#when i saw a tweet of two bloodied men holding onto each other

[ladsofsorrow24]

watched a yhara zayd review of saltburn and... wow that sounds like a very boring film, ngl

[kissesinthekitchen]

Mine

Prompt: In which a jealous and protective Harry gets into a fight defending your honor, and you decide to repay him. 

Pairing: Harry x Reader

Smutty fluff. Word count: 3,446. Rated mature.

A/N: I’ve been lurking the Harry fic tag for a while now, and have become so inspired by many of the writers and stories I have encountered on here. This is my first ever Harry fanfic. Please be gentle. Likes/reblogs and any love would be appreciated! Enjoy. x

“That wasn’t quite treating people with kindness, was it?” 

You stare down at your boyfriend who is sitting on the hotel sofa, grinning up at you through his lashes and a gruesome bloody lip. 

“Fuckin’ tosser shouldn’t have been grabbing at you though. That’s right, innit?”

You press the towel of ice over his eyelid, which is already turning an angry purple and puffing up. 

It’s a fucking messy picture. Harry can only stare at you with one eye. His cheek looks equally upset, scratched and bruised. When he winces, his lip cracks again oozing blood and saliva from the pressure of mouth and teeth and dribbling onto his floral shirt. His hands are still shaking, swollen too -

This is not how you wanted to spend your last night in London before going home to see his family for the holidays. 

It was only supposed to be one night out. Dinner and then some drinks at a fancy club that Gemma had suggested months ago. You’d gone to the bar to grab some shots ---- when a red faced, tan man with greasy blonde hair had appeared at your side as you waited for the bartender to prepare your drinks. 

He’d been leaning against the bar. He used one arm to stroke your hair, his fingers dipping into your hair to brush back some strands behind your ear. The same hand then moved to train down the exposed skin of your arms. “Mmm,” he said. “Don’t you look like a present? My name’s Michael. What’s your name, love?”

“Oh-” you stuttered, trying to shrug out of his grasp. “Hi. Sorry I’m with-”

“With me, right? You’re a fucking stunner. Meant to be - that’s what we are.”

“Sorry. No. Thank you-” he was so close you had to turn in his embrace to be able to face the bartender again. You took the two glasses in each hand and tried to shift away but he wrapped the other arm around your waist, squeezing you. You were frozen. 

Your eyes tried to scan the crowd for Harry’s face, the music making you feel something akin to drowning as this Michael’s hands deepened their hold on your  skin. You froze as you felt them move to your ass. 

“I’m here with my boyfriend. Sorry.” you tried to recoil and raise the glasses up, so it would block him from trying to smash his face against yours. But it didn’t work, he took your protest as something enticing. It provoked him to move closer -- you could vomit. 

“Your what?” he tried to play along. “Where’s he? Wouldn’t let you outta my sight if you were mine.”

Then you heard a low, deep voice boom from behind you. 

“She’s here with her fucking boyfriend.”

“Harry-” you could hear the shrillness in your voice, your throat threatening to close around the anxiety and panic that had begun to pull you under. Your heart felt like it might soar with relief. He grabbed you to him so quickly, it felt like whiplash, the drinks jostling, tequila spilling on his expensive blazer. “Harry, I’m sorry-”

But he didn’t seem to hear you as he shoved you behind him. 

And Michael? The man was laughing. You watched him over Harry’s shoulder, your cheek pressed against his back. 

“You’re a fucking bitch!” he spit, before his eyes landed on Harry. “God. Don’t I know you from the telly?” He chuckled. His mouth widening when recognition dawned on him. “Oh shit! Fucking popstar!” His eyes fell on some of the people who were now turning around in the commotion-

“Harry,” you tried to tug on your boyfriend’s arm. “Let’s go.” 

But it felt like you weren’t there. His eyes were still focused on the drunk man in front of him. 

“You were saying something?” he said. His jaw ticked. The vein in his neck was pulsing. “Come on with it, then? Fuckin’ tosser.”

Michael’s eyes narrowed, as if hearing him for the first time. He stepped closer to Harry. 

“Harry, come on-” you begged.

“You had something to fucking say-” Harry didn’t flinch, even as your grip on his tightened. Your nails digging into his skin-

“I. Said.” He blew air in Harry’s face. “You should keep an eye on your fucking slag.” 

Harry laughed. He did this when he got angry. Got sarcastic. There are times where you’ve argued and the sound was so cold, it felt like it could turn you to stone. It’s a memory you don’t think about often - the moments are so few and far between- but now-

In a blur, you saw Harry raise his fist and punch Michael right in the face. He threw the force of his body in it, the heavy rings on his fingers connecting with his nose at such an ugly, and gruesome angle. You could tell Harry’s reaction had caught him by surprise, he crumpled to the floor in one movement, hands grasping at his face, red dripping onto his fingers. He sounded like he was choking. 

“Harry!” you screamed. 

The crowd around you fell into a thunderous commotion, a crescendo of shouting combined with the music and flashes. The wave of people tightening to get better shots. 

“Fucking asshole!” Harry shouted. “Disgusting. Bastard. Fucking idiot!”

You tried to wrap both arms around his waist, tried to grab him away from the scene unfolding in front of you but it was too late. You could feel the way his skin seemed to vibrate under your touch. Michael grabbed for him and tried to punch him back but he missed his jaw, instead splitting his mouth in two. He tried to swing again on his crooked feet and hit Harry in the cheek. Harry made a show of spitting blood onto the tiled floor, his eyes narrowing as his fist connected with Michael’s face again and again. 

“Fucking asshole! Fucking asshole!” You saw spots of blonde hair, the commotion seemed to pulse around you. 

“Harry! Fuck, Harry stop!” 

You grabbed at Harry to pull him off Michael right as the guards of the club broke up the fight. 

“The fuck is going on here?” one giant, burly man said. His arms extended out to separate both men. 

Harry spit out more blood. “That’s my fucking girlfriend!” he glanced back to stare into your panicked eyes. “Fucking bastard grabbed at her. Wouldn’t let her go. Could we not have gotten some fucking help? Bullshit. This the kind of guys you want in your place?” Harry narrowed his eyes. 

“That true?” the guard turned to where Michael still lay in a heap on the floor. “You try to make a grab at her?” 

“I was-I” he tried to stutter around an alibi. 

Then the focus was on you. “He made you feel unsafe, ma’am?”

You could sink under the attention. You felt so small. Harry seemed to sense this, his bloodied hands moved to grasp you and just that - his hands on your forearms, holding in you place- was enough. You tried to find your voice. 

“Was just getting our drinks. He grabbed me, I couldn’t move-his hands were on my-”

The guard’s face fell, full of understanding. “Alright-” he grabbed Michael’s arms and pulled them back. “You’re out of here, mate. S’what you get for being an asshole.”

Harry’s head followed them. He was still breathing hard. 

Michael started to yell as he was carried away, “Oi! Fucking popstar, I hope you got some fucking lawyers ready. Won’t fucking get away with this!” 

“Harry,” you grabbed at him. “Harry-let’s go-”

But his eyes were still so far away. 

“Fucking bitch,” Michael spat blood in your direction.

“Harry,” you narrowed your voice, your arms locked around his waist. He stared down at you, as if finally realizing what happened, as if he was looking at you for the first time in a while.  His arm was tight around your neck. “Let’s go. Please.” 

Deepening his stare, he squeezed you tight with a quick peck to your head and finally -finally - let you steer him towards the exit. 

---

“Your mom’s gonna kill me.”

“Mum’s not gonna kill you.”

“She won’t get any photos of you at Christmas now that your face has been smashed in.”

At that, Harry seems to agree, you know by the silence you fall into as you continue working. The club owner was gracious enough to let you two through a private back entrance so you could try to avoid anymore prying eyes from the cameras on the videos you’re sure people recorded on their cellphones, as well as the photographers that had gathered outside in the commotion as a result of a bunch of tweets and texts going out. 

You’d been silent on the ride home too, holding Harry’s clasped hands in your lap. Insisting on asking the Uber driver to stop at a pharmacy so you could grab a first aid kit to patch your boyfriend back together again. 

You asked the driver to go around the back of the hotel to avoid some photographers that had already gathered outside. And once there, you carried Harry up to the hotel room with his arm staying slung over your shoulder, keeping you tight to his side even when you had to take the bucket from the fridge down to fill it with ice cubes for his face. 

And now, sitting on your knees in front of Harry, you still don’t know whether to be upset with him. 

Sure, you’d been scared - horribly frightened even- when you heard the crack of that douchebag’s bone under his fist. But there’s a larger, almost unbeknownst part of yourself that you don’t want to acknowledge - the relief that had rushed over you when Harry had appeared by your side, his big hands moving you behind him. The way your heart thrummed, the chill down your spine at the angry, dangerous look in Harry’s eyes. To see him look so out of control with his anger. So unhinged. God, it might have even made you a little wet. 

But you won’t tell Harry that, not yet at least. Not when he’s still hurt and simultaneously being a smug little shit as you treat his wounds. You let the silence draw out like the space between you. You try to ignore the way you can feel his eyes on you, you think it’s just him trying to make sure you’re okay, maybe waiting for you into go into hysterics - but no, he’s always like this. Some part of him always itching to be a part of you. As if to demonstrate it, he keeps one long arm reaching towards you, his large hand resting draped over your lap as you lean in to inspect his face. 

“Ice is melting. Let me change it,” you say, gingerly unfolding the hand on his eye. You scoop more ice out from the bucket and into another towel. “Press it down.” You remind him, as he holds it to his eye with the hand not on your leg. You unwrap a pack of bandages, alcohol, ointment and go to work. 

