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fruitquake · 3 years

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The Notebook

Remus had been in such a rush to get to class, he didn’t notice he had grabbed the wrong bag. In fact, in his absentminded state, he didn’t realize before he opened the bag to find Sirius’ things inside: Pieces of crumbled up parchment, a couple of chocolate frogs, a bottle of ink, and his notebook.

Remus remembered buying that notebook with him, in a bookshop in muggle London. Sirius had immediately fallen in love with the notebooks that had silly “inspirational” quotes written on the cover. The one he had bought said “Shoot for the moon; even if you miss, you’ll land among the stars”, which didn’t even make sense. Of course, Sirius didn’t care if it made sense or not.

“Alright, now, students, you will be taking notes today, so get your quills and parchment out,” said Professor McGonnagal as she entered the classroom.

Fuck. Remus didn’t have his own bag, and therefore didn’t have anything to take notes with. He turned in his seat to try and catch Sirius’ attention, but to no avail.

He would have to borrow Sirius’ notebook then, just for this lesson. He could give it back to him afterwards.

But as he opened it, something written on the first page caught this eye:

This notebook belongs to Sirius Black Lupin.

Remus felt his heart rate speed up as he flicked through the pages. On some of them, Sirius had written things like “S+R”, usually with a heart neatly drawn around the letters, as well as “Sirius Lupin” over and over again. A larger block of text caught his eye:

“Why do I feel this way? I know it’s wrong, but no matter how hard I try to make the feeling go away, it’s still there; making me weak in my knees every time I look at him.

He doesn’t realize the effect he has on me. Every damn time he smiles, or ruffles his hair, or bites his lip when he’s concentrating… Someday, one of these things will be the bloody death of me and he doesn’t even realize.

If he found out how I feel, he would surely hate me. He can’t know I’m hopelessly in love with him. No one can ever know.”

Remus stared blankly at the page. Surely, this couldn’t be about himself? Sirius wasn’t in love with him… Was he?

He quickly closed the notebook before anyone around him could see what was written in it, and turned around to look at Sirius. He was staring at his desk, though he didn’t appear to be taking notes, or doing anything, really. Remus couldn’t help but wonder if Sirius had seen him reading the notebook and if so, what was going through his head?

Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck. Sirius’ ears were ringing, his whole brain in panic mode. It was like an alarm inside his head, frantically ringing out:

He knows, he knows, he hates you now, everything is ruined.

He thought of all the possible ways out of this: Fakng his own death and moving to France and live under a new name. Or faking his own death and move to the other side of the world. Or perhaps even better, faking his own death and going into outer space, making a life for himself on Mars. In fact, he didn’t really have any idea that didn’t involve faking his own death.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Remus turn in his seat to look at him.

Alright, Sirius, he said to himself. Keep your eyes down, don’t make eye contact. As soon as Transfiguration is over you can make a run for it.

By the end of the day, he would be Pierre The Frenchman, living on a cozy wineyard in France. Or an astronaut on his way to Mars.

But as the lesson ended and students hurried out, he started to realize he couldn’t leave. Even if Remus now hated him, he still loved Remus, and a life without him, even if he got to meet some cool aliens instead, wouldn’t be worth living.

He stood up, finding himself face to face with Remus. “Hey,” he said, praying his voice wouldn’t betray his nerves. “I think you have my, uh-”

“Notebook?” Remus interrupted in a strangely high-pitched voice. “Haha. What notebook? I didn’t read it. I didn’t even notice it was there. Here’s your bag! Goodbye!” He tossed the bag onto Sirius’ desk, before practically running out of the door, leaving Sirius behind in the nearly empty classroom.

“What on earth was that about?”

Sirius jumped. He’d completely forgotten that James was there too. He turned around to face him, making a desperate attempt at a nonchalant expression. “No idea,” he lied.

James didn’t seem so convinced. “Why was he being so weird about a notebook? And what notebook was he even talking about, anyway?” He reached into Sirius’ bag, but Sirius was quick to snatch it out of his hands.

“It’s private!” he said.

But James had managed to grab the notebook, and had already opened it. “Oh.” he said, realization dawning on his face. “Oh!”

“James, give that back!” Sirius pleaded, no longer able to keep the panic out of his voice.

James looked up at him. “You’re in love with Remus,” he almost whispered. “Shit, mate. Everything makes so much more sense now.”

Sirius looked down, shame mixing with the panic. “You weren’t supposed to have read that.”

But James ignored this. “Sirius, you have to go after him! He clearly feels the same way!”

“No he doesn’t!”

“Yes, he does,” James insisted. “Did you not see him running out of here all red in the face. And how weirdly he acted before… Pads, that is not the behavior of someone who just learned his friend is in love with him and doesn’t return those feelings.”

Sirius ran a hand through his hair, letting out a shaky breath. “You don’t know that,” he mumbled.

“Yes, I do! Listen to me, dimwit,” James said, grabbing a hold of both Sirius’ shoulders, forcing him to look at him. “If he didn’t have feelings for you too, he wouldn’t have acted that way. There would have been an awkward conversation where he tried to let you down gently. ‘I really like you as a friend, Sirius, but I would like to stay just that.” Something like that, you know? He definitely wouldn’t have acted like that!”

Could James really be right? Sirius fiddled nervously with his shirt collar. “So… you think I should find him and talk to him, don’t you?”

“Exactly!” James responded. “Come on, no time to waste!”

Sirius sighed. “Alright,” he muttered, taking hesitant steps towards the door.

“Actually, wait.” James said, grabbing his arm. “Look, Pads, I know I shouldn’t have meddled in this. That notebook was private. And, well… I imagine this isn’t how you planned on me finding out that you like blokes but, uh… I want you to know that I love you just the same. You’ll always be my brother.”

Sirius didn’t have the words to explain what a relief it was to hear that from James. All of the sleepless nights he had spent, after realizing he was gay, picturing James’ reaction. In his imagination, it was usually the end of their friendship. James looked disgusted, angry, betrayed. But as he looked into his eyes, a deep, gentle brown, there was none of that. No hatred, no disgust. “Thank you, Prongs,” he said with a small smile.

James returned the smile, pulling him into a brief hug. “No problem, mate. Now go talk to Moony, for Merlin’s sake!”

Remus had gone to the place he always went when seeking comfort or a place to clear his mind: the Hogwarts library. Surrounded by books, with no people around, except maybe for the librarian, he felt strangely at peace. Today, however, there was no peace. His mind was running at a dangerous speed, way too fast for himself to keep up.

Sirius liked him… maybe. It could’ve been a prank. Could Sirius have meant for Remus to find it? Was he trying to humiliate Remus by tricking him into confessing his own feelings? Or it could all have been something Remus’ own brain, desperate for love, had made up. Either way, he was going to do what he always did in uncomfortable or scary situations: ignore it until it hopefully went away.

“Remus.”

Fuck. It was going to be hard to ignore the problem, when the problem was standing a few feet away from him, nervously fiddling with the strap on his bag.

Sirius shuffled awkwardly next to Remus’ table, eyeing a chair as though he was debating whether or not to sit down. “I thought I might find you here,” he said.

Remus got up, grabbing a random book off the nearest shelf. “Congrats, Sherlock,” he said snarkily, sitting back down again. He opened the book, pretending to read. It was better than having to face Sirius.

“Moony, I- I know you looked in my notebook,” Sirius said, pulling out the chair opposite Remus and sitting down.

Remus kept his eyes on the book, without catching any of what was written in it. Sirius continued:

“I don’t know how much you actually read, but… Well, I’m pretty sure you saw enough to know the truth.”

“No, I swear, I have no idea what you’re…” Remus trailed off. What good would lying do? He had known Sirius since they were both eleven. There was no one more stubborn or persistent. If Sirius wanted to talk about this, that would happen whether Remus wanted to or not. “Yeah, I did,” he mumbled. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have.”

“I need to know the truth as well,” Sirius said. “If you don’t feel the same, that’s fine. I’ll… I’ll get over it, I won’t make it awkward or uncomfortable, I promise. But if you do feel the same…”

Remus opened his mouth, but no sound left him. He didn’t know what to say. This didn’t feel real. It was too good to be true. A prank, for sure. James was probably hiding somewhere, ready to jump out and laugh at him with Sirius if he confessed.

Silence stretched for what seemed like an eternity, while an internal war wreaked havoc inside of Remus. Should he tell Sirius the truth, or stay silent?

But before either side could win, Sirius had already drawn conclusions from his silence.

“Right,” he said, his voice choked-up and distant. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have assumed there was even a chance you liked me back.” He got up, before Remus could say anything. “Just forget about it, okay?”

Fuck. Remus looked up. Sirius was walking away, his shoulders slumped, his steps heavy. Remus stood up, knocking the chair over in his hurry. “Sirius, wait!”

He had caught up with him in a few long strides. Sirius turned around, his expression hardened like he didn’t dare let himself hope again.

This time, Remus didn’t waste any time worrying about the consequences. He cupped Sirius’ face with his hands, leaning in to kiss him, and oh Merlin, was it the best decision he had ever made.

The kiss was returned almost immediately, like it was all Sirius had been wanting to do for years. And maybe it was… Remus thought that was the case for himself, even if he had only recently realized it.

Both of them lost in the other’s lips, they accidentally backed into a bookcase, sending a few books falling onto the floor.

“Who’s there?” Called the angry voice of Madam Pince.

Sirius and Remus looked at each other, both trying to suppress their laughter. “Let’s get the fuck out of here,” Sirius whispered.

Remus nodded, letting Sirius take his hand as they both ran from the library. He grinned, feeling the rush of adrenaline and euphoria take over his mind. They hid in an unused classroom, both of them laughing and panting.

“That was close, huh?” Sirius said. “Imagine if Madam Pince had seen us. She would’ve lost her damn mind.”

“Definitely.” Remus’ cheeks hurt from smiling. “So,” he said. “Sirius Lupin, huh?”

Sirius groaned. “Shut up,” he said, his face turning red.

Remus laughed. “No,” he said. “Never. It’s embarrassing for you.”

“It is,” Sirius agreed. He leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to Remus’ lips. “Will kissing shut you up?”

“Mmh.” Remus stroked his chin with mock thoughtfulness. “You know, it just might. Why don’t keep kissing me to find out?”

#me? writing something????? unbelievable!#remus lupin #sirius black #wolfstar #wolfstar fanfiction #james potter #marauders #marauders era #fanfic #fanfiction #wolfstar fanfic #marauders fanfiction

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duckpatrolstories · 3 years

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𝐌𝐈𝐍𝐄, tetsuro kuroo x reader — ch. 4

— in which an unfortunate bartender in the wrong place at the wrong time get kidnapped by one of the biggest crime syndicates in the city.

female reader, original on wattpad, cw; swearing, death threats

word count: 1496 — first previous

When you come back to your senses, you're half expecting to be standing at heaven's gate. But the scene before you is anything but white clouds and golden roads.

You lay on a rather comfortable sofa in a spacious room. Floor-length windows line two of the walls, giving a bird's eye view of the bustling city. The evening sun setting on the horizon shines through the glass, giving the room a warm glow. The ceiling is high, a small, fancy and abstract chandelier hangs above you. Beside you, across from the sofa you lay on, a glass coffee table sits. And beyond that, an armchair with a man sitting in it.

You groan and place your hand against your forehead. There's a very prominent bump from where it came in contact with the ground. You can't remember what happened exactly-

Wait.

There's a man sitting in the chair.

You spring upright and snap your gaze back over to him. The sudden movement causes a headache to flare up, but you ignore it. Your pulse picks up slightly, the sight of the stranger making you uneasy.

"Good evening," he says in a smooth voice. You take in his appearance, and holy shit, he is illegally handsome.

The golden light paints him miraculously, illuminating his sharp, hazel eyes beautifully. His athletic physique is fitted perfectly with a dark business suit and crimson red tie. An expensive silver watch hugs snuggly around his left wrist, accentuating his hand rather nicely.

He sits with his legs crossed formally, a glass of whiskey hanging loosely in his fingers. As he raises the glass to his lips to take a drink, not once do his eyes leave you. They stare at you with an analysing intensity, almost as if he's gauging what you can do. What that might be, you don't know.

"How are you feeling?" he asks. "You've been out for the entire day."

"Who are you?" you ask wearily, feeling the need to protect yourself. You hug your arms around you and slowly bring your legs close to your chest.

The fact that you aren't dead makes you feel worse. You were kept alive for a reason, and that reason makes your stomach churn.

"Tetsuro Kuroo, the leader of the Nekoma gang here in Tokyo," the man answers, a charming smile tugging at the corners of his lips. "And I'm guessing you're [y/n] [l/n]?"

You furrow your brows at him. "How do you..?" you ask softly, your voice trailing off as confusion takes over.

"Don't worry, I didn't obtain my information in an overtly creepy way," he says and his eyes flick down to your chest for a second. "You're wearing a name tag."

You look down, seeing the plastic card pinned to your shirt. Right. You were working.

"I sincerely apologise for how you were handled," Kuroo says, taking a sip of his whiskey before continuing. "Hopefully it didn't cause you too much discomfort."

Oh, yeah, like an almost broken and bloody nose doesn't feel like Satan himself is trying to dig his fingers up there and rip out my sinuses.

You want to scoff at his ignorant words, but you refrain from doing so.

"What do you want from me?" you ask as you gently touch your fingertips to the bridge of your nose. You hiss at the severe tenderness of the bruise. It feels a bit swollen, as well. You wonder what it looks like. You have yet to see how much of a mess you are after getting beaten and kidnapped in a mirror.

"We just need to have a little talk," Kuroo says. He sets his glass down on the end table beside his chair. The glass on glass sounds loud.

He folds his hands on his knee and watches as you rub the back of your hand against your mouth and inspect it for dried blood, only to find none. It seems like you've been cleaned up. He holds his tongue and waits for you to finish checking over the wounds you've obtained.

As you run your fingers along the scabs on your cheek, you look at him. Your hand drops down and you wrap your arm around your legs. The scabs don't seem too bad. They'll heal rather quickly.

Taking your anticipating gaze as a sign to continue, Kuroo takes a breath. "You're kinda in deep shit right now. What you saw and heard behind that little bar of yours wasn't something for your eyes and ears."

I figured that much, Sherlock.

"And I don't want to go through the troubles of covering up a murder," he continues. "So, for the time being, I can't let you leave until I know you won't utter a word."

"What?" you blink at him. A part of you doesn't believe it, but the other that uses common sense sort of saw this coming.

"Your knowledge of that little... deal, so to speak, makes you a liability," Kuroo elaborates. His eyes dance across your face in a sort of curious way. "What my men and I are doing is rather illegal, and I can't have you run off and blab to the authorities when I've worked really hard to get to where I am, now can I?"

He quirks a brow at you. The question is rhetorical, so you don't feel the need to answer. Not like you want to, anyway. You're more worried about not being able to leave.

What does he mean by that? Where will you stay? Are you staying with him?

"Will you let me go home if I promise not to say anything?" you ask. It's a stupid question, but for some reason, you hope the answer to it is in your favour.

"I'm afraid it's not that easy," Kuroo says with a shake of his head.

"Why not?" you furrow your brows, getting a little snippy. You don't see why it's so hard for him to just trust your words. Besides, if you can't leave you'll most likely end up as a bed warmer, just as the men behind the bar intended. And you don't want that. "I'm one hell of a secret keeper. Can't you just let me go and pretend I never saw or heard anything?"

Kuroo is irked by your response. Don't you get it? Trust is something that's earned, not handed out like free food to the poor and homeless. And that rule is strongly enforced with the Yakuza.

He stands up and you swallow. He speaks as he walks across the spacious lounge and towards you.

"In case you've failed to notice..." he says lowly and stops directly in front of you.

You sink back into the sofa like a coward, not liking how close he is to you. He folds his hands behind his back and bends down slightly to get closer for intimidation purposes.

"...You are in no position to argue. I could easily have you killed right here and now and I wouldn't even blink," he threatens, his serious tone raising goosebumps all over your body. "But I decided that I'm going to show a bit of mercy. You should be grateful that you're still breathing."

You cast your gaze to the side submissively. His words are harsh, cold, and angry, and they have no trouble putting you in your place.

Kuroo straightens, staring down at you with scrutinising eyes. "My men and I won't hesitate to do what it takes to get what we want. And what we want right now, is for you to keep quiet."

"How... how do you plan on doing that?" you ask in a meek voice. You hate it. You absolutely hate it. You feel so helpless right now. But you didn't feel helpless when you were taking a beating last night. So why now?

"You'll be staying here," Kuroo says, backing off with a few steps away from you. He runs his hands down the front of his suit to remove any wrinkles and adjusts his tie. "It's the easiest way I can keep an eye on you."

You want so desperately to argue, but you can't. You know that it will be to no avail, that Kuroo's decision is final. But there's nothing you can do about it, except go along with it and hope that you can go home soon.

And as he said before, you're a liability.

You can't be let loose.

"I'll send in one of my men to show you to your room," Kuroo says as he turns on his heel and starts leaving the room. "We'll discuss the rules you will have to follow while living here over dinner."

You don't say anything to acknowledge him. You just keep your lips tight, your gaze still averted.

"Be a good girl and wait here," he says.

And with that, he leaves, his footsteps retreating with him.

#haikyuu mafia #haikyuu fanfiction #kuroo x reader #female reader #hq #kuroo x female reader #kuroo tetsurou #tetsuro kuroo #wattpad #kuroo tetsuro #tetsuro #tetsurou #tetsurou kuroo #kuroo tetsuro x reader #x reader #reader insert

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missinghan · 3 years

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aria of an assassin ⤖ lee minho

❖ genre : assassin au; fluff; angst

❖ word count : 6,2k.

❖ warning : mentions of blood & violence, explicit language

❖ summary : minho hasn’t been fazed for decades throughout his bloodied career until the next target happens to be a black cat and he’s suddenly incapable of pulling the trigger.

❖ note : okay, so it’s been a year? this tiny, stupid blog is turning one year old today? yea I couldn’t believe it either. this is to all of my mutuals and readers out there, I don’t say it enough but I truly appreciate each and every one of you 🖤 I wish I could have written something longer but due to school, this random piece will have to do for now.

❖ the sequel : with felix is out!

one.

“Shit.”

Minho grits in a hushed tone although all that has been accompanying him is the pitiful moonlight and icy breeze dissolving into every fiber of his skin. Every minuscule movement suddenly becomes too irritating to his eardrums. The hustle and bustle life of the city at night. Terrible traffic. Even the sound of his own inhales and exhales.

What is that thing?

He thinks to himself, proceeding to expand his eyesight with the pair of scopes; confusion soon flares into curiosity, then faint anger and dead silence. He swears his heartbeat just paused awkwardly like a broken record for a split second there. Such strange, or odd targets are no stranger to him; nor do they stir something inside the coldness of his rib cage.

Not an easy kill, they say. And not easy it is.

Because whatever he’s watching with his very eyes is a cat. A goddamn cat with a coat as sleek pitch as the dark canvas upon his head and piercing golden eyes. The peculiar animal walks with its head held high like it’s lording over everyone else—such self-reassurance, such radiance some humans cease to possess.

It’s dangerous, they say. But it’s a fucking cat! Irritation bubbles up at the back of his throat, makes his skin crawl, and causes a bark of profanity to leave his lips once more. Has it not occurred to his client that he doesn’t kill children and animals? When it’s clearly been written on the contract? In bold, underlined, and everything?

They could have at least given him more details on what he’s getting himself to this time.

An exhale. He packs up his things, pulls his black cap down a little, and leaves the top of the building without looking back. If he did, he would have seen those starry eyes boring holes onto his back.

two.

The road Minho is walking through is more than familiar. For one, he takes the same path every day to grab a drink at his go-to place—a vending machine near an old, plain high school.

It’s fair to say he knows every corner of the neighborhood like the back of his hand—from the dark alley where bullies beat up their classmates to the small stall of lemonade of a middle school girl who waves at him every morning. He never reciprocates though; it doesn’t feel right. The amount of apathy in his heart isn’t enough for him to act normally when taking lives is what he does for a living.

For two, he used to have a part-time job at that particular high school for an old request. Due to his conscience, he did go out of his way to take the kill outside of the school—causing a catastrophe in such an environment makes him uncomfortable.

Just then, he stops. His brow raises. Isn’t that…

The black cat slinks through the crowd of nosy students in the direction of where he too is heading. It raises its nose and gives the air a rough sniff, making a face as though the general stagnant with exhaust fumes stench of the city disgusts the entirety of its existence.

Watching it take a slight dip to avoid being hit with someone’s bag, Minho holds back every urge to come running at the creature and wrap his arms around its small figure. He wonders how long it’d take for the cat to reach its final destination because it’s definitely taking some sweet ass time to stride through the front of the main gate like a supermodel. Meanwhile, he’s stressed to the core as if the harmless high school filled with teenagers is nothing less than a battlefield.

Is it testing him?

Something is oddly unsettling about an animal staring straight into his eyes. Paranoia fuels the forgotten irritation inside his chest, sets out to make him actually think those golden eyes are memorizing every inch of his feature. Then, they soften with what seems to be exhaustion, its tiny head turning and its tiny feet take it skipping gently away from the scene.

Minho finally acknowledges the knot inside his stomach and the breath he’s been holding. With a harsh gulp, he no longer takes notice of the fact if his cap is hung low enough or if he’s walking too quickly. For the first time in long, a rush of adrenaline hits him hard enough to make him speed walk through the herd of chatty teenagers.

Questions naturally pop up as his shoes kiss the ground, his shadow sprinting into a dark, though familiar alleyway. Was he hallucinating? But he’s been getting enough sleep and eating well. What makes him so certain that it was the same cat? Instincts or some sixth sense bullshit perhaps. If it was the cat that’s assigned to be killed off in a week, what’s so dangerous about it? And how long has he been running for? Seconds? Minutes? Hours? And to where?

“You.”

Half-way through trying to keep his thoughts off of his face, Minho stops himself when a rather feminine voice echoes through the narrow space. Unsure of whether the voice was reaching out to him, his legs stop moving while his eyes are peering through the dark. Much to his heart’s dismay, shivers run up his spine when something comes in contact with the warm flesh of his neck.

“What’s your name?”

Slowly, with his hands on the back of his head, he turns on his heels. “Excuse you?”

You retract your gun-shaped fingers into the pocket of your jacket, phlegmatic eyes gazing at him through the thickness of the night. “I want to know your name,” you try to make your point clear, utterly unfazed.

Minho stares you down for a good five seconds. Neatly dressed in the school uniform, an oversized jacket thrown over your body but no backpacks. There’s a name tag being embroidered onto the fabric in red “Shin Yuna - 1A”. Whoever you are, he’s certain that isn’t your name. That name doesn’t even suit you. That isn’t your uniform.

“What’s the point?” he questions, hands dropped to the sides in slight relief.

You tilt your head, expression neutral. “I have a habit of collecting names of people who tried or are trying to kill me. It’s quite relaxing to write it down on a list actually. You know, easier to keep track.”

He’s trying hard to not let any impulsive urges overthrow the rational side of his brain. Everything suddenly twitches in slow motion. His silence seems to bore you. Your eyes are more dead than angry, more done than irritated. Like you’ve been through this shit one too many times already to care.

“At least say why you’re sent to kill me.”

That, Minho can answer within a blink of an eye. “They sent me because I don’t exist.”

Your gaze glistens with a glaze of boredom. “Everyone said so.”

“Yeah, no shit Sherlock. Where’s your house, kid? I’ll walk you back. It’d be a pain in the ass if your parents found out how you’re wandering alone after school,” he brushes it off like you’re a slight nuisance (which you are). His heartbeat spikes up once at the mention of family, one that you’ve acknowledged with ease.

Your arms are folded over your chest now, to cover up the sudden stab of sympathy inside your chest. “There’s no need. I don’t have a place to go back to nor do I have parents who will nag me for staying out late.”

His mind automatically blackouts along with his senses, blurred with such peculiar feelings swirling at the pit of his stomach. You make it sound like it’s not that big of a deal like you’ve utterly been numb for so long. It’s tragic but understandable. This isn’t the first time he has witnessed a story like yours—your parents, dead or alive, he does not know; by the sound of it, you’re an orphan. Another unfortunate being to graze this planet like himself. This means you can’t afford school, so that uniform really doesn’t belong to you.

“You still haven’t told me your name.”

“It’s Lee Know. Call me Lee Know.”

“Don’t bother trying, Lee Know. No one has ever made it. They never did.”

You didn’t mean to expose anything about your life to a total stranger, or specifically an assassin. However, nothing matters when you most likely won’t meet him again nor will he succeed in taking your life. Even the fact that he chose not to give you his real name amplifies how much shit he does not give about you. You don’t expect anything more honestly.

“Alright, we’re done here,” you feign enthusiasm before clasping your hands together. “Go home. The sun is already going down.”

Strangely enough, Minho can only watch as your shadow shifts to the outline of a black cat before dipping into the depths of the starless night.

three.

To Minho it’s always just another day in the office. Except his office is a windy rooftop overlooking the mark’s exact location. His tools—rather than a computer—is a state-of-the-art rifle with a telescopic lens. A silencer isn’t very important since traffic and people are more than enough to drown out any suspicious noises. Most will mistake it for a back-firing van. He takes aim with no more qualms than one would gossip about a colleague, then pulls the trigger while thinking about what to order other than Chinese for lunch. When the work is done, he carefully packs everything up into an inconspicuous rucksack. And leaves the scene, like a phantom.

