#if i try to take it on the plane they’ll steal it like those bastards stole my vanilla cinnamon cashew butter from my brother

[dreamofbecoming]

saw a tumblr post like a month ago about someone buying different flavors of creamed honey from an indigenous shop that was only on my dash bc it got derailed into something else my mutual thought was funny, but i went and found the shop anyway and now i’m sitting in bed eating blueberry honey straight out of the jar bc i can’t sleep and my head hurts so. happy destiel eve or whatever

[the-golden-ghost]

Here’s more questions about Zenigata/Jigen (because I need to know more about this ship! Haha)

8, 19, 23, 25, 26, 35, 37, 38

(If some questions are difficult or too many to answer, feel free to select the few :))

All right here we go! :D

8. - What do they like best about their partner?

What does Jigen like about Zenigata? He's a good man, determined, dedicated, keeps them on their toes. He's got enough Bastard Mode in him to be interesting but enough goodness and moral standing to be admirable and trustworthy in a pinch. Handsome as hell, too, apparently

What does Zenigata like about Jigen? He's got a kind of warmth to him that isn't readily apparent unless you know him well, his laugh is infectious and if you really need him, he'll be there, no doubt about that.

19. - What do they fight about? What are their arguments like? How do they make up?

Well mainly they fight about whether or not Lupin should be allowed to steal lol

Also the damages Jigen has inflicted on virtually every vehicle in the squadron. Multiple times

In reality I don't think they'd fight that much? They're enemies by design and they know where they stand. I guess I can see Zenigata going into Cop Mode and setting a trap for them and Jigen being like "hey you BASTARD I thought we had something" but Zenigata would pretty much shut that down, cause they don't, and Jigen should remember well that they don't.

But then later he has to still worry that Jigen hates him forever now :(

23. - How do they hug? Kiss? Tease? Flirt? Comfort?

Hugs: Only ever in private. But when Jigen hugs, he hugs hard and doesn't easily let go. And Zenigata, when he calls Jigen over after he thought the gang were all killed in a plane crash and wants to see him alive and well, hugs him tight and with relief and affection that surprises them both.

Kiss: Again, private only. Jigen will try to slip one in on a heist, a quick peck on the cheek or mouth or shoulder, wherever he can grab without being noticed by anyone. But when they ARE alone and no one will interrupt them, they kiss fiercely like lovers, and gently, like enemies.

Tease: Zenigata's surprisingly good at this one. Jigen can keep up. They've been sharpened by years of bantering back and forth; Zenigata with Lupin, Jigen with his partners. Alone, Jigen will lightly entice Zenigata, playing around with his physical desires by not giving in to them until he's absolutely certain he wants it.

Flirt: It's done quietly. Jigen pressing a hand against Zenigata's back for a split second as he passes by, or catching his eye just for a moment, long enough to give him a look that they both know exactly what it means. Anything to get the officer who's chasing them down a little bit out of his comfort zone, right?

Comfort: This is hard since they rarely turn to the other for it. But Zenigata, on a night when he's plagued by doubts about his legacy and standing in his career and his advancing age and whether or not he's really done anything worthwhile in his life, might find Jigen offering him a cigarette and just leaning against him, listening quietly. Jigen's never had a career or a legacy but he can listen. And Jigen, when he needs a moment away from the people he's too tangled up in, when he has something stuck in his mind that he can't tell them because they're all so close and he just needs to get away, he knows where he can turn.

25. - How much time do they spend together? Do they share their feelings, or hold things in?

The aren't together very often. I think in the fic I'm writing they're only together once, at least alone, as lovers. Potentially I could see a situation where they have a few ongoing trysts. But it wouldn't ever be anything serious or long-lasting.

They're open about some things. They can do that with each other because they don't have to live together, and in spite of being enemies, there's trust, because neither one is the kind of man to really betray something personal or use it for gain. Other things, things that they feel would put the other in some kind of moral quandary about revealing, they will keep to themselves.

26. - How do their friends feel about their relationship? Their families?

Bold of you to assume Zenigata has friends or family :(

His coworkers don't know, of course. If they did it would be disastrous, a scandal.

Jigen's friends and family are one and the same, his partners. I think they tease him about it but they don't begrudge him this. Mostly they're like "so how'd you do it, huh? What's your secret?" and make fun of him for being a tramp, like "wow, Jigen, three boyfriends?!" even after his insistence that he and Pops aren't lovers in that way.

35. - Do they bring out the best in each other, or the worst? Do they have a fatal flaw?

Neither? I think they don't change each other that much. However they are when they're together reflects how they are at any given time. Zenigata wouldn't be a better man for Jigen, nor would he be a worse one. And vice versa. It's just a "what you see is what you get" situation.

