#currently its sherlock (i know)

[gibbearish]

anyone else experience the thing where you have like. ships in law. like someone you follow is turbo into a pairing from a media you know nothing about so youre like. well guess this is our ship now

[cowardnthief]

my autism brain going feral when i find a new tv show to watch in 3 days, overanalyse, force everyone to watch and forget about after a week, only to rediscover it a month later

[vexwerewolf]

Should I read homestuck

tl;dr: no

actual answer: yes, but with some extremely important caveats.

Firstly, because Adobe shitcanned Flash, you can now no longer experience Homestuck in the form it was intended upon release... unless you download the Unofficial Homestuck Collection. This act of unbelievable, nay, saintly generosity by Homestuck's most dedicated fans allows you to experience Homestuck as it was intended - as close as is humanly possible.

"As close as is humanly possible" is the key phrase here. One indelible part of the original Homestuck experience was UPDATE! Homestuck would sometimes go weeks or even months (and later, years) between updates. I wasn't on Tumblr back in the day, but at the peak of Homestuck, even if you knew nothing else about it, you'd know when an update dropped because Tumblr's net traffic would increase something like three to fourfold. People would go apeshit bananas about whatever new revelations the Huss would drop on us.

You also need to realise that Homestuck is a product of its time and while its takes on sexuality and gender identity was pretty progressive (for its time), Huss did use the r-slur a bunch.

While we're on the subject of the author, Andrew Hussie (of whom my current understanding is that they have not changed name but go by they/them nowadays) is, in the most diplomatic possible terms, a very unique person. They are, at times, a visionary storyteller with genuinely fascinating ideas. At other times, they come off as kinda spiteful towards their readers.

Without meaning to dip into spoilers, some story beats seem (in my opinion) almost intentionally calculated to upset, irritate or mock certain fans. It never rises to the sheer vicious contempt that Steven Moffat had towards Sherlock's fanbase, but it does leave a bad taste in my mouth whenever I go back.

Additionally, and this is where a sort of birds-eye-view spoiler is unavoidable, the story suffers from the Game of Thrones pitfall of repeatedly increasing its own complexity by adding new plot threads without resolving existing ones, eventually leading to fatigue on the part of both the reader and the author. The arcs of a lot of characters just straight up get abandoned, while a couple of characters take an unnecessarily large amount of screen time.

There's one character in particular that the author openly states within the narrative (the author exists within the world of the story. It's... a whole thing) that they favour, and whose behaviour the story is warped to accommodate. You'll know exactly who I'm talking about almost the moment they show up.

Another reason I say that it's not really possible to read Homestuck as it was originally intended is because a lot of the shit that happens in it fits into the zeitgeist of the internet at the time any individual update was written. There's a whole section in the late middle third that is inextricably and very specifically tied to how it was like to use Tumblr in 2012.

Additionally, a lot of things have soured with time. There was the whole Hiveswap debacle (it was first announced in 2012. We got the first act in 2017. We got the second act in 2020. We do not even know if the third act will ever come out.). There were the legal threats. There were the Epilogues and Homestuck 2, which were... how do I put this? Not universally liked. There's been nearly a decade of discourse since Homestuck ended, and a lot of things haven't grown better with age.

All of that being said.

You should read it.

I cannot express to you just how big an impact Homestuck has had on internet culture. Even people who claim to hate Homestuck unconsciously use slang that it invented. Its unique ideas on storytelling, character design and narrative chronology have, in both subtle and unsubtle ways, changed the way millennials and Gen Z tell stories.

A lot of people were inspired to tell stories because of Homestuck - one example I always give to Lancer players is that Kill Six Billion Demons started as a comic on the MSPA forums (before it was homestuck.com, it was MS Paint Adventures), so Homestuck is in an indirect but demonstrable way responsible for the existence of Lancer. The sunglasses that Gideon Nav from the Locked Tomb wears have been explicitly stated by Tamsyn Muir to be Dave Strider's. Toby Fox made music for Homestuck, and worked on large parts of Undertale while living in Andrew Hussie's basement.

We also know someone in the Bluey creative team is a Homestuck, because...

There are subtle but direct references in Bojack Horseman, Hazbin Hotel, Steven Universe, Adventure Time - and those are just the ones that it's easy to prove! In a more general sense, I think there's a lot of cartoon series, movies, games, etc. that would either be very different or wouldn't exist if Homestuck hadn't happened.

It's certainly influenced my work.

I think, being very cautious to manage your expectations, that you should read Homestuck. At the very least, a lot of things people say on Tumblr will start to make, if not sense, a different kind of nonsense.

[marvelfanfn2187a113]

Too Old

Dean Winchester x little sister!reader

Synopsis: Dean confronts you about a strange habit, and you have to confess something to him.

Author’s note: hey guys! Currently obsessed with supernatural (I’m very late to the fandom, and just about done the first season), so I took a tiny break from my Sherlock series to write this! Maybe there’ll be more Winchesters in the future, we’ll see!

“Y/N, why is your stupid dog on my bed again?”

You returned from the measly motel breakfast only to find Dean glaring at you, holding your stuffed dog with two fingers like it was made of acid. You bounded forward, snatching it up out of his hands.

“Gee I don’t know, why are you stealing him?” You hugged the animal to your chest, a feigned innocent expression on your face as you looked up at your big brother. At Sam’s light chuckle, you dropped the expression and giggled, punching Dean playfully on the arm when his glare hardened. “Aw c’mon, you gotta admit that was kinda funny.”

Dean only rolled his eyes.

“Yeah yeah, hilarious. Seriously though, keep the dog on your own bed.”

You scoffed.

“What bed?”

Every motel you went to, your big brothers instantly claimed the two beds, leaving you with the fold out couch. Every. Time.

Dean quirked his eyebrow, staring down at you.

“Someone’s feeling sassy this morning.”

You ignored him, turning around to stuff your dog in your backpack and double-checking that you had everything packed. Dean turned his back on you to do the same, tossing over his shoulder-

“Aren’t you a little old for that stuffed dog anyway?”

Your hands stilled, nearly dropping your bag before you regained your composure quickly before your brothers noticed.

“Nope, I don’t care what you say,” gosh, if only that were true, “I’m not tossing him out.”

Dean just scoffed and, you assumed, rolled his eyes.

“Alright, whatever. Hurry up, I wanna get out of here.”

Not twenty minutes later, you were on the road again, another days-long drive ahead of you. When darkness fell and the moon arose, you dug around in one of the bags for a blanket, pulling out your dog with it and cuddling up in the back for some rest. You pressed the soft fur of the stuffed animal up against your face, breathing in its calming scent contentedly.

“You alright back there?” Dean’s gruff voice broke the silence, and you mumbled a positive response as you shifted, trying to get comfortable enough to get to sleep.

…

Two days later, the pattern started over again. Checking into a motel for the night, the fold-out couch, the small bag by your side filled with only the necessities–you weren’t staying long. You never did. And that was fine, just fine.

What wasn’t fine was the next step in the pattern. You awoke in the middle of the night, the back of your neck and your forehead drenched in sweat, your breathing labored. Another nightmare, stupid, stupid nightmare, of yet another stupid, stupid monster attacking you. Was it a monster? Maybe it was a demon tonight. Not that it mattered, you wouldn’t be able to fall asleep again either way. You hugged your stuffed dog to your chest and tried to breathe in its scent, before you remembered that you had washed it with the blankets as soon as you’d gotten to the motel.

Sighing in annoyance, you stood with the dog in hand, tip toeing over to Dean’s bed before hesitating. Would he get mad? Would he be suspicious about finding the animal in his bed again? No, you wouldn’t let him, you’d just have to get up before he did in the morning and take it back before he noticed. He couldn’t figure it out, he just couldn’t. You’d die of embarrassment if your big brother ever found out the real reason that he kept finding your dog in his bed.

You’d just have to be more careful next time.

…

Despite your surety that you wouldn’t be able to fall asleep again after the nightmare, after hours of tossing and turning, trying to rid yourself of the demons that haunted your dreams, you finally fell asleep. Unfortunately, because it took you so long to fall asleep, you didn’t wake up before your brothers in the morning, as you usually did.

“Y/N,” a voice cut through your sleep just as a hand shook your arm, “Y/N c’mon, time to get ready.”

You groaned, rolling over and blinking up to see Dean hovering above you, just before something dropped onto your head. You grabbed at it with your hand, and pulled it away enough to look at it. When you saw what it was, your stomach dropped.

Your dog. You’d left it in Dean’s bed again, and you hadn’t gotten up to retrieve it.

Dean was frowning at you, “That thing was in my bed again. Why do you keep putting it there? I know it’s not getting there on its own, and I know that Sam’s not determined enough in pranking me to lose precious minutes of sleep just to put this darn thing in my bed.”

You shook your head groggily, trying desperately to hide both your guilty look and your embarrassment as you shoved the animal into your bag.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Dean. I didn’t do that.”

Dean grabbed your arm and turned you to face him.

“Come on, don’t give me that, I know when you’re lying,” He sighed. “Look, you’re not in trouble or anything, I’m not mad. It’s not that big of a deal, I just can’t figure out why you’re doing it.”

You shook your head.

“Dean, I mean it, I’m not-”

“Hey!”

Dean’s sudden change in tone made you flinch. You hadn’t expected him to get so persistent about something so small, but you should’ve known him better than that. He never let anything go.

“I told you, I’m not mad. I just want to know. C’mon, you can tell me anything.”

You weren’t so sure about that, but you also knew that Dean wouldn’t drop this no matter what you said. You figured you might as well get it over with now, with Sam out–probably getting coffee. The less people who had to hear your confession, the better.

“It smells like you,” You kept your voice so quiet, you almost hoped Dean hadn’t heard you.

“What?”

Ok, that backfired. Now you wished he had heard you, so you didn’t have to repeat it.

“When I leave it on your-on your bed. It smells like you.”

Dean was frowning at you now, curiosity covering his features.

“I don’t understand.”

You cleared your throat, blinking rapidly and trying desperately to look anywhere in the room but at Dean’s face.

“I leave it on your bed, because then it smells like your cologne. It-it’s a nice smell, it helps me sleep.”

Dean was trying desperately to catch your eye, but you wouldn’t let him.

