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lisbeth-kk · 2 months
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Day 1 of Fluffbruary (at last) downy - clinic - nuance
Sherlock fandom.
Never Forgotten
Summary: For a long time, John couldn't forget those cerulean eyes and that mischievous smile, but eventually he did. Until he saw them again, and again. John's decision to ask the greatest favour of the young man they belonged to the first time they spoke, proved to be life altering for both of them.
@fluffbruary @totallysilvergirl @keirgreeneyes @calaisreno @phoenix27884 @a-victorian-girl @safedistancefrombeingsmart @gregorovitchworld @topsyturvy-turtely @raina-at @helloliriels @peanitbear @sabsi221b
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theshippirate22 · 9 months
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so i started a fic for this a while ago and it got lost in my wips but then @henderdads posted this and i got right back on my bullshit to finish it! also on ao3 tw: panic attack
November 1985-
Steve had a white-knuckle grip on the steering wheel of the Beemer while he stared out at the theater ahead of him.
Just looking at it, just thinking about what he was about to do, made his skin crawl. He felt guilty and dirty and miserable, but he didn’t really have any other choice. 
Okay, that was a lie. There were definitely a million other things he could be doing. He really needed to clean his room, he was falling desperately behind on movies Robin said he needed to see, and he was supposed to be writing an essay to help him get into Ohio State. There were tapes to be listened to, people to check on, God, his car needed an oil change.
But here he was, anyway, neglecting all of it. 
The dashboard clock switched to 11:35 and his stomach burned. He’d gotten himself so freaked out, he was going to throw up in the gutter and drive home before anything even happened. The only thing that stopped him was the thought of what waited for him. The dark, cold, empty house, his relentless nightmares, and his sleepless night.
11:40. His hands were getting cold against the wheel, but he still didn’t will himself into the warm oasis that was the theater. Not yet. He still had time. 
He felt like an addict, lying to his friends and family before relapsing back into heroin. He knew it wasn’t like that, that if they knew, all he’d get was funny looks and maybe a snarky comment directed at his intelligence (or lack thereof), but that didn’t make it any better. He still hated himself. 
He’d promised to give this up a long time ago, to abandon the lifestyle entirely. Actually, he had turned into something of a doormat at this point- always driving the kids places and covering any of Robin’s shifts when she bailed and offering his house and money up to whoever took advantage of it- because anything he did that didn’t help somebody else felt selfish. He wasn’t allowed to be selfish anymore. He had to repent for when he was selfish.
11:45. Steve groaned softly and got out of the car, attacked by the cold air as it seemed to soak through his sweatshirt. 
Way to put the guilt into guilty pleasure, moron, he thought to himself, pushing through the doors to the theater. His inner monologue was starting to sound more and more condescending. 
The teenager at the counter glared up at him through her eyelashes, popping a bubble with her gum decisively, clearly annoyed to be running midnight showings at a shitty theater. He slid a five-dollar bill across the counter to her and took a deep breath before forcing out the words.
“Rocky IV, please.”
She looked at him like he was stupid, and he was about ready to run back to his car and pretend none of this had ever happened. This was just another stupid nightmare to haunt him while he tried to sleep. 
She handed him a ticket, the bright red DRAGO VS. BALBOA staring up at him-mocking him really- and passed over his change without saying anything at all. 
Okay, that was the hard part. That was the part that made him interact with someone, a live actual person, made him admit his sin out loud, make it real and out there.
As soon as the ticket was in his hand and he was walking to the specified theater, he could breathe again. The guilt still writhed heavily in his stomach, but he could fight down the nausea enough to function. Half his brain, the half that had been in control for a good while now, was screaming at him that this was wrong, he was sick and twisted for wanting this, while the other half kept reminding him softly that it was just a movie. No one had to know about it. It would help him tonight- maybe he could get some sleep when he got home- and then it could disappear forever, and he would never think of it again. 
It’s just a movie. 
Steve was ten when the original came out. His dad had paid for him and Tommy H. to go one Saturday and God, they loved it. They’d gotten in a playfight in the parking lot waiting for Tommy’s mom to pick them up, mimicking the final match between Rocky and Apollo (Steve was Apollo every time they played; Tommy refused to be anything less than the hero, even if technically he was the loser) and Tommy had accidentally knocked him in the face and made his nose bleed. That might’ve been one of the best days of Steve’s childhood if he thought about it.
Three years later, he and Tommy went back and saw Rocky II the first night it was out, and watching Rocky win lit something in Steve on fire, and he convinced himself he could do anything, like how Rocky could still get up even when Apollo had beat him to shit. 
Steve got into his first fistfight that summer. He lost, because he had never actually fought before, and his punches were loose and messy, but he didn’t even care, staring up at Jack Donahue through a black eye, because Rocky lost his first fight against Apollo, but he won the second, so next time Steve would win. 
He went to Rocky III on a date in 1982 (still waiting to win that second fight, although now it was really Fight 8 or 9 because he’d gotten his ass kicked a good number of times since Jack Donahue). The girl he was with got bored halfway through the movie, climbed into his lap and convinced him to make out instead, but he kept getting distracted by Clubber Lang, and Apollo’s training advice, and Rocky and Andrian’s big house and their happy family, glancing over her shoulder absently as she trailed her mouth up his neck. There wasn’t a second date with her. He didn’t even remember her name. 
He remembered what color dress Adrian wore to the final fight, though. 
He hadn’t watched any of them since September of ‘84 when he’d rented all of them and binge-watched them one night, mostly to remind himself that Billy Hargrove was just a watered-down Clubber Lang who came to steal his title and insult his (nonexistent) wife and mess up his life. Rocky beat Clubber Lang. Steve would beat Billy.
Within the next few weeks, however, Billy ended up on the ever-growing list of people who had whipped Steve, his Heavyweight-Champion-Of-the-World belt that manifested itself as King Steve of Hawkins High was stripped from him, and he’d started his proverbial pilgrimage to salvation. 
He didn’t get to like Rocky anymore. King Steve liked Rocky. Just Steve didn’t have any reason for that luxury. Rocky was athletic, and mindless, and masculine, everything that everyone hated about King Steve, so Just Steve didn’t get it anymore. 
It’s just a fucking movie. He reminded himself. No one has to know.
They had unfinished business anyway, Rocky and him. Maybe it was fate, or some shit that IV should come out like five months after Steve did get his first win against the Russian soldier.
Hey, old friend. I did it. I won. I got back up. I won. 
We won, Rocky. 
Steve hid in the back of the theater, in the dark, where no one would recognize him. There were only maybe a dozen other people in there anyway, but in the dark, he could relax. 
He almost felt safe, even, when the opening montage started. There was something so familiar about it, like returning to the house you lived in as a child, but the same sort of estrangement from time. Watching Rocky best Clubber again, knowing Rocky would win, was such a comfortable thing. God, these movies were so good. 
He almost didn’t feel like such an asshole anymore. 
Rocky was a dad now, you know. Had been since the second one technically, but only now was the kid old enough to have a personality. Watching him with his son was maybe when the six-nugget thing really solidified for Steve. He wanted that, he wanted the house and the kid and sparring with Apollo-the friend who knew- and Adrian. 
