#clara feedbacks

[royaleofury]

Hello dear! Thank you for such insightful mini reading. 🥹 It gave me some hope but our connection is a bit gloomy rn. Although, I don't want to overthink things, I have to admit that he has some red flags that I may not accept in the long run. :(( Rest assured, I genuinely appreciate the reading, dear. Sending love to you!! 💜🤗

Thank you so much for the feedback. The cards were pretty positive but as you said, you have some issues with him. Therefore, I hope you sought it out soon💗

[rearranging-deck-chairs]

do you think that what the doctor usually feels for companions, rather than romantic or sexual attraction, might just be idolisation?

[bubble-you]

read a post about if the doctor was a vampire and got snacks from friends. just a bite. and uhh a little horrified because proportionately they’d probably need like 1L of blood at LEAST to be full. And that’s like 25~30% already. So say a snack. But Rory would apparently draw blood for 11 using a needle, and that’s alright, that’s only 5 ml or 10 ml, at most 20. That’s a reasonable snack, if you were to give that away.

It doesn’t dull the dread of if they were to really drink. That’s your strength. Also… the puncture wound needs to heal. Bruises. Anemia. Drained. Unstoppered.

[sarahwatchesthings]

Hey, can male writers kindly stop referring to women who aren't control freaks as control freaks? It's sexist and gross. Thanks.

[violentdelightsandviolentends]

Cherry Blossom. aka - Cherry, Part Four.

a night of conversations, kisses and long awaited confessions.

pairing - bestfriend!steve harrington x female reader

warnings - cursing, kissing (but no real smut).

word count - 2.6k

authors note - the babies are back!! no smut in this one - it was getting too long. but don’t you worry… there’s gonna be so much smut in part five !! sorry for the cliffhanger. love u <3

as always, reblogs, comments and feedback (even anonymous feedback!) are immensely appreciated!! your reblogs are the only way to circulate my fics, which keeps me going <3

series masterlist. main masterlist. inbox.

The smoke from the bonfire is stinging your eyes, ash sticking to the strands of your hair. Orange embers burn rapidly, dry wood being occasionally thrown on top by drunk boys with red cups in their hands.

The music is way too loud for a forest party, but no one seems to care. Someone’s haphazardly strung lights between the trees, creating a surprisingly cosy ambience. The atmosphere is alive, charged with the electricity of being out later than curfew.

“M’lady!”

You laugh, accepting the drink from Eddie’s outstretched hand.

“Thank you, kind sir,” you say as you curtsy sarcastically, making both of you laugh harder. “Hey, you didn’t bump into Steve on your way over here, did you? I haven’t seen him for like an hour.”

The curly haired boy kicks the toe of your sneaker with his.

“Saw him with that Clara girl, talking by the lake.”

You take a steadying breath, pretending it doesn’t bother you in the slightest.

“You should go and check if he needs rescuing,” Eddie jokes. “God knows she can talk for hours without coming up for air.”

You smile at him, pulling at one of his curls.

“Good idea. Just in case.”

“Just in case,” he winks, pushing you in the right direction.

You saunter down towards the water, spotting your best friend instantly. He’s stood with his arms across his chest, weight on one hip as he tries to listen to whatever Clara has to say. The minute he sees you, his posture is straightening, lips quirking up at the corners.

Clara turns around to see what Steve is looking at, her face falling when she recognises you.

“Hi. I don’t mean to interrupt! Just wanted to check if you needed another drink, Stevie.”

The boy grins, beckoning you closer with a nod of his head. When you’re near enough, he leans down and presses a sweet kiss to your lips, all affectionate and tender.

Oh.

You don’t do that.

The two of you have kept your romance completely behind closed doors, up until now. It hasn’t got a name, never mind a label, and you don’t need people asking questions when you don’t even know the answers yourself.

You could blame it on the alcohol, but you know Steve’s on his first drink. With your head spinning, you look up at him as if he is the sun and all things warm. He looks down at you the exact same way.

“I’m gonna go see where my friends are,” Clara says a little too loudly, strutting away with as much confidence as she can muster.

You have a sudden feeling that you’re the villain in her story, but you’re not entirely sure why.

“How many drinks have you had?” Steve asks as he pulls a strand of hair away from your face.

“This is my second. I was nursing my first one, Eddie says.”

The boy laughs, and you grab onto his bicep for support. The sound of it is enough to buckle your knees.

“This is my first. It’s not doing much for me.”

“You want something different? I’m sure Robin has that beer you like in her bag.”

“Nah, I’m okay. Don’t think I’m gonna drink any more tonight.”

Steve slips his hands into the back pockets of your jeans, pulling you in closer and keeping them there.

“You sure?”

“I’m sure.”

“Okay,” you whisper.

“Okay,” he whispers back.

And then he kisses you. Again. It’s slow and careful and so romantic that you think you might start crying about it.

“What time is it?” he asks when he pulls away as if nothing happened.

“Eleven thirty.”

“You wanna stay a bit longer?”

“Not if you don’t.”

Steve presses his lips to your forehead, hands cradling your cheeks.

“I kinda wanna go home.”

You smile at him, all soft and sweet.

“Then let’s go home. I’m getting a little cold, anyway. And I didn’t bring a jacket.”

“Will you ever learn?” he laughs, slinging an arm around your shoulders.

“If it means I have to stop wearing your jackets that I know you bring to parties just for me? No, I won’t.”

You weren’t supposed to say that out loud, but the way Steve chuckles soothes the sting of the accidental wound.

“Let’s go home, Cherry Baby.”

Home. The assumption that the two of you will always be returning to the same place makes your heart so full, you wonder how it doesn’t spill over.

✵  ✵    ·　 ✵ 　　 *  · ✵

“You good?”

“Feet hurt.”

This happens every single time the two of you go to a party, so you feel as if you’re reliving a memory.

“Hop on.”

“Steve-”

“Cherry. Come on. We’ll get home quicker this way.”

You can’t argue with that. Steve crouches as you jump onto his back, his hands wrapping around your thighs to keep you steady. You wrap your arms around his neck from behind, resting your head on top of his.

“Comfy back there?”

You hum, the noise of agreement enough for Steve to start walking.

The two of you chat each others ears off on the way home, talking about nothing and everything. You laugh so hard at something he says that you end up with a mouthful of his hair, which he in turn finds hilarious.

“Have you thought any more about what I said the other day?”

“You say a lot of things, Steven.”

He chuckles, shaking his head and giving your thighs a squeeze.

“About college.”

You go quiet for a moment, and Steve wonders if he’s chosen the wrong time to have this conversation.

“I’ve been thinking about it.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Let’s talk about it later, okay? When I’m not constantly worried I’m gonna accidentally trip and kill you.”

You nod, and he feels it. You know it needs to be a discussion sometime soon, but perhaps having it when you’re being carried down the street on your best friends back isn’t all that practical.

“Love you,” you mumble into the crook of Steve’s neck.

He shudders a little at your lips on his skin, leaning his head sideways to rest against yours.

“Love you, Cherry Pie. More than anything.”

You let Steve piggyback you all the way to his front door. Neither of you say anything else. Neither of you feel the need to.

✵  ✵    ·　 ✵ 　　 *  · ✵

Steve bumps his hip into yours as you both brush your teeth, laughing at your shocked reflection in the mirror.

“Are you okay?” you ask as you place your toothbrush back in its holder, right next to his.

“Yeah, I’m good.”

“You sure?”

You hop up on the bathroom counter, sitting up so you’re eye to eye with the boy in front of you. He takes a step forward, standing between your legs as he splays his cold hands over your thighs.

“Why’d you ask?”

You trace over his fingers where they rest on your skin, quiet for a moment.

“You seemed pretty eager to go home tonight. It’s unlike you. You love a party. Leaving at eleven thirty is like… unheard of, for King Steve.”

“King Steve would rather be at home with you than at a party with all those people.”

“Really?”

“Really. Clara was going on about something or other, the music was too loud, and I could feel the chill coming in. It hit me, all of a sudden, that I’d rather be in bed. Or, anywhere else, as long as I was with you.”

You lean forward to rest your head against his chest, sighing when he starts playing with your hair gently.

“You’re a softie,” you mumble into his shirt. “And a mind reader.”

“It’s my one talent,” he chuckles. “I wish reading your mind was a college major. I’d be the best in the world.”

You shake your head, laughing like you can’t help it.

“If I don’t move soon, I’m gonna fall asleep on this bathroom counter.”

“Want me to carry you?”

“Contrary to popular belief,” you tease as you hop down, “my legs actually do work.”

Steve gasps, all theatrical and exaggerated, which only makes you laugh harder.

“Come on, sleepy girl. Let’s go to bed.”

✵  ✵    ·　 ✵ 　　 *  · ✵

“We’re not talking about stuff.”

You whisper it into the darkness, the trees rustling outside Steve’s window serving as the only sound you can hear.

“Hmm?”

Your legs are tangled with his, tired head resting on the boys shoulder as your sides are pressed together. You’re both lying on your backs, staring at the ceiling.

“We keep saying we’ll talk about stuff, but we haven’t been. It’s not like us.”

“You mean, like, feelings?”

“Yeah.”

All that can be heard now is two sets of heaving lungs. Steve’s hand finds yours under the duvet, fingers intertwining.

“Is there something specific that’s bothering you?”

“Not bothering me as such. I just… I think the more we don’t talk, the more complicated things become.”

There’s silence for a moment, before Steve speaks.

“I’m scared, Cherry.”

The tone of his voice is paper thin and vulnerable, and you will yourself not to cry about it.

“Of what, Stevie?”

You squeeze his hand, tucking yourself further into his side until there isn’t an inch of space between you.

“Of… everything changing. You’re my best friend in the entire world, and I know that what we’ve been doing isn’t typical… best friend stuff. I just…” he takes a deep breath, exhaling carefully. “I worry that something will happen and we’ll break up, and I’ll lose you forever.”

His voice cracks on the last word, fear seeping through his pores. Yet, he continues.

“I’d die without you, Cherry. I really would. I don’t know what it’s like to live in a world where we’re not… us.”

You turn onto your side to face him in the dark, reaching up to cradle his cheek softly. You rest your forehead against his temple, pressing a kiss into his skin.

“I’m scared too. I have been ever since that first night in my room. Not because I don’t trust you, or because I don’t feel that way about you… but because I don’t want to lose you either. More than anything, I don’t want to lose you.”

“Why didn’t we talk about this sooner?” he laughs, throat thick with emotion.

“Because we’re us. And whether we talk or don’t talk, we know we’ll figure it out. We always know we’ll be okay.”

“I love you,” he whispers into the dark. “More than all the stars in the sky.”

“I love you,” you whisper back. “More than all the grains of sand on all the beaches in the world.”

You press another kiss into his temple, letting your lips linger on his soft skin. He smells so familiar, so warm, so yours… you can’t help but inhale, chuckling when he shudders.

You continue to leave kisses across his jaw, over his ear, down his neck. He tilts his head to give you better access, groaning when you nip at his throat with your teeth, licking over the scrape to soothe him.

Steve pulls you in as if you weigh nothing, moving you so you’re lying on top of him. You sit up, straddling his lap, as he does the same so you’re chest to chest. Running his hands under your shirt and over the bare skin of your back, he rests his forehead against yours.

“You look so pretty like this,” he hums against your lips. “Prettiest girl in the world.”

“You wanna talk about pretty?” you tease, running your fingers through his hair. “My pretty, pretty boy.”

Steve’s hips buck up into yours, making you giggle.

“Oh, you like that? You like it when I call you pretty? Or do you just like it when I call you mine?”

His hips buck again as his cheeks flush pink.

“I am yours,” he murmurs. “Always have been.”

You thought you had the upper hand for a minute, but now you just want to cry. You’re overwhelmed by the way you feel about the boy underneath you, unsure of how to process it without bursting into tears.

“All mine,” you whisper, tracing the features of his face with your fingertip.

Steve takes a deep breath, watching your eyes as they look over him again and again, taking him in as if it’s the first time. He decides it’s now or never.

“Cherry?”

“Stevie?”

Your voices are low and careful, irregardless of the fact that you’re alone in the house.

“I’m in love with you.”

Your heart stops, and so does the world outside. Everything pauses, the two of you suspended in this moment in time.

Steve takes another breath, exhaling it carefully before meeting your eyes and continuing.

“You don’t have to say it back. Now, or ever. I just - I needed you to know.”

You blink back tears as you watch his face, biting your lip to stop them from falling.

“Steve-”

“Hey, I told you. You don’t have to say anything, babe. I know-”

“Shut up.”

“What?”

“Just-”

You surge forward and kiss him with all the affection you can muster, trying to express your feelings. You grip his hair, plastering your bodies together where you sit in his lap still. He wraps his arms around you, pulling you in as close as he can.

