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#I sure hope they can reconcile their feelings. I hope it all works out.

chilschuck · 4 hours

Note

on my hands and knees begging for post-canon confession. reader asks chilchuck what he’s going to do now that laios is king and he’s like “reconcile w my family, work on the union… and hopefully start courting you now that we’re not coworkers?”

`✦ ˑ ִֶ 𓂃⊹ THIS MADE ME MELT INTO A PUDDLE ANON. WAHHHHHHH i wasn’t sure where i wanted to go with this lil drabble, but it ended up shorter than i would’ve liked it. i hope that’s okay!!! i felt like it was good to end it where i did, heheh…

— PLANS: chilchuck x gn!reader.

꒰ warnings: ꒱ none, sfw! fluffy. <3

꒰ wc: ꒱ 483 (short but sweet!!)

✦ once again, i’m so sorry this ended up so short!! but i wanted something really sweet with your concept, and this is where my brain took me. (;;;w;;;) feel free to send in another rq again!! <33

“What are your plans now?”

It was such a simple question, but it held so much weight in the space between you. The tavern you two were in filled with laughter and chatter, only to never drown out your voice as he heard it. Taking a sip of his drink, Chilchuck sighed softly. Even in all the noise, you managed to make it out.

He knew what you were asking, it was a simple question: Now that Laios was king, what was he going to do? The half-foot knew his answer before he could even think of verbalizing it.

“Well… See my family again, make up and reconcile. Work on the union…” Chilchuck looked down into his mug, before letting that content grin grow on his lips.

Before you could comment, he interrupted with one more addition. “…And hopefully, start courting you now that we’re no longer coworkers?”

You couldn’t help but let your jaw drop. Not only that, but you could feel your chest heat up from his words alone. Chilchuck let out a light laugh at your reaction.

“You— Want to court me?” The words came out so quietly, but your head was reeling. The man you had eyes for this entire time… ended up having feelings for you too?

“Well, yeah. I would like to.” Chilchuck scratched the back of his head, giving you that bashful smirk that always made you melt. Your own glee was evident on your features, the low tavern lighting illuminating your smile. Before you could help yourself, the words left you in a playful rush.

“So… Does this count as our first date?” Chilchuck set his mug down, your statement causing him to bite back a smile of his own.

“I think I’d like to take you somewhere nicer than this.” The way he said your name brought butterflies to your stomach, the excitement of this new relationship making your heart race. His hand found your own under the table, giving it a light squeeze.

It was quiet for a moment, but not in the heavy way it was earlier. Instead, the atmosphere of the tavern paired with the happiness of your newfound relationship made it welcome. Unable to stay quiet any longer though, you asked a question that was occupying your mind.

“How long? I mean, how long have you wanted to take me out?” Chilchuck rested his head in his palm, contemplating your question for a moment. With a hum, he came up with an answer. “Since… Well, let’s just say a while.” He huffed, cheeks warming at the idea of having to confess how long he’d been harboring those feelings for you.

You leaned closer to him, the drink you’d been sipping on making you feel a little braver. “I can assure you I’ve wanted to longer.” The half-foot looked down at his hand that was still holding yours.

“I doubt that.”

— dividers by @/cafekitsune! <33

#⟡ lilia writes! 🌿#praying this is okay !!!!#my brain is fried from all i had to write for school today #university is kicking my butt but it’s ALMOST DONE!!!#at least with spring semester :’)))#chilchuck x reader #dunmeshi x reader #delicious in dungeon x reader #chilchuck tims x reader #dungeon meshi x reader

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fan-goddess · 1 year

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Helloooo love! I'm a fan lurking in the dark with a request idea for Aemond x Reader. Would love to see your take on Aemond trying to win Reader back (his wife) after she found out about Alys. Maybe this happens after the "Dance" , Aemond survives and they have to deal with the aftermath of Alys. Reader loved him with everything she had so she feels betrayed and turns cold to him and maybe because of Alys, something also happened to her (idk lost pregnancy perhaps but PLEASE exclude this if you don't feel comfortable writing it). Basically take everything you find interesting from this request and work your magic - I trust you like no other!!! Thank you I send you all the love there is - you are very very talented and please know there are many like me that think you are truly brilliant, I know it!!! :*:*

Authors Note: Oh my god thank you this is so freakin sweet! 🥺 I’m happy to take the request and spin my take on this, hope you enjoy it! :)

Also, some of the stuff Is made up like the time between Daemons death and end of the war. I don’t know it so I made it up. If you don’t like it take it up with my dms

Word count: 2.6K

Warnings: Cheating, miscarriage though it’s not explicit, she’s kinda depressed? Not sure how to describe it,

Taglist: @blue-serendipity

The Sequels: The Depressive one, The happy One

—————

If Aemond ever regretting not killing anyone throughout the war he technically started, most would’ve immediately assumed that he wished he never killed his nephew. Though they were wrong. Yes, Lucerys’ death became one of the many causes of the war and in turn deaths of so many people, but his death didn’t result in the loss of you and your child.

Alys’ death could’ve though.

When he first met Alys, he had been nearly immediately enraptured and enamoured by had. She was quite different to you. While you had always been headstrong and never afraid to tell Aemond what he needed to do or to be, Alys had been more docile and had no issue in telling Aemond all the things he wanted to hear.

He regretted the first time he laid with Alys in his bed. Though that regret went away the more time he spent with her and the more times he laid with her. He begun to think of possibly taking after Aegon the conqueror, thinking he’d have both you and Alys by his side when Aegon most likely drank himself to death.

That fantasy was soon ruined when he got that letter.

Dear Aemond,

Do you think of me as a fool? I know about that fucking woman Aemond. I know about Alys. I don’t know why you have decided to betray our marriage and honestly, I don’t think care I can bring myself to think about it nor care anymore. This letter was originally going to be happy. A letter letting you know what we prayed near everyday from the seven had finally come true and been answered. I was with child. Our child made purely of what I had thought was love. Though that changed when I was informed of what you had done. I mourned for what we could’ve had. I cried and refused to believe it at first, though soon I came to my senses. Yet it was too late. Our child is dead Aemond. I woke up a few days ago to heavy blood staining our bedsheets. The child was barely two months according to the maester. I wish for you to know it is your fault Aemond. I do not wish to ever see you again. I wish to never hear from you so if you attempt to reconcile or send a letter I will pay for our child’s blood with your own. You have dug your grave Aemond. Don’t try and dig it deeper. If you are to die in battle, I hope it is painful. I hope you suffer like I have.

From, your wife

From your former wife

Aemond had felt his heart plummet to the floor when he read that letter. He could not stop the tears that fell to the floor and stained the letter he still was holding. The ink blotting and staining the page so much the words were becoming near illegible.

He attempted to head into battle with the faint hope that you’d forgive him if he killed his uncle. Though even he knew deep down that no amount of deaths could fix anything. Yet even still he tried. He defeated Daemon, with blood of which Targaryen man he did not know staining and pooling on his ripped armour.

Aemond came home where he was met with his mother and brother, who both congratulated him on his victory. Though even with their congrats he could see the disgust that lingered in his mothers gaze as she looked at him. It made his shame all that more prominent.

He would’ve gone to see you, but Aegon stopped him before he could, claiming he was holding a feast in his name for the defeat of Daemon. He tried to look for you in the amount of people that came, yet he couldn’t. And he didn’t dare ask his mother if you would be coming in fear of her glare and disappointment.

That night he wonders something. Maybe it would’ve been better if he did die by the hand of his uncle? Then it would’ve saved him from all this torture. Though he can’t say he didn’t deserve it. Aemond can only wallow in his drinks that he keeps being given and his own sorrow.

Aemond was back home. The words the maids said echoed in your head. He’s here, and no doubt going to attempt to reconcile. If there was one thing you ever learnt about your husband, was that he never quit at anything he started.

You already made bets with yourself on how he’d attempt to do it.

Maybe he’ll try flowers? No that’s too much of a common move for Aemond to pull… Maybe he’ll bring you some jewellery? No that’d make him feel like he was buying for your forgiveness. Like he was buying something for a mistress. Well… he’s been there and done that…

There is always the chance Aemond will not even attempt to reconcile. Hopefully becoming too overcome by the grief and pain of the loss of his and your child that he’d respect your wishes after reading your own pain on paper. The maids still look at you worriedly, especially when they find you sitting near the window. You know why they worry, you mourned Helaena and Jahaerys and you know you will not become like her.

Aegon was also the one who told you about Alys, and when you lost your child and screamed for the whole of the castle to hear, it was Aegon who ran to you to mourn with you and hold you while you cried for a life you may have been able to have. He held you in the way a brother would hold a sister. He even cried with you and helped clean you of the blood. Oh the blood…

———

It’s been a few long months, but the war between the greens and the blacks is finally over. Aegon is celebrating by holding a massive banquet and all the lord and ladies who supported him are invited. Even though Aemond knows it will not happen, he secretly hopes you will come to celebrate.

Though as he keeps sneaking glances at the door all night he eventually comes to term with the fact you’re not coming. He can only swallow more bitter wine and ignore the fact he’s drinking it like a fish in water now.

He’s attempted to reconcile from a distance ever since the incident but everything he has sent to your chambers has come back in shreds. The flowers from the garden you loved to look after, heads torn from their stems and cut into a thousand pieces. The books he sent on your favourite topic, you had more restraint on them and simply chucked them from your window onto unsuspecting bystanders bellow.

Aegon told him delightfully how after he delivered the books to you, they were seen immediately thrown from the window and one had supposedly managed to hit one knight straight on the head, effectively knocking him out cold.

Though if anything those small acts of defiance made Aemond wish to reunite and return to you even more. It reminded him just why he fell in love with you in the first place. Your wit and your wisdom made him fall head over heals for you, literally.

He had tripped in front of you and some other ladies of the court due to the load of books he was carrying. He had not yet gotten used to the visual impairments the loss of his eye provided and did not see the thrown goblet in his path. Aemond had effectively turned scarlet when the ladies began to mockingly giggle at him, it nearly made his heart beat straight from his chest when he saw you come to his help. “You need to get some help with those. It’s not that bad to ask for help you know? Means you aren’t a stubborn twat.” You grin.

He wished he could go back to those days. They were simpler. They held no knowledge of the war they would face. It held no knowledge of the bastard from Harrenhal.

Aemond had not tried to reunite with you in person. He knew you’d most definitely follow through with your threat and spill his blood. It’s why he attempted to send you items instead through the maids. Though it’s very obvious those weren’t working either. That’s when he got the idea to write you letters. There was easily a chance that you would burn them or tear them the moment you saw the writing. Yet even then Aemond knew he had to try…

———

“Princess. I have another item sent from the prince for you.” One of the maids said as she carefully approached your bed. The sun had already hit its peak that day, though you could not bring yourself to get out of bed. The only time you could bring yourself too was either with the help of your maids, or when Aemond sent a supposed gift to you which you’d immediately destroy.

“What is it this time?” You sigh. “Is it something that I am supposed to eat? Because if it is i’d like it if you took to the servants quarters and give it to them and not-“

“It’s not food related my princess. It’s a letter.” When you look towards the maid you can see the sad expression clear on her face. This maid has brought you many of Aemonds attempts at reconciliation.

“What is your name?” It does not give you any sort of pleasure when the maid looks shocked at the fact a princess is asking for the name of a maid. “Its not a trick question I want to know your name.”

“Klarisa my princess. My name is Klarissa.”

“Klarisa do you think I should read the letter my bastard of a husband as written to me?” You look carefully at Klarisas face, the decision of your lifetime hanging in a mere maids hands.