“‘It’s gonna make the paper tomorrow, babe.” He winces as you swipe the alcohol across his cheek, but you don’t know whether it’s because of the cut or the truth you’ve just reminded him is dawning. “Might even be online already. Probably trending.” 

“Shit-” he mutters. 

A long minute passes before he speaks again. 

“S’gonna be alright.” he whispers. “We’ll be alright.” 

“Mmmhmm,” you say back, your attention focused on cleaning the rest of the drying blood on his cheek. His usually flawless pale skin flushes in your grasp. 

“M’sorry about work.” he says, softly as if he’s embarrassed. You only nod in silence as you smooth another band-aid across his cheekbone, your fingers pressing against the sharpness of it - too distracted to really consider the gossip that will follow you back to the elementary school you work at. The nosey coworkers. Idly, you think -hope, pray- that the holiday will create enough distance. You don’t think the school would like another barrage of paparazzi trying to loom around the campus. You remember the scowl that had gripped Harry’s face when you told him that someone had tried to follow you home-

“It’s okay,” you tell him, your fingers grasping his face so he knows you’re serious. “You were only defending my honor.”

At that, he blinks, the smoothness of his lips trembling from a straight line into a curve. He beams up at you. “I was…?”

You straighten your back to dump the bloodied wash cloth and bandages into the bin next to you. “I should repay you for that, shouldn’t I?”

In the corner of your eye you see Harry perk up, the air shifting as he realizes you’re no longer angry or upset with him. At least, not anymore. 

He closes his eyes as you run your hands through the curls on his head, scratching your nails at the nape of his neck where he likes it best. You move onto your knees to slide into his lap and straddle his thighs. 

“God. I love your face. Hate to see it like this.” you admit to him, nuzzling close to where the buttons of his shirt are open, your lips pressing kisses to his throat and collarbones. “Wish I could kiss you.”

“Got other parts of me you can kiss, pet.” 

You smirk at him, pulling back to smooth your hair over one shoulder. “Is that right?”

“Can’t you feel me?” He chuckles. “Want you so bad, honey.” 

He hisses as you move to unbuckle the belt of his pants, your warm fingers digging into the waistband of his underwear to take him into your hand. He licks his lips and whines as you grasp him, pulling tight at the tip where he’s already throbbing and leaking and pushing down. 

He whines. “Mmm, so hard, love.” 

“Yeah? Getting into fights make you hard, Harry? Saw red when you saw someone touching what was yours?”

“Shit-” he says. It’s a grunt through his clenched teeth. The gravely sound of it makes you clench at the sound. “Yeah-yeah. You’re mine. Fuck. I don’t know what came over me.” He laughs, low in his throat. “I think I could’a fuckin’ killed him-”

“Should do something for you then, huh?” You giggle, a mischievous smile stretching over your lips. “How do you want me, H?”

“On your knees,” he says. “Want your mouth. Take me into your mouth, love.”

His eyes seem to find clarity for a moment, the deepness of his voice guiding you back onto the floor. 

Usually you pepper kisses down his abdomen, kiss every one of his tattoos but there is no time for that tonight. It’s not what he deserves. Quickly, you make work of his clothes, pulling his trousers and underwear down enough to pull his cock out. You move onto your knees to hover over him, hot breath and lips kissing up the length of him-

Your cheeks feel hot as you let his voice guide you, even though you’ve done this so many times. 

“None of that right now please. Put me in love.” Harry moans as you open your mouth wide, your eyes locked with his green gaze, never breaking contact as you let him use you to get off. One hand grasping the base of himself so he can feed you his cock. Your lips work over the thickness of him, something you’ll never ever get used to. Your mouth and chin becoming slick with your spit and his precum as you work your mouth on him. He feels heavy against your tongue. “God, you suck it so well. Take me so well, love. Fuck. Your mouth’s so soft-” 

“Why’re you so good to me?” he babbles on. Your ears feels like they’re prickling under the warmth of his praise. You would be smiling at him if your mouth wasn’t so stuffed with his cock. “God. Why’re you so good to me? Suckin’ me so well. And probably gonna let me eat your cunt later, huh? Have got such a pretty pussy too. My baby-”

You try to press your thighs together but it’s not enough. It’s as if every one of Harry’s grunts and moans is able to egg your hands on. It’s hard but you untangle your fingers from his to slip it under your dress and push your panties aside to press them against where you are aching and disappointingly empty. Your lips are firm as you moan around Harry’s length. 

You watch his neck roll back against the couch, the line of his jaw tipping up towards the ceiling as he swallows hard. His Adam’s Apple is bobbing. “God, does sucking my cock make you wet, love? You’re so sweet. Do you like it when I come for you? It makes you so wet-God. Fuck. I can hear it. I can hear how wet you are for me.”

One of his hands stays clasped over your forearm, which is resting against the tiger tattoo on his thigh and gripping the base of him where your mouth can’t stretch. The other is tangled in your hair, combing it back and cupping your cheek so he can stare into your face as you suck him off. 

“Fuck,” he says, as if disbelief is caught in his throat. “Let me see that pretty face stretched over my cock. You’re so beautiful, baby.” At that, you hollow your cheeks and hum back in appreciation. 

You can tell Harry’s close when he gets more desperate. His grunts and moans get closer together, his fingers more frantic to find purchase on something. 

“Don’t,” he grunts, even as his fingers have moved to grip the back of your head to keep you in place so he can fuck into your mouth. His hips are stuttering off the edge of the couch as he gasps, “You’ll make me come. Y/N. You’ll make me come. Oh god-”

His voice breaks, cracking around the sound of your name as he spills deep into your mouth. 

“Y/N. Y/N. Fuck me- Y/N,” he says.

You take him in deep, swallowing down the taste of him as he trembles and whimpers your name again and again. Not one drop left spared, because just like he is always so desperate to be a part of you, you’re so very desperate for every inch of him. 

You moan your appreciation back and hold him there until he starts to soften. The muscles in your jaw and throat ache but you’re happy. His fingers stroke the back of your head when you know he’s become too sensitive, and you let him slip from your mouth. You lick around the length of his cock, his balls, pressing lips to his stomach and cleaning him up. Resting your head against his torso and rubbing your fingers and lips against the leaves on his belly as you listen to him calm down. 

“Fuck. C’mere love-” You tuck him back into his pants and pull yourself up the length of him to press your mouth to his. His fingers grasp your face tenderly and clench in your hair, his moans deepening as he tastes himself on your tongue. “Thank you. God, I love you so much. I needed that. Needed you.”

“Thank you,” you tell him, as you settle back into the nest of his lap. “Don’t want you starting a fuss over me. Or hurting this beautiful face. My favorite face. But still, thank you.” You wrap your arms around his neck and pull him to you, kissing the top of his head and the roots of his hair. 

“For what?” he muses, with a mischievous grin. He slides his other hand around your waist and presses his face into your throat and nuzzling the top of your breasts, cuddling closer. 

“For defending my honor,” You cradle his blistered hand up to your face and kiss the rings on his knuckles as you begin listing things off. “For not letting that asshole get away. For showing everyone not to mess with what’s yours.”

“Did what I had to do, didn’t I?” he says, looking up at you. Your heart clenches at the conviction in his voice. The crease in his eye somehow still making him more adorable, even all puffed up. The dimple in his cheek deepening. 

“You’re my woman,” he says in a voice that sounds like nothing else in his life could be more true. 

You kiss the side of his mouth, his cheek tenderly as he whispers into your hair-

“And I’m your man.” 

____

A/N: Hope you liked this! Fine Line has inspired me to try to write a story for each track on the album. This was what I came up with for Treat People with Kindness, as the joke y/n makes in the beginning popped in my head! More stories to come hopefully. 

[penpatronuswhump]

WHUMPTOBER 2020

No. 26 

Fandom: Avengers

Whumpees: Tony, Steve, Clint

Caregivers: Tony, Steve, Clint

Title: The One Where Tony, Steve, and Clint Go Camping

Part 1 

By: PenPatronus // PenPatronusAooO

Steve had never been camping (beyond that period when he was 5-6 years old and he and his family had to live in a transient camp in the woods, because his dad lost his job. Clint said that didn’t count).

 Tony had only been glamping (Clint said that didn’t count, either).

 So, one weekend, Clint convinced Steve and Tony to go on what he called an “honest” camping trip. They hiked deep into the forest to a lake with small backpacks and sleeping bags. They hunted their food. They left their phones and every other luxury at home. The fun lasted two days. The night of the second day, while the boys were laughing around a campfire, a HYDRA helicopter flew overhead. It hovered for a moment, its spotlight blinding the Avengers. And then the bullets rained down and the helicopter dropped a small missile right into their campfire. The three men scattered in opposite directions as the forest exploded.

 Steve woke up in a snow globe of sparks. He was lying on his back, staring up at a burning tree that was starting to fall over – directly onto him. Steve pedaled backwards, ankles digging into dirt and leaves, then he did a quick backwards summersault the rest of the way, yelping in pain when he put weight on his right foot. The tree collapsed right next to him, but Steve didn’t hear it. His ears were ringing like church bells. His foot was throbbing. He examined it, and found a bloody hole. One of the bullets had gone right through his boot, just south of his toes. Steve started coughing, then. Several trees were on fire, not to mention the dry debris on the ground, and the whole area was quickly filling up with gray smoke. “ST—” he half-yelled, choking. “STARK! BARTON!”

Clint woke up facedown, half in and half out of the lake. He dove into the water the second he spotted the descending missile, but that didn’t completely save him from the shockwave of fire. His clothes were burnt in several places, as was the skin beneath them. A bullet had nicked his left elbow. It was bleeding – the top half shouting in pain, the bottom half numb. Clint coughed out the water that had accumulated in his lungs and used his right arm to push himself up onto his knees. The campsite was annihilated. There was nothing left but fire. Trees were falling or burning up. His eyes watered from the smoke. “CAP!” he called into the fog. “STARK!”

