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undercoverpena · 1 year

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this year's love.

simon ghost riley x f!reader

wc: 5.5k warnings: angst. fluff. smut. feelings. usual jo things. summary: And then you begin calling him Riley. It’s more flirtatious—more meaningful. Simon is when you’re soft, thanking him, when others are close and can hear you. Riley is when you’re leaning over the bar, staring into his soul and smirking so deviously it takes a lot to not kiss it off your lips. an: from the drabble where ghost 'dates' a non-militant he meets in a pub. this is dedicated to @yeyinde for reminding me why British pubs are adorable, and also to @guyfieriii because she hates my angst, but loves my fluff, and makes me want to write better.

simon ghost riley masterlist

He suspects he should stay away.

As soon as he began to crave the sight of you. Ignoring the fact he’s heard This Year's Love by David Gray three times already—and he has only been here an hour. The condensation beads from his glass pools on the picked-at-bar mat, drenching his fingers and wrist.

Not that he cares.

Ghost—

Simon knows it’s all part of the charm.

It has been since the day he turned eighteen and his boss at the butchers took him for his first pint.

The place hasn’t changed since. Everything from the same ten to twelve songs which crackle through the worn and tired speakers. The smokey air, and discoloured, yellowing wallpaper.

Things don’t get replaced either, the chipped glass ashtrays are the same as the ones he remembers. The same chipped mahogany tables with the ill-matching chairs and stools that are wobbly.

The scent in the place is familiar, a mix between festering ale and Mr Sheen, working men and cheap perfume, fust and smoke—both from the crackling winter fire and cigarettes—even if one hasn’t been smoked inside of it for years.

The place, to outsiders, would look like any stone-walled pub on the corner of two streets they’ll never remember. Then they’ll step in, their eyes glancing over the peeling wallpaper, moth-eaten curtains (that never close) and the once-white nets in the windows, before questioning what they’ve walked into. That’s before they’ve noticed the white ball on the pool table is in fact another black ball and that the dart board triple 20 has been chipped out after Bald-Andy lost his rag.

The pub has been a real gem to those who know what real diamonds are for as long as Simon can remember. None of the regulars care that the bar stools have burns from cigarettes being stubbed out, they don’t care that the musty smell doesn’t vanish even with Febreze and sheer will. It’s expected, just like how the bar is always sticky and the energy always feels right.

Here, he can relax.

When he’s home, he feels purposeless. A man with a map but no direction. But, he can unfurl his shoulders from his ears, even let his hood slide to the back of his neck.

Because in this place, strangers aren’t welcome. It’s a local pub, for local folk. Those who wander in, thinking the pub on the corner of quaint and quintessential will provide them with a typical British evening, normally leaving before Freddie Mercury has reached the bridge of whatever song is on rotation.

But, Simon isn’t just here for the bourbon or the ale, he’s not here because the wooden fire licks every wall of the place. He’s not here because it feels more like home than his actual home.

He’s here because there’s one thing that has changed, and it’s you.

You with a rosy, sweet laugh that usually accompanies a smile which makes his heart gallop. It calms whatever storm rages inside of him when you look at him—when you bore your pretty, fucking eyes into him before you lean over, hand on the beer pump as you call him Simon.

Simon.

His name has never sounded more serene than when it falls from your lips. The way you say it makes it seem less than ordinary, almost unique. Humour sways in your eyes, a glint he knows there’s more too—and wants nothing more than to explore.

You’re a vibrant surprise in the middle of my mundane, and it took him all of five minutes to discern you’re both difficult and charming all rolled into one.

And then you begin calling him Riley.

It’s more flirtatious—more meaningful.

Simon is when you’re soft, thanking him, when others are close and can hear you. Riley is when you’re leaning over the bar, staring into his soul and smirking so deviously it takes a lot to not kiss it off your lips.

Women haven’t tended to last here—except Tracy. Tracy, who like the urinal cakes, has been here since Simon’s first pint. Her lines had deepened in her skin over time, but her hair has remained that putrid blonde she tries to claim is natural.

You, on the other hand, are far younger—kind, soft, unless someone gets lairy and then there’s a ferociousness to you that’s packed into something so small. He suspects you know what the men at the bar look at when your eyes aren’t looking, and it’s not the way you command the small space stuffed with offerings and glasses.

He’d paid no mind initially. Tried not to, anyway. He’d decided it would be for the best. Then you’d bite back at Dave that you may be too young to remember a song, but you could still get down on her knees without them creaking.

He had smirked at that.

Deciding his new seat at the bar, on the rickety bar stool was his new favourite seat.

To this day, you always smell floral, but the accompanying scent with it changes. Sometimes you’re sultry, sometimes you’re just sweet. Each time he is able to return ‘home’ he’s never sure which one he’ll get—but it burns a place in his nose all the same.

Hard to shift, difficult to smother, not that he wishes to do either.

Their first exchanges were simple. Contractual. Another? Yes. Your usual? Yes. Then you had placed a deck of cards in front of him, a teasing smile on your face in the quietness of a Wednesday evening.

Keep me company.

It was difficult for him to grasp how soft your eyes were, how it made his mind blank and his heart both hammer and stutter all at once.

Now, it’s normal.

He’s used to it, fucking welcomes the way they land on him. He thinks about them on the plane ride home, how Alan—the chef who’ll serve anything off-menu for a packet of fags—makes a mean all-day breakfast sandwich. But mostly, it’s you.

“You back for long, Riley?”

“No.”

“Never are.”

“You sound disappointed, sweetheart.”

You always smile the same when he calls you that. Always half-roll your eyes before shaking your head, as though flirting with you is oh so wrong.

Especially when you start it first.

“What would you do if I was?”

That’s new.

His fingers pick up a crisp, watching you lean on the pump in front of you. The star earrings hanging from your ears, catch the bar spotlights, making it seem as though you’re literally glowing.

But then, you are—to him at least.

Someone calls for you, pint raised in hand—saving him from answering. You wink, and mumble you’ll be right back, the words lingering in the space you once stood.

You’re too good for him.

Too normal. Too unscarred and untouched. He suspects a bad thing has never happened to you. You’ve not plunged a knife into someone’s throat, not shot a moving target with a precision that most try to replicate on their controllers and headsets.

For that reason, and that reason alone, he knows he should stay on this side of the bar. Even when it takes all of his self-restraint to do so.

It’s hard though.

More so when you give him that look—that one which makes his cock twitch and his thoughts turn feral.

Because the nice girl from the pub may have a sweet, soft voice, but fuck he knows you’re anything but.

You’re all red lips and righteousness, a siren and enchantress who chooses floral perfume to try and disguise the way your eyes undress him.

Not that he complains.

He’s done the same.

Fucked his own fist to the thought of the noises you’d make and how you’d feel enveloped around his cock.

Tonight he’d likely do the same.

Winter is in full effect when he next returns.

Snow was thick on the streets, the roads a horrid mix of ice, slush and asphalt.

You’re behind the bar, Bald-Andy and his wife in the corner near the fire, and the crackling, gruff voice of Oasis is playing. You look up, lips smirking, eyes glistening.

“The usual?”