“If you let me talk,” you say when you pull away, all breathless, “you’d hear that I have something I’d like to say.”

Steve smiles, humming in acknowledgment and encouraging you to keep going.

“I’m in love with you, too.”

The boy looks shocked to hear it, as if it’s news to him.

“What’s that face for?” you laugh.

“I just… I didn’t expect you to say it back.”

“Steve,” you chuckle, looking at him sternly. When you realise he’s being serious, you double down. “I’ve been in love with you for as long as I can remember. When we were kids, and someone would say the word ‘husband’, I always pictured you. I was so convinced it was always going to end up being you and I.”

“Why… why didn’t you say anything sooner?”

“Why didn’t you?”

He laughs, and the sound makes you feel as if you’re on cloud nine. You can feel his heartbeat where his chest is pressed to yours, frantic like he’s just ran a marathon.

“Fuck, I love you.”

He leans up to kiss you, all saccharine and honey sweet.

“Say it again,” you whisper against his lips.

“I’m in love with you, Cherry.”

“Say it again.”

“I, Steve Harrington, declare that I am completely, utterly, ridiculously in love with this girl right here. I always have been. I always will be.”

You can’t help but throw your head back with laughter.

“And I love you. So much.”

The words you’ve always said mean so much more now. It’s a welcome change, one you never thought you’d see happen.

“Hey Steve?”

“Hmm?”

You lean in, nosing at his jaw as you murmur into his ear.

“Want you. So bad.”

“Fuck, honey,” he groans, all low and rough.

“Please. Want it to be you.”

Looking up at you with big eyes, he searches your face for any kind of hesitation.

“Are you sure?”

Smoothing his hair away from his face, you trace your thumb over his bottom lip.

“I’ve never been so sure of anything.”

“Okay.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” he grins. “I’m about to rock your world, Cherry Blossom.”

@psychicnerdcat @allcheesemelts @valerievortex @swiftsgirlfriend @steviespookie @betweenstarsandsatellites @mrsjoequinn @internallysalad @saucypeanuttt @empathyroad @niceskyler @spookysins @theoraekenslover @7minutes-tomidnight @xx-all-purpose-nerd-xx @clairesjointshurt @livsters @diffrent-spokes @regular-joe-shmoe @ihatepeanutss @ladyburberry @thenonweeknd @abarelyexistentbeing @jennaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa @slut4gaga @hopelessromanticwriter @mgchaser @wintrsoldrluvr

[tzurelles]

stunning ✦ kim minji

pairing kim minji x f!reader oneshot genre : fluff !!!!!! clara’s note ✦ hi um this is my first written fic so ik its not that good 😣 not proofread sowry feedbacks and reblogs really appreciated!! :3

you were going to combust with curiosity.

since your girlfriend, minji, had told you about a seemingly massive birthday surprise she had for you, not a day passed without you bugging her for answers. questions such as “will you tell me if i buy you nayeon’s album?” and “ when will you tell me " were quite frequent in you vocabulary as you clinged on to minji, tormenting her with endless questions and acting exaggeratedly cute to convince your ever so patient girlfriend (she acted annoyed but she really did find you adorable 🥹) 

two weeks before your birthday, minji was nowhere to be seen- quite literally. you barely saw her in the morning before she used her alternating excuses of having to do errands or volunteering to help her younger sister with her math exam which you didnt believe in the slightest ( she sucked at math 😭)

but as the loving girlfriend she is, she never forgot to kiss you before she left or prepare breakfast for you to eat when you wake up with a small note labelled “ xo, minji 💋” which always brought a smile to your face. she really did feel bad about not spending quality time with her girlfriend, but she always assured you that it was completely worth it.

since she was busy, you always distracted yourself by doing what you loved most- swimming in your local pool. you adored swimming since you were young. as you grew up by the coast, you always loved swimming in deep waters and watching the ocean’s waves move back and forth endlessly. if you were having a bad day, swimming was the way to go.

on the day of your birthday, you woke up almost shaking with excitement as you wore your pleated summer dress with its designated jewellery and makeup style which you picked from pinterest, hurrying out of the house and picking up your phone to reply to all your birthday wishes.

minji opened the car door for you, bowing to you as if you were some princess. you chuckled, pecking her cheek as she started driving to the place your mystery present awaited you. 

you blushed as she put her arm around your shoulder, inhaling her dreamy perfume as she carefully hid your vision with her hand, guiding you slowly along a path.

“minji?” you muttered quietly, making sure she was still there as you walked along 

“im here, bae “ she replied back with her cheerful voice , reassuring you with a swueeze to the shoulder.

as you walked along, you could smell the homey familiar scent of the sea becoming nearer and nearer. minji suddenly let go of your shoulder and positioned herself in front of you. “y/n! ” she called out to you in excitement, “you can open your eyes now, cutie!” she exclaimed.

as you slowly opened your eyes and adjusted to the lighting of the area, your mouth formed an ‘O’ shape as your eyes were wide open in astonishment. “you did this for me..?” you muttered with emotion, trailing off at the end of your sentence as you taller girlfriend placed her head on yours, hugging you tight as you stared at the gift in complete shock.

she had fixed your old mini boat you used to spend loads of time in, polished it and painted it your favourite (specific ☝️) shade of deep crimson, with small white flowers patterned across the ocean of red. all your friends who helped smiled lovingly, giving you the chance to explore it hand in hand with your girlfriend. 

“look at the view… oh its stunning…i love you so much ” you whispered dreamily, resting you head on minji’s shoulder. “you’re the stunning one, and i love you the most!!” she replied with a soft smile, chuckling and weaving her fingers through your hair.

“we should call the boat stunning then,” you remarked, blushing and looking at minji with a shy smile

“stunning it is then”

[russellsppttemplates]

Christmas in Spain (Carlos Sainz)

First term is over so you go back home to spend Christmas with your family

Note: english is not my first language. Dad!driver always gets me fluffy (and let's pretend it's Christmas season for a bit - it was a bit tricky considering it's sunny and warm outside 😅)

Thank you so much to everyone who likes and reblogs, your feedback is appreciated 🤍 and I'm taking requests so if you have any ideas or concepts you want to share, feel free to do so as I'll try to get to them the best I can!

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Tag list: @myloverjk-blog @hiireadstuff @c-losur3

"I hope you have fun holidays!", you waved to the kids as they got their backpacks and ran out the door, excited for the Christmas break.

Grades would be sent over e-mail and on the school platform and a parent-teacher meeting would happen in January, so for now all you had to do was tidy the classroom a bit so you wouldn't come back to a big mess.

"Do you need help?", one of the cleaning staff asked you as they pushed the cart along the corridor.

"No, I'm fine, thank you though! The classroom is not looking so bad - Mark thought it was funny to do the drawings I asked them to on the table, but I had him clean all of that out and I think we've finally won over that bug that was going around because the bin barely has any tissues!", you cheered like you had just won a championship.

"Just in time for them to go home and spend time with all the extended family and friends and catch some other bug, right?", the older lady joked and you laughed along.

"I tidied this the best I could so this one is hopefully quick for you to clean - thank you", you smiled as you grabbed your bags, making sure nothing important was left behind before leaving the room, "I hope your holidays are nice too, I'll see you in January!".

You got in the car and drove home, hoping to find a small chaos since Carlos said he would get everything ready for you to fly out to spend the holiday time with his family in Spain, volunteering to pick up the kids from school so he could get them ready to travel too.

"Mis amores, I'm home!", you gave them a quick shout before putting your things away in the office, having already packed them in separate bags so you could leave the backpack with the things you didn't need in the office and take only the things you needed already in the backpack you would fly with.

"Mama!", Clara was the first to greet you at the door, letting you pull her up so you could hug her, "I'm all dressed for the flight!", she smiled, twirling around in the tracksuit. Since the flight would arrive late, it would be best to have the kids dressed in comfortable clothes given that they would probably fall asleep and in the event that they would arrive at Carlos' parents already asleep, it wouldn't be too bad if they slept in them.

"I can see that, is papa getting the boys ready?", you kissed her cheek and walked up with her to the boys' bedroom.

Mateo was sitting in the play area, his fingers holding finger puppets while Carlos put Benjamín's sweater on, making you sit down with him.

"Why don't we show mama just how handsome you two look?", your husband said as he allowed him to go to the floor and join his brother in the cuddle you had him on.

"Mama! We're matching!", Benjamín said, leaving a splotchy kiss on your cheek and showing you the sweatshirt and sweatpants set all three kids had. When you spotted the Christmas themed Disney sets, you had to get them. While the boys had the dark blue version, Clara had the pine green one.

"You look really cute, guys! Are they comfy?", you wondered.

"Yes, feels nice, it's not itchy", Mateo offered and his siblings nodded before you pulled yourself up to your feet, Carlos helping you and landing you on his chest.

"Hello, beautiful", he greeted, kissing your lips after what felt like an eternity as he watched you and your kids. He would happily stare at the four of you forever, but a kiss was needed.

"Hey, amor", you spoke, "seems like you did just fine getting these three monkeys ready to go", you smiled.

"Don't be fooled by it - the boys were not happy they had to have a bath since they weren't going to bed yet, so there were some negotiations and some tantrums", Carlos chuckled.

"Mama, did you know we're flying tonight?", Clara asked, big brown eyes looking up at you as she pulled on your pants' leg.

"Yes, I did! We're going to see abuela and abuelo for Christmas!", you agreed, "which means I also have to go and put something comfortable on, pack what's left and then we can head out!", you clapped your hands.

Changing into an appropriate outfit, you put the last minute things in your luggage before heading down, Carlos already buckling the kids in their car seats while you fit the test of the carry-ons on the car boot.

Driving to the airport was a nice challenge since you wanted to keep the kids awake until you boarded the plane to make things easier and not change their sleep routine too much, meaning that you blasted every Bluey album you had, singing along loudly with the three children.

"Why can't I push the trolley?", Mateo asked as Carlos pushed the trolley with all the bags.

"Because it's to heavy for you, buddy - papa will do it and you hold my hands", you assured, stretching them out once your backpack was secured on, "Clara, stay close to papa, okay?", you warned.

It certainly wasn't the first time you were travelling all together - even though you didn't travel to races as much as you did when it was just you, the kids would often be in most of the European races and a few other ones outside of the continent too -, but your stress levels were still the usual.

"Relax, amor, I packed everything we needed, and if by chance something is missing, either my parents or my sisters will have it or we can go to the store and get it", Carlos tranquilized as you sat in the lounge, the kids happily eating some dry cereal from the bowl.

"I know, I think the school stress is still here somehow even though I've left everything ready and done with - I only have those reports to finish on monday", you sighed as your husband rubbed your shoulders.

"You don't have to worry, okay?", he assured, pulling you to rest on his chest until you got the flight call to board.

The flight itself was fine, the kids staying awake without making too much of a mess and entertaining themselves with their sticker books. As soon as you got to the car, though, everyone was out like a light before you left the airport parking zone.

"Welcome back!", Reyes was the first to greet you as Carlos' stopped the car

Putting his finger in front of lips so they wouldn't be too loud, Carlos spoke softly, "they fell asleep right away, if one of you could help us with them, please", he said as his father took Clara in his arms while you and your husband took each of the boys.

"I'll bring your luggage inside, dears", your moment in-law assured as you walked upstairs to the bedroom where the kids would sleep in.

Tucking the kids with some coos and shushes, you were able to come back to the kitchen and be met with some snacky bits Reyes prepared, "have something to eat and drink, I'm sure it will do you good", she smiled as you sat around the table, catching up for a bit before you retired to your respective bedrooms for the night.

.

"This year I decided I wanted to bake our own roscón", Reyes announced as she got the ingredients out of the cupboard, not missing the wide-eyed looks and scoff from her children and her husband, "why is it no one has faith in me to pull it off?", she reasoned.

"Mama - it's just, you've never done it", Ana reasoned as her siblings nodded.

"For you to be able to say you can do something, you have to do something you've never done before", the matriarch offered.

"I believe you can do it, abuela", Clara added, "mama always says that when we want to do something, we have to put our minds to it and work as much as we can for it!".

"See? At least someone thinks I can do it - you can be my sous-chef, cariño", she smiled at her granddaughter, "do you boys want to join us?".

"Abuelo said he has a new toy car that we can play with him and papa outside", Benjamín hugged her legs and Mateo followed and replied with "I know you'll do well, abuela".

"Off you go then - means I also get your mama all to myself because not only does she have a magic finger for baking - and I do need all the help I can get - and I won't have all of you stealing her from me", she giggled, tapping their noses and letting them go outside.