Their fatal flaw may well be the fact that Lupin is ALWAYS going to be the third man in their relationship. That and their opposing sides. Eventually (in theory) they'd come to a point where they end up having to stop just because they realize they can't really trust each other, never could.

37. - How much would they be willing to sacrifice for the other? Any lines they refuse to cross?

OH this is a fun one... let's see...

Jigen has been canonically willing to sacrifice their loot to save Zenigata (and convinced Lupin to do so). I can also see him putting himself on the line to back Zenigata up in certain circumstances. Like if Jigen and the gang get free but Zenigata's still trapped, Jigen might go back in. I know Lupin's done this but Jigen may well do it too.

He wouldn't sacrifice his life or his friend's lives, though. If it's between his partners and Zenigata they'll still come first.

Zenigata... I can see a few situations with him:

A scenario where he's arrested Jigen but Lupin is still in danger and Zenigata knows Jigen can save him. I think he'd set Jigen free. Granted that's more for Lupin's benefit but I can picture it

A scenario where he's found Jigen after he's been captured/injured somehow and initially takes advantage of his weakness to arrest him but has a change of heart and leaves him in the hands of his partners instead.

A scenario that's a reversal of the above, where he could save Jigen's life but would have to let Lupin go free in order to do it. That would be much more of a sacrifice for him!

What wouldn't he sacrifice? His position as an officer of the law, his life, and most of his morals, of course.

38. - What are they like in the bedroom? Any kinks/fetishes/turn-ons? Anything they won’t do?

From what I've written so far for that one fic, Zenigata's very willing but also just kinda hung up on the whole "this guy's untrustworthy and a bastard and he's the wrong guy and I don't want him, I want his partner and also he's a criminal :( " so he's hesitant due to all that. Jigen's just excited and curious and SO in the moment he's just like YEAH LET'S GO and has to keep dialing it back because Zenigata's being cagey about it.

Eventually Jigen manages to soften him up and entice him enough that they can enjoy it. I think Jigen's pretty good at that; experienced, and he's been with a LOT of different people in a LOT of different situations so he can respond to whatever it is his partner needs in the moment. Like he can pace himself, slow down, be passionate and intense or back off a little and be gentler if that's what the situation calls for. He'd rather be intense though lbr

As for kinks idk, I think Zenigata uses those handcuffs for more than just making arrests, I'm just not sure how much Jigen would be into that. I guess if he ever tries it they'll find out

[fanfic-scribbles]

Gremlins

Fandom: MCU Captain America/Avengers

Summary: Bucky’s shirts keep going missing. It isn’t a problem, per se. It’s just annoying.

Quick facts: Romance – [established] Bucky Barnes/Steve Rogers/Reader –Nondescript Reader

Warnings: Reader gender is undefined but ‘sweetheart’ is used as pet name

Words: 2291

A/N: Just a sweet little something. Please enjoy.

   ~

Bucky’s shirts keep going missing.

Maybe he’s just being forgetful; it’s bound to happen when you’ve had your brains scrambled for the span of the average person’s lifetime. Honestly, he considers it a miracle he’s as well-adjusted as he is. Misplacing a few shirts? He knows one in particular was pretty well-worn; he probably wrecked them bad enough that he had to throw them out. He can do that now– throw things out.

(Within reason, of course; he’s not wasteful.)

“Hi Bucky.” You wrap your arms around his middle and he lets his eyes fall shut for a few blissful moments as you snuggle into his back. Warm coffee in hand and one of his partners holding him close– if Steve wasn’t such a hyperactive jerk Bucky would be having the best morning ever.

But Bucky smiles as he takes a long drink, because he can’t begrudge Steve that. Steve spent most of his life with a body that couldn’t, and now that he can, he’s taking it for all he’s worth. Bucky can, sort of, kind of, relate now.

Though mostly after six a.m.

“When are you going to meet Steve?”

Bucky checks his watch. “I’m gonna head out as soon as I finish my coffee.”

“Good. Wear him out, will ya?”

Bucky chuckles into his mug. Yeah, four a.m. wake-ups are justified by nothing. He downs the last dregs, slides his cup onto the counter, and turns around to pick you up. You yelp and swat at him and he laughs and nuzzles you and– he lingers, for a little bit, because you smell a little like him. And Steve; but mostly him.

It’s starting to do things that will make it impossible for him to leave the house if he stays any longer, so he gives you a kiss and lets you down. “You wanna come with, sweetheart?” Bucky teases, already knowing the answer.

Sure enough you look down at your pajama-clad body and then give him a look like he’s lucky he’s cute. “Absolutely…not.”

Bucky rolls his eyes, mostly because it makes you laugh, and then he grabs his gym bag and heads out to meet Steve at the Tower. On his way he makes a memo in his phone to buy a few extra shirts, and with that, the main problem of his life is as good as solved.