It’s always been the same boring, bloodied cycle.

Yet something’s changed since Minho met you.

He used to maintain a cool detachment to his targets. His conscience prefers not to think of them; whenever he does, it’s as if they’re already dead, mobile meat bags waiting to be laid on a cutting board. He doesn’t like to think merrily of his job, he doesn’t see it as helping them meet their destiny. None of that bullshit. To put it more nonchalantly, everyone will die one day. Minho considers it as a good way to go. Oblivious and in pain for one moment before completely gone the next.

Simple. Convenient. Much less agonizing than this brutal world.

Although that doesn’t mean he isn’t traumatized by the amount of blood that has stained his hands. On good days, he might get three to four hours of sleep. Bad days, few minutes to none at all. Terrifying nightmares gnaws at his soul every night, the ugly scar like a reminder of every single one of his sins. He can’t force himself to lose his sanity like any fools out there going down the same path.

“Shit…” Minho mutters, running a rough hand through his hair. He didn’t sleep well last night—like every other night; hence the bad temper and bitter taste at the back of his throat.

After a deep breath, he stares at his Hecate II with mischievous eyes—those of a hunter framed in the expressionless face of an executioner. His blunt hands are steady as they lift the shiny weapon over the concrete of a rooftop, drawing out a dry shot in his mind.

Through his scope, he watches as you’re crossing the road in your human form before stopping abruptly in front of a random tree. You then proceed to squint your eyes and look up in the opposite direction. Minho unknowingly holds his breath, waits for you to release your iron gaze, and move on with your life. But his expectations don’t prevail.

“What the fuck?”

Without much patience, he curses before shifting his scope to the same direction only to find another shadow creeping around on the balcony of a nearby building. No time to think of a rational solution—killing them is an ideal one—Minho feels his palms growing sweaty when a small, peculiar object comes flying toward his way. His head quickly moves away before the bullet pierces through his scope, shattering the glass completely.

“Son of a bitch,” he lets out a shaky breath. Crimson starts to drip down on the side of his cheekbone, but he can care less.

Because that’s the least of his problem right now.

Another subtle ‘bang’ can be heard in the distance, like a broken record scratching against his eardrums. Kid…! Minho’s heart collapses in realization.

four.

It’s not hard for Minho to do research on quite an amount of vital information about you. When he saw your body dropped to the ground lifelessly and an ambulance immediately drove by to pick up your body, he knew things weren’t going to end just like that.

“Don’t bother trying, Lee Know. No one has ever made it. They never did.”

He isn’t a believer, has never been one. Yet when he managed to take out your kidnappers in that ambulance, your weak breaths startled his heart and shook his mind into awareness of how serious the situation is. After that, he tracked down the hitman who delivered the hard blow, put a bullet through his brain, and found an USB full of detailed information about your existence. Which just makes things a whole lot more complicated to understand.

Apparently, you’ve been ‘killed’ one too many times before—there are photographs of your supposedly dead body in a bag, thrown into the deep, dark woods, other times into a nameless river. The thing about you is that you were once an experimental subject to your own biological parents who are sickeningly vile scientists. At the age of nine, you fell down the stairs and had a big gash on your head. They never knew because your wounds were quick to heal themselves. However, your whole life was flipped upside down when they saw you shapeshifting into a black cat while running around at the playground.

From then, your life became a living hell behind cold metal bars with needles stuck in your arms and strange pills being forced down your throat almost every day. Their sudden change only nourished resentment through time until you managed to cut down the laboratory’s power supply and fled from your own home.

You have no one to lean on. No place to go back to. No nothing. And you’re just a teenager.

Minho feels awful.

Usually, he isn’t the type to be empathetic nor does he have the energy to. It’s very out of character for him to let his emotions linger on a homeless kid with some supernatural abilities that will make his life that much more dangerous. Because to him, more often than not, people tend to give their condolences only to forget after brief moments of grieving. At the end of the day, it isn’t their own problem, it isn’t their own life. But now when it comes to you, Minho feels a strong sense of responsibility that if you end up dying, it’s on him.

It’s stupidly conflicted, it really is. His job—blowing people’s brains out—is the sole reason why he makes a six-digit amount of money for every job. Therefore, he isn’t sure what picking a random kid up from a fake ambulance and bringing her back to his shabby apartment is going to do him any good.

“Ah, you’re awake.”

You hate the fact that you can recognize that voice.

Just then, you wake as if it’s an emergency, as if sleeping has become a dangerous task. Your heart is pounding loudly inside your ears, the sound echoing listlessly to the pit of your rib cage. It’s always like this. It takes you some time to calm your nerves before gathering what exactly happened the moment you blacked out.

Right, you think to yourself, groaning slightly while pushing yourself up. You were shot right in the chest, and your body was probably discarded somewhere. After that, you’d grab a hitchhiker so they’ll drive you back into town. Like always. The only difference, this time though, is Minho placing your limp body on his bed with a blanket to warm you up.

His face appears within your eyesight when you’re done adjusting your vision to the bright room—you’re not used to this much light around. “You look calmer than I expected,” he mentions.

Minho grabs your face and scans it over. “Let me see. Did your wounds close up properly?”

The tender action, which has become weirdly natural to him although this is his first time, accidentally triggers something inside you. Your hand automatically slaps his away. It is an upfront refusal, but it doesn’t surprise him. He only offers you a comfortable moment of silence before placing a tray on the wooden nightstand.

“Eat up. I’m not going to feed you,” he cocks his head toward the bowl of porridge with his arms crossed in front of his chest.

“Why are you doing this?”

“Doing what?”

You glare at him in suspicion. “Bringing me home. Giving me a bed to sleep on. And even food to eat. What are you trying to get at?”

“Nothing. I didn’t kill you only because you’re too young for my moral code,” he pretends to roll his eyes, voicing monotonously.

A frown adorns your tired features. “So you’re going to kill me when I get older then?”

“Probably,” Minho smirks faintly with a cock of his eyebrow. “That depends if you still remember my name, Y/N.”

One thing after another, this assassin only continues to baffle you. He was just going to shoot you the other day and now he’s giving you food? Preposterous! To put it simply, you’re unprepared for such kind actions, such gentleness from someone who takes lives for a living. You’re unprepared for dealing with people in general because they detest anyone who’s different from them—your kind, the kind with supernatural abilities and all. Hence, you’re left unwilling to befriend anyone and would rather be alone for the rest of your life.

Until such twisted moira pushes you to—what was his name again? Not his real name, the made-up one that he uses in the underworld.

You speak up softly after feeling safe enough to let your guards down, “Lee Know, was it?”

“It’s Lee Minho.”

“Pardon?”

He only smiles, “My real name. It’s Lee Minho.”

five.

“Y/N! A little help over here?”

“Coming.”

“Y/N, go check the fog machine!”

“Got you.”

“Y/N, can you put these boxes over there?”

“Alright.”

That’s all you’ve been doing for the entirety of your boring day. Getting yelled out at, having people ask for help nonstop, and responding with a two-word answer at max. You’re not complaining—they pay you well enough, the job is more on the down-low side because you’re nothing but a mere stage crew for an above-average theatre studio. So you simply hoist the three final plastic boxes into your arms with a jerk of your knees and place it where they asked you to. Thanks to your parents, their experiments along with skeptical-looking substances have efficiently enhanced your general strength and agility.

Another crew member perks up when you plop the heavy stack of cardboard boxes down with a loud thud. “Oh, can you carry those lights to stage left too?”

“Sure.” You could have pretended to pick up one box at a time and to drag your feet across the stage with difficulties to avoid being used. But you’re too lazy to repeat the same cycle two more times, so you really don’t have any other choice here.

Nevertheless, you suppose it’s not entirely bad to do all of this heavy handiwork. Because it keeps your mind off of unwanted things, such as Lee Minho for example. Lee Minho, the assassin, not the actor—you’d gladly fangirl over that certain celebrity rather than admit that you actually enjoy the hitman’s abrupt presence in your life.

The fact that you know he will find you even if it means traveling to the ends of the Earth and back doesn’t help to ease your insomnia. So for the past few days, you’ve been working extra hours along with picking up a job at a florist in hopes of not bumping into him. Stupid. You know it is. But how can you deal with a self-esteem crisis because the idea of being a burden just irks you so much?

It’s like you’re hopelessly proving that you don’t need anyone when you, in fact, want that kind of unconditional love that every other human yearns for.

After helping your colleagues out with the lighting, you simply sit behind those thick curtains until the show is over. Then, you head out, find a place to sleep, and head to an old lady’s place to pick up new clothes to change into for the next day. Since she’s been treating you with nothing but kindness, you’ve tried to pass by and helped her out at her son’s antique store too.

Your routine is supposed to go that way and stay that way. You won’t die because you don’t like overworking yourself. You’re doing just great.

“Hey, Y/N! Your brother is here to pick you up!”

Throwing your crewmate a blunt wave, you find your way out of the school’s theatre through a back door without shifting the expression on your face. You don’t have any siblings. And your colleagues don’t know anything about your family background either. So it, unfortunately, boils your guesses down to one.

Despite knowing who it is and why they show up, you open your mouth to speak, “How did you find me again?”

Minho shows up with a more casual version of his working attire—instead of the fully black, monochromatic outfit, he’s changing it up with a leather jacket, white t-shirt and jeans. He leans on his shiny motorcycle smugly like he knows something that you don’t, in which you very much dislike.

“Young lady, I’ll have you know that being an assassin helps me appear at places to do things I’m not supposed to do,” he ignores the fact that your question was purely rhetorical and chimes.

You attempt to throw him a glare which isn’t intimidating enough. “Call me ‘young lady’ one more time and I’ll put my foot where it’s not supposed to be.” Who are you kidding? He’s a hitman when you’re just a kid. Pigs would be flying by the time you managed to physically shoo him away.

“Am I supposed to guess where that is?”

“Enough. Go to work. Get out of here. Leave me alone.”

“I’m sorry, are you encouraging me to kill people?” Minho gasps, acting shocked and appalled. Clearly, he’s not good at it despite sharing a name with a well-known actor.

You can only retort harshly, “Don’t put words in my mouth, you ass.”

“Come on, kid. Let’s go get something to eat.”

“Why?”

His hand automatically reaches for your forearm. “Don’t people eat for pleasure? What’s wrong with you?”

Your heart leaps in, anger perhaps, pupils shaking when he closes in on you. Upon your reaction, Minho retracts his arm immediately. He should have thought better of it; you’re probably too traumatized to be dealing with him right now.

At that, your eyes round at the remorse on his face and you could have glared him off right then and there. But somehow, your basic human manners overcome your usual snappy self, letting you think that maybe he means no harm. Maybe he’s checking up on you one last time before going on about his life. You shouldn’t be too riled up about it just because he tried to kill you once.

Minho catches the familiar anxious gaze and sighs, “Okay, we don’t have to get something to eat. I’ll give you a ride back. Do you have somewhere to stay the night?”

It’s rotten work, whatever he’s trying to do. So you shake the harmless tingle inside your chest away before pushing past him. “No,” you answer dryly and leave.

six.

You go to work sick the day after because you couldn’t find a place to sleep in and had to make do with napping in front of a tattoo place. Yes, napping; because when you finally shifted into your cat form and allowed your eyes to rest, the sky started pouring waterfalls. The rain had soaked into your shiny black coat, making it frizzy and luring the sickness up your spine the moment you tried finding a different haven.

No one notices. No one.

Not even the mask, the extra layer of sweatshirt nor your hushed coughs every now and then. Despite downing the cold pills early in the morning, you’re only burning up harder by the second. Oh, you know! Maybe they just don’t care, that’s it. Because calling in off for work due to a minor cold isn’t a valid reason. However, you’re still shivering on the inside and burning on the outside. Enhanced genes or any of that bullshit isn’t enough to prevent you from getting sick like any other student. Perhaps something wasn’t complete, or they’d messed up somewhere. Perhaps that’s why they’re trying to get you back.

How foolish of you to think somewhere deep down, they still want you back. With a reason as blunt as you being their child.

Drowning in deep thoughts, you almost crash into a pile of boxes filled with equipment when your foot gets tangled to a random cable. Your eyes automatically screw shut as you wait for the impact but it never comes. Only a gentle pair of hands on your shoulders did. From that point on, you can’t hear or see properly. You don’t even have enough stamina to register who’s holding onto you so reassuringly. Whatever is happening gets hazier by the tick of a clock. It’s either you’re hallucinating or Minho is giving you that mirthful scowl of his.

Yep, you’re definitely hallucinating.

“Why didn’t you call in sick for work?”

“That’s a stupid fucking question.”

A frown adorns his perplexed features as his glassy eyes skim your face. He has a really pretty smile, he should smile more, you think. His hand latches onto your burning forehead, slides down on the side of your cheek with such grace as though he’s caressing you. A grumble leaves his lips at your dreadful state. This is why he should have never let you go in the first place.

“Come on, kid. Let me help you,” Minho says before giving your arm a light tug.

You don’t like what you just heard. “I don’t need your help.”

“You can barely walk.”

“Who said so-” As if on cue, he lets go of your arm bluntly. Caught off guard, your legs go weak without any remaining strength. You stumble and would have most likely fallen on your face if it weren’t for his grip on your arm. A gasp comes out inaudible when he hoists you upright, not planning to let go any time soon.

Minho scratches the tip of his nose with his ring finger, sniffing lightly. It seems like he’s arguing with a younger version of himself. He now knows how it felt like for those caretakers back then.

“You did,” he says with the same smirk when you woke up in his apartment for the first time.

seven.

That’s the only time you’ve ever allowed someone to help you with something. But Minho had to constantly check on you every two seconds, not wanting you to fall asleep on his bike while it’s speeding down the highway like a gust of wind. For a moment there, he really thought you would slip away into the night as he tried to find his keys because that’s just how you are.

Minho is no doctor, but he doesn’t go to one for a cold or a really bad fever. He can manage, he tries to convince himself.

After testing your temperature and giving you something new to change into, he slaps a cool gel patch onto your forehead before heading off to the kitchen to cook up something. You need to be full to be able to take your medicine anyway.

In the act of resting on his bed, you decide you can’t take staying in the same spot anymore so your body perks up in a sluggish manner. The aroma of home-cooked food wakes your senses almost immediately, causing you to look over at his busy figure by the marble counter. You think it’s endearing how he hasn’t bothered to change into something more comfortable. But he instead threw an apron over his working attire and dived right into the cooking process.

You have always felt like you were missing out on something whenever you looked at Minho. Perhaps it was how his striking eyes stared at you, whether mischievous or else. Perhaps it was how his lips were turning down most of the time with less than affectionate words.

Or it’s plainly how he has been trying to hide that he actually cares.

“Hungry?” He tilts his head to the side playfully once his sixth sense starts kicking in.

You can only nod. “Yeah.”

It takes Minho a lot of convincing yet you won’t let him feed you. Like hell, you would. Therefore, with helpless eyes, he watches you from across the table. He doesn’t laugh or get annoyed when your shaky hand drops the spoon and splatters the soup all over the table. His hand simply reaches for a piece of paper towel to clean up the mess, tossing it into the trash bin later. The same cycle repeats in comforting silence until you finish the entire bowl. The soup definitely wasn’t five-star worthy. But it’s enough to warm you up inside and out. Of course, Minho chooses to let the dishwasher do the job—his hatred for doing dishes is always at its finest.

Then, like the other night, he has already passed out on the table with a blanket draped over his body when you step out of the shower. Instead of plopping the weight of your exhaustion onto his bed this time, your legs stay frozen like cement on the floor while your eyes take in his reclined figure under the thin fabric. Minho is sleeping with his head buried in his arms, his glasses and messy files abandoned to the side. He’s definitely not a heavy sleeper because he doesn’t snore; only feather-like breaths can be heard through this endless beat of silence. The faintly blinking light from his laptop makes you feel exposed so you push yourself toward the balcony.

A hiss comes out hushed and quiet when your feet come into contact with the cold tile floor, bringing you across the studio apartment with small tiptoes. You peer over your shoulder, gazing at the only available source of light. Unconsciously, you ball your fists.

With a soft sigh, you slide open the glass door and step out to bathe yourself in the comfort of the moonlight. Despite the chilling air of the night, something warm fills up your lungs like an overflowed cup of wine. It suffocates you a little until the knots in your muscles and mind loosen; a sense of relief washes over you—you haven’t felt that in years.

Nothing makes sense.

A hitman hired by your parents shouldn’t be putting a roof over your head, tucking you into bed nor feeding you. Minho barely knows you; and your knowledge about him as a genuine person isn’t enough to convince you that this is reality. Because after years of wandering the streets, being tossed around like trash with plenty of a series of unfortunate events, you’ve made it a habit to sink into yourself.

So the longer you stay here, the more you’ll get attached to him. And the more you get attached, the more he takes away your default instincts to turn your back on everything.

Guilt wells up inside your chest as though it’s an old habit, a setting by default. If you ever try to go over the moderate line, you will break.

Holding back a croaked sob, you know that once you let it go, tears will only start flooding. With a push of your muscles, you effortlessly hoist yourself up the metal railings in one go. The wind combs through your hair like an empathetic hand but you ignore it, Minho’s sweater closing in on your skin.

You should leave, you try to urge yourself. You should jump off and dive into the depths of the night, let the allure cradle you in its emotionless arms.

Because after all, despite all those eyes on you out there, you’re ultimately alone within.

A foot dips out into thin air once the slump in your shoulders goes weightless. Immediately after, an incredible force pulls you by the ankle, and to the ground with a loud thud. Minho falls onto his back harshly, groaning slightly with you on top of him.

He knew what you were trying to do, he saw it the other night with his own eyes. Even under the knowledge of your capabilities, Minho still feels a rush of panic rising inside his chest. It’s only until his arms fully have a hold of you does his racing heartbeats slow down. Supernatural abilities or none, you’re still sick. And he’d be losing his mind if he woke up to an empty bed tomorrow morning.

“Don’t ever do that again,” he speaks with trembling vocal cords, in a tone you’ve never heard before. Strict but mellow. As though there’s a race inside his mind but he’s desperately trying to keep his cool. It’s fear. The moment he’s introduced to the idea of losing you—it’s genuine fear.

“Minho, I can’t die. Didn’t I tell you—“

His grip squeezes you in a breath tighter, cutting you off completely. “The fuck were you thinking? You can’t just jump off the balcony like that!”

“I already told you. I can’t die. Minho, I’ve done that plenty of times before,” you furrow your brows in a troubled manner, unsure of how to react.

Minho widens his eyes at you in sheer disbelief. Shock riddles his senses and gets the best of him. So now he’s fussing with his hands, incoherent profanity leaving his lips non-stop within the next thirty seconds or so. He’s usually very calm, collected, calculating, and cold. This is very unlike him. It makes you wonder why he’s acting this way. He knows that you can’t die from jumping off a building. So what’s there to worry about?

“You’re such an idiot! Try doing that again and I’ll kill you with my own-“

You truly don’t know how important you are to him. Frankly, he hasn’t even realized that yet.

“I’m sorry,” you say, pulling him closer. Since you’re bad at resolving any kind of conflict, you opt for the most rational solution—going with his flow until he’s calmed down. “I won’t do that again, promise.”

His lips fall agape at your words. He wasn’t expecting that. And even when you see how he’s reacting to your sudden change, you decide it’s no time to back down. This might be the only time you could show him that you’re at least grateful for everything he’s done.

He’s quieted down now. And when he manages to speak again without tripping over his own words, his voice comes out as a whisper. “Hey kid,” he looks down at you, wanting to stroke your hair but drops his hand in sheer defeat. “You didn’t answer my question earlier. Why didn’t you call in sick for work?”

“Who would do my job when I’m gone? Isn’t that irresponsible?” You exhale deeply before fluttering your eyes close, finding odd peace within the rhythm of his heart.

Minho says pointedly, “Well, you could have asked someone to help you with it.”

“No one would help me.”

“How’d you know? Have you tried asking them before?”

Your eyes shoot open and flicker around your surroundings, you’re at a loss for words for a split second there. Heat rushes to the apples of your cheeks in shame, your head hung terribly low. “I’m not used to asking for help. I’d hate to be a burden,” you confess.

Innocence glimmers in your eyes when you look up at him, waterlines threatening to break any second now. Your lashes are slightly damped and how lost you’re looking right now can physically draw crimson on his heart. At the end of the day, you’re just a kid. You had to grow up the hard way, with no one by your side telling you what’s right and what’s wrong, even simple things like how to react to non-verbal affection.

Don’t let her go, Minho. Not now. Not ever.

“Then fix it now.”

“What?” You pause.

“If you need help, ask for it. If things are hard, say it. I’ll be there to give you a hand.”

Tears well up in your eyes, croaked sobs shake your body, only prompting him to pull your closer. It’s warm. Damnit, why is it so warm? “I-I can’t sleep. Sing me something?”

“Anything?”

“Anything.”

Minho just knows that he would bleed with you even when the rain pours and the sky falls one day.

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jaggedlittleteacup · 3 years

Text

Three Acts

Note: @call-me-moo Here ya go!

Act Two

I finally wake up after an unknown number of hours spent in some sort of medically-induced coma. Everything hurts, although my body feels delightfully and sufficiently drugged with a healthy dose of morphine. I suspect it’d be considerably worse without it, but I don’t have long to ponder this.

After a moment of taking in the situation, I make the mistake of cautioning a glance over to my right.

Mary.

Mary is here.

Mary is here, in my room, most likely to finish what she started.

I consider screaming, or panicking, or thrashing about to alert the nurses to her presence, but she would most likely shoot me and escape before then. My only option is to hear her out, or at least stall for long enough to craft a plan.

“You look tired,” she says sweetly, gesturing over to my entire body. Her tone shows she’s clearly being sarcastic.

No...shit...

I swallow, my dry throat begging for some sort of relief, and nod. “I...am.”

“Hm…probably because I upped your morphine dose. Sherlock, Sherlock, always the drug addict. What’s John going to think?” Mary laughs softly and tilts her head. “First you get yourself shot, then you get yourself high. Tsk-tsk.” A peculiar expression creeps onto her face and stretches her glossy pink lips into a grin so wide, it’s almost grotesque.

“He’ll...believe...me…” I croak out, my fingers reaching for the monitor that controls the drug influx. It’s just so far that my fingertips brush against it, but I can’t reach it. It feels as though I have become Tantalus.

“He won’t. Not over me.” She shakes her head and opens her bright red leather purse with a gentle click. “It’s all right. Allow me to up the stakes, because you obviously don’t understand.” She pulls out her gun with a sigh and reluctantly shows it to me. “The CCTV cameras are off, in case you were wondering. No-one can see or hear in this room, so if there’s anything you’d like to say…”

How could she betray us all?

I trusted her. John trusted her.

God…

“You’re…” I feel dizzy, and pause to recollect my racing thoughts. “You’re going to...kill me…?”

“No. What kind of assassin do you take me for? I don’t like killing, Sherlock, but I’ll do whatever it takes to keep myself safe. Even if it means shooting you.” Mary continues to carefully examine the dark, shiny gun as though she’s never seen a weapon before.

“And...Catherine?”

“Rosie,” she corrects with a forced laugh. “Rosamund Watson. She’s going to be our stillborn daughter.”

I allow a horrified expression to show on my face, much to her great amusement. Something in her eyes is taunting how obvious I am, that’s clear.

She didn’t...she’s not going to...

“I’m not a monster, contrary to what you think of me,” she whispers. “I got an abortion soon after that convenient revelation of yours at the wedding. The little brat ruined the bloody wine…And I was wondering why that dress was so tight!”

“A cover...story, then,” I say with a pained grimace. “You go to the...hospital under the...guise of...severe stomach pains, someone- I assume...you paid someone off…”

Mary smiles sweetly and leans back in her chair, crossing her navy blue, slack-clad legs gracefully. “Oh, clever. I wasn’t lying to John when I said I liked you. All good things must end, Sherlock, but you don’t have to,” she explains with a sigh of impatience.

I need to tell him.

“What...do you mean…?” I carefully stall, simultaneously attempting to come up with a plan while diverting her attention. A simple enough tactic, one she could probably see through with ease if she were looking for it.

“What I mean...” she says slowly, as though elaborating on something to a small child, “...is that you’re not going to tell John. Not about Magnussen, not about our little incident. Not a word, or else-“ Mary mimes shooting a gun with her fingers, despite holding a real one in her other hand. Some things never change.

“You’ll...kill...John…”

Killer. Murderer. Liar.

“Yeah, I really don’t want to. He’s adorable, you know. Not to mention how much time I’d have to waste assuming a new identity.” She shrugs nonchalantly. “But I’ll do what I must.”

What’s truly remarkable is how normal she looks. Innocent and unassuming. It’s almost...jarring, in a sense, to hear her speak such heartless words.

I have to tell John. Even if it kills me.

“I go...along,” I murmur, wincing in pain, my words still a bit slurred, “and you promise...not to hurt...John…?”

I can’t believe anything she says.

She brushes a hand against my cheek, her gaze settling on my scarred chest. “Swear to God. I’m glad we could come to an understanding. I suppose you’ll want to lower the morphine levels before you go into toxic shock?”

“That would be...ideal, yes.”

“Too bad,” she snaps, her eyes glinting in the dim light as she stands up and makes her way to the entrance of the room.

Oh, she’s enjoying this.

“Get John...in here...I need a...doctor.” I groan and reach for the machine once more. “And stay...the hell...out of my room.”