He considers it. Sweet, caramel and vanilla notes hit his tongue in memory. But he shakes his head, pulling out a stool, and sitting opposite you as your perfume greets him.

“Surprise me, sweetheart.”

You stand fully, hair falling around your face, making his heart lurch and his stomach burn.

“Living dangerously, I see,” you say, turning your back to him as you pull at spirit bottles.

If only you knew.

He suspects something sweet when you place the glass in front of him. The sound of it meeting the worn wood so loud, not that the other two patrons look over. As though it’s just the two of you. No one else. His eyes lift, hooking themselves into yours—unwilling to let you tear them from him as he tries to bury the aches of war and fighting.

It’s caramel coloured, darker at the bottom of the glass than the top. Ice. So much ice.

“Go on, try it, Simon.”

And he does.

It’s sweet, and zingy. It’s mellow but spicy, and he tastes the hints of ginger and rum as the cold hits his teeth.

“What y’made me?”

“You like it?”

Yes.

The tip of your tongue swiping across your bottom lip, watching you lean smugly. “Dark and stormy… the epitome of you.”

A groan leaving his lips, your laugh tasting of sunshine and happier days.

A long moment stretches between the two of you, one that makes the air thrum and him having to shift his jeans. A continuous voice in his head, telling him no, telling him to put a stop to this now.

He drinks it. He even orders it again.

Time ticks fast—too fast. He wants it to slow. Ever since their first flirtation, if you’ve finished when he’s there—he walks you to your car.

You drive something small, your entire backseat is always covered in coats, shoes and books. Something normal, and so typically you.

He does the same tonight, hands in his jacket pockets, periodically scanning the area as you lock the big wooden doors of the pub. You shake them, ensuring you have, pocketing the keys before turning to nudge him.

Simple. Soft. Each gesture in the short walk is always seemingly effortless. You don’t worry he’ll take offence, that he’ll shatter or snap.

Not that he would.

His arm lifting, letting your small hand slide around it for stability as the snow falls thick and fast. It paints the streets in a blanket that crunches under their boots. And there’s something about the snow landing in your hair, on the tip of your nose, even on your lower lip.

He wants to brush it from your mouth, and trace the bow of your upper lip with his thumb.

Because it’s all a contradiction. Snow makes you look innocent, something close to a character from a movie or a Disney film. And, you’re not any of those things.

You’re snarky, huffed whispers and quick retorts when drunkards try to hit on you; you’re witty, funny and boldly brilliant.

So much so, he’s never sure why you work there. He knows you’re studying, knows you’re trying to better yourself. You’ve told him as much over a Pepsi Max in your hand and something stronger in his.

He knows it’s odd to keep staring at you. Your eyes staring up, making your eyes seem wider and bigger than they actually are—pretty sure the flurries of snow, stars and moon are shining in them. But it’s his treat—his reward. The thing he thinks about when he’s knee-deep in mud or covered in blood, sweat and bruises.

Your feet stop at your car, unlocking it—the beep and flash of your headlights casting light across the car park.

“You back for long?”

“No.”

Smiling, you lean against the rear window. “Never are.”

It’s a pattern, a habit. An exchange that has become the norm for the two of you as much as hello and goodbye.

Then, you sigh.

Something you rarely do, not to him—not with him. His brows knitting, tightening, heart thundering in his throat as you drag your eyes up his chest, and neck and land on his face.

“Do you know how perfect it would be, if you grew a pair and kissed me in the snow, Riley?”

Your hand slides into the handle, opening it as your smirk turns into a grin. One which is brighter than your headlights, the moon—hell, the fucking sun.

“Guess I’ll have to wait for a shooting star, instead.”

And, you laugh, leaning your back against the car—expression blended with vulnerability and searing heat that should melt the settling ice on your face.

“Y’seem like the sorta woman to make me work for it.”

“Oh yes, because eighteen months of will-they-won’t-they hasn’t been tedious enough.”

He grabs your elbow, roughly pulling but finds you fall into him with far too much ease. The snow continues to fall, leaving soft cold kisses on his face, but he doesn’t feel cold.

How could he? You’re staring up at him with the searing heat of the sun.

“Y’want me to kiss you, Sweetheart?”

“More than I want to go home and sleep, Riley.”

His hand cups your cheek, warm meeting cold as he pulls your lips to his. Cold, soft lips slide against his, and he tastes the orange from your cordial swirling with his bourbon-covered tongue. Your car groans when he presses you against it, your hand clutching him with the same desperation as he’s flush with your body.

Your cheeks are warm against his hands, eyelashes fluttering open as the two of you break apart.

“You… you want to come back to mine?”

Yes. Fuck yes.

But—

“Next time.”

“Yeah?”

His fingers brush down your cheek, and he nods.

He got your number.

For convenience. You tell him he didn’t need to come in and drink one of your piss-poor beer pulls just to get in your knickers.

So he doesn’t.

He doesn’t text when he first lands. He gives himself a day—a moment to shed the Ghost and become Simon. When you do you don’t reply with anything witty, just straight-laced—just like he likes it.

A time. An address.

He expects you to size him up at your front door, even bracing for a changed mind. You don’t do either. You let the door open, standing two steps inwards dressed in something lace and rippable.

Fuckin’ fuck.

It’s the only thought he has before he slams your door behind him, striding towards you and practically throwing you over his shoulder.

You don’t taste like what he expects—it’s better.

His tongue flattens against you, two fingers inside your warm cunt as you whimper. You reluctantly still clutching to the promise you’d made earlier. The one where you informed him it’ll take more than a few fingers and a skilled tongue to make you scream.

So he sucks. Bites. Nips.

He finds that squishy part, stroking it as your thighs twitch by his ears.

It’s then he grants himself the chance to look at you, finding your lipstick spread in a way which seems deliberately chaotic—even if he knows it isn’t. Your lashes wet, eyes clamped shut as you try and try not to give in.

So fuckin’ stubborn.

Your hands, all smooth and soft, clutching your breasts, the pink of a nipple poking out between your index and thumb as your chest rises and falls as you fight calling out his name.

He likes that you have convictions—it gives him something to break.

His tongue swirling, knowing already what he needs to do to undo you.

And then—

Simon—fuc-k, Simon.

It’s better than classical, better than whatever is number one on the fuckin’ charts. The sound of you coming hard, and fast, trying to bury it in a whisper than the scream you actually want to release. All of it is a better sound than his knife plunging into some unsuspecting op—because he will make you scream.

He laps up every ounce you give him, your pleading whimpers and nails in his hair making him groan against your cunt until you almost snap his neck—or try to.

“Take them off. Now.”

He doesn’t like orders.

He fucking detests them. He gives them. Normally loud and booming. But your voice, all sweet and high-pitched, trying to give stern eyes when your lashes are coated in tears he’s caused…

Your eyes widen when he stands naked. And he knows he’s big.

He’s very fucking aware of it. He’s seen plenty of evidence to support the fact in the wild, surprised eyes of those who he’s dropped his trousers for.

You now being one of them.

But fuck, he fits in you perfectly. So much so, he wants to mould your insides to match him, to ruin you for every other person who thinks they stand a chance with you.