God, he wanted someone to love him the way Adrian loved.
She was always just there, in the very best sort of way. As if at any moment, Rocky could look over and she would be there, grinning at him, helping him back up, fixing things. And she would shake her head and laugh at her moronic boxer husband and still sing with him when he started up out of tune and flush when he flirted with her. 
The reminder of the slump in Steve’s love life manifested itself as a sort of sad aching in his stomach. He redirected his attention out of his thoughts and back to the movie. 
The plot was a little mindless; he’d admit it. It was basically the same premise as the last one: Some Big-Bad-Boxer popping up out of nowhere to whip Rocky’s ass just enough in the first half to build a vague sense of suspense as to whether he was going to win the final fight or not, but the only difference now was that he was sparring against Communism or something as a metaphor for the mini-Red Scare happening. 
Steve didn’t mind. He knew enough Russians to be pretty psyched about Stallone wailing on them for a few hours. 
It’s Apollo Creed, however, who first takes his place across the ring from Ivan Drago. Steve was fine. He was well aware of the fact that whatever happened during this fight would mean absolutely nothing in comparison to whatever happens at the end, except maybe deciding the intensity of the training montage (That was the other thing; Survivor was doing a bunch of the music, how could Steve miss out on that?)
Apollo put on a show, with dancers and lights and that stupid flag robe he’d had in the first one, so this would be good. Mediocre writing, good entertainment. 
“You will lose,” Drago growled. 
They danced around each other in the ring. Apollo threw a good number of jabs in the beginning. It felt good. Steve almost smiled. 
But something happened when Drago started fighting back. Apollo stumbled against the ropes, dripping sweat; Rocky yelled something. Steve missed it- he could feel his pulse throbbing in his ears, suddenly a little too aware of his clothes and where they clung to him. 
Drago kept fighting. He punched and punched, each one landing hard and solid against Apollo, against flesh, in a rapid thunk, thunk, thunk. 
Steve’s hands started to shake. 
Apollo leaned back against the corner post as the bell rings-end of the first round- looking dazed and far away. 
Rocky begged. “I gotta stop you. This fight’s finished.”
Apollo’s answer thudded through Steve’s head. “Promise you won’t stop this fight. You don’t stop this fight.”
Bell. Second round. Apollo looked stoned, tripping over his own feet as he tried to dance. Steve knew the feeling. Then Drago had him in a corner and it won’t stop, fists pounding against him again and again. Sweat flew off Apollo’s head and fell against the mat like rain. He doesn’t go down. 
There was so much blood. Steve couldn’t breathe. He felt the adrenaline in his sweaty, trembling hands, but it wasn’t right. It wasn’t movie excitement, it felt real. 
Apollo fell back against the ropes, their support being his only saving grace. His wife screamed from the audience “Stop the fight!” but they won’t, the Russian won’t stop, the fight is still going. 
Steve must have started hallucinating. For a moment, all he could hear was his own breath, exhausted and wheezy with pain. 
“Scoops... I... I work... Scoops...”
Robin is screaming, sobbing, wailing, voice pounding through his aching head. “Stop it! Stop hurting him!”
A final blow to the jaw. Apollo swung backwards toward the horrified faces of the audience, then lunged forward in depletion. There was blood in his teeth and on his face and staining the white rags and his eye was swollen shut. And the Russian’s wife smiled. 
The doctor grinned, white teeth glimmering against the dark beard. He demands something in Russian, and Steve doesn’t understand, but he wants to, he wants to make it go away. 
The soldier leans in a final time, delivering a solid blow to his temple. 
Steve’s sight fizzles in and out like a kaleidoscope as he falls.
His head hits the concrete floor, and he feels it, the burning pain at the back of his head, seeping up through his brain until his sight goes black. 
Apollo was on the floor. His body seized with fatigue and Rocky grabbed him, cradling him in his lap, and he was screaming, crying out for something, and the Russian was still talking but all that gets through to Steve is the grating accent and the fear. 
“What did you do to him?!” Robin screams, pulling his weak body towards her with bound hands. “Steve, wake up! Steve, oh my God, wake up, Steve!”
It felt like someone had shoved cotton in his ears. He couldn’t hear anything but his own pulse and his own breath, but somehow, Drago’s last couple words made it through.
“If he dies, he dies.” 
Steve got to his feet before he realized he was doing it. His legs were moving, and he wasn’t telling them where to go, but they knew somehow. All he was aware of was the nausea sweeping through him like a tidal wave and the trembling, paranoid fear taking over his entire body. 
“Who do you work for?!”
“Scoops Ahoy. The ice cream place.”
Thud. His face burned. 
“Who do you work for?!”
“Scoops!”
His head flew to the side, pulling something in his neck and shooting white-hot pain down his spine. 
“Hit him again.”
Steve collapsed against the bathroom floor. He didn’t even have it in him to make it to a stall and lock himself in; he just melted there against the wall. 
Sweat dripped down his forehead and his back, drenching him. He couldn’t breathe; his sweatshirt was too tight around his throat and his jeans were touching too much of his thighs and he couldn’t get his chest to move. 
Every muscle in his body was too tight to move. Maybe he was having a seizure or a heart attack, but it didn’t even matter, because his head ached around a phantom black eye and a scar on his temple that had taken much too long to heal. His eyes felt massive and dry, like if he didn’t get air soon, they were going to pop out of his head. 
He knew he needed to breathe, get the air in and out in a timely manner, but every time he tried to open his mouth, he would just wheeze out “Scoops,” or “Robin!” 
The Russians killed Apollo. He was laying on the floor next to him and Robin, in those stupid Americano shorts that were the same color as Steve’s uniform, and Steve knows they’re coming for him next. He played Apollo with Tommy; he is Apollo and he’s about to receive the same fate. 
He watched the door to the bathroom in terror like Dolph Lundgren was going to storm through at any moment to try and fight him next. Steve couldn’t win. He wouldn’t win. Not against a Russian, not against Drago. 
They were going to kill him. Drago was coming, and as soon as he found him, he was going to beat him to death just like Apollo. 
Maybe Steve was sobbing. That would explain the burning in his throat and the noise making his head throb. He couldn’t stop it though; he couldn’t seem to control anything except to pull his knees to his chest and curl in on himself to try and protect his head and his ribs. 
He didn’t know how long he sat there, suffocating, shaking, anxious hands tearing through the hair at the back of his head, partially to cover his neck, partially to pull at the roots of his hair until he felt something other than fear. Eventually, he stopped crying, the tears were gone, but he still couldn’t breathe, and his whole face felt clogged up with whatever was left of his sobs. 
That only made him panic more, realizing he wasn’t getting any air, and his hands moved down his neck to claw away at his throat and open something up. His nails were dull and harsh, tearing up the skin as he pawed at his Adam’s apple, hyperventilating so loudly, it filled up all his senses so that was all he could hear for a good long while.
“Hey... You alright?” 
The voice felt far away and soft like it was spoken by someone who had never experienced the harshness of sensation. God? Steve thought stupidly, carefully acknowledging that to be the first thought he’d had in a long while that wasn’t about his own demise via Russian cruelty. 