“Fine. But remember, Sherlock…” Mary presses her finger against her lips and closes the door behind her.

I estimate I have seven minutes before anyone notices I’m gone. Morphine levels are tolerable, I’ve functioned with larger doses. Now...coat, fresh set of clothes...all on the chair, good. Now to fix the bandages and somehow make it to Leinster Gardens without bleeding out. Easier said than done.

The window is unlocked. Good- breaking it would have drawn nurses to my room.

I push myself out of the uncomfortable hospital bed with a gasp of pain. My arms are weak, and so are my legs. For a moment, I’m not sure if I’ll be able to make it, but then I remember how much danger John is in.

Today we are soldiers.

I lift my body with a grunt and grab my clothes. I really should change outside, but I decide that inside the room is better. I pull on my shirt and trousers with some difficulty, and throw my coat over it all to ensure I don’t catch pneumonia in the frigid air.

I carefully unlatch the window and lean on the edge to catch my breath.

One slip and I’m done for.

My cold fingers fumble for support as I pull myself over the side and land on the narrow ledge. A fall from this height would be lethal.

For John.

I’m cautious all the way down, and don’t exhale until my feet are safely on the ground. I feel lightheaded and broken, but I have something I need to do.

I don’t even realise my hands are shaking as I pull out my mobile. I dial John’s number, every press making my stomach tie itself further into knots.

“J...John?” I ask weakly, knowing I only have a few precious seconds.

“Christ, Sherlock!” I hear his shocked voice yell from the device. “Where the hell-“

“Leinster...G-Gardens…” I say with a shiver.

I could really use my scarf right about now.

“You’re going to bloody kill yours-“

I hang up.

Not the time. He'll thank me later.

I swallow and lean on the hospital’s sturdy brick wall with a sigh. I am going to do this if it kills me. There is no doubt in my mind, not now.

Time to go meet Mary.

Act One linked below:

https://benaddicted-linfanuel.tumblr.com/post/656892650818011136/three-acts

Act Three linked below:

https://benaddicted-linfanuel.tumblr.com/post/656990419321864192/three-acts

#bbc #sherlock holmes #john watson #sherlock #johnlock #jim moriarty #post reichenbach #mary morstan #mary is not good

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futurewriter2000 · 4 years

Text

Heartless - pt. 6

A/N: Holy shit, this took a little turn. Well... I don’t know.. but like....yeah... I tried something new. *laughs*

WARNING: sexual stuff, not smut but sort of smut...but not really.

It was one am in the morning and you have been struggling with the same drawing over and over again. Erase, re-draw- a repetitive process of you losing your mind over one eye and it kept going like this until you heard a knock at the door.

It were two slow knocks- one more following after a long pause. You thought whoever it was at the door would come in already but it just kept on knocking. “You have to say come in.” you heard James drag out the words with a giggle.

“Come in?” you said more doubtfully, placing your drawing set on the bed and watching the knob turn.

James finally managed to open the door, eyes happily drunk as well as his mouth.

“Oh, James- you didn’t?” you frowned, looking at him struggling to keep himself on his feet.

“I love you, sis.” he made his way to you with open arms but you sneaked under him and out of his way so that he collided on your pillow. “Why don’t you ever like my hugs?” he murmured into his pillow as you were standing by the door with your arms crossed over your chest.

“James- what the hell got into you?” you grabbed his arm but he was too heavy to be carried. So you let him go as he fell back on the bed, slipping into deep sleep. “James?” you poked him but he didn’t budge. “James!” you whisper-yelled at him, trying not to wake up your parents as you shouted at your sleeping brother. “Blimey, James! Do you really have to fall asleep everywhere!” you stomped your foot on the ground, glaring at him as he was about to wake up.

“James?” you heard the door on the other side of hall open, Sirius peering into the room before running to your room. “Have you- oh thank God!” Sirius breathed out a sigh of relief. “Almost gave me a heart attack when I couldn’t find him.” he smiled but you only punched him hard on the shoulder. “Ow!”

“What the hell is the matter with you!” you continued to whisper angrily at him as Sirius pulled you out on the hall, closed the door where the snoring James slept and pulled you to James’ room.

“Stop yelling! You’re gonna wake them up!” he whispered in the same tone as you.

You slapped his shoulder again, Sirius narrowed his eyes. “What the hell happened?!”

“He got drunk.”

“Oh, thank you for stating the obvious, Sherlock.”

“We were celebrating! He’s a Head Boy.”

“And you decided to get him drunk at 1am in the morning? For a bloody Head Boy badge?”

“You’re not much supportive. Jealous?” he cooed at you, leaning forward and letting you grab his cheeks and squeeze them.

“I get that he toasts to the Head Boy badge but to get wasted?” you stared into his eyes closely as he did to yours, thoughts racing as fast as his heart. The way he looked at you, eyes watching you as they were about to consume you and his mouth puckered up by the way you held his cheeks. Oh, you could kiss him. You really could by the way he looked at you and by the way he smelled so darn wonderfully.

And he could see the way your eyes wandered into this different dimension with him. You were on the same level as he was, when it came to attraction but you gathered your thoughts and pushed yourself away.

“And what about you? Why aren’t you wasted?”

“I didn’t drink.” he said and you scoffed.

“Come off it!”

“I didn’t! Come on. Smell my breath!”

“I will not smell your breath, Sirius.” you let out a laugh, trying to distance yourself from him as he drawn himself closer to you.

“Alright.” he shrugged and backed away, rubbing the back of his head.

“I’ll let James sleep in my room and I’ll sleep here.”

“What?” Sirius turned around, eyes wide.

“There’s no way I’ll sleep, smelling his drunk arse all night plus his mattress is comfier than mine.” you let out a giddy laugh and slid into the sheets, snuggling. You looked at him and narrowed your eyes. “You don’t snore, do you?”

“YoU dOn’t SnOrE, dO yOU?” he mocked you, slipping off his jacket and shirt, revealing his naked body and causing you to stop laughing and blush instead.

“What the hell are you doing?”

“I’m not sleeping in a shirt. It’s summer. It’s hot. I always sleep in my underwear- wait.” his lips turned into a wide grin as his eyebrows wiggled at you. He was walking closer to you in his black boxers, placing his hands on the edge of the bed and leaning forward. “You didn’t think I’d slip-”

“Don’t even finish that.” you raised your finger. “Don’t. Even. Finish. That.” you repeated, staring him down and trying not to look the way his biceps flexed as he clawed the edge with his fingers.

“I always knew you secretly fancied me.”

You let out a laugh, rolling your eyes away. “Yes, I fancy you. I fancy you far away from me, minding your own business and sticking out of mine.”

“Oh, you know that won’t be possible, love.” he said as he went to his bed, snuggled in his own bed and turned off the light. “I’m here to haunt you forever.”

“I have to kill you first.” you said, laying to your side as you heard him laugh from his bed.

“Good night, (y/n).” he sang out loud, making you smile.

“Goodnight, Sirius.” you replied softly, nuzzling your nose into the sheets.

---

It was around 3am when you decided to check on your brother. You knew you couldn’t fall asleep but the ooziness still took over you as you stood up. You checked Sirius bed, where everything was still and quiet, then tip toed to your own room where James slept.

You opened the door quietly, peering your head in to see James wrapped in your blankets and sleeping solid like a rock. You walked to him, took his glasses off and smiled. “You’re an idiot.” you whispered and made your way out, gently closing the door behind you and walking down to the kitchen.

When you were down there, you froze up at the sight of someone standing in front of the fridge and peering in. The floor below you let out a small creak and the person quickly shot his head to you. His grey eyes widened as if he was caught doing something illegal.

You rolled your eyes and walked to the sink, getting a glass of water and putting it on the counter. “You alright?” you asked, sitting on the counter and leaning back on the cabinets.

“Uh- yeah. Fine. Why do you ask?” he closed the fridge and stood there awkwardly.

“Maybe because it’s 3am and I found you in the kitchen and not in our room?”

“Our room?” he wiggled his eyebrows, giving you a cheeky grin.

“You know what I mean.” you rolled your eyes, pointing at the freezer. “Pull out the ice-cream.”

Sirius smiled and opened up the freezer, feeling goosebumps on his bare skin as the cold frost blew against him. He quickly pulled out the bucket of ice cream as you pulled out two spoons and walked to the table, both sitting diagonally each other.

“Why are you up at 3am and in the kitchen?” he asked, opening the bucket and sticking his spoon in it.

“Couldn’t sleep well so I decided to check on James, get him a glass of water and an aspirin for tomorrow morning.” you glanced at the water than stuck your spoon into unfrozen ice cream as well- both waiting for it to unfreeze. The two of you kept looking at each other, letting out secret smiles as the silence was flowing between the two of you.

You grabbed the spoon and scrapped the tiny bit of ice cream at the edges. “You still didn’t answer my question.” you said as you leaned back on the chair and put the spoon in your mouth. “Why here? I did’t even hear you leave.”

“I’m a quiet bird.” he let out a laugh. “Couldn’t sleep either, went to check up on James, then felt hungry. That’s all.” he grabbed the spoon as well and scooped the ice cream.

You narrowed your eyes and pointed your spoon at him. “There’s more to it.” you simply stated as he chuckled and shook his head.

“What more could there be?”

“I dunno.” you said, grabbing another scoop. “I just know that you always brush your nose with your thumb when you’re hiding something.”

“I do not.” he scoffed, looking away and staring into the sofa cushion. “That’s barmy.”

“Then you avoid eye contact and go into denial.” you shrugged as he turned to face you again and watch you. You looked up at him and smiled. “But it’s okay if you don’t want to tell me. I don’t really care.” you focused on the ice cream, smiling at every scoop you took.

Sirius’ smile faded. Of course, you don’t care. You hate him.

The next time you looked at him, you noticed the frown imediately. It almost made you laugh- it did make you laugh. “Oh, Sirius. What now?”

“Nothing.” he tried to brush it off but you could read him like an open book.

“Don’t tell me there’s nothing when your face does this.” you said, furrowing your eyebrows, pursing your lips together and imitating him.

He kept looking at you, grunting. “I’m not like that.”

“You’re like a little baby. I never know why you get so pissed at me.”

“That’s why. What you just said- a little baby. You’re the baby.” he shot back and you only stared.

“I’m the baby?”

“Yes, you’re the baby.”

“You were angry before I said that.”

“Well, now I’m angry because you said that.”

“You are unbelievable.” you rolled your eyes and kept eating the ice cream in silence.

He kept looking at you, glaring even when you hadn’t said anything else or drilled into him like you used to. Usually, this argument would resolve into a wrestling game but now you just ate your ice cream and sat there quietly.

Your eyes would travel from your spoon to him, narrowing a bit and just watching him. He felt a sudden blush when you didn’t remove your eyes from him, only stared. His hands got a bit clammy, his heart racing faster.

“Why are you staring at me?”

“Did you always have that birthmark on your forehead?” you pointed your spoon at him as he let out a laugh.

“Really?” he grabbed his spoon and started eating the ice cream again. “You’ve known me for seven years and you’re seeing the birthmark only now?”

“You’ve got long hair- sometimes I wonder how can you see.”

“Like this.” he dropped the spoon, started gathering his hair and pulling them back to his head, securing them with a headband and letting the bun stick up there as a few shorter strands stuck out or fell on his forehead.

“Well, I didn’t know you could do that.” you said with mere observance as he laughed.

“Yeah, well I want them longer, of course.”

“To show the world you’re a rebel.” you started to tease but he only laughed to your comments.

“Not really. I just like the style. I was never into short hair like my mother or brother. I was always into more free spirited things- since I was a kid.” he smiled, looking down at the ice cream as he stuck his spoon into it. “And when you grow up in a house like mine, you don’t really get to be the free spirit, so you’re restricted of anything- even the slightest bit of evidence that reminds or shows that you’re not like them.” he looked up at you with a large smile, his eyes starting to shimmer almost pure, white light. “And then I met James and it felt so much easier being me than I had all those years. Mostly because he didn’t care who I was or what my bloodline was... he was just James.” he kept smiling to himself until he realised how far he trailed off when he started. He was telling you everything and that was to you- to the girl who hated him, resented him. So the anxiety that came from before, which faded and came back like a circle to him, he let go of the spoon and rubbed the back of his neck. “Sorry- I- uh.”

“Why are you sorry?” you smiled at him, this time your eyes shimmering with light.

“I mean, you probably don’t care about all of that.” he mumbled out but you only let out a laugh.

“You’re such a dummy, Sirius.” you shook your head, letting out small giggles. “When I said I don’t care before- it wasn’t because I don’t care about you, it was because I didn’t want to pressure you into telling me what’s really on your mind if you’re not comfortable talking to me about it. I know that is James’ job.”

Sirius’ eyes furrowed and he couldn’t believe how bluntly you told him all of that. “You are awfully honest with a person.”

“Well, what do you expect? Hide what I think, write it down in a diary- plus, you should know this. I am James’ sister after all and I never restrict myself to tell you when you’re being an arse.”

“There’s something in this ice cream- I just know it.” he pulled the bucket away from you and smiled wonderfully back at you. “Because (y/n) I know would never sink to the level of love to tell me she cares about me.” he started to coo meanwhile you snorted and rolled your eyes.

“I never said that.”

“Oh, liar. You can’t take it back now.” he continued to tease you, making you blush a bit from embarrassment.

“I’m not heartless, Sirius. I do have a heart.” you stood up and dropped the spoon in the sink.

“Well, where is it?”

You let out another snort before grabbing the aspirin from the cabinet and the glass of water. You walked to him and cupped his chin with one hand, eyes blazing into his. “You stole it, pretty boy.” you pushed yourself away and sent him a wink as you were about to leave.

“I bloody knew it!” he shouted after you, leaving both you and himself a smile that wouldn’t go away anytime soon.

---

Since James’ bed was right next to the door, Sirius took a real caution of how he entered the room. The door left soft creaks as he tiptoed into the room, looking onto your bed as you were sitting up and smiling up at him.

He relaxed his muscles and smiled. “Should have known.” he grinned and you let out a laugh.

“What the hell were you doing?” you let out a laugh, pressing your hand to your mouth as you already knew the answers.

“There was a huge bug! Huge!” he sat down on James’ bed and started laughing. “Okay, so listen to this. After you left, I went to the balcony to have a smoke-”

“-from which you reek right now but okay, go on.”

“Really?” he smelled his shirt and fluttered his eyes as the smell of tobacco entered his nostrills. “Yeah, I’ll sleep without it anyway.” he smiled at you and leaned forward to continue his story. “Anyways, I was out there; you know moon was shining, stars were above, grasshoppers were being annoying little twats with their krrr krrr.” he imitated them, making you laugh and by that, you made him more interested into telling you the story. He put his legs then up on the bed and faced opposite of you. “Then out of the blue THIS ENORMOUS BUG SLAMS INTO MY FACE!” he spoke loudly as you shushed him, laughing at his face. “Oh, shite. Sorry, sorry. I forgot.” he apologised as the two of you laughed quietly, both rocking forward and back. “I- hah.” he tried to continue but couldn’t do to all the laughing. “I then- stop laughing I’m trying to tell you the story-”

“I’m sorry- it’s just..” you continued to laugh, letting your eyes water as your stomach cramped. “I was just at the window and when I saw you running out there like a lepricon on crack- I just-” you started laughing a bit louder as he laughed with you, both falling forward close to each other then back, holding onto your stomach.

“Did you see- did you see the way I fell-” he started laughing, his own eyes tearing up.

“Yeah.” you started to lower your laugh, smiling at him. “I couldn’t believe it- I swear and the way you looked around if anybody saw it-”

“I saw you laughing up at the window.” he laughed and you started laughing again, covering your mouth as you rocked back and forward.

“And you thought I would fall asleep by the time you got back without having to tease you about it later?” you wiggled your eyebrows at him as he shook his head with laughter.

“Oh, I prayed.” the laughter started dying out and both of you kept looking at each other, smiling, enjoying the presence of one another. It felt good, it felt warm being with him like this.

Now, you and Sirius never had laughed together as the two of you did today but it was like a thing that after the night falls, the two of you become this different person to one another. You feel like you want to be in the arms of him and he feels like he could watch you forever, be near you forever and just to see you smile- that was his mission. He didn’t want to make you hate him, to tease you and make fun of you so that you’re angry. It was the attention he was used to from you but now all he wanted was this attention; the one where you smile to him and laugh with him. The attention where you want him to be next to you.

“You know...I didn’t know we could ever have a normal conversation together without wanting to rip each other’s throats out, let alone laugh and sit together like we do right now.” he smiled, stretching out his legs, that were now next to you.

You looked down, put your hand on top of his toes and shook hisi feet a bit. “That’s because we’re not eleven anymore, Sirius.”

“Oh-” Sirius laid back and put his hands below his head, smiling at the ceiling. “To be eleven again!” he laughed, reminiscing back. “I would actually never want to be eleven again.” he pulled himself up on his elbows and looked at you seriously. “The way my hair would stick out like a nest of birds.”

You laughed. “Same actually.”

He fell again onto his back and stared into the ceiling, thinking.

And you couldn’t help yourself but watch him be there, so gorgeously staring at the ceiling and you thought that maybe- just maybe the two of you would be perfect for one another but the two of you are like two different planets compared to perfect. You were more of a wallflower and he was a wild child, who kept running after attention. He smoked, which was a deal breaker for you and he... he has a tendency to get offended to easily- but it’s a bit funny to you so that isn’t really a flaw you could count on.

He then pulled himself back up, narrowing his eyes at you and causing you to be a bit surprised by the look he was giving you. The two of you always seem to do something like this- make each other confused. He sat up in a criss-cross position and looked at you.

“Sirius?”

“(Y/n)?” he mocked you, rolling your name off his tongue like a song and wiggling his eyebrows. “I’m going to tell you.”

“What?” you narrowed your eyes suspiciously.

“Why I don’t like you sleeping in this room.” he answered and you furrowed your eyebrows, feeling the defensive mechanism kick in.

“Oh.” you crossed your arms over your chest and gritted your teeth a bit. “And what makes you think-”

“Hush, dear.” he pressed his finger on your lips as you widened your eyes and continued to glare at him. “I’m opening up to you here, alright. It’s not easy when you’re being a bitch.”

“Why do you want to open up to me- and why does me sleeping in this room-”

“Can you shut up?” he said. “I’m opening up because I want you to know.” he said and took your hands into his, which for the both of you, took each other’s breaths away.

And you couldn’t place it why all of a sudden your breath was gone and why you kept holding it in but his hands are so soft, his fingers long but nicely structured, the back of his hand filled with veins.

Yes, you did shut up- not because he had told you to but because you were extremely busy with how your emotions and hormones were wilding up inside of you. You felt like you couldn’t breathe nor even see correctly. When you looked up into his eyes, you couldn’t focus on his words because all you kept thinking was how his hands held yours.

“You’re looking at me.” he said and you finally shook your head and you couldn’t help yourself but look at him questionly.

“I have no idea what is happening right now?” you asked, yourself and him.

“I can’t tell you when you’re looking at me.” he said, changing his mind completely and wanting to walk away.

Yet, he didn’t walk away because you were holding to his hands a bit stronger then he did. He looked up at you, swallowed thickly as the touch of you made the surroundings a bit blurry.

Your eyes were soft this time, gentle and not staring into his. You pulled him back down slowly, let him sit back on his space. “Is it your family?” you asked and he already removed his eyes from yours.

You felt your heart squeeze and with that, you put your hand on his cheek and let him turn to face you. You smiled with comfort and tenderness, just as you did that night before when he had told you why he was here. He put his hand on top of yours and leaned into it.

“You don’t have to tell me.” you said but he shook his head and removed your hand from his cheek but kept caressing it with both of his thumbs.

“Sometimes I feel like it’s my fault that you don’t like me- the way that you think that I’m stealing your family away from you... but I don’t want you to think that. I don’t want you to feel excluded because James knows, and your parents know what I’ve been through with them, the reasons, the ‘why’.”

“I don’t want you to feel obligated to tell me, Sirius.” put your other hand on top of his and both of you took a strong hold of each other’s hands. “I know you’re not trying to steal my family away from me. It’s not your fault that I don’t like you because I do. I do like you, it’s just your stubborn head that thinks otherwise.”

“Like me like what?” he asked, his question catching you off-guard.

“What do you mean like what?”

He kept brushing his hands over yours, distancing himself into his thoughts before looking back up at you. “It doesn’t matter.” he laughed, brushing it off and changing the subject. “I do want to tell you, though.” his eyes now pierced into you like an arrow yet when it did- whatever that pierced into you- it felt vulnerable. “I always wanted to tell you but I never knew how.”

“Tell me what?” your heart started to race in one direction, your thoughts in the other.

“I don’t want you to sleep here because I don’t want you to see me.”

Your heart dropped, your eyes more perplexed than your mind. “What? I see you every day-”

“No, that’s not what I mean.” he shook his head, laughing a bit. “Some nights it gets bad for me and it can get really bad since that night and- well... uh...” he started stuttering a bit, not really knowing how to continue this. “I want you as far away as possible.”

“Why?”

“I don’t want you to get hurt.” he said as if it was something obvious, as you should know this already. “When James is here, he knows what to do- sometimes he calls your parents because I can make it rain and storm and lights flicker-”

“But I would have heard you, seen it-”

“We put a silencing charm on your room. We didn’t want you to know.”

“That you’re having nightmares and trauma from your family.” you started to get angry, ripping your hands away from his and standing up. You started to pace, running your hand through your hair. “That’s not fair!” you turned to him. “You can’t just live here and not tell me this!”

“Lower your voice, please.” he said gently, looking at you with a small bit of regret. “I did tell you this.”

“Months later?” you sat down, staring at the floor but not really taking any notice of it.

Your thoughts were everywhere and Sirius took a deep breath in to face you with this. He shouldn’t had told you. He knew you would react a bit impulsive. Why did he tell you this? Why couldn’t-”

“It’s not fair. I could have helped.” you looked at him, eyes a bit watery as you did look at him. “I was the best at Herbology, I even helped Pomfrey with this- I read books, I know spells- I could have helped you.” you sat next to him, close and emotional.

“You’re not mad?” he questioned as he saw you this desperate, this worried. He thought you would be furious for them to keep you in the dark of his situation, of why your parents were always focusing more on him then you but all you did was... you wanted to know because you wanted to help... because you’re worried... because you care. You genuenly care.

“Oh, I’m mad.” you punched his shoulder. “Here I was whining about my back and my period when I could- oh!” you looked at him. “I read in this book about a sleeping potion-”

“(y/n).” he cut you off as you looked at him.

“Hm?”

“I bloody love you.” he said and with that he put his hand on your cheek and pulled you into a kiss- a kiss that it didn’t feel like a kiss. It felt like fire and ice, dancing together. It tasted like ice cream and tobacco and it smelt like his cologne and your coconut cream.

You didn’t resist it. No, not when it felt like your soul left your body when his lips pressed on yours, when your tongue filled your mouth and when his hands- his perfect hands roamed your body so freely.

Without hesitating, you let your own hands dug into his curls, your leg wrapping around him and trying to pull him closer. He didn’t have to read your mind to place you down on your back and climb on top. He kissed you when he was afraid to touch your bare skin. He wanted to but to get your kiss back was enough- to know you feel slightly the same as him and when you tugged on his hair, he bit your lower lip, causing you to let out a small moan. The way it left your lips made him go crazy, his hands slipped under your shirt and felt the goosebumps on your skin. He started losing breath as closer as he got but when he could feel your hard niple under his fingertips, he couldn’t help himself but to grow hard.

You felt it press against your thighs, making you breathe heavier and heavier.

“Sirius.” you let out a breath as his fingers brushed around your nipples and your his lips trace you down your neck.

Oh, how you wanted but couldn’t.

“We can’t, Sirius.” you tried breathing out but it only left in a few murmors. Your hands left his body and went back to his cheeks, pulling him away.

Confused at first, frightened as if he had went to far, scared you away from him. Yet you were smiling at him, feeling your own self, barely calm down. “Did I do something wrong?” he asked with paranoia entering.

“No. No.” you let out a soft laugh, still holding his head inbetween your palms. “It’s just. We can’t.”

And for some reason, he understood because how could he do that to James, to your parents... to you...

He laid beside you and kept his hand on your hip. He kept watching you and you kept watching him, both smiling at each other.

“Did you mean it?” you asked, making him furrow his eyebrows.

“Mean what?”

“When you said you loved me... did you say it out of spur of the moment or-”

“I meant it.” he cut you off. “I think I had loved you for quite some time. The hate, the love- I don’t know. I just know that every time I see you, I want to kiss you. Even when you piss me off, I want to see you moments after. I don’t know but I can’t without you. You’ve been there... all my life.” he said, placing his hand on top of your cheek and brushing away a strand of your hair.

You pulled yourself closer to him, wrapping your arm around his torso as you looked up at him. “I don’t think this is right, Sirius...” you started as you pressed yourself close to him, feeling his arms cover you. “... but it feels right with you.”

“I don’t know what I’m doing.” he pressed his lips on the top of your head and gave you a kiss. “I just know I want this.”

“This?”

“Us.” he said. “I just don’t want you to turn cold after this. I don’t want you to ignore it.” he rubbed your back. “Hell, I’m the only one speaking here- I don’t know how you feel.” he stopped to listen but you were quiet. “How do you feel, (y/n)?”

Silence.

“(y/n)?” he asked again, feeling his heart race.