Because they don’t.

But then neither does he.

Not that he’ll squander a moment to fuck with heaven—to hear the cadence shift when he hooks your leg over his hip as he drives his cock into you all the way to the hilt.

He coaxes another out of you, your tight cunt like a vice around him as your manicured nails leave scratches on his back. His tongue swipes across your jaw, before haphazardly capturing your mouth.

You taste like mint polos and sex—a taste he is already sure he’ll crave.

And he wonders to himself if you know how fucking perfect you are. If you have any idea of how stunning you truly are.

Especially like this. Your body shimmering with sweat, each thrust making your breasts bounce as your fingers tease his hair at the nape of his neck.

And then he wonders about something else.

Something far from coating your walls in his come.

Would you fit in his life?

Would you fit as well in it, as he does inside your cunt?

And then you’re clenching, hips lazily trying to meet his as you whimper, moan—

And then you scream.

Not Riley.

But Simon.

Mission accomplished.

It has become a habit.

You have become a habit.

He lands. He waits a day. He fucks you until you are raw, sore and breathless. His lips are on yours, hands still on your hips as he hears how hoarse your voice is.

“You back for long?”

“No.”

But this no is different.

It’s tinged with half a teaspoon of regret and sadness.

You hide your face when he answers now. Sometimes by slinging your arm to shield him from your eyes or by turning from him. It’s like you know he likes them. Likes being able to see each infliction of emotion in them—shimmering, dancing, storming across in front of him.

Somehow, you’ve fit into his life too well—cutting yourself a hole, forcing your way in, and making it seem as though you were always there.

Simon lets you be, too.

You have one of his t-shirts, baggy, black and covered in your perfume. He finds he has one of your hair ties around his wrist, not even realising until he slides on a pair of gloves. Flicking it against his wrist as he thinks of you, something he only allows himself to do briefly.

Things have changed. Shifted.

But the Earth hasn’t fallen off its axis and he’s not fucked up a mission. So he counts his blessings. He doesn’t know if he believes good things can happen to him, but he could be persuaded that he can have nice things. A belief he even starts to accept. A reality he begins to wish for, rather than keep at arm's length.

You’ve left the pub. You hadn’t been working every night for a while. Your studies had ended—receiving a photo of a cap and gown without your face when he was in the middle of a desert.

Now you’re working a better job, one you deserve more—it’s creative, more you. You make the world brighter, and better while he’s getting dirty and riding the world of darkness. You text him once, the day you got paid, that you bought him something nice.

Something he ripped with his teeth when he landed—much to your annoyance.

You’re no longer the girl in the pub. You’re perfectly applied make-up he fucks off your face. You’re high heels and pencil skirts—and sometimes fitted trousers that hug your arse so beautifully, he’s almost a bit jealous. You’re the pink sky at night, laughter that warms his chest, and a smile he thinks about as he falls asleep.

“What would my alias be?”

Your hand slides over a plate to him. Cheese on toast. Nothing big, nothing major, but he stares at it all the same. Because you’ve made him something.

You’ve been doing it for a while, and each time is as perplexing as the last. His brain is unable to figure out how, why and what he’s done to deserve it. Even if it’s toast, a sandwich, or a fucking meal.

Because it’s something outside of sex. It’s outside of holding the back of your head as he fucks your throat; outside of him pinning you against the dark alleyway of the pub he first saw you in, making you both cold and warm all at once.

Even if he knows—constantly turns it over and over in his mind—that this isn’t just sex. He’s not entirely sure what this is. Except…nice?

You take a bite of your own, the crunch filling the air, crumbs littering your top—his top. “My call sign.”

Simon isn’t sure why he told you about what he did. You were in his arms, warm, smelling of sex, flowers and something sharp. And, it fell out of him. Still drunk off your cunt, lost in the tenderness of your fingers on his chest, playing it a pattern with your nails.

Not everything. Fuck, he couldn’t tell you everything—wouldn’t. But you know enough.

Enough for him to know you’re not running, that you still want him knocking on your door whenever he lands—whether it's morning, noon or night.

Now, you’re making him food. Legs long, his black t-shirt skimming your thighs—all his. Looking ever so inviting, making it hard not to push you up on the counter and give your neighbours something to talk about.

“Egg.”

You snort, sharp and light. “Egg?! You’re fuckin’ rude, Riley. Egg? No, that’s shit, give me a better one.”

“But, true. You’d shatter, you’re more yolk than shell, you.”

“C’mon, be serious.”

He gives you a look, finding the one you’re giving him sultry, teasing—demanding.

“Snow.”

You stare for several seconds before you hum, crunching the corner of your food with your teeth. “Lemme guess because I’m oh-so-delicate?”

No—

It’s because you’re fucking perfect.

Because you’re his favourite season and favourite moment.

On some deeper level, he suspects it’s because you’re pure. That you’re unruined. Untainted. Your body has no scars—except the one from chicken pox and one on your hand from a glass bottle shattering. But, that’s it. He’s kissed every inch of you to know, to be 100% sure.

You’re Snow because each time he sees it, he thinks of you. Those red lips, all that fucking audacity and the way you kissed him, tasting as warm as bourbon and as sweet as sugar.

“Yeh, ‘cause you’re all pure and innocent, Sweetheart.”

You laugh, richly. Head thrown back, perfect thin neck exposed to the air—to him.

And he wants to kiss you.

He wants to taste your laugh and smile, let his hands run around the back of your thighs and feel you against every inch of him.

That’s when your eyes land on him again—all full of questions and spice. Your tongue drags across your plush bottom lip, wiping up the grease from the cheese as he swallows.

His throat suddenly dry.

Because the girl he met in the pub—the one standing before him—is standing in his t-shirt. Looking every bit delicious, good enough to eat and never come up for air.

And he thinks—

Realises, he actually, might—probably—miss you when he goes back to Price.

It’s stretched on for months. A year.

He lands, uses the key you gave him and stamps the snow from his boots, half smiling to himself as he does. Whenever he gets here, he doesn’t wait, he finds his way to whatever room you’re in.

Sometimes he doesn’t get far, your body colliding with his. All curves in his hands and arms around his neck, and he’s not sure what the fuck this is, but he likes it.

Loves it.

It’s something like a song about falling in love and a peaceful Sunday morning; it’s those moments you see in movies that make your eyes swell with tears as he stares at you, wondering how on earth you’re so goddamn amazing.

It’s familiar, and yet he has no idea what is happening next or why.

Mostly, though, Simon knows it’s something because he said your name to Johnny.

Not because he was dying, not because he was hurt. But in the middle of a normal conversation, one exchanged on some dark rooftop, stars twinkling, and eyes fixated on a building down a scope.

Normally, he wouldn’t have answered. Would have ignored him.

If y’could be anywhere, right now, Lt. Where’d y’pick?

He didn’t need to think.

He didn’t say home. Because home wasn’t his place, the pub or even the fuckin’ city he’s always ever known. It’s wherever you are. It’s where your heart beats and your bed is placed; it’s where your annoying, shitty music taste is blaring and that sleepy smile is when he wakes up next to you.

So, Simon said your name.

Simple. Easy.