~

For about a week. And then he is, again, staring into a closet that has clothes just not the ones he’s looking for.

“Hey Buck.” Steve sidles up next to him and kisses his cheek. “What’re you lookin’ for?”

“A shirt,” Bucky says, still staring. Unfortunately, the clothing item in question does not materialize.

“Well you’ve got plenty to choose from.”

“One shirt in particular.” Bucky shoots Steve a glare. “Smartass.”

Steve chuckles and peers into the closet. “Which one?”

“That dark blue one with the black buttons?”

“Oh, you look good in that one,” Steve says, tone changing appreciatively.

“Damn right,” Bucky says. “And it’s comfortable. And it’s gone.”

“I’m sure it’s somewhere.” Steve says your name with an inquisitive tilt.

“Hasn’t seen it,” Bucky grunts and continues to stare ahead. He knows he’s getting too fixated on this but he just can’t help it. Where are these things going? “We got fucking gremlins or something.”

“And those gremlins need your clothes?”

Bucky scowls at Steve. Steve grins and gently shuts the door, then moves in to lean his back against it. “It’ll turn up eventually,” he says. His face tilts to the side as he tries on a smirk, like he still isn’t quite sure how to consciously make the shift from the awkward ugly duckling he thinks he used to be, to the rightfully cocky bastard Bucky knows he really is inside. “In the meantime– want to do something that requires no clothes at all?”

Bucky thinks that you might have a point when you say that it’s a good thing Steve doesn’t really know how to properly wield his true power. However, Bucky has always been an easy mark for Steve– and sometimes that’s not so bad.

~

This is a new shirt.

Bucky really likes it.

It, too, is gone.

“What the fuck,” Bucky says and flings the not-favorite shirt across the room. It lands with a ‘thud!’

And an “Mm!”

He whips his head around and sees you peeling the shirt off your face. You give it a once-over and then turn a wry smile at him. “At least it’s clean.”

“I’m sorry sweetheart,” he says and gets up.

You hand it back and look over the small piles of clothing scattered across the bedroom floor. “What’s going on? Is that shirt still missing?”

“Four shirts,” Bucky grumps and flings the one he’s holding down to the floor. He rests his forehead on your shoulder and sighs. “I don’t know what the hell I did with them.”

He expects comfort, but the way your body tenses is…confusing. At first he thinks he’s heavy or has somehow made you physically uncomfortable, but before he can pull away you rub his shoulders and absolutely every aspect of that motion feels awkward.

And when you say, “I’m sure they’ll turn up eventually,” he knows you’re hiding something. He just doesn’t know what.

Or why.

~

He still can’t figure it out, days later, when two of his shirts are returned to his closet like they had never left. Their homecoming might have even been missed, had Bucky not quickly made up a closet system known only to him. And here they are, freshly laundered, pressed, hanging nicely, nothing in the seams or– not that he ever thinks you would, but he just can’t fathom what you’ve been doing with them. You haven’t been wearing them, he would have noticed right away and he would not have been up a wall wondering where they were.

There are still two missing, but at least now he’s fairly certain he knows where they are. Or at least, who has them. He could confront you about it, but you might clam up and refuse to ever tell him why. The easiest way to go about this is to find them before you can put them back.

Unfortunately he doesn’t get a chance to think of a plan– he and Steve get a call to head out in an hour and an otherwise quiet afternoon turns into a flurry of activity as Steve and Bucky get debriefed and then rush to pack. You, ostensibly, are trying to help, but you end up mostly getting in the way.

“Hey,” Bucky says and pulls you aside so that Steve can finish checking the bags. “Me and Stevie’ve got this; we’ll be in and out and back in no time.”

“Mm hm,” you say, obviously still distressed, but you wrap your arms around him tightly, bury your face in his shoulder, and breathe in deeply.

Steve comes over and wraps his arms around you both. “I promise, it’s gonna be fine.” You turn your head to nuzzle Steve’s chest, then put one arm around him and grip him just as tight.

Bucky and Steve stay with you for several moments until the incessant buzzing of their phones annoy even you, and you see them out the door. Bucky spends the drive out to the plane getting his head right so he and Steve can come home safe and keep their promise to you.

~

It’s a few days later and past midnight when Bucky gets home. Steve has more to do but has sent Bucky ahead, hoping the early arrival will help ease your nerves.

The house is quiet and dark and Bucky moves through it easily, checking entry points on his way up. When he makes it to the bedroom doorway he stops and takes in the sight of you, sleeping soundly. His body relaxes in ways he hadn’t even known he was tense, and he shucks his clothes until he gets to his underwear, and then crawls into bed.

You stir and he’s quick to grab your hand and whisper reassuring nothings to you. The sheets are pretty rumpled, like you’ve been having a rough night, though when your eyes open you’re not panicked.