Reyes loved all her children the same, and her daughters were no exception to her love. When she found out her only son was enamoured by someone, she wanted to meet the young woman who had taken her boy's heart. Since then, you always felt included in their family activities and like you were her third daughter.

"How has school been?", she asked as you followed the recipe on the propped up iPad, measuring the ingredients and setting them apart.

"My little ones are finally able to do some independent work, they're confident enough to do it and that gives me more time to prepare different things to do with them - I've been really enjoying teaching this class", you smiled, helping Clara with the eggs to make sure no shells fell in the bowl.

"That's nice to hear - you know, Carlos used to worry a lot about you running yourself too much and overworking, especially now with three kids, so I can't hide the fact that I'm happy that it's becoming easier on you", Reyes stated.

"There are hard days - they will always be even if I work all day or no time at all -, but we've got a routine down with them, Carlos is spending as much time home as he can and so far, there hasn't so been much to worry about", you offered.

After kneading everyhting and waiting for the three hours the recipe recalled, you began decorating it.

"Abuela, does this one look good next to this one?", Clara wondered as she displayed the candied fruits on the dough.

"Yes, amor, it looks very delicious - we can only hope it will taste delicious as well!", Reyes kissed her cheek and mixed the sugar with water before sprinkling the mixture.

.

"Are we ready to start writing our letters?", Carlos Sr clapped his hands before joining the kids at the table, Mateo already holding the glue.

"Yes, we're ready, abuelo! Can you help me with my spelling, please?", Clara asked.

The boys were too young to write, so they chose to draw instead and your daughter still required some help.

"Tres Reyes Magos, my name is Clara Sainz, and this year I have been a good girl. I always did as I was told and I did really well in school too - Do you think that's good, abuelo?", your daughter wondered, wanting to know her grandfather's opinion on the start of her letter.

"That's good, cariño - now, you have to write to them what you'd like to get for a present", your father in-law praised, turning his attention back to the boys' letters, "have you two decided what you're going to ask for?".

"Yes! I want this game here", Mateo said as he showed his drawing.

"I really hope they'll bring me this book", Benjamín showed his best attempt of the cover his grandfather had seen you wrap the night before, smiling at the prospect.

"Let's hope they'll bring you those, then", the oldest Sainz in the room said.

"Are we going to watch the Cabalgata tomorrow?", Mateo asked, "I saw some photos from last year but I don't remember much from them", he admitted.

"Yes, if all goes well - we usually go every year, I don't see why we can't go and watch it again", Carlos Sr smiled.

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Dirty Work 4

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as bullying, familial discord/abuse, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: You start a new gig and find one of your clients to be hard to please.

Characters: Loki

Note: Itcha gurl, back at it again.

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me.

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!)

I love you all immensely. Take care. 💖

The doctor checks the chart then glances at the machine with your father’s vitals. Today, you’re father’s awake. He has been for a few days but today he’s alert. You know because he told you the jello was disgusting. Those are the first and only words he’s said to you in more than two weeks.

“You’re very lucky to have a daughter who knows what she’s doing,” Dr. Shearer remarks.

Your father grumbles, scowling as he doesn’t offer much else to the doctor.

“You must be happy to have her around,” Shearer continues, “it is time to start considering your discharge. You’re stable, breathing on your own again, your heartbeat is within a normal range.” You watch your father as he stares past the doctor. It’s as if he refuses to acknowledge that this is real. “You’ll have a few new meds to add to your day but with normal check-ups I think we can be optimistic.”

A grunt. You fold your hands and stand up, “thank you, doctor. Erm, could someone explain the new medicines to me?”

“Yes, of course. That’ll be in the discharge paperwork but I’ll have a Nurse Practitioner come to discuss with both of you,” he assures, “and some resources on quitting. The cigarettes can’t continue.”

“I’ll smoke if I goddamn want,” your dad snarls, breaking his shield of indifference.

The doctor gives him a sharp look but doesn’t argue, “I’m only here to diagnose and give me treatment suggestions. But you keep smoking, sir, and next time, you won’t make it to the hospital.”

“Good,” your dad sneers defiantly.

The doctor nods and his mouth seals grimly. He turns back to you, “let us know if you need anything else. We have some support groups and resources, I’ll make sure that info is also sent off with you.”

“Thanks so much, Doctor,” you squeeze your hands tighter. You want to apologise for your father but you know he’ll only get worse if you do.

“It’s alright,” Shearer says as if reading your mind, “these things are stressful. For everyone. Couple more days and he’ll be free to go.”

You try to smile but your cheeks can only tremble. The doctor leaves you with your father and you peek over at him. He grimaces at the ceiling.

“That’s good news, dad,” you say as you near the foot of his bed.

“Is it? You shoulda left me to die,” he barks.

You flinch, not once, twice. A chirp in your pocket further jars you as it shrilly erupts in the buzzing silence. You reach into the pocket of your hoodie and clutch your flip phone as it bings even louder. The little digital display shows the agency’s number.

“Sorry,” you apologise and flip it open, turning away to scurry out and answer, “hello?”

You hold your breath. Why are they calling? You didn’t have a job today and you only really get emails regarding clients. It must be very serious.

“It’s Clara,” your boss begins in her terse way. “Have you seen my email?”

She sighs, “you should be checking daily. Got a job today. You want it?”

You blink. This is the first time you’ve been asked to come in for an extra shift. You could use the money desperately. When your dad is discharged, he’ll be sent off with another invoice.

“Yes,” you accept without hesitation, “I’ll take it.”

“Great. Check your email. Details are there,” she sniffs.

“Alright, tha-nks,” your voice cracks as she hangs up in the middle of your last word. She must be busy, surely more busy than you, the lowest rung on the ladder she has to keep from falling over.

You close the phone and put it back in your pocket. You shuffle back into the room and find your father with his eyes closed. The machine continues to beep in time with his pulse.

“I gotta work,” you say, “that was my boss–”

“Then leave me alone,” he snaps without opening his eyes, “can’t you see I’m tryna sleep?”

“Sorry, I–”

“Go and don’t come back,” he growls, “I don’t need you crowding this shit hole.”

“Um, dad, I–”

He coughs and hacks and waves you off, swallowing thickly, “I said go.”

You dip your head down. You can’t imagine being in his position. Stuck in a hospital bed on the other side of near-death. You might not be very nice yourself.

“Alright, I’ll see you tomorrow?”

“I don’t care,” he turns his head and wiggles his shoulders as he tries to get comfortable.

You swallow down the hurt. You didn’t expect him to thank you for what you did. Not for anything. That’s just what you do for someone you love. Yet, you hoped he might have woken up a little bit nicer than before.

“Love you, Dad,” you murmur.

He grumbles. That’s all you get. You suck in a breath and hold it in, trying to keep from crumbling long enough to get out of that room.

🧹

At first, you’re not certain the information in the email is correct. You’re to return to Mr. Laufeyson’s house for the second time that week, but it’s a Friday night. In your days at the hospital, the calendar lines skewed between the alarms you kept in your phone for sanity. The return to reality is just as disjointing as the descent away from it.

You go home and change into your typical cleaning attire. All black. Plain. Clothes meant for getting dirty. Not that any of your wardrobe is particularly spectacular.

You grab your kit and your water bottle and rush out to catch the bus. You’re not used to being on transit near-dark. The prospect of getting home comes to mind as you cling to a pole amidst the crowded vehicle. It makes you nervous but you’re certain it will be okay. Mr. Laufeyson lives in a nice neighbourhood.

You get off the bus and bring your phone out. As you approach the house, it is lively with bodies milling in and out. You let yourself through the gate and peer over at the two cube vans near the front entrance. A white jacket, pristine uniforms, you can only assume they are some sort of catering company. The type you’ve seen on TV in those reality shows with women drinking wine.

You watch them for a moment. They are orderly and determined. What’s more, they work together in perfect harmony, words passing quietly and easily, trays moving smoothly between hands and set onto carts. It’s a shining contrast to your dim and lonely work.

You make yourself turn away and continue around the back of the house. You stop short of the rear corner and a gasp bubbles up. You watch a hummingbird buzzing over the bed of flowers. It’s so small and green and cute. You wince as it flits up towards the window, your cheeks bulbing to the smile as your gaze follows it. 

In a moment, it wings away, shyly retreating from your admiration. Your eyes fall to the window as you sense a shift on the other side. Just between the edges of the half-drawn drapes you meet a pair of green eyes over a long and cynical nose. Your smile dissolves as you recognise Mr. Laufeyson and his stony observation. You touch your fingertips to your mouth in self-reproach and tuck your chin down, turning back onto the path.

You go to the back door but it’s already unlocked. You let the handle go and linger outside. You noticed the email is shorter than usual. This isn’t your typical rote with Mr. Laufeyson.

‘Cleaner to be at standby for guests and cook…’

You glance down the paragraph. You’re to stay until after the ‘event’ so that you may tidy up. Your curiosity sparks but quickly fizzles. It’s best not to be too concerned. Just focus on what you need to do.

You let yourself in but forego the shoe covers and gloves as specified in the email. You hang your hoodie in the closet along with your kit. As you hook the strap of your water bottle over your head, a glimmer passes down the end of the hall and the lighting shifts. You look up as Mr. Laufeyson approaches.

He always dresses finely but he looks particularly put together. His hair is tidy and neat and he wears a velvet jacket in a deep shade of violet over a black collared shirt and matching trousers. His tie is narrow and blends into the fabric of his shirt. He keeps his hands behind him as he holds his chin up.

“I trust you understand your assignment,” he prompts as he stops a foot away, cornering you in the back hallway.

You nod. He tilts his head but his veneer does not break.

“Not that,” he points to the water bottle, “you may ask one of the cook’s assistants for a glass should you require it, but be rid of that ugly thing.”

“Oh–” you gulp back your voice and bow your head again. 

You untangle the trap from your torso and open the closet, tucking it away with your sweater and bag. You shut the door and find him closer than before, his hand on the door frame as he looms over you. His other wanders down the trim of his jacket.

“You are to keep yourself unseen. You tend to messes and that’s it. The rules remain. Are we understood?” He asks.

You look at him and nod. He sighs and stands straight, a deep breath rising in his chest. 

“You may answer aloud so I know we are clear,” he says.

“I understand, Mr. Laufeyson,” you eke out.

“Mmm,” his gaze lingers on you in unreadable consideration. Dressed in plain cotton, you feel wholly insignificant before him. “Go on, you will keep your vigil in the kitchen. They would require most of your assistance.” He backs away and buttons the front of his jacket, “you will not disturb my guests. Not a look, not a word.”

You know your turn to talk is over. You merely nod and he seems pleased by your deference. Not openly, he shows a hint of a smile nor does he praise you. But he is not unhappy and you know that is a feat.

🧹

The cook’s name is Corissa. She has spiraled red hair and pretty gold-green eyes. As you enter, she introduces herself and asks your name.

“I’m just here to clean,” you explain. “So if you need me–”

“Oh, hon, no need ta be shy,” she says in her wolfish voice, “we’re all in this togetha.”

You smile and stand against the wall, waiting to be told what to do next. She gives you a lingering glance but doesn’t comment. You see a question woven in her brow. She begins her work, directing her assistants at saucepan and cutting board alike, all while falling into a raucous rapport.

“Theo say ‘ma, did ya have ta tell that story?’” She cackles midway through a tale you lost track of, her hands moving expertly at her work, “and I say, ‘the gal deserves ta know, ‘specially if ya mean to burden her’.”

You bite into your lower lip. It’s like there’s an invisible wall in front of you. It’s been there your whole life. That one that separates you from others. You’re always on the outside watching. Just like in the schoolyard when the girls wouldn’t let you play with them. Or when your dad has his buddies over and told you to ‘piss off to your room’.

The first course is served on sleek black trays. As you watch the servers carry them out, Corissa calls your name. She makes you lurch in surprise as you’d be convinced you blend right into the plaster.

“Come have a taste,” she insists, “this one’s a bit mussed up.”

“Um, er, it’s okay, I’m not hungry–”

“Bah, come on, have some. I hate ta toss it in the bin.”

You don’t want to argue. That would be rude. So you come forward and accept the crumbly pastry with an ugly tear in the top, the filling bulging out.

“Lobster croquette,” she explains, “you’re not allergic, are ya?”

You shake your head and thank her as you back up to the wall again. You cup your hand under the misshapen ball as you bite into it. You could hum at the taste. It’s delicious and rich and savoury. You’ve never had anything like it. You’ve never even tasted lobster before.

“You like it?” She asks as you swallow your mouthful. You nod. “Quiet one, you.” She points at you.

You don’t answer. What can you say? You are quiet. You finish the croquette and go to dust the crumbs off your hand over the bin. You slide your foot off the pedal and let the lid drop. You take the cloth from your waistband and near the counter, going to work at tidying up the remnants of her work.