“Harrington. Can you hear me?”
Steve forced his head up, pupils blown wide with adrenaline, glancing skittishly from wall to wall, trying to remember where he was. 
“Right here. You’re okay. Try and breathe for me, Harrington.”
Steve’s shallow breaths continued, hands trailing back up to pull his hair again. He didn’t get there, however, because warm hands clamped softly around his wrists and pulled them away. “Careful. Don’t hurt yourself, honey.”
Steve could see his hands, when he moved his fingers a little bit so he could comprehend that they were his, then followed up the foreign hands- now gripping higher up on his forearm to keep him from falling backward- along pale arms and black sleeves, then up along the corner of a tattoo peeking from underneath the collar of the shirt. Higher up, face-to-face with him, although he hadn’t actually seen it until now, was a tangle of messy curly hair and choppy bangs framing the darkest brown eyes he’d ever seen.
“Adrian?” He choked out. Relief surged through him at the recognition, despite the nagging at the back of his mind that that actually couldn’t be Adrian, because Adrian was here with him, and she was gonna take care of him and fix things like she did for Rocky. “Adrian...”
“Sure.” She mumbled. “Deep breaths, Harrington. Like you’re swimming.” She took a few exaggerated deep breaths for him to mirror, and he nodded weakly, trying to force his lungs to expand entirely. 
For a few seconds-or minutes; time really had no meaning for Steve anymore- this went on, Adrian taking one breath and Steve copying until he could do it on his own. She loosened her grip on his arms, eventually dropping them completely. “There you go. Feeling okay?”
Steve hesitated while he assessed. His scalp burned from tugging on his hair, and he was sure he’d scratched his throat up pretty bad, but his hands weren’t shaking nearly as much as they had been a minute ago, and he could unclench his jaw finally- he hadn’t realized it had been so tight; the tension was probably the root cause of the headache- so yeah, he decided. “Better.”
“You ever had a panic attack before?”
He shook his head, choosing not to speak again because of the pathetic gravelly sound of his voice and blinking quickly to fight off the next wave of tears- exhausted ones this time.
“Pretty scary, huh? But it’s okay, it’s not forever. It always goes away. You’re safe, okay?”
He nodded weakly, gazing off over her shoulder to be sure the Russians weren’t coming. God, he was going to have to protect her if Drago came. He could fight, he could protect her...
“You aren’t quite back, are you, Harrington?”
Steve startled, darting his glance back toward her. “My...” He choked out, frustrated that his voice didn’t sound right yet; still too wet and broken to be his own. “My name is Steve.”
Adrian chuckled softly. “Yeah. Yeah, I know who you are, Steve. I’m glad you know.” She brushed a stray piece of hair from his eyes. “Can you tell me where we are?”
“Bathroom,” Steve mumbled. “Starcourt.”
“Starcourt? Like the mall? No, it burned down months ago. Remember?”
Steve swallowed hard, staring at the tile. It wasn’t like Starcourt’s- instead of red, green, and orange, this was green, blue, and black. It wasn’t Starcourt. Starcourt was over. Gone. He took a deep breath. “ShowTimez. Theater.”
“Hey, there you go.” She shifted her knees out from under her- it was painful to kneel for so long- and settled cross-legged across from him. “Do you... do you know who I am?”
“Adrian,” Steve whispered quickly. 
Her eyebrows shot up in surprise, almost disappearing under dark bangs. “Like from the movie? Gee, thanks, Harrington, you know how to woo a guy.” She tore her sight away, almost blushing, and continued self-consciously. “Not quite. You... you probably don’t know who I am. I wouldn’t be surprised.”
Steve felt bad for getting it wrong. And if it wasn’t Adrian... who cared enough to be so gentle with him? Panic started to fill up inside him again. Who had caught him? Who knew he was here, worse, who had seen him crying? He looked back up, trying to reassess, figure out the right answer. 
Upon better inspection, it very much wasn’t Adrian. Besides the hair and the eyes, they didn’t look at all similar. Actually, it was a man, which should’ve been his first assumption given that he was on the floor of the men’s bathroom, but he also forgot his own name for a second there, so he would let it go. He had thick, steel rings that Steve couldn’t coherently recognize into any shapes yet, and tattoos on his arms that Steve hadn’t noticed in his first sweep either. But the face was familiar. Tommy had hated him, loved to pick on him in high school. Maybe Steve had had gym with him junior year. But really, Steve knew him because he was always in the background of whatever place he was driving Dustin to. The party joined Hellfire in September; Steve had been seeing this guy vaguely for months. The name was slow coming to him- everything felt lagged- but eventually, he managed, “Munson. Eddie.”
He grinned. “Yeah! See, I knew I wasn’t that forgettable. Go ahead and call me Talia Shire though, that’s the best name I’ve been called in a while.”
The corners of Steve’s mouth twitched. Maybe it wasn’t Adrian, who he knew he could trust- She's not real, moron, he reminded quickly- but Eddie was harmless. Dustin talked about the guy so much, it was like Steve already knew him anyway. 
God, Dustin. What if Eddie told Hellfire and the kids found out he’d been here, and worse, that he’d freaked out? He didn’t know if he could handle it if the kids ever found out he wasn’t as strong as he pretended.
“You can’t tell Dustin.” Steve blurted out. 
“What?”
“He can’t know I was here, that I was...” He struggled for the words.
Eddie nodded softly. “Yeah. Okay. I won’t tell him.” He lowered his voice as he said it like it was already a secret. “What the little shit doesn’t know won’t hurt him.”
Steve nodded haphazardly to communicate that he agreed, but he just felt like he looked stupid.
“Hey, uh, do me a favor, and don’t tell the kids you saw me here, either, actually.” Eddie continued. “It goes against my code and everything to watch...” He trailed off, suddenly aware of his audience and needing to watch himself.
“Sports movies.” Steve finished. Eddie grimaced, so he added, “Yeah, no, I get it.”
Eddie nodded, forcing a smile, but it was still tainted with guilt like he’d said something wrong.
Steve was quick to stifle the awkwardness. “How come Rocky makes the cut then?”
“Oh, I don’t really know.” His shoulders relaxed a little and he admitted, “I rented the first one on accident. I was looking for Rocky Horror Picture Show, and the tape said Rocky and I’m a fucking moron, and thought they were the same thing because whoever labeled the tape didn’t bother to write the whole thing, and then I’d already paid for it so I just... watched it and... kinda got sucked in. I love a good suave-athlete-falls-for-a-freak plot.”
Steve grinned. “Me too! I only cared about the boxing when I was younger, but now...”
Eddie tipped his head and stared at him bewilderedly. 
“What?” 
Eddie shook his head dismissively, tentative smile pulling at the side of his mouth, mumbling, “Never would’ve guessed.”
Steve felt horribly seen, like he’d said too much, flush creeping up his face, and he reached up to pull on the hair at the back of his neck again. But Eddie just laughed softly and pushed himself over next to Steve, leaning back against the wall and brushing his shoulder.
“Are you going to be okay to drive home?”
He nodded, starting to shift to his numb, tingly feet, stumbling and having to prop himself on the wall. “Yeah, I should probably go.”