“To be honest with you my lady…” Klarisa takes a deep breath and puts on a sympathetic face. You appreciate that she wishes to give you honesty, though that sympathetic face makes you want to punch her. “What the prince did was inexcusable after the way the two of you acted before… her. You got to have a husband who loves you and cared for you, that itself is much more than most of the women who are forced into a marriage can hope for. The prince is trying to make up for it and is also respective your boundaries. Not many could say that they got to have a husband who did even one of those things. So yes my princess, I believe you should read the letter.” You take a deep breathe and loosen your hands, which seemed to have clenched so tightly your nails all but pierce into your palms.

“Give me the letter then leave. If you see the prince, do not tell him that you for once got me to think about even looking at his weak apologies. Just put your head down, and walk away. Do you understand Klarisa?”

“Yes my princess.” Klarisa moves swiftly to the doors to your chambers, opening it and moving forward, only to stop for a moment and turn on her heels towards to. “I hope you get what it is you seek my princess. For your own sake.” She turns back to the door and closes it behind her, leaving you alone with the letter in your hand which already feels like it’s burning you. Yet you prevail, and slowly open the letter to read it.

Dear ñuha jorrāelagon,

I will not waste my breath in attempting to gain your forgiveness. I know better than anyone that when you stick your mind to something you keep it that way. Though what I will say is the truth, which I know will hurt you and anger you more than anything but i know it’s what you wish to hear.

Alys was a woman I believed to be falling in love with. She was something what I believed I needed in my life. A woman to be docile and to whisper all the things I needed to hear in my ear. Though after your letter, it became my wake up. I cut off all contact with Alys after realising how much I hurt you. I regret that woman everyday I have not been with you. You are the only woman I need to be with. I love that you are not docile and will not take any man’s shit (as you so clearly and often tended to put it). I love that you challenge me and encourage the debates we so often hold. I love you Rhaella, more than any woman before in my life. I’m sorry it took another woman and the life of our child for me to realise it. I understand wholeheartedly if you wish to never speak to me again. But I hope with this letter, if you ever do decide to read this, which after all my other attempts seem unlikely, you at least know that there will not be a single day that I do not wish that I did not kill that woman when I killed all the other strongs. You are my life. My world. And I hope you know that.

From, Aemond Targaryen

You’ve never felt like you wanted to cry this much since you lost your sweet baby. You can feel the tears leaking down your face the entire time you read Aemonds words. Some of your tears drip onto the page, leaving some of the words to blur together into illegible blobs of black ink.

You feel the urge to destroy the letter. The same urge and desire you felt when you got into contact with all of Aemonds other gifts. Though you resist this time, and instead of destroying the letter, you smooth it out and place it delicately under the mass amounts of pillows that seem to always near take over your bed. That night, for the first night of the many you’d stayed in your room during your isolation period, you slept the whole night in your bed with no nightmares to wake you screaming.

———

When Aemond was standing in the corridor in the shadows and hadn’t picked up on any whispers from the maids passing him of any destruction or damage coming from your chambers, he assumed you must have kept the letter.

He does not hold though any hope that you read it. For all he knows you’ve simply just ignored it or ripped it and used it to keep your fire alight.

When he is waiting for the maid to come out of your room though, he could not help but feel hopeful when the maid takes longer than usual to come out of your room. “Well?” He asks as he steps from the shadows when the maid eventually comes out and nearly passes him. He does not dare to actually ask whether or not you took it. Even though he so selfishly wish to help hold her down and demand for

It surprises him and angers him when the maid looks at him and yet does not acknowledge him. What did you tell her? What does she know?

Aemond grabs the arm of the maid as she attempts to pass him without any real acknowledgment. “Your prince asked you a question.” He growls. He nearly felt sympathy for the woman when she looked at him with fear in her eyes. But he is not Aegon. He can control his desires towards the maids.

“The princess asked that I not speak to you. Please let go of my arm, my prince…” The maid half begs. Aemond lets go of her arm reluctantly after a moment of thinking. Why would you tell the maid to not talk to him? Maybe you really read the letter and do not wish to appear weak to him? Though only if you knew that you could never be weak in his eyes, his strong independent wife.

#house of the dragon #aemond targaryen #aemond targaryen x reader #aemond fic #prince aemond #aemond x reader #aemond x fem!reader #aemond targaryen/reader #aemond x you #hotd aemond #house of the dragon aemond #aemond the kinslayer #aemond targaryen angst #aemond targaryen imagine #aegon targaryen #the death of a life au

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flanaganfilm · 1 year

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Hello and Howdy Mr. Mike Flanagan! I'm excited to see you here on our humble hellsite. I have so much to say and ask about your netflix shows but for the moment, I want to ask about Doctor Sleep because I enjoyed that movie immensely - it filled me with a pleasant sense of dread, which possibly makes no sense, or a lot of sense.

What was that creative process like? Reconciling book and movie canons, following Kubrick's legacy, working with Ewan and Rebecca and Zahn and everyone else. I'm obsessed with King adaptations and I'm just fascinated with Doctor Sleep.

Alright! Buckle up for yet another long read.

Thank you for your question, and for this opportunity to go back and talk about DOCTOR SLEEP. It's a very special film to me, and a very special time in my life as well.

It all started with a general meeting with Jon Berg at Warner Bros.

The meeting itself started pretty wild - Adrien Brody walked out of the office as I was waiting to go in. Jon introduced us and we chatted for a few minutes, and I was a little out of whack for the rest of the meeting because I had a very potent "wow that was Adrien Brody" buzz going.

We were meant to talk about DC Comics and see if there was anything to do there. I was really hoping to chat about a horror-slanted Clayface movie, and about my favorite superhero: Superman.

Neither conversation went very far. I had just finished GERALD'S GAME, and Jon was a King fan, so he asked about the production. And then he asked if I'd ever read Warners' script for DOCTOR SLEEP.

I had. In fact, I had tried very hard to get a meeting at the studio when the book was first published. Warners owned the rights to DOCTOR SLEEP outright - it was part of their deal going all the way back to THE SHINING - so they immediately began looking into movie options when the book was published. Akiva Goldsman had written a script, and it was one of the first projects I asked about when I signed with WME as a client years before. "That isn't going anywhere," they told me. "I don't think that movie gets made."

They had tried to get me the meeting anyway, but no one at Warners responded. I never got in the room.

But now, here I was. What did I have to lose at this point?

"I did read it," I said. "I'd take a different approach." Jon sat back and smiled. "I love the book, Rose is one of the great villains of all time," he said. I agreed. He probed. "What's wrong with the script?"

"I don't think it follows the book closely enough."

"What would you do?"

"I'd do the book. Streamline it, combine some characters, and you'd have to rethink the True Knot a bit. But otherwise, just do the book. As long as it's a three-hander between Danny, Abra and Rose it'll work. With one big asterisk."

"What's that?"

"I think you have to bring back the hotel. Kubrick's hotel, I mean."

Jon smiled wider. "Yeah, it's a bummer the hotel burned down. King goes out of his way at the start of the book to emphasize that - no Overlook, look no further."

This was my biggest gripe with the book.

I said "When I read the book, all I could see was Kubrick's hotel. I think you do the book as close as you possibly can, until the big fight at the end. Instead of it taking place in an empty field, let it be in the hotel."

Jon: "Do you think King will be upset if you change his ending? You know how feels about THE SHINING, right?"

Me: "What if we gave him THAT ending? What if we let Danny have Jack's ending? Jack sacrificed himself to save his family and destroy the Overlook - why not let Danny do that? Change the ending, sure, but give him the ending Kubrick denied him."

We shook hands, and I called my producing partner Trevor Macy to tell him it was a good general, but nothing was coming out of my DC meeting. By the time I'd made it back to my car, though, Jon had reached out to Stephen King and asked if he'd be interested in me taking a swing at it. Steve, who had enjoyed GERALD'S GAME, said yes.

I was immediately petrified when the call came in that they might want to engage me on a rewrite of DOCTOR SLEEP, with a directorial attachment. I'd have to rewrite the script from scratch, and I kind of felt like they were calling my bluff. But the deal was made and quite suddenly I was adapting DOCTOR SLEEP.

First order of business was to make King aware of what I intended to do. I had just established a tentative relationship with my hero over GERALD'S GAME, and the last thing - the very last thing in the world I ever wanted - was to upset him. We weren't in direct communication, we spoke through agents and emails at this point - but I had to make him aware of the Overlook thing.

I put together a proposal that outlined what I wanted to do - use Kubrick's visual language, and keep the Overlook standing as a setting for the final battle. The initial feedback we got was "no." King really, really didn't like Kubrick's film, and his priority was to adapt DOCTOR SLEEP - not to revisit THE SHINING.

I told him that if he didn't want me to do it, I wouldn't - I'd walk away from the movie before I made something he hated. But as a last ditch effort, I said "imagine the Overlook, decrepit and rotten. And imagine Dan Torrance having walk in to 'wake it up,' the lights coming on above his head as he walks the halls. He finds his way to the Gold Room. To the familiar bar, where an empty glass is waiting for him. And we see a familiar bartender ready to pour for him, saying 'good evening Mister Torrance.' What if that bartender is his father?"

After a bit of a delay, King got back to us. "Do it," he said.

Writing the script was tough. I immediately felt like I had stepped into a very unsafe space. "This is going to piss everybody off," I figured. Kubrick fans would be livid that the movie was being made. King fans might be angry that Kubrick's imagery was being homaged. There was no way to please everyone, so I set about writing the movie I wanted to see most.

It was a slightly nauseous feeling that would stay with me until the movie came out.

I sat down to write with a hardcover copy of DOCTOR SLEEP to my right, and a hardcover copy of THE SHINING to my left. I read both cover to cover, sticking post-its throughout the pages with ideas, or flagging lines of dialogue (or even prose) that I wanted to protect. I managed to put together a basic outline for the movie, which was intimidating and sprawling.

I finally finished the draft and sent it off to Warner Bros. and King at the same time. I was shooting THE HAUNTING OF HILL HOUSE at the time, and thought it would take a long while and a few more iterations before SLEEP would go anywhere, if it ever did.

Warner Bros. shocked us all by coming back with a green light. I've been told that it was one of the fastest green lights in the recent history of the studio, and I believe it.

It happened so fast, in fact, that Steve hadn't read the script yet. I got an email from him on a Friday saying "I read the first half, and I absolutely love it - my son's getting married, so I'll pick it up in a week or so and finish it, but great so far!" I was nauseous... because I knew everything that King was likely to hate was in the second half.

When he finally did finish reading it, about a week later, he reached out and said:

"I think it's really good. In my experience, this is the kind of script studios don't make, because it's TOO good. Hopefully I'm wrong. But no matter how it turns out, thanks for treating me so well. - Steve"

I had the distinct pleasure of being able to write him back and tell him that Warner Bros. had just greenlit the movie. And we were off to the races.

The pressure was enormous. They were spending a lot of money on this movie, and because of the insane box office success of IT: CHAPTER ONE, expectations were very high.

We were given access to Kubrick's blueprints for the Overlook hotel set, which were still held at Warner Bros. While we set about rebuilding the sets, our attention turned to casting.

For Dan, we met with a handful of actors: Dan Stevens, Chris Evans, Matt Smith, and Jeremy Renner all came in to chat about the movie. But Ewan McGregor, who himself was eight years sober (just like Dan), was the obvious choice. "Let's not talk about the Shining yet," he said. "I want to talk about recovery." He was the guy.

For Rose the Hat, we talked with several actresses, including Anne Hathaway, Nicole Kidman, and my dear friend Karen Gillan - but Rebecca Ferguson knocked our socks off on a 90-minute zoom meeting, and the part was hers.

Finding Abra Stone was more difficult - we auditioned more than 900 girls for the part. We'd narrowed it down to a half-dozen very promising and successful young actresses, including Lulu Wilson (who I'd worked with several times before and adore), but Kyliegh Curran's self-tape audition rose to the very top of the pile. Ewan flew to Atlanta to read with our final picks, and when Kyliegh - who lived 15 minutes from our office, was local casting, and had never booked a job before - finished reading, he turned to us and said "I mean it's her, right?" It absolutely was.