Except it wasn’t simple or fucking easy. It was messy, and complicated. Because Johnny tilted his head, in that obnoxious way he does, demanding more information than he is ever prepared to ever share.

‘Fuck off, Johnny, before I punt y’off the rooftop and tell Price you’d been a cunt.’

Because you are locked away when he’s here. You are chained inside his chest, the deepest fucking secret—one no one will ever fucking take no matter how much they dig, how much they push him too.

You are his.

Something only he gets to enjoy—gets to see, hear and taste.

He’s done all of that for the last hour. Getting some sick satisfaction from edging you until you’re pleading with him, begging him with every breath you have to let you come as you wriggle and wiggle, urging him to lift your legs—just like he likes it, how you like it, and make you see fucking stars.

Now, you’re barefoot.

A different t-shirt of his hiding the welts he’s left, the growing bruises from the way he’d needed to hold you in place. Watching, observing—admiring—the oddness to your steps as you flick on the kettle. He’s always close—looming in the sun’s shadows across the kitchen he knows better than his own.

He has to be. Wants to be.

You’ve not just carved a place in your life, but in his chest—his heart. You’ve seeped into his skin, into his soul, merging and bringing to life something he thought had wilted and died. He doesn’t care that he’s vulnerable, that he’s not jagged edges and sharp stares.

“You wanna go out with me? Tonight?”

You pause, tea bag in hand, looking over your shoulder at him as if he’d asked you to slaughter a pig, a child, a whole bloody family.

The moment is tender, almost fragile.

It trembles under the weight of his question and the silence of your thoughts.

Then it stills—

“You don’t… you don’t have to do that…”

“What?”

Dashing the tea bag into the cup, you turn. Hips leaning against the counter, sigh falling from your swollen, pink lips as your arms fold. The air scented with that familiar smell your home always has—jasmine and pineapple, the sun kissing your toes and legs as your face shows thunder and rain.

The air shifts, changing. It’s speckled in ice with a cold breeze punctuated by you suddenly not able to meet his eyes.

“Date me. Change… this. I know that you… I know you don’t have time for that.”

Except he doesn’t hear that, he hears me.

He suspects you don’t say it to hurt him.

But it does.

It wounds—

It fucking burns. It’s on par with a bullet or a rusty knife, twisting and twisting until it’s hitting nerves and making muscles quake.

It worsens when the kettle clicks, ready—waiting. It blows steam under your cupboards, billowing out around the edges before it rushes to the ceiling. Twisting, turning, desperate to escape the uncomfortable space between the two of you.

But, he just wants to pull you close—impossibly close. He wants to cradle and fucking hug you, even if he never hugs anyone. Simon wants to tell you that he hasn’t been doing this with anyone else. That it’s been over a year of this, and even he knows it’s something.

Admittedly, yeah, he didn’t think he’d have fucking time for someone, and then you came in and blew that all to shit. But, on some level inside of him, he knows they aren’t the words he should be saying. So silence fills the space instead.

Doubling. Tripling. Expanding like foam and smoothing over crevices as you shift your weight from one foot to the other.

And he knows he should just ask again.

Softer. Maybe with a bit more emotion. Counting in his head. One. Two, fucking Three.

Your body turning, holding out a mug you got him—big, black with tiny ghosts on it. Because you’d pestered and pestered to know what he was called. What his alias is when he shoots people. The mug made you grin when you handed it to him last time—tired of him taking your favourite. The one with a quote from a television show you keep promising to show him. Sarcastic. Almost makes his teeth show when he smiles. He almost does the same when he takes the mug, and you turn away from him.

Now when he takes it, your eyes drop to the floor. To the space between the two of you.

The one which feels vast, and far larger than the bar ever felt.

All Simon wonders is why there’s a pit opening inside of him—why it is filling him with a feeling he wants to cut out of himself. It’s not light or nice, it’s dark and twisty.

Because he’s the same person who goes on stupid solo missions where the percentage of survival is low, and still fucking comes back to base with whatever was asked of him. He’s Ghost—a man who many fear. Who is often coated in more of other people’s blood than he is dirt.

And yet this—

You.

Terrify the living fuck out of him. Not that he’s showing that. He knows he’s stood with a stiff back, and a face devoid of any emotions.

“You said it when we first… Just… I know your job is important. I know you can’t commit and I respect—”

“Sweetheart.”

Your eyes meet his. Teeth biting your lip, arms crossing over your chest.

And shit, he hopes to never see this face ever again. This nervous, unsure face that he’s put there. One which complicates everything and pulls on every string inside of him.

You are an enigma, and he’s not even sure you know it.

You’re something he never deserves, something he never thought he’d have, get, or keep.

Yet, here you are.

Someone who has seen every inch of him. Knows what he does. Where he goes. You even know brief moments of his past, the parts of him that he’d rather take to the grave.

You are important. You matter.

He’s falling—free-falling, in fact—and has been for a while, he didn’t even acknowledge it. Pushing it down, letting it sit with all the other things he doesn’t want to deal with.

“Do’ya wanna go out with me tonight?”

Each word hits you, strokes you. He watches as each syllable lands, your eyes reading him.

“You back for long, Simon?”

His lips twitch. “Little bit.”

And then you smile. All devious and cunning, lips twisting as you unfold your arms and adjust your stance. “I think I’d prefer a takeaway. Keep you to myself, while I 'ave you.”

Standing, crossing the small space of your kitchen as he cages you in. Your hand clutching his cheek, soft, gentle, and more than he fucking deserves.

His head lowers, lips close to your ear as you curl your body into him as he whispers, all gruff and quiet so only you—and not a fly or spirit could hear—says, “I’ve always been just yours, sweetheart.”

Simon doesn't expect a response. More a kiss. Maybe even a roll of your hips.

It's why he doesn't expect the words, "I'd hoped so", or the way they make him feel like he's walking on air.

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foursaints · 1 month

Note

currently can’t stop thinking about dj barty doing sets in shitty underground clubs and playing the most god awful remixes of obscure post-punk with evan in the booth behind him sitting cross-legged on a speaker or something and looking somehow both entirely out of place and like he was sent from the heavens to be there. and he’s not even drinking or really listening to the music he’s just watching barty’s hands move over the decks completely unaware that when the strobe lights hit him he’s causing half the people in the crowd to think they’re having hallucinations that angels have started to come to earth, because everything from his shirt to the too-white whites of his eyes are glowing so brightly under the light that he literally has a halo. but anyway barty’s just zoned out playing off-beat bauhaus mixes till there are blisters on his fingers and occasionally glancing back at him to check he’s still there. etc etc.

they sleep during the day, in a one-bedroom with black mold & peeling wallpaper, to come alive at night. if you ask barty how he met evan, he'll laugh and tell you he fell from the sky right into his lap. barty used to steal credit cards from the purses of the girls he took home, and now he pawns the lost phones he finds after his shows, buys evan a popsicle on his walk home. feeds him from his palm, pets his head, and clicks his tongue to beckon him all like a stray cat. you can watch him weaving through crowds heading up the booth, evan mutely clutching his sleeve, shielding evan with his body.

bartoloměj always looks like he's trying to kill himself slowly, dresses like he doesn't exist outside the scene, chipped his front tooth clean in half with his tongue piercing. he's always got that Thing shadowing him (his little angel), who dresses like a schoolchild and doesn't speak, pay rent, dance, or do much of anything but stare. he's terrifying. whenever barty takes anything, evan obediently sticks his tongue out, expecting half (when barty spins out he always clutches evan's shoulders, asks: are you alright, rosie? are you alright?, even though evan is the one who's fine). barty loves the music. evan doesn't like any music much at all, but he appreciates the science of it, memorizes barty's hands. everyone knows they're together, but no-one asks if they're married or dating or anything. it's more like barty has a shadow, and they're going to live forever, a pair.