“Bucky,” you whisper with a smile and hug him. “Steve?”

“He’s just fine,” Bucky says and kisses you. The feel of your skin is so grounding he nuzzles closer.

“Bucky,” you laugh and arch your neck. Bucky takes the opening and digs his face in between you and fabric that…does not feel like the sheets. He brings his face back and pulls at the mystery cloth.

It’s one of Steve’s shirts.

“Uh oh,” you say under your breath and move your hand to cover that part of the bed. Bucky slips his hand under yours and brings out another shirt from under you.

His shirt. Wrinkled and creased but clean. He stares at you, wondering. You stare at something across the room. He moves in between you and that fixed point and continues to stare at you, unsure of what he needs to ask but having questions nonetheless.

You look at him, at the shirts, at him, at the shirts, him, the shirts, him.

“Oh hey.” You smile at him, lips twitching a little. “Looks like you found your shirt?”

~

In the morning Bucky is still confused.

You're trying to drown yourself in your cereal.

Steve thinks it’s hilarious.

“Guess you found your gremlin,” Steve teases Bucky and takes another big bite of his breakfast.

That at least makes you lift your head. “I’m a what?”

“I didn’t know it was you,” Bucky says. When you give him the stink-eye he insists, “Really! At least, not at first. And then I wanted to figure out…I still want to know…why?”

You shift like you’re going to literally crawl away in shame but Bucky puts his hand on the back of your chair, blocking your side escape with his arm. “I’m not making fun; I just want to know.”

You shrug half-heartedly and look elsewhere. “It’s…nice to have when you guys are gone. It feels like having part of you still with me.”

Bucky considers that and thinks of all the times, even recently, that he’s come up behind you and buried his face in the crook of your neck, and how you do the same. How you lift Steve’s arm and rest it over you as you press your face against him; how you’ll steal Bucky’s blanket and wrap yourself up in it. In retrospect, the ‘why’ is quite obvious.

You fidget your fingers in the silence. “That didn’t sound as dumb in my head, I swear.”

“I don’t think it sounds dumb,” Steve says and puts his hand on yours.

You look at Bucky as he thinks on it. “Okay,” he says eventually. “But…why do they have to be all my favorite shirts?”

There’s that ‘you’re lucky you’re cute’ look again. “They need to be the shirts you wear the most.” ‘Obviously’ is unspoken but so present he almost physically feels it.

Bucky rolls his eyes, because, unlike Steve, it’s not like he only wears the same five shirts and has enough of a stock that he doesn’t notice when one goes missing. “We’ll have to work something out then. In the meantime– ask when you want one.”

“Okay.” You scoot over to hug Bucky. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay sweetheart.” Bucky kisses your head. “And for what it’s worth, you’re the best-looking gremlin I’ve ever seen.”

You pinch him and, because Bucky loves you, he pretends to feel it.

~

After breakfast you’re all in the bedroom. You and Steve are relaxing in the reading chairs while Bucky unpacks his bag, because he’s not a slob (Steve), and once everything is put away or tossed into the laundry basket, Bucky stands in front of his closet and feels a sense of peace.

Well, almost.

“Hey,” Bucky says. “Where’s that one red shirt?”

“Hm?” You lift your head from your book and blink.

“The dark red shirt, with the long sleeves.”

You shrug. “I don’t know.”

He says your name in warning.

“Honest!” You shut the book and frown deeply. “Trust me, I wanted that one the most because you wore it all the time but it just van–…ished…”

Both you and Bucky turn your heads to look at Steve. He holds out for all of five seconds before he sighs and puts down his own book, goes over to his bag, and fishes around until he brings out rumpled red fabric.

“What the hell?” Bucky blurts out. “I was with you!”

“Yeah! What the hell?!” you pipe in with outrage that overshadows Bucky’s and makes him snap his head back to you.

“You got his other shirts,” Steve says defensively.

“You got him! I should get the best shirt to curl up with!”

“It’s my goddamn shirt!” Bucky interjects. You and Steve look at him and then share a look where you both, apparently, instantly resolve all your differences. You get up casually (“casually” his shiny metal bicep) and you and Steve both sidle on over like absolutely nothing is the matter.

“Come on Bucky,” Steve says, getting behind him and sliding his hands, one of which is still holding the shirt, over Bucky’s shoulders. “Do you really need one shirt?”

“Yeah,” you say, coming around on his other side and pressing close. “It’s just one shirt. Maybe we can all share it?”

“Well…” Bucky sighs and leans back into Steve.

And snatches his shirt and slips out to the sound of both of you protesting and whining.

He’s going to order a padlock for his dresser. And do his own goddamn laundry from now on.

Fucking gremlins.

[luminoustico]

Here’s some schmoopy hurt/comfort for your troubles.