“Ok,” Dean said slowly, thinking through your explanation. “You could’ve just sprayed my cologne on it, I wouldn’t have stopped you.”

You huffed in frustration, your cheeks growing more flushed with embarrassment by the second.

“It’s not just-just your cologne. It’s like this mix of your cologne and shampoo and-” you stopped your rambling, too embarrassed to go on. “Look, just forget it, ok? If it really bugs you so much, I can stop.” You swallowed hard, hoping beyond hope that he wouldn’t tell you to stop. You were having a hard enough time sleeping as it was, you weren’t sure how well you would do if Dean made you stop your little routine.

Dean shook his head.

“No, no it doesn’t bug me. I just don’t get it.”

Your lip was quivering now, and the longer Dean penetrated you with his stare the more you felt like crying.

“It’s just…it reminds me of-of when you used to let me sleep in your bed. When I was having a nightmare,” your breath caught when you felt a tear trailing down your cheek. You really didn’t want to cry in front of Dean, but his gentle, yet firm grip on your arm told you that you wouldn’t get out of this conversation easily. “But since you said I’m to-too old for that, I figured this might be ok.”

Dean was frowning again, and you couldn’t help but notice the alarm on his face when he saw your tears.

“Hey now, when did I say that?”

You bit your lip to keep it from trembling, flitting your eyes upward so that you didn’t have to look Dean in the eye.

“U-um, maybe a couple months ago? When I tried to,” you choked on the lump in your throat, but forced yourself to keep going, “When I tried to get in your bed one night, you tol-told me to go back to my own bed, because I was too–I was too old to sleep in your bed.”

Dean’s brows scrunched together, and a sigh escaped his lips as he tried again to catch your eye.

“I don’t remember that.”

A sound that sounded half laugh, half sob escaped your throat, and you ducked your head in shame.

“I do.”

You felt Dean’s strong arms wrap around your shoulders, and before you knew it his hand was at the back of your head, pushing your face against the soft fabric of his shirt as his other hand rubbed your back.

“I don’t remember…baby, I didn’t mean it. You can come to me whenever you need to, ok?”

You sniffled, wincing when you saw you were getting tears all over his shirt.

“I don’t need to…I shouldn’t…Dean you’re right, I’m too old to-”

“No,” Dean’s voice was firm, and he pulled away from you just enough to try to look into your eyes. But you wouldn’t meet his gaze. “Look at me.”

Slowly, reluctantly, you let your eyes stray to his, and you saw resolve hardening his gaze. But there was a softness there too, a tenderness that only you, his baby sister, got to see.

“You’re never gonna be too old to need me, ok? I’m always gonna be here for you, I promise.” Dean sighed, and when his gaze wandered below your eyes you knew he was seeing the dark circles planted there. “You’ve been having nightmares, right? That’s why you wanted to sleep in my bed?”

You nodded, your head again ducking in shame. Dean’s strong fingers gripped your chin, lifting your head up so you were forced to meet his gaze.

“Hey, there’s nothing wrong with that. I’m not gonna let you go through those alone, ok? Next time you have one, I want you to come straight to me, understand?”

There was something comforting about Dean’s commanding tone. If he had been only reassuring, you would’ve perhaps felt that he was just trying to be nice. But his “soldier tone”, his ordering you to come to him, made you feel less like you were bothering him, and more like you were following an order, something that you knew made him happy.

You snapped a sarcastic salute, and even though he tried to hide it, you saw the corners of his lips turn up slightly at your action before he maintained a more serious expression.

“Alright, alright, you little smart-alek,” He pulled you into his arms again and stood, holding you off the ground and making you giggle, before he dropped you to the floor and clapped a hand on your shoulder. “Go get your stuff, ok? We’ve got about a thirteen-hour drive ahead of us before we reach where we’re going.”

Just as you turned to grab your bag, Dean gripped your shoulder a little tighter and leaned down to look at you.

“Hey, when we get there tonight, I want you to come to me if you can’t sleep, ok? Promise me.”

You smiled widely at your big brother, and lunged forward to wrap him in a hug.

“Promise.”

[emrowene]

Webserials and Why You Should Read Them

Welcome to a short primer on webserials! The concept behind them is pretty simple: webserials, also called webnovels or webfiction, are serialized online novels. If you read long fanfics OR webcomics, you're probably already familiar with the concept. Authors release new chapters on a fixed basis, usually one chapter a week (but sometimes more, sometimes less).

You can find webserials in several places: on big platforms like tapas and royalroad, on individual authors' websites or patreons, or on newsletter platforms like substack.

So now we know what webserials are, but why should we support them?

Because webserials are fun. Because webserial authors are sharing amazing works online for free! Because the publishing industry is disproportionately hard to get into for queer and marginalized folks, and those are the people writing webserials.

To climb a little higher onto my soapbox, I believe webserials are the future of accessible and diverse publishing. There's been more and more discussion about the problems with traditional publishing: how publishers are turning it into a "fast fashion" industry, spitting out books while overall book quality decreases. Regardless of whether you believe that, it's true that the industry prioritizes "marketability" over anything else. Experimental books, passion projects, books that have a lot of heart but no pithy "tropes" -- they stand little chance in the world of traditional publishing, and self-publishing is incredibly inaccessible for most of us. It's expensive, but more than that, it takes an incredible amount of time and effort. It's a business, and at the end of the day, some of just want to share the stories we love with people we hope will love them too. And that's the beauty of webserials!

One complaint I've seen about webserials is that "you never know what the quality will be like" - and I've seen this from people who regularly read fanfiction! Like fanfiction writers, we have our beta readers, we have our editors, we pour our hearts into developing our stories. So give us a try!!

Some recs and places to get started under the cut:

My webserials:

Fractured Magic - A queer epic fantasy series about a broken hero’s hunt for redemption and an elven prince’s quest to rescue his kidnapped king. The two estranged friends are racing against time - and dead gods - to achieve their goals. Will they make up and work together before it’s too late? (This story is currently ongoing)

The Case Files of Sheridan Bell - An old-school detective mystery set in Tamarley, a fantastical city with magical murders and doors to other worlds. Basically (queer, autistic) Sherlock Holmes but with more faeries. The first mystery is complete; the second will be published soon!

Some other webserials I follow/followed from start to finish:

What Manner of Man by @stjohnstarling - a queer gothic romance novel about a priest and a vampire.

The Warthog Report by @warthogreporter- this substack contains a selection of nonfiction writing, misc. fiction writings, and Battles Beneath The Stars, a serialized story about a tournament in a fantasy world, styled like a fighting game script/walkthrough.

Kiss it Better by DogshitJay - A (definitely 18+) queer adult romance about the messy endings and messier beginnings of love.

Warrior of Hearts by Beau Van Dalen - a queer slice of life romance following an online friendship that blossoms into something more. (Beau has lots of other great webserials as well!)

More places to look:

Tapas (Community novels page)

Royalroad (mostly known for its litrpg scene, but you can find other novels and genres here as well!)

The ao3 "Original Works" tag!

[the-quiet-youve-been-longing-for]

Okay time for another small (I hope) analysis on IWTV, mainly the way it's written and its place on current television. I'll try my best to format this so it's not ramblings all over, I promise.

IWTV and plot points

I watched a good amount of television in my time, and one thing I noticed here is the fact that it doesn't hold your hand. It doesn't tell you "hey, this thing x is important, now we will tell again why x is important, now here see x being used, the important thing we talked about so far, did you remember, audience?".

Let's take as an example the "don't drink the blood of the living" thing. It's said to a young Louis (telling also to the audience in the 2nd episode how vampirism in this setting works) and then every time it's brought up it's indirectly (Lestat spitting out the sick man's blood, we see Claudia buying Laudanum and we know what it will be used for, but they don't tell us "Hey, Claudia is planning to poison someone so that Lestat drinks it, because remember audience, dead blood kills them"). Sometimes not only it doesn't hold your hand, but shoves you in a different direction, especially in S2. It contradicts himself, backtracks and then it's up to you to spot it.

For example, attentive viewers may have noticed that Sam was in 2 places at once in the trial, one episode before the actual reveal. It isn't a gotcha they came up with in the finale to give more gravitas to the revelation. When they tell us Lestat mass manipulated the audience, it makes sense for the storyline too because we already saw him do that with the soldiers, we have a previous example to refer to, Armand never used that particular power.

In a time where we see so many social media adopt the "short videos" gimmick, like reels and shorts etc, having a piece of media that references back in this way is super refreshing.

2. Character complexity

Complex characters are the backbone of this show. It's easy to place a character in a box and leave them there. You see it with the stereotype of the villain, the best friend, the hero. Some tv shows may have the character shift into a different box, but it's almost never permanent (think of the times where a hero gets corrupted by the Evil Power, but then reverts back to their hero status after Defeating the Evil Power because they remembered the Power of Friendship).

We have Louis, well meaning vampire who is capable of horrible deeds when pushed to the brink. Lestat, who feels so much to the point it hurts the people around him. Armand, whose trauma and fear bring out the need to control, but at the same time he needs to do that without actually controlling. They are all these things at the same time, and it's impossible to see them in a black and white perspective.

3. Details

A line almost always has its parallels to another line in the show, gazes always mean something, props are detailed and shown (I made a post looking at Daniel's notes in 2x05, which were shown for a second only, but you can also think about Claudia's diaries, all handwritten, or the astonishing amount of folders that were in Daniels computer from the Talamasca. That is all prop work done to be shown for a few seconds at most).

4. Analysis

This is more of a fandom thing than the show itself, but I was suprised by the amount of deep analysis that people here on Tumblr did (but also on other social media). Long essays on the meaning of a scene, or on the many many topics the show brings to light (the fallacy of memory, the impact of trauma, the meaning of free will and agency).

Similarly lots of people said that the show brought them back the urge to start creating, whether it's gifs, video essays, edits, fanart, fics, what have you. I started going back to Tumblr after years (last time I was here was during S4 of Sherlock).

And I feel like this is only possible if you give your audience something to work with, something to talk about and to dissect, rather than simple "entertainment".