“Eh, look at you, busy little bee,” she chuckles, “I was gettin’ ta tha.”

“My job,” you insist.

“Maid,” a snap of the fingers draws your head up as Corissa sprinkles seasoning into a new pan.

Mr. Laufeyson offers only a curled finger. Your eyes round and cross to him, tucking the cloth into your pants again. He’s already striding away as you get to the door. You trail him, uncertain at what he needs. 

He leads you to the dining room, the garble of voices and clinking of glasses preceding your arrival. He enters ahead of you and claims the seat at the head of the table. The serves pass you with empty trays and you gape around in confusion.

“Oh my, look at me,” a woman giggles as she uses a cloth napkin to pat along her collarbone. Thin straps cling to her delicate shoulders as her skin glistens beneath the golden chain strung around her throat, “making a scene already.”

You see the wine glass on its side and hear the contents dripping onto the floor. You put your head down and hurry over. The dinner guests laugh and are quickly onto their next topic, about some coast they plan to vacation at once the summer comes. You try not to eavesdrop as you sop up the puddle of wine on the table and get down to wipe clean the floor.

As you do, you feel a tickle on the back of your neck. You don’t let it stop you. It must be an accident. You’re so cramped between the woman’s seat and the next that you must be in the way. The fingertips remain and brush more firmly as you hear a low, gritty exhale. 

You ball up the damped cloth and stand, daring a glance at the man as he draws his hand back into his lap. His broad shoulders make the back of the tall chair seem small and his blonde hair is twisted into a low tight bun. He guffaws loudly at the table, seemingly unfazed by his own wandering touch. It must’ve been an accident.

You back up and peer towards the head of the table. Laufeyson’s eyes are slits as he stares in your direction. Surely, he’s not watching you. You’re supposed to be unseen. Get out of there.

You retreat quickly, the din thundering louder and louder at your back, rumbling behind you into the hall. You wring the cloth, now stained and stinking of wine. You hope you didn’t upset Mr. Laufeyson, you only did as you were told.

[thelightsandtheroses]

5. touch me, i'm golden

Let's Get Lost Chapter 5 | Frankie Morales x female reader

Summary: You and Frankie aren’t together anymore but you’re in a good place. However, spending a week together for your mutual friends’ wedding on a luxury resort might challenge that slightly and realising you’re still in love with your ex is a sure-fire recipe for disaster … Tropes: it was always you, getting back with the ex, beach!Frankie (you know *that* photoshoot) miscommunication, only one bed, good parent Frankie Chapter Warnings: 18+ MDNI, references to past drug addiction, references to alcohol, historic argument referenced, one passing reference to body insecurity, reader is unnamed with no physical desctipton but wears a necklace, Frankie and reader are parents, yearning? Word Count: 3600 Notes: Thank you for the lovely feedback so far - it's meant so much to me and I hope you enjoy this update. I am so excited to share this chapter with you! The chapter title is from Let's Get Lost by Bats for Lashes

Previous | Series | Next

Chapter Warnings: 18+ MDNI, oral (f!receiving), reader wears a dress, reader and Frankie are parents, mentions of alcohol, discussion of contraception, one moment of panic.

Frankie’s arms are around you, familiar and safe. It brings back memories of the mornings before, a montage of happy and fleeting moments you once thought would make up your forever.

You don’t feel bitter about it today.

You kissed him yesterday. The two of you kissed more accurately, because it was definitely mutual. Your plans at showing how mature, how evolved the two of you were that you could share a hotel room and co-parents and put Clara first feel on shakier ground than ever. A crush was one thing, laughable almost, but to kiss him?

You missed him though. The feel of his stubble against your skin, the way his arms encompass you right now, even just the heat of his skin.

You can pretend being single is fine, that sleeping in the middle of the bed is a bonus and a privilege, but you have truly missed Frankie. He was supposed to be your forever after all.

He moves, slowly shifting from his slumber. You hear him exhale and then a sleepy, “Mornin’. Is Clara up yet?”

You shake your head as you turn around as quietly as you can, letting Frankie rest a hand on your hip over the duvet.

“So we should talk.“

Frankie smiles. “Here it comes.” His tone doesn’t match his face, it’s forced and there’s a wistful and bitter edge to it.

”Here what comes?”

“It was a mistake, it’s going to wreck everything, you don’t feel that way anymore.” He shrugs sadly. “It’s okay.”

“Frankie.”

“I mean it, it’s okay. On vacation … we’re on vacation, right? Everything goes topsy turvy on vacation.”

“I - don’t, Frankie, I don’t think it was a mistake.” Or at least you didn’t.

The pause feels like forever.

“You don’t?”

You shake your head, nervously pulling the duvet closer to you. Please don’t say it was a mistake, you think, because what could be worse than falling for your ex at your best friend's wedding and then it not even being reciprocated. The two of you will have to go back to Lia and Ben ferrying Clara between homes, it will be a disaster.

“I -” Frankie exhales, “Fuck.”

“Fuck?”

“I - I don’t know how to …. Look, I don’t think it’s a mistake, I don’t. And I don’t because I’ve never stopped feeling like it’s you, that you and me ... I never stopped. I love you and I think I always will.”

“Frankie,” There’s a lump in your throat and you’re not sure what to say. Frankie’s always struggled with words, his love language is action, physicality.

He showed his love to you a hundred ways when you were together, before the addiction. You would characterise his love as thoughtful gestures, the featherlight touches if you passed him that sent flutters to your stomach, the way he’d bring home your favourite meal if you had a rough day. That might not sound a lot, but for several years you didn’t that Frankie didn’t like that dish at all, that it was one of his least favourite meals or cuisines. He would get it for you though - if he thought it would make you smile.

Words weren’t his forte, he was driven by action, by physical gestures.

“I don’t expect you to be the same,” Frankie adds, “The way I was, the way things were, I know I let you and Clara down so much and I was a mess.” He’s speaking in a low voice but you hear the crack of emotion in his voice when he mentions Clara.

“You were hurting.”

“I hurt a lot of people doing that though. I missed so much with Clara,” he says sadly.

“She only knows you’re her dad who she adores and who, let’s be honest, is wrapped around her little finger. How many times have I picked you up with hair clips in your hair?”

“A few. I’m steeling myself for when she discovers nail varnish.”

“We have a few years before then, I hope.” You reach for Frankie’s arm and squeeze his hand. “You need to stop punishing yourself for the past, please, Frankie.”

“I - yeah.”

“Good.”

“So neither of us think it was a mistake, huh?” he asks after a moment, a wry grin spreading on his face.

“Mummy? Daddy?” Clara calls.

This holiday, your child has clearly developed an uncanny ability to join a conversation at the worst time. You’re not sure where she’s learnt this skill from, or if all toddlers have this, but it’s starting to seem like a pattern.

“Hey, good morning, Clara,” Frankie says, rousing himself from the bed. “What are we thinking we’ll go for at breakfast today? Pancakes? Waffles?”

He looks back at you, a thousand unspoken words in his eyes as he winks - a promise for later.

“It’s me,” Frankie calls as you hear the room door close behind you. You left Frankie and Clara at breakfast a little earlier, partly to escape the tension between you and Frankie that you were sure everyone else could see.

“I’m in the bathroom, won’t be long. I’m decent though.”

You turn around to see Frankie smirking, one arm against the door jamb of the bathroom. He’s clearly been watching you neatening things in the bathroom. He doesn’t say anything but just raises an eyebrow.

He may have already clocked the made bed, you think.

“Well, I don’t want housekeeping to think we’re messy,” you say, holding your hands up defensively. You don’t know why it matters you, but you really don’t want to be judged by the housekeeping, to be one of those awkward tourist families. You’re used to cleaning up a room now, it’s just good manners surely?

“You haven’t changed,” he says with affection.

You’re not sure what to say to that, how to respond. You have changed, you know you have. You feel sharper around the edges than before, cynical and most of all tired. You’re scared about that.

Frankie’s confession fills is reverberating in your mind because what if thinks you’re the same person, or has this idealised version of you on a pedestal? You’ll disappoint him surely.

He’s loved you all this time, through everything. Surely that means something?

“Where’s Clara?” you ask, looking around Frankie to see if your daughter is hiding behind him.

“Kids’ club, they’re doing crafts and apparently she absolutely couldn’t miss it,” Frankie says softly. ”Same crafts she can do at home, but -”

You smile. Clara’s already excitedly told the two of you about the friends she’s made in the club, about the fun she has there. Part of you wants her with you all the time to make memories, so you know you’re giving her the very best time you can, but you’re so grateful for the chance to unwind too, to remember who you are beyond Clara’s parent.

“So, it’s just you and me?”

“It’s just you and me until the boat trip,” he replies in a low voice, standing closer to you and framing his arms around you.

“Whatever will we do?”

“No idea, you said something about a book, right? You had a few to read this vacation - are you done with that?”

Frankie kisses you, it’s lazy and soft and oh so addictive and you immediately return the gesture, enjoying the feel of his skin, the heat of his lips against yours.

“Hmm, yeah, definitely could do with some reading time,” you tease, “but uh, maybe later.“

“Thank god,” he says, deepening the kiss and guiding you against the sink. “I’ve been thinking about this since yesterday. Haven’t been able to get you off my mind.”

“Oh really?”

“Uh huh,” Frankie says, kissing the edge of jaw. “Been thinking about what I’d do if this … if this happened. If I got the opportunity to do this again.”

“What were you thinking about doing?” you ask, looking up at his deep brown eyes that are full of mischief.

“Well, I guess you’ll have to find out.”

“Colour me intrigued.”

Frankie kisses you, filled with confidence and you let him steer you up onto the counter, instinctively wrapping your legs against him and trying to bring him closer to you. Your hands linger on the edge of his T-shirt and you pull at the hem to bring it over his head.

You’ve been thinking about this since the kiss. Looking at Frankie now with his shirt off and mussed up curls, all you want is him. You have no idea what you want to do first, there’s part of you that just wants to touch him, to validate he’s here and real, and yours for the moment. It’s been so long. Even this week, this realisation at the start feels like an age ago, like you’ve been anticipating him for years.

Frankie’s hands are on your legs, moving up and underneath your summer dress as he kisses the sensitive spot behind your ear. He traces circles on your inner thigh as he pulls away from his kiss.

“Hey,” you start but he just winks.

That wink really shouldn’t make you feel quite as aroused it does. That wink is dangerous. Very dangerous.

Frankie moves his kisses further down, his hands pushing your dress further up your thigh before, your underwear down your legs and you kick them off.

“Fuck, I missed you,” he whispers, awe in his voice.

There’s something about being with Frankie that you’ve never experienced with other men. He has this way of making you feel safe and seen and like there is nothing more he wants than to be with you. It’s addictive and the feeling storms through your mind in a rush.

He kisses the inside of your knee, tracing light kisses up your leg, spreading your legs with his hand as he moves towards your centre.

“Just look at you,” he utters, awe in his voice before he puts his mouth on you.

You reach for his hair, fingers knotted around the curls at the nape of his neck and try not to pull as he swipes up your centre to your clitoris, one hand on your right hip and the other holding your scrunched up dress away.

“Fuck, I’ve missed this,” he says before diverting his attention back to his ministrations. Every touch, every movement Frankie makes is masterful. He’s an expert at building you up, at listening and reacting to every part of your body, to bring you to the very edge. “Missed you.”

You feel like there’s a thousand things Frankie’s trying to tell you through this moment, all those unspoken words and sentiments. Every part of you is reacting, your mind is becoming wonderfully clear, focused only on him, on the way he makes you feel.

The heat builds in your stomach, every swipe or suck causing a new ripple of delight. You try and shift, let your body move in react, your hips bucking at one point as Frankie masterfully maintains his hold on you.

You can feel the pressure building, are barely conscious of the sounds you’re making as your back arches, as you shut your eyes and delight in everything Frankie is doing.

“C’mon, baby, you’re nearly there,” he encourages. “That’s it.”

You feel the way your legs are shaking, the way each muscle is tensing and preparing for that oh so needed release.

You say his name, Frankie, Frankie, Frankie.

The taste of you on his lips, both of your breathing is ragged and you wrap your arms around him, aiming to move but he keeps you in place.

“Steady,” he says gently.

“What about you?”

“Soon, soon, baby. It’s not a game, we got time.”

Have you? Is there time? Part of you wants to protest, to say no, you have to fit in as much time together as possible now because at some point you’ll need to go home. The two of you are in limbo, in the vacation idyll and how, how does this continue in Florida? Would it? Would he want to? What does it all mean?

“Honey, I can see your brain working overtime,” he says softly.

“I just -”

“We don’t need to overthink it,” he replies, but you notice the way he’s stiffened slightly and he’s taken a step backwards.