She hates Sherlock Holmes. With every fibre of her being. He is a thief. Not content with stealing her heart, without notice or cause, he wanted her words too. Maybe that’s why she stole his right back. The consequence for him, a consequence for his cruelty.

So when her phone rings again, she answers and asks a simple question, one she learned from Mary, when Mary took it upon herself to bring Molly into the fold, no longer on the fringes, in the lab sitting there waiting for the grand consulting detective to stride in, but among them, in the battlefield that is Holmes and Watson:

“Vatican cameos?”

“No,” he sighs.

She hangs up and doesn’t answer when the phone rings again.

Eventually, two days and 70 missed calls later, she gets a knock on the door of her flat. They have to knock twice before she answers. Mycroft Holmes stands in the doorway, suited and booted and looking more harrowed than she’s ever seen him. He steps inside without invitation and glances around the hallway of her flat.

“Nice place. In central London.”

“I’m a doctor.” She deserves a plush sofa to sink into of a night. She walks into the living room and does exactly that. Mycroft, following her, blinks as she retrieves a packet of cigarettes and her lighter from a drawer in the coffee table. She leans back, tucking a cigarette between her lips.

“Just one,” she says. She lights it. “Only for – um – stressful situations.”

“Understandable,” Mycroft replies, with a smugness that is more familiar than the bags under his eyes. “May I have a look at your phone?”

“In the kitchen. Keeps ringing,” she says softly as Mycroft leaves. He re-enters with her phone between his fingers, casually flipping it over and over in his hand. His thumb swipes over the screen.

“I’ve got a lock code on that.”

“You’re right handed and your phone still feels cumbersome in your hand. You are still attached to your father, despite his death; in fact, you’re attached to him as a result of his death, so it stands to reason that, yes – the code is four digits, the year your father died and the age of which he died.” Mycroft presents the open phone to her, his words barely sparks on her armour and scrolls through the listed of missed calls. “And you have 70 missed calls.”

The phone vibrates in his palm. The name flashes up on the screen. Mycroft lets it ring out. The ringtone is harsh and clear.

“71. My mistake,” he says silkily. The ringing stops.

“His first call of the day?”

“He knows I lie in on weekends,” she says, tone bitter. More and more she feels like a sulking child denied of too many sweets.

The phone drops onto the coffee table with a clatter. Molly closes her eyes, breathing in each second of silence that passes.

“It was a game. A game that John, I and Sherlock were all forced to play. I won’t go into too much detail.”

“Passing the buck?”

“Obeying a request, actually. There’s a car waiting.” Her phone beeps. “Oh, and you have a text now.”

She grabs the phone before Mycroft can pick it up, and holds it to her chest. Calling is impersonal. Texts are an – they’re an intimacy. However cold and clinical the language, it’s him and it’s always something that, even when she’s had a bad day of bratty first years sniggering around an autopsy table, makes her heart inch up just a little. (It does even now when there are a fury and anger and a bitterness in her body that she can’t yet define.)

She glances at the text.

You know where to find me. SH

“No.” A long silence precedes her answer. She rises to her feet, straightening her shoulders and looking Mycroft Holmes square in the eye. “He wants to explain, he comes here. He comes to me.”

She’s safe here; she isn’t safe among the ruined walls of Baker Street. There she might realise the impact this game has had and she might come dangerously close to forgiving him.

Mycroft’s eyes flit over her, a computer scanning, and he gives a thin smile. A single low nod.

“Very well.”

He departs from the living room and isn’t back for a long while. She ends up pacing and then ends up making herself coffee. She’s lost the taste for tea.

The kettle boils as the front door to her flat opens and a gust of winter wind comes. Toby, sitting on the stairs, meows and shoots upstairs. Mycroft isn’t the arrival. She wouldn’t have got out the second mug (an automatic motion) if he was.

“Black, two sugars,” she recites.

Sherlock gingerly takes a step forward. A glare from her stops him in his tracks. She bites on her tongue to stop herself apologising, to stop herself explaining that if he comes any closer, she’ll be forced to see something else other than her anger and this is the one time in her life she’s allowed herself to be selfish. It’s the worst she’s ever felt. She can’t let him see that.

Molly makes the coffee for the both of them and hands his coffee to him without letting their fingers touch. She used to hold the coffee cup with both hands, one at the handle and one cradling its body, even at its hottest temperature, because she knew he’d have to brush the pads of his fingers against her knuckles. She’s always had a knack for taking the smallest thing and making it bigger than it actually is.

She returns to the worktop, picks up her own mug and blows on the hot liquid. She stirs it, metal clattering against china.

“You were forced to play a game?” she asks, trying to keep her tone light. Light and bright, that’s familiar territory. Sherlock nods.