5. Final thoughts

Of course, this isn't to say IWTV is error free, all perfect, without flaws. Nor is it the only one that has had this amount of labor and impact. But it's still miles ahead from most media we have available at the moment in my opinion, and I really hope its success brings other showrunners or directors to want to try and dare, to trust in their audience, to avoid shortcuts and to pour love in their creation.

If you got this far, I just want to thank you for taking the time to read my ramblings again! Have a cute Louis as a reward, and see you next time :)

[dalekowrites]

What would your favourite choice of the games interactive stories be? Would you have a favourite type? Romance, Fantasy etc. and did any of the inspire you with the ones you are currently writing? 😁

Oh boy! This is going to be a long answer, brace yourself lol

Let me start by saying that I have a degree in English literature (in fact, I'm going to do a PhD on it), so reading, in general, is one of the core activities of my life.

As for text adventures, even if not from Choice of Games Ltd., I'd like to mention a few inspirations: my passion first came from the original Choose Your Own Adventure series, and I still remember which numbers obsessed me as a child: Mountain Survival #28, The Dragons' Den #33, and more than any other, Space Patrol #22! (The latter may have also fueled my unhealthy obsession with Star Trek TOS, actually). For those unfamiliar with this fantastic book series, the genres of the three books I mentioned are, respectively, adventure, fantasy, and sci-fi. This gives you an idea of how varied my tastes are...

Later on, I discovered interactive fictions and text adventures. Dude, it was a dream come true. I started with Adventure ('76, never finished it, of course) and Zork ('79, never finished that either… of course. How damn hard were they?!). Then Mystery Mansion ('78), Castle Adventure ('82), and too many, many others. I'm a sucker for Sorcery! from inkle, and I deeply loved Magium (RIP Chris, you won't be forgotten). For my Italian-speaking friends, I also really enjoyed the Fra Tenebra e Abisso series (although its current status is unknown).

But back to CoG-related things. I've read a lot, and I'd probably be faster telling you what I didn't like! As you may have figured out by now, I don't have any particular genre preferences as long as a story is well-written, though horror-thriller stories usually grab my attention more easily.

Important note: I've read a lot of stories and, with a few exceptions, I liked most of them. To avoid writing a too-long list, here are the published stories that really impressed me:

A Crown of Sorcery and Steel,

A Midsummer Night's Choice,

Blood for Poppies,

Blood Moon,

Broadway: 1849,

Choice of the Cat,

Choice of the Vampire,

Donor,

Doomsday on Demand (1 and 2),

Gilded Rails,

Golden Rose: Book One,

Jazz Age,

Lies Under Ice,

Life of a Mercenary,

Life of a Space Force Captain,

MetaHuman Inc.,

Noblesse Oblige,

Paradox Factor,

The Evertree Saga (all four books),

Rent-a-Vice,

Revolution Diabolique,

Siege of Treboulain,

Tally Ho,

The Daily Blackmail,

The Dragon and the Djinn,

The Fernweh Saga: Book One,

The Fog Knows Your Name,

The Gray Painter,

The Grim and I,

The Ghost and the Golem,

The Lost Heir,

The Midnight Saga: The Monster,

The Parenting Simulator,

The Play's the Thing,

The Soul Stone War (1 and 2),

The War for the West,

Tudor Intrigue,

Vampire Regent,

Vampire: The Masquerade (all of them),

Way Walkers: University (1 and 2),

Welcome to Moreytown,

Werewolves: Haven Raising,

Zombie Exodus,

Zombie Exodus: Safe Haven.

And now, onto works in progress! There aren’t that many because I barely have time to follow my own (heh…), so here, in alphabetical order, are the ones I'm following with the most interest:

Adoriel's Tears (@adoriels-tears-if),

A Father's Love (@kal-down),

Crown of Ashes and Flames (@coeluvr),

Dawn Chorus (@dawnchorus-if)

Disenchanted (@disenchantedif),

Dragon's Edged (@dragonedged-if),

Elysium (@elysiumcircusif),

Fallen Lights (@fallenlightsif),

For King and Country (@forkingandcountry-if),

From The Ashes We Rise (@kal-down),

Hubris (@hubris-the-if-game),

Kingdoms and Empires (@kingdoms-and-empires),

Return to Misty Cove (@fluorescent-if),

The Abyssal Song (@ri-writes-if),

The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes - An affair of the heart (@doriana-gray-games),

The Lonely Shore (@thelonelyshore-if),

The King's Hound (@the-kingshound),

The Reaper Watches Me (@thereaperwatchesme),

The Bureau (@thebureau),

The Unseelie (@theunseelieif),

Van Helsing (@vanhelsing-if),

When Life Gives You Lemons (@when-life-gives-you-lemons-if).

Okay, that was… a lot. As for direct inspirations, I don't have any direct ones, but I can say I felt like writing a post-apocalyptic story after reading Doomsday on Demand! Other than that, I guess the collection of narrative, text adventures, and interactive fiction I've read have led me to where I am now.

Damn, it took me hours to write this answer. I hope it's satisfying at least! Thanks for asking ☺

[dragonnan]

Nightmare

May 15

This one was published back in 2021. While it isn't a dreaming type of nightmare, I think it still qualifies.

Please let me know if you'd prefer not to be tagged :)

He could have taken the helicopter but, quite frankly, he had needed the drive in order to structure what he would say to them. Though, even as he pulled the sleek vehicle into the drive; gravel snapping and popping beneath the narrow tyres, he was no more prepared than he'd been when he'd left London. After turning off the engine he hung back for a beat – hands gripped around the wheel.

Whatever gods exist please let them not be home...

The house door opened and Mycroft swallowed – eyes closing for just a moment.

Before they could step out into the yard, however, Mycroft schooled his face and exited his car; feet settling onto the dusty drive. He should have changed into something more fitting; his polished black shoes were going to be scuffed beyond recovery.

“It's been three days; we've heard nothing – not even from that assistant of yours...” Words trailed away as Mycroft neared the door – those keen grey eyes taking in his features. Then, finally, his mother swallowed. “I'll go fetch your father.”

He followed inside. The trappings of the holiday still bedecked the walls and tucked in corners – red and green and things that glittered. The ghost of that wretched holiday nearly enough to spin his gut. Had it really been just three days? Having hung back in the sitting room, surrounded by the ruin of Christmas, Mycroft waited until he heard the back door open and shut – until he heard the tread of work boots cross the floor and the hiss of the tap as his father washed up at the sink. He'd been out in his workshop, then.

When he eventually made his way into the kitchen, his mother was setting the kettle to boil. There was a rum cake on the table – a holdover from their broken celebrations. Mycroft was quite certain he would never again deign to eat another slice of rum cake.

He felt caught in a current – his limbs disconnected from the floor below as he watched his parents carry out familiar movements cast in the die of decades – repeated and worn into the shape of the spaces around him until the very molecules in the air had been carved to fit their steps. It was nearly a head-rush that would have staggered him had he not been clinging with one hand on the door jam – that sensation of events playing themselves out to infinity. That sickening slip of déjà vu that wanted him to carry out his own predetermined patterns. He had taken these steps before... sat at the table, unburdened dire news which would fracture their family with regards to the youngest of them... that pall of death that had followed Sherlock from the very first time Mycroft had forced air into his stilled lungs in a filthy doss house. Seventeen years old and ODed on a tainted dose of cocaine from a disreputable dealer. Had he been the one, then, to stay that boney specter – to demand favor that would, eventually, demand its due?

Was this to be the payment demanded? To stand to the side while the blade of the guillotine fell?

Or was he the one required to let slip the rope from his fingers?

“Mycroft?”

His father's voice and proximity sent a rush of inhaled air through Mycroft's nose – head jerking back a fraction until his dark musings returned him to the room he'd fled. The tea was ready and Mummy stood next to the table while his father was less than a foot away – concern on both of their faces.

He stiffened his shoulders and walked to the executioner's block.

Once sat, he took his cup in hand and even sipped the warmth – his body so cold that it felt like a blaze sliding down his throat. He was aware that he was handling this all very badly.

His mother, likely sensing the impasse holding his teeth together, finally spoke to life the fear wrapping them all.

“Sherlock will not be allowed to go free.”

Mycroft's eyes fluttered shut, then, and he shook his head.

“No.”

“But you did not travel for over an hour to tell us that. We knew there would be a punishment of some sort. It's worse than that. Isn't it.” Her own tea remained untouched. At the edge of his vision, Mycroft watched his father take hold of his mother's hand. When had their home ever been so silent?

“He is to be held in solitary until the week's end. He is to have no visitors; myself included. On Friday, Sherlock will be escorted to my private airfield. There he will board a jet, to be taken to a location, deemed by M16 to be of high-value, which I am not at liberty to disclose... even to you. Such is the nature of this mission that, upon successful completion, Sherlock's debts will be forgiven and his slate wiped clean.”

Throughout this Mycroft kept his eyes fixed on his cup – watching the surface steam as it dissipated above the rim. When he finished, he considered another sip before noting the tremor in his hands that were held gathered in his lap. He breathed, measured in a count of eight, until they stilled.

Mummy, however, dithered with the cup in her free hand – the porcelain skidding on the old tabletop. Her voice, when it came, was stripped to a jerking hush. “Will he...?” Whatever remained of her question locked up tight behind her throat and when Mycroft lifted his head it was to watch a tear seep down one pale cheek.

But, then, he knew what it was she was asking. And maybe his silence, in reply, was more than enough answer because she turned into Siger's embrace and, with shaking shoulders, began to weep.

Some time later, Mycroft was halfway through his third cigarette, while overlooking the back garden. The burning fag jutted from between two fingers where they rested on the black metal gate. How recently he stood in this very place.

It had grown quite chilly, the past several nights; dipping down as low as six degrees. There was even the chance of snow flurries in the morning.

Finishing the cigarette, Mycroft tapped the ash tip against the fence before tucking the butt in his pocket. It struck him, then, that he would never steal away for a smoke with his brother ever again.

He didn't remember when he moved. He only knew that he came to himself as he was pounding his fists against one of the rough stone posts that stood on either side of the gate. The blood in his ears was pumping so loudly that he could not hear what tore from his throat – could only feel it in the vibration of his vocal chords. In truth he would have remained lost in his rage far longer had not arms wrapped around him from behind. In that moment Mycroft knew his father's embrace.

