#my fic

[stevestark]

Eddie survives the Upside Down by sheer force of Steve Harrington's will. He, Robin, and Nancy come upon Dustin sobbing over Eddie's very alarmingly still body, and Steve doesn't even hesitate to heave Eddie over his shoulder and carry him to the gate. He refuses to think about whether or not Eddie is dead and this is pointless — he'll be damned if he doesn't try everything. They manage to get Eddie through and escape themselves before the earth starts ripping itself open, and Steve carefully lays Eddie on the bed in the RV, tearing down the road at an ungodly speed, driving straight for the hospital.

He's so singularly focused on not letting Eddie die that he doesn't remember about Erica, Lucas, and Max until he watches in horror as a gurney carrying Max comes flying through the doors of the emergency room, Lucas and Erica running behind it. The nurses stop the Sinclairs from following her through to the surgical wing, and Steve hurriedly vacates his seat, pulling the two kids into a hug, apologies pouring from his lips. Eventually, he stops babbling, and everyone takes a seat, Steve wincing as he does so.

The bites on his sides still smart, but he can — and will — wait to get seen himself until he hears something about Eddie. When they'd shown up, Steve carrying Eddie bridal style and screaming for help, everyone around them had thought Eddie was dead; after getting him on a gurney, a nurse yelled at everyone to shut up as she pressed a stethoscope to Eddie's chest, and the next thing Steve knew, Eddie was being wheeled away from them to surgery. Dustin had fallen to his knees, appearing to be praying to anything listening, and Steve nearly joined him. Somehow, Eddie was still alive. Steve refused to be seen until he knew that was still the case.

Hours pass before they're allowed in to see Eddie; when they are, it's somehow more horrifying than the moment Steve had found him cradled in Dustin's lap. Eddie is still motionless, but now he's paler, there's what looks like a hundred wires coming out of his body, and a tube is breathing for him. Steve hazily registers the doctors explaining that the blood loss was significant, as were the wounds littering Eddie's body, and that it's going to be a waiting game to see what happens next. He startles when he hears the gentle comment that if Eddie doesn't wake within a week, it's unlikely he ever will; Steve refuses to even consider that as a possibility.

Nancy manages to talk Steve into getting his own bites cleaned and stitched, which turns into taking him home for a shower and a change of clothes; they're still driving the stolen RV, and when Steve pulls back into the hospital parking lot, he hesitates before climbing out. Eddie's denim vest is still sitting on the sofa, bloodstained and ripped all over. Steve digs through the cabinets of the RV until he finds a sewing kit, and brings the vest inside with him.

He carefully washes out as much of the blood as he can in the bathroom sink, and plops into a chair at Eddie's bedside, pulling out red thread and a needle from the sewing kit. Nancy, Robin, and Dustin all exchange looks before simply sitting in silence, watching Steve carefully begin to repair every tear in the fabric.

Eventually, Nancy gets a hold of Wayne Munson, who enters the room, sees Steve hard at work on his project, and doesn't say a word — he just pulls a chair up next to Steve's, claps him on the shoulder, and reaches out to pat Eddie's leg through the hospital blankets. Neither Steve nor Wayne leave their spots other than to use the bathroom, and nobody tries to make them.

Three days into Eddie's hospital stay, the door opens, and Eleven, Jonathan, Will, Mike, and someone Steve doesn't recognize enter the room. Steve looks up, unblinking and on the verge of unseeing, before turning his attention back to the vest; two small hands reach out and cover his, and it's only then that he registers who's standing in front of him. Eleven is looking at him sadly, and hesitates only briefly before she leans forward to hug him.

He grips her tightly, and takes a shaky breath before holding a hand out toward the Byers brothers and Mike, and sooner than anyone can blink, there's a massive huddle of arms enveloping Steve. For the first time since leaving the Upside Down, Steve lets himself cry; nobody comments at it, nobody even acknowledges it — other than Eleven, who gently wipes his face with her sleeves when they finally separate.

More chairs are dragged into the room, and suddenly Eddie is the most popular patient in the hospital — tied with Max, of course, as the group takes shifts between the two rooms. Steve and Wayne are the only permanent fixtures in Eddie's room, just as Lucas and Erica are the only permanent residents with Max.

Steve finishes patching the tears in the vest, but Eddie hasn't woken up yet, so his fingers itch to keep going. He pulls out a spool of white thread, and outlines the jagged stitches he made before, carefully working his way over the entire vest once more. When he finishes that, he grabs black thread, and repeats the process.

He's in a sort of trance as he stitches away, conversations happening around him but sounding like they're miles away. It's not until someone physically stops his hands moving again that he realizes the words are being directed towards him; confused, he looks up and jolts so strongly he nearly tips his chair backwards. The person who stopped him working this time is Jim Hopper, and for the first time since the doctor gave them the stupid timeline, Steve feels hope. If Hopper can come back, Eddie can too. Eddie can too.

On day 6 of Eddie's coma, Steve speaks for the first time, tired eyes looking at Eleven beseechingly. "Can you... will you see if he's still in there?"

Eleven takes the bandana Wayne passes her and ties it over her eyes, one hand gripping Eddie's, the other intertwined with Steve's. She focuses on the steady beeping of the heart monitor and the wheezing of the oxygen pump, the sounds allowing her to drift into the in-between. She finds Eddie curled in a ball, hands clutching his sides, tears silently streaming down his face.

As she did with Steve, she gently reaches out and wipes his face clean, and waits for him to acknowledge her; he eventually looks up at her and his eyebrows furrow. "Who are you?" he asks, voice scratchy with disuse.

"Eleven," she says, holding out her hand to you.

"Henderson's friend?"

Eleven nods. "Come. Time to leave here. They're waiting for you."

She pulls Eddie to his feet and starts walking forward, focusing her hearing until she can isolate Steve's breathing pattern under the din of the hospital machinery. Her eyes fly open under the bandana, and she rips it off, turning to look at Eddie expectantly. For a moment, there's nothing and then —

Eddie starts choking on the breathing tube, Wayne starts yelling for a doctor, Steve breaks down in fresh tears, and the kids are cheering.

It's hours of examinations later that Steve is finally able to return to his seat at Eddie's side, everyone, Wayne included, giving him a minute alone with Eddie. When he enters, he notices Eddie is holding the vest, tracing his fingers over Steve's haphazard stitching.

Sheepishly, Steve raises a hand to rub the back of his neck. "Sorry," he mumbles. "I did the best I could."

The stitches zigzag across all the places the fabric had been slashed, both by demobat talons and sharp bushes in the Upside Down forest, and Steve's work has it looking like branches of lightning working their way across the vest. Eddie shakes his head and looks up at Steve, eyes wide and shining. "You fixed it."

Steve shrugs and Eddie shakes his head again. "Harrington.... Steve. You... you fixed it. For me."

Steve inches forward in his seat, and reaches out to grab one of Eddie's hands. "I dunno, I kinda think I fucked it up. But I could tell when you threw it at me that this was something that was important to you. I didn't let that place take you away, why would I let it take your things?"

Eddie laughs, head thrown back against his pillows, hand squeezing the absolute life out of Steve's. When he finally settles, he looks at Steve bashfully, head dipped down just enough that he's looking up at him through his eyelashes. "Talk about a declaration of unambiguous true love," he whispers.

Steve doesn't seem surprised or put off by Eddie's assessment; in fact, all he does is beam at him before lifting Eddie's hand to his face, pressing a featherlight kiss to his bruised knuckles.

"Take me out on a date first, Munson. Then we can start throwing words like love around."

As the room fills with the sound of Eddie and Steve's laughter, the rest of the group filters back in, including Lucas pushing a wheelchair-bound Max; Steve looks around at all of them and sighs around a soft smile.

They won.

#Steddie drabble #stranger things drabble #steddie #Steve Harrington #Eddie Munson #my fic #originally the lightning stitching was going to be intentional #Steve thinking about the red lightning in the Upside Down #and thinking about it as the backdrop to Eddie's playing #but I kind of like the idea of it being accidental and Eddie thinking it's metal as fuck

[lichenes]

on my hands and knees begging for domestic fluff w joost. cooking together, doing livestreams, playing video games, ANYTHING plz <3

My friend read the ask and suggested the whole plot so it came out like a crack fic near the end but oh well, the sillies :D Hope you like it anon and thank you for the ask!!

CW: cursing, broken washing machines??? wc: 689

•───────•°•❀•°•───────••────────•°•❀•°•────────•

He walked through the door inhaling the familiar scent of your shared home. “You’re home!” You said with excitement, thrilled to see Joost. He talked to you about the latest concert, his eyes sparkling with joy when he described a huge group of people shouting the lyrics to his song alongside him. 

You were happy to finally have him back home as this was the last concert of the tour. He expressed how grateful he was for your support and couldn’t quite stop apologising for - as he called it - abandoning you for so long. You reassured him constantly hoping he would one day realise what made him happy, made you happy.

You both were too tired to do anything more than discuss things on the surface level. “You know I wouldn’t give you up for anything in the world.” He said as you both were laying in your shared bed. You nodded, constantly surprised by the level of affection he sported while extremely tired. 

You woke up well rested, finally not worrying if he was okay, he was next to you after all. “I’m doing laundry, do you need anything washed?” You said no and went into the kitchen to prepare breakfast for you two. When he was done with the load he got into the kitchen and hugged you from behind inhaling your scent. 

“Missed you.” He mumbled into your neck tickling you with his breath. “Missed you too.” You were standing over the stove with a wooden spoon stirring the scrambled eggs. Joost thought proved to be a severe distraction. “I need to focus on the task at hand, Joost.” He let his gorgeous laugh out. “I knoww~ but I didn’t have much time to spend with you and I need you now.” Your face got warmer at those words. “You’ve got me all to yourself lovely.” You said this time making his fair skin turn a shade of red. 

He stopped hugging you and opted instead to set the table. It was quite small but enough for both of you to dine. He made sure to give you your favourite glass. You served the food up. He commented on how tasty it was despite it being only eggs and salt. “It’s hard to fuck up scrambled eggs.” You said with a slight jest in your voice. He laughed and continued. “But it’s not impossible!” 