You pulled away and looked up at him, smiling. “I used to hate you, you know? And everything was friendly and simple but then you kissed me and I don’t know what I feel- I just know I wanted it- I wanted you but...” you trailed off. “I don’t know what I feel.”

#sirius black #sirius black x reader #sirius black imagine #james potter #james potter imagine #marauders #maruaders imagine #marauders x reader

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tsukikoayanosuke · 2 years

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I wish you would write a fic where... Jonah is helping Valerie getting away with murder or a beating please

Oh, hunny... If you think I'm going to be forgiving, you are dead wrong. But I also can't make a crime/thriller fic, so enjoy.

Warning: misogyny + slut-shaming, character death, mention of mutilation

There was a bully in NRC. Valerie didn't bother to learn their name, but he was a nuisance. No. An asshole. A horrible, horrible asshole. She couldn't pinpoint when the words started to be thrown at her, but everything he said made Valerie's blood boil.

"Go away, bitch. Find your own lab team."

"You want to bring the boys to the yard with those bazookas?"

"Yeah, yeah. I bet you get special privilege from being the only female in this school?"

"What a teacher pet. Can't say no to that pretty face."

The one that finally broke her was the one when he said it in an empty classroom. He was leaning over her table with that stupid sneer on his face as he said.

"Bet you have it easier than any of us. So, what did you do? Did you get on your knees and suck their dicks like a whore?"

Valerie broke. Her hands on his throat, choking him until he was barely breathing. Scissors were suddenly in her hand and she stabbed everywhere where she could. The boy was screaming, sobbing, begging for forgiveness, but Valerie was over her limit. She stabbed one last time straight through the neck and stood up, looking at her handiwork. The classroom carpet was soaked with blood and some had splattered themselves onto the tables. Her clothes were also ruined. She wondered if Jonah remembered to buy some detergent from the store.

"Valerie...?"

Speak the devil. Valerie turned around slowly, not bothering to hide her bloody appearance as she saw Jonah in his lab uniform. His eye widened and colors drained from his face at the sight. "What the fuck did you do?"

"Getting rid of the pig," she said, brushing some of her bangs that stick onto her forehead. "He won't be bothering me anymore."

"And your solution is to kill him?!" Jonah took quick strides until he reached Valerie, grasping the shorter girl's shoulder tight. "Are you out of your mind?!"

"Well, try to put yourself in my shoes and how would you feel when someone calls you a slut?"

The grip on Valerie's arms loosen but Jonah didn't let go. "But that doesn't mean you have to kill him."

Valerie rolled her eyes. "He deserves it."

"Listen here, woman." The grip tightened again as Jonah glared at her. "You and I have different mindsets, but I draw the line when it comes with taking someone's life."

Valerie blinked slowly. "You're on his side?"

"Not in a million years." Jonah shook his head. "But the death of a kid is not something I want to put in my conscious."

Valerie didn't say anything, standing on her beliefs. Jonah let go of her and crouched next to the corpse. "We have to get rid of the body," he said.

"No shit, Sherlock," Valerie huffed.

Jonah glared at her but didn't comment. Instead, he took off his lab coat and exchanged it with the corpse. "Just to give an impression that you're helping a fainted student. Bring the body to Ramshackle. We do the rest there." Valerie did it as Jonah conjured a spell to clean every speck of blood from the classroom.

They acted quickly as if they had been trained to do this a million times. Valerie grabbed an ax from the basement and chopped the limbs to be put in a plastic bag as Jonah packed everything they had into backpacks.

"We can the first boat in the morning," Jonah said, opening the map of Twisted-Wonderland, "We'll definitely be avoiding Valley of Thorn, Kingdom of Rose, and Afterglow Savannah. So maybe we can head to Land of Pyroxene instead."

Valerie get out of the shower and threw her bloody clothes into the lit-up fireplace. She sat across Jonah who had been marking all the potential routes they could take. "Why are you helping?" He paused and looked up at her. "I'm the one who killed him. Why are you putting a target on yourself?"

Jonah was silent for a while before sighing. "You're not from this world, right?" She nodded. "Even along the way we can find a way to get you home, that'll be great. But for now, I don't want you to travel alone?"

Valerie hummed. "Do you think I'm a monster?"

Jonah sighed again. "Honestly, yeah. You're freaky." But then he offered her a small smile. "But I'm the idiot who befriended the monster. Can't take me out of your side."

"I can kill you too, you know."

"I know."

"Then why?"

"It's dangerous to go alone. Take a friend with you."

They left at midnight just as they planned. Valerie threw the plastic bag of the corpse to the sea when they couldn't see NRC anymore. They traveled far away, maybe beyond the border of the nations.

That day NRC was missing three students. Two students named Valerie Kemonohito and Jonah Argentum. Valerie remembered the boy she traveled with while avoiding the law. He was a good boy, but he couldn't fill his promise. She couldn't pinpoint when she started to travel alone, but something in Valerie's heart whispered regrets for the lives she had taken.

#twisted wonderland #disney twisted wonderland #twst #twisted wonderland fanfic #twisted wonderland fanfiction #twisted wonderland fic #twst fanfic #twst fic #jonah argentum (my oc)#valerie kemonohito #the captain is answering!

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opes-magnas · 3 years

Text

『 as lonely as time can get. 』

It’s finally here!! I’m a terribly slow writer, and am really thankful to all those who waited for this! Hopefully you enjoy. Thank you so much to @hamjjy, @kaavijournals and Lady L for beta reading this, you guys are the best!

Listen to this playlist here for the best experience!

tw: cursing, body sensitivity, very subtle idea of anxiety and toxic relationships are portrayed.

~calypso <3

I. the moon can't shine on her own.

She looks serene tonight - high up in the night sky, not a single star to accompany her. Does the moon feel lonely like that? Does she ever need a warm hug? Perhaps she gets one from the sun, and he accompanies her all time. Does the sun shine for her? So that the world can see her beauty? Perhaps so. When she can't see him, she turns bloody red; she seems disturbed. Hurt. Lost. Her fury always frightened the humans. It made them shiver inside their homes, praying to see the familiar ball of light rise from the east to calm her down. Perhaps it is better if they could only see her beauty. But does that mean the sun shines, not to show her beauty, but to protect the humans from her true self? Perhaps so.

The sun and the moon are a pair. And they will continue to be.

As long as the moon can't shine on her own.

Let's stop thinking, Luna.

The moon seems lonely.

I look up at the clock. A red, metallic light tells me its 3:48 am, 3rd April. Great, now I can have four shots of espresso for breakfast. Thank you, oh great mind, for deciding that we needed to have that conversation earlier. I sit up on the bed and rub my eyes. The curtain flutters from the soft wind blowing in through the window. Cicadas fill up the silence as I look at the full moon illuminating my room another time. Oh, how I hate the moon. What a hypocrite. I look away, and my eyes find the pile of open textbooks and spark notes I abandoned. A small smile creeps up my face. At least I'll ace that History test tomorrow. I could imagine the Boba Tea reward from Leo in my hands already. Leo. The annoying kid next door who's been stuck with me since I was five. Don't worry, though. I don't like him. Not anymore. He made it extremely clear that I was 'a size too big' for him. Then why do I still hang out with him? Short answer - I beat him up, he apologized. I shall offer no elaboration. Still, a lump forms in my throat. And maybe because he wasn't completely wrong.

I get up to go grab a glass of water. Mochi is lying in her bed in the hallway. This is the first time she didn't stir awake when I thumped across the room. The poor fluffball of a cat is probably very tired from the bath I forced her into in the evening.

You need to lose a few pounds anyways, Luna. Get rid of those love handles. Maybe some fat on your back too. That'll make people find you more approachable.

It isn't toxic if it's true, right?

That night, I decide that my glass is half-empty rather than full, and go back to bed. Suddenly, Mochi wakes up and runs into my room. She snuggles in and throws her paws on my hair like it's her property. I choose to oblige the demon for today.

The last thing I see before sleep lures me is the clock gleaming '3:59 am'.

/////-----

It's too warm in my blanket. I almost want to peel my skin off. I need to get sleep, I have a test soo- I jolt awake. Mochi is no longer next to me. I assume she's back in the comfort of her bed, considering the temperature in the room. I let out a groan as my hand outstretches to the switchboard. After a few terrible attempts, I finally turn on the ceiling fan. As sleep threatens to take me again, I see that it's still dark out and the moon looks just as annoying as it did earlier, its ever luminant light breaking down the walls of my privacy. My eyes turn to the direction of the clock- 3:48 am, 3rd April. Huh, weird. I realize I must have had one of those five-minute, extra strength-giving, amazing nap- Wait why does the clock say it's 3:48 am?

I grab my phone. The sudden light blinds me for a second, and through squinted eyes I see 3:49 am on the screen. Huh, really weird. Wasn't I awake just now - err, earlier? Wait what? I realize I make no sense, maybe I just read the time wrong the first time. My brain is repeating the features of the Hammurabi Code, my drowsy eyes are drooping, and I meet slumber once more.

I barely feel Mochi slipping back into my blanket.

/////-----

I wake up in wonder why my alarm hasn't rung yet. The room is still dark, the moon stares at me curiously. Give me some privacy, moon. My eyes turn towards the clock for the third time this night- 3:46 am, 3rd April. Bullshit. I've been asleep for hours now; I won't need those four espresso shots for breakfast anymore. My tongue clicks involuntarily. Is this some sort of a stupid prank? Leo is definitely behind this, I'm going to hunt that dipshit down.

Come to your senses, Luna. The universe cannot prank you. That's impossible. And stupid.

I grab my phone again. An attempt in vain, I realize, when I see the screen displaying the same time. I text Leo.

| loser |

you (3:46 am, 03.04.2021): you awake? (read)

loser (3:48 am, 03.04.2021): no

A chill goes down my spine. Did the just relive 3:38 am? I decide to call Leo. Two rings in, I hear a familiar voice, 'I said I wasn't awake.' He sounds tired, voice raspy and strained. You'd think he'd just woken up from the but he's the sort of person who thinks sleep is for the weak. 'Yeah no shit, Sherlock. I'm speaking to your alter ego, Thomas.', I reply.

He decides to ignore my bad retaliation, and saves me from the embarrassment. 'Why is my star pupil awake at 3 in the morning? Has she forgotten about the test she will help me cheat tomorrow?', he asks. Ah, this freeloader. I'm gonna kick his ass. My hands move frantically in the air out of annoyance, 'I am not helping you with anything!', I scream-shout into the phone, afraid I'll wake Mochi up in the hallway. She's a bigger annoyance than Leo; no one in the universe has energy to deal with a grumpy Mochi.

'Honey, you love me.'

'You're being delusional.', I deadpan.

'Is my chubby baby irritated?', he says in a fake cooing voice. And that got me.

'Leo, I did not call you at 3 in the fucking morning for you to put me down.'

The other side of the line immediately goes silent. Silence that reminded me of the last time this happened. Silence between the two of us on a Boba Tea study session in the park after an argument, the only sound being the pages of my sociology textbook being turned, and of the sound of baby birds in a nest nearby. Though I know that Leo meant it as a term of endearment, I couldn't believe he wouldn't ever, well, consider me more than just a friend because of it. A few seconds (sometimes minutes) pass before -

'I'm sorry, Lunie, you know I don't mean it,'

Another apology.

I sigh. I'm tired of this conversation again. I'm tired of having to deal with the same problem again. I'm tired of people putting me down. I'm tired of blaming myself. I'm tired of trying to look pretty. I'm tired of Leo. I'm tired of me. I'm tired of another heartbreak. I know his apology is genuine. I know he doesn't mean it. I know he's just being the Leo he always is. But somehow his words still continue to haunt me. Maybe it's because it's coming from someone who means to me the most, coming from someone who brightens me up, like the sun does to the moon. Then why am I the only one taking it seriously? Why am I trying to fit into someone else's standards? Why am I so painfully aware of everything but still choosing to be blind?

Why am I not able to love myself even though I want to?

'Luna? You there?', his voice breaks me from my train of thought. Weirdly, he sounds quite scared. 'I didn't realize how much it bothers you, I swear I won-'

Mochi jumps onto the bed and snuggles into my head again, paws in a similar place in my hair. A weird sense of Deja vu washes over me again. And then-

『 pop! the world has reset.』

My eyes opened in fear as a gasp escapes my mouth. I'm sitting on my bed, trying to comprehend what just happened. The curtains flutter with the wind blowing by. The moon stares in curiosity. My phone's on the bedside table. The clock gleams with a bright '3:01 am' displayed on it. And the problem is that I wasn't dreaming, and I wasn't mistaking the time either.

I'm in a time loop.

II. a tub fills with water only to spill it.

I fucking hate whoever wrote Groundhog Day.

Like who decided that? Who decided to say 'Hey, let's make a movie based on time loops!'? 'Let's make a dude live the same day all over again till he gets it right! Let's make him really happy, then really sad!'

Son, I'm this close to pulling an Ides of March on you.

I seem to be looping every hour, more specifically from three in the morning to four. Five hours have passed by, but my clock tells me it's precisely 3:18 am. Great. My dearly detested friend, the moon, is my only companion in this war with time (sorry Mochi). In the five hours that should have gone by, I have accomplished the following:

Two and a half hours of sleep - though I wake up when the clock resets.

Half an hour of revision for that History test I need to write after I get out of this shit.

Thirty minutes of planning a workout, Fifteen minutes of Yoga.

Five minutes of trash talking the moon, Ten minutes of dealing with grumpy Mochi who woke up as I exercised.

Thirty minutes of wondering if Leo's looping with me, and

Half an hour of figuring out what went wrong, and how to make the night perfect.

I don't know how much longer I'll be able to remember anymore. I've tried everything - making notes, scribbling on the wall, writing on myself, engraving things on desk - but none of them seem to make it through when the loop resets. I'm too tired to talk to Leo, knowing very well that he would definitely not believe me. And partly because I'm afraid I'll lose my temper and get hurt again. I'm afraid I'll end up being the insecure bad guy, and he doesn't deserve that. He deserves someone better. Someone who's prettier, kinder and happier. Not telling him for the time being also meant that I'll never find out if he was looping with me. But that probably isn't the case, the universe is cruel for a reason. This is perhaps its punishment for me. I must go through this alone. No one's ever been by my side anyways.

I'm as lonely as the moon.

/////-----

Another few hours pass. The pop between every reset scares me lesser and lesser. But my desperation to return back to normal is growing. I've been trying to figure out what went wrong for the past hour in the neighbourhood park. The cold air perfectly paired up with the mint chocolate chip ice cream in my hands. Was it me staying awake this long? Should I have just gone to sleep? There must have been something I did wrong that hour. My heart wishes to call Leo and confide in him. And the more time goes by, the more my mind wishes to oblige to that crazy request.

I pull out my phone, which gleams a bright '3:58 am'. It's almost time for the reset. In two minutes, I'll be magically transported back to my bed. I sigh. I can't take living the same hour again. The hour grips my sanity like it is a play toy. I waste another countless moment wondering where I went wrong.

『 pop! the world has reset.』

Well, I guess there's no place like home. I wonder if Mochi was worried the previous hour when she didn't find me in the bed. Do cats feel worry for their owners? Does Mochi care for me? What kind of a disgusting ship is this? Cringe, cringe, cringe. Shut up, Luna. I bury my nonsensical idea of my cat showing me love for once in the deep pits of my mind, and pretend I never thought of such blasphemy. I shift under my blankets, and decide to sleep through this hour, foolishly hoping that the reset would never take place if I was never awake, though I woke up when the clock reset each time earlier. My eyes look at the clock - 3:05 am.

That's when doorbell suddenly rang. I launch up in surprise. This didn't happen before. My heart begins to pound extremely hard, my head hazed in confusion. I run towards the door as quickly as possible stirring Mochi awake in the process, and fling it open.

It's Leo. And he's in tears.

His eyes are filled with fear, breath unsteady. Beads of sweat line his neck as he tries to get words out. Leo grips my hands tightly, as though he wants me to hold him and tell him it was going to be okay. This hasn't happened in a very long time. He's gotten a much better hold on his anxiety in the past few years. I pull him into a hug and mutter words of comfort. His head is leaning on mine, and his breath slows. I tell him we'd be alright, and hum a calming tune. And we stay like that for the next five minutes.

'Luna,', Leo whispers into the night. 'Would you believe me if I told you something crazy?'

'Like what?'

'Like a war against the clock.'

And that's when I knew. Tears start brimming in my eyes as I give out a sigh of relief. 'Like a time loop?', I say as I hug Leo a little tighter. This time I needed one to remind me I wasn't alone. He seems to catch on as well, a sob escapes from him as he melts in. We stay in each other's arms, in each other's comfort - a place where walls were deaf to all the shared secrets, a sanctuary with no limits.

Oh, what I'd do to protect it.

Leo pulls away, his eyes disappear and his lips form into a sheepish grin. His face is puffy from all the crying, but it glows in the soft moonlight. My eyes widen in surprise as he grabs my hand and drags me out the door. I manage to see the clock on the kitchen counter gleaming with a bright '3:15 am.' before blood rushed to my face upon meeting the cold air.

'Where are we going? Are yo- ah it's fucking cold out here!', I complain.

'Ice Cream.' Classic hungry Leo. This boy is a demon.

iii. the twilight hour.

'What's wrong with you?!', I huff as I bend down to catch my breath and hide myself under a tree. Leo, on the other hand, is breathing quite easy, a stupid grin plastered on his face (oh, how I want to punch him). His hands hold up a bag with three tubs of mint chocolate Ice Cream like they're the greatest creation of God. 'Did you really have to steal Ice Cream?! Are you five?', I say as I recall the incident that just took place, how Leo basically ran out the convenience store with the sweet goodies without paying and left me, his dear, penniless (and only) friend as the bait to a potential flat-earther of a cashier (long story, don't ask).

And now we're here, the park I was in the previous hour. There's not a single soul around. The only companion being the moon once again. His smile shines through like the sun, however.

'I'm rweally sowwy, delulu,', he retorts.

'My name is Luna, and no one can ever be as delusional as you, you dill hole.', I say, my ears red.

'Good now, I shalt promoteth thee to 'Deluna'. Thee has't been felicitat'd.'

I click my lips in annoyance. I know quite well that when the clock resets, all the stolen Ice Cream would be back in the freezer. But I try my best to maintain a straight face to show my discontent. That's right Luna, assert your fucking dominance. I notice that his hazel eyes shining with the mischief I'm used to once again. He's back to the loud, obnoxious and teasing Leo he's always been. Leo who's carefree, Leo who's horribly reckless, Leo who finds happiness in uncertainty. My Leo. My lips slowly curl into a smile, and I give in. He's happy, and that makes me happy too. Leo suddenly pulls out his phone.

'Look here, Partner in time.', he says cheekily. I hear a click. My brows wring into discomfort and confusion.

'What? You look pretty in the moonlight.', he states without skipping a beat. There's a million tugs in my stomach, and blood rushes to my bronze skin. Butterflies soon turn into more sinister as I remember our conversation on the phone earlier. My face falls, if only this boy knew what he puts me through. First I'm not good enough, and now I'm pretty? Does he really throw around stuff like that without giving it a second thought? Does he not realize all that he's putting me through?

This is pointless. My feelings for him are pointless. The amount of time I waste on this is pointless. 'Our friendship is pointless.', I say. Regret follows immediately. Leo's face turns grim too; an unreadable expression plastered on his face. I suddenly remember something I jotted down my sociology textbook.

words left unspoken, my hearts screams, my head's in pain, we are in conflict.

Tears well up in my eyes again. This is a conflict, the most peaceful one at that. Terrifying. One that makes you curl into a ball and wish you never existed. One fueled by guilt, by insecurity, by ignorance. I remember the rest of the poem.

one of us was meant to get hurt, almost as though the heavens proclaimed it, on the day of creation. the celestial sky cried tears of gold, for it knew fate was cruel, but humans are crueler.

My hands are getting colder. My breath is hitching as my sobs get louder. Leo rushes towards me and tries to pull me into another hug. As much as I try to resist, he pulls me into his embrace. Fear devours my heart as I realize how I didn't feel at home anymore. I knew this sanctuary was going to break sooner or later. My heart is sick. It pains far too much as it beats in his embrace. Will it stop if I pull away? I try.

It does.

'Luna, what's wrong?!', Leo asks, truly afraid of what was happening.

'Us, Leo. Us.', I reply, voice barely a notch away from a whisper.

'What's wrong with us? We're Leo and Luna! You're the other half of thi-'

'Stop. Please.', I say firmly. My head feels too heavy, my heart too light. The moon shines down on me in its disgusting glory. I can't take it anymore. 'You're the reason I hate the moon, Leo. Because you are the sun. You only shine on me to mock me. To make me feel inferior.'

'What're you talking abou-'

My tongue clicks loudly. 'You're so hypocritical! You're an asshole who makes me feel like I'm the only one in the world, before throwing me out yourself. You make me feel insecure, Leo. I don't feel like I'm myself with you anymore.', I say, vitriol burning my throat. 'You disregard what I feel for you, because I'm the moon. You outcast me, because I'm the moon. You tie me down.

'You remind me of why I'll never shine on my own.'

I look at Leo. His hazel eyes turned dark, head down in shock. There's not a single drop of water in his eyes. He stands under the moonlight in silence. I can hear my heart palpitating.

'Why do you think the Sun shines, Luna?', he whispers. 'Is it to light the day, or to light the night?', he asks, a little louder this time. I open my mouth to answer.

'It's to light the night, Luna.', he interrupts. He knew I'd say neither. The sun shines for himself. He is selfish.

'The sun sheds it's light, because if it didn't, the moon would never-'

'That's exactly the prob-'

'get to see the world.' I stop midway in confusion. What is he saying?

'The sun shines because he wants the moon to see the world, Luna. He shines because if he didn't, the moon would be lonely. He makes sure to shed the perfect amount of light on her, so that she guides the traveler without scalding them, without making them blind.

'If he never shone, he'd have never have found his other half. The sun would have been just as lonely as the moon would have, Luna. The sun and moon are a pair, not because the moon can't shine on her own, but because they are lonely without each other.', Leo says.

And epiphany struck down like lightning. Leo needs me as much as I need him. He'd be just as lonely as I'd been without him. The moon's identity without the sun hadn't ever been her own. It was due to the sun's light she was herself. The sun made her the moon, and the moon made him the sun. They were inseparable, as destiny willed them to be, for they needed each other. For the sun to shine the brightest, and the moon to give comfort. But all that didn't answer why-

'Why did you say I wasn't enough for you?', I say, reminiscing that day in the park. I remember picking out a bouquet of purple lilacs after studying a book about plant symbolism in the library. I spent hours trying to make myself look pretty. I spent a lot of time trying to make up my mind. And everything came crashing down.

'Because you deserve more!', Leo says in defeat, fingers brushing into his hair. 'Do you know how much of a loser I am? You deserve a hunk-a-ilicous person, are you really going to settle for a noodle?!', Leo says, gesturing to his lean figure. As sarcastic as his response seemed, he meant every word of what he said. That's just how Leo is.

'Leo, that's exactly how I've been feeling this whole time.' I pull Leo into a hug.

Leo is no different than I've been my whole life. He's just as insecure and broken as I am, as I've always been. All my life, I'd seen him as a completely different person. We have different hobbies, we have different personalities. But we're still similar in ways that make us, well, us. It's just that our sanctuary needed to break to have it's walls built back stronger. I feel at home again.

'You're more of a sausage though. Alri-ALRIGHT lemme clear up, you're MY sausage okay? The best one in fact, I will use you in all my dishes.', Leo says as I pull out of his embrace and find a stone on the road to attack the disrespectful brat. Leo runs away and makes his way behind the usual Banyan tree at the edge of the park. 'That's literally the worst nickname ever!', I yell as I chase him.

'Mine own dearest sausage I begeth thee to reconsid'r!'

'TRY ME BITCH.'

'Hey, hey wait.', Leo holds down my hands and blocks my attack, and I'm left with no weapon except for the daggers in my eyes I choose to use against him. 'So, what are we now?', he asks.

'We're still Leo and Luna, dumb head.', I say after giving it a thought. Leo opens his mouth to refute, but soon decides against it. I assume he's content with the answer. We were friends, nothing could ever break that. Would we ever be something more? Who knows, maybe we would in the future when we love ourselves a little more, when we're comfortable with who we are, rather than who we're with.

Until then, we are Leo and Luna.

///////------

My eyes flutter open. I am leaning on the trunk of the Banyan tree next to Leo. I find myself in sleepy laughter as I look at his head lodged in between the roots of the tree. And suddenly, I see light in the distance. I immediately wake up from my position near the tree and walk to the edge of its canopy, heart beating in my stomach and look at the sky outside. The dark navy night melts into a light lilac, small streaks of tangerine bordering the the horizon. The birds are beginning to chirp in the trees, though the street lights are still on.

The time loop has stopped.

Meanwhile, Leo had stirred awake. He runs with his eyebrows up in surprise and squeezes the life out of me before his eyes turned dark in fear.

'WE HAVE SCHOOL.', he exclaims. I ignore him, and choose to stare into the sky. I look at the twilight hour. The sun and the moon were side by side, in harmony, like Leo told me. Tears escape my eyes in a sense of accomplishment. I could rest now. I give myself a small hug, and tell myself I'd worked hard. ('LUNA DO YOU REMEMBER THE HAMMURABI CODE.' 'That is not important right now!') The sun rises up, and salvages the few moments he has with the moon. I turn my head to the side and see that the moon looks serene, her light glow slowly fading as she decides to rest too.