#a #feeling the need to crack this ask open & pour it over myself the way athletes do with those coolers of gatorade. THIS is my rosekiller.#the way you've described evan on his perch is just so perfect. beautifully conceived. i love the little world that you've spun here...#when i speak about balkan barty it's mostly because I want him as a stereotypical eurotrash edm club rat #anon i feel that we are two shooting stars. kindred spirits even. i'm happy you're here. have i met you in a dream?#rose & thorn #fave

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lisbeth-kk · 3 days

Text

May Prompts (28) Empty

The Luckiest Girl in the World (chapter 28)

Summary: Will Rosie be able to keep her secret from her parents until the big day?

Twenty-Eight Years Old

Seen in hindsight, the trip to Greece was a catalyst of what came later. On our last evening, Timothy and I had dinner at an almost empty restaurant on the cliffs of Fira. The sun was about to set, and the sea was bathed in colours of gold. When Timothy took my hands in his and asked me to marry him, it really was the perfect ending. Cliché, perhaps, but who cares? Luckily, he hadn’t bought the rings at one of the ridiculous jewellers on the island but brought them with him from London. (I said yes, by the way.)

***

As if faith wanted me to keep my secret from my parents, they were away on a three-week trip to New Zealand when we arrived back in London. I called Dee before I went to Baker Street to collect mail and check the fridge for outdated milk and decayed body parts. She had closed for the day, but when I called with my inquiry, she was instantly intrigued and asked me to pop into 221A before I left.

It was strange to see someone else living at Nana’s. Her old furniture had been donated to second-hand shops, new wallpaper, art, and futuristically designed chairs, tables and shelves made 221A look like something taken out of Star Trek or whatever. The kitchen and bathroom were recognisable with bits and bobs I remembered. Nana’s oven mittens, the kitchen utensils and the wallpaper. Over the kitchen table was a big photo of Nana.

“I’ve made some sketches for you,” Dee said after she’d inquired about the trip. “One on each shoulder, yes?”

She showed me her drawings and after some discussion, she made the adjustments I wanted.

“See you tomorrow at six,” Dee said when I left.

“Can’t wait!” I retorted excitedly.

***

Dee’s Den was everything you don’t expect a tattoo-studio to be. (At least if you’ve never set foot in one.) Airy, spacious and clean in the extreme. The first time I entered, I felt I needed to take my shoes off.

“No customer of mine will suffer from an infection. I’ve seen enough of that shit,” Dee said gravely.

Her improved sketches had been coloured when I arrived the next day, and they looked even better than I’d dreamt of. The tattoos would adorn each shoulder. One red poppy on the left, and a bee on the right. A t-shirt would cover them, and by the time Dad and Papa were back, they would’ve healed properly so I didn’t need to wrap them in plastic, and the soreness would be gone. I hoped to keep them a secret until the wedding day. My dress would be sleeveless and make sure to show off the tribute to my beloved parents.

***

We decided on a May wedding, and it was Dee’s idea to check if the venue from Nana’s funeral was available.

“She would’ve been so pleased that you all had some good memories from that place. Dancing and laughing, celebrating love.”

Both me and Timothy loved the idea, and we were in luck. Normally, the place needed to be booked at least a year and a half in advance, when it came to weddings, but they’d had a cancellation due to a broken engagement. Nine months to prepare.

***

I chose Liwia as my maid of honour. We had stayed in touch over the years, and she adored my parents, after they’d given her shelter when she needed it in the middle of her teens. Bella had been switched for Iris. They’d been together almost eight years, and Iris was six months pregnant with their first child. An unknown donor was the father.

“I’ve been meaning to ask if you were traumatised when you stayed with us,” I said on the final fitting of our dresses.

“What do you mean?” Liwia asked, clearly puzzled.

“Board games,” I explained dryly.

She laughed wholeheartedly and admitted that she’d never played Scrabble, Cluedo, orMonopoly, but stuck to chess and card games.

“Wise choice,” I retorted with a grin. “Though I have experienced knights, queens and bishops being thrown across 221B.”

***

My uncles picked me up at the salon where I’d been styled and dressed. Uncle Myc cocked an eyebrow when he saw my tattoos, but he was unable to hide how moved he was by this permanent gesture. Uncle Greg…well, he wasn’t that subtle, and needed a stern talking to from his husband to avoid ruining my dress and hair when he teared up and embraced me.

“You’re going to destroy them with this, love,” uncle Greg murmured.

I hadn’t been nervous before, but when the familiar place came into sight, my palms started to sweat, and my heart pounded in my chest. Inside, Timothy and my parents waited. The most important people in the world, apart from the men helping me out of the car. I kissed them and let them go in first to find their seats. One of the staff stood waiting for me to open the door once I’d decided to enter.

For a while I just stood there, my head blessfully empty. And then out of nowhere a wave of emotions washed over me. The memories of all the preparations and anxiety of the last week, regarding the flowers, the last seat arrangements we had to change the day prior, one of my shoes that disappeared without a trace…

“Come on, Watson. You can do this,” I interrupted myself, using Papa’s former name on me to get me out of the unending loop of trifles and keep me focused.

I nodded to the man by the door who opened it for me, and I slowly made my way down the corridor to where Dad and Papa waited. They stood hand in hand outside the door to the ceremony room and turned abruptly when they heard my heels on the wooden floor.

“You look…”

“Oh, Bee…”

They were both teary-eyed, which didn’t bode well. I hoped they’d piled up with tissues, because this well would not be emptied any time soon.

With my heels on, I was the height of Dad. I seldom wore high-heeled shoes, so it was an alien feeling to stand face to face with him, literally speaking.

“You look gorgeous, sweetheart,” he whispered in my ear when he hugged me.

“Thank you,” I said and turned to Papa.

He’d frozen and he blinked profusely. Dad looked worried at him. He still hadn’t seen the tattoos. Papa’s eyes darted between them, clearly shocked to the core. I took his hand and squeezed it.

“Do you like them?” I asked quietly.

“Like what?” Dad inquired; his eyes hadn’t left Papa’s face during all of this.

“Look at me, Dad,” I said and finally he saw what Papa had seen minutes ago.

“Oh, my god,” he said and covered his mouth with his hand. “Rosie.”

“They are…” Papa clearly knew but was too shaken to believe what he’d deduced.

“Yes, Papa. They are. My tribute, homage, or whatever you want to call it. To you and Dad. To show you and everyone how much you mean to me. Dee made them while you were away. You have no idea how proud I am that I’ve managed to keep it a secret until now.”