When we cast her, we invited her back to the office after school one day to get oriented. The crew was so excited for her that they decorated the production office in her honor.

As the rest of the cast fell in, we started doing our camera tests and getting excited about what we were putting together. My feeling over overwhelming nausea only got stronger.

We started shooting in September of 2018. The shoot was long, but never exhausting. The cast and crew were uniformly pleasant and happy to be there, and after the soul-crushing slog that had been THE HAUNTING OF HILL HOUSE, it was a relief to enjoy working again.

Kate was pregnant with our daughter Theo at the time. She visited as much as she could, but finally couldn't travel any more. Being away from Kate and our son Cody was hard, but I'm so grateful that we got to share some time on set together.

All things considered, this was a smooth shoot. But something happened for me while we were making it that would change the course of my life forever.

See, THE SHINING is about alcoholism. King wrote it while in the throes of his own addiction, and it is a novel about the anxiety he felt about what he could potentially do to his family if left unchecked. It's one of the reasons he was so upset with Kubrick's adaptation - all of that was taken away. This is a profoundly personal story for King.

When he wrote DOCTOR SLEEP, he was decades sober. The story of DOCTOR SLEEP is the story of recovery. This was something that Ewan knew very well, and why he was perfect for the part. He knew what the journey felt like. He wasn't alone - there were a number of cast and crew members on this shoot that were sober. In fact, just about all of the actors who played main characters were sober. I was still drinking at the time, though it had already become obviously problematic in my life, I hadn't taken any meaningful steps to change it.

This photograph was taken on 10/12/2018. This was taken on the day I got sober. I quit cold turkey, in the middle of production. I was clinging to vices at the time. Note not only the cigarette in my hand (I was smoking almost 2 packs a day), but the ash tray that had been rigged to the top of my viewfinder by the camera department. (I don't smoke anymore either, just about four years without cigs as well... and I still miss them.)

I had been writing about addiction for a decade. It was all over my work, going all the way back to ABSENTIA. I didn't realize just how much I was writing about myself, and I still can't believe it took me this long.

I vividly recall writing the scene between Dan and Jack at the bar. My wife pointed out to me after the fact that she could see it then, that something was changing in me when it came to drinking. Something was waking up, and I was processing a desperate need to sober up. That scene represents an internal conversation that is profoundly personal to me. It's still my favorite scene of the movie.

I've been sober now for over 4 years. DOCTOR SLEEP helped me finally make that decision. I finished the shoot sober, and came home to my life with a lot of uncertainty and insecurity. But with the unflinching support of my incredible wife, and some amazing friends, my life started to really blossom. It was pretty immediately evident that this was one of the best decisions I'll ever make.

Meanwhile, though, I had to finish DOCTOR SLEEP.

I LOVED the movie we'd made, but I was still terrified of what King would think of it - not to mention Kubrick's estate.

When we finished the cut, I flew to Bangor to screen the finished film for Steve. It was the first I'd meet him in person, and one of the most insanely exciting and humbling days of my life.

We watched the movie together, and I was acutely aware of each and every little reaction he had throughout.

(With Trevor Macy, my producing partner at Intrepid)

When the show as over, Steve turned to me and said "You did a beautiful job." And ultimately, he added that this film had made him warm up to the Kubrick movie as well.

A week later, we heard from Kubrick's estate that they had also loved the movie.

With King's blessing, and Kubrick's family, I felt that nausea finally subside. I said to Kate, "that's it. That's all that matters. Doesn't matter if the movie crashes and burns - we already won the important battle."

And then, the movie crashed and burned.

A group of us went to see it opening night at Arclight Hollywood (my favorite theater). We were just about the only people there. And I knew immediately that we were going to have a bad weekend.

The movie didn't perform very well. Warner Bros. was disappointed, and ended up scrapping the Dick Hallorann movie we were planning, as well as the Overlook Hotel prequel.

I was pretty crest-fallen. I'd spent years tossing and turning over whether audiences would be divided between the King and Kubrick camps. I'd been petrified that they'd be furious, venomous, run me out on a rail... I'd never considered that they'd be utterly disinterested. Apathy wasn't even on my radar.

Steve called me the Monday after opening weekend with some words of encouragement. "I remember when THE SHINING bombed," he said. "And SHAWSHANK. Give it some time. It'll find its audience. It's a really good movie."

That has turned out to be true. While it didn't set the world on fire theatrically, the movie has over-performed on VOD and streaming. And when Warner Bros. released the Directors Cut (I'm still so grateful that they did that), it popped even more.

So yes, to answer your question - the pressures were enormous. I hope this paints a little picture of what it was like. The biggest gift I got out of it, though, was sobriety.

I reached out to King a year later, on my first sober birthday. I hadn't told him I was sober, but it felt like time to do it. I got to thank him. "I never told you this, but I sobered up while we were shooting DOCTOR SLEEP, and I don't think I would have done it without your words. Living in that story, and marinading in the concepts of recovery and redemption made it possible. I just want to thank you."

He wrote back his congratulations, and then mentioned "as it happens, I'm off to celebrate 30 years myself. It only gets better and better."

And he is absolutely right.

DOCTOR SLEEP was the perfect project for me after the nightmare that was HAUNTING OF HILL HOUSE. I fell in love with making movies again. And I found a new and wonderful gear for my life. It has only made everything better - my marriage, my work, my experience walking around on planet earth. I'm so grateful for it.

When I think of DOCTOR SLEEP, I think of Ewan sitting at the bar and looking at the glass in his hand. "Man takes a drink, drink takes a drink... and then the drink takes the man. Ain't it so, dad."

Ewan understood those words better than I did when I typed them into the script. I understand them much better now.

There isn't a day that goes by that I'm not profoundly grateful for my time at the Overlook. And for myriad of ways my life has been changed because of it.

#doctor sleep #sobriety #behind the scenes #behind the scene photo #ewan mcgregor #stephen king #rebecca ferguson #grateful #warner bros #the shining #featured

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incomingalbatross · 5 months

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Things that make Weirdmageddon a top-tier finale:

Every victory and ally the characters gain is essential to pursuing the next victory.

Dipper needed Wendy to reach the bubble, needed to talk down Gideon to reach Mabel, and needed to reconcile with Mabel to do anything. Then they needed to reach the Shack to get Shacktron, needed Shacktron to reach Ford, needed Ford and all their previous character development to build the Zodiac—oops! not enough character development! REVERSAL! But they still pulled out a win from having all four Pineses in the Fearamid, which wouldn't have been possible except as salvage from their previous victories.

It all builds really nicely—it's easy to get your characters running in circles to fit in enough action and/or screentime (see certain Classic Who serials), but that doesn't happen here.

Personal issues and plot problems were interwoven in a way that genuinely made resolving the former a basic step in resolving the latter.

The big problems at the start of the finale were the rift between Dipper and Mabel, the older, deeper rift between Stan and Ford, and... well, the Rift. And Bill. The finale is able to resolve all of these things together because it is, in fact, crucial that the Pineses all be able to work together; they need each other to defeat Bill. This means that, for instance, Mabel and Dipper's reconciliation is the urgent first step on every level, personal and situational (neither of them will accomplish anything until Mabel's free), and that Stan and Ford's reconciliation is a necessary condition for the last step of beating Bill. It's seamless—no one has to take time out of the plot to talk about their feelings, because the plot can only move if their feelings are being addressed.

Even more, the action works in such a way that Stan and Ford have to show character growth to defeat Bill and the way they defeat Bill then results in healing for both of them (Stan gets to be a hero while Ford gets to let go of his hero complex).

Gave time to addressing the big themes and made them structurally important, too.

This ties in to the point above, but... the fact that Dipper and Mabel's conflict (the manifestation of a much longer-running tension of "is it possible to grow up and still be happy? is it possible to be sure we'll stay in a close and healthy relationship, and not lose each other?") is given its full weight. Dipper and Mabel have the conversation they need to convince themselves, each other, and the audience that this ghost has been expelled from their futures. That's big.

And the themes continue consistently throughout the finale! They answer the questions raised by Stan and Ford's estrangement—first through Dipper and Mabel and then repeatedly through the rest of the cast—with consistent reassurance and hope for the future. It's thematically sound. That's not easy to balance with plot progression in a way that makes sense, but like. The plot can only progress to a happy ending if these themes are tested and found to be true.

Plot development and emotional impacts hinged on information the audience already had.

When the finale revealed new information (the zodiac's function, for instance), it was almost always answering specific questions the show had previously raised for fans (what's that zodiac about??). Not always true—the barrier around the town was not foreshadowed—but a very high percentage of the time.

More, the moments with a big emotional punch hinge on us realizing something at the same time as the characters and sharing their reactions to that thing, rather than reacting to their reactions. That sounds clumsy, but you know what I mean—"Grammar, Stanley." Ford pulling out the memory gun. "Get off me, Waddles!" Ford holding out the picture of the Stan O' War. The finale builds on what we already know so strongly that we can react to good or bad events alongside the characters.

(Well, except for the exact moment revealing the twin switch, I guess. We are not having the same emotional reaction as Bill Cipher there. ;P)

A fully satisfying send-off.

After the plot is resolved, and even after the eucatastrophe moment of Stan getting his memory back, we get to stick around and see for sure that everything's okay. The twins turn thirteen. Stan and Ford plan to go sailing. Soos gets the Mystery Shack. Everyone in Gravity Falls is fine. Everyone gets to say goodbye. We end on repeated reassurances that the thing the story most highlighted as crucial but uncertain will, in fact, happen—that they'll stay a family and they'll all be happy.

I'm not saying every story needs to end with a wrap party, but it was the right move for Gravity Falls, and they nailed it.

#i did not have the energy for a short post so i wrote a long one sorry

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aihoshiino · 7 days

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chapter 147 thoughts

you guys ever hear the tale of the monkey's paw. grants your wish but you suffer dire consequences as a result? just felt relevant to this chapter for some reason. anyway.

Chapters Since The 143 Kiss Happened And Went Completely Unacknowledged And Unaddressed Count: 4

I'm gonna be up front and say that while I really wanted to like this chapter and it has the bones of interesting ideas, so many of the existing issues with the Movie Arc just bring it crashing back down. I probably dislike it more than I necessarily should because knowing that this definitely is the end and seeing concretely in hindsight just how much time was wasted and how much excellent material has been squandered or flat out skipped over entirely just makes me want to put my head through a brick wall. And it just sucks because, like… man, I don't want to dislike Oshi no Ko! I really don't enjoy feeling like I'm just putting negativity out each chapter because when the story hits, it hits so fucking good!! The Movie Arc has been clunky but it's had some truly breathtaking individual moments and character beats that make me remember why I fell in love with the series so deeply but then chapters like this come along and I wonder why I'm even bothering to keep reading.

anyway. Anyway.

To my genuine shock and surprise, the RBHK conversation happens entirely onscreen and isn't needlessly dragged out which I will take as a W at this point. What is less of a W is how just… underwhelming this ended up being? This is Hikaru's first meeting (that we know of) with the child he fathered and then essentially orphaned… at least as far as Ruby is concerned. So her total lack of reaction to him is baffling. The question currently seems to be whether Ruby is only pretending not to recognize him in order to try and pry the answer she's looking for out of him or whether Akasaka really, genuinely wants me to believe that Ruby does not recognize her father, when Akane recognized him on sight, he looks identical to her twin brother she spent 18 years growing up with and she is in the middle of MAKING A MOVIE THAT STARS HIM. If the latter is the intent then all I can say is that I feel genuinely fucking insulted on Ruby's behalf at her being dumbed down this badly and for myself as a reader that Akasaka thinks I'm stupid enough to buy this. So I am very much hoping it's the former.