But above all, I see that the moon is no longer lonely.

a/n: ahhhh yes if you’ve made it this far, i truly truly appreciate you for reading this, it means a lot to me. the past few days have been a little weird for me, and it took more than just motivation for me to get through writing this. again, thank you to all my beta readers, i really treasure all of you! i’d really love to get an ask about the short story, so if you enjoyed, make sure to send me one! i hope everyone’s staying safe! stay tuned with us because we have another surprise coming soon!

alatcg taglist: @blue-hairbrush, @kaavijournals, @artbyeloquent, @47crayons, @writing-is-a-martial-art

general writing taglist: @shinesundark, @the-writing-avocado, @raenawrites

@original-writing

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rainydayhogwartsimagines · 4 years

Note

It’s me again lol thank you for the first one. I was wondering if you could do another fic w Fred with a admirer makes him a kandi bracelet, if you don’t know what that is then you can skip but thank you for considering- ❤️

I dead ass forgot the name of Kandi bracelets! But I totally know what these are I've got like six of these bad boys in a box somewhere

Fred was curious about this whole situation. He was finding bracelets... Everywhere. The weirdest part was he knew they were meant for him. Little phrases only he could understand would be left on these things, along with the fact they'd be left in places only he would go to. He wouldn't wear all of them. No. He'd simply keep them in a box but he would wear the newest one he could find the next one in hopes of it's maker seeing it and commenting on it. He was curious to know who knew him this well. And why he didn't seem to know them. He sighed, finding the latest one resting on a table in the library. He knew there was no point in asking if anyone had seen it's maker. Whoever you were you were otherwise well known and had everyone in on this, or you were practically invisible to people. He asked many times in open areas if anyone had seen you all with the same answer: Nope. You sat down next to him and rose a brow. "Still getting these from them?" You asked. "Yep." Fred said taking off the last one and sticking in his pocket. "still no luck in finding them hmm?" You asked. "I don't get it. How are they able to leave them in places beforehand without being seen." Fred asked. "I'm not sure." You shrugged. "What's the newest one even say?" You asked. "I solemnly swear that I am... Up to no good-- this person knows about the marauders map." He said. "That's limiting it to a very slim amount of people then." You pointed out. "I feel like Sherlock every time I look at these." Fred said curiously. You choked on air hearing that reference. "How in the world do you know Sherlock Holmes?" You asked. "I read it after you asked me to 'read at least one muggle book so I don't sound crazy' Y/n." Fred chuckled. "You read?" You gaped. "I know. Shocking. Don't tell anyone or else my reputation might be ruined." He said sarcastically making you smile. You turned back to your book and Fred smiled. He loved seeing that beautiful smile on your face, it was like he was seeing it for the first time everytime he saw it. You could feel him staring and hid behind your strands of hair but he tucked them behind your ear and you blushed crimson. Fred smiled even more and you sighed. "I can't study if you keep distracting me Fred." You whined. "Yes I am a fun distraction though." He said. "Midterms Fred. Midterms." You said making him sigh and rest his head on his arms. He soon fell asleep and you looked at the bracelet on his arm.

He wore them. All the time. It pleased you to see he did want to meet the maker. But would he still want them if it was you? You were the listener of the group, usually listening to everyone's problems but never saying your own. Fred was the only one though who actually listened to you. He would notice your tired stares and ask what was wrong. You'd give him a half ass answer but then he'd ask you to "elaborate on that please" and you'd wind up telling him. You and him would have little moments yes. But you've seen him do this with plenty of other girls. You didn't want a "fling" you wanted something more, something impactful. Fred liked you of course though unbeknownst to you. A part of him was hoping you'd drop a hint that it was you behind these bracelets. But so far... Nothing. The next day came and another clue was left by a spot in the staircase he and George would hang out at. "Oh, your secret admirer left a present again." George yawned as he sat. Fred lifted it and rose a brow. "Sherlocking time. Find me." Fred read looking up. George leaned up. "Think we'll meet the maker?" He asked. "Sounds like that's what they're trying to get me to do." Fred agreed. You stopped and noticed the boys. "Left you another bracelet?" You asked, motioning to the new one. "Yeah, they said 'find me'." Fred said. You rose a brow. "So are you going to go off looking?" You asked. "In a moment. I'm going to nap first. Long day. Long. Long. Day." He yawned. You chuckled and walked past. You knew he'd do that.

You knew this boy all to well. You started leaving them along his route, but only in places you'd knew he'd have to sit or stand in a specific spot to see. You were a clever little thing you. It was a wonder you weren't in Ravenclaw. Fred soon woke up from his name and leaned up, seeing the glint of a metallic bead. "...The chase has begun." Fred noted as he got up. George yawned and blinked a few times to see his brother finding another one. "Where you go to be alone." So... The lake? Fred started walking and George trailed after him. "Where are you going?" George asked. "They left another clue." Fred said. It took him a bit but he finally made it to the lake, looking around the area just to come up empty handed. Where was this damn thing? He sighed and sat on a rock before seeing a blue bead. You sneaky little shit. He walked over to the small plant it was on and found it. "Clever. Find the plant name." Was inscribed on the beads. "Now how the hell am I going to do that?" Fred grumbled. Luna rose a brow. "What do you have there?" She asked, her voice light and soft as she spoke. "Oh. A bracelet. Someone's been leaving these for me." He admitted. "Like a scavenger hunt?" Luna asked. "Yes, exactly. But now I'm reaching a dead end." Fred grumbled. "What's it say?" Luna asked. "Find the plant name." He muttered. "Oh... Have you checked in a book?" Luna asked. Fred facepalmed. "That's so obvious. Thank you Lovegood." Fred said making her chuckle as he ran past. He found you in the library reading and he tapped you. "Hmm?" You asked turning to him. "Do you know where I might be able to find a book on plants?" Fred asked. "Well that's a lot of books Fred. Can you narrow this down?" You asked. "Plants that grow near lakes?" He guessed. "...Hmm..." You got up and walked into a aisle before picking up six different books. "What's this for anyways? Finally doing homework?" You asked. "Aha. Funny." Fred said making you laugh and shake your head.

He smiled as he sat down flipping through pages. It wasn't until he read the fifth book he finally found the next bracelet, squished between it's pages. You rose a brow. "Whoever this is, they are thorough as fuck." Fred muttered. "Where you met me." Was inscribed. "Well that's where this dies out." Fred groaned. "Fred, we already know this person knows about the Marauder's map. So that's like four people." You said. "Shit. You're right." He nodded making you roll your eyes. Then Fred paused. "Wait... Three people know about the map." He said. "Hmm?" You asked. "Only three. Not four." Fred said. "Harry, Fred. And Angelina knows too. George had a slip up in front of her." You said. "...Shit." Fred groaned. "Process of elimination. We know it's not George." Fred muttered to himself. You snorted. "You're beginning to actually sound like Sherlock now." You laughed. "Shh. I'm thinking." Fred said with a tone that was joking. You bit back a snort and you shook your head. "Where did me and you meet?" Fred asked. "Uhm... Courtyard. I think?" You recalled. "Right! It was in the winter!" He nodded. "Where did I meet Angelina?" He asked. "Uhm... Also... The courtyard." You said. "Shit. You're right. Gotta be thorough." Fred said before leaving. Luna sat down in front of you. "Stuck around and told him didn't you?" You asked her. "I'm surprised his first conclusion wasn't a book." Luna giggled silently. You smiled and Angelina sat down next to you. "Alright, so who's directing him to the next one?" Angelina asked. "Uhm... I thought you were." Luna said softly. "We gotta keep this inconclusive, he'll catch on that's Luna's in on this if we give her the next spot again." You said. "Hmm. Alright I'll do it." Angelina said with a smirk. "Confuse him just a little bit. I swear making that boy read was both a blessing and a curse, he's gained deductive reasoning." You snorted making her laugh. Sure enough there was a confused Fred, trying to recall exactly where he met you. "Is it Angelina?" He asked before Angelina walked over to a confused Fred. "What are you doing?" Angelina asked. "I'm looking for a clue. And coming up with nothing-- where did I meet you two?" Fred asked Angelina. "we were sitting." She muttered before sitting on the bench pretending to ponder. Fred rose a brow and then sat next to her before noticing the next clue. It was under another bench across. Jesus this person knew how to hide things at an angle. He gripped the bracelet and read it "Where you go to think" so... The astronomy tower. He groaned and began walking and Angelina nearly snorted watching him gripe the entire way there. Six other bracelets were found, all of them being in obscure places before he finally found one. "Look for the listener." He rose a brow. What the fuck did that mean? He walked back to the great hall and everyone was sitting around. "Where have you been?" George asked. "Looking for these things." He sighed. "Hit another dead end?" You asked. "Yeah. 'look for the listener.' what does that even..." Then it hit him. You. The answer was you. "Fred? You look like the Bloody Baron just passed through you, are you alright?" Angelina asked. "The listener in our group is Y/n." Fred said looking at you. George and Angelina looked at you and you smirked. "Surprise." You said, taking off the last bracelet. "Found me." Was inscribed on the beads. He chuckled and shook his head. "You're thorough." He said. "I didn't think you actually read Sherlock Holmes... That caught me off guard." You chuckled. Fred got up and extended his hand. "Come on." He said.

"Where are we--" "we need to talk." He said and you took his hand with a confused look. "Fred if you're upset then I'm really sorry I just thought that it was fun and--" "I'm not upset, that was fucking brilliant." He chuckled. "...It was?" You asked. "You need to organize a group event or something because honest to God that was AMAZING." Fred said making you chuckle. "I had help." You said softly. "From who-- Angelina and Luna!" He gasped making you giggle. Fred smiled and shook his head. "Christ woman, you're going to make me fall harder for you if you keep this up." Fred said making your eyes widened. "You... You actually--" "Yes! Y/n I was hoping this was you! God I knew you were smart but you're giving the actual Sherlock Holmes a run for his money Princess!" He said making you smiled. "A...are you sure that you... I mean... I..." You shuffled. "I like you Y/n... And if you'll let me I'd like to be your boyfriend." He said. You smiled and took out the actual last bracelet. "Mischief Managed." He smiled at it and put it on your wrist. "I'll wear the other one. That way we're a set." He said with a smile. Your face must've been as red as the Gryffindor house colors as Fred kissed you. You smiled and chuckled. He took your hand and went back into the great hall, arm wrapped around you. "It worked!" Luna smiled, now sitting with Angelina. "We've got ourselves a trickster amongst the group." George teased. You smiled and Fred kissed the side of your head. "How'd you even know where to put half of these though?" Fred asked about the bracelets.

"elementary my dear Watson"

#fred weasley x reader #fred weasley x you #fred weasley

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delightfulfics · 4 years

Text

Always Get Permission From A Detective (Sherlock X Reader)

Summary: You post a picture of Sherlock in his signature hat that he despises. You didn’t get permission and when he finds out who the culprit is he is not pleased.

Up Next: Request by @anonymouswritr

3,450 views and 1,200 likes. You never expected for the picture to blow up. The only reason you posted the picture in the first place was because you thought it was hilarious. Sherlock would always get mad at John for posting stupid pictures on the blog. He would always act as if it was the end of world for posting such “rubbish”.

You snickered as you looked at the picture. Sherlock had a confused face on with the hat tight on his head, staring right at the camera. As soon as you took the picture in the cab that you and your brother took a few weeks ago on your way to John and Mary’s he made you delete the photo. But what he didn’t know was that you didn’t delete it fully. You were proud of the work you did. Sherlock was the most famous Detective in England so it only made sense to post it for his fans.

“John what have I told you about posting pictures of me?”

“Sherlock, why would I do that?”

You put your phone on your stomach and focused your attention to the voices that were getting louder as they walked up the stairs to the flat. John entered in the living room with Sherlock babbling behind him.

“Only you would post something so stupid. I mean look at me, I look ridiculous.”

John scoffed with an annoyed look on his face as he sat in his chair by the fireplace.

“I didn’t do that Sherlock. But you are a damn detective so you should know who posted that bloody picture.”

“It is hard to know when the user name is ‘Holmes2245′,” you couldn’t help but laugh at how obvious it was. Sherlock and John’s head turned towards you as you laid across the couch.

“What?”

“You are such a fucking idiot.”

“Thank you for the input, Y/N.”

“Why you are very welcome brother.”

“Do you by chance know who ‘Holmes2245′ is?”

“No I don’t,” you weren’t gonna give that away. John was right. He was a detective after all. How could he have not figured it out by now?

John snickered from his seat and looked at you. It took you a few seconds to figure out why he snickered but then it clicked. He knew who it was.

“Uh, Sherlock?”

“What?” Sherlock froze in place and looked at the doctor. John tilted his head indicating to come to him. Sherlock sighed and walked over.

“What is it now Joh-,” Sherlock stopped as his eyes glanced over the screen. How could he be so stupid to not figure out who the account belonged to? John wouldn’t have figured it out either since you didn’t have any pictures of yourself or any people at that point. All you posted were pictures of literature and famous painting with stupid quotes. He noticed something though, a photo that was taken of a piece of art above the fireplace that was located in the flat. But in the corner of the picture was someone’s hand with a ring. A ring that you never took off that belonged to your mother.

Sherlock glanced up the phone and slowly looked at you. “My dear sister.”

“Yes, brother?” Shit. You were fucked.

“You posted that picture without my permission?”

You sighed and sat up. There was no point of acting dumb since your brother knew you better than you knew yourself. “Yes I did.”

“What in the bloody hell possessed you to do that?”

“It was something for your fans and plus you do look ridiculous.”

“‘#DetectiveHottie’.” Sherlock looked at John with his eyebrows furrowed. “It is trending on the blog.” John put the phone towards Sherlock. Sherlock squinted his eyes to take a better look and there it was. #DetectiveHottie. He slowly turned towards you and looked into your eyes.

“At least you aren’t getting any hate. I mean you could be put on ‘the most hottest English men.’ Right, John?” John did not respond to your question. He was too busy waiting for Sherlock to kill you.

“I wonder...”

“You are always wondering about something, Sherly.”

“John?”

“Yes, Sherlock?”

“You are a doctor. Do you know if people outgrow tickling?”

“Uh, I don’t think s-.”

“Good. Thanks Watson,” Sherlock stalked towards you quickly and you didn’t waste anytime so you shot up from your seat and ran. Or you tried to. You didn’t even make it to the door as Sherlock grabbed you around the waist and held you in a tight hug. Curse his long stick legs. “Now, let’s do a little experiment.”

“No let’s not,” you tried to move but you couldn’t.

“John, I need your clarification.”

“John, I swear-.”

“Alright.”

“This is the most sensitive part of the body right?” With that, he harshly squeezed your thigh making you squeal.

“It is one of the most sensitive parts-.”

“Okay what about hips?” You jolted in Sherlock’s tight grip on your waist as he squeezing your hips repeatedly. You giggled loudly with each squeeze.

“Yeah that is another sensitive part of t-.”

“Alright. Neck?” As Sherlock reached his hand to shove in your neck you childishly tried to bite his hand. “Wow. You really just tried to bite me, didn’t you?” In retaliation for your childish acts Sherlock decided to give no mercy. He moved from spot to spot as quick as he could. The worst was that you never knew where he would go. You felt squeezes from your knees then you would feel tasering on your hips. Tears were falling down your cheeks as your head was on Sherlock’s shoulder, opening the spot he was first trying to reach. Your neck crushed his fingers as your giggles increased.

“Sherlock. You are gonna kill her.”

“She has to say sorry.”

“I AM SORRY.”

“I didn’t expect you to give up so quickly little sister-”

“JUST SHUT UP AND STOP!”

“Okay.” He removed his hand out from your neck but still kept his arms wrapped tightly around you as your giggles decreased.

“You okay, Y/N?”

“Oh I am great John. It is not like I was tortured or anything.”

“Oh stop being a drama queen,” Sherlock said with an eye roll.

“Says you,” your head shot up to face the detective and you gave him a stern glare.

“Alright enough you two. We have a case,” John sat up from his chair and walked towards the kitchen. Leaving the two Holmes siblings in the room.

“I hate you so much.”

“I know,” Sherlock said as he gave you a quick kiss to your head and removed his arms from you. You moved off his lap and curled up into a ball. Sherlock sat up and stood up straight, wiping off any dust from his coat. “I hope you learned something, my dear sister.” I bloody did. Next time, post it anonymously.

#sherlock holmes #sherlock #sherlock x reader #sherlock x sister!reader #john watson #tickle #ticklefic

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practicingmedicine · 3 years

Text

Practicing Medicine: Chapter Seven

(+)7

2075 ROBCO(R)

LOADER V1. 1

EXEC VERSION 41.10

32K RAM SYSTEM

14302 BYTES FREE

HOLLOWTAPE LOADED: "THE-WORST-THING-EVER"

INITIALISING….

SUCCESS!

STATUS

Battery Level: 42%

Wireless Signal: (?)

Operating Temperature: 92F

HEALTH

BP: 170/130

SPO2: 100%

Temp: 99.5F RR: 28

HR: 185

TIME

Day: 24 SEP. 2279

Time: 16:10

CLIMATE

Current Temperature: 76 F

Atmospheric Pressure: 750 mm

Background Radiation: 1.321 RAD

WARNING: Dangerous wasteland creature in range!

Yeah, no shit, Sherlock! Why don't you tell me my chance of survival as a percentage too!

I'd been tipping back in my chair when the wall exploded, so now I was sitting on my ass in a state of total mental shock, slowly butt-scooting my way backwards. The NCR soldier who I'd been sitting beside popped up, knocking his stool over in the process.

"Ayuda!" he shouted. He was shooting his rifle, but it wasn't making any noise. He screamed something about shit ammo and started yanking on the charging bolt.

Amongst the wreckage, Tandi tried to stand back up. How she survived an impact like that was beyond me, but I wasn't about to point that out. She turned her head to look at Gram.

"Gram, get the-" she started. Before she could finish, the big white reptile threw itself directly at her, knocking over the entire table and crushing Cook and Jas as Tandi rolled out of the way, trailing pink insulation foam behind her. Gram sprinted past me and started clambering up the stairs to the second floor, leaving poor Chomps sitting in stunned silence.

The deathclaw reared around to face Tandi, who had drawn a six-gun from her hip.

"Fuck off, cyka!" shouted Tandi, and emptied it directly into his face, shattering his jaw and blasting off his nose.

The gunshots, the shrieks of the injured beast, the dust that was gathering in the air... it was all so overwhelming! I'd never been so close to anything so dangerous, and my whole body was screaming at me to run for my life, but I just couldn't send the signals to my muscles. I couldn't move, couldn't shout, couldn't breath...

The beast lunged at Tandi again, and she caught him by his arm and snapped it against her leg, then grabbed onto his broken jaw and forced it into the back of his throat. He immediately swung his other hand at her, impaling her through her forearm and thigh. He probably would have disemboweled her in the next motion, but was interrupted by a sudden hail of gunfire.

My eardrums pounded as the soldier fired shot after shot from his now-functional rifle, striking the deathclaw all across it's back and arms, poking lots of inconsequential little holes in the thing. By the end of the magazine, I couldn't hear anything but a loud ringing, so I didn't even get to hear the soldier's scream as the Deathclaw reeled around and folded him against the wall, taking all the life out of his body and sending him tumbling to the ground in a way that made it clear that he'd not be getting back up. The beast stalked over to him...

And in Came chomps like a goddamn pro wrestler, swinging a stool over his head like a sledgehammer. The beast didn't even bother to turn around as it raked Chomps across his entire upper body with its good claw. I could see the blood running down his face as Chomps stumbled backwards into the fallen table and fell onto his back, trying to figure out which of his massive wounds to clutch as he writhed about with his legs in the air.

Then, the thing turned it's whole upper body to face me. Our eyes connected.

Have you ever been so scared that you choked on your own spit? Because, as the beast stared at me with its one remaining eye, I distinctly remember gagging so hard that I started choking on my own spit.

It started walking towards me- a big, ghost-white beast, stained all over with its own blood, all its parts hanging loose- and I involuntarily let out a mix between a wet cough and a squeal. More logic-defying noises escaped my mouth as I scrambled for the stairs, trying and failing to stand up in the process. But it wasn't me who the deathclaw was keying in on now- It was Gram, standing behind me on the stairwell with a laser gun.

"Cover your ears, Boy!" He shouted over the ringing, and I followed his advice. I pressed my hands against my ears and shut my eyes.

Next thing I felt was heat on my skin- wasn't no light, but there was heat alright! Heat and a noise like a can of sarsaparilla taking a fifty cal right in the center! Drops of hot liquid splashed across my skin.

Next thing that hit were the smells. Burning fat, a delicious dinner and clouds of gunpowder, pools of coagulating blood and bodily fluids; The sounds- screaming, shouting, sobbing, and there was that damn ringing in my ears! My head hurt too, and my skin was all hot and prickly. I swear I could feel my chest caving in, I was breathing so hard…

"Isaac! Isaac, get moving, people are dying! ISAAC!"

Someone hit me in the back of the head, so I turned around and bit them as hard as I could. I could taste blood so vividly, as they pulled their hand back, putting them off balance. I grabbed the wrinkled, bleeding hand and yanked it forward, pulling its owner down the stairs and onto the floor. Someone walked up to me and tried to say something to me so I started screaming as loud and hard as I could, until they backed away.

Then it struck me- the deathclaw was dead. It's head had been hollowed out, pieces scattered all over the room. No one was even paying attention to me as I beat the ever living shit out of Gram, who had probably just saved my life. They all had their own problems.

I was hyperventilating, I realized, and it was making my vision go dark around the edges. I tried to regulate my breathing as I scanned the room, wondering what the hell I was supposed to do first. But it was hard- so, so hard with all the ringing, and the prickly hot feeling on my skin and the static in my head!

Where to start? I started compiling a mental list of all the problems that I had to fix, or "doing triage," as my father would have said. In my head, it looked something like this:

I'd hurt Gram after he hit me in the back of the head, but he was already getting back up.

Cook was lying underneath a table, wheezing and trying to get it off her chest- she was probably having trouble breathing, but Jas was helping her at the moment, and she was making noise so it couldn't be that bad.

The NCR soldier was in a bad way, probably got his back broke. I couldn't tell if the blood all over his back was his or the deathclaws, which warranted a closer look, but there was still air going through his body so I'd put him on the back burner for now.

That left Tandi and Chomps, the two with the nastiest wounds. If the claw had hit his throat, Chomps would be dead very soon, if he wasn't dead already. I decided to deal with him first. Ignoring Gram's muttered insults, I stalked across the room and fell down on one knee beside the old man. There was a frightening amount of blood pooling around his head, and my heart rate picked up when I dragged him on his side and gave him a quick once over.

Three parallel gashes- One deep wound across his stomach, one relatively shallow one across his upper chest and collarbone, and one across his forehead that was bleeding profusely but which had stopped at the skull. I saw no signs of life-threatening bleeding, though his intestines were poking out through the stomach wound. I motioned towards Gram.

"Gemme a wet towel." In spite of what I'd done to him, he didn't argue with me, disappearing into the kitchen without a word. I looked back at Chomps. I'd been an idiot and left my medical kit in the cart, so my emergency treatment was going to have to be improvised. I didn't like that, but I wasn't about to leave any of the people in the room to go get the kit. I'd have to make do for the moment.

First step would be to remove the clothes around the evisceration. How was I going to do that? I couldn't just pull off his overalls. I'd have to cut through them. What options did I have for cutting? My utility knife was in my medical pouch. But, when they'd set the table, there had been steak knives…

Find a steak knife, I told myself, and started scanning the floor. I could faintly hear the back door open as Gram headed outside to pump water on a towel, which I'd use to dress the evisceration. Steak knife, steak knife…

Amidst the debris, I found a fork and steak knife lying together, so I took both just in case I ended up needing the fork for something. After putting a quick gash in the pale, unfeeling strip of skin on my forearm to get a feel for the knife's cutting edge, I leaned back over Chomps and slid the knife against his blood-soaked denim. It took a bit of force, but once I had cut through the tough edge, it became a lot easier to run my knife through the worn material. I cut out a rough square of cloth all around his chest, and carefully peeled it off his sticky, bloody skin. Poor man was conscious, I noticed, but he wasn't saying nothing. Just watching.

"Don't try and move. Your guts weren't ripped, but they might be if you start squirming. No matter how much it hurts, you gotta stand still," I said, tearing off the loose strip of overalls and bunching it up into a makeshift rag for later. It wasn't sanitary, but it'd have to do.

Gram came back in shortly after, carrying several ragged towels soaked in water. I gave him a nod of acknowledgment and held my arms out for Gram to drop the towels into. Not stopping to check his trajectory, Gram tossed the load in my arms, and continued walking until he reached Tandi. He knelt down beside her.

"Toss me the pip boy!" He shouted. I was confused for a second, then remembered the medical profiles I'd created. Quick as I could, I logged off the pip-boy, and tossed it underhanded to Gram. I didn't wait to see if he caught it.

"Remember: Don't move," I said, laying the wet towel across Chomps's jutting intestines. He winced as the towel touched the wound, but he didn't squirm. Don't think there was much that could've made Chomps squirm.