“Hey.” Eddie grabbed his wrist, softly; he could pull away if he really wanted to. “Calm down, give it a minute. You just started breathing again, let’s make sure you’re good to go.”
So Steve didn’t pull away. He slumped back against the tile, legs sprawled forward to get the blood flowing again. 
“Does your head hurt?” 
Steve glanced over. “What?”
“Just... uh,” He shifted uncomfortably, clearly trying to find a different way to address what he was thinking of. “You were pulling your hair. I wondered if maybe you... you know, what? It doesn’t matter.” He dug into his jacket pocket and pulled out a little white bottle of Advil. “If you want some.”
“Why do you have that?” Steve chuckled softly, taking it from him thankfully. “I mean, I’ve heard your drug-dealer reputation; I just didn’t realize this is what they meant.”
“Har har.” Eddie rolled his eyes. “It’s for Sinclair actually. He’s been-”
“Bitching about his ankle? Yeah, I keep telling him I’ll wrap it for him but he’s-”
“Being a shithead about the whole thing. He’s gonna drive me to do something drastic.”
“Seriously!” Steve cried. “I’ll hold him down, you can punch.”
Eddie laughed, a real, actual laugh and Steve thought he was going to have no choice but to implode. He was so pretty; he understood the Adrian-mistaking suddenly. 
Steve wanted to say something, wanted to make him laugh like that again, but before he could grasp anything, the door shoved open and shattered their perfect privacy. 
It was the bubblegum girl from the front desk. She popped the wad of pink obnoxiously, huffing out “Dude, the movie’s been over for like twenty minutes. We’re closing.”
Steve and Eddie shared a conspiratorial Ah-shit-we’re-in-trouble look, before getting to their feet. Steve was still holding the Advil bottle, somewhat uselessly because he’d forgotten he had it. He popped it open and swallowed a few, handing it back to Eddie who banished it back to his pocket.
Bubblegum Girl stared them down the whole way out into the lobby, the pair of them giggling as they went, until eventually they stepped into the cold darkness outside the theater, and the spell was broken. Here they were again, in real life, where things were not so great as that bathroom floor or the world within Rocky.
“Are you sure you’re okay?” Eddie asked softly like he was afraid something had changed the second they’d passed through the doors.
Steve nodded vaguely. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m alright.”
He shot him a peculiar look and turned off towards where he was inevitably parked, calling out, “Stay safe, Harrington.”
Steve laughed out loud.
March 1986-
Steve hovered over Eddie, who was sitting on Steve’s bathroom counter with his legs over the side, cleaning up the blood on his face with antiseptic wipes Nancy had pulled out of nowhere. His stitches were soft and pliable still, and Steve hated how bulky and thick his fingers were for a moment because if they were small and slim it would force him to be gentler.
Eddie cried out as he brushed over the top of the gash and Steve cringed, yanking his hands back softly to avoid hurting him anymore. 
“Sorry,” Steve murmured. 
He was afraid to reach back to finish the job- Eddie was in enough pain as it was- so he stood there, watching him for any more signs of discomfort.
Eddie lifted his head languidly, glancing at the slash of bright red on Steve’s forehead, the angry crimson chain around his neck. He tentatively traced his fingertips along his skin, not along the scab, but just below it, and Steve hummed out a low sound in relief. 
“You alright there, Balboa?”
It came out a little more slurred than he would’ve liked, but he was on a good deal of narcotics for God’s sake, and it must’ve delivered itself well enough because Steve offered him a small smile. 
“Feel like a large wound,” he offered in his best Stallone accent.
Eddie laughed, and it hurt like a mother on his broken ribs and the stitches in his side, so it quickly delved into a whine, and Steve instantly reached out even if there was nothing he could do. 
He caught his hand, pulled it into his lap, just to hold it there. Steve didn’t say anything.
“Steve.”
“Hmm...”
Eddie let go. Took Steve’s face carefully in his hands, even though the stretch sent pain shooting through his torso. “I understand now. Everything. Robin told me about the Russians.”
Steve swallowed thickly, head dipping almost in shame, as if it was too much to meet Eddie’s eyes and risk finding his pity there.
Eddie just tipped his head back up gently. “If I had known... I... I wouldn’t have let you go home alone that night. That’s... that’s not what Adrian does.”
Steve tipped his head just a little like he didn’t quite understand the sentiment.
Eddie swallowed. “I’m gonna kiss you now. You ain’t gotta kiss me back.”
He properly grinned this time, leaning in to meet him halfway, hands placed carefully on Eddie’s knees as he pulled in his face. 
And he did kiss back. What can he say? He loves a good suave-athlete-falls-for-a-freak plot.
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helloliriels · 3 months
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Christmas in Honeycutt
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CH. 13: Clarity & CH. 14: Dreaming
"Honestly John!
      It's embarrassing!"
"Keep your voice down, Mary." John shut the door of Mary’s bedroom behind them as she continued her rant.
"Why? Afraid your new boyfriend might hear me?" 
"You are blowing things way out of proportion … and I am asking you to think about this like a rational human being!!" It took a lot to make John raise his voice, but she was certainly trying his patience … 
She tossed her scarf into the side table. John barely catching the stole that came next. 
"In front of God and everybody! You were … !" 
John's heart stuttered for a minute … thinking she had seen them waltz … or worse … almost kiss?
                 “What? Mary?” 
***the party returns from the Christmas Eve Gala and with it, lines are drawn, and clarity is needed ***
Fic continued on AO3, 2 new chapters up! and posting through into the new year!
✨️ @johnlocky @chinike @rhasima @fluffbyday-smutbynight @totallysilvergirl @missdeliadili @keirgreeneyes @2smach @shelleysprometheus @sarahthecoat @calaisreno @discordantwords @liifafaa @im-erin @stuffy-steph-g @sherlocksmindpalace @toooldforthissh--stuff @mandanotmandy @mentally-unstable-fangirl @fckthishitrn @lovelenivy @elwinglyre @peanitbear @i-am-fluebert @johnlockismyreligion @lhrinchelsea @meetinginsamarra @reveling-in-mayhem @glows-n-the-dark @angrybagginshieldbakery @mslovet @jawnn-watson @queerbaitingshouldbeillegal @egregiously-chuffed @iamjustreading @justdreamingalone @kaursblog11 @morgendaemmerung89 tagging everyone who asked to be or reblogged in Dec 2021, since this is so much later in updating ... please let me know if you want added or removed anytime! Hoping to finish by the new year! 💕adding @gregorovitchworld @topsyturvy-turtely @lisbeth-kk @7-percent @sabsi221b @aquilea-of-the-lonely-mountain @kettykika78 @train-mossman @raina-at @i-call-me-clarence @a-victorian-girl @kabubsmagga @safedistancefrombeingsmart @masterofhounds @purplevatican
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alleiwentcrazy · 1 year
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“Hey, Steve—”
He stops, placing his feet carefully, all too aware of the added weight strapped to his back. The ax makes him sway slightly—or maybe it’s not the ax, he thinks, turning back. Maybe it’s the weight of Eddie’s gaze crossing with his, maybe it’s the promise of something awful looming over them. Maybe it’s the stench of fear and decay, so prominent here in the world of creatures that want nothing but to destroy.