 Tony woke up on his side. For a long time, he just lay there, marveling in the fact that when he’d started running, he ran head-first into an oak tree. The genius had knocked himself unconscious and, judging by the swirling in his stomach, he’d given himself a concussion. He didn’t want to move. If he did, he’d realize how much trouble he was in. And he was in deep. Shit. He’d been shot in two places – that much he remembered – but he couldn’t recall where. So, Tony just lay on a pile of leaves and acorns and stared, mesmerized, as the fire on the ground inched closer to him. The heat of it stung the back of his throat. He could just fall asleep right there – just disappear. Damned if he moved, damned if he didn’t. The acorns weren’t so bad…

 Something shoved its way under his armpits from behind him and lifted him up into a sitting position. “Tony,” came Clint’s voice, breathless in his ear, “Tony, get up!”

 Steve emerged from the smoke like a ghost. He slid to his knees in front of Tony and held both hands out. The concussed Tony reached back out of habit and between Steve pulling and Clint pushing, he got up onto his feet.

 He promptly collapsed. Steve pulled harder and Clint pushed harder – then they changed their tactics and pulled Tony’s arms across their shoulders, holding him up instead of trying to help him hold himself. Tony’s wounded body shrieked at him. There was a bullet in his leg, but he wasn’t sure where because the entire limb was on fire. There was a bullet in his torso, but he wasn’t sure where because everything from his neck down to his bellybutton was pulsating with pain. Frowning, confusion from the concussion setting in, Tony looked at his teammates and saw that they, too, were disoriented and bleeding and Tony wondered if there was ash and soot and dirt all over his skin, too. Steve was limping and coughing. Clint’s busted elbow was dripping blood, and he was coughing. Tony suddenly realized he hadn’t been breathing in a long time and took a deep inhale and he started coughing, too.

 Steve and Clint marched forward, initially in different directions, but then Steve submitted to Clint’s lead since he knew the woods better. Tony was dragged between them for a good fifty yards before he suddenly remembered how to walk. He tried to – he really did – but the bullet in his leg was sharp and fierce and he nearly passed out when he put weight on it. There was nothing for him to do but relax in his friends’ arms. Tony surrendered.

 Another hundred yards, and they were far enough away from the fire. Steve, jaw clenched and Adam’s apple bouncing, admitted that he needed a break. Together, he and Clint lowered Tony to the ground with his back against a maple tree. Clint collapsed beside him, flat on his back, and Steve slowly lowered himself down, hurt foot outstretched. “Look at that,” Clint said. He pointed at the sky. Steve and Tony followed his gaze. With the smoke behind them, and miles from civilization, the stars (including the arc of the Milky Way), stood out striking from the velvet black night. “Wow.”

 Steve exhaled through a slight smile. Everything in his life was ephemeral, but not the stars. Or pain.

 Tony suddenly crawled around the tree, vomited loudly, then crawled back, far slower. For the first time, the three of them really looked at themselves, and each other. They had no sling for Clint’s arm, no crutches for Cap to lean on, no bandages for the bullet in Tony’s left hip or the bullet in his left kidney. “Leave your phones at home, guys,” Tony said mockingly, imitating Clint’s voice. “The point is to get away from everything, including technology. No, Tony, you can’t bring an Iron Man suit. No, Cap, you can’t bring your shield…”

 “I’m Tony Stark. The media follows me everywhere because I’m so fucking important. The whole world probably knew we were camping out here – probably because you tweeted it!” Clint shot back. “Why else would HYDRA even know we’re out here?”

 Steve rolled his eyes and put his face in his hands. “Come on, guys…”

 “If we’d brought a simple GPS locator – just something as simple as that – then the others would be able to find us when we don’t check in, but NO, no, no technology or we’re not going, Tony,” Tony mocked.

 “I hope you’re the first one of us to bleed to death!” Clint spat.

 “I hope I do! I won’t have to look at your face!”

 “Hey!” Steve picked up a fistful of dirt and launched it at the other two men. “Cut it out! Both of you! We’re in trouble here. Barton, are we anywhere close to where we can get some help?”

 Clint rubbed his eyes and sighed. “Yeah… Yeah, I think. There’s a cabin on the other side of the lake. Didn’t see lights last night so I doubt there’s someone there, but it might have supplies. Maybe a phone if we’re lucky.”

 “How long of a hike?”

 “Three miles.”

 Steve looked down at his shot up foot. He doubted he could walk one mile, let alone three, let alone carrying half of Tony the whole time. That was what he was thinking. What he said was, “Let’s get going.”

 Tony waved his hand like he was shooing away a fly. “You two go on. I’ll wait here. You’ll get there faster without me.”

 Clint didn’t look at Tony. “You’re not safe alone. That helicopter could be circling back to make sure we’re dead.”

 Tony gestured at the holes in his body. He was pale and sweating. Even in the dim moonlight the other two could tell that he was trembling. “Look at me. I’m dead anyway.”

 “We’re not leaving you behind,” Clint said between clenched teeth.

 “He’s right. We have to stay together.” Steve limped over to Tony and helped him stand up. “Come on.”

 Together, the three Avengers made for the cabin.

 To Be Continued

[saysomethingspiderman]

Something Wonderful (PT.7)

Synopsis: During your time as a professional photographer, you had come across incredibly good looking men, but there was just something about Tom that stood out. Who would have thought shooting the self-titled “walking meme” would change your life forever?

Chapter word count: 4.7k

Part One // Part Two // Part Three // Part Four // Part Five // Part Six // Part Seven // Part Eight

It didn’t occur to you that you’d both fallen asleep until the light from the morning sun woke you up. With a small groan, you reached down and pulled the duvet up over your head to shield yourself from the unpleasant awakening. As you lay there, Tom’s arm hanging lazily over your waist, you couldn’t ignore the slight aching pain between your legs. Boy, had last night been good but the ache reminded you just how long it had been. The toys in your bedside table had never been used more in the last year, let’s just say that. When there was a slight shuffle and a yawn from behind, you turned over and pushed the duvet down a little; being almost blinded by the sun was worth it to see Tom’s sleepy morning face.

“Remind me to close the curtains next time,” Tom said with a small chuckle, his voice thick and raspy from sleep. He rubbed his eyes and looked over at you with a smile, taking in your messy hair and small marks his lips had left on your neck the night before. “You, my darling, are beautiful.” With a cheeky grin, he reached over and pulled you closer. His lips met yours, instantly waking you up. He pressed himself against you, rubbing his morning erection against your thigh.

“I don’t think I can go another round just yet,” you murmured against his lips, though wanted to do nothing more than pin him down and fuck him into the mattress. “I’m a bit sore.”

After another gentle kiss, he pulled away and slapped your bum lightly. “Alright, how about some breakfast?” he asked as he moved to get out of bed. He shoved on a pair of boxers and tossed you one of his t-shirts. “I’ve no idea what we’ve got left in,” he said, leading you out the bedroom after you put some of his boxers on too. “Harrison usually does the food shop… I should probably check when he’s back from his holiday actually,” he murmured, mostly to himself.

Since you’d been spending more time at Tom’s place, the two of you often ordered food instead of cooking. It was a lot easier and, truth be told, you both got lazy after a long day of work. There were basics you’d pick up from the local shop but as you both looked through the cupboards and fridge, you came to the realisation that there hadn’t been much in for a long time.

“Okay, so we’ve got a few sausages, cereal and… Ah ha, one slice of bacon!” Tom said, pulling it from the fridge with a proud look on his face. Seeing your frown, he burst out laughing and shook his head. “Okay, we’ll just use this up and then go for something proper to eat. And we’ll go shopping,” he added, reading your mind.

While Tom got started on the bacon and sausages, you flicked the kettle on and made a cup of tea for each of you. As you sipped the hot drink, you leaned back against the island and watched Tom move around the kitchen, his brow furrowed in deep concentration. The muscles on his back were glorious but the angry red scratches across his shoulders and spine made your cheeks flame. Either they weren’t sore or they didn’t bother him because Tom didn’t seem to think about the large marks as he quietly hummed an old cartoon theme tune to himself.

“There better be enough for me.”

The voice came from behind and you quickly turned to see a tall, sandy haired young man around the same age as Tom stood leaning back against the table with a cocky smirk plastered across his face. He crossed his arms over his chest and raised a brow, looking between the two of you with a glint in his eye, clearly trying his hardest to hold in his laugh. You pulled at the end of the t-shirt you were wearing, trying to cover yourself a little bit more, and did your best to ignore how hot your face suddenly felt. This wasn’t exactly how you’d imagined meeting Tom’s best friend for the first time.

“Fuck sake, Harrison, I thought you weren’t back until the end of the week,” Tom said with an awkard chuckle and ran a hand through his hair, messing it up at the back.

“Nope. Got back last night,” Harrison replied, letting out the laugh he’d been holding. “Didn’t you see my suitcase at the door when you got back?”

There was a pause from Tom and then he mumbled, “Must have missed it. I was… Distracted.”

“Oh, I’m well aware,” he snorted and moved over to the fridge. He took out the carton of milk and drank a large gulp. “Next time, try to remember my bedroom’s right next to yours.”

Tom dropped a sausage on the floor with a quiet thud. Tessa scurried over and headed straight for it, not caring that it was steaming with heat. Your face fell and your eyes widened in absolute horror at Harrison’s words.

The moans. The screams. The bloody headboard.

Christ.

He’d heard everything.

“Yeah, um, we’ll keep that in mind,” you managed to mutter because Tom seemed to have lost his voice, only able to clear his throat. After a pause, you gave Harrison a brief nod and then hurriedly left the room go grab some proper trousers from upstairs.