"You're doing great!" I told him, securing the towel around the edges. I checked the rest of his wounds. His airway was swell, and the leaks in his forehead and chest weren't gonna kill him. Which means he was as stable as he was going to get, without a stimpack. "I'll come back to you soon. I need to check the soldier…"

"No, Fuck that guy! Tandi's been thrown through a goddamn wall!" shouted Gram, but it sounded quiet next to the ringing in my ears. I rubbed my temples. Jas had gotten the table off of Cook, and was doing what I guessed to be a misguided attempt at CPR on her, for some reason. Probably because she was complaining about breathing? First things first, I needed to put a stop to that

"Jas, does Cook have a pulse?" I asked, barely able to hear my own voice. Jas nodded.

"Yeah, but she says that she can't breathe, so I'm doing-"

"Stop doing that! CPR is for dead people!" Jas didn't complain no more, instead standing up and going to examine the NCR soldier. If Gram was telling the truth, I didn't have time to worry about how Jas was going to screw him up, so I ignored her and hurried over to Tandi. Surprisingly, she was still conscious. She gave me a weak middle finger as I sat down.

"Helmet off- stop moving it if she complains about her neck," I said. Gram complied immediately. Tandi didn't have anything to say as the helmet came off, revealing her sweaty, mutilated face. There were no new injuries there, though it was still as shocking as ever.

"Where's it hurt, Tandi? Is your back okay?" I asked. She looked up at me like I was stupid.

"No, I'm completely paralyzed. Dumb whore..." I rolled my eyes.

"Surely, I am as dumb as they come! But, the pip-boy says you've got internal bleeding, and it's still figuring out where. Where're you hurtin' at?" Tandi laughed a little.

"Internal? Then it's in the right place." I shook my head and inspected her pip-boy image. There were so many warnings that it was impossible to try to interpret them all. I suddenly really wished I could read, even just a little more.

"Tandi, this is life or death! Where did it-" Suddenly, the image on the screen changed. The pip boy beeped, and a blinking warning sign appeared dead in the center of her character's chest. The BP stat, I noticed, was down from the last measurement.

"Y'have no idea how often people say that. Anyways, he hit me-" she started. I began to pull off her coat. I elbowed Gram in the shoulder, and pointed at the stricken woman.

"Strip her down. Tandi, please help as much as you can!" She gave me a suspicious look.

"And what if I don't want you exploring all up in my nooks-and-crannies?"

"Tandi, something is very fucking wrong! Help me take the armor off!" She clutched her wounded leg and growled at me.

"...Aggghhh, Fine! But I'll kill you afterwards."

Gram worked on taking off the armor supporting her back, while I removed her dented chest-plate. Once I'd gotten that free, I took off her shirt, Gram removed her baggy jeans, and we got to work freeing her armor harnesses. When one of the clips got stuck, I picked up my steaknife from the ground and sliced through the whole strap. It was surprisingly easy to cut through, I guess for emergency situations like this. Once I got that off, Tandi was left in her sportswear. I removed her chest wrapping on account of some bruising in that area. Her knickers weren't covering nothing up, so I left those alone.

The full picture was distressing, real distressing. Amongst Tandi's considerable collection of old scars, there were several huge, rapidly swelling patches of yellow, purplish skin all over her body, the biggest of which was right over her heart. I pulled my stethoscope off my neck and plugged it into my ears- had em backwards, got them in the right way and then checked around for her heartbeat, and got back a faint, muffled noise. Combined with her wormlike neck veins and the fact that I couldn't even get a pulse on her femoral at this point, that made Beck's Triad. Father always told me I'd never be able to diagnose tamponade like that on a real clinical exam, but here were all three symptoms, sticking out like a compound fracture.

"Oh no," I breathed. I tried to compose myself, but panic was already overtaking my mind. Before I even spoke, I could hear my voice cracking. "Jas! Get- uh, break into the wagon out back, and grab the orange bag and the other one, the other emergency-looking one. Bring em back fast!" Jas looked at her fallen companion, who she had sat up against the wall, then at the door, then at me. Slowly, she stood up, walked away from the unconscious soldier, and exited out the back door, picking up speed as she went.

Preparing myself for what came next, I placed the cold knife against Tandi's bare, swollen chest, and started counting ribs. One, two, three, four, five... The tip came to a rest beneath her right breast.

"What are you doing?" She asked. I pressed the knife a bit harder, seeing how hard I'd need to press to cut her sweaty skin. Not very. A drop of blood seeped out from under the knife.

"There's blood gathering in the lining around your heart, Tandi. I gotta open your chest up to fix you." Tandi's eyes opened wide.

"What- NO!"

I felt her grab onto my wrist, but she was late; I'd already abandoned any doubts that might've been left in my head and punched my knife through her chest, right by her sternum. A primal scream filled my ears as I dragged the blade through the layers of skin and fat, all the way to her shoulder blade. I shoved my hand into her intercostal space.

"Spread her ribs and hold 'em," I grunted. Gram made a face.

"Oh, Christ..." Tandi continued to shriek in pain and squeeze my wrist as Gram spread the wound like a clam shell. I tried to wrap my fingers around her pulsating heart, but couldn't quite get at it. I pushed her lung aside.

"Stop it! Da idi ty, fuck you! Otvyazhis'!" Tandi cried, but I didn't stop. I couldn't. It had to be done, or her pericardium would fill up with blood and squeeze her heart til it stopped beating. I kept digging around as the blood coursed over my hands and arms; I was slick up to the elbows with it.

"Anyone got a flashlight?" Gram shook his head. I swore and spit on the ground. That was gonna make this next part a lot harder.

Tandi kept on hollering and thrashing as I tried in vain to get a grip on the pericardial sac without also grabbing the throbbing heart inside. My fingers were too slippery to pinch it, so I pulled the dinner fork out of my pocket and hoisted the sac up that way. It slipped off the fork a couple times before I could get it in a good position, but once I had it pulled taught, I didn't waste any time opening it up between the phrenic nerves- Tandi was dying quick. She looked like she'd been drained by a vampire, and her shrieks of pain had already quieted down to confused sobbing.

"Ah hell Isaac, I don't know how long I can hold this! Could you hurry up?" grunted Gram. I could see the muscles straining beneath his skin, bulging in his face and neck. His arms were quaking.

"Yeah, sure! Now help me turn her over…" I put my hands on Tandi's back and worked with Gram to move her on her side, so the blood could leak out of her cavity. The floor was covered in the stuff by now, and it had streaked and smeared where she'd been struggling. I tried to ignore it as I got down on my hands and knees and stared into her wound. "Great. I'm gonna peek down here again, try and figure out where it's-"

Before I'd even finished my sentence, a gout of bright red blood sprayed out the cut I'd made in the pericardium, all over my chest and face. It dripped down my glasses like some sort of cheesy horror-movie effect.

"Doc! Hey, Doc, I've got the stuff!" I looked over my shoulder to see Jas stumbling in through the back door, carrying both the stimpack bag and my medical bag in her arms. I motioned for her to set them down next to me. "Um, there's a few stimpacks here, which should I-"

"Fuck it! It don't matter!" Something like a laugh rattled through my chest as I snatched the syringe out of Jas's hand. Tandi's heart coughed out another gob of blood, but I'd already moved to the side, and soon my hand was in the clamshell wound again. My fingers clawed for the source of the blood.

"I'm hurting bad!" grunted Gram. I started probing with my stimpack.

"Well don't let go, use a- I don't know, use anything!" I was hardly paying much attention to Gram at this point. I could feel the blood coursing over my fingers as they brushed over some artery, can't say which one, and I figured pretty quickly where the rupture was. I jabbed the stimpack in.

And Missed.

I tried again, and missed. Which gave me that sinking feeling that you get in your stomach when you realize that you've not got much time, and your body just isn't the right machine for the task. Usually that came with a certain embarrassment, that telltale hotness of the skin, but not this time. This time, the hair on my arms stood up straight, and the sweat on my skin grew cold.

I looked over at Gram. His eyes were jammed shut, he'd bit through his upper lip- and his hands, shaking more than ever. My hands were shaking too. The animalistic energy that'd been carrying me through this had gone. For a moment, I was just a kid again, in over his head and scrambling for a way out.

But it was only a moment. Like a lumberjack throwing all his weight behind an axe, I took three more passionate stabs with the needle before piercing the artery. I had no hope of suturing it now, so I just hoped to high hell that pushing stimpack juice through the pipe and pinching the rupture shut with my nails would actually work. I'd made so many choices based on pure hope already, what was more on the pile?

The moment I pulled my hand out and discarded the empty stimpack, Gram grunted and collapsed on top of Tandi. He'd stopped holding the site open, but his fingers were still buried in the bleeding wound. His lungs rattled with each jagged breath.

"What- what should I do? Do you need help with her?" panted Jas, and I waved her away. I was panting too, panting and hot and covered in sweat and blood and god knows what else. I could feel my heart beating in every crevice of my aching body.

But was Tandi's heart still beating?

Her eyes were open and unreactive, her skin was pale and waxy. Seemed like she was breathing, but the hairs on my arms still stood up as I prodded around for a pulse near her groin; there was nothing at first, then a faint squirming beneath my fingertips, and then nothing again. The skin felt cool as glass. I put my hand on Gram's back.

"What's her- check the pip boy, what's her BP say?" Gram lifted his head up just slightly to look at the pip boy screen.

"Seventy six and fifty." There was a solemn silence. "Is that…?"

"That's good. Better, I mean.

I wiped some of the sweat off my brow again. It was pointless, seeing as how I probably deposited a bunch of blood when I did it, but I had to let out all that relief somehow. I hadn't even been able to get a femoral pulse when I'd checked last time, which meant that her pressure had been somewhere below seventy. A jump back up to seventy six was good news.

Of course, Tandi's troubles weren't over- her pericardium was slit, she still had herself a gaping hole in the chest, and the cavity was still full of blood in spite of my efforts. I grabbed my hand-suction pump from out of my bag and hooked up the reservoir, plunged in the tip, and got to work squeezing. An onlooker might have thought that I was still putting in my all, but at this point, my mind was elsewhere. I glanced over my shoulder.

"Jas, you wanna be helpful, right?" I asked. I didn't wait for a response. "Prepare the worker's quarters for all these patients. I want beds, I want chamber pots, whatever we can get. And when you're done with that, you and me are gonna haul these folks upstairs."

Jas might've said something to me after that, but I couldn't hear it over the fuzz in my head, the static of stress. I looked around the room one last time, and I don't think I have to tell you the specifics of what I saw; just that I could tell right then that this would be, without a doubt, the longest night of my life.

[+]

#fallout #fallout fanfic #fallout fanfiction #fallout fandom

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grassreads · 4 years

Conversation

Starbucks Soulmate

Lily Evans to Marlene McKinnon

11th of November:

Lily: Theres a hot guy in Starbucks

Marlene: Whoooo?

Lily: Idk tall, glasses, plaid shirt and sex hair

Marlene: Sex hair? Like good sex hair

Lily: Like great sex hair

Marlene: Wowwwww fair ducks

Lily: Opposed to biased ducks?

Marlene: Fucks*

Lily: Funnily enough I could figure that one out by myself

Marlene: Cut the cheek

Lily: Sorry not sorry

Lily: He left :(

Marlene: Sad days :(((What did he order?

Lily: Hot chocolate

Marlene: Basic bitch

Lily: Shut up

12th of November:

Lily: He's back

Marlene: Who?

Lily: Sex hair obviously

Marlene: Oh my days a Starbucks regular just like yourself. Finally found someone as basic as u

Lily: Lemme alern

Lily: He got a hot chocolate again. Maybe he is basic

Marlene: He's coming for your brand

Lily: He is

Lily: Wait a minute..

Thursday 13th of November

Marlene: Any sign of your Starbucks soulmate

Lily: No

Marlene: Maybe he doesn't want hot chocolate

Lily: Rude

Marlene: U upset?

Lily: Nah he's just some random guy

Marlene: ain't that the truth

Lily: HE'S HERE

Marlene: "Random guy"

Lily: Stop the bullying

Lily: He got tea

Marlene: the drink or like he has tea to spill

Marlene: tea as in drama. I know you're a bit behind on pop culture references.

Lily: The drink obviously you dipstick

Marlene: My previous statement confirmed. Basic

Lily: also I know pop culture and that's the tea.

Marlene: ew

Lily: Oh

Lily: Oh my

Marlene: WHAT

Lily: We made eye contact

Marlene: Oh

Lily: And he smiled

Marlene: OH

Lily: and it was perfect

Marlene: Sex hair has a perfect smile?

Lily: Yes

Lily: Gorgeous

Lily: The dimples

Lily: Oh my

Marlene: I'm jealous I want 1

Lily: No he is mine. He just doesn't know it yet

14th of November:

Lily: Cant go to starbucks today got class

Marlene: Oh my!!!! Your boyfriend

Lily: He isnt my boyfriend

Marlene: Your crush though

Lily: Shut up

Lily: I hope he misses me

17th of November:

Lily: He's here

Marlene: Sex hair?

Lily: Yesssss

Marlene: You haven't mentioned him for a few days

Lily: I haven't seen him for a few days.

Lily: His shoulders are so broad

Marlene: U are obsessed

Lily: He got tea again

Marlene: I miss the hot chocolate

Lily: Me 2

Marlene: Sit near to him so that u can see his name on his cup

Lily: That's creepy

Marlene: Be creepy

18th of November:

Lily: His name is James

Marlene: James hmmm

Marlene: Not what I imagined

Lily: Same ngl. Kinda felt like sex hair or Starbucks soulmate suited him better.

Marlene: Agreed. They really capture his essence

Lily: you've never seen him

Marlene: Your point?

Lily: omg he is beautiful

Marlene: propose

Lily: He smiled at me

Marlene: Again?

Lily: Again

Marlene: As nice?

Lily: Better

Marlene: Oof. Bold statement

19th of November:

Lily: Marlzzzz

Lily: Oh

Lily: My

Lily: God

Lily: I'm...

Lily: Ahhhh

Marlene: What what WHAT?

Lily: So I was running a little late for my coffee

Marlene: You running? I have my doubts

Lily: Fuck off

Lily: Anyway I was kinda distracted walking in cause there was this really cute dog outside and I accidentally bumped into someone

Lily: So I was like "omg I'm so sorry" until I saw who it was

Lily: it was James. I bumped into the most gorgeous specimen alive.

Marlene: no!

Lily: yes!

Marlene: this is great

Lily: But wait

Marlene: Waiting

Lily: So he said I've seen you here before right? And I was like oh yeah I'm pretty sure and he says see you around and winks

Lily: Not a creepy wink. A nice wink

Marlene: Wow ye are married

Lily: We are

Marlene: Can I be bridesmaid?

Lily: Do you even have to ask?

20th of November:

Lily: just going in

Marlene: wave when u see him

Lily: nooo u weirdo

Marlene: rude but k stay single forever

Lily: it's so busy how am I supposed to study here or even sit

Marlene: do you see him?

Lily: yea but he doesn't see me

Marlene: Sad days. Yell at him

Lily: no

Marlene: jump on him

Lily: is that how you get guys?

Marlene: never fails

Lily: you're single

Marlene: Your point?

Lily: I think I'm just gonna get my drink and go

Marlene: noooo sit with james

Lily: that's awkward and rude I would never

Marlene: Yes you would

Marlene: Lily you there?

Marlene: Lilllyyyy

Marlene: it's been like half an hour where tf are u

Marlene: are u dead

Lily: Marlz

Marlene: YESSSS???

Lily: so I ordered my drink to go as one does in a full Starbucks

Marlene: No shit sherlock

Lily: and as I take the drink I turn and make eye contact with James.

Lily: so I kinda smile and he looks down at my drink and up at me and gestures me over

Marlene: ooh I think I like where this is going

Lily: so I'm shitting bricks as I go over and he's smiling that brilliant smile and I'm just in a daze

Lily: so I'm like hi and he says hi and then would you get this HE OFFERS ME THE OTHER SEAT AT HIS TABLE

Marlene: No bloody way

Lily: Yes bloody way

Lily: so I say no to be polite and he is like genuinely take it if you want it

Marlene: so you did right?

Lily: well…

Marlene: you got to be kidding me no wonder u r single

Lily: I was joking you bitch

Lily: you're single too remember

Marlene: TELL THE STORY

Lily: oops sorry. Anyway

Lily: I sat with him

Marlene: On him???

Lily: Yes I sat on him. Afterwards I even decided to give him a lap dance

Lily: I OBVIOUSLY DID NOT SIT ON HIM

Marlene: Boringgg

Lily: Anyway so it was small talk

Marlene: About…

Lily: college. He's a student too

Marlene: Very stimulating conversation

Lily: it actually was

Lily: He is sporty

Marlene: Oh no does he know you cant jog

Lily: yes and he found it hilarious

Marlene: kinda cute kinda fresh

Lily: ew. Why are you like this

Lily: So we talked for like half an hour but he had class so he had to go

Marlene: :(

Lily: buttttttttt he asked for my number

Marlene: AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH

Marlene: has he texted yet??????

Lily: it was like 10 minutes ago

Lily: so no

Lily: wait do you think he will???

Lily: what if he hated me

Marlene: no one hates you. Cept maybe your sister

Lily: HE TEXTED MEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE

Marlene: saying????

Marlene: I'm far too invested

Lily: we are going to get coffee together again tomorrowwww

Marlene: gahggggggggggg

14th of December

Marlene: How was your date??!

Lily: Turns out his real sex hair is even hotter

Marlene: You little minx

#jily #jamespotter #lilyevans #grassreads #jilyfic

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omnivorousshipper · 4 years

Note

How would Owen react if he caught a kid trying to pick his pocket?

Friend. I've had this idea stuck in my head whole shift and I hope you know that I've been dying to write this up

So, it all depends on who the kid is. I like to imagine that the kid is just like Owen was as a kid: bratty, cocky, and doesn't listen to almost any authority figure.

(After writing this, I realized I kinda wrote Number 5 from Umbrella Academy as the boy)

Owen was back London and intending to stay for awhile- mostly under threat of being dragged back by his mother. She apparently wanted him and his siblings to spend time together

So, he was making the most of it and was walking down a busy street, intending to pick up some snacks to hoard at Deckard's place

He was looking down at his phone, easily stepping around people without looking up. He was about to text one of his friends, when he felt something at his side

Without hesitation, Owen's hand snapped down to grab at a thin wrist

"Let go!" A shrill voice shrieked.

Without letting up, Owen kept his grip on the young boy's wrist and started dragging him away from the crowded street

"Let go- mmph!"

Owen clamped a hand over the boy's mouth and was able to pull the boy into the nearest alley and away from prying eyes

Releasing the boy's face, Owen instead held the boy's wrists tightly and waited for him to stop squirming

"Oi, stop!" Owen hissed. "You're going to hurt yourself."

"And how the bloody hell do I know you won't hurt me?" The boy hissed back and redoubled his efforts to escape Owen's grasp

"Because unlike some other bloke, I won't break your arm for trying to pickpocket me." Owen said dryly

"But I wasn't!"

"Then why was your hand in my pocket?"

"I-"

"Don't have a good excuse?"

The boy glared at him, and finally stopped trying to escape

"Go to hell, you prick," the boy snapped, and even though Owen knew the boy was trying to be intimidating, he instead looked like he was pouting

Owen threw his head back and laughed, which made the boy glare harder

"What's so funny?"

Owen tried to stamp down on his laughter

"It's so weird to see a 10 year old to cuss like that. You have spunk, kid."

"I'm 12!"

"Mmhmm." Owen nodded, and bit down on his grin at the boy's indignation. He remembered saying the same thing when he was that age

He looked the pouting boy over. He had sligly shaggy, black hair, and had clear and very distrustful eyes. He was wearing a school uniform, one Owen recognized as being from a very posh school.

"Why did you try to pickpocket me?" Owen asked again

"I. Didn't. Do. Anything." The boy bit out

"My arse you didn't." Owen snorted. "Look, stop lying and tell me why. I'm not mad, just curious. You're not poor, and you don't look like you've been missing any meals. Mummy and daddy not giving you a big enough allowance?"

The boy looked as if Owen had struck him

"Are you Sherlock Holmes-ing me?"

"If you want to think of it that way." Owen shrugged. "So, why'd you do it? Bored? Need some pocket money?"

The boy didn't meet his eyes.

"Here's why I think you did it," Owen said. "You don't get to do anything without someone telling you what to do. Always mummy or daddy, or maybe a nanny, giving you commands. And you can't stand it. You want and need control. So, what do you do? You try to take that control by taking things from somebody else. Makes you feel good. Makes you feel powerful."

Owen paused and stared right into shocked and scared eyes

"So, how'd I do?"

The boy shook his head

"How-how do you know-?"

Owen nodded at the boy's question. Gently, he released the boy's wrists and wasn't surprised that the boy didn't bolt.

The boy had found someone who finally seemed to understand him. He wasn't about to leave that any time soon

"Because that's why I started pickpocketing."

"I- you can't be serious!" The boy yelped. "You pickpocketed people?"

"Still do." Owen gave him a toothy smile. "Helps me stay alert and on my toes for bigger things."

"Wait, bigger things?" The boy narrowed his eyes. "Who the hell are you?"

"Ah, ah. You tried stealing from me. I get your name first."

"Why?"

"First rule of thieves."

"That sounds like bullshit."

"You have a real potty mouth don't you?"

That earned Owen another glare

"Fine." The boy snapped. "I'm Derek. Now you."

"Owen." Before the boy could say anything else, Owen continued. "Are you hungry, Derek?"

"A bit." Derek said slowly, narrowing his eyes in distrust. "Why?"

"How about we get something to eat? We can talk over some fish and chips."

"Ok. But you're paying."

Owen rolled his eyes. How'd he know the boy would say that.