The moment feels heavy, giving them all another reason to hesitate. They look at each other for a long second, Steve’s gaze curious, Eddie’s skittish and unsure. To see Eddie Munson unsure is so rare even Dustin looks surprised. Steve feels exposed, more exposed than when he was half-naked and everyone could practically see the inside of his body. He desperately needs Robin to reassure him that he’s still there because one more look into Eddie’s eyes and he’ll lose it.
The silence between them seems to stretch into eternity, Eddie’s gaze drops, then he looks back up, and suddenly—
Suddenly Steve’s six again, roaming around the new house his parents bought not too long ago. The house is weird, Steve doesn’t like it. It’s bigger than the other one, looks fancier and Steve has already been instructed not to touch anything and to play only in his own room should he find it necessary. Entering his father’s study is strictly forbidden, so naturally, his mind is set on trying to get inside that room somehow, even if it means getting in trouble. But he has to find it first.
He passes yet another guest room when he catches something with the corner of his eye. His tiny feet carry him to the window, and then immediately outside into his brand new backyard, where in the furthest corner he finds a big, spectacularly green tree with—yes! A treehouse!
He’s so excited, finally having something just for himself in this big, empty house, where he’s not allowed to do anything but breathe and study. He’s up the ladder in no time, using as much force as he has to lift the flap and hoist himself inside.
He looks around and jumps in excitement. It’s perfect. It’s like—like magic, like he has teleported himself into another child’s room. There are stacks of colorful books in the corner, a patched-up blanket on the floor, some toys, some board games, even. Is this place real? He can’t wait to tell his mother how grateful he is for that, he’ll have to give special thanks to his father, too, because his father always says that everything he has is due to their goodwill—
Steve’s startled when he hears the ladder moving again, then he takes a step back when the flap goes flying open and a head full of dark, curly hair appears just next to his feet.
They stare each other down, the intruder’s dark eyes wide in shock, Steve’s in fear mixed with surprise. It’s a boy, probably around his age, but how did he get here?
“Are you… real?” Steve asks, not knowing what else to do.
The boy furrows his brows. “Obviously?”
They stare at each other for a second longer, then something flashes on the boy’s face and he nods to himself like he’s made up his mind. Then he clambers inside and stands in front of Steve. He’s a little bigger, dressed in clean but shabby clothes. His gaze is scrutinizing.
“Why are you here?” he asks, his tone accusatory. Steve wants to take another step back, but his feet are locked in place.
“We’ve moved in today.”
“Oh,” the boy’s face deflates, but his arms are still crossed protectively over his chest. “For good?”
“Uh. Yes?” Steve feels out of his depth. His parents told him that he shouldn’t talk to strangers, but… “Why are you here?”
“There’s a hole in the fence,” the boy shrugs, almost nonchalantly. “It’s my hang-out spot.”
Steve isn’t sure what a hang-out spot is, exactly, but he still nods. Neither of them speaks for a moment, then the boy’s arms drop to his sides and he reaches for the blanket.
“Alright, I’ll get my stuff and—”
“No!” Steve yells, clutching the other end of the blanket and trying to yank it from the boy’s hands. “I mean… We can play together here. These things are cool,” he says, his face getting hot. He’s telling the truth, the things in the treehouse are cool, but also—Steve isn’t allowed to play with other children, not the ones he’d like to play with, anyway. Only the ones his parents choose. This boy is none of those.
He takes a look around, clearly thinking about his options. Then his eyes land on Steve. He looks and he looks, and Steve feels a little like when the teachers his father hires to train him in things he doesn’t really understand ask him questions to which he has no answers.
This time, the outcome of the evaluation, as they like to call it, is positive. The boy drops the blanket.
“And you won’t tell your parents I’ve been here? Ever? You can’t tell.”
“I won’t,” Steve says earnestly, shaking his head. He won’t tell. He really won’t.
The boy looks at him for a while longer and then, seemingly out of nowhere, he smiles. His smile is wide and welcoming, so wide Steve can see the missing tooth in the back of his mouth. “Okay,” he says, simply. He’s so eager to play he immediately starts gathering toys and books. When he reaches for something lying on a high shelf, his tee rides up.
There’s a big, angry bruise on his back.
Steve wants to ask about it, but his parents told him not to pry—
“What’s your name?” he asks instead. The boy whips his head around and furrows his brows at Steve again.
“You sure you won’t tell your parents?” Steve nods. “Promise?”
“Promise,” he replies without hesitation.
“I’m Eddie,” the boy replies, sitting down on the floor and urging Steve to sit down next to him. He complies.
“I’m Steve,” he introduces himself, sitting down somewhat gingerly. The boy grins again and Steve can’t hold back his own smile any longer.
“Nice to meet you, Steve. How much do you know about elves?”
In no time, they become secret best friends. They hang out almost every day throughout the summer, and Steve learns so much about magic and fantastical worlds and creatures he can’t think of anything else. Sometimes they just sit down and draw, sometimes Eddie reads his books out loud, forcing Steve to see how cool they are—Steve’s not too good at reading himself, but he enjoys Eddie’s stories.
Eddie has a knack for making things up. One day, when Steve hoists himself inside in the worst of moods, having heard that he really is and probably will forever be no use in business from his father, Eddie just starts telling him a story Steve’s sure he’s never heard before. Then, next time, Eddie is in the worst of moods, fresh circular marks burned onto his arms, so Steve takes his poster paints and decorates the skin around them to make them prettier—which, sure, not the smartest idea, but it works, Eddie’s laughing, all okay.
When school starts, they keep it a secret. They pretend that they don’t know each other in the corridors, giggling between themselves when no one is around. They still meet up afterward, even in winter—then summer comes and everything’s great again. Steve has a best friend, and they play together and they share secrets together, and his parents can’t do anything about it, because they don’t know.
Steve has a best friend. Until said best friend disappears suddenly during the school year. Without a word. Steve has heard something about his parents, his father, but he’s not allowed to ask questions—he promised not to tell, didn’t he?
He doesn’t ask, but he still hopes. Every day, he climbs up that ladder and waits, waits so long, until the memory of Eddie’s voice gets blurred and distorted, and his smell no longer lingers on the things he left in their treehouse.
Steve gets to see him again when he’s in middle school, freshly moved to Hawkins, not expecting to meet anyone he knows here in the middle of nowhere, Indiana. He’s so surprised on the first day of school—their new house has no treehouse in the backyard, but Eddie is here. It must be Eddie. His hair is buzzed and he looks like he’s had enough of life, but it’s him.
Only, he doesn’t seem to care that it’s Steve. Maybe he doesn’t recognize him? But he does. When their paths cross in the corridor, he stops so suddenly, his eyes go big, just like they did in that treehouse for the first time. He’s just about to smile when Tommy, Steve’s new classmate, appears around the corner, calling out for him, and Eddie’s face turns to steel. Steve remembers his accusatory glare. It’s there.
Eddie turns heel and runs. Steve tries to talk to him again, but it doesn’t work. Tommy hangs around him like a vulture, scaring Eddie away—and besides, is it really Steve’s job to talk to him? He’s not the only one that’s confused, hurt, even.