The talk they go onto have is also………………………….. man. I want to like it. I really want to pull it apart and analyze it because it is fascinating. It's a really important look into Ruby's feelings and I even myself said this was something I really wanted to see Ruby dealing with - being faced with the realization that the person who killed her mother isn't some ephemeral faceless force of uncomplicated evil, but a fucked up human being who was hurt and suffering and who faced horrific and monstrous abuse just like Ai did. The idea of Ruby wrestling with her conflicting feelings of empathy and resentment, similar to Kana trying to reconcile her lingering hurt with her love for Ruby as her friend, is super compelling.

But like… she didn't! Akasaka having Ruby look into the camera and having her say "uhhh i was totally having all these deep and complicated feelings this whole time trust me bro" is the first we have heard Ruby struggle with literally any of this. It's yet another example of what I've been saying this whole time of Akasaka both lacking enough respect for Ruby to seriously interrogate her as a character and rushing her to the endpoint of what should have been long term characterization in lieu of showing us the work it takes to get there. Rather than organically weaving any of this into the prior story and letting us actually see Ruby work through this, she just starts awkwardly monologing about it to a conveniently placed guy who is, depending on your interpretation of the chapter, either some rando with an umbrella or the guy she's pretty sure killed her mom.

There is no reason her struggling to reconcile these contrasting feelings of resentment and empathy couldn't have been explored as the movie was being filmed. There were countless opportunities for this to have come up while the movie was filming the scenes dealing with Hikaru's abuse - we even get this set up in 139 during the filming of their first meeting but it gets derailed by a dumb brocon joke because I guess that was more important to spend pagetime on than the arc Akasaka is trying to suddenly pretend Ruby was having.

And it's not like it even matters! Unless the next arc is also going to be about 15 Year Lie where we interrogate the content of the movie not shown to us, Ruby's struggle here comes to nothing. That overhanging question of "Will Ai('s actress) forgive her killer or not?" is cut short and goes unanswered. So what was the point of this?

I also just really can't get my head around this continued thread of Ruby wanting to be an idol who 'surpasses' Ai. I had a whole rant about it here I ended up deleting lol but the long and the short of it is it feels entirely incongruous with the series' broader portrayal and Ruby's own attitude about chasing Ai's light and what being an idol did to Ai but at this point I've given up.

The exchange with Kamiki that follows is like, the one part of this chapter I think is just uncomplicatedly interesting and worth interrogation. He actually gives Ruby a lot of genuinely good advice here - that she can only find an answer to that question by interrogating it herself and an answer from someone else won't solve the issue. Does she actually want suffering and revenge? Are those really at the core of who she is as a person?

The framing here is obviously and overtly sinister and suspicious and we're pretty clearly supposed to think he was about to shove Ruby down the stairs, but a few things jumped out to me. The first is that if you pay attention to the backgrounds, they seem to have actually already been close to if not at ground level by the time Akane caught up to them, so… what exactly was a push from that height going to do if he did, in fact, push her?

Not only that but uh… holy shit! His white hoshigan!!!!

Like, am I misremembering, or is this not the one and only time we have ever seen adult Hikaru - maybe even the real Hikaru full stop - without black hoshigans??? Given what we've seen of him so far and how the black hoshigans have been used as a symbol, if he really was about to kill Ruby… where did THAT come from?

Added together with the deeply sympathetic portrayal of his younger self in the movie, it continues to raise a lot of questions for me as to exactly what we're supposed to be thinking of Hikaru and how we're supposed to feel about him that I am finding very compelling. ambiguity enjoyers when the

NINO IS HERE!!!! MISS NINO I'M FREE THURSDAY NIGHT IF YOU WOULD LIKE TO HANG OUT

Joking aside, I'm really glad Nino is here because it implies her whatever the fuck is going on situationship with Kamiki is going to continue into the final arc(s?) of the series and that we'll get to see more of her as a result. Nino's been one of my favourite OnK characters since I first read 45510 so any more content of her in the main story is a treat.

Kamiki's words about the movie killing him via public opinion also lines up with what I was expecting to happen more or less… I'm curious to see how this is all going to play out and what this means for Aqua given that, if last chapter is anything to go by, he's still very much struggling with suicidal ideation. can someone PLEASE give my son a bone crushing hug.

akane stalking kamiki is up there as one of the funniest things ever in this manga btw. what is wrong w her <3

This is unfortunately where me having nice things to say about this chapter ends because the chapter - and therefore the Movie Arc as a whole - ends with this transparently rushed sequence absolutely mach speech blasting through the remaining material of the movie in one and a half's pages worth of silent single panels. Honestly, I really can't properly articulate how mad and frustrated I am about this lmao. It really just feels like Akasaka admitting to the reader that he's stopped giving a shit about what the movie was supposed to be about. The HKAI breakup that was given a huge amount of setup and weight at the start of filming? Ai's pregnancy? AI'S DEATH???? It's all skipped over and brushed aside as if it never mattered in the first place. Never mind any of the interesting characterization we could've gotten out of it. Never mind that the Movie Arc was promised to be about Ai and untangling her past. Never fucking mind Ruby having literally any interiority about having to act out the death of her beloved mother and reliving the event that destroyed her and her brother's lives. If Akasaka doesn't care, why should I?

It feels like a slap in the face for getting invested in the story's promises and trying to engage with it. But of course, I'm going to be back like a clown doing just that when the next chapter drops anyway.

at least we're finally moving on to a new arc but by god. at what fucking cost.

break next week……………………………………………..

#oshi no ko #oshi no posting #onk spoilers #chapter reviews

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sinner-sunflower · 2 months

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A HH Lucifer-centric AU 8/?

PART 1, PART 2, PART 3, PART 4, PART 5, PART 6, PART 7, PART 9, PART 10, PART 11, PART 12, PART 13, PART 14, PART 15, PART 16, PART 17, PART 18, PART 19, PART 20, PART 21, PART 22

I was going to make them reconcile but then decided last minute to just give more angst.

I'd like to think that the decades-long daddy issues warrant constant blowouts. Like redemption, working over it takes time.

We'll get there. Eventually.

(Lowkey projecting my daddy issues)

--------------------------------------------------

Maybe this was a bad idea.

Lucifer is standing in front of his daughter's bedroom door. He was so confident walking from his tower, wanting to resolve the current animosity Charlie has for him. Just thinking about getting yelled at and hearing he's hated by his own child is making him reconsider.

He knocks. No answer. He knocks again. And again. And again.

The king feels his eyes burning. Charlie doesn't want to talk to him and he's actually going to cry.

This is worse than any punishment Heaven has given me.

Surely Charlie wouldn't care if he just up and disappeared without saying goodbye, right? The Alastor in his head telling him that Charlie doesn't hate him is wrong and maybe she's just out and can you just be quiet for once, how are you still so talkative in my head???

Yes, yes. He should go now. He needs to find her as soon as possible. All of hell is in danger and definitely not because confrontation scares him. He's the fucking king-

Charlie: Dad?

Lucifer turned so fast towards the voice, that it made him a bit dizzy.

Told you, Your Majesty. He can hear the smugness of brain-conjured Alastor. Prick.

Lucifer: Charlieeeee!!!! Haha. What uh, what are you doing here?

He cringes. 10,000 years and he's still so shit at talking. This is his daughter Fatherdamnit!

Charlie: Uh. It's my room? Were you,,, looking for me?

He wants to conjure up a portal and run but Charlie's face is beaming with hope. He'd take every hate in the world before hurting his daughter further.

Lucifer: Y-yes! I was just about to knock. Ha- I uhm.

There was an awkward pause before they both spoke up at the same time.

Charlie: Can we talk about the other day?

Lucifer: I'm leaving, Charlie.

The father and daughter stood stunned. Charlie was the first to recover, sporting now a devastated, desperate look.

Charlie: What?! You're leaving??

Lucifer: It's related to the whole Roo situation. I need to leave soon but I didn't want to go without telling you. It might take me a while that's why... until my return, you'll be handling Pride in my stead. The other Sins will look after hell, you just have to focus on Pride.

Charlie: No! Dad, you can't be serious. You're leaving me again?

Lucifer: What? No! Charlie. I need to do this or hell will-

Charlie: Is this really about Hell? You never cared before, Mom was the one who cared about our home and our people. Have I done something?

Lucifer: Charlie, no, of course not-

Charlie: Then why do you keep running away from me?! Why do you keep leaving?...

He was right. I should've just left.

What's happening? Is this Roo's doing? Why do they keep fighting? Why do they keep hurting each other?

The eyes on the hotel walls are judging him.

Lucifer: I don't. Charlie, you have to understand. I've never- Your mother and I- You-.... I'm sorry. I don't have the right words.

Lucifer reaches out to touch his sobbing daughter, but he pulls his hand back. He doesn't deserve to touch her.

His phone dings with a message from Belphegor.

Text from Bel: Good evening, Lucifer. Please come by Sloth before you leave for Earth. Something-

He doesn't read it all before sending a confirmation to Bel.

Lucifer: Time is not on our side, Charlie. If I wasn't sure that this being would help immensely, I wouldn't bother leaving to look for them. Even if you think otherwise, I trust you with Pride and its duties. I.. I'm not good with words but- just know. The greatest gift by Father is having you as my daughter.

Charlie looks up at him, tears still falling from her eyes.

Lucifer: Love ya, kiddo.

Then he disappears in a flurry of red and gold.

----------------------------------

What to look for in Part 9:

it will be a Charlie chapter after Lucifer leaves.

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shawtythatluvsurgut · 3 months

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gunna have a video of me feeding my feedee up on my onlyfans soon. i’m thinking about starting it back up while i take a break from college because it was kind of empowering to get to own my kink in such a way. I also enjoy sharing that side of myself with all of you. subscription price will be between $8-$10/mo since my feedee is going to be collaborating with me on certain pieces of content. i will maybe begin gaining again once i get my health back in check, we’ll see. i want my muscle mommy build back, and to get that back i’ll have to pack on some weight. so we’ll see what happens with that. ;)

in the meantime and between-time, stay safe. especially on the internet. all of my old rules still apply for messaging me, but i will gradually get back to making regular content and posts. now that i am taking a break from school, i’m working more, but I also have free time on my hands when i’m not working. it feels really nice to get back into the swing of things. I’ve missed you all and I’ve missed the positive aspects of this community.

going forward, i’m just going to block people who talk shit to me or delete their comments (unless it’s of actual importance to discuss). i’m just done engaging with that shit. idk, i’m on new medication that seem to be actually working and i feel stable, so i feel ready to re-embrace this community with open arms.

a special thank you to everyone who continued engaging with me and communicating with me during my break. i appreciate all of your kind words more than you know, and if i didn’t respond to you it was because i didn’t want the answer to “hey how are you?” to be “i’m miserable. how are you?”. but I saw all of you - each and every message, comment, text, etc. - and i just want to say thank you. the people who still proceeded to message me with positivity are the reason I have decided I want to come back.

With all that being said, I hope you will all accept me back. I understand that some of you were upset that I left and didn’t understand my reasonings, but I hope we can reconcile our differences and i can gain your trust again. I’m not the angry person that I became when responding to hate messages, and that also influenced my time away. I could see that my demeanor on this hellsite was changing and I was getting more upset, angry and, honestly, afraid of going on here (let alone posting myself on here). However, that has changed. I’ve been working on being more optimistic and caring less about the negative opinions of others. Frankly, if someone doesn’t like me or my content they should just be an adult about it and either reach out to discuss that or ignore me. If they can’t do that, I believe they are childish and need to get a grip. There are some key things I’ve learned in life that I want to share with people who are as I described above:

- your comfort is not someone else’s responsibility. if it makes you uncomfortable, then don’t engage. It’s as simple as that.