Because that's exactly what you'd say, a voice that sounded like Deckard whispered in his mind

~~~

Owen leaned back in the booth he was sitting in and watched as Derek shoveled down his food at an alarming rate

"Maybe you did miss a few meals?" Owen wondered allowed

"Just lunch," Derek responded through a mouthful

Owen gingerly moved his food away from the boy, ready to defend it if he needed to.

"So," Derek started, fixing his eyes on Owen. "Why did you take me out for food and not turn me in for trying to steal from you?"

"Because I thought this would be a good learning opportunity for you."

"You're really serious." Derek blinked at him

"Yep." Owen nodded. "Tell me, why did you choose me to steal from?"

"Your boots."

Owen's eyebrows hit his hairline. He gestured for Derek to continue

"They're really expensive, right?" Derek asked, suddenly hesitant to talk. Owen nodded. "And they look new. So, if you could afford the boots and look well dressed, then you had to have some cash on you."

"And I was looking at my phone."

"Yeah. You shouldn't have noticed that I was about to grab you wallet."

Owen looked at Derek, and could see the pride and embarrassment of being caught written all over his face

"If I was anyone else, you probably wouldn't have gotten caught." Owen admitted. "I would have been a good target. But, there's one thing you missed."

"That you're apparently a huge thief yourself?"

"Yes, but not what I meant. No, you missed the several weapons I have on me." Owen said carefully, watching Derek's eyes widen. "I have one gun and several knives on me. If you'd been running the streets longer, you'd know how to spot at least the gun."

"I..." Derek swallowed thickly, seemingly losing interest in his food. "Would you have used that on me?"

Owen blinked

"Bloody hell, kid! Of course I wouldn't have!" Owen assured him. "You're not that much of a threat."

"Thanks...?"

Owen shook his head.

"I wouldn't have. But others might. The street you were working has a lot of shady business going down. Anyone could have been a huge mistake to steal from. Especially those in the mob."

As Owen explained this, he could see the fear and realization of how serious this was settle into Derek's mind. The poor boy looked like he was going to faint.

"Der, look. I'm not trying to scare you." Owen sighed. "I'm just telling you, if you want to keep doing this, you need to be more careful. You won't get lucky again and get a nice guy like me the next time you want to pickpocket."

Derek stared at him, and after a minute of consideration, nodded.

"So, who should I pickpocket?"

"Simple. Tourists."

Owen took a sip from his milkshake as he saw the gears in Derek's head spin

"That seems too simple."

"Maybe. But it gets results. Tourists are too busy taking in the sights to notice you slipping your hand into their pockets. They don't realize the dangers around them. Locals do."

Derek nodded and looked like he wanted to take notes

"And it helps that you're wearing your uniform." Owen pointed at the symbol. "Tourists won't remember it, and the bobbies won't be impressed with them and won't want to help them out. Especially if they're American."

"How do you know all this?"

"Been swiping wallets since I was younger than you."

"Really? And you're still doing it?"

"I moved on to bigger things, but occasionally I do. But it's only for shits and giggles." Owen shrugged and threw a fry into his mouth

"Bigger things like what?" Derek asked, clearly getting excited

Smirking, Owen leaned forward

"Like stealing things from the queen."

Derek's eyes went impossibly wide and he gasped

"That shouldn't be possible! You're lying!"

Owen smiled at him

"Believe what you want. Had MI6 on my arse for weeks before I returned them."

"Holy shit, MI6?" Derek whispered in awe

"Mmhm. They're not that impressive like in the movies. They're mostly boring arseholes when you work with them."

"Whoa, wait, what? Working with them? I thought you stole stuff!"

"I do."

"And you're working with MI6?" Derek waved his hands about, trying to make sense of the situation. "How is that possible?"

"My brother and sister work for them. They're big thieves, too. When they want to be, that is." Owen smiled at him, probably enjoying the boy's amazement too much

"Who are you?" Derek asked again. He was leaning across the table and staring hard at Owen

"Just some guy you tried to steal from." Owen said simply, and laughed at the eye roll Derek through him.

"You're never going to tell me, are you?" The boy huffed and threw himself back into the booth's seat. "You just want to be bloody mysterious."

"Caught me." Owen chuckled.

Derek glared at him and started eating again but much slower this time

"Hey," he said suddenly and looked up at Owen. "You called me 'Der'. What was that?"

"Just a nickname." Owen said and cocked his head to the side. "Do you want me to stop?"

"No! I mean, no." Derek coughed, cheeks red. "It's fine. But why did you just take half of my name?"

"Something my family does." Owen admitted. "My brother and sister's are Deck and Hatts."

"And what's your's?"

"Oh."

"Oh?"

Owen nodded

"Just the letter? Like Men in Black or something?"

"Sure."

"Weird."

"I don't think anyone's described my family as anything other than that." Owen laughed

"So, does everyone call you that?"

"Usually just my family and my boyfriend."

Derek choked mid-sip of his milkshake, and started coughing harshly. With tears in his eyes, he stared at Owen

"Your boyfriend?"

"Yep." Owen answered simply. "Something wrong with that?"

"No! I just wasn't expecting it. Sorry." Derek rushed to say. "What's he like?"

"He's funny." Owen smiled softly. "And a huge car nut. We get along well."

"That's cool."

Owen chuckled at the blush on Derek's face. Seemed like his impression of Owen had shifted suddenly and he wasn't sure how to respond

"If it's any consolation, he's bloody horrible at pickpocketing." Owen smirked

"Really? You didn't give him any pointers?"

"Oh, I have. He simply doesn't have the finesse for it." Owen sighed and shook his head. "He's a lost cause, but I love him all the same."

Derek opened his mouth to say something else, but suddenly there was a loud chirping sound. Looking down, Derek pulled out a phone

"Oh shit! Classes are almost done. My Da is going to be there to pick me up. I need to go." Derek panicked and looked up Owen with a disappointed face. "But I really want to keep talking to you!"

"Trust me, you don't need to keep talking to me." Owen shook his head. "You need a way better role model than me, kid."

"But you're really cool!" Derek said earnestly. "You know how to steal like a pro, you have a boyfriend, and you even bought me lunch! You're pretty awesome!"

"Still doesn't change the fact that you need to get going, so your Da doesn't know you've been cutting class to steal."

Derek glared at him

"Can I at least get you number? If I have any questions."

Owen narrowed his eyes. He knew what the kid was doing

"Fine. But only for questions. Or if you find yourself in trouble. Which I don't doubt will happen sometime."

"Oh please, you're the first one to ever catch me." Derek rolled his eyes, and held his phone out for Owen.

"Keep it that way, Der." Owen warned and plugged his number in. "There. Now get going."

"Thanks, Oh." Derek flashed him a smile and ran off

Watching him, Owen felt himself smile.

Derek really did remind him of himself when he was that age

But soon enough, his smile dropped and Owen frowned in thought

He just hoped Derek didn't turn out like him

Hope you enjoyed this waaay too long story friend! The main difference between Deckard and Owen, is that in this situation, Deckard would have tried to be a good role model while accidently dropping tricks at getting better at stealing. While Owen tried to help the kid get better at stealing and ended up being a mentor figure

#owen shaw #hobbs and shaw #oc kid #omni answers #asks #omni’s rambling #omni writes

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indiaalphawhiskey · 4 years

Text

SD Drabble #1

Note: Another prompt I thought of long ago, that I’m still so in love with. I don’t know if I’ll ever get the time to write it, but here it is anyway. Posting under the tag “Sugar Daddy AU”. Please excuse my self-indulgence. xx ---

“Have you got that?” the woman asked. The tone of her voice, coupled with the patronizing pinch of her newly ‘refreshed’ lips, screamed condescension.

Harry offered her a soft, subdued smile. “I have, ma’am,” he said, calmly.

She sniffed and her nose, already two and a half inches in the air to begin with, titled higher in doubt. “Repeat it, then.”

Harry let out a slow exhale through his teeth.

“Of course.” His smile never left his face as he ran through the list in his head. “For the table’s appetizers, the Rockefeller oyster platter, baked garlic lemon butter scallops, lemon butter sauce separated into individual sauce dishes, garlic to the side, and a Caesar salad, with no dressing, no bacon, no chicken, and no croutons, to be served twenty minutes before the main dishes. For his entree,” Harry said, turning to offer the gentleman – who had been scanning him from head-to-toe with a rather lascivious smirk – a quick nod. “Sir will have the cherry-glazed rack of lamb, with marble potatoes instead of garlic rice pilaf, potatoes pre-cut into quarters, and a whiskey double.” He turned back to the woman, a challenge in his tone. “Madam will have the Chilean sea bass and braised asparagus, asparagus to the side and blanched instead of braised, with the pesto and lemon sauce on a separate dish, and a glass of Semillon. Dessert will be two pieces of the dairy and gluten-free chocolate truffle cake, and two glasses of our best sherry.”

The woman’s gaze remained unimpressed.

“Fine,” she breathed. She flicked her fingers away once, the sheen of her opulent diamond ring reflected on the white tablecloth – a dismissal.

Harry bowed politely, face impeccably calm as he gathered the menus from the table and began to walk away.

Oyster platter and scallops baked in nothing, he recited in his head as he weaved his way around the tables. Plain lettuce masquerading as Caesar salad. Lamb with an entirely different side dish than the one on the menu – Chef will be pleased as fuck, by the way––

Snap! Harry startled at the sound. What the f–– Snap! Snap! Snap!

He leaned back reflexively to avoid the hand aggressively snapping right in front of his nose, before turning to find it was attached to a portly man in his mid-fifties. His face was tinged red with impatience, his breath laboured as he heaved himself back onto his chair now that he had Harry’s attention.

Harry took a deep breath before facing the table.

“I’m sorry to keep you waiting, Sir,” he began politely. “But my colleague will be with you in just a mo –”

“Oh, you’ll do, sweetheart,” the man crooned, licking his lips as he surveyed Harry. “You’ll do just fine.”

His impatience had faded completely, Harry noticed, though Harry much preferred irritation to… whatever this new expression was. Having only had this job for three days, it took all of Harry’s willpower to swallow the cutting remark that was already resting on his tongue. He managed, but unfortunately, the way his skin was crawling with discomfort was not as easily dealt with.

He exhaled slowly, reminding himself why he needed this job. Unbidden, the events of the last week flashed before his eyes.

Finding unrecognizable lingerie under his pillow. Being told by his fiance that he was being left for a nineteen-year-old pilates instructor slash aspiring male model. Discovering three months’ worth of unpaid rent bills hidden in their (now his, he supposed) bread box, and a discarded bill for a ‘12-carat gold-plated necklace with ‘MY BABY’ engraving, cursive’ (Gross.) in his trash (already paid, thank God for small favours). Combing coffee shop bulletin boards for part-time jobs that fit his tedious grad school schedule. Chicken-flavored ramen for the three straight dinners.

He tried not to sigh.

Relax, he told himself. Be professional, get your check, and get out of here.

“How may I help you, Sir?” Harry said, miraculously polite.

“Well, handsome,” Lecherous Restaurant Patron purred, drawing out the pregnant pause as Harry quelled a rising gag.

“Come off it, George,” his companion cut in. He tacked on a chuckle at the end like an afterthought, though it couldn’t mask the slight edge embedded in the words. It made Harry think of the way a cheeky thief smiles as he runs his finger back and forth against a switchblade – just a hint of a threat. “Just order, mate. The kid’s busy.”

It was hardly a white knight stepping in to defend his honour, but after the week Harry had, it was close. He had barely glanced in his saviour’s direcion before George spoke again.

“I own the place, Tomlinson. He can spare a couple more minutes, can’t you, darling?” He punctuated the question with two hefty slaps to Harry’s arse cheek. The first made Harry freeze in shock. The second made his vision go red.

Lingerie.

‘He’s… amazing, Harry. I love him.’

Rent.

‘MY BABY’ engraving, cursive.

Wanted: Part-time Wait Staff.

‘Repeat it, then.’

Slap! Slap!

The punch flew out of Harry, the crisp sound of knuckles against cheekbone ringing satisfyingly in his ears, loud and clear over the scuffle, over the yelling, over the firing. It was all Harry could hear until the harsh slam of the restaurant’s back door, and the biting whip of the winter wind.

Cheated on, left, in debt, harassed, fired, tossed out on my arse, Harry thought to himself, raising his fist in a sarcastic cheer. B-I-N-G-fucking-O. What he wouldn’t do for a joint right now.

He let out a deep, bone-tired sigh, winter’s icy fingers creeping around his open coat and up his too-thin undershirt (they had taken his uniform straight off his back, the bastards), before making his way out of the tiny back alley. He hunched his shoulders automatically, the wind somehow stronger out on the dimly lit main street, and began his long trudge to the tube stop, large hands stuffed awkwardly into his coat’s faux pockets because he had also lost his favorite gloves to bloody Neverwhere this morning.

“Mind the gap, indeed,” he mumbled to himself sadly, taking a little solace in the fact that he had remembered to bring his earphones with him today. He was convinced the morose opening chords of Landslide would manage soothe his broken heart, if he played it enough times. (Hey, if Stevie made it through, so could Harry.)

Lost in thought (and in the gargantuan task of untangling the aforementioned earphones), the barely audible crunch of gravel next to him didn’t register at all.

“ – genuinely feel like you’re ignoring me on purpose now but, once more, with feeling – Do. You. Need. A. Ride?”

Harry jumped, clutching at his heart and dropping his earphones in surprise. “What the bloody –”

“Sorry, didn’t mean to startle you,” the man said. He offered Harry a sheepish smile, his elbow resting on the window of his cheesily predictable top down. “But I’d been here for like seven minutes –”

“You’ve been stalking me for seven minutes,” Harry deadpanned, so done with these absolute shits. “Yeah, not a great line to lead with.”

“Not stalking,” he tried to chuckle confidently, but the tone came out slightly uncertain. “But like, offering you a ride. You know, to make up for…” He tipped his head backward, motioning to the restaurant. “My partner. Business partner,” he clarified seriously, and ––

Oh, Harry thought. The other guy. Tomlinson, he remembered. No wonder his voice was familiar.

“No, thank you,” Harry said curtly as he began to walk again, his face resolutely blank, eyes trained stubbornly on his destination.

A huff of disbelief weaved itself between the sound of slow-rolling wheels.

“C’mon, kid,” Tomlinson tried. “It’s cold as shit.”

“Then maybe get a car with a roof,” Harry said, quietly.

Tomlinson chuckled in answer, wheels still painfully in time with Harry’s steps.

“Fair point. C’mon,” he repeated. “You’ve had a shit night. You’re cold and tired. Let me give you a ride.” When Harry stayed silent, he continued. “You’ll be home quicker. Home, and clean,” he needled. “And warm.”

At that, Harry let himself steal a glance, and was greeted with Tomlinson’s smirking profile, his eyes on the road. High cheekbones, a sharp jaw, the lovely peak of a small nose – everything was slim and pointed. Pixie-like, Harry caught himself thinking, though the delicate quality of his face was offset by just a hint of handsome stubble. A healthy amount of silver decorated his temples, but the hair on his head was still a touch more pepper than salt. Not quite a silver fox just yet.

Fifty, Harry guessed. Fifty-five at most.

“Is this your M.O., or something?” Harry asked, trying to keep the raking irritation from bleeding into his voice. The calmer he was, the less Tomlinson would think he was getting somewhere. “Is that how this works? You go to a restaurant, find a target, get your wingman to act like an arsehole, and then swoop in for the kill?”

A startled laugh broke through the hush of the street.

“Just a wee bit paranoid, aren’t you?” Tomlinson teased.

“Evasive, aren’t you?” Harry shot back.

“Okay, calm down, Sherlock.” Harry could still hear the amusement in his voice. “I do have killer flirting skills, but not serial killer flirting skills.”

Harry sighed then, so, so exhausted. “Right. Well again, no thank you on the ride. In case my little demonstration at the restaurant was somehow unclear, I don’t date men who are old enough to be my father.”

He tipped his chin up higher, because while Harry may not have any money (or a job, or a fiance), he still had his dignity.

Or at least part of it, he corrected, pushing away the curdle of humiliation as he remembered finding those awful panties.

“So you only date cheap men,” Tomlinson said, decisively.

“God,” Harry whispered under his breath, his annoyance now too hard to ignore. Louder he said, “Fuck off.”

“Cheap,” he continued confidently over Harry’s insult. “Young, handsome bastards who get one big paycheck and think that makes them Drake or whoever the fuck –” The cool-dad rap reference, plus the well-timed dig at his stupid, necklace-engraving ex, made Harry’s lip twitch upward against his will. “ – and then fuck off with some barely-legal twit who sucks dick like a champ but can’t name a single city outside of London.”

Harry snorted.

“Know him, or something?” he asked sarcastically, eyes trained on the tiny Underground sign that was still about three blocks away.

“Know him? Oh love,” The way he said it – ‘Luhv’ – made Harry finally turn to him. It was a mistake. His eyes were sharp – a searing blue even in the orange cast of the street lamps – and his smile devastating. “I am him,” he admitted freely, the skin around his eyes crinkling as his smirk widened. “Only, you know,” he shrugged. “With a few more checks, and slightly higher standards. I mean,” he blinked, almost sweetly. “You can name at least three cities outside London... can’t you?”

Harry could feel a gentle heat settle at the tops of his cheeks, the insinuation about his blowjob skills decidedly not lost on him. He felt his stomach do a sudden somersault. He pushed it away, convincing himself it was just the rush of attention, the electricity of an unexpected ego boost and that quick, first moment of feeling pretty again after getting horribly, horribly dumped.

His brief silence must’ve signaled a chink in his armour, because Tomlinson then took it as an opportunity to say, “I’m Louis.”

“I didn’t ask,” Harry said, tongue fast, though the fact that he hadn’t yet ducked into a not-suitable-for-sports-cars-sized alleyway probably softened the blow.

Louis only nodded, still smiling. “Right, okay. As much fun as this has been, I really doubt the lovely heated seating of my car will dull our banter. Or...” he dragged out the ‘r’, eyes mischievous. “Are you really going to let a…” he assessed Harry. “Twenty? Twenty year gap be the reason you get hypothermia? Is that really the hill you want to freeze on, Mr. Principled?”

“Closer to twenty-six,” Harry corrected stubbornly. “Which is an entire fully grown adult between us. You could have kids as old – nay, older – than our age gap.” Did he just say ‘nay?’

“Did you just say ‘nay’, Shakespeare?” Louis teased. “So definitely at least three cities outside London, then.” Harry didn’t smile but it was a close thing. “And I promise you,” Louis continued. “I haven’t put myself in the position to bear children since you were – nay, before you were born. Been in a lot of other positions since then, though.”

He had the audacity to punctuate it with a wink. It was annoyingly charming, and Harry had never been angrier at himself.

“Besides,” Louis said, with the kind of smile that knew victory was close. “It’s just a ride, love, no strings attached. Unless of course, getting tied up is what you’re into,” he added, so incredibly pleased with himself. Harry wanted to smack him. But he could also feel the blessedly comfortable heat radiating from the car’s vents.

“Fine.”

#sugar daddy au #larry drabble #iaw drabble #SD1 #writing exercise

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janeofcakes · 4 years

Text

Keep your Friends Close...: Chapter 7

Hello, everyone! I’m sorry I didn’t get this up earlier in the week. That was my plan after the last short and suspenseful chapter, but the editing gods would not cooperate until last night and this morning. This one is definitely longer though. Definitely. I hope you all enjoy it and it brings respite in these crazy times. On the upside, how much time do we all have for reading now, am I right? I haven’t been able to read anything for months, but I’ve read so many OmegaJohn stories this month already. Love it! I think I might try some reverse Reichenbach next. Anyway, enjoy!

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'Cause love's such an old fashioned word and love dares you to care for the people on the edge of the night and love dares you to change our way of caring about ourselves. This is our last dance. This is our last dance. This is ourselves under pressure. -- Queen, Under Pressure

Weight and power establish velocity, along with time and distance. Assign a figure for each skater based upon average velocity and it further simplifies the equation. Exertion of power can be determined more easily. If velocity equals…

Sherlock’s eyes snap open when a loud bang reaches his ears. He is lying on the over-sized sage green couch in the condo’s living room. Sherlock bought it knowing he would spend hours on it within his mind palace, likely falling asleep on it most nights. He frowns mightily when he hears the bang again.

Glancing at the wall clock and furrowing his brow, Sherlock considers who the hell would come to his door at this hour. Greg? Another bang on the door and he sits up. It can’t be about Molly. He spoke with her just that evening. He had sneaked out of the stadium around 8:30 and gone straight to Ford. Well, almost. There was a stop for her favorite ice cream on the way. They had talked and joked as they ate the contraband treat.

“Seriously, Sherlock, you have to stop coming here every night,” Molly had chided. “I know you’re behind on all that extra work you do after hours. You’d have to be by now.”

“Nonsense. My calculations and strategies for upcoming bouts are coming along perfectly,” he told her around a mouthful of chocolate chip cookie dough. “Besides, there is nothing in this world that is more important to me.”

“I’m flattered,” she laughed and then took on a more serious tone. “There’s nothing wrong with letting someone else in, you know.”

“What?” he had seen her knowing expression as soon as he looked her way, even though she quickly shifted her eyes away and into her ice cream pint. “Molly, no. It’s not like that.”

She returned her gaze to him and smiled broadly. It was his turn to look away, cheeks pink.

“Oh, come on. I’ve seen the way you look at him.”

“Molly, I can’t.”

“Why on earth not? You’re equals within the organization.”

“I know, I just…” Sherlock finally met her eyes again. “I swore off that sort of sentiment after Victor. You know that. Caring about someone that deeply is not an advantage.”

“Oh, Sherlock, I know he hurt you. I’ll never forgive him for that, but you shouldn’t give up that part of yourself,” Molly touched his arm, putting her own Chubby Hubby pint in her lap. “You shouldn’t deny yourself the chance to be happy.”

“I am happy.”

“Sherlock,” she admonished. He sighed and looked down at his ice cream, prodding it with his spoon.

“You really think I should risk it?” he had asked after a moment.

“I don’t think it would be a risk with this one,” she answered solemnly.

Clearing his mind to focus on the here and now, Sherlock rises from the couch and walks briskly to the foyer as another pound to his front door sounds through the hall. He leans in close and peers into the spy hole to see John Watson’s head and torso. Sherlock steps back, his mind confused by the man’s presence and his stomach already doing those annoying flips.

“John, I wasn’t expecting…” Sherlock begins while opening the door. John pushes in, effectively shoving him out of the way and shuts the door quickly. He looks Sherlock over as though he is looking for...what? Then he scans as much of the condo as he can see from where they stand, going so far as to take a few swift steps in to peer down the hall suspiciously. Befuddled, Sherlock watches his movements closely and takes a quick step back when John suddenly advances on him.

“You’re okay?” John asks distractedly, still glancing around. “He’s not here?”

Sherlock blinks, now utterly confounded. He is about to ask John what the hell he is talking about when he finally notices what John is wearing. Sherlock typically sees everything one has to tell in a glimpse, but the combination of the doctor’s odd behavior and the effect John has on him in general, much as Sherlock hates to admit it, renders his powers of observation moot. Finally observing everything John has to tell, Sherlock finds himself astounded and more than a little confused.

John is in Sherlock’s condo, standing in right front of him in nothing but a pair of boxer shorts and a t-shirt. A somewhat clingy t-shirt at that. One that hugs every curve and muscle and dries Sherlock’s mouth in an instant. As he swallows hard, he notices the dark red stain of blood on the tee’s shoulder right at the top of John’s arm.

“Blood,” Sherlock blurts suddenly.

“There’s no one here,” John faces him, finally finished scanning his surroundings like a startled animal.

“You’re bleeding,” Sherlock announces, eyes now roving over John’s body and searching for other signs of injury.

“You’re alone.”

“And from your hip too.”

John puts his hands on Sherlock’s shoulders and pushes him back until he bumps into the door to his condo. Sherlock looks at him with an expression of annoyance and he hopes not arousal. John pins him to the wall with deadly serious eyes.

“You’re sure there’s no one here? You haven’t seen anyone?”

“There’s no one here!” Sherlock’s voice raises in irritation. “Jesus, John.”

The doctor stares at Sherlock for a moment with stormy dark blue eyes that slowly begin to lighten. The anger and seriousness on his face smooths into something softer. He releases his hold on Sherlock and shuffles backwards, relieving the tension and what little space there was between their bodies. Sherlock, however, is not going to let him off that easily. He closes the gap again and touches John’s shoulder just under the blood. John flinches, but does not pull away.

“Sorry,” he mutters.

“What happened?” Sherlock asks, trying no to notice the flip in his stomach at that first touch.

“What?” John looks to his shoulder to see Sherlock’s long fingers, probing around gently to get an idea where the wound is. “Ah, shit.”

“It’s fine. It’s fine. Just come with me,” Sherlock takes hold of the hand on John’s uninjured arm and guides him through the condo.

“Christ, I need to put more energy into finding a permanent flat,” John declares with humor in his voice. “This is a bloody palace.”

“It’s one of the bigger ones in this building,” Sherlock tells him as they walk. “If I’m not buying a house, I might as well still have what I like.”

“Which is?”

“Space,” he says as they enter a large bedroom with a vaulted ceiling. John stops about ten steps in and looks around the room in apprehension. Meanwhile, Sherlock drops his hand and continues walking to a door on the far wall.

“Sit,” he gestures at the bed and disappears into the en suite. He opens a cupboard and removes a plastic case. He also grabs two hand towels to sop up blood, knowing he will likely need more than the kit has to offer.

When he returns, supplies in hand, John is not sitting on the bed. He is standing stalk still right where Sherlock left him. He stares, eyes shifting around the room slowly like they are drinking in every detail. Sherlock follows his gaze to a chest of drawers and settles on the photo of him Molly that sits upon it. He looks back at John and clears his throat.

“John?” he steps forward.

“What? Oh, right,” John says, regaining his focus. He starts for the bed, but stops. “Sorry, I can’t do this. I’ll ruin your sheets.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Sherlock smirks. “Wouldn’t be the first time.”

Completely taken aback by the joke, John just stares for a full ten seconds while Sherlock opens the med kit. He watches as the tall man sifts through its contents in search of peroxide, gauze dressings and bandages. Sherlock observes him from the corner of his eye, wondering if John is actually going to sit down and let him tend to his wounds or needs to be prompted again. One thing, he sure as hell is going to explain how he was hurt and why he is running around Detroit in a t-shirt and underpants. Not that Sherlock is complaining, of course, but he is hardly going to tell John that.

“Do you want me to put a towel down before you sit? Because you are going to sit on the bed,” he says, meeting his wide eyes. Are his pupils bigger than the lights should allow? They are certainly beautiful. Blue like the ocean, clear and open. Then John blinks and looks down at his feet as he shifts them.

“No, it’s…” he looks back at Sherlock with honest embarrassment. He bites his lip and it is absolutely adorable. Sherlock almost flinches when his stomach flips this time. “Actually, yeah. I’d feel better about it.”

Sherlock’s lips turn up and he huffs out a breathy laugh.

“Okay,” Sherlock heads for the en suite again and tosses a look over his shoulder. “Be right back.”

When he returns this time, John is standing closer to the bed. He looks nervous, holding one hand in the other and wringing slightly. Sherlock smiles reassuringly, trying to ease John’s mind. He steps in close and drapes a thick dark green towel on the bed. When he stands straight again, he and John are face to face, inches apart. John’s mouth is open and he is breathing more heavily than he should be. His pupils seem even larger than before.

Sherlock shifts back, but is still close. His gaze falls to John’s chest as it rises and falls, the thin fabric of the shirt pulling taut over his pectorals. Sherlock can just make out the darker outline of a nipple before he forces his eyes back to John’s face, trying desperately not to stop on the man’s lips.

“Are you all right?” he asks quietly. “You’re breathing fast. Is it the pain?”