You went into the living room of your apartment after he was done with washing the dishes and you were done drying them. Your day was spent laying in bed and watching some stupid series full of cheesy jokes which were just cringey enough to make both your stomachs hurt from the laughter. At some point you stood up and went into the bathroom.

Your socks were met with a wet floor which you didn’t expect. Suddenly you realised what was going on. “Joost!” You shouted, calling him over. “What’s up?” He walked right into the puddle. “The washing machine malfunctioned… grab some cloths.” He nodded and walked up to the closet and pulled out some, handing it to you with a smile on his face to cheer you up before the work you both were going to do soon. 

Unfortunately you didn’t catch the malfunction in time which meant the floor panels lifted due to the moisture they absorbed. Renovations were long overdue and you were planning on changing up the floors anyway you told yourself when you saw the panels literally de-gluing themselves from the floor. 

You decided on a herringbone style of floors this time opting to lay them yourselves, after all how hard could it be? You bought raw planks and let Joost lay his heart out. You loved seeing him work all stuck in his own world. He weatherproofed the planks after cutting them up into size appropriate pieces and made your home look brand new with the shining new floors. 

“You did a great job baby.” You said when he came over excited to show you his work. “We should monitor our washing machine better next time though, we wouldn’t want to ruin these gorgeous floors.” 

•───────•°•❀•°•───────••────────•°•❀•°•────────• masterlist

#x reader #joost #joost x reader #joost klein x you #joost klein fanfic #joost klein x reader #joost klein #eurovision 2024 #eurovision #fluff #domestic fluff #my fic

[thefatedthoughtofyou]

Was having some thoughts about Steve joining Hellfire. They are as follows.

I'm thinking maybe they start him off with smaller weekly oneshots. Unbeknownst to Steve they are also still meeting for their regular other campaign, he figures that out later. That Eddie's been writing one shots for him on top of his other bonkers story he's got going and Steve is like "oh 🥺".

BUTTT! during the one shots, all the kids have their moments of being RUDE to Steve. Mike is the worst (cuz I dislike him and his fucking attitude). But everytime one of them is rude to Steve, and it's like legit mean stuff, like them calling him stupid. Things like that. Steve usually kinda gets quiet. And then, whenever the kids do that, Eddie starts making notes in his notebook. Then whoever said the mean thing, their characters die.

Like, Mike gets the worst of it cuz he's just such an ass. But Eddie's got a SYSTEM in these notes okay!!! There are straight tallys, for actually hurtful mean things, there are wiggly tallys for things he can tell are meant to be teasing but that he can tell definitely still kinda hurt Steve a bit. And then there are stars. People get stars for helping Steve along the way.

Be that helping his characters, or just helping him with his math or helping him understand something about the game when Eddie is busy or "distracted". Cuz he legit always notices when people help Steve. Most of the time it's cuz he hears Steve's genuine thank yous. Lucas, and surprisingly Erica, have the most stars, aside from El. Max gets stars sometimes just for back talking Mike's rudes comments with shit like,

"mike what does it matter? we're all about to die anyway. That sphinx is gonna fucking eat us. Who cares. Leave him alone."

Because her and El have of course been invited too. But they've been playing just a LITTLE bit longer so they know a small amount more. El only has stars because she is legit always helpful. Steve has taken to sitting between El and Erica because they're the nicest to him. Lucas usually sits across from him.

Dustin has lots of wiggly tallys cuz he just can't control his mouth sometimes. But one day Mike gets brutally killed again and starts whining about it and Steve has noticed Eddie making little notes. Has no idea what they are. Cuz he doesn't look through other people's notebooks. Thats rude.

Everyone has noticed the notes. No one has asked. They all have theories. And when Eddie is like,

"I'm trying to teach you a lesson. Not my fault you aren't smart enough to figure out what it is." And his voice has such a BITCHY tone when he says it. Because Mike had JUST been hounding Steve for missing "obvious" clues and not being smart enough to figure it out and walking into a trap.

And steve had gone red from his ears all the way down his neck, he also felt bad cuz he'd gotten El's character hurt. And then Mike had been an ass. Steve was upset. So Eddie killed Mike. And then he's whining and Eddie's about to say something else when El speaks up, looks across the table with a scowl and says,

"just be nicer! It's not hard to be nice. Steve is our friend. Be nice to him." And she rolls her eyes at Mike, puts her hand on Steve's arm and is like,

"I will be fine. Will can heal me." And Will pipes up and is like,

"yeah. I can heal her no problem." But it's El's outburst that makes Steve kind of wonder more about the notes Eddie takes.

He'd never ask, and never look. But he stays behind one day to help Eddie clean up, they have weekly games at the community center.

So Steve's staying after and helping with chairs and tables and getting books and dice and things stored away and Eddie's notebook is RIGHT THERE. Open to the page he's always scribbling on. And Steve just sort of... stops. And looks at it. And it's everyone's names with tallys and marks and stars. Erica has wiggly marks AND stars. But mostly stars. Because she helps him with his math almost every game.

Also she "accidentally" let mike get hit with an attack in the game cuz he was being rude. El's is all stars and scrawled under them in Eddie's chicken scratch is,

"She's a literal angel oh my god."

So Steve's eyes are just wandering over this page and his brow is all creased and he doesn't hear Eddie come back until he says,

"figured out what's missing yet?" In that teasing sweet little voice he uses on Steve that makes him feel a little dizzy sometimes, give him butterflies in his stomach, and his whole body jerks and he looks up and Eddie's leaning casually against the wall near the door. And Steve immediately apologizes and Eddie laughs, shakes his head, walks closer. And is like,

"It's okay Steve. But you didn't answer my question." He licks his lips, steps closer. Steve looks back to the notebook for a second and then back to Eddie.

"My names not on there?" He asks, worrying his finger into the table top next to the notebook. And Eddie is nodding.

"Yup." And Steve's like,

"The tallys are about... me?" And he's frowning. But Eddie steps a bit closer, standing next to the table now. And he smiles, all shy and soft and is like,

"yeah Steve. They're about you. Got kinda tired of all the kids talking shit about you. And to you. So I came up with a system. Anyone says anything about you being stupid, I kill them." He grins, wide like the Cheshire cat and Steve feels kinda pinned down by it. Feels kinda hot all over.

"You didn't- have to do that. It's fine. It doesn't bother me. I mean I know I'm not smart." And he just shakes his head and looks at the ground and Eddie kinda slams his hand down on the table, startling him. He looks up and Eddie looks mad. Not at him. Just, mad.

"You're not though. Is the thing. I mean... you're incredibly good at strategy. I know you don't know enough about dnd yet to know this, but you've been a crucial part in winning like, the last three games." Eddie steps closer, his fingertips brushing the back of Steve's hand.

"You're not stupid. You're just smart in different ways." Eddie shrugs. Gives Steve a little lopsided smile.

"You think I'm smart?" He asks, biting his lip to stop the giddy smile that's threatening to spread. Eddie doesn't stop his smile, just lets it go, lets it dimple his cheeks and make Steve's knees weak. And he's like,

"yeah man. Just cuz some jumped up little tweens can't see it doesn't mean I can't. You're kinda hard to miss." He does bite his lip then, fingers playing with his hair, Steve knows he's trying not to hide behind it.

"I just uh-" Eddie clears his throat,

"I'm really petty. And protective. And it's ridiculous cuz you're not even mine but- I just- felt like I had to protect you. Or stick up for you. Or something? I dunno. Feels stupid now that I'm saying it out- oof!" Eddie huffs when Steve slams into him. Arms wrapped around his neck. He may or may not be crying into Eddie's hellfire shirt. But he gives Eddie a squeeze and then pulls back, looks at him, smiles and says,

"I am though." With a little shrug. And Eddie's like,

"you... are?" Confused. And Steve laughs, light and sweet and says,

"Yours. I am yours. If you'll have me. Or want me. Or- mmfph!" Steve's words end in a high pitched hum as Eddie's lips hit his. Just a firm press. His hand on Steve's cheek. He pulls back fast, pink in the cheeks.

"Sorry I just- if you let me have you, Steve. I may never let you go." He chuckles, giddy. Steve snorts, his head falling to Eddie's shoulder for a second before he looks at Eddie, cups his cheek genlty.

"Who says I want you to?" His brows jump, challenging. Eddie goes redder, down to his neck.

"Wanna try that kiss again?" Steve asks.

"God was is bad? I've never- I'm not... good. At that stuff." Eddie cringes. Steve cups both his cheeks until Eddie's wide eyes are staring at him, his cheeks a little squished.

"It wasn't bad. It was kind of perfectly you. But we can get you good at that stuff. You're a fast learner right?" Steve smirks, Eddie's eyes go impossibly wider as he nods aggressively, cheeks squishing even more.

"Yes, sir." Eddie mumbles between his squished lips. Steve nods, once and then moves forward, slowly, determined to show Eddie just how thankful he is for him. How thankful he is that Eddie sees him.

Petty.

And protective.

And Steve's.

#ive never played dnd sorry if stuff sucks #steddie #my writing #mine #my fic #steve harrington x eddie munson #steddie fic #steve x eddie #steddie ficlet #fates endless inkwell #fei

[ginnsbaker]

fic: if i bleed (you'll be the last to know) (14/?)

Part Summary: Leigh reconciles with Jules and then receives news from Danny that could potentially disrupt her new beginning with you.

Pairing: Leigh Shaw x Fem!Reader | Word count for this part: 5.200+ | Warnings: Spicy phone call | Author's note: The date will happen in the next one, and then after that, 1-2 chapters to wrap up this series :)

Masterlist | Part I Part II | Part III | Part IV | Part V | Part VI | Part VII | Part VIII | Part IX | Part X | Part XI | Part XII | Part XIII

-

The date doesn't happen as quickly as Leigh expected. You don’t bring it up again for several days after your grand, against-all-odds declaration of love.