“I have a sister.” Heavy tone, delivering blunt truths. That’s his familiar territory. She wonders how she thought they ever could’ve worked. They’re on different planes of life. Her, her little dead centre of town. Him, his bustling city of cases and clients sitting on chairs. Sherlock swallows and sips from his coffee. His nose wrinkles but the snatch of light fades quickly. “Eurus. She’s a genius. Much cleverer than me, than Mycroft. She got taken away when she was a child. I purposely forgot her because she killed my best friend. Out of jealousy, it seems I didn’t play with her enough. She’s been locked up in a remote facility for years by Mycroft. She escaped, then she led us back to the facility. To Sherrinford. To play a game.”

This is his world he’s describing. This Sherlock Holmes world where arch enemies exist and genius sisters are locked away for fear of what they’ll do to the world. It’s terrifying, confusing but, as she sips at her coffee and listens, she starts to realise why she ever daydreamed about being a part of it.

“What kind of a game?” she asks blankly.

“Experiments. That tested my emotional reasoning against my deductive reasoning. Mycroft failed the first. John failed the second. I passed both.”

“Was I the second?”

“You were the third.”

Her bottom lip trembles and she bites on it until she fears she might draw blood.

“We were presented with a coffin. It was my job to deduce who it was for.”

She wipes at the corner of her eyes. Her armour is strong against Mycroft Holmes, the British Government, but when Sherlock is around—her heart beats on and beats on for him, clanging and crashing against armour which is somehow, suddenly, brittle to the touch.

“My life was at risk, so you forced me to say something that was true.” She spits out the last word, throwing an accusatory glare at him.

“It was a code for explosives hidden in your flat. And I couldn’t let you know of the danger. I couldn’t tell you where I was, I… If I didn’t say it, Molly, if – you – didn’t say it, I was led to believe that you – you would die.”

His look is pained, hurt shining in his eyes. Her fury bubbles up, up and up and up until she callously shrugs.

“So you got me to say it. I didn’t die. You passed. You—” her breath shakes and she curls her fingers into her palm, squashing it down, “won.”

“I lost.”

That pounds against her chest. A crack appears in the brittle armour, splitting a line down through her breast.

“You fulfilled the conditions of the experiment. You got me to say it. I lived.” Another catch in her breath, another break in her voice. A knife edge. “You won.”

“No. No, Molly. I lost. The experiment wasn’t – there were never any bombs in the flat.” His own voice shakes, and a dark part of her without hope wonders if that’s an act too. “You were never in harm’s way.”

“You know that makes it ten times worse, don’t you.” She leans her back against the worktop, pressing her hands to her forehead. She lets out a heavy breath, her arms sinking back down to her sides. “It was for nothing. You forced me to say something that was true, I forced you to say something that wasn’t true and it wasn’t even—”

Real. The stakes weren’t even there. She could’ve forgiven him immediately if there was a danger. If he was forced to be the gallant hero on a noble steed. It’s such a ridiculous thought, Sherlock Holmes charging up on a white horse to save her, Molly Hooper the maiden that she giggles. It feels strange and high, a weird relief on the weight inside her chest. The giggle chokes in her throat and becomes a cough, the cough is now a cry, an explosion of every piece of hatred she’s felt since that phone call.

She screams halfway through the cry, desperately wiping away tears that won’t stop.

“It’s you, it’s always you,” she snaps. “You bastard. You bastard—”

“I’m sorry.”

“You’re not sorry! How do I know you’re sorry? How do I know Mycroft isn’t going to charge in here with a team of suits to disable bombs? How do I know that this isn’t some fucked up way of you trying to comfort me because sentiment’s a disadvantage and it’s better for me to believe you never meant a word!” He reaches out to her but she hurries back, shaking her head. “No, no – don’t touch me—”

“The lie was real!”

He roars at her, those four words, and she stills. Her hand covers her mouth, her fingers softly brushing over her bottom lip as she takes him in. He breathes heavily, a weight lifted from his chest. His eyes are damp, wet even, wet with tears. She half-wonders how long he’s been on the brink. As long as her?

“Emotional context. Anyone can say ‘I love you’. It’s bandied around so much, it doesn’t really mean anything anymore. I mean, it’s said without context, every second. But Eurus gave me context. She presented me with a coffin that would fit you perfectly. She threatened your life. She threatened me with a world in which you didn’t exist.”

She shakes her head. Her realisation pounds inside her head, over and over. “You only said it because I told you to. I couldn’t bear not hearing you say it back.”

“Why?” His curious frown is kind, patient. Not seeking data, but helping her. “Why couldn’t you say it without hearing me?”