“I -” you pause, unsure of what to say but wanting to fill the pause, stop the silence. “I’m sorry, it’s a lot.”

“That’s okay, it’s okay,” he reassures you.

It’s this that abates the anxiety, finally clearing the buzzing in your brain. Frankie’s gentle reassurance washes over you like a palm The lack of assumptions, the way this man makes you feel safe. He doesn’t even feel real to you right now. As he moves away you pull him closer, entwining your body with his.

“Frankie, I need you,” you say.

He looks at you with clear heat in his eyes. “I - what?”

You smile at him, drawing him closer. “Frankie, please will you take me to bed?”

He smirks. “Well, since you asked so nicely.”

The sudden smugness in his voice makes you giggle but then his lips are on you again.

The two of you are touching the whole time you move from the bathroom to the bed. Hands. Lips. You don’t want to be away from him, to break this moment between the two of you.

Your dress is off, his shorts discarded to the floor and boxers kicked somewhere in the room.

He guides you to the mattress, kissing your lips and then the right and left side of your jaw. The reverent way he looks at you makes you wonder if he’s trying to commit every part of you, of this moment, to his memory.

You reach up and touch his jaw. His eyes are heavy with desire, you can feel the coarse stubble on his jawline, the familiarity of his body on you. He smells different and the same at once. It’s all mixed up in coconut scented sunscreen, the same cologne he used to wear on date nights. The one you loved. He looks healthy again, he looks like the Frankie you fell in love with.

He kisses you. “Are you sure you want to -” he begins.

“Absolutely. Do you?”

He raises an eyebrow, looking down to draw your attention to his erection. “I already said I’ve never stopped wanting you.”

“Even when it was bad? Back when you hated me?”

“Even then. And hate’s a strong word.” He pauses. “I just want to - five minutes ago you seemed worried and I don’t want that. We can slow this down, baby, we’ve got time. Or, we don’t have to -”

“I mean it too. I want this. I want you.”

You want to bottle up the smile Frankie wears in response. It would be the purest serotonin, happiness in a bottle.

“I - I’m on the pill still if you don’t have a condom.”

“Good, good. I don’t actually, I can get them though. But I’ve been tested and I’m clean.”

“That’s good, that’s fine. Want you, want to feel you.”

“Fuck, you’re killing me,” he says, groaning slightly which sends an immediate thrill down your body.

Part of you still feels awkward about these conversations but there’s something about the way Frankie’s looking at you, the heat pooling in your body, the knowledge of just how much your body wants Frankie right now. How much you want him.

He guides himself into you. It feels familiar and yet new. This was not the problem with you and Frankie; your bodies connected and every time you were with him, it felt so real, so right. You kiss. entwining fingers together as he moves, as both of you raggedly breathe. He groans into your mouth as he kisses you and you tighten your arms around him and the two of settle into a rhythm.

“You’re incredible,” he says.

“So are you,” you say, “so are you.”

You can feel the sensation rising, a crescendo of feeling and then you are there. A tangle of each other’s names, of gasping breaths and sweat coated limbs.

In the aftermath, you both lie there. A woozy peaceful sensation has filled your body and mind. You're almost afraid to voice your thought, that being with Frankie again just then was better than you had imagined.

“Is it wrong I want to say we’ve still got it?” Frankie asks after a minute.

You laugh. “No, no, not at all. Was thinking something similar. That was - that was something.”

“Shit, I don’t think I’m going to be able to think for five more minutes.”

“Just five? Clearly we need more practice.”

“Well, I could sign up for that,” Frankie says.

“We need to get ready for the catamaran trip.”

“Nah, we don’t. I’ve been on boats before. We can stay right here.”

“Benny and Lia get married tomorrow, baby. We need to -” You break off.

“What is it?” Frankie props himself on an elbow and looks at you carefully.

“We can’t ruin their wedding.”

“What do you mean?”

“After Will’s -”

“That’s not going to happen,” he says, soothing and calm.

“I can’t wreck another -”

“You didn’t. We didn’t. They’re happy, it’s okay. It was, it was bad, yes, but -” Frankie swallows. “I’m sober now.”

“I know. I know.”

“We won’t ruin it.”

“We can’t take away from their day, or … any of it.” What if they find out and ask questions? You have no idea what comes next with Frankie, if this feeling is just a vacation escape or if it’s, as you suspect. real. What you do on vacation isn’t real life. A holiday romance is just that, it doesn’t survive the real world.

You can’t lead everyone through another of yours and Frankie’s heartbreaks. You don’t think you can go through it again.

The calm wash of your pleasures has been replaced with sharp panic. A bucket of water thrown over your delusions.

You love Frankie, but this is wrong. You can’t be together right now. You cannot ruin Benny and Lia’s wedding; you cannot ruin the peace between you and Frankie. What if it doesn’t work again, what if this time it’s worse? What about Clara?

You thought it would be worth it to be with him, but is the cost too high?

“So, you want us to not talk about this with the others right now?” Frankie asks, “Seems fine.”

“Santi’s been glaring at me for days.”

“Santi’s just worried about me,” Frankie admits, “He knows, he knows how I feel. How I still feel. He was worried about me on this break. Thought I was putting myself through it unnecessarily.”

“Were you?”

“We’re here now.”

“But if we weren’t?”

“We are though,” he says simply.

“What if it’s not enough? I love you, Frankie, I do. What if that’s not enough though? I can’t, we can’t mess up everything again. Clara’s not a baby now, she could remember. I don’t want that for her.”

“I know this is a lot.”

“I’m scared, Frankie,” you admit, “I don’t know what this all means for us or -”

He reaches and clasping your hand in his. “Don’t overthink it. We can just -”

“What? We can fuck on vacation and pretend it didn’t happen? You can tell me you still love me and think that doesn’t change anything? That I can say that back to you too? Then we go home in a couple of days and pretend nothing happened? It just didn’t matter.”

“Of course it does. if it’s too much though, if we can’t - we have to figure out how to move past that then and I can. I don’t want this to upset you, or me, or Clara, or fucking anyone.”

“I think we need some space to think.”

Frankie whispers your name.

“It’s just too much right now,” you say, voice thick with tears. “I love you, Frankie.”

“And I think we’ve established, I’m the same. Is that not enough?”

“We should get ready. That trip’s booked soon, isn’t it? We need to get Clara too.”

“Please, can we just talk about this some more?”

You make it to the bathroom before you start crying.

The bathroom makes it worse. It’s a shrine to your previous activities.

You’ll never be able brush your teeth amongst these marble counters and take in the luxury of a heated mirror without thinking of the way he methodically and precisely took you apart on the counter with his mouth and the way he left you saying his name like it was some sort of divine incantation because there were no other words left in your mind.

You want this still, you want him. You want to live in those moments in the bathroom and bedroom before your panic, you want to restart everything and pretend the break-up never happened.

It did though. There’s Clara too and she surely deserves so much more than this. She needs stability and calm parents who are drama free and don’t cause her problems through their own relationship drama.

You love each other though. Is Frankie right, is that enough?

Love didn’t seem to be enough before. It only made the wound wider and pain sharper. You don't want that heartbreak again, you don't want it for Frankie either.

You want love to be enough though. You don’t just want Frankie for this time you’re on vacation. You want Frankie and you back home in Florida. You want regular days with him too. You want coffee before work and organising chores, going to the grocery store even though you hate grocery shopping.

Love - you want to bask in his love and hope he can do the same with you.

You take a deep breath and finish straightening up.

“You’ve got this,” you say. You just wish you knew what this was.

Tag List

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[royaleofury]

Helloo!

Thank you for the reading, it was very interesting and nice to know about my venus in vedic.

Bunnies are really cute and i think they are very pure little animals, and i kinda feel that from you too, that's why they remind me of you.

You are right, i help a lot of my friends in hs in their homework or something like that but im never really appreciated, i know its dumb to help them even though they dont really appreciate it but it makes me feel bad 😭 I really like to help others, even though sometimes im not recognized for it.

I didn't really understand the connection between the 9th and 11th house, can you please explain it to me? 🥺 but i understood the connection between 9th and 4th with jupiter in it.

When i read pacs about my future wife, they always says that my fs could be from a foreign country and i will most likely meet her in public space or when im moving to somewhere else. In small personal reading i got this too.

Which is very good because i really like different cultures and i would like to learn more about them and the world and how the world is different no matter where are u from.

And yes! i loooove to flirt, i especially like flirting with my friends in a playful way and i really like to hug them too.

You are absolutely right about everything, yay!!

Thank you so so much for such a long feedback! Means a lot to me! I am so sorry for not replying to this earlier because my life was a mess and I didn't want to reply to this halfheartedly when you spent time to write back to me. But i am glad that it resonated. That 9th house and 11th house thing, honestly, I forgot it myself, cuz it's been too long haha. But yeah, you can send me your reading( the one on the Venus one) , I will re-read it and explain it to you in dms, if you want. I am super happy to know how synchronisation between tarot and astrology!

[nanowrimo]

When Is a Small Press a Good Fit?

When it comes to publishing, many writers will think about big publishers first. However, there are a lot of different publishing options out there to explore. NaNo participant and author, Clara Ward, talks about their experience publishing with a small press and gives you questions to consider while you think through your publishing options!

NaNoWriMo inspired me to write. Signing with a small press gave me the support I needed to publish a book I love. 

I’d published books before—starting with NaNoWriMo sponsor deals in the early days of online publishing—but I never had the right skill set to promote those books. As a result, they never truly found their audience. 

In November of 2020, I poured my heart into a genre-blurring near-future tale of sailing across the Pacific and building a neurodiverse, queer, and possibly magical chosen family. In 2021, I titled it Be the Sea and asked myself: What am I going to do with that?

1. Are you looking for fame or family?

Small presses are as varied as the people who form them. If you read widely, you may already have a treasured book on your shelf from your publisher-to-be. Try asking NaNoWriMo friends who share your interests if they’ve discovered any surprising or emerging sources for great reads. (At the very least, you may find books you’ll love in unexpected places!)

Admittedly, a small press doesn’t have a fortune to spend on paving your path to fame. But I have never felt as seen as when my soon-to-be publisher, E.D.E. Bell at Atthis Arts, wrote back, “I’m really in love with what you are doing and would like to talk about it.” 

2. Do you have the bandwidth for working with others?

Even with the most supportive small press, you may have to push outside your comfort zone. I know authors who love the absolute control and freedom of self-publishing. For a time, I felt very comfortable just posting my NaNoWriMo fanfiction novels on Archive of Our Own. At most, I had one or two beta readers to offer feedback on those works. Whereas E.D.E. told me in one of our earliest conversations that in addition to our three rounds of editing we’d need “a good number of betas” to cover the range of topics we were working on together.

I was delighted! I knew what I’d written was ambitious, and I welcomed all the feedback I could get. But it turns out, each extra person in a process adds new challenges and delays. I had to stretch my empathy as well as my publishing timeline because, to quote E.D.E. again: “It’s a lot of emotion (as well as brain cycles) to go through...” Outside perspectives will only improve your writing if you are willing to work with them, to truly listen and learn.

3. Can you handle the two-way commitment?

No form of publishing is easy. The myth that authors write while others handle business and promotion is not true at the top, and certainly not with small presses. In my experience, working with Atthis Arts was like joining a team or chosen family. Beyond certain paid tasks, such as editing and sensitivity reading, I discovered a community of authors who freely offered coaching before my first public reading, social media boosting, tips for author webpages, and an extra pair of eyes on letters requesting bookshop readings or other events. While not all small presses work the same way, this supportive culture proved to be an excellent fit for me. Naturally, I wanted to give back whenever possible.

Small presses can only succeed with community. This month, as I promote the launch of Be the Sea at bookshops in Mountain View, Davis, and Sacramento, I will be introducing many Californians to my Michigan-based small publisher, Atthis Arts. When I stand up as a panelist at Norwescon in Washington state or at various science, library, or Pride events later in the year, I’ll be promoting more than Be the Sea by Clara Ward. I’ll give back by sharing my appreciation for small presses, the supportive and inclusive practices they can normalize, and the opportunities they open up for future writers and readers. 