In the meantime, you text constantly. Sometimes you call, just to ask about her day. The first time, she’s so confused, waiting for the real reason behind your call. But there isn’t one—you simply wanted to talk, and texting wouldn’t do it.

She’s rarely on the phone with anyone these days. For her, phone calls are usually reserved for urgent requests from Drew or her mom, or from companies trying to sell her something. The last time she was on the phone just to talk was with Matt, during the stretches when work kept them apart for days. Before that, it was high school, chatting with friends and boyfriends about everything and nothing.

Talking to you on the phone feels like stepping back in time. There’s something intimate about it, something that modern-day texting can’t capture. She finds herself looking forward to your calls, the sound of your voice at the end of a long, tiring, or listless day.

Days stretch into a week before you finally ask her out, armed with the when and where. Leigh will never admit it to anyone, but the wait is excruciating.

The butterflies swarm in her stomach as she lies on her bed, fresh from a shower, in an oversized shirt and boy shorts, biting at her fingernails. She's already restless by the time her phone rings at the usual hour.

She picks up almost immediately, trying to keep her voice as blasé as she can manage. “Hey.”

“Hey, Leigh,” you reply breathily, not realizing how that tone makes Leigh press the phone harder against her ear, as if she wants to hear more of it. “How was your day?”

She rolls onto her back, stretching her hand out and drawing patterns in the air against the ceiling. 

“It was okay. Nothing too exciting. How about yours?” she says.

“Pretty good. Just busy with work stuff. I was thinking about you, though.”

The simple statement sends a new wave of warmth through her. “Is that so?”

“Very much so,” you whisper, and Leigh can almost see your smile, just like the one forming on her lips. “So, uh, I was thinking…”

“Yeah?” Leigh prompts, her heart picking up speed. She hears some shuffling on your end and waits with bated breath.

“Maybe we should finally go on that date,” you suggest,  hopeful and a bit nervous. 

Leigh’s heart leaps, and she tears the phone away from her ear, burying her face into her pillow as a squeal escapes before she can contain it. Catching herself, she quickly schools her expression, tosses the pillow aside, and sits up ramrod straight.

“We should,” Leigh blurts out, still feeling her heart thumping wildly against her ribs. “When were you thinking?”

“How about this Saturday?”

Leigh pauses, mentally counting—one, two, three—before replying, “Great. I’m free then.” 

Wanting to lock in the details, she asks, “What time?”

“Could I, um, have you for the whole day?” you ask hesitantly, and then quickly realizing how it sounded, you clarify, “I mean, could we make it a day-long date? I promise it’ll be worth your while.”

Leigh hums, pretending to mull it over, but inside, she's practically screaming yes.

“What do you have planned?”

“It's a surprise,” you reply, the playful secrecy in your tone drawing a grin from Leigh. 

Unable to contain her intrigue, Leigh tries to coax out some clues. “Anything you need from me? Dress code? Anything I can help you with?”

“No, just be yourself,” you say, your voice dropping to a softer, more intimate cadence. “Wear whatever makes you feel most like you. You're beautiful in anything.”

Leigh feels a warm blush spread across her cheeks. She's grateful you can't see her, can't see how your words reduce her to a pile of mush.

“In anything?” she asks coyly.

“Or nothing,” you whisper back, almost without thinking.

Leigh nearly chokes on her breath at that, biting her lip to stifle a moan that threatens to escape owing to the boldness of your flirtation. She doesn't immediately realize she's drifted into a stunned silence until you apologize, worrying that you might have crossed a line. 

“I'm sorry if that was too forward,” you say.

Leigh shakes herself, trying to clear the haze of memories—the soft moans, the way your body yielded to her touch that night. “No, it’s... I still think about that night,” she shares.

“O-Oh?” you stammer, your grip tightening around the phone. You're driving home with one hand, thinking it would be a short call. Suddenly feeling lightheaded, you quickly pull over to the side of an empty street, realizing you might not make it home safely if you don't.

“What do you... think about, specifically?” you venture, slowly unbuckling your seatbelt.

It’s as if a switch has been flipped in her. Her mind races back to that night—the way you touched yourself under her gaze, how she guided your movements, the feel of her finger inside you while she rode your thigh. 

“Leigh?”

Leigh's breath hitches, and she feels heat spreading through her body. She kicks off the covers, finding herself lying flat on the bed, her fingers inching teasingly at the hem of her shorts. She closes her eyes, letting the memory of that night trickle into the forefront of her mind.

“I think about the way you looked under me,” she says softly, “The flush of your skin, the sounds you made, how your lips felt against mine.”

Her words send a shiver down your spine. “Leigh,” you murmur, “I-I think about that night too. How you took control, how you made me feel like I was the only thing that mattered.”

Leigh's fingers slip beneath the waistband of her shorts, teasing herself as she remembers the feel of your skin against hers. “I remember guiding your hands,” she continues, her voice growing huskier. “Watching you touch yourself, seeing the pleasure in your eyes. It was intoxicating.”

You can hear the desire in her voice, and it sends a surge of arousal through you. “I remember the way you moved against me,” you reply, your voice low. “Your skin was so hot against mine, it felt like I was on fire.”

As Leigh's fingers dip lower, brushing against the wetness between her legs, she gasps. She tries to contain it but fails, letting out a guttural moan—a sound of pure want—right into your ear. The rawness of that sound snaps you out of your lust-filled reverie.

“Fuck, are you... are you touching yourself? I-I'm so—” you start, your voice shaking.

“Don't apologize. Just keep talking. It's okay,” Leigh cuts you off sharply, switches the phone to speaker mode, and swiftly removes her panties. For a brief second, she thinks she probably shouldn't be doing this, not before the date they'd just planned. But the overwhelming urge washes over her, making rational thoughts blur into the background. She can't control herself; she needs to come, needs you to make her come.

“Tell me what you'd do,” she chunters, no longer concerned about sounding needy. “Please.” 

“Shit,” you hiss, quickly connecting your phone to your car’s speakers and then tossing it onto the passenger seat. You then adjust the driver's seat to give yourself more legroom and hurriedly begin to unbutton your jeans. Though you're embarrassed to admit that you've never had phone sex before, you're not about to let inexperience stop you. Not when Leigh was practically purring in your ear, begging for it.

“Y/N?” Leigh’s voice rumbles through the confined space of your car and you hurriedly close your eyes as you formulate a response, your head buzzing with several things you want to do to Leigh at once.

“I'd start by kissing you,” you begin, your voice low and deliberate, though you feel a bit foolish at the tentative start. “Soft, teasing kisses, tracing a path down your body. I'd take my time, Leigh, tasting every inch of your skin.”

“Where would you kiss me first?” Leigh breathes.

“Your neck,” you reply, your fingers brushing against your own skin as if you’re tracing the path your lips would take on hers. “I’d kiss right behind your ears…then down your throat, lingering at your collarbone.”

Leigh’s breathing becomes more ragged, and you can almost feel her anticipation. “And then?”

“Then I’d kiss my way down to your breasts,” you say, your own arousal building. “I’d take each nipple in my mouth, sucking gently, then harder, feeling them harden against my tongue. I’d circle my tongue around them, flicking the tip, just like so.”

Leigh listens, her breaths becoming shallow, her body trembling with need. She closes her eyes, lost in the sensation, in the vividness of your description. She traps a rosy bud between her two fingers, mimicking the rhythm you describe, the tension in her belly coiling more tightly.

Meanwhile, your own hands are busy on your body. Despite the cramped space even with the car seat reclined, you manage to slide two fingers inside your pants, rubbing your clit, while your other hand tweaks your nipple.

A soft moan escapes Leigh’s lips, and you know she’s imagining your mouth on her. “I’d keep moving lower, kissing down your stomach, tracing the lines of your body with my tongue. When I finally reach your thighs, I’d spread them open and kiss the inside, so close to where you want me but not quite there yet.”

“I’d breathe you in,” you murmur, “taking a moment to just enjoy the scent of you. Then I’d lick, just once, a slow, teasing lick from the bottom of your slit to the top, tasting how wet you are for me.”

“Fuck,” Leigh groans wantonly, her fingers undoubtedly mirroring your words on her own skin. You can almost see her hand moving against her clitoris, fingers collecting her own wetness and spreading it all over until her inner thighs are glistening with it.

“I’d part you with my fingers,” you continue, your own breath coming faster now, “and then I’d dive in. I’d lap at you, my tongue moving in slow circles around your clit, feeling it swell under my tongue. I’d drink you in, Leigh, tasting every drop, getting lost in how sweet you are.”

“Don’t stop,” Leigh pants, and you can hear her movements quickening, the unmistakable sound of wetness and skin in frantic motion, as if she's placed her phone near the epicenter of her impending climax.

“I wouldn’t,” you promise. “I’d suck on your clit, gently at first, then harder, using my tongue to drive you crazy. I’d slide a finger inside you, curling it to find that perfect spot, the one that makes you see stars. I’d keep licking and sucking, adding another finger, thrusting them in and out, matching the rhythm of my tongue. I wouldn’t stop until I felt you trembling, until I heard you crying out my name as you came.”

Leigh’s moans grow louder, more desperate, and you can almost see her, writhing on her bed, lost in pleasure. “Y/N, I’m close,” she gasps.

“I’d be looking up at you, watching your face as you c-come for m-me,” you say, your voice faltering as you slide a finger inside yourself. “Fuck, Leigh, baby, come for me.”

It's the endearment and the mental image of your deep brown eyes, brimming with hunger and worship, that sends her spiraling into ecstasy.

“Oh god, Y/N!” Leigh moans, her back curving as an intense orgasm overtakes her.

You’re not there yet, but you close your eyes, letting the image of her climax burn into your mind.

Leigh lies there, basking in the afterglow, her body still trembling with the remnants of her orgasm. She’s about to check in on you, perhaps return the favor, when the front door opens and closes with a bang.

“Mom? Leigh?” Jules yells from the living room.

Panic surges through Leigh. She scrambles to her feet, hurriedly pulling on her underwear and shorts. The phone slips from her grasp, landing on the bed, the line still open.