- no one has to cater to your interests. everyone lives on their own agenda. your wants and desires do not take priority over the wants and desires of others. sure, there are some people who will cater to your every wish, but i’m definitely not one of them.

- similarly to above, your desires do not take priority over someone’s health. that includes both mental health and physical health. (death feedism is a thing if you are interested in someone wanting to gain while not caring about their health. this is not a death feedism page and i suggest you go search in the tags for that if it is what you are looking for. I do not want to kill my feedee, nor do I want him or I to gain enough weight to become immobile or at risk in any way. As hot as the idea is to me at times, we are both too active and work in active careers for that to be a realistic possibility for us. maybe someday i’ll get a stay at home job and get really big, or maybe someday he will. only time can tell. sorry for the length, i’m high. i’ll stfu now.

- people don’t care. no stranger online owes it to you to care that you don’t like their body, or that you don’t like this or that. it doesn’t matter because that person does not know you. there’s no point in wasting time caring about your negative comment unless it’s actually useful and constructive commentary.

So anyways, i’m back in business again. gonna post some FA art soon + start uploading to my OF again. I thank any of you who read this far and again I hope you can accept me back into the community.

Thanks,

Nico

#female feeder #ffa #nico speaks #i’ve wanted to say this for a while now #and i’m high enough to not fking care anymore #i’m back babey!!1!1!1!!1!1!!!!!1!1!1!!!!

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snogards · 1 month

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I think it's insane that after the final Agni Kai, Zuko was able to tank a hyper-powered lightning bolt (I mean, tank in the way he was still moving after getting hit, even if it was just groans of pain and slight twitching). He just got healed by Katara for about 5 seconds and was A-OK afterward.

When Aang got struck by lightning, he was in a coma for like what? Almost a month? And you're telling me Zuko gets struck by lightning, and 5 minutes later, is walking around like it never happened? Sorry, I can't believe that.

But Sno, you say, Aang was in his most fragile state. Of course, he was in a month long coma after he basically died. Okay, and I think that Zuko being hit by a lightning bolt 100x more powerful than the one Aang got hit by would also put Zuko in a coma; especially because Katara doesn't have the spirit water to bring him back to life. Unlike Aang, Zuko only gets regular water, not magic water, to heal him.

"But, but Zuko redirected it," you say. Uh no, Zuko wasn't grounded, so that shit still hit him like a damn truck. He redirected some of it, but not all of it. I would probably say that it burnt him from the inside out. It's a miracle that in LOK, that man is still kicking it and being a badass in his early 90s. He should have serious heart issues, if not have died in his 70s at the absolute latest. The man should not be kicking ass in the poles. He should be on bed rest.

In conclusion, Zuko should have been in a coma for like at least a year (realistically he should be dead, but this is a kids show where the main characters aren't allowed to die, so I'll let it slide) and I will stand by that.

If you wanna read how the creators could have worked with comatose Zuko, read under the cut. If not, then I hope you enjoyed my little rant. This post got longer than I thought.

Here's how the creators could have dealt with comatose Zuko and the potential storylines our other favorites could have had at the end of book 3 and a majority of the potential and nonexistent book 4:

Aang is having to deal with the consequences of Ozai being left alive, as I'm sure the Earth Kingdom and the Water Tribes would not like that fact. As well as their newest Fire Lord currently being in a comatose state. They barely trusted Zuko. Are you telling me they're gonna trust The Dragon of the West? (More on this at the end) And maybe Aang would actually get some character development, unlike in season 3.

I don't think Sokka, Suki, and Toph would have storylines that center Zuko all that much, but they would also definitely be mourning the semi-loss of Zuko along with whatever storyline they get. Maybe Sokka and Suki can have conflict in their relationship now that the war is over and they might physically have to go their own ways. Toph can probably wonder where she can go from here. Will she try and reconcile with her parents again? Will she travel with Aang once Zuko wakes up? Will she stay in the Fire Nation and help Zuko sniff out traitors with her seismic sense? Needless to say, the 3 of them have endless opportunities.

Katara is now dealing with the guilt of not only having put Zuko in that position in the first place, but also not being able to fully heal him (even though he would have done that for anyone, not just her). And if you're a Zutara shipper, like myself, even realizing potential feelings and the conflict that comes with that. Or if we still wanna go through with the canon ending of Kataang, have her navigate her feelings about Aang properly and not whatever that original canon ending was. And if we wanna go the "Katara doesn't need a man" route (my personal favorite despite my shipping tendencies), she could try and navigate where she goes from here, like Toph. Obviously, she'll go back to the Southern Water Tribe and help out there, but what comes after they've recovered? She's not the type to stand by and settle when there are other people who need her help. Will she go to the Earth Kingdom and help rebuild there? Go to the Fire Nation and help out there? Become an ambassador of the Southern Water Tribe to help better relations with the other nations? (My personal favorite) The possibilities are endless for her.

But you know who would be affected the most? Iroh. Not only did he (kinda) lose his nephew, who was his second son, but he now has to deal with the diplomatic repercussions of his past as a general of the Fire Nation. Like I said before, the Earth Kingdom and the Water Tribes barely trusted Zuko; no way in hell are they gonna trust the man that laid seige to Ba Sing Se for nearly 2 whole years, regardless if he's the reason the city was freed from Fire Nation control. The pressure Iroh would feel from advisors regarding the fact that his only heir is comatose would increasingly get worse as the months go by. We know that Zuko will wake up, but Iroh and the rest of the cast don't. Iroh is dealing with the fracturing Fire Nation and pressure from the Earth Kingdom and the Water Tribes, all while his son is in a coma. He could see what he was going to have Zuko face by himself with no support around him. What would he do with Ozai? Would be a major question throughout the season.

Of course, in the end, Zuko wakes up because we want a happy ending for them all. But the turmoil we could have gotten in the end would have been *chefs kiss*

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bluedalahorse · 3 months

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I think I’ll say this once, since I need to say it before I can move on to more excited posting about promos and things:

Obviously Young Royals means a lot to me. It’s become another way for me to connect with my hyphenated-American heritage and to start teaching myself Swedish again. It helped me survive a pretty brutal year of bullying at work. It made me confident enough to start the process of getting formally evaluated for autism and ADHD. I’ve been writing a 200k+ historical AU fanfic for YR—the kind of fic I always read and adored back in fandoms when I was younger, the kind of fic I wanted to write myself. I’m proud of the way that Heart and Homeland has made me a better writer, and I’m glad for the way it’s deepened my friendship with @heliza24. It is Young Royals in part that inspired by thesis on restorative justice in YA literature. When I was in the hospital last fall because I almost had a literal stroke from stress, I was comforted and kept calm by the fact that I was wearing a YR t-shirt and had a plush doll of a YR character sitting in my lap. And all of that is the short list.

As we come close to the release date, I hope that every single member of the fandom gets something they enjoy in the new season. I don’t think every person is going to get everything they want, but I genuinely hope there’s a moment, a scene, a line that brings them joy. We’ve all stuck with this series for a while, and I want us all to have something we can take with us. A little bit of sparkle for the road, if you will.

There’s of course the possibility that some of us get a lot of what we want, and others of us are let down. I know this was the case for season 2, and it feels naive to imagine that everyone in the fandom will be equally satisfied by season 3. I’ve got my fingers crossed that I’ll enjoy the hell out of it, but I’m also trying to prepare my heart in case it’s not what I wanted. I’m trying to gently talk to myself right now and say that even if the third season leaves me upset and unsatisfied—even if the writing takes a nosedive or it’s good writing but it’s just not what I wanted—that I still learned a lot about crafting stories and being myself and surviving hardship and thinking about systems and whatever else, from this show. That my experience with the first two seasons still matters, that my work on my fic is something to be proud of. If season 3 is a disappointment, Heart and Homeland will be my new canon. I’m sure there are other people out there talking themselves up in this way too. I know we’re all pushing through the pre-season jitters.

The other thing I’m trying to reconcile right now is how I feel about the promotional material that’s come out, and the conversations around that. Like on my own, I actually feel pretty great? It’s fun to see the new stuff come in? But then I think about the ratio of Wilmon to other things and some of the responses I’m seeing to that. And I see people say like “oh the show is back to focusing on what’s actually good about it” and “it’s great that they’re doing this because the audience doesn’t really care about characters who aren’t Wilmon.” And… hello? Aren’t I the audience? Tumblr isn’t too bad (most of the time) but then there’s like, Instagram, where the Netflix Nordic posted whole set of photos of different pairs and friendships from a whole bunch of shows, and there was one (1) picture of Sara and Rousseau and I saw enough comments where people were like “ew! Vomit! Give us Wilmon instead!” that like… y’all. Frida Argento is a human being and a damn good actress, and Lisa is a good writer of female characters, and like. We can celebrate that, once in a while. We can create space for her too. It’s not Frida OR Omar and Edvin. It’s Frida AND Omar AND Edvin AND Nikita AND Malte AND Nathalie AND Mimmi AND Fabian AND Samuel AND… look I could keep on listing but I’m going to get distracted if I do.

Like, man. I love Wilmon. Don’t get me wrong. I love the complexity their relationship can run with. There are lines heliza has written for them in fic that make me swoon and I am giddy about the part where I get to read them first. I love the glowsticks. I love Wilmon’s sense of humor and the part where they cheated at Vincent’s rowing race thing and their utmost commitment to being dumbass teenage boys against the world. The first week I saw the show and came into work (where we have an athletic field) I went and took a selfie on the field after covering my hands in those gross fake dots. Look. I am all in.

And also… I came to the show for Wilmon but I stayed for so much more. I would have watched Young Royals once or twice and said “that was pleasant” without ever getting back into fanfic after a decade away, if the show was only Wilmon. I do like Wilmon, but it wasn’t Wilmon who inspired my thesis on restorative justice or made me a better writer overall. I survived that year of bullying at work because I could come home and write my ensemble fanfic, especially the parts where I focused on the non-Wilmon pairing I was in charge of writing. I finally felt confident enough to be evaluated for AuDHD because of a connection I felt to a character who wasn’t Simon or Wilhelm. It was a plush doll of a non-Wilmon character who sat in my lap and kept me calm while I was hooked up to those scary machines in the hospital this past October.

I guess my one humble request is that people be thoughtful about how they use phrases like “everyone thinks” or “no one wants.” Not every member of the fandom has the same opinion, and not every member wants the same things out of season 3, and there are some of us who are happy about the new Wilmon content but who are still feeling a little hungry for more of our most beloved characters, and hope they’ll get meaningful storylines (and not get ignored) in season 3. I do know we probably won’t all get what we want, and that some of us will probably get more of what we want than others. I hope that whatever happens, we’ll all get something we want, and we can all be gracious about it, and continue to find meaning in the canon.

For the people here on tumblr who are already including me in their everyone… thank you, thank you, thank you. I hope you know who you are and I hope you know how much I appreciate you. And I do hope this Little Fandom That Could can keep going into all sorts of new creative places.

#young royals #young royals season 3 #young royals season 3 spoilers #yrs3 spoilers

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l4long-winded · 5 months

Text

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

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

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

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

word count: 19,551

previously: concealed feelings and abstract attitudes

( this work has been cross posted to ao3 )

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Then which did he imply?”

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

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

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

“Where’s the fabric you found?”

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

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

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

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

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

“What is it?” He asks.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Does something concern you?”

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

“Focus. Am I losing you, Lily?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Edmund. Thomas.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What, what is it? Did you f—”

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

“But your note and explan—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Thought I said no thinking,” you pipe up, discarding the handkerchief, your gaze looking up at him from under your lashes.

“How do you know I’m thinking?” He hums as you begin to remove his tie. Then the buttons come undone to his vest by your fingers.