He sagged, then, in those strong arms. Stronger than the older man appeared to anyone who didn't know him. He held his oldest child as Mycroft tipped his face down into his spread hands and began to sob. Rough, jagged pieces of glass that left behind bleeding wounds where they ripped through his chest.

How long they stood there was lost to time. Mycroft only knew that at some point his father had laid an arm across his shoulders and was guiding him inside with soft words while Mycroft had all he could do to place one foot before the other in a mostly straight path.

When next he was logging events it was to blink owlishly at the stout mug of something steaming and alcoholic resting on the coffee table, before him. He lifted it and took a sip. Ah – father's special hot toddy spiced with cardamom. He had taken several sips before finally taking in more of the room. His eyebrows lowered when he noticed that the only other person in the room was his father – the older man sitting in his favorite chair next to the fireplace. His face was haggard and eyes rimmed red. At Mycroft's glance, Siger tipped his head towards the hall.

“She's lying down. It was... it's too much. We almost lost him, so recently, and now...” his throat bobbed and he subsided – long fingers twisting together. Mycroft held the warm mug in his hands – his fingertips tapping against the rim. Only then did he feel the sting rising in his knuckles. Blood filled every crease – though it was obvious the injuries had been cleaned and treated with a topical ointment. His eyes closed and he felt the flash of burn from his dried out stare. He was aware of losing time repeatedly and, were he not so emotionally flattened, it would have been troubling.

He held the mug in his hands until it cooled – setting it aside once he finally noticed the absence of heat.

“I've failed him.”

The words whispered free before his mind had fully formed them. Yet, the moment they were voiced he knew the truth of them. He had failed. The only mission in his life which truly mattered and he had failed... abysmally.

And his brother would pay for that failure. And there was nothing he could do to repair this.

He expected no response from his father – what was there to say? He was aware of Siger looking towards the low flames in the fireplace. His eyes were wet.

And so they remained; each trapped in their own misery.

An hour later his father stood, approaching to rest a hand against his cheek, for a moment, before going off to bed.

He had only intended to deliver his news before returning home but Mycroft found he scarcely had the energy remaining to slip his shoes from his feet before curling on his side.

He was asleep before he even finished the mental note to call Anthea in the morning.

The following day was possibly worse than the evening which had preceded it. His mother was, by turns, furious and horribly silent. Even his father, normally a stoic man, had a tremble in his jaw and more than once wiped beneath his eyes. It was a journey through hell as Mycroft forewent breakfast in his urgency to flee.

There were six additional texts from John as well as two voicemails. Certainly no point in perusing them – it was readily apparent what the man had to say and Mycroft deleted them without bothering to listen. He had no answers for him and the ones he could have provided would be a disservice to his brother's friend. There were too few things he could do for Sherlock. This, at the least, was a mercy he could offer.

There were many affairs he had to put into order. As it was they were not entirely new – having been established the last time Sherlock had confronted a madman. The difference, of course, was that Mycroft's involvement, back then, was to provide the greatest assurance of his brother's survival. Now...

It struck him, all at once, in a sort of breathless fashion so strongly that he was forced to pull to the side of the road. His hands clasped on the steering wheel and he felt a wild pounding through his chest and it was some outer observation of himself that recognized panic. That part of him, though, was incapable of offering more and even his sense of time was wiped away until he finally, eventually, came back to himself layered in sweat that felt icy against his temples. His mouth was tacky and dry so he opened his door to walk around back to the boot where he had a cooler among other supplies. The water almost hurt when he first swallowed – his throat was so parched. In short order, however, he'd emptied it and screwed the cap back onto the depleted bottle – tossing it into the cooler before retrieving a second and taking it back to the driver's seat.

It was an additional ten minutes before Mycroft felt confident to drive. But as he pulled out onto the roadway it was with a hum of determination that had begun to build from the moment Sherlock had pulled the trigger to end Magnussen's miserable life. He would not allow Sherlock to face this alone. Not while blood still pumped though his veins. No, he may not be able to alter this fate. However, he still had the autonomy his position afforded.

Even if it meant walking with his brother into the flames.

His uncle would have accused him of excessive drama. Rudy, though, had long viewed sentiment as little more than a tool for manipulation. And, in that moment, Mycroft found he didn't care one whit what Rudy Vernet thought.

He needed to contact Anthea again – an adjustment to protocols which had been previously established. She would not thank him, once she became aware of his intentions. However, she would, he hoped, understand. There was no other way.

In three days he would watch his brother board a private jet.

An hour later, Mycroft would take a temporary leave – boarding a commercial flight under an alias known only to Anthea.

He was quite certain he would never see London again.

He found no regret in this choice. In fact, for the first time since Christmas, he felt peace.

He only had one last task to accomplish – something he had promised his brother before Sherlock was locked away in a private cell. Contact dialed on his mobile, Mycroft was unsurprised when it was picked up scarcely after a single ring.

“Mycroft – what the hell is going on? Where is Sherlock...?”

“John. My apologies. Sherlock has been detained and I'm afraid he has not been allowed contact. However I...” he licked his lips; suddenly aware of a dangerous tremble which he forced aside before it could slip into his speech, “I was able to procure... a moment.”

“Moment? What...”

“To say goodbye. John.” Not fully silent, on the other end, Mycroft was able to note the sudden deep breaths. One last mercy, perhaps. “As recompense for the shooting, Sherlock is to avail himself to MI6 as a field operative. It was deemed a far better fate than to waste away in a cell.”

The breathing caught as John composed himself. When his voice returned it was subdued.

“How long?”

Mycroft rubbed his thumbs against the steering wheel. “Indefinitely.”

He had no trouble imaging John's eyes shuttering closed. “I see.”

They disconnected shortly afterward.

As grayed hills gave way to London streets, Mycroft pulled the tatters of self back around his shoulders. This was for the best. After 6 months, John Watson would receive a substantial deposit into his bank account – more than enough to see to his child's upbringing and education. He would know only that Sherlock had arranged for the funds via his trust. He would wonder – likely assume, correctly, that Sherlock was no longer alive. He would mourn and he would move on. After all, he had done so, once before.

As to Mary; Mycroft would have her under watch. Anthea would see it through personally. Should the former assassin ever show any indication of returning to her former life... should she ever present a danger to John or their child... it would be handled. His parents...

And here Mycroft faltered in his manic plans.

And not only his parents. He had responsibilities that only he, and very few others, were aware existed.

He... he could not do as he desperately wished.

There was only a vast emptiness of winter pale hills beyond the windscreen. The promised flurries had begun to fall shortly after five that morning – the roadway gilded with sparking flakes that frosted the browned grass and clung to the branches of trees. As the flakes began to thicken, building into a proper snow, Mycroft switched on the fog lights in spite of the fact he shared the road with no other vehicles.

Before the weight of it all could drag him beneath the rising waves, Mycroft mentally took hold of himself. He had allowed emotion to wrest control of his faculties. He had... indulged a fantasy. But that was all it would ever be. It was over now. It was all over, now.

It was time to move forward.

His parents would never forgive him. This, though, was something he had been prepared to face. And it wouldn't be the first child he had taken from them.

Before his maudlin thoughts could overtake him, yet again, Mycroft dialed a number on his mobile once again. There was no sound of a ring and only moments passed before he heard the click of a connection. “Anthea. I need you to make arrangements. It's for John Watson... and Sherlock.” He licked his lips; moving into a lane that would take him into the city and on to Whitehall. He remembered, with sudden and breathtaking vibrancy, a tiny face with watery blue eyes, peering up at him from the folds of the blanket cradled in Mummy's arms. And he knew, as well, that he gave himself away with the tremble that broke in his voice.

“It's time to say goodbye.”

Comment on AO3

Tagging: @totallysilvergirl

[krazyyyyyy]

Hey hey! I love your Geo (and Hyugo) work so much I wanted to make a request! If this is too much, or potentially graphic, just ignore this. :] Geo x reader who's suicidal/depressed, but hides it well. (totally not mirroring here nooo) Or Hyugo with the same prompt. Or both, whatever you want. Thank you in advance either way, and I hope you have an excellent week!

Always by your side ( Hyugo/ Depressed Reader)

TW: Suicidal thoughts, Mentions of Drug usage

Words: 1284

Notes: I'm so sorry if you're going through some difficult times at the moment. I hope this short little fic gives you a bit of comfort.

 When will it go away? Does it ever go away? Are you stuck with this? The heavy weight of misery tugs on your heart, causing a lingering ache in your chest that shows no signs of fading. You struggled to catch your breath, as your anxieties got the better of you, making you feel small and vulnerable.

You just wanted it all to end, the pain, the misery….everything. Every day, you woke up, things only got worse; food started to lose its taste, colors lost the vibrancy that used to bewitch you, and your hobbies seemed pointless and useless. At night, you would lie awake unable to sleep with the same question repeating in your head: ‘Is life worth living?’

You lean against your hands, which were clamped on your bathroom sink's counter. You raise your head to look at yourself in the mirror; you looked a mess–a broken mess, with tears streaming down your cheeks and your hair out of place. What were you going to do with yourself?

A sudden tapping from outside the bathroom door startles you.“Y/N? You okay in there?” Hyugo’s muffled voice speaks from the other side of the door

You’re quick to wipe away the tears with the sleeves of your hoodie, composing yourself to the best of your abilities before speaking. How long have you been in here?

“Y-yeah, I’ll be out in a sec!” You prayed that he didn’t hear the strain in your voice, the last thing you wanted to do was worry him.

“Are you sure?” He persisted

“… Yeah, just need a minute.” You lay your head in your hands, as an instant migraine overwhelms you.

You hear him sigh, “Okay… Let me know if you need anything.” Faint footsteps let you know that he had walked away from the door, more than likely heading to the living room to watch another Sherlock Homes movie.

… Your pills… you have to go take your pills… they might be able to clear your head from all these dark thoughts. You hated having to rely on them every time you felt like this… but what other choice did you have?

You hated yourself even more, given the fact you took the pills behind Hyugo’s back. He remained unaware of your current mental state, as you did well to push all your feelings deep down inside, and then wear a smile to cover it all up. You hoped that your condition would get better with time and would disappear one day. But, instead, it got much worse with each passing day. Yet, you still didn’t have the heart to tell him about it; you knew he’d do anything to help you get better, but you couldn’t let him drop everything to help you…you didn’t deserve that from him.