Leigh reaches the top of the stairs, breathless and flushed, just as Jules appears at the bottom, looking up with a mix of worry and curiosity. 

“What's going on?” Leigh asks, wincing as she feels the stickiness between her thighs. She silently curses, wishing Jules could have shown up after she had a chance to shower.

“Where’s Mom?” Jules demands, her eyes scanning the hallway. “And Logan?”

“She took him with her for a grocery run,” Leigh replies, coming down the stairs. “Is something wrong?”

Jules sighs. “I was just worried. The door was unlocked, and I couldn’t find anyone. Thought something might’ve happened.”

Leigh relaxes a bit, though the adrenaline from moments before still courses through her veins. “It’s fine. I just didn’t realize you’d be coming home tonight,” she says.

“Yeah, about that…” Jules trails off, tilting her head toward the kitchen with a meaningful glance. 

Leigh follows, her bare feet whispering against the wooden floorboards. Striving for nonchalance, she asks, “You hungry?” Her hand hovers over the fridge handle, betraying none of her recent distractions.

Jules stops in her tracks and turns back to Leigh. “I’ve been thinking,” she starts, hesitating slightly. “I’d like to move back in.”

“That’s… great,” Leigh says flatly, unsuspecting of her sister’s announcement. She catches the sharp drop of Jules’ brows and hurries to cushion her words. “I mean, we never actually wanted you to go. You’re welcome back anytime, you know that.”

Jules' eyes sharpen, her lips pulling into a tight line. “But only if we talk first.”

Leigh nods, a hard lump forming in her throat. “Of course,” she says.

-

They end up ordering take-out when Leigh's nose wrinkles at the unmistakable stench wafting from the numerous boxes of leftovers crammed in the fridge. She can't recall how long they've been there, only that their rightful place is now the trash bin.

It's Jules who picks the restaurant, and Leigh bites her tongue over the choice of Vietnamese. The last time they'd ordered from there, Jules had barely picked at her food, pushing noodles around her plate more than eating them. Leigh tries not to think too much about it.

The dining table is overtaken by a clutter of takeout boxes, each one wafting a blend of lemongrass and ginger into the room—a scent so rich you could almost scoop it out of the air. Leigh watches her sister with that look—the one that's all walls and wariness, like she’s guarding the last piece of herself she can’t afford to lose.  Jules, on her part, looks a little restless, her fingers skirting the edges of a white takeout box like it might offer some kind of sanctuary.

“So, talk,” Leigh prompts,  twirling her chopsticks to pick up a fresh vegetable roll and dipping it into peanut sauce.

Jules takes a breath, a deep one. When she meets Leigh’s eyes, it’s with a resolve that seems to pull her upright. “Fine, since I’m the one who kicked this off, I’ll lead. I’m sorry. I know I tossed around some pretty nasty words last time I stormed out, and I meant them—then. But calling you a sociopath? That was me going off the deep end.”

Leigh’s face hardens, a quick, involuntary tightening of her features as she recalls the sting of that last confrontation. She pushes her noodles around her box, the chopsticks clattering softly. Jules waits, the steam from her own untouched meal rising and disappearing into the air.

“I appreciate your apology, Jules, really, I do. But you can't just throw words like that around, whether you mean them or not. Words stick. They fester,” Leigh says, meeting Jules’ gaze squarely. 

Jules looks down, tries to mask the hurt that flickers across her face, biting down on her lip. 

Leigh continues, “When I criticize you, it’s not meant as an attack. I’m not someone who likes to beat around the bush, especially not with family.”

The word ‘family’ hits differently this time—at least for Jules it does. Her heart aches at the mention, dragging up memories of a recent painful conversation where she had confessed to feeling like an outsider in her own family.

“Sometimes it's not about what you say but how you say it,” Jules mutters.

Leigh looks at her expectantly, clueless and curious at the same time.

“Not everyone can handle being talked to so bluntly. Not everyone’s as frank as you, okay? Sometimes it feels more like you're pushing me away instead of trying to help.”

Leigh goes quiet, letting the silence stretch just a bit before she nods. “You’re right,” she concedes, the words slipping out almost thoughtfully. It’s almost surprising, the lack of her usual quick-fire defense. “I think I got so wrapped up in the idea that being honest meant being harsh. I can work on that. I should work on that.”

Jules blinks, taken aback by the calm acceptance in Leigh’s tone, the ease with which she receives the criticism. It’s a side of Leigh she hasn’t seen much of—this reflective, almost gentle version. It's a welcome change, a sign of growth that feels both sudden and deeply necessary. 

“I didn’t expect... I mean, I’m glad you took that the way you did,” Jules says.

Leigh gives a small, almost sheepish smile, a rarity on her usually stoic face. “I’ve been thinking a lot lately. About how I say things, not just what I say. It’s been... a lot to unpack. But hearing this from you, it really helps. It does.”

She means it. Ever since you’ve stubbornly eased your way into her life, she’s done a lot of thinking. She’s done a lot of grieving too, realizing that if she had seen the changes that needed to be made earlier, things might have been different for her—for Matt. She’s learned to accept that life is always going to be filled with regrets, but she’s grateful now to recognize that she still has the chance to change, even if it came a little too late.

Better late than never, right?

She looks at Jules, her eyes earnest and a little bit haunted. “I’m sorry, Jules, for everything I said, everything I made you feel. I love you. You’re my sister, always. I know I can be too hard on the people who mean the most to me, but I’m going to try, really try, to balance that love, to understand how you need to be loved.”

Jules sits frozen, speechless for the first time. Their confrontations usually spiral into heated exchanges until one of them storms off. She hadn't expected this to be so... civil and mature. 

So unlike them. 

Finally, she manages a small, shaky smile. “Yeah, this... this went way better than I played it out in my head.”

Leigh’s laughter is a quick splash of reprieve, a burst of surprise at how well things have turned.  But it fades as quickly as it bloomed, her smile slipping into a frown as she catches the shadow creeping over Jules’s face. 

“What is it?”

Jules fidgets, nervously twisting a napkin between her fingers. “I... need to ask you something that’s been eating at me for months... well, almost a year now. And I need you to be brutally honest with me, Leigh. Can you promise that?”

Leigh feels a slight tremor of worry, but brushes it off and nods. “You’re scaring me, but sure. I promise.”

“Here we go,” Jules says, taking a deep, faltering breath. “Remember that night? When I was so drunk you had to come and get me? It was the last night Matt was... before he... you know. Do you ever resent me for it? I did such a horrible thing, robbing you of his last moments because I couldn't keep it together—”

“You know I’ve never blamed you for that. Not during our last fight, not when Matt died, just... never, basically,” Leigh says, leaning back on her chair.

“But some part of you must have hated me, because—”

“No—”

“—maybe he needed someone.”

Leigh just shrugs and denies it which only frustrates Jules even more. “No, Leigh,” she tries, “I need you to listen to me. I was very drunk that night—”

“You were really drunk a lot of nights and you’ve done a lot of crappy things,” Leigh states frankly. “But none of them had anything to do with Matt’s death.”

Jules swallows hard, her eyes stinging. “But what if it did, though?”

Leigh, clearly frustrated, responds, “You really think that?”

Jules looks down at the table and stays silent.

“Jules,” Leigh sighs, searching for the right words to reassure her sister. Eventually, she opts for honesty. “Look, I can’t tell you how to feel, but that’s not how I feel. Okay?”

It takes a second longer for Jules to say, “Okay.”

Leigh stares intently at her sister, noting the way Jules's eyes avoid contact. She knows the soft okay from Jules isn't a signal of acceptance or peace, but a white flag in a battle mostly with herself. Jules is grappling with her own guilt, a feeling that has little to do with Leigh but still consumes her. Leigh wishes, not for the first time, that her sister could see the truth as easily as she reads into misconceptions. It’s the same thing she wishes for herself.

Feeling slightly vindicated to have aired her feelings, Jules turns her attention back to the food spread between them. She reaches for her bánh mì, grips it firmly, and takes a hearty bite. As she chews thoughtfully, she manages a muffled, “Thanks, Leigh.”

Leigh just offers a small, understanding smile.

As they continue eating, Jules suddenly grins, crumbs dotting the corners of her mouth. “You're probably wondering why we're having Vietnamese tonight,” she says.

Leigh raises an eyebrow, curious despite herself. “I was wondering.”

Jules chews quickly, then, with her mouth still full, blurts out, “Well, I've got one more piece of news for you.”

-

It’s almost midnight when Leigh returns to her bedroom. 

As soon as her eyes land on her cellphone, carelessly tossed on the sheets, guilt floods her. She remembers she didn’t even say goodbye to you. Horrified, she realizes she left you hanging, high and dry.

She grabs her phone, her heart pounding in her chest, and checks for any messages from you. The screen lights up, but there are no new notifications, no missed calls.

“God, I’m such an idiot,” she mutters to herself, running a hand through her hair. She takes a deep breath and dials your number, her fingers trembling slightly as she presses the call button.

It rings once, twice, and then you answer. “Leigh?”

“Hey. Sorry, did I wake you?” Leigh asks, picking up on the sleepiness in your voice.

“No, not at all. What’s up?”

She lets out a relieved sigh before rushing into an apology. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to leave you like that. Jules came home and then I—”

“It’s okay, Leigh,” you whisper soothingly, grateful that she called you back at all.

That doesn’t alleviate Leigh's guilt, though. She racks her brain for a way to make amends. 

“Can we… Can we pick up where we left off?” she suggests hesitantly.

You let out a kind chuckle. “I’d like that. But maybe we should save it for… later. Honestly, that was a bit reckless, Leigh.”

Leigh's brow furrows, even though you can't see it. “What do you mean?” she asks.

“I want to do this right,” you explain earnestly. “If taking things slow helps us build something real, then I’m willing to wait.”

“Well, clearly patience hasn’t been my strong suit either,” Leigh admits, her lips curving into a grin at your attempt to be chivalrous.

“I know,” you whisper, traces of a smile audible in your voice. “But I didn’t want you to think that’s all I’m after. And believe me, I want you—it’s driving me crazy.” 