“Well… you get this far away look in your eyes. Your eyebrows pinch together… the bridge of your nose slightly scrunches, your lips fall into a flat line. I can see your dimples flash as your jaw tightens—”

“Are you deducing me, Lily?” He narrows his eyes at you, shrugging the vest off as you push it off his shoulders. He feels far more liberated by the action. You busy yourself with the buttons of his undershirt now. It’s possible that an image of you and him undressing one another in a domestic routine floats by.

“Funny way of pronouncing seducing, but yes, I am. I’ll be sure to welcome you naked in my bed if you would so kindly take this off,” you remove the last button of his shirt, and there isn’t any hesitation in how Sherlock removes that next as well. It falls to the floor as forgotten as his vest is. He gently laughs at your cheeky response, a bit of pride in him that you’re starting to pick up on his habits, nevertheless if you use them against him. It’s quite possible you’ve been looking at him as much as he has you. Then again, he’s vastly attuned to you, so you have some competition.

“You think yourself clever,” he muses, “In my defense, I presumed the no thinking law only applied to the sex we just had.” He watches as you are in the midst of removing a clip from your hair, your head slightly jolting from the blatant use of that word. But there isn’t any reason to be vague, you two have now seen each other naked, and he knows what your face looks like when you cum. Regardless, he revels in the pigment of your skin adopting a rosy hue. The clip in your hair is removed and then another, and another. Soon, it’s down, free of any tools, of any worries. You stretch the choker around your hands and then pull that over your head. Then you gesture for him to help, turning your back towards him. He begins to undo the lacing of your corset.

“No, it applies when I opt for it. And I am currently opting for it. You’re much more carefree when you think less.” You breathe correctly and evenly for the first time since you adorned your dress, each lacing that he pulls free giving you relief. The soreness settles further in so you know you’ll have to deal with that in the morning. You don’t think Sherlock would oppose relaxing for a day after everything you’ve both gone through tonight. He might need some convincing, but you’re learning what exactly persuades him and how you can institute it.

“If I thought less, the world would tear itself apart,” he replies, finally reaching the bottom. Then he aids you in its elimination. You’re pivoting on your heels, stepping out of your skirts, and then your shoes. During this, Sherlock is dropping his trousers to become as bare as you are. The sheets are going to be incredibly warm tonight. You lose the height that brought you closer to Sherlock’s face, but unlike when you first met him, you’re not intimidated. You stare up at him with the same gleam in your eye that you find in his.

“Ah, ah, there you go, easy, detective,” your hand pats his bare chest, but it lingers there once it touches. “Don’t think about the world. Think about me.”

“I was thinking about you,” he says before he can stop himself, clearing his throat at the intimacy his confession entails. It seems as if thinking less prompts the vulnerability he hates to display to anyone. Except, you aren’t just anyone. He sees your gaze soften, your hands cupping his cheeks.

“Thinking of how pretty I am?” You mean it as a tease, a reference to how he babbled on and on about how pretty you were during sex. But with how he’s looking at you, it came out a lot softer than originally intended. Tenderhearted. A whisper, even. You didn’t know you could feel so cherished in something once described to you as uncomfortable, the source being an elderly woman who wanted to advise you about the affairs of man and woman. You’re glad Sherlock’s proved her wrong.

“Yes,” he confirms and your head swims. “I’m thinking about how pretty you are.”

There isn’t anything else left to say. You can see and feel the sincerity radiating off him. There are a number of ways that either of you could ruin this, but you’ve had enough of the talking, instead reaching up to kiss him with fervor. He kisses you back, naturally, his arms lifting you as he clumsily navigates the space of your flat. He’s unfamiliar with the floor plan, so you’re kind enough to whisper directions along with sweet nothings into his ear, giddy that he follows and lowers you into your bed. You shift the blankets so you can travel underneath them, holding the sheets away from your body as an invitation for Sherlock to join in.

He doesn’t tell you the truth, the full truth, behind his thoughts, the ones that formed as he gazed at you with post-orgasmic clarity. Sure, he knows you’re pretty, that’s something he’s always known, and it snuck up on him heavily while he buried himself inside you and allowed his hands to roam your body through their own discretion, but there were other ideas bursting into his head. Concepts, really. He couldn’t decipher them and their complexities still, but whatever it is that you make him feel, it’s beyond answers, it’s beyond concrete and definitive laws. There is not one straightforward result nor explanation for him to pick apart and analyze as a scientist, or a physicist, or a chemist, or even a logician. Deductive reasoning can only take him so far and if he is to look back on the year he’s had, there are limitations to how he views the world despite his heightened awareness and inability to miss the details. This is raw and indistinguishable for someone like him. You’re a woman who he’s drawn to magnetically, a phenomenon he never thought would happen to him. And as he looms over you, those… concepts spring back to life. Admiration. Wonder. Affection. Worry. Care. Avidity. Humanity. Beauty. Lust. Luck. Loss… L…

He normally would scrub his brain if it dared to consider that last thing. But here you are, blinking up at him with those long lashes, nuzzling your nose against his, kissing his mouth with enthusiasm and adoration he hopes he replicates, gratifying him with the parting of your legs so he can be as close as your bodies can warrant, and he thinks he can. He can let his brain stray there. He thinks he might be in…

He doesn’t know if he is. But as his cases have taught him, anything is possible.

#henry cavill #l4l.writes #sherlock holmes #enola holmes #henry!sherlock #sherlock holmes x reader #beyond answers #henry cavill x reader #henry cavill imagine

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thought--bubble · 9 days

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Taking a little breaky break

This is just a heads up for my small little group of people on here. I have come to call my friends. I just wanted to let you all know that I'm going to be taking a much needed respite from tumblr and probably discord, too. I am feeling lost, sad,overwhelmed, and confused.

I know it sounds silly or whatnot, but all of this stuff is overwhelming and depressing, and I feel sick when I open this app at this point.

The best word to use, I guess, would be winded, maybe?

I joined Tumblr in Sept 23, and at first, it was really fun, a much needed escape from my daily never-ending list of crap to do.

I unfortunately learned how crazy this fandom can get early on and the hard way. I had hoped that that was just a one-off due to my newbie ignorance and took it as a lesson learned for myself.

But it's starting to feel like the drama never fucking stops. It just keeps going, and nice people, kind people, just get dragged and ridiculed for seemingly no reason. I will pathetically admit that I am a sensitive soul, and the things I've read and seen have seriously negatively affected me.

When people are catty regarding people they don't like or that don't like them, I can usually reconcile that to a particular degree. People are, in fact, people. Not everyone is going to vibe with everyone, and people will make jokes at others' expense, and it isn't exactly mature, but it happens.

That is what I expected when I heard this was coming. Some catty shit slinging between people who don't like each other.

But that isn't all this was, and I'm having a really hard time with that. I even thought, "Oh maybe some moderately rude jokes here and there where you know cultural differences and stuff could account for that" like I'm from the northeast and we can be harsh out here. So something that may be offensive to someone from another area may be looked at here just as a joke made in poor taste.

I know I myself have made jokes or whatnot, but you would think certain things would be off limits.

I thought I could combat the negative with positives. Silly jokes, little messages filled with love, but even that isn't working at this point.

My heart hurts, and my brain hurts.

And all this stuff has made me question myself. I had a block list a mile long for the longest time. Filled predominantly with people I had never spoken to because I was scared, nervous, I didn't want to accidentally interact with a post of someone who would be upset that I did, I unfollowed blogs I liked based on this same principle. I just desperately did not want to make someone mad or uncomfortable and find myself back in some weird mean anon tornado.

I tried to sus out who would be bothered by my presence and who wouldn't. I can't even know if my thoughts on who may or may not be upset by me were based on my paranoia or a perception i developed or was potentially affected by outside sources.

Now, i just don't know what the hell is going on.

Sorry for the word vomit. Just wanted to be honest. There are some of us out here who are just standing around with question marks over our heads.

Maybe it's because I wasn't here for a lot of that other weirdness. Maybe it's because of early events that shaped my experience on this app, but I for sure 100% need a break.

I'm an odd duck and love this app mostly because it's the only site I've seen where others actively fan-girl over my favorite Ewan character.

But right now, not even my love for Will can keep me on this app, and for those who know me, that's truly saying something.

This post is not meant to badmouth anyone at all. Honestly at this point I couldn't bad mouth anyone because I'm fucking lost on who anyone really is or how they really feel about things, dude I'm just plain lost.

Thank you to those who have been kind. My apologies to those I may have judged or assumed things about based on who the hell knows.

I hope that when I come back, I can open this app without yet another person that I like having a post of them being torn apart. Or a post of a story that I had heard being told in a completely different way and throwing me for a complete loop.

For now I am going to watch Will edits on TikTok and maybe read via Ao3.

Love and healing vibes to all.

#To my lovelies #I'll be back #I'm just not sure when #hotd fandom

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ofoceansandtombsanew · 1 year

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My Chapter 51 Thoughts and my thoughts around ShimaMitsu in general

So @mapoeggplant had a really cool discussion thread on twitter and I wanted to contribute to it. But I got very longwinded and now idk if the pics in my google doc even loaded... so I decided to share my thoughts here on tumblr as well!

Be warned, this post is littered with manga spoilers so if you are an anime-only or haven’t caught up to the most recent chapters, avoid this post so you don’t have the journey spoiled for yourself ^o^

Mika realizing something is up with Mitsumiー Mika is definitely a character that surprised me in how much I ended up liking her! Everyone in S&L I think is a subversion of popular tropes in manga’s past where on the surface they look like a trope and then boom, sensei hits us with a reality check and explanation as to how they are. Mika is clearly the ‘mean girl in shoujo who hates the protagonist by virtue of crushing on the male lead’. *Worry not, I’m aware S&L is a seinen*

But her maturity and growth over the series? Astounding. From reconciling with her envy of Mitsumi, Nao helping her come to terms with the idea of Mitsumi and Sousuke dating hypothetically in the future and becoming such a good friend? Love it.

So I love how Mika is the first to really notice that something is off with Mitsumi in regards to Sousuke.

Pretty sure that back in chapter 47 it was established that all of the girls have noticed something was off with Mitsumi. But they decided to respect her privacy because if she wants to tell them what’s wrong, she’ll tell them and they want to give her the chance to come to them first. Though they did express they were worried she wasn’t truly seeming like herself.

And the reason Mika starting to connect the dots this most recent chapter is so ‘big’ for me, for lack of a better word, is because it really puts into perspective how Mitsumi has been handling the breakup.

Mitsumi breaking things off with Sousuke was definitely a mature move. I’ve even been in the same position of breaking things off with a relationship because of feeling like the way we loved each other was different and it would be best to go back to friends. Then spending 2 years chatting with my ex as if nothing happened before having an emotional breakdown about it and needing two weeks of space from her before I could function around her. And it feels like Mitsumi is doing the same thing with Sousuke. But by virtue of Mika spotting Mitsumi’s discomfort in sitting next to Sousuke and starting to question things, it really solidifies how Mitsumi is processing things.

Like, Mitsumi telling Sousuke she can work on her own and such when he proposed the idea when she mentioned wanting to work to get Maharu a new wallet. She wasn’t just brushing it off and being all chill, kumbaya. She was more than likely trying to avoid him because she isn’t really ready to just be alone with him yet.

So I’m hoping in this arc that Mika is going to bring up what she’s noticed to Mitsumi. Because since she’s already processed her feelings, if Mitsumi were to admit to her that she and Sousuke dated briefly before she ended things it wouldn’t make Mika spiteful or anything weird like that. If anything, I think it would bring them closer together because if there is anyone who would understand the Sousuke-failed-relationship/rejection love pains Mitsumi is going through, it would be Mika.