You took the time to brush the knots from your hair, spray some deodorant on and actually wash the makeup from your face. It was rare you slept with makeup on and the small spots already appearing under your skin along your jawline and chin reminded you exactly why you usually scrubbed your face clean of it. When you felt a little bit better about your appearance, you headed back down to join the boys in the kitchen. Tom’s cheeks were still tinted with pink when he gave you a smile. Seeing Harrison digging into some cereal at the table, you decided to join him with your plate, though noticeably there was one sausage short thanks to Tom’s clumsiness and Tessa’s quick reflexes.

“Don’t worry, I ended up putting my earphones in,” Harrison said through a mouthful of Cheerios, as though that would help with the situation.

With a shake of your head, you gave a soft laugh and shrugged a shoulder. “Well next time you have a girl over, you have permission to get us back,” you chuckled and covered your food sausages and bacon with ketchup.

“Oi, he’s way ahead of me in that game!” Tom argued playfully, taking the seat next to you.

“It’s a game now, is it?” Harrison asked with a raised brow. “I can guarantee I haven’t woken you up by repeatedly bashing my headboard against the wall.”

“Don’t hate the player,” Tom smirked and leaned back in his chair with his hands behind his head. 

“Alright, boys, I can practically taste the testosterone in here,” you said and rolled your eyes. “If you want, I can leave you both alone and you can sort through your issues between yourselves.”

Tom gave a light chuckle and placed his arm over the back of your chair, but you soon got up to properly get ready for the day. After shoving your plate in the dishwasher, you went back upstairs and had a long shower to get rid of the post-sex sweat that had dried on your skin. When you felt much fresher and smelled of Tom’s fancy soaps, you changed into some sweats and spotted your phone on the bedside table. The screen flashing with multiple messages caused a small frown between your brows. Who was messaging you so much? You didn’t have that many friends.

Olivia Mayfield                                   10m ago

AVOID TWITTER

Olivia Mayfield                                   13m ago

Hello???

Casey Piper                                        14m ago

Since when you were seeing TOM HOLLAND?

Amy Leung                                         17m ago

You look hot🔥

Amy Leung                                         17m ago

YOU’RE IN THE NEWS!

Olivia Mayfield                                   17m ago

Have you seen the Daily Mail?👀

Reading the texts made your stomach twist. The colour drained from your face. You’d been careful, hadn’t you? Well, you hadn’t gone out of your way to hide from people but there hadn’t been anyone with cameras to hide from. Oh don’t be ridiculous, you thought, everyone has a camera in their pocket these days. Going against Olivia’s advice, you went straight to Twitter and, ignoring the ridiculously large number of follow requests, you saw that Tom’s name was trending. You took a seat on the edge of the messy bed and clicked on the name to see hundreds of tweets. Some mentioned you, though a lot of them simply retweeted the same article from the Daily Mail or The Sun. Seeing a blurred photo of the two of you leaving the restaurant hand in hand made you click on one of them despite knowing it was best to steer clear of these types of things.

Tom Holland Heads out With Mystery Woman at London Hot Spot

Hollywood heart-throb Tom Holland was seen holding hands with a mystery woman on Thursday night while leaving Marylebone’s Chiltern Firehouse. The two were spotted walking outside the restaurant looking loved up after a romantic date in one of London’s celebrity hot spots. The Spider-Man star, 23, looked delighted as he spent time with his companion, and could be seen wrapping an arm around her shoulders while they chatted and moved onto one of the many cocktail bars in the area. The woman wore a silk, mid-length green dress, leaving little to the imagination, while Tom kept things cool with a short-sleeved button up shirt and checkered trousers.

A source for the Daily Mail told us the couple could barely keep their hands off each other and headed back to Tom’s home in Kingston upon Thames once the night came to an end.

His outing comes after sources exclusively tell us he is still hung up on ex-girlfriend Zendaya:

‘They dated for a couple of years and it’s hard to get over someone like that,’ our source says, ‘He’s still pining [for Zendaya] and will do anything he can to get over her. It’s hard for him to see she’s moved on so quickly.’

The Daily Mail has reached out to Tom’s representatives for comment.

Throughout the article, there were multiple photos of you and Tom outside the restaurant, just laughing with each other as you walked to your next destination. The photos were blurry, either taken from far away or snapped quickly on someone’s phone, but they were clear enough to make out your face. How had people found out your name? Even the writer of the trashy article hadn’t found that out. Closing the page, you planned on leaving it at that but you couldn’t help scroll through the tweets; words such as ‘ugly’, ‘fat’, ‘fake’ and ‘pig’ were just some of the many that stuck out. Of course, there were nice messages but those weren’t the ones you cared about. How could you listen to those people when there were others telling you things you sometimes thought about yourself? Surely you were supposed to listen to those ones who were speaking the harsh truth?

With an almost inaudible sigh, you took the plunge and chanced a look at Instagram. As expected, you had hundreds of new followers on your public work page as well as countless requests on your private one. You assumed people had found you by searching through the people Tom followed. You ignored the requests and looked at the comments on your most recent public posts. It was all pretty much the same. The nice comments were drowned out by the ones aiming to destroy not only your relationship with Tom but also what confidence you had left in yourself. Did these people really think it was okay to send such disgusting messages?

You weren’t sure how long you sat there scrolling through Instagram and Twitter but you guessed it was quite a while when a hand appeared in front of your face, waving wildly. With a jump, you locked your phone and looked up to see Tom’s confused face.

“You okay, darling?” he asked. “I’ve just said your name about a hundred times.”

“Oh, you did? Oh. Right. Uh, yeah, yeah, fine, just in my own little world,” you replied, voice at a slightly higher pitch than usual. You cleared your throat. “Just replying to some texts, is all.”

“Nothing to do with certain pictures that were taken last night?” he asked after a small hesitation, then gave a smile when the sudden drop of your shoulders gave him the answer he already knew. With a heavy sigh, Tom took a seat next to you on the bed and placed a hand on your thigh, squeezing gently. “I’m sorry, babe. I didn’t expect anyone to be there taking pictures.”

“S’not your fault,” you muttered, only half listening to what he was saying. The names people on Twitter called you were too busy making their way to the front of your mind, overpowering Tom’s apology. There was a huge temptation to show him what was being said and let him say something to his fans but how much help would that be?

“Well I still should have known better, [Y/N]. Hey, look at me,” he said softly and took your face in his hands, tilting it towards him. He pressed a gentle kiss to your forehead. “I’m really sorry about the pictures. I’ve learnt from experience it’s best to just not say anything. They’ll be old news by tomorrow.” He offered you a smile which you returned. “At least no one knows who you are.”

Ah, so he had yet to see people’s comments. He must have just skimmed over the article or been told about it by Harrison or maybe his agent. There was no way you were going to tell him about the things people were saying to you, both on your Instagram comments and private messages. He didn’t need to worry about that. Like he said, it was best to ignore the whole situation.

Easier said than done.

“Yeah, I just wasn’t expecting our relationship to be found out so soon,” you said and leaned your head against his shoulder. His arm wrapped around your waist and he pulled you closer to his chest. “Next time we go out we’ll be more careful.”

“But that’s not what I want, darling,” Tom sighed and gave your forehead another kiss. “I don’t want to have to keep a lookout whenever we go out. Look, if you want I can say something or we can sort something out to stop people taking your photo.”

You shook your head quickly, seeing how torn he felt about the situation, worried about how you’d react. “No, no, it’s not that bad. I think it’s just because I’m not used to being in front of the camera, it’s usually me taking the photos and I’m one of the good guys who gets the model’s permission,” you said, forcing a light chuckle. “Seriously, Tom, it’s fine. I’m fine. I just wasn’t expecting it, is all.”

Tom looked at you for a moment, wanting to see if there was anything you weren’t telling him, and when he decided you really were okay, he gave your lips a kiss and your hip a squeeze and went on his way back downstairs. The second you heard his feet touch the wooden floor at the bottom of the stairs, your shoulders dropped and you glanced over at your phone. How bad would it be to have another look at what people were saying? Before you could even give yourself the chance to answer that question, you shoved your phone into your bag without answering any of your friends’ text messages and followed Tom.

*

Just as Tom had assured you, the news quickly became old and was soon overtaken by a huge story of a cheating scandal within the cast of The Only Way Is Essex - something of which you had no interest in and couldn’t see why others were eager to read about it. Despite the news dying down and the comments on your social media eventually settling, you were still nervous about going out in public with Tom. For the first few days, the two of you stayed local on walks with Tessa, but as Tom’s promotion for Far From Home came to an end the following weekend and the celebration meal drew closer, you started getting more nervous. It was something you pushed yourself to attend; what use was hiding away and ruining the relationship? Attracting attention was all part of the package that came with being with Tom.

Due to his schedule for the last day, it was agreed that you’d meet Tom after his final interview and you’d go to the restaurant from there. Although the nerves had fully kicked in, you were incredibly excited to meet his cast mates. From what Tom had told you about them all, they were a great bunch. You’d watched some interviews and recently listened to him and Jake live on Radio 1, which had you completely belly laughing, so meeting them all in person made you just that little bit extra anxious.

“Do you think I’m thinking too much about the whole press situation?”

The question came out as a whisper but it was enough for Olivia to hear. She looked up from the couch to see you stood in the doorway to your bedroom, dressed and ready to go. With a small groan, Olivia pushed herself up from the couch to look at you properly and looked you up and down. “If I wasn’t taken, I’d definitely be trying to get you to bed,” she smirked, making you roll your eyes. “But to answer your question, I dunno. I mean, you haven’t exactly been the most vocal about the whole situation.”