After adjusting yourself, you give one last look in the mirror, before rushing out of the bathroom and into the bedroom. You kept the antidepressants hidden underneath a stack of clothes in your dresser, somewhere you thought Hyugo would never find them.

You’re quick to open and search the contents of the drawer for the pills, but to your horror, they are nowhere to be found. In an act of sheer desperation, you search through every single drawer in hopes that you have just misplaced them by mistake. Alas, the medication is still missing, meaning you would just have to go on without them until you got a new bottle. 

Your body shook anxiously, feeling the intense waves of depression hit you like a steel drum. There had to be something you could do to get rid of the emptiness that started to overwhelm you… Maybe watching that movie with Hyugo would take your mind off things…hopefully.

Closing all the drawers of your dresser, you stand up and start making your way toward the living room, which is right down the hall from your bedroom. 

After walking the short distance, you make it, but are immediately confused to find Hyugo standing in the middle of the living room with his back turned to you. He seemed to be intently looking at something he held in hand.

“Hyugo?” You called out to him, as you stepped closer to where he was standing. He remained unmoving where he stood, making you think he didn’t hear you at first. But after a brief moment, he finally turned his body to face you. He looked at you with worry and hurt in his eyes, nearly on the verge of tears. It broke your heart to see him look at you this way, and just when you were about to ask him what was wrong; your gaze shifted to what he held in his hand, and you instantly felt your heart drop.

In his hand, were the pills you had desperately tried to keep hidden from him for the longest time. Your secret was out, and now you had to deal with the backlash that came with it; this wasn’t something Hyugo wouldn’t let go so easily.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” He gestures toward the pill bottle in his hand, his voice filled with deep hurt. After being together for a few months, he believed you two could tell each other anything…or at least he thought so. While you were in the bathroom, Hyugo, who could tell you were unwell, had opted to help you with some unfinished chores around your apartment. While putting away some of your folded clothes, he discovered the pills, and upon finding them, he felt his heart shatter. His mind was swarmed with questions, ‘Did you not trust him?’ ‘Was he the reason for your unhappiness?’

You choked back on a sob, “… I-I’m so sorry… I couldn’t… You shouldn’t have to deal with this.” Why should someone as bright and jovial as Hyugo have to deal with your darker, and painful inner struggles? This was supposed to be your fight…not his. 

Hyugo’s expression softens at your words. The hurt he had felt was eclipsed by the concern he had for you and your well-being. With the pill bottle falling to the floor, he reached out toward you, gently cupping your face in his hands, “Hey,” he spoke softly, with a warm smile on his face, “You don’t take to go through this alone, Whatever it is you're going through, I'm going to help through it. I’m here for you, always.”

Tears well up in your eyes as you meet his gaze, feeling the comfort and safety that his eyes often reflect. It hadn’t left completely, but the burden you felt had gotten just a bit lighter. With the unwavering support you received from your boyfriend, there was finally a glimpse of hope for the future.

“… I just…didn’t want to worry you,” you admit, tears streaming down your face. “I thought… I thought I could handle it on my own…”

Hyugo leaned down to press a soft kiss where a stray tear lingered on your cheek. “You don’t have to do anything by yourself, not when I’m here.” He said, his voice firm yet still cordial. He didn’t hesitate to pull you into a tight hug, burying his face in the crook of your neck.“I love you, but please don’t hide things like this from me anymore.”

Wrapping your arms around him, you rest your chin on his shoulder, relishing his warmth. “I won’t… I promise,”. From your response, you can feel Hyugo smile into the base of your neck.

You may have a long journey ahead you toward getting better, but with Hyugo at your side, it felt as though you could accomplish anything.

And you couldn’t be any more grateful.

[veliseraptor]

July Reading Recap

A Fire Upon the Deep by Vernor Vinge. I can see why people said this one had Adrian Tchaikovsky vibes because in terms of the worldbuilding and the alien species involved it absolutely did. I was not super enamored of the part of the plot that wasn't on the Tines' world (which was...an important part of the plot), but my investment in the politics of the Tines and the worldbuilding around them made up for it. I'm curious about the apparent sequel and whether it's worth reading - does anybody know?

Thousand Autumns: vol. 5 by Meng Xi Shi. I have finished Thousand Autumns and my verdict on it mostly hasn't changed from what it's been throughout: enjoyable but not really fully clicking for me. I liked it! But I didn't love it, and I don't know that it'll stick with me the way other books have, or compel me to do a reread.

A Fatal Thing Happened on the Way to the Forum: Murder in Ancient Rome by Emma Southon. Maybe I just don't have a sense of humor, but I felt like this book was trying too hard to be funny/clever and it landed wrong for me. It was interesting, certainly! And I learned some new things from it, and probably will go on to read the author's other book (about women in Ancient Rome), but this one tonally was not a winner, for me personally.

Ballad of Sword and Wine: vol. 1 by Tang Jiu Qing. Rereading this one (Qiang Jin Jiu, they're really going off in their own direction title translation-wise there) with the official published translation even though I am also binding it, because I can, I guess. And I still deeply appreciate how unhinged Shen Zechuan is, but in, like, mostly a way where it's not obvious to most people until they've known him for a little while. Also the sheer amount of politics, which I'm following better on this second readthrough. I think it'll be rewarding to reread.

The Pomegranate Gate by Ariel Kaplan. One of two Jewish fantasy books I read this month, just by chance (I wasn't intending on a theme, they'd both been on my to-read list for a while). I liked it a lot! I thought it was going to be a stand alone and feel a little funny about it being a series (I'm always looking for more stand alones), but I am also looking forward to more of it.

The Devil & Sherlock Holmes: Tales of Murder, Madness, and Obsession by David Grann. I've really enjoyed the other David Grann books I've read/listened to (The Lost City of Z, Killers of the Flower Moon) but found myself fairly underwhelmed by most of the essays here. It's not that they weren't good (they were) or interesting (most of them were), it just didn't feel like they were that good or that interesting. Maybe I just like his full-length books better.

Five Broken Blades by Mai Corland. It was fine? Not as good as I'd hoped. I called the twist which was satisfying for me personally. I don't know if I'm going to be reading the sequel. Most of the POV characters I liked fairly well, which is the main thing this book had going for it, but one of them bored me to tears and that inflected my enjoyment of the book as a whole.

The Vanished Birds by Simon Jimenez. This book earned its five stars by making me cry in the last 20%. Overall a beautiful book, though, relatively quiet; I wasn't sure about it early on but then it hit a turn that really got me. Makes me want to read his other book. The summary on the back really does not do the book justice but I don't actually know how I would explain it better, and I recognize that makes it a difficult recommendation.

When the Angels Left the Old Country by Sacha Lamb. This one was really good and a lot of fun. Very Jewish, too, which was enjoyable and not something I run into all that often in fantasy books. Just...very charming, entertaining, a joy to read.

I'm currently reading Godkiller by Hannah Kaner though I should be reading Edenville since I have it checked out from the library (I'll get to it!). I keep meaning to get back to reading more nonfiction (or realistic fiction) and then getting distracted. My plan for upcoming books, though, includes The Ratline, To Shape a Dragon's Breath, and (after years of having it sit on my shelf) Beauty Is a Wound. We'll see how on task I stay or if I end up wandering off to other stuff.

I'm currently looking for horror and mystery/thriller recommendations, though, so if anyone has any of those I will take them.

[l4long-winded]

i. a sleep deprived meeting

summary: your upstairs neighbor plays the violin often. so much so that it's distracting you from your work. you decide it's time to confront him (cavill!sherlock x afab!reader)

reflection: this is the first part of six. two have been written, and another is currently in the works. i did plan to finish everything and post it in one piece, but then it would be too long. i have dove into a rabbit hole here and i hope i am able to curse others as much as henry's sherlock has cursed me. please enjoy and of course, feedback is always encouraged and appreciated.

warnings: seamstress!reader, sherlock is rude, condescending!sherlock, cursing, somewhat slowburn, enemies to lovers, eventual smut, victorian era (please let me know if there are other warnings i need to add)

word count: 2,604

That damn violin’s surpassing the dimension between floors separating you from your upstairs neighbor again. The vivid sound is so clear that you’re positive your fingertips could rest against the surface of the wall and vibration would greet you not only harmoniously, but physically. Music you could touch because of how it swells in the building, how it echoes out to your flat and bounces off the empty spaces not covered by scraps of fabric. The hum shouldn’t bother you as much as it does, but your fingers are not occupying themselves with the task of becoming familiar with the tunes of a skilled violinist; they’re busy with a commissioned dress that must be finished within the time slot of a day. Normally you wouldn’t rush the process, but work came fast and aplenty, leaving you with little to no choice but to overload yourself and answer it with vigor and stubbornness others would describe as not knowing how to quit. You’ve never had a quota this full to meet and you were, after all, one woman, but you’re going to work day and night if that’s what it takes. Or, in your case, another day and another night of nonstop work to add onto your seemingly endless and perpetually sleepless cycle of being.

In your haste, your index finger meets the needle of your incoming thread. It’s a stab straight to your flesh, one of many, and one managing to aggravate your already high level of frustration brewing within. Quickly and without thinking, you shove your finger into your mouth to nurse the small, repetitive wound underneath your tongue. The taste of metal mixes off with your saliva and soon fades from blood and light salt to nothing but a feeling of your pulse throbbing from the unwelcome intrusion. The drum in your fingertip only speeds up as a warning of you to be careful, of how each misstep with the needle may be miniscule, but multiplying the instances periodically would leave behind more pain to ache alongside the pressure forming in your back and neck. Your eyes burn the longer you keep them open, the longer you focus on sewing, there’s no need to add pricked fingers to your list of pain that you would wind up ignoring in favor of more work. And yet, through all of this, it’s not your cramping hands, your stiff neck, your tired eyes, or your crouching back that cultivates your irritation. No, it’s the crescendo of the violin from upstairs nestling in your ear, yelling at you to shut it up.

