it all over me?" you ask good-naturedly when he finally pulls back. 

"You looked too nice today." His deadpan voice wars with the smile on his face. "I'm sorry. We'll go find you something to change into." 

"Was it really that important that you kiss me right then?" you ask, feigning disdain. 

He looks out toward the main street again. "Yes. Where do you want to go? There's a Nordstrom." 

You take a sip of your drink, unsurprised when he takes your hand and starts to lead you toward the department stores. "Have you ever been inside of a Nordstrom?" 

"I'm sure I'll figure it out."

— 

The fifth time is the straw that breaks the camel's back. Or the brick. It feels heavier than a strand of straw. It's technically already come to pass, so it's an invisible brick. 

You're out for coffee by yourself which really means you're out for something sweet, bundled up in a coat and scarf to fight the night-time chill. 

"Thank you," you tell the barista, accepting your drink and receipt with a smile. 

You turn around and almost walk straight into a pretty dark-haired woman with really nice hair. You make a note to tell Aaron about it when you see him next, not because he'll care but because he likes to hear what you've been thinking about. And right now, all you can think about is her feathered bangs. 

I want nice bangs, you think offhandedly. 

"I'm sorry," you say, trying to move around her. 

She steps into your path. 

"Sorry," you say again. 

She's squinting at you, thin eyebrows peeking out from behind her hair. "Sorry, have we met?" she asks. 

You try not to be too hasty, but you're not sure you've ever seen her. You stare at her as she stares at you, and you get a tiny inkling of familiarity, but it's gone as quick as it comes. 

"I'm really sorry, I don't think so," you murmur, tilting your head to one side. 

She bites her lip, let's it go. "Oh!" she says excitedly, voice bright with triumph. "Oh oh oh! I know who you are, you're Hotch's mysterious girlfriend!" 

Your smile turns quizzical. You know nearly everybody calls Aaron 'Hotch'. Whenever you try it he either gives you the silent treatment or covers your mouth with his hand. 

"I'm Emily Prentiss, I work in the BAU," she explains rapidly, shoving her purse under her hand to offer it for a handshake. 

You do the same and shake her hand. Introducing yourself feels awkward. She knows you. You don't have a clue who she is. Only- 

"Oh, I know who you are now, I'm sorry I didn't recognise you before!" you say contritely. "I've seen photos of you and the team together. It's really nice to meet you." 

She nods. "It's nice to meet you too. I have to say, we've been dying to meet you. We even have a betting pool on what you're like, because Hotch barely says a thing about you." 

You try not to look as devastated as you feel, re-wrapping your fingers around your cup. "No?" 

"We didn't even know what you looked like until we saw you the other day. We came looking to say hi and you'd disappeared." 

You lick your dry lips. "The other day?" 

"Yeah, last Friday. We were out for impromptu drinks, celebrating a case. You know, you should come with sometime. It would be fun." 

Emily talks each word with an undertone of good humour. She's stunning, bubbly, and her hair flows around her face with every movement. 

"He really doesn't talk about me?" 

Emily drops into girl code niceties, backtracking. "I mean, not too often. We catch him smiling at his phone and hear your voice sometimes when you call. He seems happy. Well, happy as Hotch can seem." She swallows. "He's a private creature."

He doesn't talk about me. 

You pretend to check your watch. 

"It was really good to meet you," you say, voice airy with a feigned nonchalance. 

"Yeah, of course. Super nice," Emily says. 

You smile at her. It's more like a grimace. By the time you're outside of the coffee shop you're too upset to care, a humiliated shock of tears brewing behind your achy eyes. 

You hold your cup to your chest and unzip your purse to tuck the receipt inside, trying to maintain some control. There's a folded note inside, thick cardstock quartered. 

You take it out. Your fingers tremble with offended adrenaline. 

You're beautiful. 

Short, sweet, extremely Aaron Hotchner. Too bad you can't believe it. 

Emily Prentiss being out and about means the BAU are done for the night, though whether your workaholic boyfriend got the memo is anyone's best guess. You're not sure if it's better or worse if he's in work when you call. You're so upset that you can't help yourself. 

"Hi, honey." 

"Do you really think I'm beautiful?" you ask, staving off tears with all your willpower. 

"I wouldn't write it if I didn't mean it. That one took you a while to find, I was-" 

"Are you sure?" 

"...Are you okay?" 

You glare up at the dark sky rather than answer, blinking hard to force down your tears. You really don't wanna cry, but it's been a bad day and meeting Emily has made it worse. No matter how hard you try to think otherwise, all signs point to Aaron being ashamed of you. Embarrassed to be with you. He's hiding your relationship from everybody. 

"Am I- Is it my clothes? My job?" 

"What's wrong with your clothes?" 

"You tell me, detective." 

You're getting angry. He's- he's lying, or he's messing with you. He's making fun of you. At least that's how it feels. 

"Where are you right now?" he asks. You can picture him shrugging on his suit jacket, putting his files in order to come and meet you. 

You don't want to see him. "I'm at the coffee shop by your apartment. I actually ran into somebody, and I'm feeling very well-informed." A first tear bumps down your cheek. You ignore it. 

"I don't understand." 

"I don't understand! What am I doing wrong?" You bite your tongue in last ditch efforts to remain intact, but the tears won't hold off any longer. You swallow a sob. "What's wrong with me?" 

"Nothing. Nothing, honey, nothing is wrong with you." 

You wipe your wet face with mean hands. 

"Stay where you are. I'll come and meet you." 

"No. I don't wanna see you." 

"Honey-" 

"Leave me alone, Aaron." 

You hang up. You walk for a while, feeling as though steam is rising off of your flushed skin with every clumsy step. It had been a short phone call and already you can't remember what you said, all you can feel is angry, and then that runs out and all you can do is cry. 

You've never felt incredibly attractive. Aaron makes you feel better than that — he has the uncanny ability to inspire self-confidence with a loaded look alone. He can smile at you and your skin feels like it's glowing. 

So why doesn't that translate? If he thinks you're so pretty, why does he insist on hiding you away?

Because that day, he'd seen his friends. He could've introduced you but he took you down the alley and kissed you so you wouldn't be seen. That's not too busy: That's secretive. 

That kiss. You fooled yourself into thinking you must've looked irresistible. Fuck. You went home that night thinking you were the best thing since sliced bread. 

"I'm so stupid," you mutter, sniffling. 

Your self deprecation is muffled by the sound of a slowing car. You don't look up. There are two possibilities for who it is, and you don't want to deal with either. 

The car parks and then you do look up. Despite how mad you are you're not suicidal, and Aaron's given you extensive coaching on sex trafficking. 

It's him. Shocker. 

You're half-expecting him to reprimand you. You didn't look up until I parked. You know it takes five seconds to snatch and incapacitate someone? 

He looks haphazardly put together. Suit jacket on but tie loosened, he rounds the hood of his car and joins you on the sidewalk. You don't want to play games with him. He really doesn't need it, he didn't sign up for it, and drama isn't your style, but you're sick of this. 

"You want to tell me what you're thinking?" he asks, standing an amicable two feet away, hands at his hips.

"I'm really mad." 

"What else?" 

"I'm thinking," you say, looking down at your cold hands, "that you… That you're…" You rub your cheek into your shoulder to hide a fresh tear. "I don't know, Aaron. I'm thinking lots of things." 

"Do you want to think about them in the car?" he asks. 

Do you want to talk about it?

You don't want to talk about it. You don't like crying in front of him on a good day. 

You're pretty sure he'll combust on the spot if he knows you're walking home alone in the dark and distracted. 

You get in the car. He has the good sense not to touch your shoulders like he normally would. 

You buckle as soon as you've closed the passenger side door. "I'm sorry," you mumble, looking down at your knees. 

"Let's forget that, for now." He turns the key but doesn't pull out. "Tell me what's upset you and I'll explain." 

"I met Emily Prentiss." 

He looks at you out of the corner of his eye.

"She told me that you don't talk about me. Ever. That they didn't even know what I looked like." 

You know he's listening but he keeps his eyes on the road, and you chance a look at the side of his face. He doesn't seem mad. 

"I don't talk about you often," he says. "But that doesn't mean never… It's true that they didn't know what you look like." 

"Until last week, when they saw us together and you pulled me into an alley so they couldn't see me." 

"Yes." 

Your lower lip trembles. "Do you see why that would upset me?" You're asking genuinely. 

"Yeah, honey." 

Your head jolts up. He's diverting his gaze from the road to you intermittently, offering up a regretful grimace. The oncoming headlights splash over his work worn face. 

"Then why are you doing this? What's so wrong with me that you won't even admit we're together?" 

"Nothing is wrong with you. I'm not ashamed of you," he says firmly, volume rising. 

"Then why?" 

His eyebrows pull together. "You're the best person I've ever met that isn't my son, and I selfishly don't want to share you yet. I also don't want to scare you off." 

You pull your sleeves over your hands and turn in your seat, wiping your damp cheeks as he continues. 

"My job is hard, and it's dangerous. It has jeopardised the safety and wellbeing of people I love before. So no, I'm not eager to introduce you to my world. The more intertwined with my life that you become, the more danger I put you in, and…" The car slows down again. He turns to look at you. "And I like that I'm the only one who knows you like this.

"I have been hiding you. I have. But it was a," — his tone turns wry — "misguided attempt at keeping you all to myself. Safe, and to myself." 

You're finding it difficult to be mad with him. 

He's finding it difficult to maintain his poker face. A fat tear rolls down your cheek and you're not sure what it's made of, fatigue or relief or plain hurt, whatever it is he doesn't like it. He pulls over. 

You hold still as he pinches the tear off of your chin. 

"How long have you felt like this?" 

"Like what?" you ask wetly. 

"Like this." He opens his hand against your cheek. It encompasses your face; you lean in, hungry for reassurance. 

"I don't know." 

"This is why you changed your hair. Your clothes. And started making my lunch." 

You cover his hand with your own. "I actually really like making your lunches." 

You stare at each other until suddenly you're laughing, sniffly, short of breath. Aaron joins in soon after. He always sounds so surprised to be laughing.

"I'm glad," he says when your laughter has abated, pinky and ring finger caressing down the slope of your cheek. "I really like having them. Rossi can't hide how jealous he is." 

"They know about the lunches?" 

His mindless petting pauses. "They know about the lunches. You're not a secret. I'm… selfish with the details. I'm selfish." Aaron takes back his hand. "I'm sorry." 

You take as deep a breath as you can. "Okay." 

"Yeah?" 

"Mm. Can we go home?" 

His eyebrows jump and swiftly smooth again. "Yeah, we can go home." He chucks your chin and gets the car moving again. 

You watch him drive. 

When you get home, he doesn't mind reassuring you some more. Actually, it's like he needs to do it. You'd love to say that it's overkill and that his low murmurings of praise are unnecessary, but you can't. 

"You're lovely," he says seriously across two plates of pasta. Again through the mirror when you're brushing your teeth, and again when you've curled into his chest for the night. You're lovely. Nothing that needs hiding. 

You hear him on the phone early in the morning, half asleep. 

"Hey, Dave. Yeah. Okay. Uh… No, that's fine." He laughs under his breath. "Yeah, if she was awake I'd ask her to make you one. I think she would… Okay. See you in forty." 

You bury your tired face into his pillows and beam. 

—

+1 

Aaron's office is terrifyingly hectic. You can see already that the bullpen is full to bursting with agents, including but not limited to his special team of profilers. There's the distinct smell of coffee, sharp and burning, and then the underlay of printer ink, new paper. 

You can't believe you're here. 

You're not brave enough to introduce yourself to his team, and half aren't at their desks anyways. You hover in the doorway until somebody needs to get past you, taking a reluctant step inside.

You shouldn't wait for Aaron. You should be brave. You're a grown up, and you're bringing your grown up partner his very grown up lunch. You'd wanted desperately to do this. The least that you can do is do it by yourself. 

You've scrapped most of the fall staples but kept the burgundy pants Aaron likes so much at his request. They feel insanely tight on your thighs, as does your collar. In fact, the room has definitely shrunk since you got here. 

Like an idiot, Aaron says your name loud and clear, standing with a hand on the railings at the top of the instep. You hadn't even noticed him emerging from his office.

His voice demands — commands — attention. People turn in their seats, first toward him, and then toward you. 

All eyes on me. 

You don't run but you don't walk either, weaving through desk chairs and people looking a mix of busy and curious.

"You're being cruel," you say as you approach him, a brown paper bag held close to your abdomen. 

"Hi, honey," he says. He wears a knowing smile, all dark and tall and handsome as he starts down the stairs to meet you. 

"Don't punish me." 

"Is that what you'd call this?" he asks, hand quick to clasp your shoulder, glueing you in place so he can kiss your forehead.

And yes, this is what you'd wanted. The doting boyfriend not just at home but at work, too.

That doesn't mean it isn't really, really embarrassing. 

"Is everyone looking at me?" you murmur. 

He slips his arm behind your shoulders to walk you up the stairs. "Yes." His voice drops lower. "At one place specifically, I imagine." 

"What part is that, Agent?" 

He laughs and opens his office door to beckon you inside. "Don't start." 

༺༻

my first hotch fic omg. i did a big character study beforehand but i doubt it's entirely in character, hotch is a difficult character to write for! (and im only at season 4). but this was so fun and he's hot so it's worth it. if you enjoyed, please consider reblogging! i promise it makes a difference to me (and also i love seeing what people thought). thank you for reading!! ♥

[a-b-riddle]

Know Your Place (2)

The knot of guilt had twisted into straight up anxiety. You didn't do repeats, but fuck if you didn't want to feel Johnny's mouth against you again. He treated you like you wanted to be treated: cared for and absolutely defiled.

It was electrifying.

And it terrified you.

You rarely canceled hookups when they had gotten to the point where the one night delight had sent you confirmation of their STD panel. Yet here you were sprinting to the hotel where you had met Johnny a month ago.

And when you walked back into that lobby, it was dejavú.

He was sitting at the bar; eyes glued to the door. He’d been waiting. Just like last time. Maybe that's what had set the night off to such a different start. He wasn't scrolling on his phone or making idle chit chat with the bartender to pass the time. He had made it known in subtle ways that as much as this may have been a means to blow off steam, it was about being with you.

With as much confidence as you could muster, you sauntered over to him, heart fluttering wildly in your chest. His tight navy blue Henley was doing him and you a favor. His denim jeans would undoubtedly hug his ass in such a way it was make you and sculptors envious.

The bastard was handsome and he damn well knew it.

"What changed yer mind?"

Fuckkkkkkkk

Fuck. You remembered he had an accent, but fuck you forgot how it practically made you pray that he was the type of man who liked to dirty talk, give directions.

Prayers: answered.

You shrugged. Trying to come off as nonchalant when in reality you couldn't get out of that lounge soon enough. "I wanted to do it again." Jesus. Be a little less brash. "With you." You quickly add. Fuck, why was this so awkward. "I wanted to do this again with you."

Those blue eyes scaled up and down your body, taking you in. It didn't matter that you knew he wanted you. It didn't matter that he had seen you naked. It didn't matter that he had told you multiple times how fucking stunning he found you. There was always that nagging feeling in the back of your head going

Is he looking at my stomach? God, I shouldn't have worn this. i should have worn spanx. I look like a busted can of biscuits.

The ugly thoughts almost made you shift in discomfort under his gaze, but you held firm, reciting your mantra in your head.

You are desirable. You are worth pleasure. You are in control.

“Ye want it like last time or are ye goin’ to let me fuck you properly?” And just like that, your confidence was taken down a peg. You had took penetrative sex off the table for about two years. It wasn't anything traumatizing, it wasn't painful. It just wasn't as good.

You've found that there was an assumption that bigger girls were able to take it more roughly. And after a few times of men treating their dicks like battering rams, intercourse was a course that was no longer on the menu. Plus with the only option being oral, you mostly always came and your partners were far more enthusiastic. Win-win.

“I can’t cum that way.” You crossed your arms, your tits perking up in hopes of making him remember how good it felt to titty fuck you. How hot you looked with his cum all over your face and chest. When his eyes didn't leave yours, you decided to relent. He gave you the best not one, not two, but three orgasms of your life and if you had stayed like he had asked, he probably would have given you several more. At this point you were curious. If his mouth can do all those deliciously despicable things, you wanted to know what his cock could do.

“Don’t get upset if I don’t.” You ordered, not caring if the bartender heard you. “I haven’t faked it since college and so my pornstar moaning may not be up to par." Johnny smirked before shooting the rest of the amber colored liquor in front of him.

He stood up, practically towering over you before leaning in and whispering, “Oh, I’ll have ye moanin’ just fine, Bonnie.”

Yep.

Definitely curious.

There was no foreplay this. No slow undressing. Not delicately exploring each other's bodies. It was feral and carnal and something neither of you had anticipated. Not even desire, but pure need to be touching each other again.

Johnny's shirt was the first thing that was taken off, and before the door had even fully closed. His mouth was on yours instantly. Tasting you as if it let him breathe easier. His hands worked at the zipper of your dress with expertise. Not allowing it to fall from the floor before he started working on your bra. His mouth never leaving yours.

You normally would reprimand a date for their eagerness, but you needed this just as much as he did. Needed his hands on you, in you. And more importantly you knew that Johnny can deliver you to paradise on a silver fucking platter.

By the time both of you were fully undressed, the sound of soft pants filled the room as if both of you had forgotten to pull away from the other's lips and come up for air. When you did, your brain went on autopilot.

You sank down to you knees in front of him. One hand resting on your thigh while the other took hold of him. He sucked in air through his clenched teeth as one of his hands made its way home into the crown of your hair.

Seeing him stare down at you with glossy eyes and an open mouth made you promptly spit on the head of his cock. Stroking your hand up and down to coat his entire shaft.

"Fuckin' Christ," he groaned. "I dinnae stand a chance with you, did I?" You weren't what he meant. Did he think he was the reason you initially didn't want to meet up again? Or was it something else? No. It couldn't be.

In response you gave his shaft a tight pump. And another. And another. Rolling your wrist against his already leaking head. Not breaking eye contact you dragged your tongue up the underside of his cock before taking the tip in your mouth. Flattening your tongue and teasing the slit, feeling the ridges underneath before taking him deep into your throat.

Tears prickled your eyelids as you felt him pulsing in your mouth. "That goddamn mouth." His eyes shut in concentration. "Need ye to stop before I fuckin' cum, Bonnie." It was a warning that you didn't plan on listening to. At least not until his grip in your hair tightened, still soft enough not to be painful, but firm enough to make your soaked cunt clench.

"Naughty fuckin' minx." he growled hoarsely. "Think I'd just come down your throat and we'd be done?" You nod, his hand loosening with your movement. "You'll have to be punished for that. Trying to make me cum two minutes in like a goddamn school boy." His blue eyes burned into you. You had almost wished he came if not to give him the same euphoric feeling he was giving you, right now and without even touching where you ached the most.

"Open your thighs and let me look at that pretty pussy. " His voice was gravely and stern. You leaned back, pressing your palms against the cool hardwood floor as you parted your thighs. He wasted no time in crouching down and sliding his fingers through your slick folds.

"Fuck." You whimpered as he softly grazed your clit with each stroke. Never missing.

"This all mine?" He asked. You let out a weakened yeah before your body bucked. "So sensitive." His mocking tone pulled out that masochistic part of you that loved to be degraded. "On the bed, on your knees."

You got off your knees, feeling the blood return to your feet from being in such an awkward position on the floor. You obeyed his orders, letting him take control even though that was not what either of you had in mind.

"So what are you gonna do?" You attempt to add a sense of mocking to your tone, but you're breathless. Definitely getting in some cardio tonight. "I'm not much into corporal beatings. I'm a fan of the occasional swat, but not really a get over my knee and count type of girl."

"No, but I plan to make you beg to cum," he said, the hair on his hair tickling your back. "And make you see how good you can take my cock."

He gripped your cheeks, kneading and spreading them before settling his eyes on what he had been after. "So I take it you're an ass man." You say it with such casualty he had no choice but to bark out a laugh.

"No, Bonnie," he answered, giving the flesh a firm squeeze. "I'm a this-ass man." He leaned forward, stroking his tongue over the puckered ring. Having to hold you by the fat of your ass, giving it a squeeze to keep you in place.

"Oh my god." Your hands gripped the bed sheets, mouth hanging open and eyes clinched shut. Fuck. Oral was on the table, but neither of you had talked about rimming. Most guys you knew never mentioned it and honestly with how some men kept up with their personal hygiene, you weren't exactly up for returning the favor. But if Johnny made you feel like this, you would gladly reciprocate.

He brought his hand down, stroking the back of your thigh, his tongue never stopping as he slid two fingers inside you. You instinctively slid your knees further apart, granting him easier access.