“I love you, Sherlock. Not your lifestyle, not the cases. That’s thrilling, intriguing, amazing – but I love you. For God’s sake, you could be some sad old sap keeping bees in a remote cottage and I’d still feel the same way. Can’t feel that deeply about someone without wanting to pretend just once.” She voices her realisation in a soft murmur as if she can’t believe it herself. She ends giving a small, sad smile. She returns to her coffee, taking a sip and laughing to herself. “Pathetic.”

“It’s not pathetic. What’s pathetic is not realising the truth until it’s laid out in the shape of a coffin.”

She blinks. “What?”

His trademark smirk, the one she loves despite herself, returns to his lips. “Now are you prepared to listen? What I said was a lie. The sentiment, however, is the truth. I only realised it when Eurus gleefully informed me there were no bombs, and you were actually perfectly safe. My emotional attachment to you blinded me to the most obvious deduction. And I ended up hurting you in the process. To know that I had done that – evisceration of the worst kind.”

“I believe you.” She doesn’t know she’s said the words until they register in her head, along with the soft timbre of her voice. She reaches up, sliding her hand against his cheek. “I just… I wish—”

His fingers gently hold her wrist. “I know.”

Of course, he knows. She believes him, but the pain is still there. Hearing his voice, her voice, both protesting she isn’t an experiment. She can’t fall into his arms and kiss him, pretending everything is alright again. She exposed herself as more than a girl who happened to have a silly crush. It was an easy mask to hide in, containing only a grain of the truth, and it’s been stripped away.

She reaches up onto tiptoe, but he still has to bend his head slightly for her to kiss his cheek, his temple. In return, he kisses her forehead.

“You know where I am.”

“I know where you’ll be,” she replies. He thanks her for the coffee and leaves, shutting the door behind him.

—

Six months later

She has no missed calls on her phone. She has no unread texts, still to be answered. She wears a blouse and her cherry print cardigan and her work trousers. She has her hair up, and she’s on a bus on her way home from work. She flips her phone over and over in her hand, holds her bag with the other. Lifting her head, she gazes out at London. 

The complicated streets which were burned down and rebuilt, condemning teenagers to long history lessons about the danger of building homes too close to one another. They teem with people. All with problems solved and yet to be solved. Perhaps even problems they don’t know of yet, but all of them seeking solutions. That final piece of the puzzle. 

Sometimes they find it in work, in a family, in children. Her dad found it in stamp collecting, though he always professed his family his first love. 

Behind her two students eagerly discuss politics, talking about Corbyn and Labour and the Conservatives. That’s another place where solutions can be found. Debate. Argument. Some people are never happy until they’re arguing.

She gets off the bus and walks the last few streets, enjoying how quickly the streets change. One street lined with gastro pubs and high-class restaurants sits next to a street where a tiny little café charges extra because it can. It’s in a prime spot after all.

She knocks on the door next to the café, and she’s welcomed with a smile. She heads up the stairs, making room for a departing Greg, who looks stressed as ever. 

As Greg heads down the stairs, muttering to himself and shaking his head (only a man truly content in his life does that, her father said once), she steps into Baker Street already smiling. John plays with his daughter. Sherlock---Unc’ according to Rosie---stands by the fireplace. She waves.

“Hello,” she says, grinning at Rosie who lights up and points.

“‘olly!”

Sherlock meets her as she walks in. He ducks down and kisses her forehead, letting the gesture linger.

“Hello,” he says.

“Hello,” she says, and she hugs him close. This is real. It will continue to be real, and this, above everything, is her family.

[tessatechaitea]

New Super-man #5

MAGA!

Don't worry! Global warming from air pollution isn't a problem! Everything will be okay when seeing a blue sky is a rare occurrence. This was the sky every day in Eastern China and Hong Kong. And this was from 1997.

The comic book shows The Bund at night where you can see stars. When they erupt out of their submarine to discuss books with the people, The People's Book Club of Ultimate Freedom even comment on how "mesmerizing" the stars are. Ha! As if. The People's Book Club of Ultimate Freedom have stolen Starro from the Ministry of Self-Reliance (I know, I know. So ironic that they'd have Starro!) and they're planning on using it against the communist regime who won't let them read The Cave of Time in its original English. All they get is the Chinese Translation with the Government Approved Endings! Kenan has just walked in on his father wearing his Flying Dragon Father costume and now he has questions up the proverbial wazoo. Is the wazoo actually proverbial? Do things have to have been mentioned in The Book of Proverbs to be proverbial? What is a proverb anyway? Like a combination verb and pronoun? Flying Dragon Father tells his origin story to his son because he wants Kenan to fight for the correct side. The correct side is obviously the one against China's governmental interests. Those fucking Communists are evil. Not because they're Communists, of course. Capitalists are fucking evil too! The common factor there is the part where the people who come to power by whatever means one comes to power in whatever economic or political system exists in the country they were raised tend to be ambitious, selfish, greedy assholes. The kind of people who would rule well don't crave the kinds of power, status, and money that comes with ruling. So they never wind up in power. Go figure, right?! Flying Dragon Father met Kenan's mother in the early college incarnation of The People's Book Club of Ultimate Freedom. They have their Harry Met Sally relationship that eventually leads to Kenan.