Clara Ward lives in Silicon Valley on the border between reality and speculative fiction. Their latest novel, Be the Sea, features a near-future ocean voyage, chosen family, and sea creature perspectives, while delving into our oceans, our selves, and how all futures intertwine. Their short fiction has appeared in Strange Horizons, Decoded Pride, Small Wonders, and as a postcard from Thinking Ink Press. When not using words to teach or tell stories, Clara uses wood, fiber, and glass to make practical or completely impractical objects. More of their words along with crafted creations can be found at: https://clarawardauthor.wordpress.com

Photo by Hümâ H. Yardım on Unsplash

[glossyblue]

Birthday or new beginning

glossyblue: a new part for birthday boy🫶🏻🩶 hope you enjoy, feedback is very appreciated.💌

summary: You and Jude almost broke up and because of the situation you were in, you didn't say anything to anyone at the moment and you had to go to his birthday party and pretend that nothing happened.

pairing: jude bellingham × reader

now playing: Heat Waves by Glass Animals

⋆

As you walk into Jude's elaborate birthday party, you can't help but feel a pang of nostalgia mixed with a twinge of sadness. You and Jude had been inseparable just a few months ago, a couple that everyone envied. Now, as you stand there clutching a hastily wrapped gift, you can't help but feel out of place. You scan the room, noticing the familiar faces of Jude's friends and teammates. You see his smile light up as he greets them, a smile that once was reserved just for you. You take a deep breath, steeling yourself before you approach him.

'Happy birthday, Jude,' you manage to say, handing him the gift. He looks surprised to see you, but quickly masks it with a smile. 'Thanks, you didn't have to bring anything,' he says, his fingers brushing against yours as he takes the gift. You swallow hard, remembering the way those fingers used to intertwine with yours. 'I wanted to,' you reply, your voice barely above a whisper. He nods, and you stand there awkwardly for a moment before he excuses himself to greet more guests.

You spend the rest of the evening pretending to have a good time, laughing at jokes you don't find funny and making small talk with people you barely know.

Clara said with a mocking and meaningful expression: 'Are you okay? Do you have a problem with Jude?' You were shocked and didn't know what to answer, you said very quietly 'No... we don't have a problem... everything is fine', you could hardly stop your voice from shaking. Clara laughed as if she knew exactly what happened between you 'But he said something else about you last night when he was drunk,' she said with a grin. At that moment, you felt that your heart stopped beating and you were trying to breathe, all the questions were in your mind: Where was Jude last night? Was he drunk in front of Clara? What did Jude say about you? Did he get into a relationship while you just broke up? And ...You were confused, Suddenly a hand wrapped around your neck, jobe! He smiled at you and turned to face the rest of the girls 'Hey girls, it's nothing, you don't have to worry about my brother and his girlfriend, who can pass up such a beautiful woman?' He winked at you. With his help, you could get out of that suffocating situation.

All the while, you can't help but steal glances at Jude, who seems to be enjoying himself thoroughly with his friends. As the night wears on and the party begins to wind down, you find yourself standing outside alone, looking up at the night sky.

You hear footsteps behind you and turn to see Jude standing there. 'I didn't think you'd come,' he says, his voice barely audible over the sound of the music still playing inside. 'I didn't think I would either,' you reply, suddenly feeling vulnerable. He looks at you, his eyes searching yours, and for a moment you think he might lean in to kiss you. But then he takes a step back, breaking the spell. 'I'm glad you did,' he says, his voice soft. 'I've missed you.' You stand there, not knowing what to say.

You took a deep breath! You didn't know whether to ask him a question or not! But you should have asked him tonight 'Jude, I want to...ask you something...' Jude looked into your eyes and said with a small smile: 'Sure.' You are very calm and while trying to hold back your anger: 'Clara' you tried to make yourself to look at the view in front of you so that you could talk more easily. Very quickly, without thinking, you said: 'Clara said something that last night when you were drunk, you talk about me, I want to ask what you said?What were you doing in front of Clara last night? were you drunk? Are you in a relationship with her? your girlfriend? Did you forget me so quickly? 'You cleared your throat and continued: 'Ok, I agree, everything in our relationship was not as it should be, but because of our beautiful moments, couldn't you remember me more? Am I worthless to you? Do you like her?' You were trying to get fresh air into your throat because of the pain and fast talking. Jude laughed very quietly! While holding your shoulders and lifting your chin and forcing you to look at him, he said, 'Breathe first, babe.' And then he was slowly trying to caress your shoulders While trying to speak in the calmest and most impressive way, he said: 'Well, look at me and listen, I love you more than anything, yes, it's true, our relationship didn't go well, but that doesn't mean that I don't love you. I like you, we may not be able to do anything for each other, but you are so lovely , you are an important and beautiful part of my past, do you understand?' Jude said while putting his hand on your tear-soaked cheek: 'You know, I told you until the last moment that I love you, you know that I love you wherever you are, even if you leave me, your love is my only support, wherever you are. I want your love.' With Jude's words, your tears became more and more. He was talking, trying to wipe away your tears. While smiling at you and his eyes were wet, he said: 'I just thought... considering our relationship and my situation... you need a better person than me and a better life... something that I can't give you..I just wanted you to be okay, but about your questions, baby, I was with Clara, but not the way you think you can ask Job, we had a party last night and I was drunk but I just called your name or I asked God to be by your side. With the sound of Jobe, you turned back . While he was laughing and looking at you from the side, he said: 'He is telling the truth, he was shouting your name all last night... he even grabbed my collar and wanted me to bring him to you, he wanted to sleep with you' and he winked and left. Jude yelled as he walked up to Jobe: 'Hey Jobe Bellingham, wait... boy...' And you were laughing at the same time while your cheeks were wet. Jude regretted following Job and turned to you:' he is crazy' You laughed and said, 'At least he has more courage than his older brother to tell the truth.' Jude raised his eyebrows and said: 'What? Who said whatever was in his heart now? Was it me or him? ' You hit his arm and said: 'If I hadn't cried, you wouldn't have started saying anything.' And you went to the rest of the party , Jude laughed and came behind you.

[cher-rei]

afterglow- pt 10 [ T.A.A ]

pairings: trent alexander arnold x fem!reader

summary: young and aspiring marketing and business major jamie carter (you) is privileged with working alongside the liverpool marketing and public relations team while also getting entangled with their star player and right back, trent alexander arnold.

genre(s): friends to lovers, fluff, slowish?? burn

[w.c: 5.6k] [part 1] [part 2] [part 3] [part 4] [part 5] [part 6] [part 7] [paet 8] [part 9] [part 11] [part 12]

notes: another reallllllyyy lengthy chapter

it was still 0-0 at half time despite the amount of action that has taken place. arsenal had 13 shots on target but none of them hit the back of the net which was insane. and you guys a good few opportunities as well but none of them were good enough unfortunately.

so as the half-time whistle blew, jurgen was already halfway down the tunnel and darting for the dressing room as usual. you stood with your hands on your hips as you watched the boys come off the pitch, heaving and frustrated. you pat jarrel lightly on the shoulder and shot him a small smile.

"are you okay bud?"

he let out a breath and nodded, accounting for the small fall on his ankle earlier. it had you worried but he managed to get up again and played on without any issues.

when everyone was finally in for the break, you gestured to clara that you were heading up to the booth to check on the media team who were handling the team's social platforms. just as you entered the corridor, your phone buzzed in your pocket, and funny enough, it was from laura— one of the team members in charge of monitoring the media feedback.

"yep, I'm on my way," you answered and continued up the flight of stairs, ending the call soon after as you entered the room where the team's staff was set up.

"feedback is looking great," laura said and spun around in her chair to look at you, her hand gesturing to her laptop screen that had the twitter feed open.

you leant over her and scanned through the hashtags. it was better than you expected, but unfortunately for arsenal it was the opposite. but a part of you couldn't help but be slightly rejoiced, and it definitely had to do with the fact that michael and kelly were here.

when you made eye contact with him earlier you tried your best not to show any reaction despite the bitter taste on your tongue. you wondered if he knew that you were going to be here, and if he came just to spite you. but you pushed those thoughts aside, and tried to focus on literally anything else.

your main issue at the moment— trent coming over to your apartment. that didn't seem to calm your mind either, instead, it filled you with more anxiety because you didn't know what you two were going to do.

clara suggested that you watch a movie and chill, and though it seemed like a great idea you didn't know which movie to watch. what if your taste in movies was completely different to his? heck, what if he didn't watch movies at all??

the anxiety settled in your stomach and you needed fresh air. "thanks for the updates laura. do me a favour and get an idea of who they're interviewing after the match besides trent."

laura gave you a thumbs up. "yes ma'am." and you were off again, just in time for the second half to begin. you were practically rushing through the corridors, funny enough to meet both teams lining up halfway, chatting among themselves.

you were greeted with a few polite "hello"s and waves from the home side to which you returned, as opposed to the visitors of today's match who were yelling at you for completely different reasons.

"jamie!" your attention was caught midway by curtis and as much as you wanted to leave him hanging just for the fun of it, you gave in.

"hello to you too," you greeted sarcastically and he faked a laugh.

"I need your help with the interviews. not today, I can't answer those questions today," he pleaded desperately and you nodded, telling him that you were already on it.

just as you were about to leave again, you were pulled back by someone else. only this time, you didn't mind. you happily obliged and turned to look at trent, struggling to breathe a bit. you've told clara this before, but him in the purple away kit had you on your knees.

maybe it was the lighting, but he looked breathtaking.

he smiled at you softly. "are you okay?" he asked loud enough so that only you could hear. the question was strange but you nodded regardless, and asked why he was wondering.

"you kept on looking over your shoulder," he said and your stomach dropped. "and you looked stressed."

there was a genuine look in his eyes and you wanted to tell him everything, mentally cursing yourself for feeling this vulnerable with someone who probably couldn't care less. but you swallowed your pride and gave him some explanation.

"michael's here," you whispered. trent was taken back by your answer and suddenly he stood up straight with his eyes wide in shock.

"he's here now? is he alone?"

you tried to shush trent but that got the rest of the team's attention, and if it was one thing that you knew then it was that they were one nosy group of men. trent flashed an apologetic smile as the others leant over to hear what you were talking about.

"who's here?" dom asked with a cheeky grin and trent nudged his arm, only for a few more questions to be thrown into the air in the middle of the tunnel with seconds until the second half began.

you managed to break free from the huddle, and apologised despite their pleas for an answer. "you guys should be focusing on the match you know? good luck!"

the group of men watched as you left, annoyed groans leaving their mouths as they got ready to leave, only to earn them a few very confused looks from the arsenal squad who watched the entire interaction.

joe took the liberty and chucked awkwardly. "we love her around here."

harvey was quick to interject, "who's we?"

"how has no one scored yet?" it's jota who spoke up at the 50' minute, reflecting everyone else's thoughts as they watched from the side. the ball would just not go in. no matter how well the passes were made, no matter how far into the penalty box they were— the ball was in a mood today.

it's not long after his comment that jurgen told jota to start warming up, and the squad member happily obliged with a muffled "finally" that made you and clara laugh.

not much happened after that, other than even more frustration and missed opportunities to score for both sides. everyone began to grow agitated, and you couldn't blame them. you got up from your seat for a bit, just to loosen up some tension.

jurgen stood just centimetres from the touchline as usual, his arms crossed with a snarky grin on his face. he waved you over, and you knew what was coming. if there was one thing that this man could do, then it was complain and rant. but you didn't mind, because you just so happened to be a professional in both of those departments.

he went on for a bit and you agreed with him, and suggested that maybe some changes would do good. just to flip the dynamic a bit, seeing as they were getting nowhere. jurgen nodded, looking down at his watch now that arteta was making his substitutions.

funny enough harvey had just gotten booked for dissent, and that pretty much summed up everyone's frustration. you felt a light pat on your shoulder. "get the kids ready for harvey and curtis."

you left without any hesitation while jurgen went over to talk to pep about something. there was a smile on your face as you called on conor and bobby who were watching the match eagerly, their eyes lighting up in disbelief when you told them to warm up.

the board went up and you wished them luck but there was a sly smirk on your face as harvey and curtis came to sit down. "calm down tiny." harvey stopped to look at you with a hardened expression. "I can see the fumes coming from your ears."

the rest of the bench found your comment quite funny but that prompted harvey to throw his water bottle at you, but suddenly you jolted in your seat at the roaring sound of the away fans. in frantic you turned to the pitch, only to see that arsenal scored an own goal thanks to trent's free kick.

the stadium was alive again, the supporters began to sing and chant again and you were filled with hope that arsenal wouldn't equalise. 88' minute rolled around and you were sitting back in your seat, chatting with clara while your eyes subconsciously followed trent until you caught something.

not sure if you were being paranoid or not you leant forward in your seat to get a look. he did have a fall a few minutes earlier and even got booked for the tackle but it didn't seem that serious. "he's limping."