Good pet. If Johnny's tongue hadn't been working your asshole he would have delivered the words of praise just to gauge your reaction at the name. Pet.

"I'm so close." You moaned. "Please don't stop." Your pleading was cute, but it wasn't enough.

"No," he said, slowing down his fingers. "I'm not gonna give it to ye' til yer beggin. Ye' wanted to make the rules. No penetration. No repeats. Ye' said ye' don't cum from fucking and I'm about to break that rule too."

You weren't sure if it was agony or the best thing you ever felt, but he resumed his work. Only slowing down when you began to rock against his face and tighten around his fingers before he would slow down or pull away.

After the 8th time your orgasm escaped you, you kicked your feet against the bed in the cutest fucking tantrum the man had ever witnessed. "Johnny, please!" you begged.

"Please, what?" He teased, his breathe now blowing against your weeping, sore cunt. "What do you need, Bonnie?"

"Please make me come. Please fuck me. Pleaaaaassseee. Just let me come." You practically squealed out when his fingers entered you again. Pressing your face into the pillow you able to muffle your pitiful, pathetic cry.

"Fuck ye?" He taunted, curling his fingers as he kneeled behind you. The tip of his cock brushing against the inside of your thigh. Fuck. It was too heavy to even go upright. "Thought that sort of thing didn't work for ye."

"Johnny, please." you said, shaking your ass like a bitch in heat. Looking for more friction. "I can't-- fuck-- you have to--- please." You couldn't think you just needed this knot inside of you to unwind before it ripped you apart.

"Ye beg so pretty for me." He said, stroking his cock as you started to lose your mind. "Makes me almost feel sorry for ye, but you need more control than that." He tsked as he took his hand out and brushed the back of his fingers against your puffy cunt. Stifling a laugh as you jerked away. "Is it too much?" He asked, lining his cock up and stroking your folds.

"Please." You whimpered and that was it. Johnny knew that you weren't leaving him a second time. Not when he looked in the mirror to the right and could see how your mascara began to run down your face. You're the perfect girl for them. The perfect pet.

"Tell me, Bon. Need me to finish ye' off?" He asked pushing the tip in and only pulling away when you attempt to throw your ass against him. Huffing when he did.

"Yes!" You cried. "Please please please."

His hand snaked around your throat, cupping your jaw before he turned your head to look into the mirror. Your bodies glistened with sweat and the sight was something you would keep stored in your memory forever.

"I want ye you to see how fuckin' gorgeous you look while yer takin' my cock." He growled out, his tone darker than you had ever heard him before.

"Yes, sir." You breathed out. Another remind on how you'd adjust easily with them.

He slowly slid into you and for that you were thankful. The burn of the stretch equaled the pleasure that coursed through you as he filled you.

His slow deep thrusts made your head swirl. Over and over, the sounds of your sopping wet cunt and soft moans and groans escaping the two of you. You braced yourself as he started picking up the pace, but it still wasn't enough. You still teetered on that edge, so close to tipping over.

For several minutes he fucked you knowing that you were so close to coming, but being too much of a sick bastard to give in without you showing him how desperate you were for it.

"Rough," you eventually sobbed, your back arching as your head fell against the bed. "Want you- rough, please." You choked back a scream as he drove his hips foward.

"Keep those fucking eyes open and don't you dare cum until I tell ye' to," was his only demand as he held onto your waist and fucked you how he wanted to that first night.

Sounds of slapping flesh and soft whimpers filled the room as Johnny brought you to seeing the face of god.

"Johnny Johnny," you squealed your orgasm gaining on you. It wasn't until you felt his thumb applying just the right amount of pressure on your asshole did you begin to fall apart. "fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck."

Some books say that orgasms are like seeing stars or electricity coursing through your body. In reality it is waves. Waves of euphoria crashing down. It's that high you get from holding your breath too long and taking that much awaited breath.

Johnny's orgasm quickly followed and when you felt his cock pulsing inside you, it brought on another orgasm. Johnny hissed as you tighten against his now sensitive cock, but admiring the sight when he pulled out.

His spend leaked out of you.

"Guess we got kind of caught up. Dinnae even think about getting a rubber." It wasn't an apology, but he at least wanted to seem like he was sorry for coming inside you.

"UDI." You replied, eyes closed and head still reeling from the aftershock of that second orgasm.

"What?" He asked, making you realize you were incoherent and most likely stroking his ego even more.

"IUD, fuck, sorry." You correct. He let out a chuckle before you rolled over, arm covering your eyes as you try to gain some You felt his cum begin to slide down to your thighs. "I'm gonna go clean up." You inform before rolling awkwardly off the bed, if not to save the poor maids from having to see the evidence on the sheets.

When you came back into the room, Johnny was on the bed. Still naked as a jaybird with his softened cock resting against his thigh.

This was always the awkward part. The departure. The gathering of clothes and minimal eye contact.

"Well, I should be-" you started bending over to retrieve your bra before he stopped you.

"If ye fuckin' leave like ye did last time that ass of yours will be meetin' my belt, now lay down."

"Excuse me?" your tone is more confused if anything. He said it without a hint of anger, authority or sterness and yet you had to refrain from scurrying into the bed.

"I get ye' may not be a cuddlin' type of gal, but I am a cuddlin' type a man. Leaving me without the proper aftercare isn't a good look on ye, Bonnie." He threw you a lopsided grin. His hands resting on the back of his hands, making you want to see if riding those biceps of his would get you off as easily as it would riding his face.

"Besides," he shrugged. "Ye' came before I let you."

"I tried to hold it off." You argued before dropping your bra back unto the floor and crawling next to him. "I just never had to."

"That's the whole point." He said, rolling over to face you. "Seeing ye come undone whether ye want to or na." He scooted closer. The front of his body touching yours as his hand came up to cradle your jaw. Lightly brushing his thumb against your bottom lip as he spoke. "And ye'd been so adamant about not being able to cum on my cock. Such a good girl for me."

"So you're not going to punish me?" You tried to mock, but were actually curious about what kind of man Johnny really was in bed. He had no problem taking control, but what other kinks did he have lurking below the surface.

"I can punish ye," he winked. "but I think ye might like it too much." You huffed air out of your nose, wanting to bury your head into his chest, worried that the action may be too intimate for what this was.

What you were.

[especiallythewomenandthechildren]

As If Destiny (part four) 🌹

Part Three🌹🌹🌹

Summary: You've always been kind hearted yet admirably defiant. Or that is at least one of the ways Coriolanus Snow would describe you. Ever since grade school, you have always been on the same level as him in academics and one of his few competitors for the Plinth Prize. But as tragedy struck your family, Coriolanus thought you would fall away from his life, but instead, you got even more intertwined (not to mention the complicated past knots tying your families together).

Warnings: Terminal illness, parent death, death and brutality (it is the hunger games after all) characters may be ooc. I read the book a while ago but don't really remember much of Snows way of thinking (I mean I know its toxic and insane but yk the other things) so I will mostly be basing off the film and my own thoughts. Also I can't spell for the life of me so be prepared for bad spelling and grammar. Also, this is going to be a LONG series with a lot of parts, so strap in! Enjoy loves!

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Coriolanus led the way, past the broken elevator, and up the ancient stairs. He let you go ahead of him in the stairwell, letting you know which ones to skip as they are quite shaky and might cave in. He felt embarrassed that even the stairs informing of his financial state but you didn't mind. In fact, while you both were going up the 12 flights of stairs, you were giggling and enjoying the jumps up the stairs.

The boy was so lost in the sight of your toothy smile and little looks back in his direction that he almost missed his floor. Opening the door leading into the hallway brought forward the smell of dust and mold, something his nose has gotten far too acustomed to. You looked around in fascination, touching the decaying blue and silver wall paper. It was beautiful, even after all the destruction it witnessed. If this was simply the hallway, you were sure his actual aprtment was stunning, no matter how sparse and empty it may be.

After a few steps, he reached a chipped white door and pulled out his keys. The heir to the house felt his hands shake as he pushed the key through the hole. With a deep breath, he opened up the door.

The first thing that was noticeable, much to Coriolanus's dismay, was the smell of cabbage. The fervent smell and the noise of movement alerted him that Tigris was still up. His assumption was confirmed a few seconds later with the appearance of his cousin. "Coryo! You've been gone for so long, I was getting so worried where have you-" the rest of her words died on her tounge as she noticed your head pop out behind her cousins shoulders.

You gave her a kind and slightly embarrassed smile, reaching out your hand in greeting. She returned the gesture, albeit hesitantly as she was still in shock and in the depths of confusion. "Hello, you must be Tigris! All my friends rave about your fashion ability and they certainly aren't wrong. Your nightgown is stunning did you make it?" Tigris couldn't help but laugh and blush at your genuine compliments and curiosity. She nodded and held it our for you to inspect. The champagne color was embroidered with what seemed like endless silver flowers and the cut and flow fit her perfectly.

Coriolanus stood back, leaning against a wall watching you both in deep conversation about style and it's meaning and topics he could never, as much as he tried, be as versed as his cousin and seemingly, you. A smile appeared on his face seeing you get along with his cousin so well. He wondered how his grandma'am would think of you; the thought making him blush. Then it hit him that she is going to meet you in the morning, making the blush on his pale skin turn a deep crimson.

Tigris stole a quick glance towards her younger cousin and even in the dim lighting, she could see his flush all too well. She then remembered that she never asked why in the world her teenage cousin brought a pretty girl in the late hours of the night. She didn't even get your name. "I'm sorry, it seemed we got too caught up in conversation that I didn't even get your name!" You had a blush yourself in embarrassment.

Here you are, certainly in the a.m hours, invading her home and you didn't even let her know who you were. "Y/N Vaun. I am so sorry for interrupting your peace. Coryo was kind enough to offer me a place to rest tonight due to uhm personal issues at home." You say the last part quickly and in a hushed tone. The older girl gives you a warm and bright smile and welcomes you into her home. "Well let me get you something more comfortable." she gestures to your uniform that you have been wearing for nearly 24 hours.

It may not have been the most comfortable clothing, but you didn't wish to cause even more commotion for the Snow household. You stand up to kindly refuse Tigris's action but Coryo quickly interjects and stands in front of you, blocking your path. "You are our guest y/n, please stop arguing" He pleads with you. "I didn't even open my mouth!" He gives you a look, you both fully knowing you were going to.

"Where am I going to sleep?" You ask looking around and spot the small worn sofa in the small living space. Your thoughts were all over your face and caused a groan, paired with a dramatic eye roll from Coriolanus. "You are a guest, I'm not making you sleep on the couch!" You knew what he meant but it was always fun to tease the boy. "You aren't making me, don't worry!" With a rough sigh, he put his head in his hands, seemingly exhausted.

"Are you like this when you go to the Plinths?" He asks teasingly. The question made you go stiff a little, something he noticed because, of course he did. "Well, I've actually never slept over there. It's bad enough they have to constantly feed me, I am not their responsibility." Coriolanus thought over your words before responding with a question he had been carrying the entirety of your walk here.

"Do you always see every gesture of kindness as a debt to be paid? If so, you must be owed dozens of debts." You blushed at his targeted question at your philosophy and the compliment tagged on at the end. You felt flattered before you realized the hypocrisy of his words.

"Oh you're one to talk Coryo! Remember when I shared with you my chocolate truffles ONCE at lunch and you seemed to be trying to paying me back with gestures and favors for weeks!" He stared at you like a deer in headlights. oh how he wished you had forgotten. He remembered that day crystal clear. Not because the truffles (which apparently 11 year old you was a master baker even then) were the best he has ever had, but because of you took over his thoughts for weeks after.

He remembered taking notes of all the little things you liked and habits, trying to find the perfect opportunities to get closer and somehow, even if not materially, pay you back for your kindness. "Ah, so it was you! I knew I heard your name somewhere before!" Tigris (of all the times she could have appeared) emerged from her room holding up a deep green night gown with black detailing.

You looked from her to Coriolanus in confusion and were met with him staring way too intensely at the dusty floor. Tigris observed both of your actions and emotions, noting your confusion and her cousins embarrassment. Oh she was going to have so much fun teasing him as soon as you were out of earshot. She gestured the sleepwear and beckoned for you to get changed in the small bathroom.

You took the fabric out of her hands and was simply amazed. You had many friends and close ones at that, but all the emotions and kindness you were treated with tonight crashed at once. You looked up at the taller woman with glossy eyes. "Thank you." You turned your head to say the same to the boy who brought you here, but he simply put a hand up, putting an end to yet another parade of thanks.

As soon as Tigris heard the sound of you locking the cold bathroom door, she turned to the boy she considered a brother with a smirk. But he wasn't in the main foyer anymore but rather, rushed to the kitchen and was opening up the window. Enough to get the smell of cabbage and dust out and the smell of blossoming flowers of the Capital in. She couldn't help but laugh. "So am I going to get an explanation or do I have to assume what a teenager is doing bringing a girl that beautiful at this hour?"

"Her mother is suffering with illness Tigris. Its been taking a toll on y/n too. She doesn't sleep at night and I thought she might have a better chance getting a good rest if she was away from all the chaos. So I brought her here if you and grandma'am don't mind." Tigris looked at her cousin, a proud smile on her face. She wiped her hands on a worn towel and moved in to give him a loving hug.

Coryo got the message of his cousin quite clearly and suddenly as he looked as if he were going to faint from embarrassment. He looked around as if you were in the walls listening in. "Shhh! Tigris! Ugh- what no- Tigris!" Oh he was so flustered. She went back to cleaning the few dishes in the sink, the activity she must have been doing before your entrance. Coriolanus knew she was waiting for an explanation but he didn't want to expose your situation and lose any trust, especially with the amount of trust he put in you.

"I'm so proud of you Coryo. I know your mother would be too. Her son being a pillar of good, no matter the situation." He smiled shyly and bittersweetly at the thought of his late mother. Would she think of him like that? What would she think of you?

Tigris snuck a glance at the boy and noticed his small grin and blush and nudged him with his shoulder. "No funny buisness, I want to sleep without being traumatized." The look of horror once again crossed his face and was ready to stammer out opposition to Tigris's thoughts when he heard the bathroom door creak open.

You stepped out, wrapped in the nightgown, the long and flowy cut making you look like true royalty. You also took your hair our of your updo and let it flow down. How is it possible something so beautiful could be standing in his rundown apartment. The thought seemed to have Coriolanus paralyzed until you seemed to shrink under his gaze.

Tigris giggled at just how easily you made her ever pristine and charming cousin flustered. She threw some water off her fingers into his face to snap him out of his daze, which worked much to his dismay and your entertainment. Tigris walked out of the kitchen and into the direction of her room. As she passed you, she whispered "you look beautiful y/n" with a sweet and supporting smile that you returned.

She bid you both good night as she walked out of sight behind the corner of the hallway, leaving you both behind looking anywhere but eachother. Coriolanus realized he should probably be the one to do something considering this was his home and such. He cleared his throat and motioned for you to follow him. You followed him with your uniform neatly folded as he reached his room.

Your breath was shaky as you exhaled realizing you were in his room. You were going to sleep in his room. To say you were red would be an understatement. You were too busy scanning around his room to notice him quickly trying to clean up the little messes littered over his room in his ever constant rush. You noticed his corner window and walked over, having to kneel on his bed to get the full view.

Even though it was pitch black nightime outside, the street lights were enough to lumminate the small white flowers blooming on the trees. Rows and rows of the trees seemed to be lined up straight outside his window. It must be absolutely radiant in the morning.

You turned back to him, watching him move around the small room. "Tigris is so beautiful and kind. You must be very proud of her." Your words made him feel somehow even happier. He nodded in agreement. He did everything for her and Grandma'am, but especially for Tigris. She sacrificed her entire life for him and raised him really on her own. If he ever for a second doubted his abilites or how much longer he can keep up his façade, he remebers his cousins sweet smile.

Coriolanus was still trying to clean up his room and you offered to help, but he quickly declined your offer, saying you should rest.

"You still never told me where you are going to sleep" He turns around and sees your eyes, deep in concern and wonder. how do your eyes look like in the morning? "I think the sofa will be fine, you can take the bed. Please" He tried to plead with you as he grabbed his night clothes, fine but worn set of silky pajamas. "You can't expect to say I am not allowed to sleep there while I am here taking over your room!"

He sighed, shaking his head. Why won't you just let him be chivalrous? He never knew how determined or persistent you were about such simple topics and wished to never be on this side of the battle ever again. "Please y/n, make yourself at home. I'm going to change, you better be asleep when I come back." He left his room too quickly to see your pout and eye roll in disagreement.

You let your hands feel the thin sheets as you try to find some way to still let Coryo get a comfortable sleep. Your eyes land on his desk in your exploration and you take note of the objects on it.

Somehow, in your scan of your room, you missed the pictures and knickknacks. One seemed to show his mother and a baby version of the ever charming teenager. It made you smile, he had such chubby cheeks and an adorable gummy smile. Another seemed to show toddler Coryo being babied by little Tigris, who seemed more than happy to care for him. It made you laugh, you don't remember him ever being like the boy in the pictures, even when you were that age in class with him.

You didn't wish to touch any of his things without his permission so you just scooted closer. You noticed a beautiful silver compact that shimmered under the desk lamp that was lit. It looked like an antique, the type before the war. It must have been his mother's you assumed. In your analyzation of the compact and other items littering his small desk, you didn't realize how close you had gotten and your foot accidentally harshly hit the container underneath the desk.

Small powder came out, causing you to begin coughing. You look downwards to the container and read the alarming words "RAT POISON". Your coughing began to escalate in panic. In your panic and attack of coughs, you didn't realize two strong arms pull you away from the area. You coughed a little bit more before your face was turned upwards to a pair of such beautiful blue eyes.

You turned your face as the last of your shaky coughs came out, leaving you shaken and face hot and crimson.

"I'm so sorry Coryo, I am such an idiot!" He quickly shushed you and assured you that you were nothing of the sort. "It's okay, you were just a bit distracted, I should have moved the container anyways, it's my fault." Wait how did he know that you were too distracted to notice the substance?

Clearly the deadly poison wasn't the only thing you didn't notice. Coriolanus dressed quickly and he noticed the light in his room still on and was ready to chastise you on not taking your ever needed moments of sleep. But then he noticed how memsmorized you were by the photos and objects on his desk. He relished in your subtle smile and little giggle, albeit be at younger him. The moment he saw the pale substance flow through the air however, his breathing became as shallow as if he himself inhaled it.

But as everything calmed down, he noticed how much your lack of sleep has hit you once more. He moved you over to his bed and you comfortably settled under the sheets.

He turned off the light, quietly grabbing an extra pillow and blanket and began walking out towards direction of the stiff sofa. "Wait Coryo!" You said, sleep slurring your syllables. He turned around in concern that something may be wrong. You offered him a shy smile, hesitant to ask. "Could you sleep here, I don't think I am to be trusted alone right now" you laugh the last part. You felt quite foolish. He has done so much and here you are asking him to sleep on his cold floor while you are resting in his bed.

But he seems to pay no mind. He responds with a giddy smile and throws the pillow down and lays softly next to his bed. Next to you. You mumble a thank you, to which he repaonds with a contempt "mhm". With the smell of roses, which seemed to be radiating from his pillow and sheets, you are quickly enveloped by sleep. Hearing your deep and peaceful breathing, Coriolanus doesn't take long to follow suit, with a smile of contemptment on his face. A smile quite rare in the small and shabby apartment. But tonight, it felt like a palace.

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The sunlight lit up the room when Coriolanus woke up. He took a second to question why he was on the floor. He was about to panic when he remembered the events of last night, bringing a certain type of joy to the blonde. He then heard the sounding of pen on paper, furiously writing. He popped his head up from his pillow and sat up, looking towards your very awake and focused figure. You were leaning against the wired headboard of his bed, with that ever growing pile of paper next to you.

"Please tell me you are sleepwriting" His voice, especially his morning voice (something you never imagined for the proper Coriolanus Snow. But you weren't complaining. Oh no. Not in the slightest) broke you out of your daze. You didn't look up as wrote the final letters of your hard researched and written paper. "Well don't you know that you are never supposed to wake someone up when they do that?" You teased, a bright smile on your face as you looked up.

The color was back in your face and your missed bubbly energy was back. With those factors, the sunlight, and your natural radiance, Coriolanus could not belive his eyes. If this was some sick dream, he wished to never wake up.

You turn your eyes from the messy haired boy (something you didn't even know was possible, his ever proper hair messy and how you could stop looking at how good it looked like this) and out the window. When you first woke up, the sun was still rising and you wished to finish your assignment before Coryo woke up and you went to the academy. So you didn't get to bask in the beautiful sight before you untill now. The street lights did not do the delicate white flowers justice. The sun hit them so perfectly they didn't seem real, they were so perfect. The same thought was running through Coriolanus's mind but he was most certainly not thinking about the flowers.