After personifying the instrument and imagining its voice as a cry for help, of how it’s a victim to the criminal musician’s overuse, you somehow justify yourself pushing the cloth in your lap aside to place it onto the table of your machine. You blow air to flip the hair strands that have fallen out of their way and laid on your lips, the rest pinned to your head so you wouldn’t have to worry about your hair draping over your skin during your job’s duties. You’re so focused on gripping the material of your skirts that you fail to notice the strands falling right back into your eyes on the way up the stairs you’re marching on one by one. The violin increases in volume with every step you take until you’re soon facing a door, a golden label of 221B staring back at you, the contrast being in the floor letter. This is not the first time you’ve been disturbed by this tenant, but it’s the first time you’ve come up here to this door in particular and you’re aware of this as you hesitate and merely glare forward. This self-awareness sets you back two seconds, only two seconds of precious time before you decide to see this through and confront your unnamed tormenter.

Your hand raises into a fist, prepared to knock onto the door seemingly taunting you for some course of action, but it’s then that it swings open and unveils a rather large man with squared shoulders and an annoyed expression that you know mirrors your own. His face is sculpted, boyish curls surrounding masculine and inquisitive features that become more so with a raise of his left eyebrow. Almost as if you were actually staring into your own reflection, your shoulders perk up and you rectify your posture to try and replicate the amount of space he takes in the same fashion that you would imagine a human doing in front of a bear to appear bigger than it was. But it doesn’t matter what he looks like, this complaint must be said with confidence and you won’t let this man’s size or gender intimidate you. Your lack of sleep may have made you a bit reckless, but at least you could move forward and continue without his infuriating habits robbing you of your sanity whether it’s while you work or while you try to unwind (a much rarer phenomenon, but still not as plausible with him around).

Or so, you thought.

“You’re heavy on your feet,” the man cuts the silence without allowing you the chance to speak. “I could hear you coming before you started to ascend the stairs.” Your voice catches in your throat hearing such an utterance, your eyes automatically drifting down to look at your choice of footwear. Your heels weren’t the quietest of shoes, but the clack of them against the stairs is not something that you were noticing in your simmering rage walking up and across the hall. Thinking clearly is difficult to do without sleep on one’s side in general. Embarrassment and shame flit over your chest all at once, but as you peer into this man’s disarray of a flat behind his broad frame, you can see the violin sitting atop a table. That wretched thing that you can no longer stand the sound of, the reason you came up here in the first place despite having not known one another. You didn’t plan to introduce yourself, either, and it seems like a bad idea with the tension currently sitting between you and Shoulders.

“Yes, well,” you slowly clear your throat and try to regain a semblance of decorum after being caught so off guard, “I made my trip here for a reason. You do play a string instrument, correct?”

Without preamble, he takes a single glance behind him and locates the very thing you were about to complain about. It’s not long before his brilliant blues return and level you with the same steely gaze he’s adopted from the moment he first opened the door. It prompts you to close your mouth. You don’t know why you do, but there’s this restraint you’re putting onto yourself in the presence of this domineering stranger. You want to continue on, but he takes advantage of the beat and he leans into the door frame with one capable hand. The position tells you of how you’re wasting his time, how he would rather get back to what he was doing before you interrupted him. “What on Earth told you that? Was it, perhaps, the sound of the Caprice in A Minor or the meek snooping of prying, sleep-deprived eyes unabashedly scrutinizing my flat?”

His sarcasm takes you aback. He couldn’t have known that you were coming up here with any hint of aggression to be speaking to you so poorly. The last thing you wanted to do was portray yourself as judgmental when your own flat was a mess in itself, but you’re also not in the mood to question and doubt yourself knowing the motive for this impromptu visit in the first place. The realization hits you that he also could not have known about your sleep schedule being askew, so you must’ve looked like the walking undead. While your face scrunches up in defense, you rapidly shake your head despite the migraine currently gripping it by the crown. Your neighbor certainly isn’t helping with that. Your disheveled appearance should be the least of his worries.

“Listen, I did not come up here to quarrel—”

“But that’s not true, is it?” His expression changes. It’s subtle, but you catch it from how intently you’re burrowing your eyes into his in an attempt to search for the audacity he seemed to possess without a lick of shame behind it. His expression communicates his words as a fact, as if he had you figured out, as if he had the world around you two figured out. The certainty in his pupils unwavers and you’re a skeptic before anything else, but you already believe what he’s about to say before he even says it just from how he carries himself. So sure. So omniscient.

A deep sigh slips past his lips as he brings the door closed to where only a narrow crevice of his flat is now displayed to you. You can no longer drink in the furniture and trinkets this man holds because there’s no longer a view beyond him and rich wood facing you, leaving you vulnerable to look solely at the curls framing his sturdy facial structure. It’s a dichotomy you’re not prepared for: soft decorating solid, flowers strung along stone. If you dare the eye contact further, then you’ll test how much your own can stand before they start to water from sheer perseverance. You’ve been wiping tears away casually while you sat at your sewing machine today from how exhausted they were and from how you forced them open to continue. You don’t want to shed a tear in this instance since he might think himself the reason and it’s obvious to you that you can’t give him any more of a reaction, any more of a way into how you felt.

“Ordinarily, a walk up this staircase alerts simply from the creaks crafted by age and the weight of a person’s shoes. If you were on a mission to borrow sugar loaves, it wouldn’t have easily caught my ear since I was occupied playing the Caprice.” He gestures to the stairs, the rickety sound of the steps coming back to mind from how you previously walked them. “However, you did catch my ear and it’s not because of an enhanced ability or cautious observation, but because you climbed your way here with intention behind every stomp your elevated heels etched into the floorboards. No one scuffs flooring unless they’re dragging about some kind of vendetta or they’re lackadaisical in their steps, yours far too prominent to be considered the latter.”

Out of curiosity, you throw a look behind your shoulder to assess his story and there’s a lemony scratch in the floor standing vibrantly against the opaque hickory that surrounds it. You compare the mark to the shape of your heel and you foolishly gulp down from how transparent your perturbation has been up to this point. Still, while he may be right about your less than friendly arrival, it doesn’t change anything. Actually, you’re finding yourself more irritated than before, his attitude too set in writing when you’ve barely muttered two sentences to him. Two sentences and he’s gone on some soliloquy exemplifying how he’s most likely not the easiest person in the world to talk to. Great, you have the worst kind of neighbor and you can join that bitter population of people who must deal with those they live beside no matter how much they don’t want to. Your exhale is steady leaving your nostrils in an attempt to calm yourself.

“Fine, then I have some kind of vendetta,” you parrot back to him and match his matter-of-factly tone. “It’s against you and your violin—”

“A noise complaint, right.” He nods his head as a headmaster would, as if you were a little girl raising her hand with an answer needing validation from the authority figure running the class. Your fists ball up at your sides. You don’t think you could handle one more second of his condescension.

“Yes, a noise complaint. I’ve been incredibly busy working and your violin makes it extremely difficult to think.” You puff out your last words, a breath of your current mood following closely behind. It doesn’t deter him and neither do your words. He remains where he is and mulls it over simultaneously as he regards your frame. Stagnant. Inspecting. Almost brooding. You’re in the middle of attempting to conjure another way to put this dilemma in order for this brick wall of a man to understand when he tilts his head down to look at the watch in his vest’s pocket.

“Strange. A seamstress needing to think,” he says, but it’s more to himself than it is to you. It doesn’t mean that it’s any less insulting. By how your blood’s curdling in your veins from the heat beginning to bubble underneath your skin, you’d argue that his response and behavior is that much more insulting.

“I beg your pardon, Mister—”

“Holmes. It’s Holmes.” He points a broad shoulder towards the door behind him. “I understand your concern, but you’re not the only tenant who works from home. While you claim the violin may not aid you in thought, it aids me greatly in it. So, if that’s all,” he leans forward and somehow the above fluorescence catches a gleam to the ice of his irises, “Some of us need to get back to work.”

With that, Mr. Holmes turns away from you, a flabbergasted feeling dawning onto you in his wake. Your mouth’s agape in an odd mix of shock, disgust, and incredulity as you watch him disappear and then promptly shut the door. Just as before, the golden letters taunt you all over again, beckoning your hand to knock and hold your ground. Except, that doesn’t happen. You don’t reach your hand up to try and create another debate with the tenant in flat 221B, not when you’re sure he would just walk you in circles. There are some people in this world you can’t win through speech and quite frankly, you’re too tired and agitated to engage him in anything other than another form of aggression. From how you recall him glancing at his pocket watch, it reminds you how you’re wasting your own limited time squandering over someone you just met. He’s a problem certainly, but not your current problem to resolve. The commission still needs to be dealt with and there’s better success there than here.

Swallowing your pride and gathering your last bits of etiquette to appear as a lady, you slowly withdraw from Mr. Holmes and his door to trot yourself back to the stairs. His voice echoes in your mind, the matter in which you previously ascended the steps being a stark volume. Despite this, you don’t hesitate to resume your stomping, each step booming as resolve slips through your fingers and your heel thuds into the wood with full intent rather than a subconscious one he caught onto too quickly. You take one final look back at the bottom of the staircase to see if the door budges, but nothing happens. But you know he heard it and for now, that’s enough for you to return to your flat to continue your current sewing project.

You sit at the machine and reset your needle, thread, and how you position the fabric before you’re falling back into the rhythm. It’s only when you begin to hear the violin humming through the walls again that it occurs to you that you never told Mr. Holmes you were a seamstress.

[polish-art-tournament]

Hello! I want to follow more poll and tournament blogs and I thought you maybe have some recommendations since you are organizing one of them! Would you mind linking some of your favourite poll blogs? I love what you are doing here 😊

hello! i will try to list some of my favourites, but i'm afraid they are all quite famous and you probably already know them (so if anyone else has some recommendations, pls send?)

@historical-fashion-polls lets you vote for your favourite historical outfits from old fashion plates

@holmesillustrations is a tournament for old sherlock holmes illustrations (i reckon it should be a lot of fun even if you are not super familiar with the holmes books!)