"who? trent?" clara asked, slightly confused but you remained silent. you watched as he went behind the goal line to grab the ball for a throw in, a slight hop in his step that had him scrunching his face in pain.

nobody else noticed the way that he bit his jersey to contain the pain, the captains armband holding much weight for him at that moment but he carried on. you made an appeal to pep, bringing his attention to the right back who was clearly not okay.

it was rolling into the 4 minutes of added time but you were extremely uneasy. yeah sure you had feelings for him and you were aware of them, but this amount of worry was a little weird. there was seconds left on the clock and lucho managed to score the winner, but you weren't able to rejoice.

the full-time whistle finally blew and the players stood on the pitch for a bit as usual but the minute to saw trent alone, you waved him over and walked with him to the dressing room.

"a normal person would've asked for help if they felt that they were hurt you know?" you said and hooked your arm into his for stability, just in case.

trent let out a scoff, fighting back the pain shooting through his leg. "there was 5 minutes left so it didn't matter. and," he looked pat the captain's armband. "I had a role to play."

there wasn't any point in arguing with him, so you just rolled your eyes. "okay, captain fantastic."

when you got to the dressing room, he sat down with a heaved sigh and just in time, the medics arrived. they couldn't do much at that moment but it was bad enough that he had a physio assessment the following day. the medics left shortly after, and you stood in the middle of the dressing room with a look of pure fear.

a smile tugged at trent's lips as he watched you, not being able to help that he found your concern for him endearing. "you're more stressed out than I am. and I'm the one that's injured."

that didn't help you at all. just the mention of an injury made you upset. there was a moment of silence before he spoke up again, leaning his head back onto the locker. "so what are we doing tomorrow?"

we??

you shook your head at the question. "no there's no we. there's only you, who's going to go home and rest because you need it."

"I can just rest at your house though?" he shrugged his shoulders, clearly not understanding the depth of the situation and his potential injury.

you seriously tried to fight him off, urging him to go home and rest, and that you'd pick up your hangout another time. unfortunately for you, this man was stubborn beyond comprehension. he would not back down without a fight and insisted that he needed the distraction anyway.

when you finally gave in, he was more than happy, which left you slightly annoyed. but at least that meant that he actually enjoyed your company so it was a win win situation... kind of.

when you were done wrapping up your work and bidding everyone goodbye, you took a stroll to your car with clara, who was conveniently parked next to you. of course, the first thing she asked about was if trent was still coming over, to which you nodded with an eye roll.

it was safe to say that she was more excited about tomorrow than you were. at least you had some time to prepare because trent still had to go home and freshen up. you offered to drive him but he said that his brother would probably drop him off since he couldn't drive.

all of that was extremely convenient, but there was still a small amount of fight in you that told him to cancel and rest at home. which didn't make a difference at all, but there was no harm in trying.

"yeah and then we're going to..."

clara trailed off with her sentence, her lips parting at the sight in front of your car. your breath hitched at the sight of michael with his hands in his pockets, his attention focused on the floor.

shit.

kelly was nowhere to be seen so you assumed that he told her to wait in the car or something. there wasn't much you could do since he was in front of your car, so you took the last few steps and he lifted his head to look at you.

he straightened his posture and took a quick glance at clara who was staring daggers at him which made him visibly uncomfortable. you pursed your lips to stop a laugh from escaping and gave a light squeeze to clara's hand, indicating that you'd be okay.

she wasn't too keen on leaving at first and pulled you in for a quick hug. "call me when you get to the hotel okay? drive safe."

"you too, angel." you waved her off, watching as she safely excited the parking lot.

the second she was out of sight, michael cleared his throat and took the liberty of taking a step closer. you swallowed the lump in your throat and tilted your head at him, urging for him to speak.

he licked his lips and cleared his throat. "this brings back memories, how ironic." there was an awkward smile on his face and it took a moment for you to realise that he was talking about your outfit.

you looked down at your liverpool jersey and back to his arsenal jersey with a bitter taste in your mouth. nothing came from it though, and you stayed silent. you didn't see any reason for you to respond, having more important things to do.

"I uh..." michael rubbed the nape of his neck. "I wanted to say hi since it's been a while. how are you?"

is he being serious right now?

the chill of the evening air was starting to pick up, a few goosebumps rising on your arms. "I'm great." you crossed your arms for some warmth. "how are you--" your nose scrunched, an irritated smile tugging at your lips. "--and kelly?"

a flash of hurt struck across his face and you relished in it. what gave him the nerve to talk to you after everything? that was the question plaguing your mind at the moment, you weren't even mad— you were just really irritated.

it took him a moment to come back from that but he simply nodded. "we're okay. I don't think she knows you're here by the way an--"

you sighed and checked your watch for the time. "yeah, let's keep it that way." it was nearly 9 and you had to get home. "michael, can we please speed this up, I need to leave."

"oh?"

you narrowed your eyes at his answer and it was clear to him that he wasn't going to get the light of day, definitely not from you. "I mean, yeah, sure," he hurriedly corrected himself, putting out his hand but quickly retracing it.

he noticed that you were growing impatient, and checked over his shoulder for a moment. "I'm sorry. I'm really sorry jamie."

you were barely listening, and instead began fishing for your car keys from your handbag, not wasting a second to move him out of the way and unlock the door. "aw, good for you buddy."

your answer caught him off guard. this wasn't how this interaction was supposed to go apparently but you couldn't care less. it was water under the bridge and you didn't have the energy to worry about it, but clearly he thought otherwise.

just as you were about to get into the driver's seat, michael put his hand on the door to stop you. your eyes shut in annoyance, and you had no choice but to look at him and the pitiful look on his face.

"michael, what do you want from me?" you asked, the anger slipping out in your tone. "it's been a year, we've both moved on and there's nothing we can do. so why are you talking to me right now, please enlighten me?" there was some mock in your voice because the situation was genuinely amusing.

"I'm here to apologise, and you're not listening to me," he answered in offence but you only rolled your eyes.

"I don't need an apology." you moved his hand away from the door. "I need to get to the hotel because my bus leaves in 40 minutes."

"jamie!" he raised his voice this time but you weren't fazed, only reflecting his energy.

"what michael!?"

he ran a hand through hid hair in frustration. "I'm trying to be decent and set things straight and you're acting childish."

"no, what you're being," you dropped your bag in the passenger seat and glared at him. "is an inconvenience. I don't want you to apologise because you were supposed to do that before I fucking left london."

of course, his apology wouldn't have made a difference back then and you still would've left but at least it would've been something. but you moved on, you got your life together and buried that part of you.

the emptiness of the parking lot echoed its silence as you stared at each other. your eyes filled with hatred and his with something you couldn't care less about. the moment was thankfully interrupted by the sound of a woman calling his name, and for the first time in a while you couldn't have been happier to see kelly.

"babe, hurry up we need to get home."

a smile crept to your face and you waved to kelly who was approaching, watching as she stopped dead in her tracks. "your girlfriend is calling you and I need to leave."

you shut the car door in his face and drove without looking back. this was your last goodbye to whatever part of you was left in london and you intended to keep it there.

when you got home a little after 12, you didn't say a word. even on the bus you sat in silence with clara holding your hand the entire ride. her understanding was seriously appreciated and that was all you needed, some emotional support.

sure, you didn't sleep as well as you usually would but when you woke up you were back to normal. the surprise encounter was water under the bridge once again and you had no reason to think about it. for your off day however, there wasn't much to do except having trent over.

he had his physio assessment earlier that day so he'd be over after 3 which gave you enough time to prepare. there wasn't much on his injury yet but it was practically confirmed that he'd be missing his match against fulham on tuesday, which he was immensely upset about of course.

so that was your plan today. to help him relax and distract him from the setback. since he couldn't walk, you set up a few things you could do at your apartment which was ideally your ideal idea of a date. not that this was a date! it was just a friendly hangout and nothing more.

anyway, you'd start the afternoon with an icebreaker. not just any icebreaker though, no you'd be building a puzzle. although it might've seemed strange, but just as you told clara, "trust the process." your friend wasn't too convinced by your answer but she went with it nonetheless.

after that, you'd have a few movies lined up. (5 of your best recommendations) after the movie and lunch you'd head to the kitchen for a little baking activity. and to wrap the evening up, you'd play a few games and just hang out.

it was perfect.

and by the time you were done with most of the setup, there was still enough time for you to make a quick stop. it was the christmas present that you'd gotten for yourself a while ago, but you were only allowed to pick it up today.

the drive to the shelter was a quick one, your excitement and eagerness for the long-awaited present pumping your adrenaline. you don't even remember properly stopping the car before you were at the reception and signing in.

you were led to a room on the far end of the building, where a litter of puppies were happily wandering and playing with each other. your heart nearly exploded in your chest, and you carefully stepped into the pen to tend to them.

"unfortunately their mum didn't make it, so I'm glad that we're able to find at least one of these babies a home," the employee who helped you said with a lopsided smile.

they were the most previous litter of golden retrievers you'd ever seen, and you couldn't have been more grateful that your complex allowed pets.

in no time you chose one of the pups, and were at the reception once again to finish up some paperwork. she fit perfectly in your arms and not to be emotional but you felt like crying.

everything was already back at your apartment— her toys, her food and water bowl and her bed. it was just a matter of finally welcoming her home, which wasn't much of a problem.

"come here bubba, " you called with a smile as you sat on your living room carpet. the golden retriever was a but hesitant sr first, tilting her head to the side before slowly approaching you until she took refuge in your lap.

your heart swelled in your chest and you pet her gently and took a picture for your instagram story.

spamjam._. added to their story

it wasn't long after you uploaded your story that your doorbell rang. honey, who wasn't familiar with the sound jumped up in fright which caused you to laugh. you picked her up, cradled her in your arms and opened the door.

on the other side, stood trent with his hands in his pockets. he flashed a smile, one that had your breath hitching but you managed to compose yourself and let him in.

"and who's this angel?" he asked and bent down to look at honey, who was more than eager to accept his ruffling of her fur.

you watched with a smile as he interacted with honey, taking her in his arms and baby-talking her. it was genuinely the most heartwarming experience, seeing him be so gentle and bashful with your puppy.

"this is my baby and the new addition to my family," you answered and sat beside him on your couch enough space between the two of you for the puppy. "she's a little christmas present from myself."

"well she's absolutely gorgeous," trent complimented and kissed the side of her head. he lifted honey in the air to get a better look and took a quick glance at you, the smile on his face not faltering. "you definitely take after your mother."

your heart stopped for a moment, unsure if you heard him correctly or if you misunderstood what he said. when he saw how you froze trent was quick to interject with a teasing scoff. "I'm sure you're used to compliments by now. unless mine just make you flustered?" his eyebrows raised with a cheeky grin.

all you did was roll your eyes to hide the fact that you were flustered. by now it was obvious that he knew that you had feelings for him, and some part of you felt that he felt the same way. so if this hangout went well, then you were on the right track.

after a few more minutes of chatting and getting comfortable, you started the first part of your dat-- hangout! the puzzle wasn't anything too crazy, just a picture of some aesthetic scenery. you'd been meaning to put it together for a while now, but there was never time.

you set it down on the coffee table along with some snacks. both you and trent took your seats on the carpet, side by side, but you made sure that he was comfortable. he had a knee brace on at the moment and was still limping.

the conversation between the two of you picked up quicker than before, there was no tension in the air or the need to hold back on saying something. everything just felt so free and light. there wasn't a moment where either of you wasn't laughing or bickering with each other, and that made it all the more fun.

the conversation sprung from topic to topic with ease. at some point it got to your family dynamics and the relationships between your parents and your siblings. you asked about how it felt to be the middle child, and why he was the only one of his two brothers that pursued his football career.

"I mean tyler is my manager now so he's still kind of in it, does that make sense?" he asked, more to himself than you and you nodded. "and marcel..." he paused and looked up for a moment, not knowing what to say. "he's just marcel. you know how younger siblings are."

a scoff left your lips as you scavenged across the array of puzzle pieces in front of you until you found one that might fit. "I am the younger sibling. unless alex counts then all the knowledge I have is from the word of mouth."

"yeah, you're privileged. younger siblings are such a pain."

it took him a while to realise what he said, and by the time he turned to apologise, you were already glaring at him. in an attempt to fix the situation, he held his hands up in surrender. "every younger sibling except you of course."

your eyebrows quirked. "uh huh? and why's that?"

trent's lips tugged up and he eased back down at the sound of your teasing tone. his eyes flickered between your lips and your eyes for a moment, but not long enough for you to realise. "because you're just the sweetest person ever. genuinely such a pleasure to be around, with all your screaming and laughing--" he put his hand on your shoulder. "--and not to mention your constant complaining."

your lips parted at the way he was mocking you. "oh, that's how it is?" you slapped his hand from your shoulder but he continued to ramble on jokingly, despite your protest.

"but I'd listen to you complain and scream any day, trust me."

your nose scrunched at his answer. "and the laughing?"

it felt like the space between the two of you had decreased a significant amount because your knee was touching his thigh. his doe eyes caught yours for a moment and you reminded yourself not to do anything rash.