He got up and dusted off himself and offered you a hand. You took it happily and as soon as you stood up, the sound of your stomach grumbling was quite loud in the peaceful silence. You giggled in unease about the sudden noise while Coriolanus felt a little ashamed knowing he didn't have much to settle your hunger. You looked up at him and noticed the look in his eyes. "Hey, don't worry! I was planning on getting us all some breakfast anyways but I just wanted you to wake up first so you don't think I just up and left".

He looked at you with great appreciation because he would have definitely thought you were too embarrassed to stay the night. But looking at your cheerful face, you seemed anything but. "You know you don't have to do that y/n. You don't us anything." You nodded along, grabbing your uniform and heading towards the bathroom. "I'm not doing this as a debt, I'm doing this as a thank you." You tell him as you close the door.

He sighs but was surprised when you opened the door just a second after closing it. "Plus, I still want to talk to Tirgis more!" That made him sincerely laugh. Sometimes he has done a lot these past number of hours with you. More than he has in a long while. The blonde rushes to quickly change into his own uniform to accompany you. He isn't sure if you remember the direction of his apartment and stores, so it would be best if he went along as a guide. Plus it wouldn't hurt to spend as much time with you before your peaceful moments would be shattered with your attendance to the rush of the academy.

He looked in the small and rusting mirror in his room, just now noticing his messy hair. He doesn't get to perfect his curls when he hears the unblocking of the bathroom door, informing him of your readiness. He meets you out by the main entrance as you are putting on your clean and pretty shoes. You look up with a sideways smile and don't question his presence. He was a gentleman after all (you also had no idea your way around these parts).

Once you both were ready, he opened up the door, offering you his arm and you were out to conquer your little adventure.

You both were basking in the sunlight as you reached a quaint little bakery. You can smell the delicious pastries from outside causing you and Coryo to share a look. You drag him inside and take a look around. "What ever you think Grandma'am and Tigris would like, please get it! And don't you dare try to hold back. If you don't get what you want, I will." Your little threat was made loud and clear to Snow as he put his hands up in mock surrender. He did feel guilty because you were paying (his pride hated every second that you were spending on him and not the other way around).

He knows his grandmothers love for chocolate so he picked out multiple pastries of the flavor and some fruit ones for Tigris. The red velvet flavor and white coating of a certain sweet drew Coriolanus in and was something he hasn't tasted in years, the thought of it making his mouth water already. He ordered and looked over to where he last saw you, in which you were observing the vintage photos on the wall.

But you weren't there. The shop wasn't very large and he couldn't see you anywhere. He began to panic to where you could have gone when the small bell above the door rang and you appeared with a small violet box in your hands. "Sorry, saw something across the street and had to get it!" You apologize to your friend and quickly pay for the delicacies he chose. You both walked out and into his apartment with several boxes each, nearly up to your chins. Coriolanus repeated how unnecessary all of it was but you kept on shushing him everytime he brought it up. You with your fill of sleep was so different. He missed it.

When you made it back, Tigris seemed to just have woken up as she was rubbing off her sleep. Although, when the smell of the pastries hit her nose, all thoughts turned into hunger. You bid her a very chipper "Morning!", a tone quite different from the shy girl she met last night. "I'm going to check up on Grandma'am, you guys can set everything up!"

The excitement was clear in her voice and movement, a pep filled walked to her dear grandmothers room. You smile at her emotion, causing a chain reaction that leads to Coriolanus own grin. You both set up the table while speaking cheerfully about small details of your life. Coriolanus was trying to remember the last time in his life he had such a cheery morning with a proper breakfast.

Then the last piece left of his family walks in. He walks over and place a delicate kiss on his grandma'ams cheeks and walks back to introduce you. You dust off your hands nervously and go to shake her hand when she looks as if she is going to break into tears.

"Cloria? Oh, Cloria! You look stunning as ever!" The elderly woman ignores your hand and moves in to hug you. You are shocked by the movement but even more by the name she called you by. You look to her grandson in worry. Should you inform her that you aren't Cloria, but in fact her daughter? How did she know your mother? But he looked as confused as you.

She pulled back from the embrace, yet held onto your arms. She moved then upward to your face, turning it this way and that. "Oh Cloria, how I've missed you!" You smiled in confusion, having absolutely no clue what to respond. Then she seems to notice Coriolanus's presence for the first time. "Crassus! Why didn't you tell me Cloria was back!". The look of baffelment on Coryos face was drained of all emotion as he was paralyzed by his Grandma'ams mistake. Her dementia has been worsening for a while now, but never once has she called him his father's name. You were both unsure what to do but you took action. Softly you stepped back, offering your hand once more. "Thank you for your kind words, but Cloria is actually my mother. I'm her daughter y/n".

Her timeworn eyes rake over you, taking you in for the first time. Questions seemed laced in her voice and face. "Daughter? Who is your father?" Her tone was icy and a bit void.

Uncertainty was present in your own response. "Tyre Vaun, mam" The little gasp and step back to his name made you feel as if you just slapped the elderly woman. You looked up, searching for help in the comforting blue eyes of her grandson. "Grandma'am?" He asked and her astonished stare switched from you to his towering frame. Then she seemed to notice him, for the first time as well. "Coriolanus? Since when have you been here?".

His frustration by her actions and lapse of memories was caught off by the entrance of Tirgis, now changed into a beautiful brown and white set. She took in the air of confusion but knew of her grandmothers odd behavior due to her unfortunate condition, so she decided to ignore it and change the topic to the vast array of breakfast options. "Look grandma'am, chocolate!"

She began filling her grandmothers plate while Coriolanus began filling his own as well. You let everyone dig in before you grabbed a few pieces for yourself. The air went back to happy and giddy feeling. You and Tirgis briefly went back into your discussion of last night as you begged of her to show you her creations some time. She was over the moon at your genuine interest and invited you to come over whenever available.

The time passed in light hearted conversations before Coriolanus realized the time and motioned for you both to clean up and get ready to get going. That's when you realized you had completely forgot the violet box. "Oh, one last thing!" You open up the box revealing chocolate truffles, ones that looked nearly identical to the ones you and Coryo shared when you were 11. His shocked expression caused a smirk to appear on your face. You knew he was going to give you a huge rant about how unnecessary it all was but you didn't mind. No, you didn't mind one bit.

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A/N: Guys I know it seems like I have no life, I swear I do! I just got sick so it has been a blessing (i get to read and write all day) and a curse( I literally sound like ill dill). My eyes hurt from looking at my screen for so long. Any feedback would be greatly appreciated! Also shout-out to @darknight3904 and their fic "It Burns For You"! They inspired multiple parts of this chapter. Go read the fic, guys it's so good! Anyways hope you guys are excited for the next part, much love❤️

@fantasylovestoryme 🌹@nekee-lilac02 🌹 @notyourwildestdream 🌹@darktrashsoulbear🌹@a-avengerparker 🌹

[just-a-strange-boy]

experimenting for friends

part 2 - hair-pulling

part 1

Sherlock Holmes is a man prone to addiction. In means of trying to finally set an end to his substance abuse by finding something equally stimulating, he is eager to do his share of research - and of course, it's your help he's requesting. Another experiment entails.

Pairing: Sherlock Holmes x Reader (GN)

Warnings: 18+ (Minors DNI), mentions of drug abuse/addiction, mentions of relapse, penetrative sex, mentions inexperienced/virgin Sherlock, questionable sexual favours, fwb (?)

A/N: this is definitely not how you (should) treat substance abuse, but hey... it's Sherlock

"I have a request."

You were just sorting through some paperwork, a whole clutter of important documents you figured he should keep, neatly organizing them in binders and folders, something Sherlock thought was too mundane and boring to do, when the detective came to approach you, downright startling you with one of his spontaneous verbal outbursts.

"Fire away", you had said, looking up from the piles of paper to find him standing in the doorway, hoping that he wasn't just going to ask for another walk so he could have yet another cigarette. You'd managed to get him down to three a day, which was a huge success, considering he had only relapsed recently, heavily abusing substances far worse than nicotine. It had been your agreement from the get go – you'd turn a blind eye to Sherlock smoking a limited amount of cigarettes as long as he stopped using otherwise.

However, it wasn't a cigarette he was asking for.

"Obviously my desire for substances mostly stems from how they affect the release of chemicals within my brain, chemicals that stimulate and influence the way I process my thoughts. They minimize the often overwhelming sensations I experience and are inhibiting my natural urge to deduce everything. They manage to calm my mind, a rather positive effect, which is why I have always relied on getting high if I needed a moment of peace. Can you follow me?"

Sherlock was speaking as rapidly as you were used to, not even allowing you the slightest opportunity of uttering a single word, "Of course you can follow me. You're not an idiot. I know you've done your research and I explained it to you plenty. My point is that I have been researching with the intention of finding something that will have a similar positive effect, in order to...not having to use."

"Let me guess", you replied with a sigh, processing what he was telling you, figuring quickly why he came forward with a request, "You're suggesting another experiment that I will have to be part of? To research and find out whether any theory you have might be correct?"

The detective nodded, striding over until he was standing next to the table, gaze drifting over what you were currently sorting, before giving it a dismissive look and focusing back on you.

"Yes. Exactly. I knew you would get it. I have... reconsidered that time when we... um...uh", he began almost awkwardly, all the sudden stuttering in a way very unlike him, "...when you touched me and when we were close... I felt good. In a way that might be comparable to a high. But I need to figure out what kind of effects it has on me from an analytical point of view to make sure I am right about my assumption."

So very clearly, Sherlock was suggesting you gave him another sexual favour – like once before in an experimental setting, needing to gather 'information' before he could confirm his assumption.

You had no doubt that a sexual high could be comparable to a drug high in some way – you wouldn't know though – and you would have liked to help him, but also considered it risky.

As much as you would have wanted him to find something, anything, to stop him from using ever again, you didn't know whether that would be the right way.

Leading Sherlock to another kind of addiction was risky, considering he was definitely prone to developing them, may it be his evident addiction to the thrill of his work, trying to keep up with and challenge the dangerous minds of criminals, or the substance abuse itself.

Besides that, you didn't want to put your friendship at risk and you were also not going to be some object for Sherlock to figure out whether sex could make him feel similar as a high on drugs.

The man sensed your initial reluctance, continuing his lengthy explanations, so typically like him, so casually like only Sherlock could as he seemed to have found his grip again.

"But at the same time I know it wouldn't be fair of me to continue requesting those things for my own gain. You are your own person and I would never try to guilt-trip you into something that could possibly set an end to my habitual substance abuse. I am very aware that I am the one owing you a favour for your help in the first place. I do not want to further strain our friendship with my demands, but I need you to know that... if I can share and research this with anyone, I would want it to be you."

You sighed. It was ridiculous. Ridiculous that you were even considering this in the first place.

Could you have refused Sherlock? Possibly. That's what you should have done anyway.

Did you want to refuse him? Certainly not.

Last time you had decided to work on an experiment with him, you had gotten to see a very different side of Sherlock, soft and submissive and gorgeous. You had kissed him, touched him, not to mention you had absolutely jerked him off too. You had praised and cherished him. Sherlock had sounded wonderful, looked beautiful, so raw and open and honest – you had definitely not forgotten the sight. And yes, you might have masturbated to the memory itself too.

The instance had been hard to forget.

But ever since then nothing else had happened between you two. For good reasons.

Sure, you had sought out his presence like you usually did. You were friends, comfortable around each other, spend time with one another, though Sherlock wasn't necessarily an affectionate person. He didn't hug, didn't cuddle. He certainly wasn't interested in being anything but friends.

So you had figured that first time was just going to be a one time thing, just an experiment for research, and tried your hardest to get over the fact that Sherlock didn't harvest feelings for you other than appreciation for the friendship you offered. Romantic and sexual attraction were a rarity for him, so you knew, and you had never pretended you might be the exception.

Nevertheless you couldn't help your own feelings. You liked Sherlock a lot.

It pained you to see the detective on edge and all sombre, to see him lost in drug addiction and throwing himself into dangerous case work, just to escape from his own mind for a moment. You hated to see him hurt and so bloody lonely.

Of course it also made your heart ache to know you were nothing more than a friend to Sherlock, so you should have been wiser, refusing to partake in the experiment, because you indeed weren't some test subject and this was a recipe for disaster, something that would likely hurt you and potentially harm him in the end – which you did not want.

But the idea of being close to him again, of being able to potentially help Sherlock get his mind off the drugs, to ensure he would be feeling good and okay, even if just for a little while. You couldn't quite escape your own track of thoughts, your own wants, your own conviction that you might the person meant to save Sherlock Holmes from himself.

"Do you want me to... uhh... you know?", you asked, followed by a very specific hand gesture, unable to ignore the certain awkwardness, you sitting there, Sherlock standing there, a mess of case and paper work all around, as you kept looking at each other.

There was no distinct expression on the detective's face save for slight expectation and a bit of redness on his cheeks, blushing as you suggested giving him another handjob.

"I have not determined any specifics", Sherlock admitted to you, though not in refusing, "Meaning... I don't know what I would want, what would work. The things you offered me last time have had a positive effect on me. I know that I want to be close to you. I don't know what would suffice."

You contemplated, gnawing on your lips like you always did when you were a bit nervous, breaking his gaze for a moment as your glance fleeted over the table, even though your head was undeniably full of Sherlock.

You were both only human. While the detective craved something to ease his mind, you craved the physical intimacy and emotional connection to him. Neither of you should have taken use of the other, but since you were both consenting adults, you allowed yourself to be weak and stupid.

"We'll try to figure it out then", you agreed, "Let me finish this first?"

"Of course", Sherlock nodded, "Don't be too long, Mrs Hudson has invited us downstairs for dinner and I was suggesting we watch an episode of that ridiculous show you like afterwards. Before we... um... do anything?"

Evident surprise must have crossed your face and for a moment you had a hard time searching for the right words, not knowing what to think. It was kind of him to suggest, almost domestic.

Of course, having dinner at Mrs Hudson's wouldn't be like dinner at an actual restaurant, but Sherlock didn't want to go anywhere public in his current state of body and mind, so soon after his relapse. His landlady made impeccable food and she was even went out of her way to make it for the two of you, so you were amenable.

"Yes to dinner. We don't have to necessarily watch the show though", was all you replied, "You'd never be able to shut your mouth during the episode anyway, making comments about it the entire time. That's why we never watch TV together, Sherlock.”

"I comment on everything and you usually don't seem to mind", Sherlock stated and the slightest sign of a smile snook onto his lips.

And you smiled right back at him, not needing to have the last word and returning to your paperwork, while Sherlock continued his usual pacing and casework.

Needless to say, any attempt of continuing this work was useless anyway, since you were entirely incapable of focusing on the stack of files before you, unable to shrug off your nervousness as your thoughts went spiralling about what you had just agreed on.

You eventually came to the conclusion, while you were brooding over payment checks from clients, this might actually make for a nice time together.

Having dinner with Mrs Hudson was nothing unusual for you two and always made for an enjoyable time. Sharing a bed wouldn't be weird, as you had done so before, if only for a couple of danger nights, with a distance appropriate for friends between you.

What was appropriate for friends by definition anyway? Hadn't that line already been crossed by the one sexual favour you had given him? If you followed through with this today, closing that distance between you once again and going even further than last time, every possible line you could think of was going to be blurred forever.

It was very hard to not think about the possibilities, not the consequences, but how far Sherlock would be willing to go with you, what he would allow and ask for.

You wondered whether Sherlock would want to kiss you again, whether he would want to give as much as receive, whether you would actually have sex and how it was going to be, whether he would ask you to stay afterwards and share the bed with you.

Even thinking about what your evening would entail made you a little nervous.

Thus you were more than grateful for having dinner beforehand, considering it was so much easier to keep your doubts at bay and just stop thinking so damn much as Mrs Hudson was bustling around the two of you. She was as chatty as always, kept you entertained with stories from her past and her good food was a welcome distraction. Once again, she expressed her gratitude over you getting Sherlock back on his feet and voiced how glad she was that her tenant was doing much better with your assistance, going on about how happy she was he had found an actual friend, even though she still heavily insinuated your romantic involvement with each other.

You neither denied nor confirmed the idea in the moment, finding it rather amusing how flustered Sherlock got at the mention, though not bothering to say a word about it either, and after helping Mrs Hudson with the dishes, the two of you eventually headed upstairs together again.

It was fair that she had her suspicions. Probably many people had.

After that last experiment and tonight, rightfully so.

You ended up taking turns in the bathroom.

Admittedly, you were more anxious than expected while in the shower, scrubbing yourself clean everywhere, not knowing what to expect, what you were going to do, if Sherlock would even want to touch your body or if he just required you to touch him – and you were just as nervous while Sherlock was in the shower, sitting on the bed, fidgeting with your glasses, scrolling mindlessly through your phone as you kept thinking about what you wanted the man to do to you and more so how you were planning on bringing him pleasure.

If he'd let you.

You had dressed down to what you usually wore to bed, a loose t-shirt and sweatpants, being so bold as to forgo underwear altogether, curious how Sherlock would react to such a clear proposal, if he took note of it at all. Glasses still perched atop your nose, you turned your head when you heard the door to the bathroom open again, eyes following Sherlock as he came back out to join you on the bed, shrugging off his housecoat to reveal his choice of pyjamas, not so different from what you had decided on wearing.

"So, what did you have on your mind?", you dared to ask again, courageously, placing your phone on the bedside table, before turning further to Sherlock, who was now just sitting there, right next to you, neither seeming expectant nor nervous by any means, "I know you said specifics weren't clear, but I'm sure you have a fair amount of imagination."

"That is correct", the detective agreed, "I came to the conclusion that perhaps it would be wise to... begin like we did last time."

You shot him a smile. "So, you'd like to kiss me?", you asked, arching your eyebrows at him, hoping that Sherlock would take the bait and just go for it. There was nothing he could've done wrong. The thought of getting to kiss him again made you awfully excited.

"I'd like you to kiss me, yes." Though seeming slightly reluctant and reserved, his words were clear. He wanted you to kiss him.

And you definitely were going to kiss him, but most importantly you wanted to give it time. There was no need to rush and hopefully, neither of you were going anywhere any time soon.

So you reached out and grabbed Sherlock's hand. Instead of climbing him like a tree and slipping onto his lap right away, kissing him like your life depended on it, you were deciding for the two of you to take this slow, beginning with something as simple and innocent as touch.

Perhaps this would allow Sherlock to gather information better, how he responded to affection, how he responded to you initiating, how the simplest things would influence him or perhaps how they wouldn't. Whether it would leave him hungry for more, driving him mad with anticipation, or whether it wouldn't do anything for him at all.

This was an experiment after all. Might as well just do some experimenting.

You slotted your fingers together, marvelling how your hand fit into his so smoothly, so perfectly, and pulled them apart again, letting your fingertips dance over the expanse of his hand, tracing those long, skilled fingers with simple fascination. Fingers you had watched so often, whether it was them dancing over the fret of his violin, preparing samples for his microscope, picking up evidence at a crime scene. Wonderful and careful hands.

Eventually linking them into one another again, you gave his hand a gentle squeeze and looked at him, finding him glancing back at you. Of course you tried to read Sherlock's expression right away. There was some curiosity, he seemed attentive and receptive, the grip of his hand tightening instinctively, a response. He was just looking at you, observing, perhaps contemplating.

Your own heart was beating a little faster, sensations heightened by the sheer intimacy of the moment, time seemingly standing still all around you, so you couldn't exactly pinpoint the moment when you decided to move further. Perhaps it was the synapses in your brain finally snapping, perhaps it was just the need to break the tension that had come up between the two of you, perhaps it was a mutual silent agreement to do this all of the sudden.

Whatever it was, you leant into Sherlock, who met you halfway, pressing your lips together, responding to one another immediately.

As your mouths slotted together, a rather gentle brush of lips at first, you could feel how the grip on your hand was instinctively tightening, holding onto you more, in fear you might be slipping away any second again. But you certainly did not, would not, wrapped up in Sherlock's taste and warmth and his smell, licking along the seam of his lips, sliding your tongues together as he let you claim his mouth, as you let him explore.

You didn't know what had gotten you so hungry all of the sudden, but you knew you needed more of Sherlock. Speaking of addiction. So you decided to get more of him, who seemed compliant to your every move, absorbing every little bit, every touch, you allowed him.

Even those moments apart, when both of you had to catch your breaths, small gasps of air between you, he was quiet and observant. He let you shift around, slipping onto his lap again, greeting you with another sweet kiss after having you perched on his thighs.

Reaching up, you gently cupped Sherlock's face in your hands, tracing his jawline, those high cheekbones, before sliding them all the way up into his dark curls, tugging on his hair.

The reaction was imminent, the kiss broken immediately, a groan slipping from Sherlock's mouth, leaving the two of you a bit startled at the sudden response.