Oh, it hurts like hell. It was never supposed to happen.
Steve spends a few nights crying over that. Then comes high school, people start calling him King Steve and Eddie looks at him with such disgust it makes Steve want to take a shower whenever their eyes lock in class. Steve’s senior year is torture because he shares it with Eddie, who clearly hates him so much he’d spit on him if he had a chance. Even after Steve’s fall from grace, Eddie doesn’t stop looking at him with anger burning in his eyes.
And he’s almost always looking, while Steve misses him like crazy.
Eddie kinda makes him think that he’s completely unlikeable. That he’s broken and can’t be fixed, can’t befriend anyone—until Robin.
Oh, Robin. Amazing, caring, beautiful, smart, snarky Robin. The relationship he builds with her quickly becomes the most important one in his life. She’s as much a part of him as his hand or heart is. Steve’s not a poet, but he’s sure, really sure that she’s the one thing he didn’t know that was missing in his life—like a part of his soul was wandering somewhere around the universe, lost and unable to come back without help.
What he has with Robin is unique, complete and incomparable. No one understands him the way she does, no one loves him the way she does. Among others, these are the things that make their friendship so unlike any other relationship Steve’s had. Robin isn’t just his friend. Robin is something entirely different, something Steve can’t, for the life of him, put into words.
On rare occasions, though, thinking about her does bring up memories of Eddie. Was it similar with him? No, it wasn’t. But then what was it, exactly?
Steve’s quite successful in pushing those moments away. He is, even when the kids join Eddie’s little nerd club. He is, even when the manhunt starts.
It’s the piece of shattered bottle pressed to his neck that makes him lose it. It’s Eddie’s misery, fear, and the real, tangible danger he’s in. The words he says to Steve along the way (you'd have let me die if Nancy hadn't jumped?). It’s the fact that they still don’t talk, not about things that matter, even though they suddenly have to coexist in a world that wants them destroyed and they have to do everything in their power to stop it. Together.
It’s the fact that Eddie may not make it. Even if they get out of the Vecna situation, will they be able to save Eddie from the people that see him as some kind of evil sent by the heavens to decimate them?
Steve’s worried, so worried. He’s worried about the kids—hell, Max is his top priority. But at the same time, other thoughts float in the back of his mind and he can’t seem to shake them off.
He can’t keep them all safe. Someone has to risk everything, they just don’t know who, exactly. For that, Steve hopes it won’t have to be Eddie. Leaving things unsaid… It will kill him too, eventually.
Steve hopes it won’t have to be Eddie. He hopes. He hopes and hopes, and—
Eddie’s gaze is on him again. Not skittish. Still scared, still unsure, but set, at the same time.
“Make him pay,” he says, a sense of finality overpowering his words.
Steve can’t believe it. He wants to scream, he wants to shake Eddie’s shoulders until he sees some sense. That’s not what you wanted to say! That’s not how it ends! That’s not how we part before possible disaster!
And he’s angry, he’s sad, it hurts like hell, because—what if Eddie doesn't care about him at all? Has he ever cared? Is he supposed to care for both of them? What’s he supposed to do now? Go up there, slap him, yell at him, hold him?
Steve doesn’t know where that last thought comes from. It’s certainly not something he should do at any point.
The eyes of Nancy, Dustin and Robin drill holes into his skull. He’s waiting for too long, hoping that maybe it’ll resolve itself.
Only it won’t. Eddie won’t say anything else. Steve won’t run up there and hold him. Instead, he nods. Eddie nods back, sealing the deal. Steve holds his gaze a little longer – their last chance.
It goes unnoticed. His team sets out and for the sake of them both, Steve is going to hold on to the hope of seeing another day.
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steddieunderdogfics · 2 months
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For the Alternative Meeting prompt I’d like to recommend my own fic I’m Not Really There (To Be Fair I’m a Cameo) but also the podfic that Lex @thefreakandthehair read for it which is absolutely incredible!
I’m Not Really There (To Be Fair, I’m A Cameo) by Sharpbutsoft (BuckysButt)
@sharpbutsoft
Rating: Teen and Up
6,144 words, 4/4 chapters
Archive Warning: No Warning
Tags: Pre-Relationship, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Recreational Drug Use, Canon-Typical Violence, Eddie Munson Has a Crush on Steve Harrington, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, POV Eddie Munson, Character Study, one chapter per season of stranger things
Summary:
It’s not that Eddie’s unaccustomed to late night callers, exactly - his uncle’s antisocial night hours at the plant are pretty good for business, actually. But usually late night means, like, a little after ten. Or midnight. Or maybe one am, on a weekend. Not ten past four in the goddamn morning. “I couldn’t sleep,” Steve Harrington says, by way of a greeting, standing on Eddie’s porch like a kicked puppy. “I can see that.” It’s a decently coherent answer, with his brain still tucked into bed ten feet away. “Can you sell me something that’ll help?” - Or, the three times Steve goes to Eddies trailer looking for something to take the edge off, and the one time Eddie finds out why Steve looks so haunted.
Bonus: the podfic by @thefreakandthehair
Thanks for the rec!
Know a fic that deserves extra love? Submit through our asks or the submission box!
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klaineccfanficlibrary · 2 months
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A Boyfriend For Christmas
Author: CoffeeAddict80/ @caramelcoffeeaddict
Rating: T
Status: Completed in December 2023
Word Count: 9,221
Summary: When Kurt takes his 6-year-old nephew, Caleb, to see Santa, he's mortified when Caleb asks Santa to give his Uncle Kurt a new boyfriend for Christmas; Blaine - who is working as one of Santa's helpers - however, is eager to help Caleb get his Christmas wish.
Tropes/Genre: fluff, Christmas, alternate meeting, Uncle Kurt
Lynne's review: This is pure sugar and I loved it so much!!
Read at: AO3
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simplyclockwork · 9 months
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!NEW FIC ALERT!
Soft Touch
A former forensic botanist, Sherlock Holmes has made a name for himself in the floristry world. One morning, his quiet life is disrupted by a strangely familiar man who walks into Sherlock's shop with a request.
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abominable-space-they · 6 months
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Sport Fishing
New Orleans Homicide Detective Will x Surgeon Hannibal. Hannigram meet at the art museum & are drawn irrevocably together whether it's good for them or not
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breath4soul · 3 months
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Chapters: 5/? Fandom: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms Rating: Mature Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Sherlock Holmes & John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson Additional Tags: Blind Character, Blind John, Mental Health Issues, Healing, Physical Disability, Podcast, Adaptation, Disabled Character, John is a BAMF, service dog
Summary:
Rather than a psychosomatic limp, John returns from the war with a different manifestation of his trauma, Functional Neurologic Symptom Disorder (or what was once commonly known as "Hysterical Blindness"). As if struggling to acclimate to life with unpredictably limited vision isn't challenging enough, an unpridictable genius who sees everything turns his world upside down.
I wrote a thing! That hasn't happened in awhile. I hope you enjoy it.
Features Gladstone - but this is John's Gladstone (Shiloh Shepherd)...