Finally, out of his daze, Papa cupped my face and kissed my forehead and cheeks, careful not to disturb my hair or makeup.

“My precious girl,” he murmured. “I love you.”

“Stop! You’re making me cry,” I protested and tried my best to stay composed.

Dad sniffled and batted his eyes with a handkerchief.

“I’m never going to survive this day,” he muttered.

“John!” Papa exclaimed. “Don’t you dare.”

I knew I had to take the lead, or we would be stranded outside that door forever.

“Come on. The game is afoot,” I teased.

Also available on AO3

YES, there will be a continuation tomorrow.

This is also my entry for this month's Sherlock Challenge and the prompt ink.

@calaisreno @sherlockchallenge @totallysilvergirl @keirgreeneyes @raina-at

More tags in the replies

#may prompts 2024 #may 28: empty #sherlock challenge #ink #sherlock fandom #rosie watson #sherlock #john watson #mycroft holmes #greg lestrade #johnlock #bbc sherlock #sherlock fanfic #ao3 fanfic

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hesbuckcompton-baby · 2 months

Text

Ok, so this is the MUCH REQUESTED addition to Chapter 8 of I'm Your Man, in which Rosie is forced to put Jill to bed on Christmas day. This one's for the girl-dad Rosie fans, I love you.

Word Count: 1.6k

Her fingers were sticky as they clung to the cuff of his sleeve, tugging downwards against his shoulder, the remnants of a hastily devoured mince pie lining her mouth. Rosie wasn't sure he'd ever been responsible for something so tiny before - so fragile, so utterly beyond his own understanding. The stairs creaked beneath their feet as they climbed, cast in the shadow of a single bulb, illuminating the upstairs hallway. Here it felt like stepping into the past, into a part of Frankie's life that she had long since left behind, old crayon doodles littering the wallpaper at knee height that no one had ever bothered covering over.

It was a motif in all of her childhood drawings - two stick figures, a huge man and a little girl, holding each other's little stick hands and smiling little stick smiles. Up ahead, Jill waddled into the bathroom, socks sticking to a puddle on the tile. She dragged a small box stool across the floor, hauling herself up by the rim of the sink until she could only just see her own face in the mirror, her reflection never making it past the bridge of her nose.

"Whatcha doin' there?" Rosie asked, leaning against the doorframe. She had handed him the ragged old teddy bear that she had been carrying in one hand, and he tucked it under one arm, its head poking out as if watching over the scene before it.

The girl's brow furrowed, looking over at him as if he were a fool. "Brushin' teeth."

"Ah, I see," He nodded. In her obscured reflection, Jill couldn't see the mess that covered the lower half of her face, and before she could raise the brush to her mouth, he stepped forward. "Hey, hey, wait a sec."

She raised a brow, tracking his movements as Rosie crouched down before her, their eyes at level height. Dipping one hand into the warm water she had half-filled the sink with, he gently rubbed the pad of his thumb around the corner of her mouth, wiping away the muck. There was certainly a family resemblance when he stood this close, the same brown eyes even beneath that crop of silver-blonde hair that never seemed to lay flat. Jill giggled, his soft touch tickling her cheeks, and he felt himself mirror her grin as he finished, washing away the stickiness from his hands. "There ya go. All done."

"Aw," The girl tutted disappointedly, craning as high as she could to catch a glimpse of her freshly cleaned face in the mirror. "Will there be more pies tomorrow?"

Rosie chuckled, folding his arms across his chest as he stepped back into the doorway. "I'm sure there will be. But not if you don't brush your teeth first."

Jill obliged, and he could hear her whispering through the foam that filled her mouth as she brushed away, quietly counting the seconds like she'd no doubt been taught, making sure she did a good job. He smiled, fighting every urge in his body to ignore the conversation that drifted up to his ear from downstairs.

"That lad's in love with you, else he wouldn't have crossed the bloody country on Christmas Eve to come eat old carrots with you."

It seemed almost too much to take in in a single moment - too heavy, too full of brilliant, wonderful implications for him to deal with right now. The only way to stop himself from standing there, frozen, hanging on every word, was to convince his mind that this was a mission - that this little girl on her wooden step, toothpaste foam running down her chin, was his only objective, and he couldn't afford to be distracted.

Jill bent forward, spitting into the sink, wiping the back of one chubby palm across her face to clean it. The floor creaked beneath her as she jumped down from her step, baring her teeth at him as proof of her hard work. Rosie narrowed his eyes, inspecting closely. "Open up," He demanded, authoritative tone making the child giggle as she stretched her mouth open as wide as possible, peering up at him as he surveyed the job. "Excellent job, soldier - we oughta put you in for a medal for this one," Rosie grinned, raising a hand to his forehead in salute, and a gleeful laugh erupted from her, echoing in the tiny room.

It was a short walk to the girls' bedroom, and he realised upon entering that it must have once belonged to Frankie's parents, sacrificed by her father to accommodate their growing family. The two girls shared a double bed, and Alice had already rolled onto her side, facing the wall as she read a book quietly, waiting for her sister to settle. Rosie uttered an apology as they entered, but she seemed entirely unphased by the noise as Jill clambered clumsily up onto the mattress, clutching her teddy to her chest. "Storytime," She uttered, whispering in the dim light.

"Ah, right," He nodded, and waited until the girl pointed to one of the books that filled the shelf on the wall. Rosie pulled it from the rest, smiling at the boy and the little yellow bear that decorated the cover. His knees ached as he crouched down beside the bed, flicking through the battered, yellowed pages until Jill held out a hand, stopping at the section she liked best.

"What a good choice," Rosie declared. Although the book bore almost no familiarity for him, it was clear in the wear of the paper that it had been loved.

Jill listened intently, blankets tucked up to her chin as he read, angling the book towards her so that she could see its illustrations.

"'Hallo Pooh,' he said. 'How's things?'

'Terrible and Sad,' said Pooh, 'because Eeyore, who is a friend of mine, has lost his tail-"

"Do the voices," Jill whispered, her voice so meek and tired that Rosie almost didn't hear her over the sound of his own.

"What's that, honey?"

"You've gotta do the voices. Everyone always does the voices."

Of course. He considered himself foolish for ever thinking he could get away without such a thing. "Oh, right. Uh-

'-because Eeyore, who is a friend of mine, has lost his tail. And he's Moping about it. So could you very kindly tell me how to find it for him?'"

Rosie paused again at the sound of giggling, muffled beneath the blankets as Jill lifted them to cover her mouth. "That's not the right voice," She snickered, cheeks flushing red at the hilarity of his failure. "Read a different one."

The book fell shut in his lap, and he nodded firmly, pitying Alice as she tried to ignore their chattering. "Alright. Which one do you think the voices will be good for?"

Her blankets rustled as Jill scurried out of bed, padding across the floor towards the shelf as she scoured the books, an expression of utmost seriousness furrowing her brow. After a moment of deliberation, she plucked out a new book, this one even more battered than the last, a rabbit in a blue jacket adorning its cover. On the inside page, Frankie's name was scrawled in messy, faded pencil.