Mitsumi & Sousuke (and Yasaka)ー

As for Mitsumi specifically, I think that her relationship with Sousuke as present is a ripple effect of Yasaka’s statement back during the chapter Mitsumi rightfully called Sousuke out for not standing up for her when she would definitely do it if the roles were reversed.

Immediately after that, we see Mitsumi beginning to contemplate what she said, her perspective of Sousuke and she doesn’t really know how Sousuke was raised, his relationships with his family etc. Like, she knows there is some drama there, based on the school festival arc with the play and running into Sousuke’s childhood friends and mother but she also acknowledges she doesn’t know the full story and how Sousuke came to be how he is today.

While Yasaka’s assessment did give Mitsumi the idea that she should keep in mind how she was raised and how others were raised paints how they become in the present, she is almost like… overly internalizing that and trying to be overly conscious of Sousuke’s feelings. And even the feelings of Maharu. I’m not sure I’d go as far as saying Mitsumi is blaming herself for what they are going through since so far I haven’t really seen anything that would indicate self-blame. The closest you can get to that is her scolding herself for expecting Sousuke to come to her defense just because they’re dating.

When, in reality, while Yasaka is right Mitsumi should keep in mind that Sousuke and her have different frames of reference and she should be considerate of that… Mitsumi was well within her right to be upset that her boyfriend was letting some mean girls shit talk in her face and made no effort to defend her.

Then the next time you see them interact in chapter 45, she essentially brushes that under the rug. She apologizes to Sousuke for getting upset, he says he is going to turn down their party invite and they go their separate ways… But Sousuke never actually apologizes for not standing up for her which, at least in Mitsumi’s eyes, would solidify the idea that she was in the wrong and was expecting too much of her at-the-time boyfriend.

This overly considerate behavior Mitsumi is now displaying even went as far as not wanting to tell her friends about the breakup and everything that led up to it because she was worried about how they would perceive Sousuke and possibly give him some sort of negative treatment in response to how things went. Not to mention, she’d rather just bottle up her feelings than cause a rift in their friend group they’ve had since first year.

When she breaks up with Sousuke, she goes above and beyond in reassuring him they have and always will be friends. Which while that is cool because the hiccups aside, they have a pretty great friendship, Mitsumi isn’t really allowing herself to feel hurt by the breakup and thinks that, while even if a large portion of it is that she and Sousuke’s ‘love’ is different her actions thus far would imply she thinks it is on her for expecting so much. (So I guess there actually is a good portion of self-blame from her, even if subconsciously!)

And with the most recent chapter, Sousuke gets to see how Mitsumi is hiding how hurt she is by Maharu’s rejection of her gift and her outburst that Mitsumi is only thinking about herself and to me his expression is almost like a parallel to his expression in chapter 46 when Mitsumi broke up with him.

In chapter 46, Sousuke needed comfort. He’s worried about being abandoned or viewed as worthless because he wasn’t able to live up to the ‘use’ or ‘idea’ Mitsumi had of him.

This time, Mitsumi needs comfort and it’s like this moment has essentially confronted Sousuke with the fact that she isn’t as cheerful, mature and invulnerable as she has presented herself to him thus far. So while yes, Yasaka was right in how Mitsumi doesn’t know as much about Sousuke as she thought she did, the reverse is also very true in that Sousuke doesn’t really know Mitsumi as much as he thought he did.

Sprinkle all this into the fact that Sousuke is going through his own whirlwind of emotions regarding Mitsumi, their breakup and how he feels about her. He’s jealous of Ujiie and how close he is with Mitsumi, he feels left out that Mitsumi hasn’t really been including him in activities outside of school and he was pouty and perplexed in chapter 47 about her perspective of the breakup going far as to pout to Chris and Ririka:

And Chris rightfully being confused because he doesn’t get Sousuke’s reaction since back in chapter 42 he didn’t even really know if Sousuke really even liked Mitsumi romantically (as proven by how, when Sousuke told him about the breakup, he automatically assumed Sousuke was dumper and not the dumpee). Now he wants to be closer to her while Mitsumi is essentially going ‘I want to keep everything chill and normal but at the same time I’m still upset and trying not to be next to him for extended periods of time just yet’.

Fast forward to chapter 51 and Sousuke’s in Mitsumi’s childhood home and feeling out of place/out of his element. So this is all the recipe for him to confront his own misconceptions of Mitsumi and, hopefully, apologize for his part in the breakup and how he should have stood up for her. Which we do see him do later in chapter 50 when she isn’t present, but Sousuke has the self-awareness to know and bitterly accept that if Mitsumi hadn’t called him out before he likely would have let them continue talking poorly about her.

Maharu & Mitsumiー Now onto Maharu~ I’m fully looking forward to her part in this arc because it is very clear that she is dealing with insecurities regarding herself and her older sister. Mitsumi has been confirmed by multiple characters that she is essentially a prodigy in her hometown and her hometown is being hit with a very real-life problem the Japanese countryside faces. Like, it is to the point where schools in the countryside are shutting down because there aren’t enough students to justify keeping them open because the young people are leaving for the city, not returning and not raising their kids there (which most people aren’t doing anyway due to the decline in birthrates in recent years for Japan).

Mitsumi even went as far as telling Sousuke her thoughts that she might likely be the only one of her siblings to even leave their prefecture.

We don’t really know how much Mitsumi is discussed back in her hometown, but it must be enough to make Maharu feel the way she does. It is just unfortunately manifesting in taking things out on her sister rather than talking to her parents about how she feels or even trying to discuss it with Mitsumi. Hell, talking to Mitsumi about it first probably won’t even help things come to a positive conclusion. As it stands now, Maharu’s perception of her sister is that Mitsumi looks down on her for getting out of the prefecture and going to the holy grail that is the capital of their country for school.

She needs an outside perspective that isn’t ‘tainted’ by Mitsumi.

Mitsumi’s friends from Tokyo are out because 1) they are Mitsumi’s friends and 2) Maharu already is feeling insecure and putting them on a pedestal because they are Tokyonites and fancy people.

Her family is out because Mitsumi is essentially their pride and joy.

And the chapter end with Maharu running into Fumi and while I wanna say ‘Fumi, get in here and rescue this sibling relationship’-

Fumi would still fall under the category of ‘tainted by Mitsumi’ by virtue of being Mitsumi’s best friend, even if Fumi has been shown to be very close to the Iwakura family. So I honestly think it could go either way with Fumi trying to talk to Maharu and help her vent how she feels, but Maharu could easily do that and when Fumi tries to be reasonable Maharu could think that Fumi is trying to take Mitsumi’s side when she is just trying to help give Maharu some outside perspective.

So that would basically summarize all of スキロー thoughts with the most recent chapter sensei has delivered us. I’m loving it all so far and looking very forward to what happens next!

#look she's not writing #skip and loafer #スキップとローファー #スキロー #iwakura mitsumi #shima sousuke #shimamitsu #egashira mika #toyama fumino #iwakura maharu #manga spoilers #skip and loafer spoilers #skip & loafer #skip & loafer spoilers #animanga thoughts

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caramelpenguin · 2 months

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S3 EP6 (thoughts + theories)

I want to get all the insane predictions out so I can look back on how much I clowned.🤡

These are ideas based on the moments that were in the trailer/teasers/stills. Or things that I feel might be addressed before the end...

Hillerska closing down🏫

We aren't directly told what Felice said in her interview. It's left ambiguous. So why wouldn't they tell us? Sure, there's a chance that she just praised the school but....

we got that very small snippet of the forest ridge boys yelling at each other. Could this be because they heard that Hillerska was going to shut down?

Simon (and his family) might move away 👋

they have the money now ig. this could be a reason why the ending, as ive seen around, has occasionally been described as 'open'.

this could be the context behind the shot of Linda's head on Simon's shoulder.

or maybe the 3 of them are doing smthn related to micke?

Abdication or King Wille? And August...👑

I think one of the reasons for August's storyline this season was for us to understand him more as a character so that if he becomes King, we know that he'll actually try or that he may not have been as bad as we thought. (my opinion of August isn't necessary here).

we really see how much the monarchy consumes Wille this season. Though I don't know how we'd approach the topic of abdication in just one episode.

wille has said that one of the reasons he wants to remain Crown Prince is bcos of Erik. Knowing what we now know, i'm intrigued as to what will happen.

will they acknowledge more of August's eating disorder?

August and Sara🤔

I think felice will (eventually) be fine with it. I don't know about Simon.

Things will work out, i'm sure.

Frederika and Stella💵

....they'll kiss in ep6. something will happen between them, anyway.

Shot of the 4 girls hugging

frederika has realises she likes stella by this point??

Roussea?🐎

maybe Roussea will get a slight mention in a conversation with August. Or maybe not. Who knowwwss

Wilmon screaming in the car🚗

is this Sara's car? things need to be okay by this point, right? is it after the lake scene??

Wilmon stare down👀

how? will ? this? fit? in?

is it after the graduation ceremony but before the neon party and the lake scene? does the shot of wille (with simon's hands around his neck) come after this?

is the lake scene not the final scene? is this scene actually the next day during the graduation?

does simon tell wille he's going to move away?

The Neon Party + Lake Scene 💧

the neon party is where they reconcile.

BUT i dont think it'll be a full reconcile. Simon's line 'Can't we just forget everything that's happened? Just for tonight?' makes sense to be here.

the lake scene with the swimming could happen because they both leave the party early, i dunno.

is this the last time they're able to hang out (bcos simon is moving away and bcos Hillerska will shut down)?

but we've all SEEN that it looks sad, which doesnt look all that great for endgame, and we've also been told that this is (most likely) the final scene. so. get tissues ready.

(am i crazy or is there a tiny smile on simons face in this scene? from that edmar promo we got? )

swimming happens after the sadness right? bcos (apart from the tears) they dont look wet.

if its the final scene idk what the hopes r for wilmon endgame icl

MUSIC (+Wille's birthday present)🎶

we know that 'Alice' by Rhys will play at some point. Doesn't mean it'll be a wilmon scene. it could be sara and august OR frederika and stella (?)

normally, there's a song in ep4 that's repeated in the final moments of the season. ep 4 in s3 doesn't end with a song and (from the one check I've done), i can't really hear any of the other songs used in that episode as the final song of the season. then again, i could be wrong

ELIAS SONG?? they could play 'revolution' again to make it a full circle (dont think this will happen tho). they might use a new song. i just rlly hope we'll hear an Elias song and...i feel like we will.

THE TRAILER SONG? I really pray this will be in the episode. I pray i pray i pray i-

we'll hear Simon's new song. I don't know how or when (especially if this is simon's gift to wille) but...c'mon

initially, i didn't think Redlight would appear in YR. Omar has a career outside of the show, but i do agree that the lyrics fit wilmon quite well. also, if we're gonna hear Simon's new song then I don't know how the script would work around Simon singing another song. He told Wille that his present isn't yet finished (which im sure is the song simon is currently working on), tho ig we could argue that he may sing a brand new song.

BUT then i realised that simon doesn't have to sing this song. redlight could just be part of the soundtrack ( it seems that everyone got to that conclusion before me). and the way that it's being promoted this week has me suspicious. I don't wanna get my hopes up, and maybe Omar is just being clever and promoting it during the week of YR hype, so i dont think redlight will be in s3. BUT I WILL BE VERY HAPPY IF IM WRONG❤️

ig we'll find out when the playlist gets updated

Football Field Scene

to my knowledge, we haven't got proof that they filmed there apart from that pic from Lisa (and are we sure this pic is from s3 filming?)

it would be AMAZING if they returned to this setting. ICONIC.

but idk how why they'd return here and how it would fit

it might not be a wilmon scene (could be simon + rosh + ayub, but i think theres a higher chance of it being a wilmon scene than the trio)

question- lisa said it was a wrap with a pic from the football field. which COULD mean that the last scene they filmed was there (tho it might not be the actual final scene) - was this where edmar couldn't stop crying?