"I need you to do the exact thing again", the detective requested then, his tone demanding and firm, before smacking your mouths together again, a kiss hot and downright desperate for more, and you gladly obliged, fingers tangled in his locks, giving them another pull, which caused a reaction not so different from the first time.

Apparently praising wasn't the only thing that got Sherlock going.

So you continued your eager advances, seeing how far you could take this, brushing through his curls before gently tugging on them again, letting Sherlock's moan break the kiss, tilting his head back by his hair and baring his throat.

"How are you doing this?", the man groaned, almost hissed when you began mouthing at his neck, "I don't understand how you can have this effect on me."

But there was no explanation you could have possibly given him. Perhaps you just clicked with Sherlock and that was why.

You only knew how addicted you already were, how you couldn't get enough of the man's taste, the warmth of his body, the sweet noises from his throat and the thought that perhaps he really wanted you too.

Making sure to not bruise the skin, you kept nipping at the expanse of his throat, pulling on his hair times and times again, dragging more moans out of him. Your name passed his lips after a while, the softest sound, then a "Can we stop for a moment?"

Raising you head again to look at Sherlock – a delectable sight, slight blush on his cheek, lips swollen red from kissing, pupils dilated with need, a dreamy expression on his face – and waited for however long was necessary.

"Are you okay, Sherl?", you asked immediately, hoping you hadn't made him uncomfortable.

Apparently he just wanted to elaborate though.

"I am more than okay. I just need to tell you something", Sherlock replied, holding onto you by your hips, a steady grip, "As you have... um... figured, I respond quite heavily to your advances. I am puzzled by the effect you have on me, because I was always very convinced that I simply was not interested in things of a more physical nature. But you keep kissing and touching me and I'm not entirely sure what it means that my body reacts like this."

Quite passively, you continued to stroke the back of his head, listening to him as attentively as you could, trying to ignore your own arousal. You were going to work through this with Sherlock, not questioning his worries or uncertainty for a single moment, allowing him to take the time he needed in order to understand himself and what he wanted and most of all, why he did.

Of course, you had wondered before and you were still asking yourself the same question now. Had Sherlock even had sex with anyone ever? Everything about his words and his behaviour was indicating he hadn't. But he didn't seem to be all too nervous, instead content and collected.

Maybe you were even more nervous than him.

"You're turned on, if I had to guess. Which I find really flattering. And it's more than okay that you're feeling like this. I want you to enjoy this experience, so please don't let the unknown hold you back", you advised with a soft smile, "I like you, Sherlock. I enjoy being around you and doing this with you... it turns me on too."

"You know I don't experience and approach things like most would do. Sex has never been the focus of my interest, so I... I have never done this. I have done research, but I'm not going to know exactly what to do", Sherlock admitted, eyes flicking over your face, the look of consideration, as if he were searching for the right words, "You're... absolutely endearing. It's nice to have you around and I trust you. And I want to do this with you."

"So do I", you responded, unable to stop the smile slipping to your lips, thinking it was lovely how Sherlock entrusted you with his mind and body, how he wanted to share this moment with you and no one else. "We can sure figure out what you like best", you added, "Would you want me to take the lead?"

The man seemed to consider your question, although you were partially convinced that he was more so enjoying the quiet of the moment, your fingers brushing over his scalp, basking in the closeness, though simple affection usually was something Sherlock didn't like. Not with anyone other than you apparently.

"Would you want to participate in penetration? If so, I suppose I have no clear knowledge of which position would serve best, but I am interested in learning. Since you are the one with more experience, I find it only logical you are the leading part", he spoke up eventually.

"Fine with me", you hummed, "I have no preference either, but I find it quite comfortable on your lap, so perhaps we can work around that?"

Admittedly, your wet dreams always tended to drift in a direction similar to this. There was something submissive about Sherlock, something that made you want to take him apart, lay him out on the bed, mount him and fuck him silly until he was a desperate mess begging to come, and you were sure it would have been a beautiful sight to have him this way.

Since you were already sitting on his lap, your crotches pressed together, hands tangled in his hair, seconds away from bringing your lips to his throat again, you wouldn't mind it sweet and gentle either, letting him explore all you had, letting him consume all you offered, letting him take his time to harvest the information he needed.

Maybe one day he would like to take the reins, but you couldn't really imagine him as the dominant part just yet.

You knew exactly how you would take the lead, how you would ride Sherlock all the way to ecstasy, until the brilliant and smart detective would fail to find the proper words and fall apart under you. Oh, how you wanted to hold him close, wanted your bodies entangled and conjoined, wanted to be able to sense and enjoy all of him.

It was a silent and natural agreement between you, so you figured as Sherlock's skilled hands sought out the hem of your shirt.

"I'm afraid you have to stop touching me for a moment", he mused and went on to gently pry the thin shirt off your body as you complied. After all you had been together for all kinds of weird occasions and sharing rooms, you had been close to him before but never quite so exposed, not in a way like this. Never undressed for him to see or touch.

In comparison, you had seen Sherlock bare plenty of times before, naked and vulnerable, so stripping him out of his shirt in return was by no means unfamiliar. There was something about this level of intimacy though, the sensuality of his touch on your skin that already made you shudder with need, winding you up with anticipation.

It was Sherlock then, who so carefully let his lips ghost over the expanse of your neck, exploring bit by bit, spreading gentle kisses, teeth grazing the skin and you supposed he was not entirely distracted from making deductions just yet – how else would he have possibly figured how to strike a nerve within you?

Your hands wound up in the dark curls again, playing with strands of hair, tugging on them, using them to pull Sherlock's head backwards as the advances on your sensitive skin were too much to handle. You too were soon moaning, panting hard, a pretty rosy colour to your cheeks.

"I find it very enjoyable when you pull on my hair", Sherlock admitted to you and while he had previously held his hands very still, he couldn't continue to resist and began touching you more, exploring your body with diligence. He had never touched you or potentially any other person like this, so excessively. If you thought about it, no one ever really had been so thorough as him, trying to map out every inch, every crease, every little mark. It was as if he was memorizing you, cataloguing. Careful with you. Mesmerized by you.

You didn't mind his advances, had never been on the self-conscious side but under the impression you weren't really sporting an exceptionally beauty. If anything you were ordinary, and still... this man looked at you, touched you with utmost adoration, curiosity, interest. Like he couldn't simply get enough from you. Like he didn't want to ever stop again.

"I find most of you very enjoyable", he added.

"Likewise", you smiled at him, hands busy stroking his nape, his upper back, pale shoulders, skin flush with heat under your touch, "I suppose you figured out what's getting me going."

"I think it's fascinating", Sherlock mused, "Because I could feel your pulse quickening and your body tensing up when I began kissing your neck. I imagine these are the exact responses you could notice on me when you tug on my hair. It's fascinating how our bodies respond so impulsively to a variety of triggers in such different ways and..."

Not wanting to be rude, but also not wanting to let Sherlock ramble about the creation of personal preferences, you quickly shut him up with another kiss, sealing your lips together promptly, giving a sharp tug to his curls. It certainly earned you a moan of surprise and Sherlock seemed not entirely displeased about your decision, hands returning to your waist to keep you steady, maybe wanting to prevent you from slipping away, afraid of losing what he was just learning to enjoy, kissing hungrily and with the kind of fervour one didn't really expect him to have, every bit of what he had wanted to say forgotten.

Your mind ran quite blank too. You knew that you wanted and desired Sherlock, pressing further up to him, could feel heat pooling in your groin and knew that you were already aching for him within the restraints of your sweatpants, becoming painfully very aware of how you had decided to forego underwear altogether, meaning it was just a bit of fabric between you.

Starting to rock your hips atop Sherlock's lap, because you couldn't hold yourself back anymore, you figured you weren't the only one getting aroused, feeling his hardness trapped beneath the remaining clothing, soft groans leaving both your mouths as you ground down on his bulge, creating a friction that left neither of you unaffected.

"I need you, Sherl", you moaned against his lips, throwing the decision to take this slow out the window, too far gone at this point, wanting nothing more than to feel the man inside of you and ride him to the breaking point. You were so horny you almost whined as you moved atop of him and your obvious neediness seemed to render Sherlock speechless altogether, his gaze just as clouded with lust as he simply stared at you and you lost yourselves into each other, chests heaving hard, bodies melting together.

All he gave was a nod of consent and you started beaming with unrestrained joy, slipping off Sherlock's lap to come kneel on the bed, hands drifting up to the waistband of his pants. "Are you sure this is okay with you?", you still decided to ask. Even though the man had seemed consenting before, you'd rather have him be comfortable too.

Whereas you would have expected a snappy comment or an entire mass of words breaking loose over you, Sherlock remained rather quiet, nodding, the smallest 'Yes' slipping past his lips.

He seemed entirely enticed and you made sure to keep on looking at him, pulling the soft material down by the waistband and stripping him bare, carelessly throwing the clothing aside, once you had wrestled it down his legs.

To have him so exposed and naked before you was a sight to take in, letting yourself simply look at him for just a moment, your hands rubbing over those lean thighs.

"Fuck, you're gorgeous", you uttered, fingers gliding along the inner sides, brushing over wisps of hair, all the way up to his crotch, the hardening cock, taking the member into your hand, watching him twitch and grow in size. You would be lying if you said you hadn't thought about his cock after the first time, never been able to forget the sight, wishing to feel all of him inside.

"I...um... how do we do this?", Sherlock quietly asked, redness burning on his cheeks as his eyes were fixed on the sight before him, "How would you want me?"

"You lay down on your back, get comfortable and let me do the work", you advised and gave him a quick wink, watching Sherlock settle down almost immediately after your advise, more than eager. And wasn't it just the most perfect sight, his lean body atop the sheets, skin reddened with small blotches, traces of his arousal, his cock raging hard in the grasp of your hand, dark curls bedded on the pillow, dreamy look in his eyes as you looked at one another.

"There's... uh... lube and condoms in the bedside drawer", Sherlock muttered, like he didn't quite want to admit to it.

You shot him a pleased, but surprised expression. "Did you plan for this?", you wondered, reaching over to fetch anything you'd need from the drawer, "Or do you just keep them in your bedroom all the time?"

"I was certain that I had at least a seventy-eight percent chance you wouldn't refuse and since I have considered all possibilities that almost meant including the accomplishment of a sexual encounter, I thought it was best to be prepared just in case. As I have however opened up to you that I have no experience with sexual interactions, so no, I don't keep them here all the time, I've purchased them for this purpose... recently", Sherlock answered, his nervousness evidently easing again as he managed to speak mostly unaffected as he always did, the kind of rationality not unusual by any means.

"78 percent? You did the math and all, didn't you?", you grinned, using the moment to slide your own sweatpants off your hips, revealing your full nakedness to the man, whose eyes remained on you, widening, darkening, looking up and down your body, trying to seemingly capture every single little detail of you, lips parted and his pink tongue slipping through as he admired you.

At a lack for words, Sherlock just nodded, watching you return to him and slump down atop his lap again. You gave him a reassuring smile, reaching for those fine and skilled hands, placing them on your body as Sherlock remained a little taken aback, probably slightly overwhelmed with the sight and sensations alone. Though once he dared to begin touching you again, he got this look of fascination on his face, a spark in his eyes, tender touches on your thighs.

"Would you like to help me prepare?", you asked, knowing full well that with a curiosity like Sherlock's he would likely not refuse.

"I understand that it will make this more pleasurable for you, so yes, I think I'd like to", he agreed and you canted your hips forward, towards him, allowing Sherlock to reach out to you, trailing his fingers down your body, lower, across the expanse of your belly before slipping between your thighs, no doubt finding what they were searching for.

A heavy shudder surged through your body when he did, breath hitching in your throat as you felt fingertips circle your entrance. You knew the breach would initially feel unusual, not having had a partner in a long time and not being an avid user of sex toys either, but god, how you ached for him to touch you, how you wanted to just feel him. After adjusting his hand into a comfortable position for the both of you and slicking fingers up with lube, Sherlock slid one into you so easily that all worries were just leaving you at once.

You couldn't stop a moan from leaving your lips, even just one finger in, and wondered how much research Sherlock had actually done as you found yourself arching into his touch. It wasn't clumsy by any means, if a little more careful.

There was a pleasant tingle pooling low in your stomach, your arousal rising to indescribable heights in thorough interest of getting fucked, and your mind went blank when he pushed another finger into you, gently spreading you open with a passion.

"Fuck, Sherl, feels so good", you groaned, looking down at the man, who so gently and kindly fingered you open, like he wasn't doing this for the first time, like he wasn't a stranger to this at all, "Can't wait to have your cock inside of me."

While Sherlock did not seem to be one for dirty talk, remaining mostly quiet and fixed on you, he definitely seemed pleased with your reaction, urged on to continue his advances, fingers already sinking in deep and lord, he had these long and wonderfully skilled fingers that were certainly capable of finding the sweet spot. If you let him continue, he was no doubt going to make you cum like this. You were so obsessed with the feel of him already, bloody hell, his fingers alone, pressing further into his touch and technically begging to be fucked.

Trying to keep your right mind though, you thought it was best to request Sherlock to stop, knowing that as soon as you were going to ride his dick, it would all be over for you anyway.

The small break did you well as he withdrew his fingers again, not leaving you out of his sight for a moment. You shuffled back down on the man's lap, making sure to prepare Sherlock just as much, rolling a condom over his raging arousal, before drizzling a bit of lube on him, coaxing another grunt from him as you rubbed him up and down.

You weren't sure who was more gone on the other – yourself, cock-hungry and needy, positioning the tip of his hardness against your hole, already going crazy at the slightest nudge, or Sherlock, watching you with a dreamy and blissful look on his face, blushing hard, lips parted and breath stuck in his throat in anticipation as you eventually sank down on his cock, taking him all in, slowly.

Bodies combined, becoming one, groans and panting immediately merged into one as well.

"God, Sherl...", you mewled, filled out so sweetly. It felt just right. You began moving once used to the stretch of his length, fully sheathed within you, and tried to keep your gazes locked, save for taking in the entire sight of Sherlock once in a while – skin flush from arousal and the heat of the moment, his eyes attentive and almost adoring, full blown with desire, his chest heaving and sinking hard, hands almost trembling as he let them skim over your waist, your thighs and all he could reach.

"This feels very good", the detective acknowledged, only occasionally and shyly rocking his hips in time with your movements, seeming unsure and perhaps a bit overwhelmed with the sensations, "You feel very good."

You couldn't quite respond anything that would make sense and at a loss for words simply continued to move atop him, supporting your slow motions with hands perched flat against the man's stomach.

There was no need to talk about what was going on, neither for you nor for Sherlock, as unspoken truths were shared between you two, how well your bodies fit together, how good you felt and how much admiration you had for each other. You hadn't expected it to be like that, so intimate and fulfilling – to be honest, you hadn't even had expectations when it came to Sherlock anymore.

There was always this element of surprise about him, something unpredictable, and fairly said you hadn't even expected to get into this situation with him in the first place.

But there was this amount of comfort and trust that exuded Sherlock in the moment, being vulnerable with you, submitting to you, an unusual innocence sticking to him. It made you feel possessive of him and even more so, protective.

Though he never failed to surprise you.

While he had previously held back moving too much under you or daring to explore your body with more bold touches, he seemed to warm up to the idea of intimacy and sex, for that matter. Astonished by the suddenness of his motion, you couldn't hold back a gasp when Sherlock pushed himself into a seating position, sliding his arms around your waist to keep you steady on his lap, his cerulean eyes fixed onto you with curiosity as he observed your reaction, as you continued to ride him with long and deep strokes, one hand shooting up to support yourself on Sherlock's shoulder, the other drifting into his hair.

You swore you could hear him cuss under his breath, once tugging on his dark curls again, but since you were entirely overcome with a mass of different sensations and emotions, it really could have been anything he muttered. And all the same, you found it didn't matter.

Your mouths slid together again, tongues finding each other once more, and you rocked even harder into him, pulling on his hair over and over, wanting to elicit more sweet sounds from him, being rewarded with the most desperate whimper.

You were completely lost in one another, something you hadn't quite awaited, but very well welcomed. That was the thing about Sherlock, always seeming so put together, so closed off and shielded from the outside world, so focused on facts and information and logic - and yet he was far from all that. You only knew all that because he let you see.

Sherlock was sensitive, could be pried apart as easily as made whole again, he lost himself in the smallest things so quickly, searching for things to ease his thoughts and mind, prone to getting addicted to them. Emotions overwhelmed him and that's why he refused most human interaction.

But he wasn't refusing this, wasn't refusing you, because there was an unspoken trust between you. You didn't know where that trust stemmed from or how Sherlock truly felt about you, but this wouldn't be happening if he weren't convinced of you being trustworthy.

On the cusp of pleasure, you were both entirely gone, and all that mattered were the raw sensations, bodies sliding together, obvious heightened emotions pouring out between you.

Head buried in the crook of your neck, Sherlock was breathing hard, moaning into you skin, shaking in your hold as you continued to tug on his hair, causing him to twitch and whine and crumble apart under you.

You spoke the sweetest praises, words mangled with your own moans, your thighs trembling but still riding him with fervour, though you could sense your stamina failing you, could feel yourself being so close to the edge by the way your nerves tingled within your core, the way pleasure heightened immensely with each thrust, something building up, and yet you were only able to let go as Sherlock himself toppled over.

His entire body went tense, not to say rigid, tightening his hold on you like he was afraid of losing you altogether, a moaning and twitching mess as he was overcome by his own pleasure.

"You're doing so good, Sherl, so good for me", you found yourself whispering and it must have been a combination of all things going on, Sherlock falling apart and pulsating inside of you, keeping you seated on his cock with a tight hold, and being on the absolute verge of sexual excitement, that made your own orgasm hit, causing you take him exceptionally deep with one last thrust, rocking out waves of pleasure and arousal.

"Oh, Sherl, my Sherlock", you let out a heavy sigh, coming back to your senses fast, while the man still seemed a little absent, clutching onto you tightly, face pressed to your shoulder, where you could feel laboured breathing and an unexpected wetness against his skin.

You knew they were tears, but didn't mention it, stroking the back of his head with the comfort that Sherlock just needed, comfort that he often refused or wouldn't allow himself to get. Perhaps it wasn't even sadness, but relief washing over him, the sudden overwhelming feel of orgasming.

While his previous responsiveness to affections and especially praising had fired up a curiosity within you, it was this specific moment, just holding Sherlock so close and having him so vulnerable after just having sex with him, that caused your heart to swell as well as ache, mind heavy and clouded with so many thoughts and sensations rushing in.

You couldn't help but feel for him. For his sadness and loneliness and desperation, all things Sherlock would never admit to having, but all deeply rooted within him.

And you couldn't help but feel love. A love that shouldn't be, because that was not what you were to Sherlock. It was not the point of your care for Sherlock, it was not what his older brother was paying you for. It should not be the reason behind your thorough protectiveness of the man, behind you caring, behind... this and all you did for him. But it was. You couldn't shut it off.

Yes, you were Sherlock's caretaker and this shouldn't be happening.

You had already crossed the line of sentimentality and any professionalism by becoming his friend so early on. Any decision you had ever made for Sherlock's sake was painted by your friendship to him and therefore not logical but emotional.

It would be surprising to none that you had developed this love for the man and everything he was. Feelings couldn't be helped, of course not, and you doubted people close to the two of you were unaware of how much you actually liked him.

In the end, it wouldn't matter anyway.

Sherlock didn't feel and love like most people did, not to say that he couldn't, but the way he was and would always be simply differed from the mass – so it would be wise of you to expect nothing and accept things as they were.

And whether Sherlock Holmes could ever feel the same or something similar as you did for him, would perhaps forever remain a question unanswered.

[not-goldy]

No because when you see how important GCF-T is for Jungkook, how he constantly brings it up including his White day live, look into the lyrics of the song

'But I can't do this alone Sometimes I just need a light If I call you on the phone Need you on the other side'

'Boy, I'm holdin' onto something Won't let go of you for nothing I'm runnin', runnin' just to keep my hands on you',

'I'll be there for you But you gotta be there for me too'

his cover of Only Then

If you start to like someone else If I get used to not being with you When that time comes, when it’s that time Whether you want it or not, I’m going to hold onto you When I get too tired that I can’t even walk When that time comes, when it’s that time Only then we can break up

Like, I understand why Jungkook was kinda salty. That's a man who was literally begging for Jimin to come to him, commenting on his post saying he misses him, doing marathons of Jimin-related content, that's a man who was spoiled by Jimin, by his love and attention. Add to that looming military service and a possibility of not seeing each other for 1.5 years (JK literally got upset when Jimin brought this theme on AYS?). Bro, I get him, I would be sulky, petty and salty, too. I'd want to spend every day, minute and second with my man, too, especially when the said man is Jimin. People need the get tf off Jk's dick.