Leigh runs her tongue along her teeth, feeling the familiar tug of desire low in her belly.

“I just don't want us to get so caught up in the physical stuff that we miss out on really getting to know each other,” you say.

“Me neither,” Leigh agrees, tucking the blankets up under her chin, pretending it's you keeping her warm.

“While I obviously enjoyed our…conversation earlier,” you say, pausing to maintain your composure. You can still hear the echo of Leigh's moans in your car, the memory likely to revisit you on sleepless nights in the coming days. “I'm really looking forward to diving deeper into things, like your favorite book, on Saturday.”

“Maybe I'll bring you a whole list,” she teases.

“Guess I’ll have to find that library card I signed up for then,” you joke.

“A library card, huh? Dork,” she retorts affectionately.

You feign a wounded tone, “Ouch.”

The laughter that follows is light and easy. You sigh contentedly and say, “I should probably call it a day. I’ve got an early start tomorrow.”

“Good night, Y/N.”

“Good night, Leigh.” I love you. “See you on Saturday.”

The call ends with both of you reluctantly hanging up, smiles fixed on your faces as you lie back. Leigh is an addictive rush, coursing through your veins like adrenaline. You've excused yourself out of habit for sleeping early, but you doubt you’re going to get much sleep tonight.

-

Leigh nudges open the door to the crowded bistro tucked near the Basically News office. It’s the thick of lunch hour, and the place pulses with the chatter of midday patrons. It’s exactly the sort of public, non-intimate setting you'd want for meeting an ex. She weaves through the crowded room, spotting Danny at a corner table, his focus tethered to his phone as he absently taps on the screen.

“Hey,” she greets, sliding into the chair opposite him.

Danny looks up, a hint of irritation flashing in his eyes. “You know, I could’ve just dropped by your house later.”

Leigh shakes her head. “It's better to meet somewhere public from now on.”

His expression darkens, and he scoffs. “Why? So Y/N doesn’t get jealous?”

Leigh leans back, crossing her arms. “Yes,” she says, deliberately blunt.

Danny's jaw sets, a muscle twitching slightly, but he doesn't press the issue. Instead, he reaches into his bag and retrieves a folder, sliding it across the table toward Leigh. “Matt’s publisher wants to release his comic posthumously,” he starts, “but there are strings attached.”

Interest sparks in Leigh's eyes as she opens the folder, her eyes quickly scanning the contract. 

“What kind of strings?” she asks.

“They want either you or me—or both of us—to join a group of artists to promote the comic—”

“That sounds fair and exciting,” Leigh interjects a bit too soon.

“—across the country,” Danny finishes, clicking his tongue in mild annoyance. “It’s a tour, Leigh.”

Leigh's fingers stall at the edge of the paper, the reality of the proposition sinking in. 

“A tour?” she echoes.

“Yeah,” Danny nods. He flags down a waiter and orders a beer. “Early next year. Matt’s comic is in the final stages of editing, and it should be finalized in about three weeks. They’re aiming for a release in February, and the tour will follow right after that.”

“That sounds soon,” Leigh remarks. “How long is the tour supposed to last?”

“About two months,” Danny replies. “We'll be traveling across different states, attending conventions, signing autographs, meeting fans. It’s a big commitment.”

“We?”

Danny shrugs, the hurt briefly flickering across his face before he can hide it. “Yeah, we. Though I'm not sure I can join because of the new job in Vegas. There's a good chance you might be doing this solo.” His attempt at nonchalance doesn't quite cover the sting of her reaction—how distant the concept of 'we' seems to her.

Leigh chews on her lip, her thoughts drifting to her own commitments—her column, her classes at the Beautiful Beast, and you. The idea of leaving all that behind, even for just a few months, feels like too great a sacrifice.

“It’s a lot to take in,” she says, pushing the folder back towards Danny. 

“He deserves this kind of recognition,” Danny implores, as if suggesting that Leigh thinks otherwise.

“I'm aware,” she snaps back, “I just need a bit of time to think it through, to sort out the schedules and everything.”

Danny raises his hands in mock surrender, indicating he doesn't want to escalate the argument. But Leigh knows him well enough to see through it—it’s a tactic. Danny has a way of guilting her into decisions without saying much, letting assumptions and insinuations simmer until Leigh finds herself making the choice he wants.

Leigh stands up, slipping the folder into her bag. “I’ll let you know as soon as I can.”

“Fine,” Danny says with a tight nod. “Just don’t drag your feet. The publishers are waiting on an answer soon.”

-

Saturday comes soon, but not soon enough.

All week, relentless rain showers have scattered across the days, and though the forecast promises sunshine today, Leigh wakes up to the soft splattering of rain against her window. The gentle patter seeps into her consciousness, easing her from sleep. The room is filled with a cool, damp scent, and is bathed in a soft, diffused light as the morning sun is muted behind thick clouds. 

Leigh gropes blindly beneath the pillow to her left, retrieving her phone and squinting at the time. It’s 9:30 AM. She blinks, trying to shake the sleep from her mind, and her heart drops slightly as she notices five missed calls from you, each one timestamped progressively: 7:45, 7:55, 8:15, 8:30, and finally 8:45.

Guilt twists in her chest. She sits up, brushing sleep from her eyes, and dials your number back, hoping she hasn’t missed something important. 

You answer on the first ring. “Hey. Everything okay?”

Leigh sighs, running a hand through her tousled hair. “Yeah, I'm sorry I missed your calls. I just woke up. What's going on?”

“It’s Saturday,” you say rather awkwardly. “We had plans to meet this morning, remember?”

Leigh sits up, suddenly fully awake. She’s been looking forward to Saturday all week, eagerly anticipating this date. The realization that she slept through most of the morning fills her with shame. She’s been so restless the past few days, and it was only the gloomy, sleepy weather last night that finally allowed her to get some decent rest.

“I’m sorry if I disturbed your sleep, but since it’s an all-day affair, I thought we could start with breakfast,” you continue, breaking the silence that had been filled only with Leigh’s soft breathing.

“Where are you now?” she asks.

You hesitate for a moment before replying, “I’m actually parked outside your house.”

Fuck. Shit. Damn it.

“Okay, okay. Sorry, uhm, can you give me five minutes?”

“Take all the time you need.”

Leigh ends the call and throws off the covers, scrambling to get dressed. She rushes to the bathroom, splashing water on her face and running a brush through her hair, muttering curses under her breath. Her hands tremble slightly as she picks out an outfit, the anticipation of the day ahead propelling her forward.

As she heads for the door, a small smile forms on her lips. This might not have been the flawless beginning she imagined, but just knowing you’re on the other side makes it perfect already.

#unbetad #my writing #my fic #elizabeth olsen x reader #elizabeth olsen #leigh shaw x reader #leigh shaw x female reader #leigh shaw #sorry for your loss au #leigh shaw x you #wanda maximoff x reader #wanda maximoff x you #sorry i had to tag wanda x reader for visibility

[raina-at]

Jealousy

He’s not jealous. It would be ridiculous to be jealous. Not after all this time.

Sherlock is gay. Sherlock is also married. To him. They’re raising a daughter together. He trusts Sherlock absolutely. It was hard-worn trust, and it needed a lot of time, therapy and painful honesty to re-establish, but it’s rock solid now. He knows Sherlock would never betray him.

And yet. 

And yet, the very sound of that obscene text message chime is enough to set his teeth on edge and make his blood boil.

Sherlock never replies. He does read the texts, though, and he doesn’t delete them. He went halfway around the world to save her, and he still has the fucking camera phone. 

John hates her. He never found her attractive at all, even though she’s practically Sherlock in female form, with her dark hair, her pale skin and her sharp intellect. But she lacks something completely essential to John. Something Sherlock has, even though he hides it well. Integrity. Morals. Sincerity. He always found her painfully artificial. In control. Cool, calculating, always out for her own advantage. Never a genuine emotion. Even though Sherlock believed she loved him, John never bought into it. 

He hated how she toyed with Sherlock’s emotions, hated how she manipulated him, made him dance. He hated, hated, how fascinated Sherlock was with her, how he admired her, how she turned his head and scrambled his sensors. How desperate he was to impress her. How she taunted him. Look at us both, indeed.

He was insulted when she compared herself to John. John would die for Sherlock. Irene wouldn’t have crossed the street to spit at his corpse. And yet she mockingly called him on his biggest vulnerability, his unrequited—or so he thought—love for Sherlock, his traitorous heart that even then belonged entirely to Sherlock, who—or so he thought—didn’t want it.

Even now, almost a decade later, every time Sherlock gets one of her moany texts, John wants to take Sherlock’s phone and shatter it against the wall. 

It’s not that he thinks Sherlock will ever have sex with her.

It’s that she still fascinates him. Intellectually. She’s so clever, isn’t she. She’s so smart, so cunning, such an elegant criminal. She never gets caught, and only Sherlock can trace her crimes through newspapers and social media posts. A blackmail here, a clever con there. A clandestine theft, an act of corporate espionage. Victimless, bloodless, traceless. And Sherlock loves it. He enjoys regaling John with her exploits, full of admiration and praise for her cleverness.

The thing is, John recognises that this is a him problem. Sherlock doesn’t do anything to make him jealous. Ever. People flirt with him all the time, and he’s oblivious at best and scornfully dismissive at worst. He’s a great father, a wonderfully attentive lover and much easier to live with than he used to be. He’s a good partner, period. And he clearly, openly, transparently, visibly loves John. 

It just.

John isn’t brilliant. He’s not clever, cunning, or elegant. He’s not seductively amoral, he’s not out there temptingly flaunting all the roles of social dos and don’ts in an elegant, victimless, clever fashion. 

He’s the person admonishing Sherlock to put his socks in the bloody hamper. He’s the one asking him about the electric bill. He’s the one topping up Sherlock’s oyster card and the one telling him to call his parents. 

And yes, he binds Sherlock’s wounds and soothes his nightmares and tethers him to the ground when he would otherwise fly apart. 

And he knows Sherlock loves him intensely, passionately, almost obsessively. He knows Sherlock values him, respects him, needs him.