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solo-ojo-jojo · 5 months
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𝘐 𝘒𝘦𝘦𝘱 𝘊𝘰𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘉𝘢𝘤𝘬 𝘵𝘰 𝘠𝘰𝘶 Ch 4 Teaser
The Rookie Fanfiction | Chenford | Chapter 4 of ? | 11.2K | Rated T | Alternate Universe | Meet Cute | Mistaken for a Couple | Inaccurate depictions of professional baseball
Please enjoy this excerpt for my the next chapter of Chenford fanfic, 𝘐 𝘒𝘦𝘦𝘱 𝘊𝘰𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘉𝘢𝘤𝘬 𝘵𝘰 𝘠𝘰𝘶.
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📸@tim-lucy (original post here)
“So…” Lucy looked down at her hands in her lap while she smoothed down her dress. She hoped the false confidence in her voice would hide any nerves over bringing up the next topic. “... you played for the Dodgers.”
“The Oklahoma City Dodgers. I want to make that clear. It was the minors and it wasn’t a big deal.”
“It’s still something to be proud of,” Lucy said. “And I’m not just saying that because I want to see your rookie card.” Her smile was warm, but cautious, as she waited for Tim to respond.
“It’s not…” he looked into her gentle and understanding eyes, “... something I show to people. Or even talk about,” Tim said quietly.
“Oh.” The air in the truck's cab suddenly felt stifling to Lucy, and she wondered if she had crossed a line by wanting to know more about that time in Tim’s life. “I’m sorry I asked. Please just forget I said anything.”
“Lucy…” Tim’s voice was gentle as he turned toward her and he started to reach for her. But he realized what he was doing and his hand retreated back to his side. “I didn’t mean it like that. I just meant…” he sighed softly. “I haven’t talked about it in a long time. Because even though getting paid to play baseball was a lifelong dream come true, it wasn’t… I think I’ve been letting some of the painful memories from how it all ended overshadow all the good times. And there were a lot of good times."
...
"I was thinking… Maybe you could tell me about some of those good times you had when you were a pro baseball player?”
“Again, barely professional,” he said, downplaying his achievement.
“Again, does it really matter if it made you happy?” Lucy countered. “But I don’t know anything about that time of your life. And I think, as friends, I should know at least the basics. How long were you pro? What position did you play? Is it true that there’s no crying in baseball?”
Tim bit back a smile and shook his head.
“You can pick another topic,” she suggested gently. “But I know that nothing nearly as interesting has ever happened in my life. And even though I don’t know much about baseball—which is something that I think needs to change—I’d love to hear whatever you want to tell me.”
Like none other, Lucy had a way of making Tim’s wall come down. 
And so he talked. He went back in his memory and shared things with Lucy that he hadn’t thought of in years. 
⚾⚾⚾⚾⚾
I hope you've enjoyed this teaser! I hope it won't be too long before Chapter 4 is out, but I don't have a timeline for it yet.
In the meantime, you can read chapters 1-3 on AO3.
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thisisnotthenerd · 4 months
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a list of deeply silly alternate ways that members of bell's hells could meet pre-campaign:
laudna stays near whitestone as a witch of the parchwood [exorcised early] and meets orym when keyleth comes to visit
chetney takes laudna as an apprentice toymaker--he focuses on wood while she makes dolls and animates them. now that we know he grew up in westruun and traveled around tal'dorei enough to have been to zephrah, it's feasible
chetney comes to zephrah when orym is old enough to remember it and takes orym as an apprentice
fearne comes into the material plane near gelvaan and meets imogen in a whirlwind of fey chaos
fcg isn't sold to dancer and ends up at the starpoint conservatory, where they meet imogen, who's looking for info on her powers as in canon
ashton, after the ritual, isn't bamf'd into the desert but into the taloned highlands, where he happens upon a little farming town after wandering for days.
bit of a stretch: taryon darrington happens upon devexian and purchases a small golden aeormaton with speech functionality, whom he takes with him to meet the de rolos in whitestone where a certain witch stayed in the woods
the silken squall passes near bassuras and the nobodies are tasked to go steal brumestone from the wyvernwinds
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lisbeth-kk · 11 months
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May 14 prompt: time (thanks for the tag @notjustamumj @meetinginsamarra @raina-at
The day we met
Sherlock’s undercover. In Liverpool of all places. Greg’s mentioned something about a football team being the city’s pride and joy. Sherlock’s deleted the rest of that information. Not relevant. What is relevant is the fact that Sherlock’s going to perform on live television. In front of the whole world. Apparently Ukraine won last year’s competition, but due to the war, and the UK coming second, Liverpool is hosting the Eurovision this year. Sherlock’s not totally oblivious, but he’s got no interest in the competition per se. The reason he’s present is that a threat’s been made, and Mrs. Hudson’s asked for Sherlock’s help finding the culprit. Normally he wouldn’t considered this sort of case, but Mrs. Hudson’s niece is the one who’s been threatened and she’s also one of the dancers in the show. Her fiancé is the one who’s narrowed down the number of suspects for some reason. Sherlock almost had an aneurism from mere boredom while Mrs. Hudson told him about the whole charade.
“The things I do for you, Hudders,” Sherlock had said before he kissed her cheek and headed out of Baker Street.
***
So, here he is, all dressed up in a leather outfit in black and purple. According to Alice, the niece, it should’ve been black and red, but as Sherlock’s the only male dancer in this dance number, he went for colours more suited for his skin tone. Mrs. Hudson’s clearly warned Alice about him, because she just shrugs when he explains himself.
A short man with gold and silvery hair approaches them, a clipboard in his hand and an earpiece in his left ear.
“That’s John,” Alice whispers. “He’s the stage manager. You don’t want to mess with him.”
Sherlock gives this John a onceover and smirks. Ex-military most certainly. Sherlock licks his lips in anticipation. Maybe this case won’t be as bad as he feared.
***
As John approaches Alice and this new fellow, he can’t help but cast an appreciative look at the newcomer. He’s tall and slender, pale, flawless skin, the most striking face John’s seen in a while and raven curls, meticulously styled. All of him radiates his posh upbringing. Public school, rich parents, arrogant, spoiled. All the things John despises, but if he does his job properly, John can at least enjoy the look of him while this last. There are ten days until the final, and John decides to make the best of it.
“Afghanistan or Iraq?” are the words greeting John.
Normally John’s not one to get startled, but the question, not to mention the voice asking, leaves him amazed.
“Sorry, no time for pleasantries today, I’m afraid,” John says brusquely. “I’m John Watson, stage manager. You are?”
“Sherlock Holmes,” the man says with a knowing look.
Of course he would have a posh and exquisite name as well.
John feels his face blush. He hasn’t done that since high school.
“Right. Welcome, Sherlock. You’re familiar with this dance?” John inquires as professionally as he can manage.
“Obviously,” Sherlock says and rolls his eyes. “Shall we begin the rehearsal anytime this month?
John rolls his eyes and summons the dancers. They go through the dance a few times. Sherlock’s an excellent dancer and falls into step with the others in record time. His lithe body moving around the stage in the sensual manner the dance requires, makes John’s mouth salivate considerably. 