💜WILMON ENDGAME?💜

they better or im going to riot

no but srsly, i dont think we'll go down a 'la la land' route. worst comes to worst, it'll be a positive open ending e.g. 'you were amazing. you'll be wonderful. we'll meet again with more freedom.' it'll be even better if there's a time skip here hahahha

like the end of ep5 gave me no hope cos idk how they're gonna get back together in one episode. but anything is possible.

arguably, the promo we've got since then leans towards endgame (?), but i dont think they'd reveal they're gonna be endgame if there wwen't gonna be more issues.

EXTRA

theres so much to cover in the final episode!! so i dont think everything will be acknowledged/addressed. things will be left ambiguous to keep the viewers thinking.

imagine if the break up at the end of ep5 wasnt that huge. that theyre still together (with tension) at the start of ep6, then they kidna ignore their disagreement. this culminates until the end, where they break up ( but very unlikely)

the future letters were there to show august's past. but could there be more to it? could we get a time skip? (again, unlikely imo. but would be sweet if done well)

a reference to the heart simon drew? maybe? probably not...

will simon give wille his orange jumper back? id love to see this on our screens but im sure we wont.

will sara's necklace make a comeback?

where does wille's 'what if I don't want to?' line come in? and the queen's line...

the shot of wille in the library (with that book in clear sight) hasn't yet appeared, right?

simon talking to sara by micke's house....hmmm. i would love a simon and micke interaction

volleyball scene + running into the lake happen as a connection to graduation?

wille with those sunglasses is a moment with felice?

do we hear anything more abt wille's birthday wish?

EXTRA .2

there are plenty of moments that happen that we don't see as viewers. so that jumper simon wears at the start of ep 2 looks like wille's. and if it is, then we didnt see the moment simon stole it wille gave it to him.

and when simon mentioned a mental health foundation, it implied that they may have had a discussion abt wille's anxiety before.

the piano scene in ep2 could have been a piano lesson that wille was giving simon, which probably means a lot more of these happened without us knowing

this makes me wonder how much wille knows about micke??

simon told august that sara's with her dad and all that- so does wille also know?

WHEN I FIRST WATCHED AND FINISHED S1 AND S2 OF YOUNG ROYALS, i knew wilmon would be together by the end of s3. like i was 100% convinced the show would end with them happy bcos that's what it had leaned towards the entire time. the vibe of it just screamed wilmon endgame to me.

i really hope past me was right, bcos the s3 promo really had me wondering. and then ep5 had me proper questioning. but netflix (and lisa) will have to pay for so much therapy if they arent endgame sooo🤷‍♀️

livelovelaugh wilmon ig

edit: ive just listened to omar's interview and now im qquuiiitteee sure redlight wont be in ep6🤷‍♀️

edit 2: will anyone else find out that it was august who posted the video?? will this prevent him from taking the throne??

#i might add to this before ep6 and the doc releases #and if ive missed smthn pls say and ill add it heh #LIVE LOVE LAUGH WILMON #wilmon #yr s3 spoilers #yr s3 #young royals #youngroyals #predictions

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theonevoice · 6 months

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Rumination n. 7 - The Stain

I am about to say something outrageous, but this scene is haunting me and I need to take it out of my obsessive brain.

We all have been thinking about the (not so) slightly maniacal, sphinx-like smile that appears on Aziraphale's face at the very end of e6 end credits, and how it seems to suggest that something is brewing inside the angel's head.

But this is not the scene that is haunting me. It's this one:

Now, like many of us, I've been toying with possible scenarios involving the Metatron and the threat of the Book of Life, and I want to take a moment to say something up top: I have mixed feelings about the Book of Life as a thing. Not just because we don't know anything about how it actually works and, if we want to be punctilous, we don't even have undisputable confirmation that it exists and it's not in fact a myth that the Heaven-regime has spread in order to keep everyone in check (that Heaven has regime-like strategies for controlling its ranks, possibly even before the Fall, it's clear by the appalling callousness of the Metatron saying "For one Prince of Heaven to be cast into the outer darkness makes a good story", meaning a story that works as an effective cautionary tale). But most of all because this all-encompassing Book of Life seems to me like the kind of overpowered magic-object-ex-machina plot device that can really break a narrative, and I am willing to accept it only because I trust Neil Gaiman entirely. Also, I have a feeling that, on a metaphorical level, the prospect of being "erased from the Book of Life" has already happened, in a way (but that's matter for a different rumination).

That said, I am wondering if it's Aziraphale the one we should be worrying about. Mr "I would always know the stain was there", aka fixing something is not enough, the preferable solution is to make sure that the bad thing never happened in the first place, so its memory will not haunt you, its remaining smudge will not darken the perfect picture that you want your existence to be.

I am wondering if that creepy smile means that he is planning to steal the Book of Life, like several metas and fics imagined, but not to keep himself and Crowley safe: he could be planning to steal it in order to undo the Fall.

And sure, that would mean erasing the 6000 years of his and Crowley's history together, and nobody in his right mind would do that - but is Aziraphale in his right mind? When he steps into the elevator, he is as broken as Crowley is, and possibly more, because in addition to their relationship crumbling into dust, he also has to deal with the pull of his desire to bring into reality the idealized version of Heaven that he has always hoped for.

He is shattered. He has lost Crowley, has lost his bookshop, has lost Earth. He is involved against his will in the Second Coming plans. He's hyperventilating as the elevator goes up, shoulders and chest struggling to find air - is on the verge of a panick attack. He is in the mindset of someone who is feeling his entire existence slipping away under his feet at lightspeed, not knowing how or why, not a split second to realise what is happening.

It's not impossible, when you are in such a state, to shut down and cling to one and only one thought: how do I undo this?

It's not impossible, if you are in the middle of a traumatic response, to fixate on finding the single, cursed, wrong turn that sent you down the path that lead you in this place of devastating pain and fear, obsessing over the idea that if you can correct that one error, everything will be fine again. Because you just cannot process the idea that what happened is destined to stay "happened": it's just too big and too wrong and too unthinkable to become a part of your biography like all events before that - as per the definition of trauma by Judith Herman.

You cannot reconcile it with the rest of your life, you enter in a state of mind that denies reality and treats it like a a gamer would treat a mission that he messed up between to saving points: yes, it sucks, but nothing to worry about, you just go back in time and this time do things the right way. You just need to identify where you went wrong.

This is, I think, the place where Aziraphale's mind is in the final scene.

"What have I done wrong? Where did I do the wrong thing? When did I say the wrong word? What incident brought us here? How could this happen if I love you so much? Why would you shout and be angry at me if I love you so much? What evil force could prevent you from seeing that I love you so much? This is all a mistake. How can we not be together right now if I love you so much? How can the fact of us being separated exist in the same world where I love you so much? This must be a mistake. What is it that I need to undo to save us, our dream? To make the error and all this pain go away? If only I could find the mistake, the single bad thing that threw a monkey wrench into our happiness..."

But he cannot find one single moment in their long history together that stands out as "the" mistake to blame for what just happened, and he keeps going back and back and back, looking for "the" thing that ruined their plans.

If only we were not on opposite sides.

I think that, right now, in Aziraphale's head, the one original error that lead him to lose the love of his life is the Fall. It's the initial irreparable fracture that ripped in half the angelic population of the beginning and made impossible for the two parts to be together ever again.

Of course Crowley did and could not want to be "restored" to his former angelic status, he can see why, he's not blind. And probably he's more than ready to recognize that Crowley is right in refusing that offer. The proposal was wrong in the first place. The solution to all their problems isn't making Crowley not a demon anymore, it's making sure that there were no demons to begin with.

"If I'm in charge, I can make a difference."

I can make a different ending for this scene that just went horribly wrong. I can make a different reality where this horrible moment could never happen.

And if this is what is going through his head, his next task - and Crowley's mission - will be to accept that sometimes there is no undoing. You can either find a way to patch things up and find the right path again, or stay broken and astray. But either way you will have to come to terms with the fact that some mistakes cannot be undone, and the bad things that happened cannot be erased. You can only learn to live with them, accomodate their painful memory in your existence, accept the presence of a stain that will always be there, underneath.

#good omens #good omens 2 #good omens thoughts #good omens 2 spoilers #go2 #go2 spoilers #book of life

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bengiyo · 6 months

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Only Friends Ep 11 Stray Thoughts

Last week, Atom lied to Cheum that Boston forced him to have sex with him repeatedly, and his friends iced him out completely. Boeing showed up to be an absolute menace and it was compelling. Top and Mew are still doing this dance, and Mew has decided to utilize Boeing to torment Top. Nick avoided advancing things with Dan, and then reconciled with Boston. Ray learned that Sand wasn't taking his dad's money (which is dumb) and decided to commit to rehab.

"Move on. Move in."

Plug, please don't drink after Sand. You do not know where that boy has been.

Look at them messing with Yo and Plug getting back together to lull me into a false sense of security.

Top and Mew are so annoying. Just please break up already.

I like that Nick is being honest with Dan without over sharing. He's also not giving Dan hope. "I like you, but I'm not ready to be anyone's boyfriend right now. Let's just focus on work," is actually good for both of them. Dan is disappointed, but he knows where he stands.

I'm glad Sand is avoiding Ray. He's been called a whore so many times.

I like Sand's mom.

I know they better give Sand that money after all he's been through. I do like that Sand doesn't think Ray needs to completely give up alcohol, but he does need to manage his dependency.

I feel like I've lost the thread on why Mew keeps hanging out with Boeing.

Look at nasty4nasty working again. We've added another boy to Mark's counter and furthered the mission to add complicated layers to digital surveillance and blackmail in modern queer life.

Now what was Boston thinking there when he glanced at Nick when he said he knows what it's like to have a one-sided love?

Things are going too well for Sand and Ray. Ray still got Sand to do the community service with him. Something is going to show up and disrupt them.

Every time I see Mew and Top I'm just like, "Potion Seller, enough of these games!"

I'm glad Sand is pathetic for every man he was in love with. Ray ain't special. Sand is just like this.

We have missed multiple opportunities for a Mama Sandwich and I am despondent.

I wish we'd gotten a better since of Top's emotional interior. Force is clearly playing Top as sincere, and I don't know how much of my distrust of Top is past experiences with guys like him or the reputation he has within the show.

I'm not a fan of Cheum's reaction here to Atom's admission. On his lie, they stormed Boston's house and accused him of assault. They kicked him out of their project. They stripped him of his community. We can support Atom learning something important about himself and still make sure we let him know that what he did was foul. I'm so not into Cheum at all. I was not expecting to have so many qualms with lesbians in this show.

I really loved that conversation between Boston and Nick. They continue to feel the most honest with each other about what they are to each other. I love Boston offering Nick this little time they have left and being clear that it does expire. I like that it's a request, and I like that Nick didn't exactly give him an answer. Nick has been burned, so he's being more cautious with Boston.

I actually kinda want Top and Mew to work out, because the back and forth with them is the kind of thing you need someone willing to spar with for it to work.

Ray saying he'll pay anything for Sand as his boyfriend might be more romantic if he didn't always call Sand a whore when he got mad.

Well well well, are we finally going to get that threesome??

A fire in the last episode what the hell. Who is burning down Top's hotel?? Who isn't Boeing going to try to fuck??

I'm so amused at Ray being possessive of Sand and asking him to draw a boundary with Boeing as if he ever managed to draw one with Ray. Top and Mew remain so uncertain for me, and I'm a bit disappointed that Top will remain an enigma to me. Boston and Nick are the only ones moving towards something that feels sustainable. Atom can leave and never come back. I'm over Cheum.

#only friends the series #only friends meta #thai bl #bl series #Ben watches

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