"...'Peter never stopped running or looked behind him till he got home to the big fir-tree. He was so tired that he flopped down upon the nice soft sand on the floor of the rabbit hole, and shut his eyes...'"

Before he had managed to reach the end of the book, the soft sound of little snores alerted Rosie to the fact that his audience wasn't quite listening anymore. Teddy bear tucked tight beneath her chin, cheek squished against the pillow, Jill's mouth hung open slightly as she slept, tiny snores escaping her every now and then. A soft smile curled his lips, and he let the book close, slotting both stories back into their place up on the shelf. By the time he'd turned back towards the bed, Jill had rolled over in her sleep, arm outstretched towards her sister.

"You need anything, Alice?" He whispered, soft words piercing the veil of silence. Alice smiled over at her baby sister, discarding her own book upon the nightstand.

"Nah. I'm ok. Thanks, Rosie."

The floorboards creaked beneath him as he left the room, and he tip-toed to lessen the sound as best he could. "D'you want the door left open or shut?"

"Leave it open. Jill's scared of the dark."

"Alright then. G'night."

Frankie's father had already headed upstairs by the time Rosie came down, a gentle, content quiet laying over the house. His heart was beating so hard he could hear it inside his skull as he descended the staircase, the conversation he had overheard playing over and over again in his head.

This was good - this wasn't something to be afraid of - and yet he was. He was until he reached the doorway to the living room, and Frankie was lying there, sprawled out atop the pile of cushions and blankets he had called a bed the night before, staring at the wall, at her childhood self's attempt at drawing a rainbow without half of the prerequisite colours. This house was the beating heart of who she was, an altar to every moment of her life, an archive of a younger version of her. If he could meet her here, he could meet her anywhere.

"You're in my bed."

#fic | i'm your man #rosie rosenthal #oc: frankie #masters of the air #masters of the air fic #masters of the air oc #I'm emotionally vulnerable when it comes to writing children/childhood can we tell #helena writes

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cho-aaacho · 10 months

Text

(HC) How to make Albert Wesker Blushes

Masterlist I Archive of Our Own

Calling him by his pet name in public.

Awwwww, he'll be embarrassed and look so adorable with his rosy cheeks!

Gazing at his face while he talks with someone, maybe when he talks with his coworkers. He will be distracted by you and exhale to calm himself.

Holding his hand when he gets mad and gazing at him without expression, I'm sure he'll giggle and realize that anger doesn't solve anything.

Give him a small kiss on the cheek while he was working behind the computer; he would groan as if in pain and massage his temples.

Blow in his ear from behind, pinch his cheeks, or say corny things before bed.

Making a cute breakfast like cat-shaped bread and milk in a cute Godzilla glass.

If you make him a handmade bracelet with cat and Godzilla beads as a pattern, he will smile shyly at himself whenever he looks at it while typing on his computer.

Changed his wallpaper with a candid photo of him with a caption like...

Al-nyan Whiskas eating ice cream (*❛‿❛*)

Al-nyan Whiskas sleeping on the couch (⁠=⁠^⁠･⁠ｪ⁠･⁠^⁠=⁠)

Al-nyan Whiskas, get ready to the office (⁠っ⁠.⁠❛⁠ ⁠ᴗ⁠ ⁠❛⁠.⁠)⁠っ

This is Al-nyan Whiskas; he doesn't bite. \⁠(⁠๑⁠╹⁠◡⁠╹⁠๑⁠)⁠ﾉ⁠♬

Making him a lunch box in a cute bento box, and sometimes using a pastel-colored bento box.

Chris will be laughing at him, and Albert will get embarrassed.

Chris : Hahaha, what this time? A bread with a dog shape?

Oh, shut up, Chris!?

He can't be angry at you because everything you do to him always makes him smile, even corny things.

Albert: Sweetheart, my love for you is unchanging. I don't need anything else because you have made me complete.

Now, you're the one who blushes.

A/N : I don't know if everyone loves this, haha. But I still have two drafted fanfictions and am about to upload them soon, so I wrote this to refresh my brain. Thank you for reading! 〜⁠(⁠꒪⁠꒳⁠꒪⁠)⁠〜

#resident evil #resident evil wesker #wesker #albert wesker #albert wesker x reader #albert wesker x you #wesker x you #wesker x reader #resident evil fluff #wesker fluff #albert wesker fluff #wesker headcanons #albert wesker headcanons #resident evil headcanons #resident evil albert wesker #fluff x reader

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itsonlytext · 2 months

Text

Restoring Balance · scene i

He had already made up in his mind that he was going to sink in the silence alone today and yet there John was, texting him at 5am asking if he and Rosie could visit.

(read this chapter on ao3.)

sherlock discovers that although things will never be the same, it doesn't mean that it will always be necessarily bad. there aren't any warnings today - this is post season four, so feelings are (obviously) a tentative topic but there isn't anything upsetting ≈ 1500 words. also, we get a bit of rosie fluff. i love rosie. and fluff. and rosie fluff and mainly fluff and rosie with a bit of fluff but also rosie fluff the most

The weeks following Eurus' discovery were silent.

Of course, not literally - the builders that Mycroft sent to restore 221B after the explosion were incredibly loud and invasive. (Invasive about what? Nothing sentimental even survived. They were just doing their jobs. Sherlock eventually realised that he simply didn't like their presence every day from 3-6pm.)

But after they finished, after there was nothing left to be restored or repainted, Sherlock couldn't do anything but hover around the living room in the silence.

With a quick gaze over the room, it looked exactly the same as it did before the explosion, Mycroft's men had done well to ensure that. However for Sherlock, he couldn't help but notice how off-key the new wallpaper was, how the spray painted smiley face was neater than before and how the new desk by the window was an inch taller than the old one. He lived there - of course he was bound to notice. (He was himself - of course he was bound to notice.)

The detective stumbled out of bed and into the (unfamiliar) living room with a sigh. He didn't bother changing out of his pyjamas, for he had already decided that he wasn't going to do anything (or see anyone) at all today.

Another silent day - that was his resolve.

Early morning sun streamed down through the windows and straight into his eyes. It was earlier than usual, Mrs Hudson was yet to bring up his morning tea. Besides, he didn't want it; there was a persistent pit in his stomach that wouldn't let him sleep. (He wouldn't have been able to keep the tea down anyway.)

He made a point not to look at the walls or the smiley face or the desk that was too tall as he sat down in his armchair and pulled out his phone. He had two new messages.

Can We Come Over Today? Rosie's Been Asking For You.

Hope It's Not Too Early.

It was sent two hours ago. John often used to wake up early (a habit sustained as a result of the army) but recently, after his daughter was born, had somehow managed to wake up even earlier.

Sherlock's fingers hovered over the keyboard. The silence rang in his ears (he never got used to it, not really). He had already made up in his mind that he was going to sink in the silence alone today and yet there John was, texting him at 5am asking if he and Rosie could visit.

He blew out a gentle breath.

Sure. SH

John responded immediately.

Thanks. We'll Be There In Fifteen

He was probably struggling to entertain his daughter's early morning excitement any longer, waiting for a reply back, another shoulder to lean on. Sherlock suddenly felt bad for not seeing the messages sooner. His stomach churned.