You supposed she was right. Whenever it was brought up, you tended to bring out the inner teenager out in you and just give a grunt in response.

“I just don’t want to get enough attention from the press or his fans - especially his fans - for it to affect our relationship,” you replied and brushed a piece of straightened hair behind your ear.

“The only way it’ll do that is if you let it,” Olivia said and you instantly knew she was right. Of course she was right. “I’m no relationship expert but if you want to make it work, then you put the effort in to ignore all the crap people are saying.”

Olivia was the only one who you’d shown the private messages people had sent; you’d been too scared of Tom’s reaction to let him see. Even though you knew you were overthinking things, a part of you worried that if Tom read the messages, he’d realise the relationship wasn’t worth the hassle and leave you be. Ridiculous, right?

“Just go out and let your hair down,” she continued with a big grin. “Tom’s lucky to have someone so hot.”

“Oh please, it’s not all about looks, you know,” you told her, trying to sound stern but couldn’t hide the smile pulling at the corners of your lips.

“What can I say? I’m vain,” she laughed and grabbed your keys from under a magazine on the coffee table, tossing them to you as you hurried out to the Uber waiting outside.

As the car drove off, you thought about Olivia’s words. She was right. One hundred percent right. Although it was difficult, you knew you had to just move on and get over your relationship being known. Thinking about it, you knew it was stupid to get so hung up about a few photos and (more than) a handful of death threats sent from Tom’s so called fans. You knew this kind of reaction was common when it came to people in the public eye, you just never expected to be in the receiving end of it.

When you pulled up outside the studio, Tom was already standing there waiting. His face lit up when you got out of the car and he wasted no time giving you a kiss. “You, my perfect girlfriend, are looking gorgeous,” he grinned, still in a high state from his interview. He grabbed your hips and pulled you close. “I’ve missed you.”

“You saw me last night, “ you snorted and moved your hands from his chest to wrap around his neck.

“And?”

“And you can survive a day without me, I’m sure.”

“You know what? I don’t think I can.”

With another kiss, Tom slapped your bum lightly and then took your hand to start leading you down the street.

“Hey, hey, slow down!” she laughed, struggling to keep up with his quick pace. “Some of us are wearing heels, you know.”

“And whose fault is that?” came his laugh of a reply, looking back over his shoulder at you hurrying in your boots. “We’re only going around the corner and then you can have a drink. Anyway, why do women wear those things if they hurt?”

“Because they make us look good,” you shrugged and continued to wince with each step until you got to the restaurant the Far From Home team had booked out for the rest of the night, meaning everyone had the privacy to fully relax and enjoy the night.

The first person you spotted was Zendaya. All it took was one look at the tall young woman to instantly make you feel like a troll. She was absolutely beautiful. No wonder Tom used to have a crush on her. Who could blame him? Zendaya noticed the two of you and put down her drink to rush over, immediately pulling you into a friendly hug.

“I’m a hugger,” she laughed and gave a squeeze, then pulled back to give Tom a light punch on the arm. “It’s about time Tom showed you off! You’re all he talks about.”

“Not all I talk about,” Tom muttered, cheeks turning a faint pink.

“Alright, the only time he shuts up is when he’s being asked questions with a camera pointed at him,” she clarified with another laugh and he rolled his eyes. “Other than that, you’re definitely a hot topic.”

Before Zendaya could embarrass him anymore, Tom dragged you off to meet the rest of the cast. There were a few teasing comments here and there about how much he talked about you, but after a drink Tom seemed to just embrace them and give up denying it. The food was served and quickly demolished, then everyone seemed to focus on getting drunk. You made the rounds again, the few cocktails you’d had giving you the confidence to talk to pretty much everyone. Tom stayed by your side with his hand either in yours or around your waist or on your bum. He laughed at your jokes and you at his; your happiness radiated off one another. Jake was exactly as you’d imagined, if not more wonderfully weird. The friendship that had grown between him and Tom was brilliant to see and a part of you even grew slightly jealous of their closeness. 

Someone had managed to get a karaoke set up in the corner of the room and you definitely weren’t one to back down from fighting for the title of Queen of Karaoke. Jacob and Zendaya had their go at OutKast’s “Hey Ya!”, which pretty much had you on the floor laughing. When it came to your turn, you took off your boots to show how serious you were taking this, and dragged Tom up too. There were cheers and whistles. Jake picked your song and within seconds you recognised it as “Dancing Queen”. Your head fell back in laughter. Tom handed you a microphone and the two of you belted out the lyrics, not a single one of them in key. You moved across the makeshift stage to show off your moves. Tom even attempted to do the robot at one point, clearly showing off his wide range of dance skills. When the song came to an end, you both joined in with the cheering and Tom pulled you in for a kiss.

“If I was sober,” he said with a little snigger, “I’d kill you for that.”

The end of the night arrived far sooner than you would have liked. Tom tried his best to get one more round of drinks, giggling away to the waitress as he was repeatedly denied any more.

“But it’s for Spider-Man,” he hiccuped and struggled to stop swaying on the spot. He frowned a little as he tried to focus on the waitress, his vision slightly blurred from the amount of alcohol he’d had. “And for Myst… Misty…” He looked back over to Jake and waved a hand in his general direction. “That one.”

“I think someone’s had a little bit too much to drink,” you giggled and took a hold of Tom’s hand to pull him back towards the table where near enough everyone seemed to be saying their goodbyes.

Tom looked down at you, eyes sparkling. “Hello, you,” he said with a grin as though it was the first time he’d seen you all night and hadn’t in fact left your side just minutes earlier. “I miss you.”

“I’m right here,” you laughed and reached up to give the tip of his nose a light poke.

“Not close enough,” he grumbled before pulling you right into him, smushing your face against his chest. He left a wet kiss on the top of your head.

“Any closer and I’d suffocate, babe,” you managed to say, voice muffled from his shirt. You gently pushed against him and moved away. The pout on his lips made you smile. “I think it’s time we head home, yeah?”

Farewell hugs and kisses were made on your way out of the restaurant and you quickly hailed a taxi to take you back to your place as it was closer. Tom leaned into your side as the car drove, the streetlights adding a yellow glow to his face. He gave a big yawn and snuggled into you, and by the time the car came to a halt outside your flat, he was fast asleep and snoring into your shoulder.

“Come on, Tom, just walk about five metres and you’ll be inside and can get into a nice cosy-ish bed,” you said and shook the sleeping lump. All you got was a grunt in response. “Alright, you asked for it.” You took a chunk of his curly hair between your fingers and pulled. Tom jumped with a yelp and rubbed the back of his head. Before he had time to ask for an explanation, you forced him out of the car and, after saying a rushed thank you to the driver, dragged the drunken man into the flat. 

The place was empty; Olivia tended to stay over at her girlfriend’s on the weekends. You could tell Tom was in no state to have even just a sip of water so you guided him towards the bedroom and he fell heavily on the bed.

“Throw up in here and you’ll be on the couch,” you warned, though weren’t sure how much attention he actually paid to your threat. 

Tom attempted to kick off his shoes but gave up with a huff and curled up on top of the covers. Could he have looked more cute? You took a quick picture on your phone and then moved to take the shoes off for him, pulling at the laces to loosen them up. A mumble of incoherent words made you look up but Tom still had his eyes closed and his head buried in the pillow. You shook your head a little and chose to ignore it, brushing the words off as drunken nonsense. Then he spoke again. The words were quiet, only just audible, but you definitely heard them. Goosebumps spread across your arms and a faint smile appeared on your lips.

“Say that again,” you whispered and tossed his shoes to the corner of the room.

Tom rolled over onto his back and stretched out across the bed, taking up all the room. “I love you,” he mumbled and gave a soft snore.

You’d definitely never let him forget this.

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[knives-out20]

Loving You Is A Losing Game - John Constantine x Male!OC

Fandom: Legends Of Tomorrow (2016-Present)

Pairing: Vinoja (OC) x John Constantine

Word Count: 2294

Warnings: Angst, Sad Vinoja,

Notes: ehehehehehehhehehe. Stream ‘Arcade’ by Duncan Laurence, it inspired this oneshot.

Dedicated To: @peccetis​

Vinoja stood in front of the big mirror in the captain's office of the Waverider, hands interlocked behind his back. His lips perked up into a smile when a familiar pair of lips kissed his cheek. The Archangel turned his head, "Johnny, hi" he greeted. 

John smiled up at his boyfriend."Hi, luv".

"What's up? You need anything?" He asked, eyebrows raising. Vinoja reached out, holding John's hands in his own. His eyes sparkled in the light, green with hazel flecks hidden near the irises. 

"Aw, what? I'm not allowed t'come see my favourite Archangel every once in a while?".

Vinoja puckered his lips in thought."I guess so" he chuckled, leaning in and lovingly kissing John, who cupped his cheek. When Vinoja slowly pulled away, he still had a smile on his face.

"Any news on your kids? Any updates?".

"They still miss me, and Hayward is still calling you a knockoff version of him. In my- very pretty- eyes, you're both two completely different people that mean so much to me. You, obviously, in a different way, babe" Vinoja replied, one hand still in John's, thumb stroking his.

John nodded, pulling his hand away."I'll go see where Zari is; maybe even get a bloody heads up as to where we're headed next. Catch you later, luv. Bye, I love you".

Vinoja nodded back, waving."I love you, too, John" he bade John goodbye, watching the current love of his life walk off. Once John was out of the room, out of an earshot and sight distance, Vinoja turned back to the window. He strictly crossed his arms over his chest, hoping to distract himself from the hole in his celestial heart with the breathtaking view in front of him. Vinoja took deep breaths, in and out repeatedly, to see if that would stop the waterworks he was sure were going to come.

"That was cheesy".