"it's like music to my ears," trent answered in a mote gentle tone. and once again, you couldn't tell if he was being serious or not.

the moment was interrupted by honey barking, probably because she was hungry. you cleared your throat and got up to tend to your puppy and trent's eyes remained fixed on every movement. the way that you gently cradled honey and spoke to her, the way that you tucked a strand of her behind your ear— the strand that always seemed to bother you.

it was all so miniscule but he couldn't look away or ignore it. not when there was a reoccurring tightening in his chest whenever you were near him.

after more than an hour, you had finished about half of the puzzle and it was time to eat and watch one of the movies you'd picked out. now usually you'd just order a pizza or some sushi, but for some reason you felt like cooking for the occasion.

you plated the fettuccine alfredo and got your drinks out. it wasn't too dark outside yet so you left the lights on and got comfortable on the couch with the remote in your hand.

"okay, so I have no idea what you're into," you sighed truthfully and held up your finger. "but I have movies that everyone should like."

"and if I don't like them?"

you shrugged at his answer. "then consider our friendship over."

"jamie, that's just unfair," trent protested and turned to look at you but you weren't paying attention and settled on a movie.

you sat back and got comfortable, waiting for the movie to start. the familiar soundtrack sounded through the living room which caused trent to stop eating immediately.

"are we watching karate kid?"

when you looked at him you had to bite back a laugh and simply nodded. "It's one of my favourite movies. play it at funeral."

it was about 15 minutes into the movie when you both finished eating, and you were quick to take your dishes in while trent went to the bathroom. you washed the two plates and left them on the drying rack and quickly got back to the lounge.

trent was already huddled comfortably beneath the blanket with his legs spread out in front of him on his side of the L-shaped couch. the lights we all off now except for the t.v, and you couldn't explain a more relaxing feeling.

"come here, my angel," you said sweetly and placed honey on your lap.

after a bit, you felt the need to stretch your legs since they had been crossed for so long. the only issue was that trent was there, and if you put your legs on the couch, it would stretch over his lap.

for a few minutes, you mentally debated with yourself and endured the sharp pains shooting through your calves. trent must've noticed, you're not sure how, but he just did.

he caught your attention by tapping his lap lightly, giving you a look that said "I can see that you're dying". you declined of course and as usual, it was a back-and-forth about your comfortabity.

he won though. but it was by force. he literally leant over and grabbed your legs and put them across his lap, shushing you whenever you wanted to say something.

it was difficult to pay attention to the movie, seeing as all you could concentrate on was the feeling of his fingers trailing along your shins. you felt yourself drifting off to sleep at how comfortable you were, but you fought it off.

instead, you both basked in the atmosphere and the other's company. even if it was silent for most of the movie, the presence of each other made a significant difference. even if your feelings for each other were up in the air at the moment, something was bound to happen.

"we should do this more often."

you perked up at his sudden retort, and unbeknownst smile crept onto your lips. "just say the word and I'll work something out."

there was a beat of silence.

"word."

you rolled your eyes with a hearty laugh. "oh wow, you're hilarious."

the evening continued and came to an end quicker than you liked. you could hear in trent's voice that he wasn't too happy about it either, glaring at the text from his brother saying that he was outside.

you didn't know how to say goodbye. were you supposed to just wave? were you on hugging terms? like you said earlier, it was all up in the air. just floating around.

you stood awkwardly at the front door and bid him goodbye. and just when you expected him to then around and leave, he pulled you in for a hug and placed a gentle but quick kiss on your cheek.

and when you finally processed it. he was gone, leaving you alone in your doorway with a pounding heart and a feeling of slight emptiness.

trentarnold66

liked by liverpoolfc and 4 453 223 others

trentarnold66 best way to fix my leg 🥱 [tagged: spamjam._.]

view all comments below

spamjam._. your welcome 🙄

→ trentarnold66 I can hear you smiling

→ spamjam._. bro get a life [liked by trentarnold66]

user uhm what is going on in the house of commons???

user the math isn't mathing, but at the same time it is???

clarashaw someone stole my bitch 🥲 [liked by trentarnold66]

szoboszlaidominik 😟💔 [liked by trentarnold66]

judebellingham when my two worlds collide but I'm in another country 😃 [liked by trentarnold66]

→ spamjam._. tell jobe to change the netflix password back

→ jobebellingham I didn't change the password ?? 😭

→ spamjam._. @judebellingham kys.

→ judebellingham tehe 🤭

user WHAT IS HAPPENING IN THESE COMMENTS???

user this is the first time this man has posted in months and ya'll are worried about the comments 😭

user are they a thing??

→ user nah they're just friends, there's been rumours about trent and some other girl. iris I think?

[l4long-winded]

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

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

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

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

word count: 19,551

previously: concealed feelings and abstract attitudes

( this work has been cross posted to ao3 )

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Then which did he imply?”

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

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

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

“Where’s the fabric you found?”

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

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

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

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

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

“What is it?” He asks.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Does something concern you?”

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

“Focus. Am I losing you, Lily?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Edmund. Thomas.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What, what is it? Did you f—”

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

“But your note and explan—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[writingquestionsanswered]

People said we don't need filter words, but sometimes when the point of view is from another character, they are assuming and guessing things too and thus we need filter words. What do you think?

Filter Words Are Only Filter Words If Unnecessary

I think you're confusing what is meant by "filter words," so let me try to explain...

"Filter words" are words that are used to unnecessarily explain an action or thought.

Some common filter words are felt, watch, saw, knew, and heard.

The thing is though, these are just words. "Felt" is a word. It's not automatically a "filter word" just because it's on this list. It's only a "filter word" if it's used to unnecessarily explain an action or thought.

If you're using words like felt, watch, saw, knew, and heard necessarily... such as "I felt around on the floor to see if I could find the dropped earring," or "I saw something move in the darkness," those aren't unnecessarily explaining an action or thought. Furthermore, if you are illustrating your character's assumption or guess about what another character is thinking or doing, such as "I knew Clara would be embarrassed if I didn't distract the crowd," or "I felt the pain evident in Doug's eyes," that's also not an unnecessary explanation of an action or thought. So, in these cases, these words aren't "filter words." They're just words.

You can have a look at my Guide to Understanding Filter Words for more help. :)

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I’ve been writing seriously for over 30 years and love to share what I’ve learned. Have a writing question? My inbox is always open!

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[latinotiktok]

Propaganda:

Shrek & Burro

-Shrek - realmente se necesita explicación?

-Shrek, él es completamente un latino que tiene que vivir en gringolandia (sólo tenés que ver la segunda película para entender esto) Además la versión latino es muchísimo mejor que la original o cualquier otra, vos decís una frase de cualquiera de las pelis a otro latino y va a saber que viene de Shrek, en otros lugares no es así. Como nacionalidad no estoy seguro de donde pero latino si o si

-Veo. Nadie mencionó a Burro de Shrek? Nadie??? NADIE??? BURRO DOBLADO POR EUGENIO DERBEZ Y QUE GRACIAS AL MALPARIDO TUVIMOS A OBRA MAESTRA, LA JOYA, EL REGALO A LA HUMANIDAD QUE ES SHREK EN ESPAÑOL????????

-si puedo ofrecer a otro personaje, el burrito de Shrek. siento que le debemos demasiado como cultura como para negarle un puesto. el original podrá ser Eddie Murphy pero el doblaje de Eugenio Derbez todos nos lo sabemos de memoria.

-BURRO DE SHREK NO SE PQ NO LO DIJE ANGMTES EUGENIO DERBEZ TE ODIO PERO QUE GOD

Jojo's

-Todos los Jojos son latinos

-Los Jojo's. Porque son familia numerosa, tienen un desmadre, nadie tiene papá y así. Además hay un chorro de edits de los personajes en situaciones tercermundistas, busca Jotaro comiendo takis afuera del oxxo. Je

-Todos los Jojos pero en especial Jotaro que embarca en una aventura a través del mundo para salvar a su mamá, empieza algo macho pero luego se deconstruye (lo más hombre latino que puedes ser) (fuente: los ángeles me entregaron este mensaje)

-Joseph Joestar, hace lo que se le canta el ojete y vive en un cumpleañito, ama a su madre y cuernió a su mujer

-Paco Laburantes de Jojo's es argentino pq es insufrible, tiene papá alcohólico, se llama laburante y encima es chorro

-Jotaro Kujo is literally chicano

-Los jojos son un huevo, la mita no tiene padres. el pais no importa, caben en cualquiera pero si hay que elegir uno México por tequila joseph

-Joseph Joestar, conozco a varias personas que se comportan como el (ruidosos, creidos, quieren mucho a los abuelos, se quieren pelear con tipos que les sacan 50 kilos de músculo y ver cada culo que pueden), más cuando estan borrachos. Además, tequila Joseph Joseph Joestar, I know several people who behave like him (loud, arrogant, they love their grandparents a lot, they want to fight with guys who have 50 kilos of muscle on them and check out every ass they can), especially when they are drunk. Plus, tequila Joseph

-narancia ghirga from jojos bizarre adventure. just cuz

-DIO BRANDO de jjb

Guido Mista (jojo). Su suéter es celeste y blanco ARGENTINA CAMPEON DEL MUNDOO

-Narancia Ghirga porque él es mi causa, yo sé que su mamá al menos fue peruana, me lo dijo Araki

-Sheila E. de la novela de JoJo's Purple Haze Feedback tiene que ser latina si o si, y tengo evidencia; en primera su nombre viene de una mujer de descendencia latinoamericana, mas especifica mexicana, ademas que su nombre de nacimiento (Capezzuto) recuerda a los apellidos que llevamos varios latinos que tienen descendencia italiana. creció en el campo y en ocasiones se menciona que creció jugando en los ríos y afuera en la naturaleza, como buena latinoamericana 💪 también lleva ropa que (deliberadamente!) recuerda a diseños nativos Americanos, la novela es bastante bruta en cuanto culturas nativas pero Araki, que hizo el diseño de Sheila, lleva un entendimiento por lo menos estético de los pueblos nativo. es religiosa en una forma muy latina, no se como explicarlo pero hace sentido 💪💪 no puede pelear contra alguien que siente que hace mas bien que ella, y siente que su vida no vale mucho, entonces se la pasa tratando de sacrificarse por la gente que piensa vale mas que ella. paso un cuarto de su vida buscando a un tipo que mato a su hermana Clara, y se unio a un cartel para matarlo. cuando tenia 10 años. es bien perra nunca inperra, en la novela casi se agarra a piñas con 2 viejos distintos encima de todo eso, se la pasa sirviendo concha absoluta💅💅💅 tiene un sentido del olfato mega desarrollado, es tortillera y trava, tiene problemas mentales, y como todo latino al final se quizo agarrar a piñas con alguien y acabo echa pija. perdón mods de latinotiktok. tengo problemas y esta morra es 6 de ellos.

-un personaje de jojos recientemente introducido llamado Paco. En resumen es un tipo alto y musculoso que anda por la calle sin remera y con los ojos todos manchados con delineador. Es un forro y encima medio pelotudo pero en el fondo es buen tipo. Le encanta afanar cosas y es mejor amigo de un chico de quince años que lo ayuda a vender droga. Su superpoder es que puede agarrar cosas con la espalda. En mi humilde opinión este tipo es argentino porque su apellido es literalmente Laburantes y también porque es muy gracioso y lo amo.

-Dio brando as argentine. he's a rugbier and also in an alternative universe his name is confirmed to be a shortening of diego. i rest my case

-guido mista bc literally just look at him.

-Si puedo nominar dos veces, quiero añadir otra nominación para los JoJos. Criados por mamás solteras, con papás que solo se aparecen cuando ya están grandes para causar problemas. Tiene mucho énfasis en la música que es algo con lo que cualquier latino se identifica. La masculinidad tóxica abunda a veces pero la lección siempre es que ser campy le salva a uno la vida, lo cual es una lucha de todos los días acá en Latinoamérica.

Yo tambien vengo a nominar a los jojo. Siempre traen desmadre a donde sea que vayan y estoy segura que si alguna vez se hace reunión familiar, van a terminar en puras broncas por los terrenos/ofensas personales que ni al caso. Aparte se ven como que por cualquier cumple tiran cohetes 💁‍♀️

Todos los Jojos son Latines agreed pero creo que con los Pillar Men en cuenta deberían ser Mexicanos. Jotaro salió del Conalep y ustedes bien que lo saben

-bueno mira yo tengo un AU en mi cabeza de los jojos parte 5 que son italianos bueno en mi AU son argentinos descendientes te inmigrantes italianos-- *lo pisa un camion*

-Yukako Yamagishi de jojos recontra latina

-Dio Brando argentino súper argentino es inexplicable