It's not even that darling

I feel people just like to be miserable like that show is fantastic brilliant fun I was just smiling through out watching them just go and be themselves with eachother and I'm not commenting on anything at the moment because I'm waiting for all the behind scenes and interviews to peice things together to confirm my hunch about them

But one thing we learning, Jimin is not always running to save Jungkook nor is Kook always babying him. Matter fact, when asked who babies Jimin the most members thought that was Tae not Jungkook and there a reason some of us gravitated towards Vmin in the 1st place.

And its interesting watching and wondering what goes through their minds in such moments like is it the adrenaline rush the high the unjudgmental environment cos what makes Jungkook look at Jimin and go I miss him and insist on being with him all the time while Jimin literally be running away from that man sometimes.

Is he overly stimulated by Kook is that why he runs because yo me I'm looking at them as a whole picture not that they exist in these fragmented moments

And I used to say on my main how their dynamic was mostly JK being the one chasing an elusive Jimin and not the other way round.

I'm yet to dissect their conversation about not hearing from eachother blah blah blah but my assumption is if this whole trip was Jimin's way of reconnecting and giving Jungkook that us time he was pouting about that would make so much sense. But also I'm interested in the why they weren't hearing from each other or texting cos I've been said when you see Tae Kook spending a lot of time together it's almost always the case JK and JM on some bs shenanigan.

But I was hoping that wasn't the case this time and Jungkook was genuinely making efforts to connect with Tae- which I deadass feel is the case in this situation. Cos like Jungkook come on, you can't always be this predictable 🙄

Now I'm just starting to wonder, if in going solo acting solo and independent was getting out of hand for both of them. Because for me, I don't see anything wrong with Jimin focusing on his career, getting his own apartment living independently from Jungkook.

If they both want to eat their cake and have it that is what they both ought to do. If they both gonna go into MS together and sell that they are just friends 🙄

THAT IS WHAT THEY BOTH OUGHT TO DO

And I trust Jimin to handle this level of detachment well. With grace and commitment to the plan.

If Jungkook is being pouty about that- sir don't do that😩

I really hope that's not the case here and this was Jungkook going hey let's not create the impression we been doing the gay all this while cos we can't stand to be kicked out of the buddy program 🤡

Jikook has been so careful post their solos and I feel everything they've said and done post solo was so they don't end up screwing serving together.

Like Jimin mentioned, even while they are there they still gotta be careful with what they say and do. People don't understand how serious this whole MS business is for them.

We like to act like shit can't go wrong for them- they still stand to go to jail if they are ever caught.

Or may be I'm just being paranoid on their behalf. I won't lie, unless you've been persecuted for your sexuality you won't understand how serious this whole thing is.

So two things have been confirmed for me, for us:

One, that this while Jikook in MS is serious business and we were not delusional for assuming their were or have been exercising caution with everything going they do.

They don't have the luxury that someone like Tae has to be fueling gay rumors about them.

In fact if it will save them, I will personally lead the Jikook straight campaign cos sometimes being straight keeps you alive.

Two, and and I mean it is clear and there was never a doubt that this whole journey was them wanting to connect- we perhaps just didn't know why.

For me I assumed they wanted that because they were going into Military might be separated for a while but then it turns out they were actually gonna go together anyways so it didn't make sense to me that they didn't spend that time with other people such as family and friends and even the members instead.

Rather they chose to do a show just the two of them.

Now everything is making sense you know??

And Tae saying it's Jeju he couldn't let them do that without him- it wasn't even about spending quality time with his "friends" right before enlisting its more so hey that's somewhere I wanna go.

To me the dots are still not connecting

Cos Jimin, he's like we going away and we doing this for our fans- great idea except if it's for the ones we would have appreciated an 0T7 travel show or at least a majority of OT7 show right before MS. Starting with Jin who went 1st.

This is them. This show is about Jikook. It's not about anyone else but Jikook it's not about BTS vminkook tryminkook no body else but THE TWO OF THEM.

THAT MUCH IS CLEAR.

When Tae arrived they called him a guest. I know that's right. It's the Jikook show period purr purr.

[thatapostateboy]

wonderstruck

Pairing: Brenna Lavellan x Cremisius 'Krem' Acclasi

Word Count: 3239

Listening Suggestion: Enchanting - Taylor Swift

Synopsis: in which Krem meets Lavellan, but does not put two and two together

Warnings: Very brief description of battle

Crossposted: Here on AO3

Haven was bloody cold.

He had dressed for winter, and yet the cold was finding a way to seep into his bones. He could usually handle the weather, if he was fighting or travelling, keeping his blood pumping. But he had been stood outside of the Haven Chantry for what had felt like an age, having arrived on horseback a little past dawn, trying to find someone of authority to speak to. But he had either been brushed off or straight up ignored.

Perhaps they had assumed he was there to make trouble; couldn’t be too careful when you were part of an organisation that some considered heretical.  

Either that or the entire Inquisition were not morning people.

“Are you alright, soldier?”

He turned to see an elven woman behind him, dressed in the traditional furs and leathers of a Dalish hunter, with vallaslin on her face to confirm his assumption. Her grey eyes met his, and even in the low light of morning, he was struck by how they shone like silver.

Her eyebrows rose a little, as though hinting that she was waiting on a response, and he realised that he had been staring for beat of a moment too long.

“Oh I-” he cleared his throat, straightening up his posture, remembering why he was here, “I’ve been trying to find someone to speak to. My name is Lieutenant Cremisius Aclassi, I represent a mercenary company looking to aid the Inquisition.”

A soft smile passed over her face, “I believe most of the leadership is in a meeting presently, but I’d be happy to pass on a message if you can give me the details.”

He began to explain about the Chargers, answering her questions about their credentials, Bull’s leadership style, even their cost, relaxing the more he went on. Selling the Chargers was second nature, their work spoke for itself, and she asked the right questions of a prospective client. She wrote down no details, but he had no doubt in his mind that she would remember everything he said. She listened with rapt attention, grey eyes watching him intently as he spoke.

She was a beautiful young woman, her elven figure shorter than his own, muscles clearly toned from use of the bow she carried, but a subtle femininity to her that softened her edges, her dark hair long and braided off of her face, a few wildflowers twisted into it. He noticed a few scars scattered across her skin, some older, some much fresher; signs of more recent battle wounds. Whatever her role was within the Inquisition, she was clearly no stranger to a fight.

Once he had finished his pitch, she nodded him towards the centre of the village where people had begun to queue up for breakfast, “It seems you’ve had a long journey, lieutenant. Take a rest by the fire, get something to eat. I’ll pass along a message to those in charge and come find you once they have reached a decision.”

“Thank you. What about you?”

“What about me?” her eyebrows raised a little.

He glanced towards the porridge that was now being ladled out to those waiting and back to her, “Won’t you miss breakfast if you await their outcome?”

She let out a soft breath, a look of surprise in her expression, “I’ve already eaten, I’ve not quite acclimatised to human cooking as yet. But you’re very sweet to worry.”

He laughed a little at that, mostly to cover the warmth in his cheeks as she called him sweet, “Very well then.”

“I’ll be back soon.”

He watched her go as she headed back inside the Chantry, an odd stirring settling into his chest. He shook his head to himself and turned to go find some food, now was not the time to be thinking with anything other than his stomach or his head.

~*~*~

It was a short while later that she returned, finding him having finished his breakfast and wandered further into the village to investigate more about the Inquisition that he had found himself determined to work for. He had heard about the work they were doing, knew in his heart that the Chargers could be of assistance, and seeing it in person only strengthened his resolve.

“Lieutenant!” she called to him, joining him where he was watching some of the soldiers training, “How was breakfast?”

“Not the worst porridge I’ve eaten by a long shot,” he admitted, “But it’s a far cry from a Dalish recipe.”

“You know Dalish cooking?”

“A member of our company was born into a Dalish clan, she’s made us a few things she remembers from her childhood when it’s her turn to cook.”

“Your group truly is full of surprises,” she said with a smile before she straightened up her form a little, as though remembering why she was actually there, “The Herald apologises for not coming to meet you in person, but she said she would be happy to meet your group. Business will take her to the Storm Coast in the next few days.”

He nodded, “That’s good to hear.”

“Will you be staying to travel there with the Herald?”

“I should be heading back as soon as possible, let the Chief know to expect the Herald, make sure he hasn’t gotten himself into too much trouble whilst I’ve been gone.”

“That’s understandable, though the Herald asked me to let you know that if you require any supplies to ensure that you had them.”

“A most generous offer, though I think I’ll be okay. I brought plenty of provisions for the return trip.”

“Well, there is one thing for you to take with you. See to your horse and I’ll find you before you go.”

They parted once again, and true to her word, she returned as he was leading his mount from the stable, who had been fed and watered without want for any gold in exchange. The horsemaster had simply told him that the Inquisition looked after their own.

“Here,” she said, handing a bundle out to him, “For the road.”

He took it from her, feeling the warmth of the contents through the linen wrapping. He pulled on the string holding it together, the sweet smell wafting from within. Inside were half a dozen sweet buns, covered with a sticky glaze.

“Honey cakes,” she clarified, “They just finished cooking.”

“They smell incredible. What’s in these?”

“Well, the trick is-” she met his eyes, a grin spreading across her face, “If things work out between your boss and the Herald, I’ll tell you the secret ingredient when you come back to Haven.”

He gave a nod and a soft laugh, “I’ll hold you to that.”

“I wish you safe travels, Lieutenant.”

“Thank you, for everything… my apologies, I never got your name.”

“No, you didn’t. Something else I’ll tell you when you come back to Haven.”

He chuckled, “Very well.” He took her gloved hand, and her form stiffened for a brief moment before he brushed a kiss against the leather on the back on her hand, “Until we meet again.”

He noted the flush in her cheeks before she returned his warm smile, “Until we meet again.”

~*~*~

“Krem, is that a pack of baked goods?”

He had been back with the Chargers for less than an hour, finally taking a well-earned rest from his journey to enjoy one of the honey cakes away from the main part of their campsite, having no intention of sharing this gift with them, until a familiar horned shadow had loomed over him.

“Sure is, Chief,” he responded.

“Did you swing into the city on the way here? Where did you get those?”

“Haven.”

“You found cakes in Haven?”

“I didn’t steal them, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

“Well I’ve never seen you buy them either, so what’s...” he glanced at his lieutenant’s face, and the subtle hint of the flush in his cheeks, “Someone gave them to you. The question is if they’re as sweet on you as you are on them.”

Krem didn’t even bother to hide his growing smile at that point, “She was just being kind, but she was...”

“Yeah?”

“Possibly the most beautiful woman I’ve ever met.”

“Atta’ boy,” Bull clapped a hand to his back, taking a seat beside him, “So, c’mon, tell me about her.”

“She was elven, Dalish by the look of her tattoos and that hunting gear they wear-”

“The tight leather wraps, I’m familiar,” he nodded.

“She was the first person to actually stop and speak to me. I told her about the Chargers, she said she’d make sure the Herald got the message. She came and found me again before I could leave, said the Herald would love to come meet us and she gave me these for the road. She made them herself.”

“Well, damn. Even if things don’t work out with the Herald, we should swing by Haven when we’re next out that way.”

“We don’t-”

“Hey, it’s not every day my right-hand man meets an enchanting woman that captures his heart. Now, finish those up before Skinner spots them and tries to shiv you for them.”

He snorted a laugh, the warmth in his cheeks at the thought of meeting that young woman again still making itself known, “Yes, Chief.”

~*~*~

The fight had been a bloody disaster from the start.

They had been tracking the Tevinter mages along the coastline since his return from Haven, but one wrong move had left them fenced in; the sea on one side, a cliff face on the other, encroaching waves of Venatori, all whilst trying to fight on a pebble beach in a thunderstorm.

His heavy armour didn’t fare well against the salt spray of the seawater, nor the loose stone underfoot, breathing heavily under his helm as he knocked down mage after mage with his hammer, trying to hold the line to protect their ranged fighters.

Somewhere to the side of him he could hear Bull’s familiar battle roar as he cut down another Venatori, followed by a string of curses as another group of mages appeared on the periphery.

There was a hum of magic cast over them, a wavering barrier, and he gave a call of thanks to Dalish, who didn’t even give the obligatory protest of not being a mage, but warned that she couldn’t keep this up much longer.

They were all near spent, he could see it in the way Grim’s shoulder sagged under the weight of his shield as he blocked an incoming spell, or how Skinner’s usually deadly blows had grown sloppy, desperate.

Bull gave a bellowing call of encouragement to them all, receiving an exhausted but determined, “Horns up!” in response from his company.

They could do this. They had gotten out of worse fights than this. They could-

His foot slid out from under him as the pebbles shifted, distracting him for a split second long enough that he didn’t defend against the spell coming his way, knocking him clean on his back, head ringing as he hit the ground hard, vision swimming from the pain and the rain now thundering into his face through the slit in his visor.

Eyes silver like starlight. White wildflowers stark against dark hair. The warmth of freshly baked goods. He didn’t know her name yet.

With a groan of pain, he hauled himself to his feet, hefting his hammer onto his shoulder, tensing himself to bring it crashing down into the sternum of the approaching mage. Yet before he could make his move, an arrow whistled past his ear, sinking into the jugular of the ‘vint, felling him in a single shot.

He turned, looking to thank one of Skinner’s skirmishers, but instead saw a figure sliding down the cliff face towards them, bow in hand, firing another arrow as they went, taking down another approaching soldier. He lifted the visor of his helm, wiping the rain from his eyes and saw the elven woman from Haven approaching him.

“Nice hammer, lieutenant,” she flashed him a smile then ran past him, throwing herself into the fray firing arrow after arrow.

Other members of the Inquisition soon joined them, having taken a more stable route down the cliff face; an elven mage, the Seeker and a man in the armour of a Grey Warden. It was more than enough to tip the fight in their favour, finishing off the final Venatori on the beach.

As he allowed himself a few breaths to recover, he couldn’t help but admire the elven rogue, watching her move gracefully across the battlefield, light enough on her feet that the pebbles barely shifted under her movements, unperturbed by the storm that raged around them; a true Dalish hunter.

Hells, if nothing else worked out with the Inquisition, she would make an incredible addition to the Chargers.

He set to his post-battle routine, checking on the others, ensuring the throat-cutters were getting to work at the Chief’s orders, though he kept half an eye on the group from the Inquisition as they began talking to Bull. He saw him beginning to talk to the elven woman alone and he felt a knot in his stomach.

He trusted Bull with his life, but the thought of him saying anything at all untoward her in an attempt to aid his love life had him wandering over, determined to interrupt so that he could make sure that Bull finalised their contract with no damned distractions.

“The, uh, the throat-cutters are all done, Chief,” he said as he approached, “Stitches is looking after the wounded.”

Bull looked between him and the elf, and he could tell he was holding back a shit eating grin.

“I assume you remember my lieutenant, Cremisius Aclassi.”

Krem met her eyes as she smiled at him, and he nodded, “It’s good to see you again, I-”

“Krem, this is Brenna of Clan Lavellan,” Bull cut him off, an inordinate amount of glee in his eye, “She’s the Herald of Andraste.”

Shit.

“Y-Your Worship,” he fully bowed his head, partially out of respect, mostly to hide the look of horror on his face.

“Oh!” she said, surprised, “There’s really no need for any of that.”

“Get everyone up together, Krem, we’re headed out,” Bull told him, “We just got hired.”

Of fucking course.

~*~*~

“Buy her a drink,” Bull insisted.

It had been a few weeks since they had joined the Inquisition formally. Bull had begun travelling at the Herald’s side, leaving him to lead the Chargers. They had been travelling around the Hinterlands for the most part, aiding with relief efforts, clearing bandit camps, but during the pockets of time between assignments, he found himself in Haven, avoiding the Herald of Andraste.

It would be easier that way, he could move on from his stupid bloody crush, and pretend that he wasn’t pining for the woman who had physically walked out of the Fade and potentially held the fate of the world in her hands.

And yet, despite his efforts, she was bloody everywhere.

He was running the Chargers through some training drills in the snowy fields outside Haven, only for her to go hurtling past, bow in hand, calling out a greeting before she disappeared off into the woods, returning later to call for some help to carry her goods, having hunted down some wild druffalo for meat and furs to keep members of the Inquisition fed and warm. He had gone to her without thought, and followed her back to the village, arms laden with furs, heart hammering in his chest as she laughed and joked with him.

He had volunteered for a night watch, determined to help out around Haven whenever he was there, and as he stood shivering in the cold, regretting not bringing his warmer cloak with him from his tent, he suddenly found a steaming cup of tea held out in front of him, the Herald telling him that it was a special Dalish blend designed to warm the body on winter nights. It was herbal, but he couldn’t ignore the sweetness of the honey that she had clearly mixed into it to detract from the bitterness. He had thanked her, and hoped she thought the blush in his cheeks was simply from the cold.

Even when he had been stationed out in the Hinterlands, the Chargers making quick work of some bandits that had been hassling refugees, there she was, brining supplies to the smallfolk, talking to a young girl about her vallaslin as the curious child asked questions, not shunning her away as some would. There was a patience to her, a kindness that he was surprised still endured after everything that had happened in the last few weeks to her. Even if members of the Chantry still doubted her innocence, still claimed she was responsible for the destruction of the Conclave, called her a heretic, there was no doubt in him that she was a hero. Not for the mark on her hand, or the title that had been thrust upon her, but for who she was at heart.  

And now, once again, here she was, sitting a few tables away in the tavern in Haven, close enough to hear her laughter as she conversed with Dorian and Varric. Her dark hair was loose around her shoulders for once, looking more at ease than she had in a while.

He sighed, “She’s the Herald of Andraste, Chief, she’s not going to want to drink with some common mercenary.”

“Hey now, the Chargers are no common band of mercs, and you’re a damn fine soldier, any woman would be lucky to have a drink with you,” Bull said, “Besides, she’s not exactly been one for airs and graces, you know she doesn’t give a shit about the title. If anything, she probably needs someone to treat her like a regular woman again.”

He watched her bid goodnight to her friends, even flashing him a warm smile when she caught his eye, then headed outside.

“Krem,” Bull’s tone turned a little more serious, “You don’t let a woman like that get away. Take a chance.”

Fuck it.

He slammed back the rest of his drink, and got to his feet, earning a hefty pat on the back from the Chief before he followed her out into the cool night air.

She was quicker than him, light on her feet as always, headed away from the tavern. He followed her for a few paces, opening his mouth to call to her, but he stopped in his tracks when he saw someone else approach her.

It was the elf, the one who had been with her at the Coast, the one who travelled diligently at her side, Solas. The Herald smile at him, wide eyed in the moonlight, her hand gently squeezing one of his as they spoke before she let go, a flush in her cheeks.

Oh.

They turned, clearly headed somewhere together, and she spotted him.

“Are you alright, Krem?” she asked.

“Y-Yes, Your Worship,” he nodded quickly, “Just getting some air. You have a pleasant evening.”

“You as well,” she said, “Goodnight.”

“Goodnight,” he replied softly, waiting until she and Solas were out of sight to rest his head against the side of the tavern, letting out a hard breath that clouded on the air.

Idiot.

[wsdanon]

hmmm mike and felps bonding perhaps? For wip game?

okay you know what you can have my whole wip for this fic \o/! i'll put it under the cut--it's supposed to end with mike helping felps dye his hair and them talking about things other than just pac but pac is a focal point of this first bit here

(context is: this is a few years after fuga where they've met up again and are on good terms, but it's maybe still a little shaky)

since this is a solid amount of words despite being a wip, reblogs are appreciated \o/

"Would you keep a secret from Pac for me?" Felps asks.

"No." Mike doesn't even need to think about it. "Probably not."

"Hm. Okay." Felps nods to himself, like this is what he expected. "Would you… not tell him something for me, then?"

This makes Mike set down what he was messing with. He turns to Felps. Who looks nervous.

"What do you mean?"

"Like… if he doesn't ask, you don't tell?"

Mike does have to think about this one. He draws his consideration away from where his and Pac's thoughts usually mingle, and Pac sends him a curious feeling, but doesn't prod.

"Sure." He settles on, turning back to his project. "But keep in mind, he'll probably ask."

"Okay."

Felps doesn't say anything else. But he doesn't leave, either. Mike looks up at him again.

"So… were you going to tell me something?" He prods, and Felps sighs defeatedly.

"Yeah, okay." Another sigh. "I really like Pac."

"Well, I'd hope so." Mike frowns. "I thought we were all friends at this point."

"We are." Felps confirms, as he rests his chin on his palm--his elbow propped up on the table. And his expression is troubled, but there's something else to it--a combination Mike sees on Pac frequently. Things click into place. "But I really like Pac."