@hotvintagepoll has many hot vintage actors, and lately some very fun polls for the redemption round

@napoleonic-sexyman-tournament to quote the op: What good is a European War if you can't objectify the people in tight pants and feathered hats? (now with a bonus latin america independence fighters bracket)

@haveyoubeentothiscity - what it says on the tin, i really like that they have a separate option for "i havent been but know of this city"

@whosthatsilmcharacter is a very fun game if like me you are Unwell about the silmarillion

@companion-showdown for doctor who tournaments

@couldtheycatchkira a classic, you just need to know a little bit about death note

@latin-literature-tourney sadly hasnt updated in a while but i hope it will be back

if you are familiar with polish language and/or culture there is @bitwa-lektur-szkolnych and @jedzonkopyszne (currently doing a polish cakes tournament)

and of course @incognitopolls and all of its sister blogs with anonymously submitted polls

i have many favourite tournaments that have already finished and would also welcome some recs, so if anyone follows something fun (especially if it has to do with art? 👀) please let me know!

EDIT. @polishpoems hasnt started yet but i am very excited for it!! (thank you to the person who reminded me abt it in the notes)

[meetinginsamarra]

mayprompts2024 #16, experiment

Read parts 1-11 on AO3 here

Part 12 only on tumblr so far

++++++

The Perfect Place - Part Thirteen

John put the skull back on its place on the mantelpiece and pointed at the dagger Sherlock had stuck into the wood to keep several letters in place. He frowned and gave Sherlock a disapproving look.

“You shouldn’t keep such a sharp dagger in the wood.” John chided.

Oh dear, here come the admonishments, Sherlock thought.

He braced himself against what John was likely about to say. “It’s dangerous to keep a sharp object here. People could get hurt.” Or “You’re destroying the wood, it’s difficult to repair damage like this.”

John continued. “It’s really bad for the blade, it’ll get dull, you know? Also, the tip might break and get stuck in the mantelpiece. It would be a shame to ruin such a fine dagger.”

“Erm, okay?” Sherlock stuttered, surprised, “Yes, will do.” Not what I expected.

When John peeked under the sofa, he pulled out the Turkish scimitar that Sherlock had already missed.

“Oh, great, you found it! I’ll be needing it tomorrow.” Sherlock called out happily.

“What for?” John brandished the scimitar and made some thrusts into Sherlock’s direction. “You going to waylay guileless travellers?”

“No, of course not.” Sherlock decided to test John’s sense of humour. “I’ll need it to chop the remains from the latest flatmate-candidate. He insulted Billy and therefore he had to die.”

John looked Sherlock straight into the face, utterly deadpan. “Good then that I didn’t. Also, you’d better use this letter-holding dagger for precision cuts through the corpse’s joints.”

They stared at each other for three long seconds before they exploded into raucous laughter.

For the next ten minutes, Sherlock watched John hopping excitedly around the sitting-room, ogling things, pawing bits and fondling bobs.

It was an amazing sight of utter joy.

Sherlock was reminded of a toddler experiencing their first Easter egg hunt in a magical wonderland. He suppressed the urge of handing a basket to John so that he could put the found treasures inside for later perusal.

(Others might have been reminded of a squirrel suffering from dementia, getting excited over and over again about finding the same nuts it had hidden juts several minutes ago, thinking they were new.)

(And yet others would have thought of a cuddly hedgehog searching for windfall like apples and pears to gain weight for the next winter.)

John commented on every mysterious, unusual, weird or quirky object that he picked up, showing it to Sherlock and silently asking for more information, data that Sherlock was more than happy to provide.

“Are you needing a cup of tea as bad as I?” John asked after a lot of talking, “I’m parched.”

(Also, his throat was terribly dry from all the dust he had inhaled while scrutinizing Sherlock’s things.)

“Let’s make some,” Sherlock offered, “and you could have a look at the kitchen.”

Sherlock put the kettle on while John first commented on the lovely choice of green tiles on the kitchen wall and then asked about the array of chemistry equipment on the kitchen table.

“I’m doing a lot of experiments here,” Sherlock explained, “to gather data and evaluate clues in order to solve the crimes that I consult on.”

(This was true, of course. Also, it sounded much better than the whole truth. Namely, that Sherlock followed mostly some whims he had when he was bored and just experimented with whatever was available to him. He had produced mountains of laboratory journals with millions of spreadsheets of data that nobody would ever use. Like one of his latest obsessions when he had tested the durability of mummified Guinea pig embryos after being exposed to various kinds of acids and then thrown against a bed of nails.)

“What is it you’re currently experimenting on?”

“I’m measuring the coagulation of saliva after death.” Sherlock replied and poured the hot water over a teabag.

“Interesting.” John said. “I’ll get us some milk.” He reached for the handle of the fridge.

Sherlock suddenly remembered where the saliva had come from and an electric shock of terror struck him.

“No, don’t open…” he began to shout.

But it was already too late.

“… the fridge.” Sherlock whispered.

John’s shriek reverberated in the deadly silence that followed.

+++++

tagging some people @calaisreno @totallysilvergirl @lisbeth-kk @peanitbear  @raina-at

[figmentof]

i'm pitching kaos exclusively to ofmd fans bc i think it's a show that is right up our alley, plus it's on netflix which is the service that djenks is currently trying to get the attention of, so why don't we show them what we're capable of in terms of audience numbers? 😏

for starters, kaos does what tumblr loves, which is take existing ips and give them a modern twist. we got to see that firsthand with bbc sherlock and elementary (and to a lesser extent, house md), and even though ofmd is kept in its historical setting of the 1700's, it's anachronistic af what with all the modern lingo and therapy speak

kaos is extremely queer, obviously a show that is based off of greek mythology not being queer would be weird, but it's not just that there are an abundance of queer characters, you can tell the show itself has queer writers (the showrunner is nonbinary) and queer people working behind the scenes. the queer characters all have a story beyond their identity, there's no unnecessary commentary on their queerness or any fixed labels, queer people just exist and are very much characters instead of caricatures. there's a wide array of queerness across the board-- the fates are portrayed by trans/nonbinary actors, the furies are motorcycle riding butch lesbians, and caeneus is portrayed by a trans man (his story is interwoven with his identity)

more than half of the cast are poc-- poseidon is portrayed by a māori actor, eurydice and persephone are black women, and honestly there's so many characters of color it'd be hard to include them all in this post without like, spoiling the whole season lol

there's disability rep in this show as well, with several supporting characters that don't hide their disability onscreen and play crucial roles to the plot

most importantly, it's a show that delves into deep topics while still remaining a comedy, it's not afraid to be a bit camp at times and it doesn't take itself too seriously. i know a lot of ofmd fans have no interest in shows like iwtv bc although it's very queer and has it's comedic moments, it's not remotely in the same genre nor has the same vibe as ofmd, plus "queer media" isn't one single genre to begin with. so i genuinely do think kaos is a show ofmd fans would appreciate, and idk, maybe it could fill a little bit of the hole ofmd left and tide us over until we receive news about netflix picking ofmd up or... dare i say, grant us a third season?

[sabbathbloodysabbeth]

Never Say Die [4]

Part 1 | part 2 | part 3 | you’re here | Part 5

Quick note, the tag list is full. So now the only way that you can get notifications about the next date is if you turn on notifications on my blog. (Which if you are hesitant about this, I don’t spam my board at most I’ll post twice a day so this can be a option for you :) though I’m not sure if there’s any other way or notifying people. If you know a way let me know!

Steve was laying in his bed, blanket pulled off from him as he stares out at the night sky. He wasn’t wearing a shirt, though he made sure to shut his door. The only thing allowed to see him this vulnerable was the full moon outside. As time slowly passes by, he feels like one of those princesses that’s stuck in the castle. He hasn’t been able to do anything yet, Hopper and Joyce were currently in the process of coming up with a backstory as to how he was alive. He misses a lot of things more now that he was home compared to when he was locked in the prison. He misses being able to be seen with Robin. He misses being able to relax in a bed. Though, no matter where he’s been he knows the one consistent thing that’ll always be there for him.

The moon.

The moon that watched him get tortured in his cell, sometimes even left outside in the freezing snow for a night for a punishment. Of course there were nights the moon wasn’t there. Especially the nights when the new moon was taking its turn on the calendar. But even that brought him comfort. In his eyes new beginnings were always over the horizon.

Dink!

It was coming from his window. Before his brain can think he’s already tossed himself on the carpeted floor. Rug burn already catching to his knees as he crawls over. Careful for whatever or whoever to not see him. He was being ridiculous. He was on the second floor. There was no way anyone could see him. His breathing is loud and shaky as he keeps his arms tightly crossed around himself. He knew he could fight, but in that moment he was prepared to hide. Though in reality, if it really was something he couldn’t be getting himself killed right when everyone just got him back. That and if he was laying there bleeding out from whatever was being shot at his window, who was supposed to warn Hopper and Joyce.

Steve really needed to slow his role. Think rationally, right as another small thunk like noise comes from the glass. Closing his eyes he takes the moment to think rationally. He’s heard that noise before. When he used to sneak into girls rooms before everything. The smallest of pebbles he could find would be thrown at their windows to catch their attention. Someone was trying to get his attention. Now he needs to come up with the decision of whether or not this person knows he’s alive or not. If this went wrong the whole town would know he was alive and think he was being kidnapped. After a few more moments, he lets his deductive skills kick in. He felt like Sherlock Holmes.

There was no way someone he didn’t know would be throwing pebbles at his window. It was definitely someone he knows. Why they didn’t just go through the front door was beyond him. Or how they snuck by Hoppers senses.

He moves slowly after the third pebble hits the frame of the window, a bit louder then the others. Carefully placing his hands underneath as he lifts the window open. A silent as possible. He pokes his head out, a small pebble hitting him in the cheek right as he does. Hissing in slight pain as his hand flies up to hold the agitated skin. He glares down, trying to see who it was. But once again his vision wasn’t as good as it used to be. Nor was his hearing. He had taken his hearing aid out, so there was just a slightly muffled blob standing in his lawn.

“Hold on. I can’t see, and I can’t hear you.” Steve whisper yells. Moving and grabbing his hearing aid. Getting it situated before he’s sliding on a shirt, one that used to be to tight on him. Now it was a bit loose, from the slight weight loss from the prison. He was gaining it back with muscle, forcing Hopper to work out with him in their basement. A small corner designated to his small gym and the other side of the basement designated to DnD. “Who is it?” He hisses out. The fuzziness from his ear clearing up. Focusing on the person below instead of the crickets that surrounded them.