He let his phone drop down and onto the leather of his chair. He glanced around. Tried not to let his gaze linger on anything for too long. There was an awful tightness in his chest whenever he breathed, as if his lungs didn't want him to. He needed a cigarette. Probably shouldn't. Not if Rosie's on the way. (Damn it.)

For now, he'll have to settle with just tea and hope it'll stay down.

John was (unsurprisingly) right - fifteen minutes of sinking deeper into his chair trying not to look at anything and there was a knock at the door.

A nest of blonde curls toddled into the detective's arms before he could stand up. He lifted her up and ignored the way she eagerly tugged on his hair with a remarkable grip.

“Watson,” he greeted calmly.

“Yeah,” she grinned, pulling on his curls and bringing his head down with it. He winced.

“Let’s not do that,” Sherlock said as he gently pried her tiny fingers away from his hair.

"She's doing that to me, too," John began. Sherlock glanced up, suddenly aware of his voice, his presence. He was lingering by the door with heavy eyes and a large baby bag over his shoulder. He pointed to his greying hair. "I think I've got a bald spot here now."

"You've always had that."

"Oh, thanks," he replied lightly, dumping the bag by the door and walking in. "You're erm. Up early."

Sherlock didn't reply, instead he turned his gaze to the toddler. She gazed back at him with an illiterate babble. Her stare was so firm yet so playful. (So John yet so Mary.)

“Any cases?” John carried on, fluffing up a pillow with a fist before falling into his armchair with a sigh.

For a moment, as he asked about cases and fell into his armchair, it was like time hadn’t irreparably cracked and bruised their friendship. But Sherlock knew that wasn’t true. Of course it wasn’t - the bags under John’s eyes and the silver colonising his blond roots ensured that it wouldn’t be the same again.

It made the pit in Sherlock’s stomach sink even deeper and he didn’t know that was possible. (He wasn’t sure it would ever go away.)

“Haven’t checked.”

“Greg hasn’t called for anything?”

“Who?”

“Sherlock.”

The corner of his lips tugged. “No. Mycroft called yesterday though. Something about a political domestic.”

He tilted his head. “And I’m assuming you turned it down.”

Sherlock smiled. Then suddenly, he winced.

“Rosie!”

“G’na pull it…”

“No!” John huffed, reaching forward and holding out his arms. “You don’t pull on people’s hair. It hurts.”

She grunted angrily, burying herself into Sherlock’s neck so that her dad couldn’t take her. “It’s alright,” the detective replied calmly, splaying out a large hand on her back and trying to ignore the piercing headache forming at the nape of his neck. He stood up with her and faced the mantle. “Let’s do something different.”

John watched as Sherlock fed her curiosity by providing context for all the memorabilia that had accumulated over the years at 221B. She (obviously) didn’t understand anything and she (definitely) didn’t care about the context other than they were all great to shove into her mouth, but it kept her from creating pools of bald spots in anyone’s scalps and for that the men were grateful.

John knew that their spontaneous visits were good for Sherlock - that he needed Rosie’s livelihood and John’s tiredness to feel needed enough so that he wouldn’t drown in his own mind. He also knew that Sherlock wouldn't ever realise that for himself.

“Oh, and that’s a pinned vampire bat. Not sure where from. Mexico, at a guess.”

“ ‘nd dat one,” the little girl grabbed a tiny metal object with sparkling eyes.

“That’s just the gun token from Cluedo.”

So instead of saying it, John just carried on keeping the visits spontaneous. (He figured that some things were better left unsaid. Or maybe one day Mrs Hudson will say it out loud and make the detective realise.)

“I bought some breakfast on the way,” he said suddenly. “Figured you haven’t eaten yet.”

Sherlock shifted his body slightly to face him. “Didn’t have to.”

“Yeah, well.” He stood up. “Let me take her, you eat.”

“It’s alright.”

“You’re not on a case, Sherlock, you’ve no excuse not to eat.”

“Not hungry.”

“That’s a lie.”

He glanced down at Rosie as he reluctantly handed her over to John. “Your father’s a tyrant.”

“I try,” he replied with an exaggerated grin, taking his daughter into his arms.

Sherlock strode over to the paper bag and pulled out the food. Cafe pastries, a sandwich. Nothing he could stomach yet. (The Danish looked good though. He was going to save that for later.)

He glanced back. John had sat down on the carpet with Rosie in front of him, playing with the skull and the tiny gun from Cluedo.

He knew very well that John could currently be in the comfort of his own home instead; he’d have a wider variety of toys for Rosie, (proper) baby food, their beds. John only did it for Sherlock’s benefit, not his own. But Sherlock didn’t say anything because he couldn’t deny that their presence probably was, on balance, better for his lungs than a three-month-old secret stash of Marlboro reds. (Damn it.)

He glanced back at the bag and pulled out the Danish pastry anyway, hoping that it would make his stomach feel better and not worse. He took a bite.

There was a knock at the door and Mrs Hudson used her elbow to push it open. She was carrying a tray of fresh food from the cafe and his tea.

“Too late,” Sherlock muttered between a bite, lifting the Danish pastry to show her.

“Oh, John,” the old lady ignored him, setting the tray down in the kitchen. “I didn’t know you two were coming.”

“Neither did we, really,” he smiled politely, ignoring the way Rosie climbed his frame and started to reach for his hair. “Well. Not until half an hour ago.”

“If I had known, I’d have gotten those cakes for the little one, the one she likes,” she gestured lovingly with her hands.

“She’ll like anything with sugar.”

As they conversed, Sherlock glanced at his watch. She was fourteen minutes late.

Mrs Hudson was never late to float upstairs with his cup of morning tea, she lived by that strict schedule for years; wake up, dress, make breakfast, eat, tidy her kitchen, make Sherlock's tea, carry said tea upstairs, tidy 221B and then open the cafe. She was the only subtle reminder that Sherlock wasn’t completely alone in the silence when he’d wake up at 8am to find a freshly steaming cup in the living room.

But after the explosion, things had been different - her (right) hip had gotten worse, her limbs more fragile in their venture up the stairs. She was, unfortunately, getting older. As a result, Mrs Hudson had been getting to him later. It wasn’t her fault, he knew that. (But it still troubled his stomach.)

Sherlock blew out a breath and shook the sleeve of his robe down to cover his watch. Suddenly, the Danish pastry in his mouth didn’t seem as appealing anymore.

this ended up being way longer than i thought/wanted/hoped, so i’ve split it in two. next one will be coming up soon. thanks folks!

let me know if you’d like to be/no longer be tagged.

tags: @nathan-no @helloliriels @dragonnan @strawberrywinter4 @with-a-ghost-mr-holmes @7-percent @totallysilvergirl @inevitably-johnlocked @meetinginsamarra @pressurepoint221 @gaylilsherlock @catlock-holmes @gaypiningshit @johnlocky @a-victorian-girl @astudyinlaura

#sherlock fandom #bbc sherlock #fanfic #john watson #johnlock #sherlock holmes #authors #itsonlytext #no queerbaiting in this house #queer community #writers on tumblr #writerscommunity #queer #gay

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