"Fucking-" Vinoja jumped, turning to see Sara grinning at him."Hell, Sara, what the fuck?" He scowled, the feeling of tears dying down. Nothing's more pathetic than an all-powerful Archangel crying over his boyfriend in front of a blond assassin who used to be in the League Of Assassins.

"Sorry" Sara shrugged, walking over, though clearly not as sorry as Vinoja would have liked her to be."It was hard not to notice the short romance film John and you just had".

The corner of Vinoja's lip momentarily twitched up. He hummed incoherently, turning back to the window.

Sara's eyebrows raised, shocked."Oh? The great and gay Vinoja the Archangel, not going off on some sort of sappy tangent over his boyfriend? Unheard of" she teased, now standing at his side. Sara reached up to just around Vinoja's neck, and if it weren't for him being an Archangel, she could totally kick his ass.

"Maybe I don't feel like bothering you today over how much I love my boyfriend" Vinoja muttered, his voice hitting a certain edge when he said 'boyfriend'.

Sara scoffed."Took you a while".

Vinoja stayed silent, arms crossed again as he focused his gaze out into the abyss.

"How long have you two been dating for, again?" She asked.

"Around four to five years." Vinoja strictly answered.

"Jeez, really? And you haven't married him, yet?".

Vinoja immediately snapped his fingers, transporting himself to the quiet little library on the Waverider (the last thing he heard being Sara yelling "hey!") and onto a soft couch. Vinoja groaned quietly, running his tatted, callous hands through his brown hair. He rested his elbows on his knees, head in his hands as he stared down at the wooden floor. Vinoja's hand started to shake, as he grit his teeth to not make any sound.

"Hey!".

Vinoja glanced up, seeing a semi-pissed-off Sara at the doorway.

"What the hell was that?".

"You asked me a question I didn't feel like answering".

"You could have told me!".

"Didn't want to, how'd you find me so quickly?" He questioned, sitting up.

"I know how much you like this room, Vinoja" Sara grumbled, walking in and plopping down beside Vinoja. She put her hand on his back, softly stroking."Y'okay?".

"Mmmh, kinda".

Sara stayed silent for a moment."Be glad I like you as much as I do. I'm gonna sit here, and I'm gonna be willing to listen to you, if you're willing to talk about...whatever that was, and what's up with it. Okay?".

Vinoja nodded."What was the question, again?" He wanted to hear Sara say it again, and she knew that.

"Vinoja, you're seriously in love with John. And you've been together for a long time, now. I asked why you haven't married him, yet" Sara reminded.

Vinoja sniffed."You think I don't wanna marry him?" He joked, forcing out a chuckle."I do, Sara. More than anything else" Vinoja admitted, running a hand through his hair again.

Sara was definitely confused now."So why don't you?" She pondered.

Vinoja took a deep breath, spinning the silver ring on his right ring finger with his thumb. He paused for a moment to stare at the 'D.B.' engraved on it, before answering her again."I don't know. I mean, I know, but I also...I dunno, it's so weird even I can't process it. And I'm an Archangel, Sara, I know practically everything". Vinoja's eyes darted around the room as he thought of how to put this."I mean, I love John, I love him so much. But that's a fucking given".

"Oh, no shit".

"But he has these major commitment issues, y'know? I mean, not major enough for him to not date anyone, because, uh, hello, he's dating me. But major enough for him to not ever see himself get married, maybe become John Sallinger, or- or John Constantine-Sallinger".

"But you're you, Vinoja. Who wouldn't wanna drop everything to marry you, man? That's kinda stupid".

Vinoja let out a sad chuckle."Yea, well...He's John Constantine, he does stupid in spades" he quoted what John once told him, shortly after when they first met."John's just not ready for marriage".

"You say that like he ever will be." Sara broke it to him, tilting her head up.

"Gives me a sense of false hope" Vinoja mumbled, clasping his hands together."I just- I love him, y'know? And he loves me, I know that. I love him so, so much, Sara. So much that I'm willing to wait for him".

"And you'll keep waiting 'till the day John dies" Sara pointed out."Isn't the point of relationships to get married, or something? If not, you're just setting yourself up for heartbreak" she referenced a tweet she once saw.

Vinoja hummed in an unclear way."There's many other reasons for a relationship. Rebounds, distractions, need of affection, or you're just fine with being together, marriage or not. Besides, Sara, I'm an Archangel. I've been loving men since cavemen. Surely I'm used to heartbreak by now, in every form possible".

Sara groaned, trailing her hand up to Vinoja's shoulder and giving it a quick squeeze; which was hard, Vinoja's shoulders are broad and her hands are small."Yea, but there's something different about John to you".

"What? 'He's not like other boys'?" Vinoja grinned.

"Shut up," Sara laughed, "you know that's not what I meant". She pursed her lips, inspecting Vinoja. 

He wouldn't even look at her, and that grin disappeared quick.

"When you talk about John, you get this...look in your eyes. Different from the ones you've had when talking about your past guys, like- like, uh...Oscar Wilde, or James Dean. Leonardo Da Vinci, that Lafayette guy from the American Revolutionary War. Hell, you don't have that light in your eyes when talking about David Bowie, or- or even yourself Vin. You only get that spark in your eyes when you talk about John, when someone mentions John, when looking at John, and only John. You're in some whole other kind of love with John, man".

"Yea, and?".

"And you wanna marry him so bad, duh".

"Well, no shit, Sara. But I love him enough to respect the fact that he isn't into marriage".

"And?".

Vinoja looked over at Sara, through his brown curls that fell over his eyes. He whined when he turned away, leaning forward."And that he never will be.”

"And it's tearing you apart!" Sara threw her hands up, eyes going wide and eyebrows raising again."Vinoja, you can't seriously be okay with just dating John forever, can you? I'm glad you consent to how he feels, but this just..." she sighs, shoulders drooping."This just sucks".

"Now you get it".

Sara poked the inside of her cheek with her tongue."So that's it?".

"What?".

"You're sooo in love with John, that you'll succumb to the part of his commitment issues that lets him be in serious relationships, but also to the part that doesn't want anything to do with marriage? Despite how much you wanna marry him, it's his issues over your wants and needs?".

"I mean...yea, I guess. If being his boyfriend is the closest I'll ever get, Sara, I'll take it. If my kids have to call him 'dad's boyfriend' or 'Mr. dad's boyfriend' for the rest of the time we're together for, so be it. It's one relationship, Sara" Vinoja concluded.

"One relationship that means more to you than your Blade!" Sara rebuked."He doesn't want what you want, and I admire that you respect it, but jeez, it's a stupidass decision".

"I know, I know, I'm just...I'm afraid of ending things with John over something as small to an immortal as marriage, y'know?" Vinoja whispered, hands gripping at his hair."You could say loving him is a losing game, huh? And I'm fucking addicted to it".

Sara huffed, giving Vinoja one last look. She stood up "listen, Vin. You just...think it through, what you want. What you want out of this relationship with John, whether you wanna use all your quarters on it or whatever".

"I don't know what I want, Sara! My mind turns into some weird labyrinth each time I think about John 'n' me and marriage" Vinoja cut her off.

"All I'm saying is that if you walked into this relationship, head-over-heels but knowing you could never marry him? Then all I know is you two have always been a losing game, Vin" Sara put her hands up."For an immortal such as yourself, you should know know that giving this up won't take a lot". 

Vinoja squeezed his eyes shut, head hanging."Maybe I walked into dating John, knowing I could never marry him, it was like seeing the end before it even fucking began. Still, you see me carrying on with us, don't you? I'm still here, dating John, still so in love with him that I stay up at night, thinking about him. That I write award-winning albums worth of songs about him. I'll love him until I somehow stop, or until he stops and he breaks up with me, or until he dies. Marriage or not, I'm staying with him. And- And I love him. And you're right, he is different from any other man I've been with. So different that long after he's gone, I'll find myself lying awake at night, still thinking about him. I'll find myself wishing I could have married him, so that he wasn't just some lost cause of a boyfriend I couldn't make my husband".

"Vinoja-".

"But, even for an Archangel, we can't always get what we want. I'll find myself wishing everything that has ever happened to John, never happened to him so that I could have married him, and officially made him mine" Vinoja looked up at Sara, eyes sparkling with the threat of tears."I love him so much that I'm willing to wait for something that'll- that'll never fucking happen, Sara, I know. Shame on me for never learning from all my experience, I guess. That's on me. Consider yourself happy if John ever does fucking break up with me, leaving me to find a guy to actually marry. Maybe I'll finally learn some shit".

Sara stared at Vinoja, the silence being borderline deafening. She blinked, "you're unbelievable, Vin. You're also practically wasting your time, if you love him but you can't get what you want. John won't magically wake up one day and erase his commitment issues just like that-" Sara snapped her fingers "-no matter how bad you want him to, and I know you, I know that deep, deep down, you secretly want him to".

Vinoja gulped thickly. He abruptly looked down, at his bare ring finger on his left hand.

"Quit your game, Vinoja. Before you hurt yourself even more". Sara promptly turned around, and walked out the room.

She turned down the hall, and jumped when she saw John, who had his back against the wall, clear that he had been listening in on their conversation.

"Jesus-" she whispered, clutching her chest. Sara kept eye contact with John, before shaking her head and walking past him, not saying a word.

John watched her go, not doing anything to stop her. Once she was out of sight, John stepped closer to the doorway. Slow as can be, he poked his head around to look inside.

Vinoja's chest fell as he exhaled, vision going down to the floorboards. 

John bit the edge of his lip, his eyes gaining a certain softness as he watched Vinoja. He quickly pulled back into the hallway, back flat against the wall like how Sara found him. John looked up at the roof, silently sighing as his eyes fell closed.