“It’s me.” The voice whispers back. Steve can’t help but snort a little, holding back a laugh.

“Well- me. If I could recognize you by voice I would. But I’m not hearing you that well still.”

A small groan is heard before the male, Steve was able to figure that much out. The guys voice was deep and scratchy. As if he spent a lot of time smoking.

“It’s Eddie!” Eddie says a lot louder then before. Steve frowns as he hears the other.

“Oh.” He says dumbly. “What do you want?” Steve asks. Unsure as to why his best friends other best friend was currently outside his window like some secret boyfriend. It was very strange being on the receiving end of this.

“Well- Robin was supposed to be here with me but we were going to kidnap you and take you out for the night. But her parents busted her climbing out the window.” Eddie rambles out quickly. Trying to stay as silent as possible.

Steve raises a eyebrow, something seemed off in the others statement. Though Steve wasn’t going to look to far into it as he puts a finger out telling the other to hold on. He moves to his closet, tossing on a sweater. Moving and sliding on a extra pair of shoes. His regular pair were downstairs. He moves to the window, as silent as possible. Moving to dangle out. Hearing the slight cursing of one Eddie Munson.

“Dude, you could have taken the front door.” Eddie hisses out.

“No I can’t. Hopper is like- superhuman. He can since when the force is off or some shit.” Steve hisses back. Looking down for a second before he’s swing himself over and throwing himself to the shaky pipe that went up the side of the house. Sliding down with ease. Though he wasn’t sure whether or not it would be sturdy enough for his weight to climb back up.

Steve hops down in front of Eddie, wiping his hands off on his pants as he grins jokingly. “Like a ninja.”

Causing the other boy to hold back a snort of laughter. Moving to wave Steve along to follow him. Steve does, creeping next to the house and moving his way down the path. Once or twice, Steve’s hand flies out to catch Eddie from falling on his face. But other then that they eventually make it to the guys van. Where Steve moves hopping up into the passenger side.

Nearly jumping right back out when a group of people yell “surprise!” At him. His hands shake in his lap a bit as he gathers himself. Looking confused as he looks at all of them curiously. No wonder Eddie seemed like he had been lying. Because he was.

“We wanted to surprise you.” El says with a smile. “Know its been a while since you’ve left the house, and we all know you loved swimming so we wanted to take you to the quarry.” She rambles out. Face a bit pink, and it doesn’t take a genius to figure out that she was the one that arranged this.

Eddies sitting in the drivers side, key in the ignition with a fond smile. Before his face contorts up and he’s turning around and yelling. “Hey shit face, yeah you Henderson. If you’re eating my last can or Pringle’s I’ll make sure to shove your head up your ass so far that no one’s going to be able to reach that far to pull you out.“ Steve’s head turns back looking at the boy who’s hand was currently stuck in the can of Pringles. Making a oopsie face.

***

It doesn’t take long for them to get to the lake. The kids were already in swim suits and throwing themselves in the water. Eddie is a bit hesitant, and so is Steve who doesn’t want to pull his shirt off. Though there seems to be more of a reason to Eddie who looks at the water a bit haunted. Steve recognizes that look. He looks at malls like that now.

“Hey everything okay?” He asks curiously. Moving to dip his toes in the water. Pants rolled up to his ankles.

“Yeah.. it’s just. When everything went down one of the gates was - well under the lake. Dustin called it water gate.” Eddie laughs a little towards the end. “And well… I’m not the best swimmer but I wasn’t going to force Robin or Nancy to go down there. And shit face Henderson decided he was going to force his way onto the boat. And I got tugged down. “ he explains. He doesn’t seem to really be there. His voice is off somewhere else.

Steve hesitates before he presses a hand on the others shoulder. “You don’t have to go in you know. I’m not.” He says softly.Eddies looking at him confused before Steve clarifies. “My- well my wounds haven’t fully healed. And if I let any of my stitches touch the water then I’m fucked.” He laughs.

Eddie grins as he carefully pulls up his shirt revealing a bandage around his middle. Steve could only imagine what it was hiding. Steve grins as he moves and lifts his own up. He was no longer in the bandage state, his side just had a huge gash. Eddies eyes go wide. He’s about to say something but one of the kids yell at them to join. Both declining, showing their wounds at the same time. Steve doesn’t even process that Eddie’s side was bandages heavily on the same spot as his. Just on the opposite side of his body, closer to Steve with the way he stood.

Silence falls over them again. Neither of them knowing what to say. “You know you’re nothing like how I remember you being.” Eddies voice echos through the night. Staying hushed under the kids screaming.

“Oh- yeah. When you nearly die numerous times you kind of figure that it’s time to stop being a douche.” Steve laughs gently. “And there’s more important things then social heirchy.”

“I- I wished I learned that sooner.” Eddie admits as he looks awkward again.

“What do you mean- you were like. All fuck society norms and shit.” Steve laughs gently.

“Well- doesn’t mean I still wasn’t a twat about jocks and shit.” Eddie chuckles bitterly. “You know I was at the mall the night it caught fire or whatever. I was in the movie theaters. And I seen you. Right before you died. Your face looked like it was smashed into bricks, you were laughing at whatever Doc had said. Then when you stumbled out, obviously not okay. I thought you were fine so I didn’t make a fuss out of it. But I know if you weren’t some Jock from the high-school I would have checked to make sure you were okay. ” Eddie rambles out a bit. “And god did I feel guilty when I seen your name on the list of people who died that night.” Tears are rolling down his face. Steve tries to interject but he doesn’t get a chance to as the other starts to talk again.

“You know Henderson worships the ground you walk dude? “ Eddie tilts his head to look at him. Wide eyed, as he doesn’t hide a single emotion. “And god, I just. I got so jealous that this kid. This amazing kid who reminded me of myself when I was his age. Worshiped someone who used to look down on kids like us. And I was just- an entire asshole. The poor guy was still mourning you and confiding in me about how much of a nice guy you were, and I just sat there listened, and didn’t believe a god damn word he said. Here I thought he was just coming up with stories about a dead kid. And instead I was the asshole that I declared war against in high-school. It was no is fucked up.” Eddie eyes are watering more. Hands shaking as he pulls a cig out, lighting it soon after.

Steve just stands there and listens. That’s really all he could do. He takes a shaky breath as he pauses looking out at the kids in the water. “We are all just kids you know. We aren’t… we aren’t made to to handle all of this shit normally. If there even is a normal. Just know I don’t hold it against you, neither does Dustin. If you ever need to rant more about it I’m here.” Steve smiles sincerely. Watching as Eddie nods dumbly.

“You know, you’re the first one to act like this isn’t all normal. The kids.. god the kids were great when everything was happening. Robin was freaking out but she knew what she was doing. Doing things I can’t even imagine doing. I’m sure you know how it is.” Eddie rambles out.

Steve nods his head in understanding, “trust me… none of us are normal.” He laughs gently. “You’re relatively new, you’ll catch signs of things they do when others don’t.”

“Like how you flinch whenever anyone raises their voice?” Eddie asks curiously.

“Yeah.. yeah exactly that.” Steve answers softly. Letting the silence take over the both of them. Unaware that he had been that obvious.

Oh my god, thank you to everyone who has been supporting me throughout this. Especially for the comments. Those I have found are hard to come by and every single one has been making my day. I haven’t gotten a chance to respond yet, but I love every single one. (So don’t be ashamed to freak out in the comments. The long paragraphs are amazing. I just haven’t gotten a chance to respond) I have never gotten this much support for something I’ve written ever.

Next thing, I would put this on ao3 but I kind of wrote them straight to tumblr and it would take me forever to copy and paste each individual paragraph on there. I’m already putting a lot of time writing the tag list and writing it itself so for now this Is a tumblr exclusive. (Though I know in the future I’m probably going to do a rewrite and include everything that I wanted to, but have been to exhausted to write out)

Like I can’t express how thankful I have been for the support. I’ve gained close to a hundred followers in two days and I love that but it’s crazy to me that that many people liked my work.

Though I will be lurking in the comments tonight, ;) so I’ll probably respond the best I can!

Tag list;

@totallynotagoraphobic @flustratedcas @shunna @spookednsaucy @steddie-as-they-go @estrellami-1 @xxbottlecapx @gregre369 @ellietheasexylibrarian @thing-a-ling @radioactiveartz @bestwifehaver @idkwwhatimmdoiing @goodolefashionedloverboi @bringmethelow @thescribblerdragon @starman-jpg @lilaclilyroses @resident-gay-bitch @wolfscreations @adhdsummer @victor-thee-corvid @happymediummm @decadentworld @sidebarre @foundintheshallows @jamieweasley13 @yellowdevilkitten @catlovesfandoms @gryffindorsareidiots @thephantomhood @vampireinthesun @awkwardgravity1 @itsall-taken @gezell-igg @chaoskiro @daeb820 @liketheocean @croatoan-like-its-hot @malicia62 @thebrazilianatheist @anaibis @evix-syne666 @an-deeznutz @yikes-a-bee @0o-queendean-o0 @alyelf @starlight-archer @weirdandabsurd42 @zerokrox-blog @lolawonsstuff @mightbeasleep @michael-the-angelo

(If you see your user in the tag and it didn’t tag you let me know and we can try figuring it out in the comments)

[leliest]

you know, sometimes when I'm scrolling through old tumblr posts uploaded on pinterest and find some from the Sherlock-fandom back then, I do get a little sad. I joined the fandom damn late in 2022, so I never experienced any of what went on back then -and for parts of that I'm actually grateful, because damn was it wild, especially as a johnlocker (judging from what I've heard and seen ofc). But in some parts I also mourn that fandom from then, because it's obviously changed a lot. Don't get me wrong, the community of today is amazing and there are so many amazing people still in love with that show, but in some ways I just wish I'd been there when Sherlock was the 'big thing' on here. And the way it went down in the end is pretty sad, too. So yes, I somehow managed to get to the point where I joined a fandom years after its golden times and ultimately got to the feeling of being unable to move on from it only a short while of moving 'into' it, and now I'm sad that it turned to something to move on from in the first place. So yeah that's how my life's currently going lol