He’s just never sure exactly why.

Most of the time, he doesn’t think about it. They work, as a couple, as parents, as partners. They’ve always mysteriously clicked, like two broken pieces fitting together perfectly at the cracks. Most of the time, he’s too busy living his life, raising his child, loving his husband.

But sometimes, there’s a text. And a sound. And John looks at the person he loves so much his heart literally quivers with it sometimes, and he wonders. 

Why me, if it could be her? Why me, if it could be anyone?

He never asks, because he’s honestly afraid of the answer. And he knows it doesn’t matter why Sherlock loves him, because it’s so obvious that he does. There’s so much binding them together these days. Parenthood, trust, affection, family, habit, and more than a fair share of lust.

But sometimes he doubts. Will it last? Will he one day wake up, look at me, realise I’m just a broken ex-soldier who has nothing to offer?

It only lasts a second. It only lasts until Sherlock notices his frown, pulls him down for a searing kiss that relegates the doubts in John’s mind back into the closet. 

One of these days, John knows, the doubts will disappear completely. One of these days, he’ll hear that fucking moan and won’t care.

He’s not quite there yet. 

But he will be.

----

Tags under the cut as usual, please let me know if you want to be tagged or untagged.

@calaisreno @totallysilvergirl @jrow @peanitbear @jolieblack @meetinginsamarra @helloliriels @keirgreeneyes @lisbeth-kk @friday411 @givemesherbet-blog-blog @weeesi @thalialunacy @thegildedbee @dapetty @salmonsown

#johnlock #bbc sherlock #my fic #may prompts 2024 #johnlock fic #jealousy

[hazbinshusk]

“Y’know, I’m startin’ to think the Princess was right about puttin’ in a limit on the drinks,” Husk’s smooth baritone had a humorous lilt to it as he breaks the silence in the bar. His speaking brings you back to the right side of the line of consciousness you’ve been see-sawing for the last twenty minutes, and you frown as you tilt your head back to meet his eye. “You good?”

You groan quietly, leaning an elbow on the bar and dropping your cheek heavily into your hand. You’re aware that you’ve been less than good company the last few hours, but Husk hasn’t really seemed to mind. In fact, you could almost swear that he was… content with you, even maybe happy to just experience the quiet with you sitting on the other side of the bar. Still, you straighten, raising an eyebrow at him teasingly. “Why’re you asking? Don’t I look good?”

He blinks at you before a rueful smirk touches your features. “Get enough bourbon into you and you start takin’ a page right outta Angel’s playbook, huh?”

You smile crookedly back up at him. “Is that a ‘no’?”

You swear that Husk’s eyes dip down over your figure for a moment. You could also swear that his gaze lingers for a second longer on your chest and that his cheeks pinken slightly as he meets your eye again. “Pleadin’ the fifth, sweets.”

Smile widening into something sweeter, you straighten in your seat, leaning towards him on your elbows. “Uh-huh. Sure.”

He gives you a small, almost bashful smile of his own, slinging the bar rag over his shoulder. “You wanna talk ‘bout whatever’s got you down?”

You shrug a shoulder, running a finger around the rim of your empty glass. “Don’t you ever get sick of listening to everyone else’s problems?”

“Every damn day,” he smirks, and you giggle. The expression warms his face further at the sound, his ears flicking forward as though to catch every part of it. “It’s a hazard of the job. But I’ve been holdin’ the title of resident lush here for a while now, and I’m worried you’re gonna go and dethrone me."

You laugh again, pushing your glass towards him hopefully. “Speaking of…?”

Husk’s golden eyes study you for a moment, taking in the almost playful pout you give him before he gives a relenting sigh. “One more. But only if you chase it with water.”

“You drive a hard bargain, bartender.” you reply. “But I’m a fancy gal – I’m gonna need a lemon wedge.”

He chuckles, rolling his eyes good-naturedly as he turns to reach for the bourbon bottle. You rest your chin back in your hand, admiring the sleekness of his wings idly, the shine in his fur and the muscles in his shoulders. He catches you staring as he returns to pour you a fresh glass, raising an eyebrow at your expression.

“Anyone ever tell you how pretty you are?”

Husk makes a soft cattish noise of surprise in the back of his throat. That pink in his cheeks reappears before he scoffs, sliding your drink back towards himself again. “Well, now you’re cut off.”

“No!” you pout as he swallows down the two fingers he’d poured you and sets the glass back on the bar. “But I’m serious!”

“You’re drunk.”

“I can be both,” you shoot back petulantly, and he gives you a sidelong, almost tired look. He’s leaning on the bar now, the position bringing the two of you closer together. You study the greying whiskers around his muzzle, the sweet little hearts above his brows, and your tone softens. “D’you think I would lie to you?”

“This is hell, doll,” he replies softly, a self-deprecating tilt to his lips. “Everybody lies.”

Your brow furrows, and maybe it’s the bourbon that makes you do it, or maybe it’s the soft warmth in his eyes, or the way they burn into yours. Maybe it’s way he’s kept you company without complaint all night. Or maybe it’s just… him, but you lean forward over the bar and press your lips to his cheek in a soft, chaste kiss.

Husk lets out a quiet mrrp! at the touch, and you exhale your nerves shakily as you withdraw slowly. “Believe me now?”

You meet Husk’s wide, surprised eyes for a second before you suddenly feel his hand on the back of your neck and you’re pulled into a crushing kiss.

#husk #husk posting #husk x reader #hazbin husk #hazbin hotel husk #hazbin hotel fanfic #hazbin hotel x reader #hazbin hotel #hazbin husk x reader #hazbin hotel husk x reader #my fic

[aloysiavirgata]

prompt: t-shirt, i adore you, knock three times

They run into one another at the ice machine on the third floor. She’s wearing her Stanford t-shirt and pajama pants, having planned a quiet night of Diet Coke and document review before Mulder drags her out into the marshes in the early morning.

“Your room is on the second floor,” he observes. “You staking me out? Christ Scully, this has to stop.”

She narrows her eyes. “You’re awfully presumptuous.”

“You got it baaaad,” he says, whapping on his ice bucket like a bongo.

“Oh, Fox,” she says flatly, filling her own bucket. “I cannot contain myself. I adore you.”

“I checked the fire evacuation map and your room is right under mine,” he notes. Whistles a few bars of Knock Three Times, leering. Winks.

They part ways at the stairwell door. “You think Skinner knows?” Mulder asks, thumbing her lips.

She snorts. “Mulder, at this point I’m pretty sure Bigfoot, The Loch Ness Monster, and every covert employee at Area 51 knows. I assume it’s in the Bureau’s new hire packet.”

He looks thoughtful. “Well,” he says. “Fuck it, then.” Mulder scoops her up, ice bucket and all, and carries her down the hall to his room.

#xf fanfic #xfiles fanfic #my fic #msr #prompt #inbox #nebulous canon of s7

[onboardsorasora]

Sponsor Max

Summary: 

Everything in Formula 1 came with a price tag and sponsors dropped unserious amounts of money in their sport for the prestige of it all. In all of his years, Peter had never once seen a blank cheque. Until now. 

The memo section simply said for Daniel.

Tags: Power Imbalance, Extremely Dubious Consent. Gratuitous Smut, Topping from the Bottom, Max is Toxic and Possessive, Daniel Doesn't Have A Choice, Sexual Coercion, Explicit Sexual Content

For @dannyricrolled

#maxiel #max/daniel #sponsor max #still so nervous about posting this fic lol I hope you all enjoy it #my fic

[charlescoded]

pairing: lestappen word count: 16.7k chapters: 3/3 rated explicit. soulmate au. omegaverse. omega!charles. alpha!max. smut. finger fucking. cunnilingus. loss of virginity. knotting. praise kink.

The soft, confused noise he lets out makes Max hush him again, his hand coming to rest on the back of Charles’ neck. “Max,” He mumbles against his skin, and that helps, touching him like this, to be so close. The itch underneath his skin doesn’t go away, but being in Max’s arms helps. “I don’t understand, you are— you are an alpha?”

He feels Max shiver. “Yes,” He says tightly, and Charles makes another noise, high-pitched and bordering on keening. He’s never felt like this before, but he’s also never been near an alpha when he went into heat either. Has never wanted to submit before. “Fuck, Charles, you need to let me go—."

Or, Charles is an unmated omega in a world where you present when you meet your soulmate.

#lestappen #my fic #my writing #i need you just you #i finally finished it!!!! #i would love to know what you think <3

[feeling-authority-stay-necessa]

#bts bios #sims 4 maxis cc #travel #obey me shall we date #couples #creepy #netflixedit #poems and poetry #3d printing #electoral college #humiliation captions #my fic #archive of our own

[peace-threat]

#travel #creepy #netflixedit #poems and poetry #electoral college #my fic #ass tease #bilbo baggins #kiznaiver #kehlani #wanderlust #bujo spread #thigh tattoo #jai brooks

[lizaluvsthis]

Destiny has already decided

- What if (in Triple Threat AU) - 

- Eratica got to talk to her inner self? (Eri) -

Summary: Eratica got sent to the abyss where she happens to meet her inner-self

Talked to @dreamteamredstinger about couple of Lore drops Eratica has and the AU itself, since eri's my fav this story is about her and her innerself ^^

Anyways enjoy lovely fans and to people who love Eratica!

Especially to RedStinger since this is one of the first gift fic he's getting

A white light suddenly burst into the plain white space, revealing a lone woman caught off guard by the unexpected appearance. 

Time seemed to slow down as the person’s eyes widened in realization. For a brief moment, fear consumed her, but she refused to let it control her. 

With a clear and steady mind, she quickly assessed her situation and decided to use her sword as a makeshift stair; she stabbed it into the ground just before her body could touch the floor.

Her boot landed on the top handle, and she gracefully landed safely on the ground, her sword still firmly embedded in the floor.

Her feet stabilized as she took in the surroundings around her. 

Her eyes darted around, taking in the endless white spaces that seemed to stretch indefinitely. 