"Oh, you mean romantically?"

"Yeah." Felps shifts his hand in an attempt to cover his face, but his blush still shines through. Mostly because Mike is looking for it. "I think so."

"Huh. You know, I thought you and Cell were--" Mike cuts himself off as the embarrassment on Felps' face quickly disappears and gives way to disinterested surprise. His eyebrows raise, while his hand shifts again--falling into a thoughtful position. Mike continues, "Well, I guess I'm the last person who should be making those kinds of assumptions, huh?"

"We are kind of like you and Pac." Felps agrees.

But he doesn't sound committed to the idea, so Mike silently disagrees. Besides, no one can be like him and Pac--they literally share a brain.

"So, you and Cell aren't dating, and you like Pac romantically." Mike recaps.

"I think so?"

The question in his response has Mike briefly looking down at his project in despair. He's not getting this done any time soon.

Pac prods at him, confused, and Mike waves him off. He wants to at least try to honour Felps' request, and that means he can't have Pac stumbling across his thoughts right now in an attempt to see if he's okay.

"Why did you come to me for this?" Mike asks. "I'm shit with romance."

"And you think Cell would be better?"

"Okay, good point." Then he frowns. "Wait, hold on. Wasn't Cell exes with some of the guys in prison? JV and Guaxinim, at least, right?"

"Mike," Felps says with a tone that he's about to say something obvious, "I'm not going to tell Cell I'm into his ex."

"Pac and Cell aren't…" He trails off. Even with the link between them now, Mike isn't sure what Pac and Cell are, let alone what they aren't. Which is mostly because their relationship is so confusing Pac himself isn't even sure. "Whatever, that's not the point. I just don't know what you expect me to do."

"Nothing." Felps picks at the peeling paint on the table absently. "I just wanted to tell someone."

Felps seems kind of in despair, too, right now. So, Mike forgives him for interrupting his workflow, and attempts to throw him a bone.

"Look, I'll try and keep this from getting to Pac." Mike offers. "But, like…" He taps at his head.

"Yeah, I get it." Felps smiles at him. "Thanks."

There's a high chance that Felps becomes Pac's crush for the month, and Mike can do a bit of matchmaking. Or, equally as likely, someone else will catch Felps' eye and it won't matter anymore. Either way, Mike would say he only has a month tops to keep his promise.

Which is… manageable. Maybe. He doesn't try to keep things from Pac often.

"If Pac started dating me… would I be dating you, too?" Felps asks, drawing little lines with his finger on the table to demonstrate the connection.

And the honest answer is yeah, probably. For all intents and purposes. But people don't always really like that answer.

"I mean… kinda? If you're okay with that?" Mike shrugs. "I don't know, man, it wouldn't be the same thing."

"That sounds cool."

And he sounds genuine. Mike goes back to his project, but he doesn't get too into it in case Felps wants to continue the conversation.

"Can I paint your nails?" Felps asks.

And, okay, not what he was expecting.

"I'm kind of doing something." Mike says, gesturing to the project. "Maybe, uh… later?"

"I have green."

Felps pulls out a bottle of nail polish, and sets it on the table between them. Mike stares at it. It is indeed green--a nice bright green.

"Okay, sure."

"Nice!"

Mike moves his project to the side, and holds his hands out. Felps' hands are warm. The nail polish isn't.

He's quick in his movements, but focused fully on his task. Mike lets his fingers be moved for better angles, and shakes his hand to dry it when Felps starts on the other.

"So, what are you making?" Felps asks.

"Something to help with the mobility for Pac's prosthesis." He wants to gesture around and explain the mechanics, but he doesn't think Felps would get it, and his nail polish is still too wet for him to feel comfortable touching things. "Once I get this right, I'll probably try to open up shop for custom orders. Then hopefully we won't need to rob banks for more money."

"Aw." Felps pouts. "But robbing banks is fun."

"Weren't you a cop?"

"I was a prison guard." Felps shrugs. "And that was just so I could hang out with Cell after he got arrested."

Mike laughs.

"And then he killed you."

Felps' hands twitch like a mostly contained flinch.

"It wasn't my favourite time with him, no."

"Sorry."

"It's fine."

"It wasn't my favourite time with him, either."

This time Felps laughs.

"No, I guess not."

He finishes up the last nail, and packs the polish away. Mike kind of misses the casual intimacy of it, but shakes his hands out to try and dry the nail polish quicker.

"You know, Pac falls for people pretty easily." Mike says. "If you flirt with him, he'll probably reciprocate."

"Oh, thank you, but I don't really mind." Felps shrugs. "I just like being around him."

"Me too."

--

And this is where I got to \o/ I've had this written up for ages, but I've never had time and motivation to go back and finish it oops. hope you enjoyed!

[darilarostarg]

Why do you think Aemond is actually only 15? It's pretty established in the show he is 16 or older

I agree that in the show as we currently stand he is meant to be at least sixteen, if not older (I believe Ewan has stated Aemond is 18?). I'm fine with going with whatever they want, as a lot of the ages in the show do not make sense, for various reasons (aging up/down of characters, the changing/not changing of actors etc).

But if you actually sit down and look at it, with the baseline we have been given, you have to be very generous with the timeline to make him even be sixteen - I tried to make him sixteen logically, but couldn't without warping the timeline or making a tonne of assumptions and liberties.

Here is how I broke it down and got fifteen:

Episode 1

Takes place anytime between 109 or 112 AC. Depending on who you ask it can change, I went with 112 AC for my timeline!

Episode 2

We know at least six months have past between episode one and two. Daemon has occupied Dragonstone for six months. Whether Daemon went straight there after exile we are not told, so jump could technically be longer. But for simplicity, I think we all agree there is a six month gap between one and two.

Making episode two take place in late 112 AC or early 113 AC. We will stick with mid 112 AC to make things a little easier.

Episode 3

It's been three years, making it mid 115 AC. Alicent is heavily pregnant with Helaena- we can assume Heleana was born within a month or so of this episode due to the size of Alicent's bump.

Episode 4

One year later, making it mid 116 AC - Alicent is not pregnant, or possibly is in the very early stages of her pregnancy with Aemond. I believe episode five confirms she is not in early stages.

Episode 5

Pretty much continues on from episode four to some degree. Again you have to assume that the year does not change over still making it mid 116 AC, even though some of these events in this episode and in between the two episodes would span over months, and we would now be into the next year or late 116 AC by the end of the episode, in my opinion!

Towards the end of the episode we see baby Helena, who is at least a year and a half (just based on how old I think the baby looks lol) confirming to me that some months (at least six??) have also passed, on top of the year stated in the previous episode.

So again by the end of the episode, if we are being generous it's late 116 AC and Alicent is not yet pregnant, or is now in the very early stages of her pregnancy with Aemond - meaning at the earliest Aemond can be born in this timeline is mid to late 117 AC.

Episode 6

Set ten years after episode five, which we have stated was late 116 AC, now making it late 126 AC.

We established the earliest Aemond could be born is sometime mid to late 117 AC, making him nine during episode six.

Episode 7

Episode seven picks up in the same year as six, mostly likely weeks after the death of Laena - also making Aemond nine in this episode. (Update: Confirmed in season 2 that it was only a couple of weeks)

Episode 8 , 9 and 10

It's been six years since Driftmark, so it is now late 132 AC - making Aemond fifteen.

The only way you can make Aemond sixteen, is by placing a larger time gap between episode six and seven - but if you do it for one, you would have to do if for others where it makes more even more sense, like episode four and five, which would most likely make him even younger than fifteen.

[dr-futbol-blog]

Runner, Pt. 5

Ronon seems to have caught on to the fact that Sheppard has been trying to game him with his faux-earnest performance. He doesn't quite know what to make of them but he can tell that Sheppard is a dangerous man. But is he threat?

Dex: But why should I trust you? Sheppard: That's a good question. Teyla, why should he trust us? Teyla: We mean you no harm. We are only here searching for a friend.

Like we have seen him often do when Sheppard has been unable to talk about the utter clusterfuck that had led to the unleashing of the wraith, he turns to Teyla for help, to speak on his behalf. And while Ronon was clearly asking Sheppard personally, he chooses to interpret him as referring to the both of them as though Teyla had any part in what Sheppard had been trying to do here by manipulating this stranger to release them.

Sheppard's response here is very concerning. He can't come up with any reason to trust him because he doesn't think he should be trusted. In this episode, although both Sheppard and McKay pretend to be fine and normal, there are moments when the mask slips for both of them, revealing how miserable they are actually feeling underneath it all. Here, Sheppard makes this into a joke but the truth underneath is that he doesn't think anyone should trust him, ever. McKay certainly seemed to believe he had betrayed his trust, and maybe he had. Maybe he had made promises to him that he hadn't been able to keep when the chips were coming down. Lying came so naturally to him, he had been lying his entire life and much more than anyone else, Sheppard had been lying to himself.

It might be because Ronon is so bereft of human company (or because he's gathering intel about these strangers), but he continues talking to them. Notice how the moment Ronon confirms that Ford is on this planet, there's suddenly an edge to Sheppard's voice. He suddenly needs to get free with much more urgency than before. Before he confirmed this fact, Sheppard seemed to have all the time in the world.

Dex: I saw him. Your friend. Sheppard: Where? When? Dex: He killed the wraith that was hunting me. Sheppard: Hunting you?

And it's not just about Ford, or wanting to get to Ford, that makes him anxious. It's the fact that the last he heard, Lorne and McKay were chasing someone bearing down the opposite direction from them. So they had caught onto something, after all.

Again, a reference is made to friends. Here, Sheppard is given confirmation that Ford is, in fact, on the planet. But because Ford had apparently saved this man, Sheppard makes the assumption that the young soldier has to basically still be himself. He's hopped up on the enzyme but the kid was mostly confused. They could still bring him back.

Because Ronon himself has been hunted for so long, he wants to know if Ford is in a similar situation to himself, and whether he should help the guy out by leaving these two in the cave. This is why he pursues the topic:

Dex: Why are you looking for him? Teyla: His name is Aiden Ford and he is sick. He needs our help. Dex: Thought he'd been in the sun too long. It can make you sick here. Sheppard: We know that, and that may be true, but that's not all that's wrong with him.

Here, Sheppard acknowledges the fact that McKay had been right about the radiation on this planet. In fact, he says "We know that" with such conviction, like it's obvious to him that it is as McKay had said. For him, it was never a question of not believing him. He trusted McKay to be right about most things. He was keeping a running tally of things McKay had been right about. For him, it was partly that he was being contrarian just because bickering with McKay was the only way he knew how to get close to him in their current situation. Sure, the snide remarks hurt, both giving and receiving them, but not being in contact with McKay at all would have hurt more. He would take what ever he could get.

But the other, more concerning part, was that he just didn't care. When they were... involved, we saw Sheppard avoid taking risks and steer clear of reckless behaviour unless McKay's safety was at stake. He was in love, and in order to be there for his beloved, he took good care of himself; he watched out where he was going. Now, he lacks that incentive. He is so deeply unhappy that he doesn't really care what happens to him. Even here, talking with Ronon, he is being much more careless than he was in the past.

Dex: Then why is he running from you? Sheppard: Well, he's not, exactly. Dex: Then what is he doing, exactly? Sheppard: It's complicated. Dex: You can do better than that.

Here, Sheppard says that he doesn't think Ford is running away from them. That's what he wishes were true. Ford hadn't walked out on him, he was just addicted to the enzyme and had to go out to find more of it. If they only got to him, if he could only talk to him, everything would be alright. If he got Ford to come back with them maybe everything would go back to normal. And if everything went back to normal, maybe everything would be alright. It would prove that he didn't destroy everything he touched or came in contact with, that he could love someone without damning them, that there was enough good in him for someone to want to stand next to him. Maybe he and McKay would find their way back to each other. He had a lot riding on getting Ford to come back home.

Note the use of the phrase "it's complicated" here. This is an ironic way people sometimes describe their intimate relationships. Their relationship status is "it's complicated". While the business with Ford certainly is complicated, Sheppard's relationship with McKay is definitely also in the "it's complicated" stage.

It's so complicated, in fact, that outsiders like Lorne have no way of understanding what's going on between them. It's a mess. They're both lost in the deep dark woods unable to find their way back to each other (or, McKay is wading aimlessly in the woods unable to find his way back home where Sheppard has his hands tied, stuck inside the dark dank cave of his mind, metaphorically). Ronon tells Sheppard that he can do better, meaning that he's going to need more information about Ford. But at the same time, Sheppard definitely could do better with regards to McKay. While Ronon is the eponymous Runner of the episode, we do see both Sheppard and McKay run. They are both trying to outrun their own feelings. And so far, it's still working.

Sheppard decides to tell Ronon the truth about Ford since it seems like Ronon isn't really that curious about the young soldier, he's only trying to figure out why he's being hunted by them. Possibly because he has been hunted himself for such a long time, he has some solidarity for anyone else on the lam. And from what Sheppard tells him, it seems like this Ford person is also a victim to the wraith. At the same time, they do both seem sincere about being worried for their friend. Still, he's not quite ready to take their word for it and let them go.

Sheppard's radio goes off with static probably from Lorne attempting to contact him, and as Sheppard explains to Ronon what the things are and that the cave is probably causing some interference, the man steps to take the radios outside. Left to their own devices, this gives Sheppard and Teyla an opportunity to try and escape, and Teyla seizes the moment. Sheppard, however, seems to think she's doing something else entirely.

Sheppard: What the hell are you doing?! Teyla: Getting my hand free. Sheppard: Doesn't feel that way!

This scene is again played for comedy. Sheppard feels like Teyla is grabbing his ass while she's trying to wiggle out of the ropes, hilarious. Sheppard himself makes it into a joke. Only, there are a few things going on here. First, Sheppard's tone when he asks what the hell she's doing is pretty ill-tempered. His reaction to her hand on his ass is to quickly lash out at her. Now, again your average Joe Viewer is going to take this as thinly veiled homophobia. Dude doesn't like his ass touched. "Exit only," amirite? Only, what we actually witness here is that he does not like his ass touched by a woman, or a friend, or in this context. His response to Teyla, that it didn't feel that way, tells us that he has, in fact, felt this before. This feeling is familiar to him. He knows what someone grabbing his ass with purpose feels like. At the end here, his mind seems to wonder to other times his has been touched in a similar way and he really doesn't seem to mind, that. The way he goes slack is actually somewhat concerning, and I'll circle back to this toward the end of the season. There's something about the advances from women and Sheppard seeming to think his consent doesn't factor into it that starts forming a pattern.

Now, of course it could be that he's had his ass grabbed by women in particular, in the past. In fact, in his youth he probably did (and there may be an actual reason why he would react to a woman grabbing his ass out of the blue with as much and as immediate hostility as he seems to, here; he seems triggered). But it is interesting that his male body is sexualized here in that male gaze way, like Marty Mcfly in Back to the Future. He is objectified. We are invited to look on at his reaction as someone grabs his ass, and we are lead to believe it is not the first time this has happened to him. That he is familiar with this feeling, that he might enjoy it in some other context. In the same episode in which we learned that McKay knows how to make his own lube. It's interesting, very very curious. Like maybe there is a connection here.

So while this is taking place in the cave, Sheppard's "it's complicated" is wading through the forest in a rubber suit looking for him, and Lorne seems to be growing both increasingly impatient and increasingly hostile toward McKay.

McKay: It's so hot! Lorne: Oh, come on. Step it up, McKay, wouldya? McKay: I am moving as fast as I can. I'm very hot. Aren't you hot? Lorne: Actually, I'm quite comfortable, but I'm not wearing a fifty pound rubber suit, am I? McKay: I can't breathe! I've got to stop! ...Sweet relief! I think the, the fumes from the sunblock are making me dizzy. I gotta... I gotta... just rest here. Lorne: Unbelievable!

He's not even bothering to hide his disdain and it's only due to McKay's limited people skills that he hasn't caught up with it yet. And when we contrast Lorne with Sheppard, he never treated McKay like this. Even now, when they are both making digs at each other, it is very differently motivated.

For Sheppard, it has never been because he doesn't like McKay. McKay is his favourite person. Sheppard had once ambled two miles in a rubber suit to kill a man just because McKay needed this man stopped. Lorne thinks that he's on baby-sitting duty and the big baby is slowing him down. He sees McKay as a pencil-pusher that shouldn't be anywhere near the field, and fails to understand that this--complaining about how he's physically uncomfortable--is a trauma response. It's somatization, focusing disproportionately on physical ailments instead of the emotional impact of the traumatic event. Instead of thinking about Sheppard and what might have happened to him and how long they've been out of contact with him, McKay focuses on the fact that he can't breathe, he feels dizzy. McKay is displaying very obvious signs of dissociation here.

Fact is, McKay wants to find Sheppard much more than Lorne does. He cares about Sheppard in ways that Lorne could never, that Lorne could never even begin to understand. For Lorne, it's his new CO that is missing. For McKay, it's the most important person in his life bar none, regardless of how we interpret their relationship. And McKay can't deal with not knowing what has happened to him. He just can't deal with this.

Continued in Pt. 6

[virianhaven]

I had this scrapped virian AU from last year when I was still roleplaying and my friend told me to post it after I just showed them recently.

According to the google doc I wrote it in, it was called “Sacred Barrier”. So here’s that. It’s mostly just little notes and not so much a solid plot but you get it.

SACRED BARRIER.

— dark academia ig??

— set in a time where witches (and the occult in general) were hated, hunted, and burned.

VIOLET.

— violet is a mysterious one. introverted, quiet, shy, and self isolates to ensure her secret is hidden well. in a world where the occult is antagonized, hunted, and executed, violet has powers. a descendant of the super humans before her. invisibility, and powerful telekinetic force fields.

— despite her fears of being seen as a witch, she often carelessly uses her invisibility, with the assumption that no one would see her. she’s gotten comfortable with assuming that she’s well hidden in the shadows.

— violet has a goal, which is to find out anything she can about her occult background. of course, the academy’s library would have some books about them, but she refuses to accept that her kind have only ever been “evil”. she believes that the world turned the tables against them somehow, that humans are hiding the real story. (don’t ask me what “the real story” is rn lmao).

— violet has a bit of a vendetta against humans for the above reason.

— piggyback: violet believes some of her kind might still be out there, but the chances slim. still she hopes.

— like Hermione, she was raised by mortals, humans, muggles even, you get it. bonus points if they’re witch-hunters!

— she always got the notion that /someone/ was watching her, or somehow knew about her secrets. but she assumes it’s just paranoia.

— might give her other powers for this au. to keep it interesting, and for funsies. but idk

alternative idea, might not be used: if i don’t give her more powers, maybe there were different kinds of witches. and because she has force fields, maybe she’s a witch of protection, given not even lava could get through her barriers. but i might give her other powers anyway idk yet

— completely random but definitely plays the violin or viola. probably plays in an empty hallways so it’ll echo.

VARIAN.

• varian is an outcast himself, spends a lot of his time in the academy’s laboratory. the lab is reserved especially for him at a certain time of the day, on account that he was recommended for his grades, unique talent, and level of skill on the subject for his age. no, that unfortunately doesn’t make him a highly respected figure. if anything, he’s disliked for being too privileged, favored, or a kiss-ass. of course, he does have to leave the lab at some point, as it is used by other students during the day.

• while most don’t take notice to violet’s existence, considering she’s invisible half the time, varian has. and made note of apparently seeing her “vanish” from time to time. he suspects she has inhuman abilities, but isn’t 100% sure due to his lack of sleep.

• varian doesn’t antagonize witches like most of the population seems to. he’s very interested in the occult, and envies those who lived before him, as they got to live amongst an abundance of witches in their time. to his dismay, their kind were burned at the stake. the possibility of violet being the very thing he yearns to look into, motivates him to study her from afar to be sure of himself.

• alternative: varian /does/ antagonize witches, much like most of the population. after his first time witnessing violet vanish entirely, he was keen on keeping an eye on her to confirm his theories. as well as possibly discover what other abilities she has.

• setting aside, or adding onto varian’s curiosity about the occult; varian has always been curious about the streak in his hair that he was born with, as well as the sudden disappearance of his mother. after seeing violet’s alleged powers, he wonders if she could somehow be connected, somehow be a piece he’d been missing. witches seemed to have been erased from the world, and as far as he knows, violet is the only one left. (he is most likely a witch/wizard himself).

• let’s say violet manages to touch the streak in varian’s hair. it’d be kinda cool if that triggered something. maybe something useful to them, maybe not. either they see something or even just hear something, voices most likely, voices from the past.

• new thought: if varian used to be a skeptic, and didn’t even believe in the existence of witches.

[mossyscavern]

I don’t wanna be buried.

_____________________

“~In a pet semetary, I don’t want to live my life again~.”

Sam sang, listening to one of his favourite songs since… forever.