“Alright. One last time, then you can all take a few hours break and some lunch,” John states.
***
While the other dancers have lunch, Sherlock changes out of his costume and sends a text to Alice’s fiancé, Richard. They meet in Richard’s office, and Sherlock’s shown the little evidence Richard’s got. There are three messages. All of them spelled with cut out letters from The Times.
“How do you know it’s The Times?” Richard asks astounded.
“Please,” Sherlock drawls and rolls his eyes, but doesn’t elaborate.
Richard doesn’t pursue the matter. Mrs Hudson’s done her job at least. She knows he hates pestering and nagging when he states the obvious. The obvious to him, that is.
“Any suspects?” Sherlock asks, not too hopeful.
Richard surprises him. He’s actually quite astute.
“Eleanor, Cindy or Taylor,” he states with confidence.
Sherlock looks attentively at him.
“Eleanor is jealous of Alice getting the job. She was certain she’d get it, but she’s not half as good a dancer as my Alice,” Richard says affectionately.
“Alright. What about the others?” Sherlock prompts impatiently .
“Well, Cindy’s just a bitch on a regular basis, so that’s why I mentioned her. Not lightly her, but you said to be thorough when you texted me earlier.”
“Quite so,” Sherlock agrees.
“Then there’s Taylor. She…um…how shall I put it? She thinks of herself…well at a level above the rest of us. Her name isn’t actually Taylor at all, but she doesn’t respond when she’s called by her birth name, which is Anna, by the way. You see, she’s auditioned for Taylor Swift. It’s a few years back now, but after that, she started calling herself Taylor, and she’s totally weird. Doesn’t have to mean anything, of course.”
Richard trails off when he sees Sherlock’s blank face.
“You know who Taylor Swift is, yes?” he asks cautiously.
“Why would I? Is she, I assume it’s a she, relevant to this case?” Sherlock asks curiously.
“Er…no…I guess not,” Richard stutters.
“Well, then. Where can I find this Eleanor?”
***
“You’ve lost your mind, Watson,” John mutters to himself.
After five days of rehearsal, the show’s looking promising, but John’s predicament is of a more personal matter. He’s totally besotted with Sherlock Holmes, and that’s a bit not good. John’s never been one to hide his feelings very well, and Sherlock seems to notice every tiny glance John cast Sherlock’s way. Not that Sherlock’s been dismissive, the opposite, rather. But it’s highly unprofessional, and John’s a man of principles, so there’s that.
“John,” a familiar baritone purrs in his ear.
“Jesus, Sherlock!” John exclaims.
John had been lost in thought and hadn’t been watching where he was going. He had stopped right outside the women’s dressing room and out of nowhere, Sherlock emerged. Not entirely true. He’d actually come out of said room.
“What have you been doing in there?” John asks suspiciously.
“Investigating,” Sherlock mutters while texting rapidly on his phone.
“Invest…”
“Don’t make me repeat myself, John,” Sherlock snaps.
He looks at John with narrowed eyes.
“I’ll explain it to you over dinner, if you’re so inclined. You’re dying to know what I’m up to, and you can finally answer my question from the day we met. Meet me at the entrance at seven.”
And with that Sherlock’s gone, leaving John speechless.
*** 
Waiting for the time to pass, was agony, and John obviously knew time didn’t go slower than normal just because he was eagerly anticipating what might occur during dinner with Sherlock. Nevertheless, time seemed to have stopped momentarily. When he turned up at the entrance, he had to wait another ten minutes before Sherlock showed.
“Shall we?” Sherlock said without apologising for being late.
He was texting at his phone again, in an unfathomable speed. Just as John was about to ask if his company was warranted at all, Sherlock pocketed his phone and stopped outside an Italian restaurant.
“After you, John,” Sherlock said and held the door open for John to enter first. 
It smelled delicious of Italian cuisine and the interior was cosy and not as posh as John had anticipated. They were shown to a secluded table with a chequered table cloth, large wine glasses, and a lit candle. They ordered wine and pasta, and Sherlock asked his question again.
“Afghanistan or Iraq?”
Instead of answering, John asked a question of his own.
“How did you know?”
Sherlock’s rapid deduction made John gape. Before he could praise the precise analysis, their waiter brought the wine and shortly after the pasta. John was famished, so he decided to eat first and ask further questions later.
Sherlock wasn’t much of an eater, so between his nibbling on the garlic bread and rigatoni, he told John about why he’d been inside the women’s dressing room.
“So, if you solve the case before the final, you’ll be heading back to London?” John asks with a sinking feeling in his stomach.
“Normally yes. The other dancers aren’t dependent on me. However, I have other interests than the case,” Sherlock says.
Suddenly he looks shy, something John didn’t think Sherlock was even capable of. The wine makes John relax and he feels a bit bold, so he reaches over the table for Sherlock’s hand. While stroking Sherlock’s knuckles with his thumb, his eyes meet Sherlock’s and the look in those cerulean eyes, makes John shiver.
“Care to elaborate?” John asks hoarsely.
“Mm, after dessert,” Sherlock answers. 
Decided to pay a little homage to Eurovision from last night, but I've been struggling all day with this after 4 hours of sleep, so go easy on me...
@totallysilvergirl @calaisreno @missdeliadili @topsyturvy-turtely
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starkeristheendgame · 2 years
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I keep thinking about a The Propsal AU but where Tony needs to marry to keep his position as CEO thanks to a clause Obidiah created to try and oust him before the whole betrayal debacle and Peter is the poor brand new intern who permanently looks confused and he's only been here three weeks and now he's engaged to Mr. Stark and I need to meet your parents, kid, make it all official and haha, yeah, about that Mr. Stark... And holy shit but isn't Mr. Stark totally banging Miss. Potts? And what does Peter know about spring weddings vs fall weddings and holy shit this ring is worth more than his life if he loses it oh god oh no—
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chelle-68 · 10 months
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@schittscreekdrabbleblog Hiatus Word Of The Week: Park
Did a little AU with this one.
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David discovered this park on a break six weeks ago. Someplace to sit; relax for a few minutes away from work.
That was the first time he saw him.
He was running along the path, sweaty, damp curls, unassumingly gorgeous. He saw David and smiled. Every day since, he jogs by, and they share a smile.
David looks forward to that smile now.
Today he hasn’t shown up. Disappointed, David goes to stand as someone sits down.
David turns his head.
It’s him.
“Hi,” he says.
“Hi,” David says breathlessly, feeling his world shift as they smile at each other.
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Tyler: *wakes up covered in blood with no memory of how he got there or what happened*
Wednesday, was minding her business enjoying the moonlight when she found a naked boy in the woods reeking of fresh blood and has been sat on a log waiting for him to wake up ever since: First time?
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pinkjellymoon · 7 months
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Seeing Starlight is a short and sweet oneshot I wrote for day 5 of KamiHaji week!
Rated PG-13/T for language and some allusions to sexual activity (not smut)
Summary: Told entirely from Tomoe's POV, Tomoe comes across a commotion in the world over yonder, only to find that a group of yokai are harassing a human they intend to eat. With his mood spoiled by the undignified way they are playing, he steals their prey away, only to become captivated by her.
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