With a determined look, she pulled her sword from the ground, its weight firmly gripped in her strong grasp.

"Where in the hell am I?" She said aloud, her hood falling to her shoulders revealing her face and her mask hanging loosely around her chin. She took a deep breath, taking off her mask momentarily as she looked around the space in confusion.

The woman's face revealed signs of battles past. A scar on her left eyebrow, a scar on her cheek, and hints of corruption on the left corner of her cheek that crept down her neck. 

"What is this place...?" she asked aloud, her voice echoing faintly in the quiet space, the volume seeming out of sync through the emptiness surrounding her.

Her gaze fell beneath her feet, and she looked at the tile reflecting her appearance. 

Suddenly, a faint glow caught her eye, and her focus shifted towards it.

Her senses tingle with anticipation, bracing for a possible encounter yet to come.

The surrounding atmosphere suddenly darkened, the glow intensified to an explosion of brightness. 

In a quick motion, Eratica shielded her eyes with her cape, protecting them from the blinding light that engulfed them all around her as the explosion occurred.

As the brightness faded and the abyss returned to its previous state of blank white emptiness, Eratica slowly lowered her arm, eyes opening once again. 

She steeled for the unknown, preparing to face whatever may come.

Only to find that she was staring back at...herself?

Her eyes widened in surprise to beheld her inner self, transformed into a young, healthy, and unblemished version.

The other version of her wore a purple sleeve and sported long, flowing hair, and eyes appearing innocent.

She couldn't help but take notice of the other version's stature, as she seemed shorter in comparison to her own. 

This difference was both unsettling and yet strangely captivating.

Eratica felt frozen in place, her hands remaining firmly clamped onto her sword's handle as her eyes locked onto her past self. 

Astonishment washed over her, prompting her to utter "You're...me..." 

Her brow furrowed, deepening the frown that now adorned her face.

Eratica's confusion only deepened as her eyes locked with her past self, the glowing yellow aura around her adding to the surrealness of the situation. 

“But how? How is this possible?” Yet no words came from her past. 

The silence between them felt almost deafening.

As the memories flooded back to Eratica, images of the past came rushing to her mind. 

She remembered the rise of the memes, their dominion over the territory, and the chaos that ensued. 

Bloodshed and destruction ravaged the lands, cities were reduced to heaps of rubble, and an army filled in vengeful hearts was ready to strike. 

The most haunting memory of all was the moment where she had taken her own brother's life…

Eratica could feel the weight of the memory as it pressed upon her conscience, its presence overwhelming.

In a desperate attempt to deny the reality of her past actions.

She took a few steps backward, her body instinctively distancing itself from the horrors she had inflicted. 

Her inner-self, Eri, now stood before her, an expression of anger evident on her face as she posed the question, "Why...?"

Eratica's body stiffened slightly as her mind wrestled with memories, her feet momentarily rooted in place. 

With a deep, purposeful breath, she managed to center once more, bringing clarity to her thoughts. 

Her attention returned to Eri, watching as her former self stood there, tears welling up in her eyes and a look of anger and hurt painted across her face.

"Why did you do that...? You..." Eri started, her voice trembling in a mixture of sadness and betrayal.

Eri's voice rang out in anguish, blaming Eratica for the death of her brother.

“You killed my brother!"

 However, Eratica responded to a cold, impassive tone, her face lacking emotion as she firmly stated, 

"He is not our brother. He has become a parasite. And parasites always will be parasites until they've grown to harvest from the mind of each being's existence..."

Eri's eyes dropped to the ground, her fists clenching tightly as she digested the harsh words spoken by Eratica.

Eratica remained cold and unflinching as she listened to Eri's outburst. 

"Why are you sad? I did what we were supposed to do, we finished our job," 

she stated matter-of-factly, in a hint of confusion.

But Eri's anguish only intensified, her frustration and anger reaching a boiling point as she yelled, "THIS ISN'T RIGHT! ALL OF THIS IS YOUR FAULT!" 

To a surge of emotion, she ran up to Eratica and lashed out to a weak punch, but Eratica dodged the attack effortlessly.

Her glow intensified, illuminating the space around her. 

In a sudden motion, she conjured up a small sword that bore a striking resemblance to Eratica's own. 

To a determined push forward, she issued a battle cry, her voice implied with anger.

 "YOU TOOK EVERYTHING AWAY FROM ME!"

Her swing came down hard, the force behind it powerful enough to almost knock Eratica off her feet. 

But the present Eratica stood her ground, her blade held firmly as a shield, defending herself from the onslaught.

“And who are you to think of that to yourself?!”

Eratica's anger flared, visible in the purple glow of her eyes shifting from red. 

She dodged Eri's attack, knocking the sword out of her grasp and pinning her to the ground. 

Her sword pointed menacingly at Eri, Eratica issued a harsh decree.

"You are nothing. You are not worth being yourself anymore," she declared, her voice cold and commanding. 

"I am in control here. And no such parasites shall live."

Her vision fixed on Eratica, a look of empathy and contemplation on her face as she uttered the question, 

"What have I become...?"

Looking down at her younger self, Eratica remained cold and neutral, her eyes devoid of kindness or mercy.

The anger and hatred that resided in her heart radiated outward, consuming her without a trace of compassion.

Eri's voice trembled in regret as she confessed, 

"I've become the worst to everyone, haven't I?” 

Eratica spoke “They think I'm the villain, but I tried everything to save their lives for this." 

Her grip tightened on her sword, anger welling up within her, but she fought to keep hers in check, slowly calming down.

Eratica's voice trailed off, choked in anger. 

She took a deep breath before speaking again, 

"And yet, what did I get in return? Nothing but the loss of my brother, all because of those damned pests."

There was a brief moment of quiet as the two versions of Eratica stood facing each other, both reflecting on the shared struggle and the pain that had driven them to such extreme measures. 

Though separated by time and circumstance, they shared a common bond in the loss of their brother, 

a pain that had consumed their hearts and led them down a path of anger and violence.

Eri's words echo a sense of self-blame and regret. 

She held accountable for the choices made.

 On the other hand, Eratica remained steadfast in her belief that the memes were the root cause of their troubles.

 She wholeheartedly believed that the chaotic influence of the memes had led to all the suffering and chaos.

"But- what about Minion...?”

Eri's words brought up an old and painful memory, and Eratica instinctively flinched at the mention of Minion.

"No- don't bring this up now, she doesn't matter to me” Her response was brief and dismissive, trying to suppress the guilt connected to their past.

But Eri persisted, her voice added frustration as she yelled. "Then why did you stop?" Eratica paused, caught off guard by the question.

She followed by turning her head to the left at her prompting, and her eyes widened at what she saw.

She stood silent. “Don't you see the other side? The bright side of life? Can't you see how it is for other people that can have different paths?" 

Looking to her left, Eratica was met to an unexpected sight—a vibrant, colorful world filled in joy and laughter. 

People moved about, their faces etched that had radiant smiles and eyes twinkling in mirth. Life seemed to hum with energy and optimism. 

Everything here is so... vibrant and alive.

Eratica turned to the other side and saw the scene unfolding before her. 

The white plain abyss loomed, and SMG3 was there, defending SMG4 with his arms protectively wrapped around him.

Minion had bravely stepped in front of the meme guardians, a look of determination and fear mixed on her face.

She was frozen, unable to move, the weight of her feelings pinning her in place.

Eratica's eyes, something stirred within her. 

She was quiet for a moment, the weight of truth sinking in.

"We were different from our world. We killed our brother... and what did it cost? All of it, just because others turned into those insane meme parasites? Was it all just for our brother to return? Hoping everything would finally end? Go back to normal?”

Eratica walked up to the front, she stared at Minion's face. 

Regret and guilt seeped into her expression, the weight of her actions and the consequences they had brought upon them all. 

"LOOK AROUND YOU, ERATICA!" Inner Eri's voice cut through the air, feeling frustration and despair. 

"YOU'VE DONE SO MUCH HARM!"

"I did it to protect the people!" Eratica retorted, her voice firm and resolute, standing unwavering in her convictions.

But Inner Eri's response was equally intense. "THIS ISN'T OUR WORLD! IT DOESN'T WORK LIKE THAT!”

As Eratica's resolve cracked, the pieces of her facade falling away, she stood there, dumbfounded by the realization that hit her. 

Inner Eri's blunt words struck a chord, causing her to question everything she thought she understood.

"Take a hint," Eri urged "What do you think the people around this world act like? Four's crew, who weren't even affected by the meme parasite?"

Eratica paused, letting the question sink in as she looked around, seeing the world differently for the first time.

"It's because they're good people, they protect others from the dangers that are a threat to their world. Look outside. 

Don't you see that nature is still living? On its peaceful side, you wonder why. 

Because they're the main guardians. 

They guard to protect whatever is harming their own home! And what do you think you're doing?!"

Eri's eyes glanced at the sword, she urged, 

"Please... think about your decisions... think it all through... I don't want us to... to go insane again... please..." 

As she spoke, she slowly raised her right hand, offering it to Eratica, hoping for her to take it and embrace the path of understanding and healing.

As Eri stood there, offering her hand to Eratica, she noticed that her hand was fading away, slowly vanishing before her eyes.

Eri's time is running out.

Eratica stood there, torn apart to her and the weight of her past actions. 

Eratica's voice was soft and strained as she spoke, "Please... make a decision... I don't want ourselves to end up in a big mess like this... let it all go... it was all... in the past…"

Eratica felt confused. 

In her world, the guardians had always been in control. But now that she saw them in this world, they seemed different. 

She tried to find why they seemed so different, but it made her doubt what she had thought was true.

As Eri pleaded with Eratica, the urgency in her voice was palpable. 

"Promise me you'll change," she began, her voice barely holding back tears as she spoke of her brother and their world. 

"For us, your brother, the world we were in... promise me," She begged, her hand still extended, the promise hanging in the air. 

"PROMISE ME!" she cried, the weight of her request clear in her emotional outburst.

Eratica's gaze fell upon the sword before her, the embodiment of her identity and the symbol of her convictions. 