It’s a song his dad listens to religiously and Sam picked it up along the way. It helps with his anxiety, but even then he just hums the tune, not sing.

But for Sam singing helps so much more, he just... prefers to keep this himself. “~Follow victor to the sacred place. This ain’t a dream, I can’t escape~.”

Sam continues, getting more and more lost in the song, remembering the lyrics in his head like the lost soul he is… unaware of his surroundings.

“~Someone cries, something ain’t right. I don’t wanna be buried, in a pet sem- AAHHH!”

“AAAHH!” Tom screamed, not expecting that. “Jeez, you scared me.” Sam said, clutching his chest while breathing heavily. “Where did you come from?” Sam asked. “Lilian’s tea party.” Tom answered with a shrug.

“Ah, ok… did you hear-.”

“I did.” Tom asked, confirming his suspicions. “I-…” Sam stopped, going quiet. Tom looked away in guilt, not sure what to do… except one thing.

“… you do have a nice voice, the raspy part of it makes it better.” He says quietly, fiddling with his damaged tie in the process.

This surprised Sam, even though no one’s heard him sing… like ever, that’s the 1st compliment he got from Tom that wasn’t from his family, it made the redhead blush a bit. “T-thanks… I think I know a good song you might like.”

Sam voiced out, taking his phone and earphones out from his bag that sits by the well.

He placed one ear phone in his ear, helped Tom with his and selected a good song he knew he’d like. “… it’s a bit quiet.” Tom says staring in his direction. “It’s the build up.” Sam answers.

Before long the guitar hits along with the other instruments, it made Tom jump, then blink in wonder as he kept listening.

*I took a little journey to the unknown.

And I come back changed and I could feel it in my bones.*

“… I like it. Is it made back when you were younger?” Tom asked

“Nah, made in April 6th last year actually.” Sam answers staring back at the playlist he made for himself. “Way before my death.” He whispered, remembering how much he loved the song. “Story of my life.” Tom comments.

“Pfff- sorry whahat?” Sam asked, staring at Tom confusingly. “The I fucked with forces bit and after? It’s the story of my life and undead life.” He says with a straight face, making Sam laugh at the assumption, later making Tom laugh.

“Jeez, and I thought Duncan’s the edgy one.” Sam says, face falters as he looks down sadly at his feet, his mind wondering to everyone he cared about.

“~I have seen what the darkness does, say goodbye to who I was.~” Sam sang to the lyrics, deeply lost in thought while trying to calm down. He was so lost he didn’t notice Tom completely relax and lean his head on the boy’s shoulder.

“~Show me yours and I’ll show you mine, meet me in the woods tonight~.” Sam sings, that part of the lyrics made him snort.

‘A bit ironic since we’re in the woods.’ Tom thought, sighing as he stared out in the open trees, the wild vegetation swayed as the wind whistled.

The lyrics Sam sings reminds him of how he officially met the redhead. Sam followed his family legend through the endless night and they all brought his fears to life, the items they owned showed Sam their life.

Now it’s his turn to share his with them if he wants to, but Tom isn’t going to push him.

‘I guess it’s not just our story.’ Tom thought, closing his eyes. Feeling safe for the first time since 92 years.

He’ll wait when it times, no matter how many years it takes.

_____________________

I hadn’t done anything candlebrace related for a long while now.

For those that don’t know, it’s a ship name between Sam and Tom, it contains mostly fluff and a bit of angst.. if I can actually do it-.

Also, wasn’t sure how to write a character singing, sorry if it wasn’t accurate…

Hope you guys enjoy

[eloeloanna]

What did happen between John and Paul in Paris?

I think before of reading this, is better that you have your cup of tea, or coffee, or whatever that makes you feel better 😂.

Doing this reading was still painful, and even If it was meant to be just one question, I needed to ask another one to have confirmation.

-

Another readings: Did McLennon ever happened here What John thought about Paul here What Paul thought about John - part 1 here | part 2 here What John thought of Paul's appeareance here What Paul thought of John's appeareance here John's feelings + In my life + Paris' tea here Paul's feelings + Paris' tea here Was Paul jealous of Stuart? here Was John jealous of Tara? here Was Paul jealous of Cynthia? here Relationship - questions related to that topic here What happened between John and Paul in Keywest here What happened between John and Paul in India here George's pov here MORE here

-

So, as I always say, this is for entertainment purposes. Don’t sue me Paul (or Yoko (or Sean).

This is what I got:

At first, it was difficult for them (or one of them) to decide and realise what would they do there. But when they had the tickets, or knew clearly about it, they knew that they would just have a good time. But also, came into question why they would do that. I mean, what it was the actual reason. Would they try to do something for the band? Was it worth it? They (or one of them) convinced themselves that this was mostly for the band, even if they would risk the band doing it (😂). They knew the mess it would provoke doing this trip, but it was like “well, we will fix this later, we’ll take responsibility”. One of them played the “responsible” role, the other one was with faith and full confidence that everything would be okay, and they just decide to keep going. I think they quickly realised that they didn’t need to worry about the band. They just knew it. They were for each other in that area. The real deal was about emotions. What role play this person in my life? I think I want him to be happy. I think I need to be sure about his presence. I want him in the band. All these questions were around their heads for a long time. But the answer was like written in the stars. They needed to be themselves. They needed to feel. They wanted more. I think this part can be open to interpretation, but without being so “mclennony”, I can say that this trip definitely cemented something between them.

Look at this card:

It was so complex that they thought it was wrong. Very wrong. They tried to forget how much happiness this brought them, and even tried to play it cool, but I don’t think that last. They could see what was happening very clearly. I also would say that there was some “planning” about this whole thing. To keep it good. But was difficult to stay in this sensation because one of them thought he was always giving, and the other did nothing. He started to doubt his feelings, but he tried to do something. Reasonable or not. I think the other part wasn’t responding as he expected, so he, reluctantly, let it go. But for a short time. He tried to have the experience/bonding again, but I would say, with someone else.

I decided to ask another question related to this one, because I didn’t want to have those big assumptions without information. So I asked:

Did they kiss in Paris?

The energy in this question was very weird. I felt nervous, I felt that somewhat they were trying to trick me. Kind of a child that knew that did something wrong.

The answer:

I think at least a 80% yes. If not, something messy and “enjoyable” happened there.

The cards start telling about the overall feelings at the beginning: they were almost convinced that they wouldn’t work together. But it was all in their minds. I think eventually one of them took the decision to do something, but knew very well that everything would go to hell. But he stuck with his decision and did it. They were very happy but they (or one of them) knew that this wouldn’t be enough so they decided to leave it there. I can say that one of the parts wasn’t happy at all, so tried to talk to the other part about it, but the other part didn’t know what to do, was very confused. The “decisive” one - I think probably word it wrong or something, I think he wanted to enjoy and experiment, and FEEL. I’m not sure about love though, probably we can ask this in another post. I would say more than once he tried to talk about it or tried to get some clue, but still, the other part ignored it (I’m not saying this part “hated” the situation, It makes me feel more of an avoidant person, kind of a hurt person. Something like that) I didn’t take more cards because the question was answered. Maybe in another one we can have more details.

[kiliinstinct]

The Stone Prince - Prt 3

Prev - Next

Well, wouldja lookie here. An update! I meant for this to post before I moved, but life got in the way. So here it is now to hopefully tide y'all over before The Flame's Desire Update. Hopefully I can get The Colosseum Updated as well!

------

It wasn’t a prank. No matter how much Lucy begged for it to be.

What started as a raise to Lucy’s ire and disbelief soon derailed to utter bafflement with begrudging yet confused acceptance not far behind. The constant assurance from the others claiming that a practical joke to the degree of hiring a man feigning to be stone for a day was ludicrous. She knew it, of course, but was still desperately grasping at straws to explain the unexplainable. To have anything make the slightest inkling of sense. Only a day later, she caved to reality, not finding any logic behind her earlier assumptions.

The impossible had happened.

A stone man stepped out of time off his pedestal into the world of the living. He coughed dust from his lungs and stumbled about on very real legs of flesh and bone. And his appetite, to everyone's dismay, was voracious. Once he drank all the water he could, they fed him in small amounts despite his complaints for more. Mostly it was to stop him from choking on his food, but also to make sure he didn’t get sick from too much at once. Unfortunately, they underestimated the amount of times he’d end up whining for seconds. Even thirds. 

No, not whine: demand. 

If not for his inability to walk a straight line, Lucy or any of her peers would have gladly taken away the ability for him. (Gray had threatened it twice, with the same rock he’d brandished the day before that he kept close at hand.) 

He spoke as if they would respond to every beck and call, haughty commands that he thought left no room for arguments, expecting them to serve him at any given moment.

When they didn’t, he attempted to complete the task himself. More food? Explain the odd clothes in the nearest suitcase? Each time ended the same: A huffing so-called Prince struggling to rise, tripping over their luggage, boxed implements and tents. His own curiosity could not outweigh his frustrations as his tendency to drag himself to the doors to ‘inspect the grounds’ ended in failure. His incessant claims to nobility fried their nerves as his demands grew by the minute. A brat, Lucy had said - Gray and Levy muttering in annoyed agreement- and Freed, choosing not to add to the assessment vocally, merely nodded his quiet confirmation. 

And yet…

“Lucy, sit down, you can relax beside me.” He said once and patted the cushion he had claimed when Lucy’s confused pacing had made her dizzy. 

“I asked for the half-naked jester to move my things, not Lucy.” He had snapped another time when Lucy dragged a spare sleeping bag out for him. 

He scrunched his nose when she offered to prepare dinner. “Why are you making Lucy cook?” He pointed to the others, frowning, “Do it yourself. She’s not your chef!”

His entire character turned a 180 the moment recognition lit in his eyes and leaked into his voice. A bias that made Lucy uncomfortable, awkwardly so. And the entire group was quick to notice.  

It was a whirlwind. One that Lucy didn’t wish to ride. The earlier excitement of navigating new ruins had soured with the treatment of this so-called Prince; with his pushy demands and constant need for assistance. It sprouted a dreadful headache just behind her eyes. Fortunately, all he needed had been a day to recuperate. His strength returned, each step less clunky than the last, and his ability to move around reminded Lucy of a child with a never ending source of energy. He couldn’t sit still for longer than five minutes. And he, much to their chagrin, couldn't keep his curious fingers away from most of their things.

Even so, his stamina–apparently drained after disuse, sent him back to the floor again after less than thirty minutes of movement, which in his eyes was barely any time at all. It was becoming difficult to keep his mood level after his energy was spent so quickly and even more so keeping him away from the many implements and notes they’d brought along with them for the survey. 

When Levy decided to finally make her way into the decaying Library, Lucy dove on the opportunity to join her. Anything to get away from the mysterious man that kept ordering her to stick close to him.

“Erm, no offense, Lu,” Levy mumbled, fingers twitching as she wavered in and out of the doorway, “But it might be best if you stay behind until he’s a little less.. Um, clingy?” 

Her eyebrows moved, gesturing towards the formerly stone prince as he rushed to stand, ready to demand Lucy’s presence once more. “With his legs half as wobbly as they are, it’s safer for him not to go near any of the books or anything in there really. Especially if there's anything salvageable, don’t you think?”

Lucy’s heart sank, realizing the wisdom behind the statement, but still disappointed all the same. “Ugh, can’t we just…call someone to get him? Clearly, he needs a hospital or something.”

“Yes, I’m sure they’d love to hear, ‘please, get this man who's been asleep for 500 years to the nearest ICU. No, we’re not prank calling you, honest!’ I bet that would go over nicely.” 

Lucy snorted at Levy’s sarcasm, but the shorter girl was just as stubborn as she could be.She patted Lucy’s shoulder in support. “I know it's rough, but…maybe with him less likely to pass out from hunger, he’ll be willing to listen to you. It doesn’t hurt to try, right?”

“Ugh, but he’s so-” looking back at him, she flinched when he shouted another order at Gray, who snarled from his tent, ready to commit murder. Lucy quietly hoped he didn't have that rock nearby “-that.”

“Oye, Lucy! “ Natsu called, voice echoing. “Take me with you, I don’t want to smell this guy any longer then I  have to-”

Gray shouted from his tent, “I’m not the one who hasn’t BATHED in 500 years, you prick-”

“All right, all right,” Lucy hastily said, shoving Levy out the door, “At least take Freed with you while I deal with this.”

“I KNEW you’d understand!” Levy gushed, winking conspiratorially. “I’ll tell you everything when I get back.”

“Yeah, yeah- “

Lucy regretted her decision within the first ten minutes.

Not only was the ‘sleeping prince’ so abrasive to Gray that the half-naked man rushed out the doors - shouting about exploring the remnants of an aviary but without any tools in hand or a shirt much less -, but his obvious attachment to her meant she couldn’t move five feet without his immediate questions raining down on her.

Where are you going? Why are you pacing? Just what are you doing with those old books? How do any of these strange mechanisms work? Is it magic? Are you -  on and on the questions came until she’d all but given up on any work she could manage in the room. 

Sending a rueful glance back towards the door, she yearned for the chance to explore.

"Traitor," she muttered under her breath, thinking of Gray’s quick departure, envious of those free to work while she remained grounded by a child stuck out of time. Coming here had been a dream come true. Now, she was reduced to a mere lookout and babysitter to someone who shouldn't even be here.

The realization rankled her, nerves firing in agitation as an oddly quiet Natsu leaned heavily against the lawn chair they’d brought with them, and began to fiddle with the thin fabric of his clothes. The light tearing of the aged silk pulled Lucy’s attention back to him and watched him frown at the hole in his sleeve, disconcerted by the apparent state of his clothes.

“I guess this is just further proof then,” he grumbled, voice a morose contradiction compared to his earlier imposing attitude. “I’ve….. really been asleep for a long time, haven’t I?”His rueful expression, eyes filled with a doubt that replaced his earlier confidence, sobered Lucy, who examined his clothes curiously. 

While a statue, his clothes had been pristine, immaculate. However, unlike him, they had begun to match their age, slowly deteriorating to loose threads that became stiff and brittle. Noticing the one tear, led to her catching a glimpse of more littering his pants and tunic, making him look bedraggled rather than a noble. 

“We’ll have to get you some clothes,” she answered, and swatted his hand away from playing with the new found hole in his sleeve. “Stop that! Do you want to make it worse?”

“Oi,” he squawked, imperious gaze flicking to hers in offense. “Who said you can touch- agh, you know what? Never mind. It doesn’t matter.”  His ire died as quickly as it came, eyes revealing an exhaustion beyond his apparent years.

Well, that…was not expected. 

Gnawing her lip, she met his gaze, stubbornly refusing to give an inch as she examined the cloth. “It’s finely crafted. Or was, I guess. But, unless you want to be naked before we can find replacements, you’re going to have to get used to being told no, buddy.”

“Tch.. that’s hardly the issue.” Glancing towards the nearest wall, he frowned deeply, examining the room, shoulders slouched. “Igneel would hate this.”

“Who?”

“You know who.” He stressed, rolling his eyes in annoyance.  Pausing, he caught himself and backpedaled. “Wait, no. No you don't. You’re not her.” 

Sighing, he held his legs up against himself and grumbled. “The King. My…my dad. This was his office. He would have never allowed it to get like this.”

Lucy didn’t stop to think before the words were already tumbling from her mouth, “I don’t think the dead have much control over-”

The gaze he cast her way cut her off, the words dying in her throat as the blatant mourning that watered the edges of his green eyes. “You don’t get it.” He whispered, but she caught it all the same. It was a voice that desperately choked back a deep, consuming sorrow.

Oh. 

Shame filled the depths of her stomach like rocks. Swallowing thickly, she bit her lip, wincing as she turned her gaze away. She couldn’t look him in the eye. Not after that.

No one deserved such insensitivity, especially not an out-of-time Prince mourning the loss of everyone he once knew. “Sorry, that was…I worded that poorly.” 

There were questions burning at the tip of her tongue. What sort of king had his father been? Did the people love them? What could have possibly put the castle into such a state that no history books covered its existence? How had he become stone in the first place? The reality that set upon Lucy’s shoulders made her almost delirious and dizzy, but she reigned in the urge to submerge him in too many questions. His predicament confused her enough as is. She couldn't imagine herself in his shoes, trying to figure it all out only to be bombarded with a multitude of questions.

“Tell me about….Lucy.” She opted for this instead. To serve as some form of distraction. A safe question that still could give her something. He glanced at her, cocking a brow in confusion. “Obviously, I look a bit like her, and it sounds like we shared the same last name, but I was never told my family had nobility.”

She hadn't expected the weakened Prince to answer her, not after her thoughtlessness. She half expected his snappy mood to return full force, but he took the distraction with ease. His lips pulled into a frown as he mulled over the question. “Her hair’s longer by a lot, but usually she had it up in a lot of braids and in some kinda thing the maids called a…snead?”

Lucy, mystified by his choice in words, decided he certainly didn’t mean the shaft or handle of a scythe. “You mean a snood?”

“Yeah, that. I saw her take it off once, complaining it gave her headaches. I couldn’t figure out how she didn’t accidentally sit on her hair when it was down. It was that long.” He shrugged, eyes glancing over her in one fell swoop, looking for other differences. 

“She visited a lot, being the daughter of a Duke and all. He came to call constantly, discussing business with my father. She was… uh…" Scratching the back of his head, his expression became uncertain, eyes clouded over from the memories, “I think we were… friends?”

“Isn’t that something you’d usually know?” she prompted, watching the myriad of emotions that flickered behind his narrowed eyes.

“It’s complicated," he grimaced. "Her dad wanted us to get married, but uh, we knew each other since we were kids, so it was strange.”

“Sounds perfectly normal for royalty and nobles.” But also awkward, she thought, considering they were discussing a girl that looked exactly like her, but she kept that to herself.

“Maybe, but he also tried to marry her off to every other lord in the area.”

Now it was her turn to grimace. “I may love history, but that’s the one thing that always bothered me. Please tell me he didn’t try to make her marry some old dude.”

He snorted, “Just their sons. Not that they are any better.”  She chose not to comment on his use of present tense. 

That was a relief. Somewhat. “So, was she interested in any of them?”

That question spurred an odd expression to stiffen his features.

He shifted restlessly, took another look around the room, and unexpectedly jumped to his shaky feet. When he almost fell into her, she sprang to her feet, balancing him from the side. Her voice raised in pitch , but he didn’t respond, just looked towards the exit as if the stale air was suffocating.

“You wanted to explore more, didn’t you?” he asked, the question tumbling from his lips once it became clear she wasn’t about to let him go off on his own. “How about we get some air? I’ll behave. Honest.”

Lucy wasn’t sure how much she could trust that statement, but found it hard to deny him. After all, he was right. She did want to see the rest of the grounds, and if Levy wouldn’t let her go with, then why not take him along on her own venture?

“Sure. If we go far enough, we might be able to find some spare clothes for you.” They may get lucky along the way and find a few of Gray's things scattered about the path. And if that didn't pan out she was certain they left behind extra items in the van. - but how would this embodiment of ‘blast from the past’ react to a horseless carriage?  She giggled at the thought.

At Natsu’s questioning stare, she waved him off. Glancing back towards the makeshift camp they’d made for themselves. Freed and Levy would be gone for hours and knowing Gray, he’d find other things to keep his interest before having to return. It was possible they’d return before the others knew of their venture. To be safe, Lucy moved to jot down a note, hastily leaving it tacked to the front of her own tent. There, now they won’t be confused if they return first! Lucy mentally cheered her own quick thinking and marched back to the doors, gesturing for the Prince to follow. 

If she noticed the knitted brow and curious stare he gave in response, she didn’t bring it up.

The trip was slow going.

With uneven floors tripping Natsu up every other shaky step, he caused Lucy to stumble with him as he clung to her like a cane. The two barely made good time. Down the decrepit halls they ambled.The dusty, moth-eaten paintings stole Lucy’s attention, gazing in wonder at the crumbling canvases while Natsu frowned, irritated by their poor state. He’d stop in his tracks for each one, muttering furiously about their original details lost to the ages, before moving on faster than Lucy was ready, only to curse when he toppled over his feet all over again. It was a repeating pattern and Lucy suspected, with a heavy pang in her chest, that anger was easier to express than the grief that dragged his shoulders down. 

They came across other passageways or doors leading to old, caved-in rooms and he’d peek his head around the corner or through the doorways with a crinkle of his nose, unimpressed by the scent of rotting wood and dust. Lucy tried to pick his brain, asked if he remembered the rooms and what they used to be. Each time he’d answer, but his replies were often distant and  hollow, unsure as he failed to grasp the foggy memories. 

She got the impression he wouldn’t have had much more to say either. His mind was weak on more than just his sleeping arrangements, as if memories fell from his mind in fractured pieces he couldn’t fit back together. Each new attempt to recall his past formed an irritated tick in his forehead and his scowl took a near-permanent residence on his face.