I wish she'd become the Leather Liberty Goddess.

Flying Dragon Father reveals the big shock twist: the Ministry of Self-Reliance killed Kenan's mother! Okay, so it wasn't as shocking as you might have thought by my calling it a big shock twist and using an exclamation point. But if you're familiar with my blog then you know exclamation points mean nothing! It's like I'm a rich kid just burning money if money were exclamation points and they made people wealthy. Now Kenan has a decision to make. Does he continue to fight for the Ministry of Self-Reliance or become a mole for the People's Book Club of Ultimate Freedom? Or does he go his own way and forge his own path which will probably lead to Laney Lan's bedroom and some kinky ass roleplay. Kenan chooses to go off with his father to help the People's Book Club of Ultimate Freedom. Bat-man and Wonder-Woman also head to The Bund to try to stop the Book Club. Also joining the fray? The Great Ten! You might remember one of them, August General in Iron. If you remember any of the other nine, you get a cookie. But not my cookie.

Even Book Clubs of Ultimate Freedom have to deal with power-mad narcissists who insist on ruining everything by thinking the end justifies the means.

Uncle Human Firecracker actually says, "Whatever it takes for the greater good." See? Total dickmonster. Mmm, dickmonster. Both Kenan and Flying Dragon Father aren't too happy about Uncle Human Firecracker's methods and decide it might be time to stop him. Isn't this always the way with book clubs? They always fall apart due to infighting.

I just realized why I like Kenan so much. He's a total Huck Finn.

I like to assume that I can say something like "he's a total Huck Finn" and people will completely understand what I mean. While I believe the literary canon really needs to be expanded to include more voices of non-white males, I still think it's usefulness in writing shorthand to others is beyond compare. The literary canon should never shrink, it should just grow bigger and bigger. Sure it's more work for those who want to understand everything anybody ever writes. But fuck is it useful. I'm not religious but you'd better believe I've read The Bible because without that foundation, you're not fully accessing a majority of Western Literature. If the Ultimate Literary Canon of Freedom is expanded enough, people will be expected to also know The Koran and the Bhagavad Gita and, um, the other ones that are probably important to people who didn't grow up with a white, Western education. Uncle Human Firecracker somehow does something to remove Kenan's powers. He probably had some of those miniature red suns in his glove. Kenan almost drowns but Flying Dragon Father rescues him and takes him to the Ministry of Self-Reliance to be healed. So people's loyalties are becoming a bit fuzzy due to other loyalties. Meanwhile, Uncle Human Firecracker shoves a bunch of Starro-captured motherfuckers onto a plane. He's going to fly it into Beijing and the seat of Communist power so that he can mind-control them all into becoming a democracy. Sounds about right. But! On the plane is Lixin, the fat kid whose lunch money Kenan used to steal! He's not supposed to be there but his parents own the airline and he's trying to make a Youtube video or something in the cockpit. I guess he's going to have to be the hero on the hijacked plane! Always bet on fat! Super-man doesn't get his powers back even with a blast of yellow sun radiation. It looks like he lost his powers when he felt his dad was disappointed in him. So his powers fluctuate based on his esteem? That's actually a good thing for Kenan! Mostly, he's as cocky and arrogant as I am.

Heh heh. Compliance devices.

Super-man and Flying Dragon Father rush off to stop the plane. I guess Kenan's powers will come back now that he knows his father is proud of him. I hope Lixin becomes his pal! Does Lixin mean "Jimmy Olsen" in Chinese? What Did We Learn? Being confident is where real power comes from! You know that's true because it's what all the Men's Rights Advocates say! I think they're basic rule is to be confident even when you know you're a disgusting piece of shit that no woman in their right mind would ever touch. The worst part about this advice is that it's right. Being confident is attractive! The problem is faking confidence simply to get laid. If you need to get laid and you want confidence, pay a sex worker (preferably in someplace where it's legal because it should all be legal and by participating in places where it isn't legal, you're just encouraging illegal sex work which endangers women). They'll tell you how big your cock is and how good you are at the penetrations! Even if you blow your load too early, they won't act disappointed and upset and become bitter and resentful that you're not seeing to their needs. Although thinking you're good at sex when you're not might be harmful to your relationships in the long run. But at least getting laid might keep you from going on the Internet and getting involved with these MRA jerks. The Ranking! +1! This comic book is the best! Or close to the best! Don't challenge me! What I say here doesn't have to match up with what's over there on the sidebar in the Rankings. Especially if you're reading this on Blogger since I never fucking update the list on that site.