It took a moment of deep contemplation for her to reach a decision. As her sword clattered to the ground, a sense of resignation washed over her.

A form of a heavy sigh, she admitted.

"I can't promise that." 

The words hung in the air, went to a mixture of regret and acceptance.

Despite her problems, Eratica knew that some things couldn't be guaranteed.

As the weight of the decision bore down on her, Eratica had self-doubt. 

Her inner self slowly fading away and leaving her to choose her own, the significance of the moment magnified.

The silence seemed to only amplify the tension of the moment as Eri stood there, knowing that whatever decision she made would have far-reaching consequences.

As Eri's words echoed through the air, a bittersweet chuckle escaped her lips. 

Forming a gentle, saddened smile, she continued.

“Then you are an idiot." 

The weight of her statement hung in the air, a stark contrast to the finality of her fading away into the ether.

Eratica stood there, alone in the silent aftermath, grappling the weight of her choice and the consequences that lay ahead. 

The absence of Eri's presence left a void in her heart, and the echoes of her words still resonated within her mind, a bittersweet reminder of the choices made and the paths that had led them there.

As Eratica gripped her sword tighter, determination burning in her eyes, she declared in a firm voice, "There is nothing WORTH for me to give... I've paid the price, and I must end it." 

As Eratica sat there, a wave of emptiness washed over her like a merciless tide. 

She finds it hard to understand, grappling the question at her thoughts. 

“Why does it hurt?” It was a question that had no easy answer, and as the weight of pain and loss settled upon her, she wept without restraint, shedding tears that seemed to come from the depths of her wounded soul.

As tears streamed down her face, Eratica felt a touch on her shoulder and provided comfort.

The faint figure of a familiar soul stood beside her.

Its voice cutting through the haze of her pain as it spoke words that offered both guidance and purpose.

The red gleam flickered in the dim light as the familiar soul urged her on, 

"Come on, Eratica. It is your DUTY to save everyone. Before it is too late, you must fulfill your destiny"

A determined glint in her eyes, Eratica wiped away her tears and stood upright, gripping her sword tightly.

The voice of the familiar soul's encouragement echoed in her mind, reminding her of the weight of her responsibility.

"You're right," she acknowledged, her voice firm yet in a hint of sadness. 

"I must... for the people and everyone," Eratica took a deep breath, filling her lungs to a mix of resolve and lingering guilt. 

Despite the conflict that gnawed at her heart, she steeled following the path she was setting her upon.

In a final swing of her sword, Eratica sent forth a cutting arc that tore open a portal, its shimmering light rippling in the surrounding environment.

With a heavy heart, (I'm sorry) the words tinged in regret of the path laid out before her. 

"But destiny... has already... decided."

~☆~★~☆~★~☆~★~☆~

#smg4 triple threat au #lizaluv #smg4 #smg34 #(minor ship) #smg4 smg3 #smg3 #my art #redstinger665 #triple threat au #smg4 au #eratica #smg4 eratica #minion #smg4 minion #oc #smg4 oc #my fic

[teddywesworl]

hey guys i did it

#steddie #steddie fic #my fic

[arcan3-reliquary]

me in the corner writing ratio whump because he gets nothing lore wise in cannon: mwuhehehe

Anyhow some relevant headcannons to these doodles: I hc Ratio as a high masking autistic individual like myself, and that he knows sign bc he has nonverbal students and often goes semi-verbal. Imo hes more prone to shutdowns just because i view him as the type to internalize it when hes in pain rather than really allow himself the release of just letting the rubber band snap. All of these will appear in my fic that im writing if hurt/comfort is your thing :]

#hsr fanart #my fic #fic fanart #hsr fic #aventio

[kingsofeverything]

Come On and Rescue Me

by @kingsofeverything

Louis only intends to watch his hot neighbor’s Instagram live, but he winds up with his hand down his pants.

Louis/Harry 🛟 3.3k 🛟 Explicit

Written for @wankersday 2024

#larry fanfiction #larry fic #larry stylinson #my fic #my writing

[raina-at]

Empty

Bakers, again.

----

Hospital tea is awful. Hospital food is worse. Sometimes Sherlock thinks hospitals provide awful food on purpose, to keep patients motivated to get well as soon as possible just to escape the food.

He knows it’s not true, of course. Hospital kitchens cook for the lowest common denominator, and more often than not, sick people don’t have the most refined palette anyway.

Still, there is no excuse for this croissant. It’s dry, tasteless, hard as a rock, and the jam inside is present on a molecular level at best. This pastry could be qualified as a hate crime against the French, or a human rights violation.

Or, Sherlock is angry and trying to take it out on the croissant instead of yelling at the person lying in the hospital bed he’s currently sitting next to. 

Or maybe both.

It’s fuck o’clock in the morning, as John would say, and quite honestly, Sherlock would rather be anywhere else. If he has to be here, the least this hospital could do for him is a decent cup of tea and a mediocre pastry, instead of distilled bathwater and this abomination. 

There’s an audible groan from the bed. Blue eyes blink open and look blearily at Sherlock.

“What the actual fuck…” 

“Good bloody morning to you too, I hope you feel like shit,” Sherlock says, his voice as brittle as his smile.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” Harry groans, closing her eyes against the dim light. “And where the fuck is here?”

“Glad you asked,” Sherlock says in a mockingly cheerful tone. “We just had a thoroughly delightful night together, you, me, and your brother, who’s just stepped out to phone your work and make up some bullshit excuse why you can’t be in today. See, it all started at one on the bloody morning, when your neighbour phoned John to inform him that he heard a loud bump and crash from your flat. Your brother decided he couldn’t just wait until morning to see whether you’d actually managed to off yourself this time, and so we went to check on you. We found you delightfully unconscious, lying in a pool of your own blood from a nasty head wound.”

“I must have tripped and fallen,” Harry mutters rebelliously. 

“We found this next to you.” Sherlock holds up an empty vodka bottle. “Coincidence? Probably not.”

Harry looks away, turns her head towards the window. “Fuck off,” she mutters, quietly defiant like always. 

“Oh, believe me, I would love to. But as long as you insist on dragging your brother through hell, I’m along for the ride, I’m afraid.”

“I didn’t phone him! I never asked for his help! Why does he always have to stick his fucking nose into my business? Who asked him?” Harry’s voice is raspy and raw from the alcohol and emotion, and she’s glaring daggers at Sherlock.

“Would you rather he let you die?” Sherlock asks acerbically. “Is that how selfish you are? Don’t you realise what that would do to him?”

“Yes, and who the fuck cares what it does to me,” she mutters.

“You are an adult,” Sherlock says, leaning closer and holding Harry’s angry gaze. “And furthermore, you are not my responsibility. But your brother damned well is, and it’s my job to protect and support him to the best of my ability. And quite frankly, he’s at the end of his tether, Harriet. I’m not sure how much more of this he can take.”

“You’re such a fucking hypocrite, you know that, right?” she whispers, tears gathering in her eyes. “You act all high and mighty, like you’re so much better than me, when you’re one fucking weak moment away from ending up right down here next to me.”

Sherlock rubs a tired hand over his face. She’s right, of course. He’s a junkie. A sober junkie, but there is no cure for addiction. He will always be tempted. He will always be one needle prick away from the abyss. But that is very much not the point.

“You’re right, of course. I understand the rock bottom you’re hitting every time you disappear into that bottle better than most people. And I’ve been where you are. I’ve bitten the hand that tried to help me up, again and again. I regarded it as entirely my brother’s problem that he didn’t just wash his hands of me when I was at my lowest. But if he’d done that, I would be dead. And he would have to carry that guilt for the rest of his life. I don’t want that for John. Do you?”

She looks away, tears now streaming freely down her face. He has little sympathy, because he suspects she mainly feels sorry for herself, not for anyone else. 

“I don’t know what you want me to say,” she mutters. 

Sherlock sighs, feeling his anger slowly drain out of him. This is pointless. Addiction is complicated, nobody knows this better than him. No rousing speech will change the grip the bottle has on her. And all the love she has for her brother—and she does love him, as much as she resents him at times—won’t make her get sober. He can’t articulate, to this day, why he managed to drag himself out of that black hole. Resources helped, sure. But he doesn’t know what changed, what shifted within himself, to make it possible for him to accept the help that was offered to him. 

And nothing will keep John from extending a hand, again and again, until she’s ready to take it.

“I don’t know,” he finally admits. “I…” he looks down at his hands, then admits quietly, “I can’t fix this for him. I want to, and I can’t.” 

“I’m trying, Sherlock. I’ll keep trying. I’ll probably fail again, but believe me, I am trying,” she says quietly. 

Sherlock doesn’t answer, but he gives her a short nod as acknowledgement, because he believes her. It doesn’t necessarily make a difference, and he hates how much she keeps hurting John, but he does believe her. 

She’s trying. She’ll keep trying. They all will keep trying.

And maybe someday, they can break this vicious circle. Maybe someday, she’ll stop hurting John and Sherlock can forgive her. 

Until then, he’s here, because John needs him to be. And as much as he would like to fight and slay all of John’s dragons for him, that’s never going to happen. Life doesn’t work that way. But what he can do is fight alongside him. And that’s what they’ll do. They’ll fight this dragon together until they slay it. 

“Don’t eat the croissants,” he tells her, as close to forgiveness as he will get as long as she keeps hurting John. “I’ll make you some topfengloatschen later.”

“Five years in, and you still can’t fucking pronounce golatsche,” Harry says, but she’s smiling at him in silent gratitude. 

“Shut up,” he says, returning the smile.

Truce restored, he thinks. I wonder when we will finally have peace.

----

Tags under the cut as always, please let me know if you want to be tagged or untagged.

@calaisreno @totallysilvergirl @jrow @peanitbear @jolieblack @meetinginsamarra @helloliriels @keirgreeneyes @lisbeth-kk @friday411 @givemesherbet-blog-blog @weeesi @thalialunacy @thegildedbee @dapetty @salmonsown

#johnlock #bbc sherlock #my fic #may prompts 2024 #mayprompts2024 #empty #bakers with benefits