“You were asleep for a very long time,” Lucy consoled when he failed to remember what she could only assume was a drawing room for guests. “Maybe you just need some more time for it to come back to you?”

This didn’t mollify him as much as she hoped, but he nodded nonetheless, stubbornly pushing from her shoulders to traverse the entry hall on his own, hand causing a trail of dust as he steadied himself against the wall. She resisted the urge to chase him. Perhaps it was better to let him stand on his own until he no longer could.

“None of this looks right,” he grumbled, his mounting frustration evident. The Prince paused halfway through the hall to stare at a fallen chandelier resting lamely on its side. It was larger than he was tall, once pristine crystals yellowed with age, but the rusted metal still held onto a hint of its former opulence as hints of gold peeked through the decay.“Five hundred years…has it really been so long?” The whisper stuck in his throat as though the realization finally sank in now that the evidence lay crumbling before him. She wasn't sure if he meant for her to hear him.

“We didn’t lie about the current year,” she answered, almost offended. “But we all agreed that this place looks good considering its age. You’d think it wouldn’t be this sturdy anymore.”

“Guess that just shows how great the architects were in my time,” he boasted, a confident grin finally lighting up his once dark expression. Unfortunately, she noticed it didn’t reach his eyes.

Exhaling a sharp laugh, Lucy peeked out the large, creaky, double doors that barely hung on their single hinges, and spied the outer courtyard with a soft smile.

It was devoid of buildings , but she could see where each statue once belonged, where each bush had been carefully tended to. Just imagining what it looked like back in its heyday filled her with an enchanted awe. 

“Sure, we can go with that.” She answered his boast with a poor attempt to mask her condescension. His pride in his own home was endearing, she could admit, but she truly didn’t think the slow aging of the castle had anything to do with the architecture. 

He tsked, catching the tone, but held off on replying. He moved to join her instead, leaning over her to look into the yard. While he carefully stepped around the doors, Lucy thought she saw his body waver despite the strong, confident steps he took. A shimmer went over his form becoming translucent and fading in places. For a moment he looked as he truly should be, a ghost out of time traversing his fallen grounds. The millisecond she took to blink in surprise, the effect disappeared and he looked as fine as he could be. Perfectly normal, despite the odd circumstances. 

“I’ll say this much,” He stated, pulling her from her confused observation, “it smells way better out here.” He inhaled deeply, emphasizing his point.

“It’s a courtyard, it’s supposed to smell nice.” His light  expression darkened to a spoiled pout by her tacit reply. “It’s probably not supposed to smell like dried flowers, though,” She added. 

“Still way better than dust!” Her exclamation was met with a chuckle from him and their trek through the broken paths became far more relaxed than before.

With Natsu no longer barking orders and demanding assistance, his demeanor was slowly becoming more tolerable. At times, she noticed, he was oddly cute, but when he’d look at a broken statue, or back to the empty windows and heave a sigh, it left her feeling hollow, unsure where to even begin to help him.

From a distance, he still resembled the statue she’d come across. There was something so distinctly ancient about him despite barely looking older than herself. It was evident now as he explored the courtyard. He almost merged with the environment, part of it but still puzzlingly separated all at once.

The palpable grief in his eyes was a mirror she understood all too well, but couldn’t bring herself to voice.

Circumstances that made her feel caught up in a whirlwind, and the urge to share her own personal life was just as jarring. She stamped those feelings down and followed him through to the stone wall that towered above the grounds, separating the castle from the surrounding forest. 

“Now, this is definitely not right.” Natsu's voice broke through her reverie, brows knitting together in consternation. “Wouldn’t there still be signs of a city here or something?”

“Nature can be quick at retaking ground when people aren’t there to hold it off anymore.” She pointed out, but her answer left him unsatisfied. Though she tried to hide it, she couldn’t conceal her own bafflement. “But it is weird that it didn’t overtake the castle, too.”

“Augh, this is so confusing. I don’t like it!”

Lucy was compelled to agree. Looking for the busted gateway she and her peers had come through days before, she spied their van and other vehicles parked further down. There had been no direct road, though what once had been a road in ancient history still split the forest and kept the trees at bay just enough to drive down smoothly. Almost as if this Mystical Castle had purposefully made their trip easy. 

The most important equipment had already been brought inside, but left behind in the confines of Gray’s truck, Lucy knew exactly what to look for. Spying the silhouette of a forgotten duffle bag, still upright in the passenger seat, she pointed in triumph. 

“Yes! I knew it'd still be there!”  His penchant for forgetting clothes would be a win in her book this time around. He looked a similar height to Natsu, so there was bound to be something inside they could use. Gray would complain all night when he realized where his spare clothes went, but it's better than having Natsu near naked around their encampment.  “Follow me!”

Natsu’s questioning confusion went ignored as she darted through the gate, oblivious to the sudden temperature drop or the way all sounds from the castle courtyard dulled when she passed. She couldn’t hear the crunch of Natsu’s steps behind her or the birds that once sang from the overgrown bushes. There was the truck and only the chilling wind as Lucy approached, excitedly fishing her spare keys from the pocket of her pants. 

She knew he wouldn't understand what vehicles were and she expected the Prince to follow her lead, curiosity and amazement urging him to inspect the large machines with the same fervor that he inspected everything else. If she had the time to consider, she could have offered to show him how they work. That enough would occupy his mind for hours  and she wouldn't mind answering his assault of questions. But that could be saved for later. Swinging open the truck’s door, Lucy cheered as she retrieved the duffle bag, brandishing it over her head.

Only then did she notice the silence.

Gripping the bag tightly, Lucy bit her lip, a strange form of apprehension crawling along her skin that rose in the back of her throat.

She didn’t hear Natsu.

No demands for explanation. No snarky response to her exclamations, no ambling footsteps, nothing. A part of her expected to turn around and find him still stumbling after, slowed by his weakened limbs with a snarky retort waiting for her on his tongue, but even then, she couldn’t catch the shuffling through the waving grass. With a start it struck her also couldn’t sense the looming fortress she knew was behind her. 

As if nothing was there, but that couldn’t be right.

It wasn’t right.

Lucy swallowed.The strange sense of foreboding that took over a sour tang that left her mouth dry as she spun to view the gateway, hoping her paranoia was just that.

Of course it would be, she told herself. The spoiled Prince would be there waiting, leaned up haughtily against the gateway or on the ground after falling, stubbornly dragging himself back up to fall again. She’d help him up, apologize and- 

What greeted her wasn’t what she imagined.

The Castle still stood, picturesque in its faded brilliance and the gateway looked the same as ever.

Except for Natsu, struggling to stand by the entrance with a hand outstretched to reach her. His mouth was moving hurriedly, shouting something she couldn’t hear. In fact, she couldn’t catch the tones of his voice in any capacity. As if he’d been muted by a remote. But Lucy couldn’t keep her attention. Her feet took her back to the gate and Lucy noticed more and more the odd stance Natsu took, clawing desperately at the grass. His eyes were wide, filled with terror, his fingers still as stone as his feet scraped against the ground helpless in his attempt to pull himself back as his body worked against him.

This wasn’t right. Something was off. She sprinted back, the duffle bag forgotten by her feet once she grasped the fingers reaching towards her, just inches passed the gate. 

“Lucy! what's- what is this? What's happening?” Natsu finally reached her, his voice sounding far away despite their proximity, it wavered as he struggled and Lucy placed her fingers against his, recoiling when she felt the frozen chill of stone. 

“What’s happening to you?!”

[idontwanttospoiltheparty]

what is your mclennon take

All righty then, feel like I haven't been asked this in two years.

(throwback to @phoneybeatlemania asking me this on anon on like day two of my having this blog <3)

I wanna preface this by saying I'm hyper-aware that multiple takes more or less fit the facts. I'm often reading up on what people who disagree with me are saying and try to consider their arguments as seriously as I can. Because of this, I don't feel entirely confident committing to one single take; more, a spectrum of scenarios I find more or less plausible.

(putting this under a read more cause I'm annoying lol)

At this point you can't really convince me John wasn't bi; the evidence is ample and IMO conclusive. Combining that with things John said after the breakup, some of his behaviours and words while the band was together makes him being attracted to Paul seem very likely to me, and I generally operate under that assumption though I do try to sometimes consider other possibilities.

Generally, I don't really buy into the idea that Paul is (meaningfully) attracted to men for two reasons: 1) he's denied it + continues to do so, and I dislike going against someone's word without good reason and 2) all the evidence I've seen for it feels very… Circumstantial. It seems more like a post-hoc explanation for a bunch of not necessarily related behaviours rather than concrete proof. (for example comparing when Paul started growing a beard to when he and Linda got together and concluding a general "return to the safety of heteronormativity" in mid-'68 based on that)

That being said, that doesn't mean I think Paul couldn't possibly be bi and I do see how the fact that he's still alive means that anecdotes like the ones we have of John confirming his consistent interest in men would not have emerged as easily and readily as they did once John died. (and conversely, Paul has outlived most Beatle-era people; I doubt much will come out from that time period at all in the near future, unless his kids decide to share things, but loyalty appears to be the currency of the McCartney Clan so…)

And also, I've seen this implied multiple times so let me reiterate: thinking Paul is not attracted to John is not equivalent to thinking Paul had an in any sense normal friendship with John. I believe that, no matter what, John was important to Paul to a probably slightly unhealthy extent and I don't discount that he's referred to John as some type of soulmate.

Now, timeline-wise, I consider myself somewhat of an outlier in that I'm highly skeptical of the idea that John was attracted to Paul from the moment they met (and, for that matter, if proof of Paul's attraction to men emerged, this skepticism would extend to him as well). But I also don't have some timeline I'm personally subscribed to because I think the evidence on this front is convoluted and somewhat contradictory. I'd say it mostly indicates to me that either a) John experienced multiple waves of infatuation which ebbed and flowed over the years or b) he was somewhat possessive of Paul before he was actually attracted to him. (or a combination of these two) Another thing I don't feel particularly confident about is at what point this attraction would have become conscious (and I err on the side of not believing an unconscious attraction could have lasted especially long)

I usually try to approach them holistically as people and when I can leave the romantic/sexual stuff unaddressed because I think a lot of aspects of their relationship can be analysed regardless of the precise nature of their dynamic. On the other hand, I do acknowledge that both these men were very sex/love-oriented and thus I can't discount it completely.

[littlestsnicket]

witcher wip amnesty 2023

(it's still january, i'm still allowed to do that right?

summary: jaskier's never had anal sex. obviously he asks geralt. (i gave up on this before i got to the sex part, but i really really enjoyed writing the dialogue setup.)

word count: ~.8K

[also on ao3]

They are sitting around the campfire, Geralt working through his endless equipment repair and maintenance, Jaskier humming and tapping his fingers against his palm (it’s too dark for him to do much of anything else). Jaskier goes quiet for just long enough for Geralt to become suspicious and look up at him before he asks, “Geralt, have you ever been fucked?”

“What?”

Jaskier huffs—a momentary flash of annoyance that Geralt hasn’t divined enough of his train of thought for this question to seem reasonable. “Yes, surely a worldly person such as yourself is familiar with the male body’s capacity to be penetrated for sexual pleasure.”

“Yes. Why are you asking me this?”

“I haven’t been, and I’m curious.”

“And your first thought was to ask me?” Geralt’s voice is flat with incredulity.

“My first thought was to—“ Jaskier pauses to wiggle his fingers, “self experiment. But it wasn’t… it wasn’t bad but I’m not sure I’m doing it right.”

“So you want me to teach you how to make anal sex feel good?”

Jaskier’s face lights up. “Yes, that’s the idea!”

His face crumples into a frown just as quickly, “I suppose it’s presumptuous. I’ve never even known you to seek out the company of men. If I was of your advanced age, I’d have tried everything, but not everyone is like that…”

A small part of Geralt is curious of what else Jaskier might say it was allowed to keep rambling. He’s seen and learned a lot of the world for someone so young, it’s interesting sometimes to see what he has and hasn’t pieced together. But Geralt speaks when Jaskier pauses to draw breath, “I don’t usually, but I have often enough. Most of my experience is with women.”

“Well, yes, in general, I know you well enough to have observed that.”

“Not just in general.”

“How does that work?” Jaskier sounds alarmingly excited.

Geralt wiggles his fingers the same way Jaskier had earlier and adds, “or with a harness.”

Jaskier’s expression goes a bit glassy and Geralt can smell his arousal spike. Maybe this will distract Jaskier enough that they won’t have to finish this conversation. Geralt’s not sure if he’s disappointed or relieved.

It doesn’t matter. It only takes Jaskier a few moments to return his attention to Geralt. “The mechanics on the receiving end must be basically the same regardless.”

“Yes,” Geralt confirms. He pauses with a frown. “Are you propositioning me?”

“Oh, no. I was not expecting a practical demonstration. But, hm, you’re not usually one for words, so that’s not an unreasonable assumption and if you’re offering I am in no way opposed.” Jaskier gives Geralt a deliberately obvious once over. 

That, in Geralt’s opinion, is the worst answer Jaskier could have given, putting this decision on Geralt, but Geralt studies him. He’s comfortable and relaxed, pleased to have Geralt’s attention, but mostly endlessly curious.

“Okay,” Geralt says, allowing Jaskier to study him in return.

“Lovely!” Jaskier exclaims before shifting suddenly into awkwardness. Geralt has had the time to grow accustomed to how quickly Jaskier’s expressions can shift, but it’s still disconcerting sometimes. “So, do we kiss or…”

“Thought you were supposed to be good at this.”

Jaskier hrumpfs with exaggerated offense. “I’m practiced in how to seduce, be seduced, and exchange quick favors, but I don’t know which of those things I’m supposed to be doing? I’ve never done… whatever this is?”

“Hm,” Geralt says in genuine surprise. But Geralt thinks about it a bit more and it makes sense. It was the last thing Geralt would have expected them to share upon meeting each other, but they both exist in a liminal space (very different ones but the results are very much the same) that makes it difficult to see where one stands with other men. Geralt has only done this sort of experimenting with other Witchers.

Geralt’s been quiet too long and nervousness is starting to creep into Jaskier’s scent. It jars him out of his thoughts.

He nods decisively. “We should kiss first. Not sure how to make this good for you unless you’re…”

Geralt trails off, but Jaskier seems to understand, does a pleased wriggle and moves to kneel next to Geralt, posture open, inviting, and eager. Jaskier does know how to be seduced. 

Geralt sighs again, aiming for annoyance but it comes out fond instead. It’s embarrassing, especially when Jaskier smiles at him knowingly. Geralt quickly tidies away the bits of Roach’s tack he’d been mending and comes back with a vial of oil.

“Oh,” Jaskier says, looking at the vial. “That does make sense.”

Geralt laughs.

“I would have asked more questions before I did this to someone else! And I did think it through enough not to just stick completely dry fingers in my arse!”

“No, it’s not that. If you thought this was fine with just spit—not that experienced people don’t enjoy that—my job will be easy.”

[sailorblossoms-snowbaz]

Expectations really did kick Baz’s ass in ways that are wild yet... funny? somehow? (This is rant is a messy compilations of thoughts, some I’ve already shared here. If you decide to read this, godspeed)

I think about the rat hunting date, when Baz asks Simon, “you had sex with your gf, right?” – now, I’ve seen Baz being portrayed all blushy like “whaaat? i can’t get over this, tmi” or something, but I don’t think that’s it. Baz has thought about Simon sexually and has had Sexual Urges for years. When he asks this... he has already put 2 and 2 together in his head: “surely Simon would be the same with the only person he has ever wanted” – because that’s how he thought! In CO, Baz tells you that he believes Simon has only ever wanted Agatha the entire time he has known him. Baz was fully expecting Simon to reply “yeah, we did it, I liked it, it was good” and whatever. When Baz is like “that’s good” he’s operating on the assumption that sex is something to be congratulated for. Something The Bros hi5 each other over because it’s good and mind-blowing and shit (given how Dev talked to him about sucking cock, Baz is probably familiar with these scene). He was fully prepared to be like “I don’t like this, but there you have it: you were attracted to a girl, now you are attracted to me. That’s bisexuality.” It would have been the “easy” and “simple” scenario, but the opposite happenes. 

The reason Baz chokes all over rat's blood is not because he’s surprised by “yes, this thing happened” but likely 1. timing (he’s at his most vulnerable, doing something he associates with shame, Simon sharing this is the same) 2. it’s different to assume and to hear it being confirmed out loud. That whole exchange about Simon being like “I thought you knew” “I did, mostly” or something has to be about expectations and assumptions. There’s no way Baz would know for sure – these bitches were not talking about this. It makes the most sense that Simon, aware of expectations for boys like him and long-term relationships and a shit ton of other comphet bullshit and who he was supposed to be and be doing etc etc would be like “If I know, if I’m aware of these things, Baz would know too, he’s a smart cookie” and Baz is indeed aware. 

However!! Baz is dead wrong about a couple of things: 

1. He is the only person Simon has ever wanted (Simon tells us in WS! In italics! as if he needs to correct past assumptions that he ever wanted someone else before Baz!) This is where Simon gets the closest to voice this to him. in ways that are more romantic (“nothing I’ve ever experienced compares to you”) but perhaps less direct than explicitly thinking about sex with Baz and going “yep Baz is the only one I’ve ever wanted like this” (the only person he has ever actually wanted to have sex with) (If Baz thought Simon was only into Agatha while in school, it means Simon never showed actual romantic and/or sexual interest in anybody) (that’s not Baz)

2. The assumption that sex is always good/something to congratulate someone over (he should know better by this point... baby we’re going to get you a therapist to unpack those insecurities one of these days!) and that sex is confirmation of attraction, which Simon shuts down immediately (on both accounts!). This is what kicks Baz’s ass when he’s choking all over blood. That Simon is like “what the fuck are you congratulating me over? hell no, get this away from me” while kicking walls and trying to direct the conversion from something uncomfortable and unsexy (comphet sex) to something very sexy for Simon (Baz hunting. Baz covered in blood. Baz doing a little murder.) 

Now, Simon doesn’t outright say: “comphet sex sucks in such complex and confusing ways – this was a bad experience for me that I’m only now beginning to unpack, but I would rather not unpack it because it unsettles the shit out of me. While lots of us go through confusing and unsettling shit in the process of figuring ourselves out, I do not understand what it means that I chose to do this thing when I didn’t experience attraction, nor did I actually want it.” But it’s there, trust me. (Or don’t trust me. You’re welcomed to go through my little blog to find me unpacking this with examples and specific paragraphs and all that nerdy shit. Most of it it’s said without Simon outright saying it). 

“It was just going through the motions” is truly all you need to say it sucked ass (I feel like that winnie the pooh meme when I read “sex was good for them” in any way shape or form like... do we know what going through the motions means. Do we know it’s indicative of not being into it. Nerve endings and whatever stimulations are not necessarily going to override the negativity if your mind and emotions are not into it. Simply sticking something in a warm place is not good enough!) But Simon saying “it was fine” is more notable to me because, first of all, “fine” can be negative or positive depending on context. In a scale of things that are supposed to be super good and mind-blowing or whatever, “fine” is “meh” – it’s dismissive! it’s indicative of dissapoinment, even! shit could be much better than this! Also, “tis but a scratch” is Simon: 

Don’t wait for him to say “it sucked ass” to be sure it sucked ass!! Anyway, going back to Bazzy-boy: this is part of what Simon is communicating to him in ways that might be confusing and are certainly surprising to Baz. None of what Simon tells him is the “easy” or “simple” scenario. Baz doesn’t expect all this confusion – things are pretty clear for him (he has known himself/his sexuality for a long time now). Even the wrong things seem clear – though in his defense, Baz’s wrong assumptions are pretty normal assumptions. 

3. Simon is telling him that he wasn’t attracted to the one person Baz thought Simon had been into his entire life is important to note because Baz has actual programming he has to actively work against here. The only times Simon has ever pushed himself to process and then voice all the ways in which his past relationship was wrong were in the presence of Baz. Because Simon wants Baz to know. 

4. Going back to Baz having normal yet wrong assumptions... I really do mean it when I say Simon is trying to change the subject from unsexy to sexy haha. Baz assumed Simon would be normal about romance and sexual attraction, but he’s hit with “me doing a little murder is my declaration of love for you” “slaying a chimera in hindsight is totally a romantic thing, didn’t that give my love for you away?” “obviously there’s no heterosexual explanation for me showing up at all your football practices. let me say i didn’t like in 5th year and I still don’t like you anyway, like a damn liar”  “actual sex with my past gf? unsexy as hell, i’ll take no further questions thank you” “it’s very sexy when you hunt” “I want to kiss your bloody mouth with your fangs out, who the fuck cares about the plague!”