[one-of-us-must-be-crazy]

ALTERNATIVELY Samuels goes in for scheduled maintenance and realises halfway through that he still has Amanda's underwear in his pocket from some ~shenanigans that they were up to last night and spends the whole time hoping the tech people don't discover this

He runs one final check on his firewalls surrounding his memories, a few mundane things he leaves out, to avoid suspicion but most of his memories are build around the existence of the radiant human next to him (who was currently cursing up a storm at a tech who tried to ask her out IN FRONT OF MY PARTNER?!). 

He loves her. 

And it’s fine, here of all places,  where the techs in charge have been informed of the unique situation, and they keep quiet in exchange for a) their considerable lab fee, and b) they get to work with a sentient machine. A real rarity. 

But as he gives his lover’s hand one final subtle squeeze before lying down on the reformat chamber’s base, he remembers something.

True, as the tech had said, he has no metal in his pockets, nor any other conductive material but he does have a piece of torn fabric, torn lace and satin, that was in it’s very brief and adventurous life a pair of Amanda’s underwear until it’s death today around noon.

Now he just prays to whatever spirit might listen to some soulless plastic idiot like himself that none of the techs will notice if a bit of white lace starts to fall out his jacket pocket.

Of course, he should have thrown them out, or not torn them to begin with, but honestly the entire situation shouldn’t have happened, and it isn’t as if he was a wholly willing participant. Yes, he gave his consent, and true he’s the one that ran the wifi for the lock on the door and the one who told Amanda to get the lights on her way over but it wasn’t his idea, and if he had his way it wouldn’t have been bloody initiated at all becuase damnit, he likes this job, this office,and sure Amanda coming over on his last day at WeYu to fuck him on company time was an intriguing idea for them to say Up. Yours. to the corporate entity that wrecked their lives but here……

“Christopher, your girlfriend is here,” he likes that he has his own office again. It’s small, with two small arrow-slot windows you can barely see out of, and not enough outlets for a fish tank, but he has a couple hanging low-light plants, and a desk with a picture of Amanda in a glass frame. There’s also a business-card holder shaped like a little antique robot, and a plastic fish–both light hearted gifts from her. 

Now, as soon as he realized that the kid working the front desk recognized her, he knew that Ripley was likely dressed for going out rather than coming straight from work–it amused him deeply that while everyone recognized the pretty girl he’s got a picture of, and talks about almost nonstop, none of them recognized Amanda when she would come in, covered in soot and grease from work in her coveralls. 

But nothing exactly prepared him to look up to Amanda in an outfit he’d never seen before, and a look on her face that made him feel like a particularly sought after pastry behind a bakery case being stared at by a hoard of small children.

Amanda was beautiful, he always thought so, but she had her hair down in long, loose curls, she had put on a little make up, and he could smell the sweet mint of her gloss from across the room even if a human couldn’t. 

a blouse that unbuttoned in a way that asked to be undone, especially, he noted as she shrugged off his green jacket, it buckeled around her breasts where the shirt met it’s stretching limits despite fitting well everywhere else.

a skirt that fell just long enough that it wouldn’t have been eye-raising to the office dwellers on their floor, but to someone very familiar with what it covered it made him skip a line of thought and back track to be sure his coding was running correctly.

and stockings….white lace stockings under that beige and green plaid skirt and the cute flats he knows that she hates but wears on their dates anyway becuase she likes their height difference.

“Why….are you wearing stockings?” he asked, baffeled before it dawned on him that– “oh no. Ripley absolutely not–not here–I don’t–I don’t even know if that lock works…”

“I can’t surprise my boyfriend at work without you assuming I’m just looking for a little action?”

“Not when you’re wearing a skirt,”

“So?”

“And tights?”

“Mmm no,” Amanda lifted the hem of the skirt just far enough to reveal the lower part of garters, “You were right the first time: they’re stockings. But if you’re not interested..” she turned. without lowering the skirt until she was sure he saw the garters in the back too, “I’ll just go,”

“waitnothatsnotwhatisaid”

“Alright then,” she said, facing him again, sitting at the guest chair in front of his desk, taking a quick inventory of the desk’s surface: computer, picture frame, jar of pens, the stupid knick-knacks she’d gotten him. She looked over her shoulder at another chair. “You know you should get a sofa in here. Make people feel more welcome.”

“I rarely deal with clients in here myself. If ever. Actually you’re the first person to com in here. Amanda this isn’t–”

“You didn’t have an issue with getting it on against the wall of the Weyland-Yutani office?”

“Becuase I hated them to whatever degree I was capable of. I like it here. I want to keep my job here. And it’s…”

“What?”

“Well it’s just a bit much, dear. We had dinner last night–at the place I like, no less, we walked home the long way, and you had electric candles all over the flat and…” and it was sweet. Amanda had enjoyed a bath with him later on, then gone to bed with him gentle and slow, as romantic as anything they’ve ever had.

“Then consider this as something for me–” he laughed at her, 

“–What?” 

“Amanda if this was for you I’d be pinned to a wall already and you would not be wearing a skirt,”

“Maybe I wanted to treat you to something special,” she undid the next button down on her blouse. Her partner looked like he wasn’t breathing anymore. 

“What fantasy do you think I have for you to dress like that?”

“What fantasy, Christopher I know you like me dressed up and I have dated straight men before: your tastes aren’t that different.”

“Oh.”

“But….Do you want to do something deviant for once? Or should I go home?”

“What….do you want to do?”

“How sturdy is that chair you’re sitting on?”

Christopher couldn’t exactly explain how the next moments unfolded, but Amanda kissing him open mouthed while she shimmed down his pants enough to access her target, her across his lap, grinding into him only for him to realize that her panties (white lace, matching the stockings, her eye for detail when put forth the effort was amazing) were in the way and if he tugged them down it would only serve to bring her legs closer together, the opposite of what he wanted though–though if she wanted anything, any form of human sexuality he’d oblige willingly and excitedly–so what to do.

what to–

the sound of tearing and snapping elastic made Amanda gasp, move her hand from it’s previous job on him to his shoulder as she levered herself up a bit, and onto him, he kissed her neck hard enough that Amanda told him it was a bite, and the scrap material of her underwear is shoved in his pocket so he can hold onto her tighter. 

When it’s over–

–…..for the second time…

he gently nudges her off his lap, he has to finish work (unlikely now) and she should go, now here for nearly an hour, before someone comes in to see what’s taking her short visit so long.

Amanda combs her fingers through her hair, buttons her shirt, and doesn’t bother with the garters and stockings, her long, strong legs competely bare save for that little skirt, and it cost every ounce of his self control to not reach his hand up under it when she leans over the desk to kiss him goodbye.

“Leave that skirt on,” he mumbles against her lips.

“Yeah?”

“There are a few things I want to do tonight–”

“I’ll leave the skirt on. Nothing else. And you know, no promises I’ll have the skirt on when you get home either. If you’re there by five we’ll still have half an hour to if the tech shop doesn’t want you ‘til seven.”

“Leave before I do something very irresponsible,”

“I love you too,” she says, and she knows, but he repeats it to her with a smile far more bashful than he should be feeling in this situation.

Now he knows that it’s there still, in his pocket, as he slowly shuts down entirely for a diagnostic, and he dreads that the scanner might—

“Mr. Samuels?”

“Yes?”

“Alert, and online,” the technician noted, more to himself than to Samuels, who was still trying to figure out if ‘Mr’ was part of the particular dream he had while coming back to life.

“I’m not wearing my jacket,” the tweet jacket that he wore over his shirt that Amanda claimed she utterly hated by has now fucked him in each time he’s worn it.

“The buttons had metal backings, we had to remove it. It’s hanging over–oh here I’ll get it,”

“No! no I can–”

The technician lifted the jacket and Samuels noticed the white lace spilling out of the pocket the same moment the tech did.

“I…That’s. I can explain.” 

The tech bit back a smile.

“Did you really have so little faith in our ability to not kill you that you guys needed a last roll in the back of the car?”

“…………please don’t tell anyone.”

[stlgeekgirl]

Cushions

Last week, I found a post on here called “Funny Marriage Tweets”  Some of them screamed fic prompt so I screen shot them to use them for ideas.  

@strangelock221b reblogged it and shouted for someone to do them.  So this is is dedicated to her.    Because I can see this happening.   The tweet said: I’m secretly doing an investigation on how many decorative pillows I can put around the house till husband loses his shit. 

Current count: 23

Not Brit Picked, so any mess ups are mine alone.  There were extensive Google searches though.

Experiment:  Just how many decorative cushions she could place around 221B before Sherlock lost his proverbial shit.

 Current count: 23

   She knew her…significant other was oblivious about certain things, but she thought sure he would’ve noticed twenty-three different cushions scattered all around the flat by now. 

Unless he was biding his time.

She felt confident he was just that oblivious.

It started with the Union Jack cushion.  The only ruddy one that lay on the couch had finally given up the ghost.  She’d tried sewing it up, but the fabric was so threadbare there was not really any place she could sew it up without it ripping further.    Sherlock had been out in the country with John on a case so she had at least a couple of days to find a replacement.  Surely he’d notice if his favorite was missing, the man held onto it like a stuffed bear whenever he was on the couch. 

Panicked, she’d tried Mrs. Hudson first. 

“Oh, that wasn’t mine,” the older woman told a frantic Molly.  “I believe Sherlock’s had that since before he moved in here.”

That made it worse.  What if it were a childhood memory?  Something he unconsciously kept to remind him of good days in Uni or a comfort measure.  More than once she’d caught him hugging it tightly to his chest when he was asleep on the couch, or it sitting in his lap and him unconsciously running his fingers over the fabric while he was watching telly or reading.    She had to find a replacement pillow. 

She started at Tesco’s.  The damn place had everything, surely they would have a Union Jack throw cushion.

They did not have a Union jack throw cushion. 

She spent the better part of a day going through stores to try to find one style of a damn throw cushion.  She found one on Amazon but it wouldn’t get here until after Sherlock and John returned. 

One a last ditch effort, she walked into a Marks and Spencer and found one in the clearance bin.    When she snatched it from the bin, clutching it tight to her chest, her gaze fell upon another below it.  A soft heather grey fabric with the image of a stylized silhouette of a cat on the front.   It was absolutely adorable and only eight pounds.  She bought both.  She lived at Baker Street now.  Sherlock had told her it was her home.  He tolerated Toby there.   He couldn’t possibly complain about a throw cushion.

She went home with her newly gotten purchases and placed them both on the couch, one on either side. 

 Two days later, Sherlock and John came back.  Molly found him curled up on the couch, the Union Jack cushion clutched against his chest as he slept, the cat one under his head.  She’d gotten away with it.

The game, as it were, was on.

She picked her times; times when she knew he was absorbed in a case and wouldn’t notice if he’d eaten in the last three days much less a new throw cushion.  When he was in between cases was a dangerous time because he was always looking for something to do.  He’d be more likely to notice something amiss in the flat when he was bored.

A month after, Lestrade had given him a nine.  He’d been elated and she didn’t see him for three days.  In those three days a cushion with the chemical compound for caffeine appeared on the yellow chair in the front room, a navy one with a magnifying glass on it appeared on John’s chair, and hound’s-tooth one ended up in the middle of the couch. 

 Each time he went on a case, a new acquisition appeared in the flat.  Not all of them were in the front room, six of them lined the bed in John’s old room.  A Victorian black and white one ended up in the chair in the main entrance of 221.  Smaller brown and crème checked ones landed on each of the kitchen chairs.  A silk black one found a home on Sherlock’s chair.  Even Toby got one, placed on one side of the couch, where the tabby usually liked to sleep because it offered the best spot for sunlight.

Mrs. Hudson noticed after the third one.  After Molly explained what she was doing, the older woman laughed as if it were the best joke and promised not to breath a word about it.

 By throw cushion number seventeen, John caught on.  Molly saw him sit in his chair then move slightly, pulling the cushion from under him.  Sherlock was in their room dressing.  John looked up at Molly questioningly as she came from the kitchen with a travel mug of fresh coffee. 

“You won’t get more than a sip if you try to drink it here.”  She said by way of explanation. 

“thanks Molls. Um…”  he wiggled the object in his hand and glanced expressively at the myriad of decorative cushions around the front room.   She bit her lip to hide a grin.  She glanced behind her to make sure Sherlock was still in their room before turning back to John.

“Don’t say anything, I’m conducting an experiment.”  She explained in a low voice.  John raised an eyebrow. 

“An experiment.”

She couldn’t hold back the grin anymore.  “I have seventeen in different places about this flat, he hasn’t noticed a one.”

It was John’s turn to hold back a snicker.  “It’s creepy how well you two are suited.  I shan’t tell him. But let me know how many you get to before he notices.”

“Deal.”

She wiped the grin from her face as they heard the footsteps coming from the back room, but she couldn’t hide the amusement in her eyes.  Sherlock frowned at her, taking in her appearance as she handed him a travel mug of coffee. 

“What?”  he asked, taking the mug. 

“John’s just regaling me with Rosie antidotes while he waited.”

“Hmmm,” He dropped a kiss on her lips before walking towards the coat rack to get his coat.  “Not sure when we’ll be back, I’ll text you if it’s too late.”

John raised the travel mug in a goodbye as the two men left the flat.

She added two more during that day, just because.

  The novelty began to wear off.  And she was running out of places to put the damn things.  She thought sure he would’ve notice long before now. 

A yellow one with a picture of a bee on it for Rosie.  Four plain black and white ones for their bed.  A red velvet with tassels for the shoe chair in their room.   Which leveled up to her current count of twenty-three.  Twenty-three of these damn things scattered about the flat and Sherlock Holmes hadn’t noticed a damn one of them. 

She continued buying them.  The couch added two more to its collection; a red and black overlay Victorian cushion and a white one with a black skull.  On her way home one afternoon, she stopped by Tesco’s for milk and a couple of other things and found the sweetest red cushion adored with cherries.  She bought it for her chair.  Maybe she could move the caffeine plush up to the spare room.

  In the end it was the cherries that was her downfall.

Sherlock was getting dangerously bored.  Almost a week with no cases save the ones and twos in his emails.  Bart’s was having a survey visit from the NHS and Molly had extracted a promise that he wouldn’t visit during their survey.  He was bored and had to resort to experiments at home. 

As he sat in his chair, scanning his phone for anything that would attract his attention, a flash of red just at his peripheral caught his attention.  He spotted the splash of red against the golden yellow of the chair almost immediately and his head tilted in confusion.  When had that appeared?  That hadn’t always been there, had it?  Had it brought in when renovations were completed? 

His gaze drifted towards the couch and the five throw cushions on it.  He frowned.  The Union Jack cushion he’d owned since his first flat was there, but he unequivocally knew that the other four were new.  There was no way he would consciously buy one with a cat on it.   Was Molly buying cushions?  And why was Molly buying all of these cushions?

The navy one with the magnifying glass that rested on John’s chair caught his attention and he jumped up, turning around to look in his own chair.  There is was, a crumpled silk one. 

His eyes narrowed and he stalked around the house in search of more of these things. 

She wanted to play, did she?  Well the game was on.

 The sky was lit with reds and oranges when she reached the Baker Street stop and made her trek back to the flat.  The survey had completed today and they would relax for another couple of years.   Which meant she could tell Sherlock when she got home that he was allowed back into the lab.  Although, she really hoped Lestrade had found him a case.  His levels of boredom were reaching dangerous levels. 

 Three houses down, she spotted something on the walk.  She frowned, not quite sure what it was when another fell from the sky, landing right next to the first.  Then a third.  Molly followed the line of decent back to its launch point and spotted Sherlock half out the window with a handful of throw cushions, throwing them out the window.  He spotted her at the same time she looked up and shook a pillow at her. 

“Twenty-seven!”  he shouted, causing more than one person on the walk to stop and looked at him.  “I found twenty-seven of these Molly, Twenty-seven!  No one needs twenty-seven cushions!”  He threw another one out. 

She couldn’t help it, she laughed.  He’d finally discovered the damn things.  She pulled out her phone and sent John a text.

 He finally noticed them.

 “Sherlock!”  she shouted back.  Quit throwing the bloody things out the window!”

“The Queen doesn’t even have twenty-seven cushions in the Palace!”  he shouted back as another went out the window.  “I should know!”

 She stopped just under the window, just a little to the left of the front door. 

“Well don’t throw them all out.”  She shouted up.  “One is Rosie’s and the one on the floor is Toby’s.”

He looked at the one in his hand and tossed it back into the flat.  “Four then.  I’m only allowing four and only because you said one was for Rosie.  Get up here.”

 Her mobile buzzed in her hand and she looked at it. 

 How many did you finally get?

 Twenty-seven.

 Sighing, she picked up the four cushions on the walk and stepped to the front door, unlocking it and tossing them beside the door as she stepped in.  Mrs. Hudson was standing in the front hallway with a smile. 

“I told him he wasn’t allowed to snatch up the one down here.  I’ve gotten quite used to it.”

Molly smiled back. 

“I’ll get rid of those,” she said as she hurried up the stairs. 

The cushions were in a pile on the floor when she walked in and behind them Sherlock glared at her, his arms crossed across his chest, his white shirt pulling tightly across his biceps. 

“Explain.”  He demanded before she could even close the door.

“It was an experiment.”  She said as she took off her jacket and hung it up, leaving her purse on the floor beside the rack.  I made it up to twenty-seven before you noticed.”

“Why?”

She figured she might as well tell the truth now.  She crossed the room and sat in John’s chair, turning slightly to see where he still stood. 

“Because your Union Jack cushion gave up the ghost while you were on a case.  Because I couldn’t repair it, it was so threadbare.  So, I went out and found you a replacement and found one for myself and you didn’t notice.  At all. Then it became a game, to see how many I could sneak into the flat before you noticed.  And I honestly think that had you not had this week of no cases, I would’ve stopped long before you discovered them.” 

His mouth twisted and he looked down at the pile on the floor. 

“You bought me a replacement?”  His gaze lifted back up to hers.  “It was just a ratty old thing, I think I found it at a second hand shop years ago during one of my drug addled walks about town.  I think I spent two pence on the thing, I don’t even know why I kept it.”

“I didn’t know.”

He smiled at her, soft and underlying of emotion beneath it. 

“You are wonderful.  But, we are only keeping four of these.  The one for Toby.”  He motioned towards the couch where Toby was curled up in his usual spot on the cushion.  “The one for Rosie.”  He pointed towards the yellow bee one sitting on the couch next to the Union Jack.  “And the Cherry one.”  he nodded towards the cushion still sitting on the yellow chair.

“The rest are going right out.”

“Except the one on the chair downstairs.”

“Except that one.  Okay, five.  But that’s it.”

Molly grinned.  “That’s fair.”

She stood up and crossed to him. He held out an arm and she slid under it, leaning against his side, feeling his chest rise under her hands.  He tucked her closer as they looked at the pile. 

“I’ll text Wiggins to come collect the rest of these.  Pass them out to the Network.”

“So, you didn’t like the skull one?”  she asked, a hint of a smile on her lips.  Sherlock stopped mid text.   “Okay, six.  No more.  It’ll go on our bed.”

Molly grinned.  She could live with just the six.