“What?” John replies breathlessly.

“The pain. Is it bad? Does one wound hurt more than the other?”

“No, it’s not bad,” John swallows deliberately. “They’re just flesh wounds.”

“Are they? Why don’t you sit down and let me take a look?”

“I could just do it myself.”

“John, please.”

They share a look. It is very serious and intentional. Is it Sherlock’s imagination or is there heat in John’s eyes? He is certainly trying to keep it from his own. His hand is on John’s, holding it gently, though he does not remember putting it there. John’s hand is warm and soft. God, he wants to hold it forever. He wants to learn everything about this man, spend the rest of his life touching and holding and memorizing every inch, every thought, every dream he holds dear. It all comes upon him so suddenly that their one point of contact feels like the key to a secret door, opening and revealing a part of himself he never knew existed. Sherlock has never felt this way in his life. He had loved Victor, to be sure, but did not feel anything even close to this. It is amazing. And...Jesus Christ, he is completely fucked.

“Please, allow me,” Sherlock whispers in a rough tone. John looks at him without blinking. The very tip of his tongue darts out to lick his lips. It lasts only a millisecond, but the sight of it sends Sherlock’s stomach to flipping and makes him weak in the knees.

“All right,” John breathes. Without pulling his hand away, he turns slightly and sits on the edge of the bed. Swallowing hard and trying not to think about the fact that John Watson is sitting on his bed right in front of him, Sherlock reluctantly releases John’s hand and takes some gauze from the kit.

“Take off your shirt.”

Did he really just say that? Sherlock nearly rolls his eyes in sheer embarrassment. Instead, he shakes his head minutely and then tries to adopt a more professional air, picking up the open bottle of peroxide. Placing the gauze on its top, Sherlock tips the bottle and saturates the gauze.

When he turns to John again, he means to speak, but the words die in his throat and come out as more of a gasp. John is just pulling the t-shirt over his head, tousling his blonde hair as it sweeps past it. He drops it on the bed next to him and looks at Sherlock expectantly, but the coach just gapes. John is gorgeous. His sun-kissed skin looks smooth and almost silky, stretching over his pectorals to his shoulders and down over the mostly defined muscles of his abdomen. There is not a single hair on his broad chest and his nipples are peaking from the slight chill in the air conditioned room. He looks like an underwear model and Sherlock’s mind floods with ways to worship every inch of his body.

“You used to surf in Anaheim,” Sherlock remarks instead, clearing his throat and keeping his tone even. John blinks.

“How did you… You see people, right. How do I keep forgetting that?” John smiles and then winces when he moves his arm.

Sherlock places his left hand on John’s bicep to hold him steady and touches the wet gauze to the wound right at the curve of his shoulder. The skin around John’s eyes tightens slightly as he watches the gentle ministrations clean away blood to reveal an angry dip where the skin was split open and the muscle marred.

“I don’t see, John,” Sherlock corrects as he works, “I…”

“Observe,” John finishes.

“And deduce,” Sherlock continues, looking at John with pin-point focus. The doctor’s eyes rise from the wound to meet his disarming silver gaze, steady and true. Sherlock feels warm, color rising into his cheeks and he feels light-headed. The air around them is heavy with promise, and the glimmer on John’s face is peaceful and welcoming. Looking at him, Sherlock is suddenly struck by the feeling that he has found someone who can truly understand him and the way he thinks, the way he sees the world. Molly has seen it too, but can it be? Could John really be what she thinks he could be? It is a concept Sherlock had given up hope of finding after Victor. At least, he thought he had.

“It’s the tan, right?”

“And the physique,” Sherlock says before thinking and immediately closes his eyes, cursing internally. John just laughs.

“I’m afraid that’ll change once I’ve been here a few more months.”

“You can always join a gym,” Sherlock suggests. As he works, he takes notice of the wound’s odd shape and angle. It is oddly familiar and yet, like none he has ever seen before, and he has seen quite a bit throughout his ten years in derby. This is different. What kind of object would make a mark like this?

“I’m always at the stadium just like you,” John says with a smile, “and I’m not one for going to a gym in the middle of the night. Or getting up at the bloody break of dawn.”

“You could use the exercise equipment at the stadium then. The ladies are usually out of the building by 8-8:30.”

“Oh, I’d feel a little odd doing that. Wouldn’t want to intrude on the off-chance someone is still there.”

Sherlock shrugs as he places a bandage and begins taping. John looks right at him, sparing none of his attention for anything but the man before him.

“How do you keep yourself fit?” John asks in a light tone, brows near his hairline. “Midnight jogs in the park?”

“Of course not,” Sherlock laughs, finishing with the bandage. “I have a few pieces of equipment here.”

“Do you?” John asks thoughtfully. “God, I need to get myself a real place. Having my own equipment would be perfect.”

“And your leg.”

“What?”

“Your leg. It’s also injured.”

“My...right! Right. Of course,” John looks both flustered and relieved. He leans over so his hip is easier to see, clenching his teeth in pain as he goes.

Sherlock bites his lip and ghosts his hand over John’s hip and thigh without touching the fabric of his boxers. He looks at the doctor with great unease. There is definitely more blood on the boxers than there was on John’s tee and it looks fresher. He wets his lips, unable to believe he is about to make his next suggestion.

“This would be a lot easier if you lie down,” he says almost timidly, “and less painful.”

John’s eyes go wide and his lips part in shock. It only lasts a second before the doctor schools his expression, looks at his hip and then back at Sherlock.

“Yeah, okay,” he says as though convincing himself. “Right. You’re right.”

John sits up again and takes a deep breath. With his teeth biting at his lower lip, he lowers himself down slowly and then turns onto his side carefully. It’s the most goddamn erotic thing Sherlock has seen in his life. Bending his good arm and supporting his head on one hand, John looks up at Sherlock. He gives him a pained and hesitant smile.

“Ready?”

“I was about to ask you that,” Sherlock answers with a small smile.

“All right then,” John wets his lips and slips his fingers into the waistband of his boxers. Sherlock’s brain stops as he watches John pull the waistband down to reveal a hipbone, the wound and skin much lighter than the rest of John’s body. Sherlock’s mouth goes dry.

Absolutely. Bone. Dry.

His gaze slides along John’s torso and stops on the exposed skin. He can just see a smattering of light curls that disappear into the boxer shorts. He blinks and shifts his eyes to the wound quickly, hoping John did not notice.

“This one could be deeper,” Sherlock mutters nearly to himself, as he grabs one of the hand towels and presses it against the wound. John inhales sharply, but does not flinch.

“I’m inclined to agree, but won’t know until you clean it up,” John’s voice is tight. “It hasn’t stopped bleeding. Could need stitches. You up for this?”

“Of course,” Sherlock bristles. “I have seen countless injuries on the track.”

“Yeah, but did you have to stitch them up on the fly?”

Sherlock meets his eyes. Truthfully, he has not. But he has come close. Sherlock readies a new piece of gauze and wets it with peroxide. When he is ready, he moves the towel aside and leans in closer. John’s body twitches at Sherlock’s first touch and again periodically as he cleans the wound. It is much deeper than the other one and very similar with that odd shape. Sherlock furrows his brow, trying to place it.

“Why not a house?” John’s voice is quiet and pained.

“What?” Sherlock’s hand stills. He turns his gaze to John, his brows raised in question.

“Why haven’t you bought a house? You’ve been here a long time,” John asks, referring to their previous conversation, clearly trying to distract himself.

“Ah, well,” Sherlock fumbles for words. Sherlock hates being off-balance, taken by surprise. He struggles for equilibrium. “Houses are meant to be shared, not kept by a single man.”

He pauses in both word and action. The two men lock eyes in a very serious gaze.

“The home I grew up in was full of love. It was bright and airy. So was Molly’s. It just doesn’t seem right to have one all to myself.”

“Did you share one with Victor?”

“No,” Sherlock replies after a moment. “Not his style. We lived in an upscale apartment downtown. It was right where he needed to be, both for his work and social life.”

They are silent for a few minutes. It is awkward and yet, not. Sherlock feels very comfortable and calm, even as his nerves remain edgey. His grey eyes suddenly dart to where his own hand rests on John’s hip, a reminder to stay still while he works. He can feel the warmth of the skin under his hand. A light sweat breaks out on Sherlock’s forehead and his heart rate picks up. It sounds so loud in his ears and John must be able to hear it. They are too close for him not to.

“I understand,” John finally says in a quiet voice. “It’s never felt right to me either.”

The look they share takes on new life, a new purpose that they both feel down to their bones. A connection, a common bond, and Sherlock makes up his mind in a split second. John Watson must stay in his condo tonight.

Sherlock straightens and removes the gauze, and his hand, from John’s hip. The angry mark on his skin looks so hateful, marring what is otherwise a gorgeous landscape. Sherlock clears his throat and looks at John, nodding toward the wound.

“So what do you think, Doctor?” he asks cheekily. “Do I need to find a needle and thread?”

“No, I don’t think so,” John chuckles. “A couple of butterfly strips will do it. D’you have any in that first-aid kit of yours?”

“As a matter of fact,” Sherlock gives him a smartass grin, brows still raised. He places the gauze he is holding back on John’s hip, fingertips grazing the soft skin, and then reaches for John’s hand. He places it gingerly on the gauze. “If you would be so kind.”

“It would be my pleasure,” John jokes.

With a smile on his face, Sherlock turns to the kit and begins rifling through its contents for the strips. He knows he has seen them before and is certain he has never used them. Just as he sees them, his hands slow to a stop and eyes lose their focus, as he stares blankly at the kit. John’s wounds are from bullets grazing his body. Sherlock has seen examples just like them in the medical books he studied while Anderson was the team doctor. He wouldn’t trust that man to place a band-aid on a scrape, much less execute decent stitches. Sherlock had felt more secure knowing he could step in, or at least watch to make sure as little was bungled as possible.

Sherlock’s gaze comes back to reality and darts to John’s shoulder, then his hip. He feels the packaged butterfly strips between his fingers, but his mind remains elsewhere. A cold chill drips slowly into his veins as a singular horrifying thought reverberates in his head.

Someone fired shots at John.

Someone attempted to murder John.

Sherlock’s eyes fly to John’s face. He was relaxed and cracking jokes earlier, but now wears an expression of curiosity that creeps in the direction of worry. Sherlock looks away as he tears open the package in his hands. He has placed the first one in seconds and then the other.

“Nicely done, Dr. Holmes,” John jokes, eyes bright and amused again. “Now all we need is a bandage and you’ll be doing my job. I don’t think I’d be very good at yours though.”

“Who shot at you, John?” Sherlock asks without preamble. He pins the doctor with such an intense glower that John cannot possibly look away or avoid the question. His smile fades.

“You really cut to the quick, don’t you?”

Sherlock cocks a brow.

“Have I ever given indication to the contrary during our association?” he asks, but it is not really a question.

John purses his lips, raises his brows and tilts his head to the side in both a thoughtful gesture and one that acquiesces the point. Sherlock leans closer and rests his hand on John’s thigh, just under the wound. He watches John’s face as he glances down at Sherlock’s hand and then lifts his gaze to look at the coach full in the face. His features are wary, but otherwise unreadable. Sherlock squares his jaw. Nothing is going to keep him from finding the truth.

“Who was it, John?” his tone is soft, but firm. Sherlock has not heard anything quite like it from his own lips before. He wonders silently at this man’s power over him and wishes he had some, any power over John. Is he going to tell him the truth outright or try to pass this off as nothing? He trusts Sherlock, but will he trust him with this?

John watches Sherlock for a moment with the same scrutiny that Sherlock studies him. John seems to consider something and then looks resigned, sighing heavily. He sits up and raises a hand to cup the back of his own neck.

“I don’t know,” he says. “He was all in black with a knit cap pulled over his face.”

“A balaclava.”

“If you want to be technical about it, yeah. Either way, I couldn’t see his face.”

“He was in your apartment?”

“Longer than he expected to be. He said he was on a schedule,” John’s voice is harsh and Sherlock’s eyes widen in surprise. He had not expected the attacker would have spoken to John and the fury simmering just beneath the surface of John’s words makes Sherlock wonder what else was said. He is suddenly and inexplicably compelled to lighten John’s mood.

“He can’t be too happy about the delay your kicking his ass has caused.”

John’s eyes go from hard with anger to soft amusement in seconds. A rather unceremonious burst of laughter pops from his lips, now turned up in a smile.

“I wouldn’t say I kicked his ass,” he remarks, “but I don’t mind fucking up his plans one bit.”

“His intention was murder,” Sherlock says with a hint of a question in his voice.

“Without a doubt.”

“Why, John?” Sherlock is suddenly on his knees before the bed at eye level with John. His voice is tense as he tries to find anything at all in the wing he has marked for John that would warrant such an attack. “Is there someone from Anaheim who would want to hurt you? Do you have any enemies?”

“Normal people don’t have enemies, Sherlock,” he answers sharply.

Sherlock jerks back as though he has been slapped in the face. He instantly recalls a conversation they had about the Demons and their coach, James Moriarty. His ‘arch enemy’ Sherlock had called him and John had laughed.

“But why do you two hate each other so much?”

Sherlock knew John had heard different theories from most of the ladies. HardOn’s rendition was the most colorful, as one would expect. Sally’s would be the most accurate. She was there after all, but she had declined to offer an explanation out of respect for her coach. Sherlock had never told anyone what had actually transpired, always dodging the questions with declarations of reps or laps, but John had been nothing but honest with him at their dinner at Angelo’s. His face hid nothing and his obvious pleasure in Sherlock’s company had gotten the better of the coach, as it so often does.

“We had just beaten the Demons badly. It wasn’t for the championship or even a play-off bout, but Moriarty was pissed off,” Sherlock had said with a growing grin. “He made some disparaging remarks about Molly and I…”

“Yeah?” John asked with anticipation. He had looked like a child at Christmastime, his bright blue eyes shining.

“I punched him.”

John howled.

“In the throat.”

John’s laughter died in his throat. He looked at Sherlock in shock and Sherlock thought his chin might actually hit the floor.

“No!” John said in a choked whisper. “You didn’t.”

He laughed so hard when Sherlock nodded and he nearly slipped right off the bench they were sitting on.

“Coach!” HardOn had suddenly yelled form the track. “Stop mistreating Ph.D. He can’t take care of our sorry asses if you keep bustin’ his.”

Hella hooted as she rolled by her partner, slapping her ass on the way. Sherlock had signaled for more laps and then glanced at John as his laughter grew even louder, tears actually beginning to roll from his eyes. Sherlock had grinned at the reckless abandon.

“Shit,” John’s voice draws Sherlock’s eye and pulls him from his thoughts. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that the way it sounded.”

“It’s fine,” Sherlock mumbles.

“It’s not,” John persists. “I wasn’t thinking of you. I wasn’t thinking at all.”

Sherlock is looking away and rising to his feet, desperately wishing this conversation would end. He picks up a sterile bandage packet and tears it open, swiftly putting the bandage in place. It surprises John enough that he almost recoils, but Sherlock grabs his hand roughly and shoves it toward the bandage.

“Hold this.”

“Sherlock.”

“It’s fine. Just leave it. I need to get this bandage on and then you will tell me everything that happened.”

John stares at him pointedly while he tapes the bandage down. Once he is finished, he packs up the first-aid kit and closes its latch. Sherlock considers returning it to the en suite, but knows it is the coward’s way out. He has never shrunk back from anything in his life. He is not going to start now. Instead, he meets John’s eyes and sees a fierce determination there that matches his own.

“I didn’t see him when I got home, but he was there,” John begins without being asked.

He goes through everything that took place and in as much detail as he can. Sherlock cringes when John gets to the fire escape and alley. The bastard came so close to finding John there and would have surely killed him where he stood. No place to run. Sherlock does not interrupt, forcing back his fear and worry for John.

By the time the doctor is finished, Sherlock’s eyes are closed and his fingers steepled before his chin. He visualizes it all in his mind, trying to keep his emotions at a distance. He has not been to John’s apartment, but knows the building and general layout for a unit. He watches the man grab John from behind in the kitchen and the ensuing struggle. Sentiment momentarily gets the better of him and he physically flinches when the second bullet grazes John’s hip. He breathes deeply and follows John out the window and down the fire escape.

The whole incident makes him sick to his stomach, but the kitchen is the worst. The thought of a murderer holding John close to his own body from behind, a most vulnerable position indeed. The image stirs within Sherlock an emotion he isn’t sure how to process. Fear and protectiveness, like he was wronged somehow right along with John. It does not make sense. John is not his to protect and yet, there it is, front and center. Sherlock cannot ignore it or his feelings for John. He has tried, of course, since the moment he walked into Greg’s office to meet the doctor. Even though there are no organizational rules preventing them from exploring an attraction, there is still an obstacle and it is the most important. Sherlock’s own heart. He allowed himself to be vulnerable with Victor and paid the price. Recovering from it would have been impossible had he not thrown himself into coaching and derby. He had vowed never to be in that situation again. Since then, Sherlock has never felt the desire to open that door in his mind palace, not even a crack.

Until now.

And it was not a decision. That dinner with John changed everything. The door wasn’t just opened, it was forced from its hinges. In spite of it, Sherlock has tried to board up the doorway and move on. He may have feelings for John, strong feelings, but cannot risk his heart again no matter how persistent it is. Because John would have nothing less than his whole heart and losing it, losing John would destroy him.

John.

So open and honest and yet, such a mystery. John would tell him anything if he only asked, even the personal and painful. John seems so responsive when Sherlock’s resolve slips and finds himself flirting, but truth be told, Sherlock is not entirely certain of John’s interest or orientation, for that matter. The stories of his past relationships are just vague enough that Sherlock has not gathered whether they were with men or women or both. They all have ambiguous names like Chris and Jamie, and are just short enough to provide the gist with no real details. Sherlock still cannot seem to deduce him either, not to the extent that he can everyone else. John cannot possibly know how he confounds Sherlock.

When he opens his eyes, John no longer sits on the bed before him. In fact, John is not even in the room. Sherlock’s eyes look from side to side sharply, his brow furrowing with worry. Is John even in the condo? Sherlock jumps to his feet just as the en suite door opens and the man in question appears in its frame. He still wears only boxer shorts and Sherlock feels his knees weaken a fraction. Flip. Stop it!

“Hey. Sorry,” he says quickly, noticing Sherlock’s distress. “I needed the loo and I didn’t want to interrupt.”

Sherlock cocks a brow and gives him a questioning look.

“Your thoughts. You were in your mind palace, yeah?”

“I was,” the coach answers. “For too long it seems. My apologies.”

“No worries,” John’s hand is at the back of his neck again, his brows raised. “I guess I should call the police.”

“No.”

“No?”

“It’s late and they will keep you in the station for hours,” Sherlock explains, making no attempt to keep the disdain from his tone. “You may as well get some sleep. Waiting to tell them in the morning won’t make much difference.”

“But they should start looking before he disappears,” John protests.

“Oh, they won’t catch him,” Sherlock almost chuckles as he approaches John.

“What?” he asks incredulously.

“I’m afraid the police force is far from competent.”

“What? Jesus, Sherlock.”

“But reporting the incident is still a good idea. Better to have it on record in case…”

“In case what?” John’s hands are on his hips. Well, one is more on his waist. Sherlock says nothing. “In case he comes back?”

“It is a possibility, John.”

“I know it is. That’s why I plan to be very careful when I go back.”

“You can’t go back there,” Sherlock tells him abruptly. John’s fixes a glare on him, anger burning dangerously beneath his skin and tinting his cheeks. His mouth is a thin line. He watches Sherlock, biting the inside of his cheek. The coach diplomatically backpedals before John has a chance to speak. “Not tonight anyway. Not until the police look over your apartment and interview the neighbors.”

John narrows his eyes and exhales a steady breath. To Sherlock’s surprise, John remains silent instead of arguing or simply telling him to mind his own fucking business. After a moment of waiting, Sherlock decides this is far worse than shouting. The air is thick with John’s anger and the weight of anticipation is overwhelming. Sherlock’s lips part, placations at the ready, but he remains quiet when John’s features transform right before his eyes. The hard lines soften and his muscles relax.

“Yeah, I suppose that makes sense,” he concedes reluctantly, “but I don’t have my wallet for a hotel. I don’t even have any clothes.”

“You’ll stay here,” Sherlock states as if the decision has already been made and then immediately flinches. Did he learn nothing from his previous misstep? John Watson does not like to be told what to do. He tries for a lighter tone that suggests more than it commands. “I have a spare room.”

“Oh, Sherlock, I couldn’t,” John starts, raising a hand in protest. Sherlock silently blows out a breath of relief that he has skirted the line and John has not taken offense. He shrugs, his confidence returning.

“Why not? You’re here already and you’re right about your state of dress, especially considering the blood. You can’t go anywhere looking like this.”

John’s eyes drop down his own body and Sherlock’s can’t help but follow. Good god.

“You’re right. Of course, you’re right,” he nods with a small smile. “Thank you.”

***

Sherlock stands in his own spare bedroom, surveying everything to make sure he has not forgotten something. John is looking back at him and holding a dark blue t-shirt in his hands. Sherlock hopes it fits well enough. There is a pair of sweatpants in one of his drawers that is far too short for him, but he is quite certain it will fit John well enough. He just has to find them before they talk with the police in the morning. John does not know it yet, but Sherlock intends upon going with him to his apartment. He has already composed the all-team email stating he will not be in the stadium for morning workouts. He has also resolved to look over every inch of the apartment. Sherlock Holmes is no detective, but he will damn well solve this mystery so he can look the man who tried to murder John in the eye when he breaks his nose.

“Well, I hope that fits you,” he tells John. “I’m not exactly your size and your shoulders are a bit broader than mine.”

“Yeah, a bit,” John chuckles and jokes. “Thanks for noticing.”

Sherlock studies him for a moment, taken aback by the apparent flirtation. He wets his lips and glances away. He cannot be reading this correctly. John is not flirting with him. He can’t be flirting with him. He is joking. That’s what it is. He is making light of all this, of the situation.

“I’ll work on finding those sweatpants,” he says in lieu of a real response.

“Thanks,” John replies, dipping his chin in embarrassment. He looks up at Sherlock from under dark lashes that have no business being so long. Flip. “I’m sorry about all this. I hate to impose.”

“It couldn’t be helped,” Sherlock tells him honestly. “I’m glad you came.”

“Yeah, about that. When I first got here I was really abrupt and a little…” he closes his mouth suddenly and stares. “Wait. You’re...you’re glad I came?”

“Yes,” Sherlock answers before he can think better of it. He looks at John, who is very clearly surprised. Anything more than that is difficult to read. Sherlock crinkles his brow in frustration. This would all be so much easier if he could deduce John properly. Of all the people he has ever met, why does the one person whose innermost feelings he most wants to know have to be so damn impossible to read? “We are friends and I want to help.”

“Oh, right,” John looks disappointed and his face falls a fraction. Why?

Sherlock decides quickly that may not have been the best thing to say, but he has no idea what he should have said instead. He clears his throat and gestures to the closet door.

“Extra blankets are on a shelf in the closet,” he explains. John’s gaze follows his hand and then Sherlock as he turns to walk toward another door. “This is the bathroom. Go ahead and use the towels and washcloth hanging on the rack.”

Sherlock squats and opens the cabinet beneath the sink. He pulls out a mid-sized sand pail. It bears the image of the Grinch from the 2018 remake. Molly had begged Sherlock to go with her and they gave him the bucket as soon as he entered the theater. It was some promotional thing and he was the umpteenth person. Dull. He would have refused had they not filled it with popcorn. Sherlock could eat his weight in popcorn.

Once the film was over, Sherlock knew he would never willingly part with it. He felt a certain kinship with the Grinch. Badly hurt in his past, unwilling to let it happen again, shutting out people and feelings, a single friend by his side. He has not mentioned how easily he can put himself in those shoes because Molly would just feel sorry for him, no doubt. She would also not appreciate being equated to Max, the dog and would staunchly disagree. She sees a side of him that no one else does. If they had not grown up together, he probably would have shut her out too. The changes in Victor and their divorce had hurt him so deeply, he did not think he would allow anyone but Molly into his life again. Then he met John and, just like with Cindy Lou Who, everything changed. He supposes John would also not appreciate the comparison.

Sherlock takes a toothbrush still in its unopened package and a small tube of toothpaste from the bucket. Replacing the bucket and standing, he catches John’s curious eye.

“Have a lot of overnight guests, do you?” John smirks, already knowing the answer.

“Dental samples,” Sherlock supplies as he sets them on the sink. “I don’t discard things that could be useful. I’ll get you a comb while I look for the sweatpants.”

“No, Sherlock, I’ve already imposed enough.”

”It’s no trouble at all, John,” he says firmly, placing both items on the counter. John’s lips are curled into the beginnings of a smile when Sherlock looks to him again. The coach actually gives himself a once-over before asking, “What?”

“I appreciate it,” is all he says.

Sherlock finds himself smiling back. Neither one says a word. The two men simply face one another, smiles inexplicably growing into grins. Sherlock could stay this way all night and all day tomorrow too. He would love nothing more than to have John as a house guest for any length of time, sharing stories and jokes. And a bed, his mind supplies so coolly it is like something they were always meant to do.

Sherlock gives his head a quick shake to dispel the images forming in the John wing of his mind palace and slams the door shut before his cheeks are so pink John will think he has a fever. Shifting backwards a step and worrying his lips, he meets John ‘s eyes again. He suddenly feels ridiculous, like he is tucking John in for the night. Not trusting himself to speak, Sherlock turns and walks to the door. When he looks back at John, the man wears yet another unreadable expression. Sherlock shrugs toward the hall and smiles somewhat awkwardly.

“Good night, John.”

“Sherlock, wait,” he steps forward in a rush, tossing the t-shirt on the bed. They are only a couple feet apart now and Sherlock can already feel heat radiating from his cheeks down through his neck and into his chest. He watches as John bites his own lip and wards away the thought of doing it to John himself. John looks at him apprehensively, visibly debating whether or not to share what is on his mind.

“Do you…” John begins, but stops immediately. His features alter into something more decisive and his voice is authoritative when he speaks again. “This has something to do with Billy.”

Sherlock’s brows furrow over narrowed eyes. His mind instantly begins testing and weighing every possible scenario.

“Someone tried to poison him to get him to leave and now as soon as you have another competent doctor, someone tries to kill him? No,” John shakes his head. “It’s too damn coincidental.”

He pauses to run a hand through his hair and cover his mouth in thought. When he removes it, he also shuffles his feet closer to Sherlock’s, bringing them even closer.

“I don’t know exactly how Molly figures into this, but…”

“Saving her is reason enough to eliminate you,” Sherlock finishes for him as it begins to snap into place. John must believe the same because he is already nodding. “It’s Moriarty. It has to be.”

“Now, Sherlock,” John’s face fills with doubt, “don’t rush to any conclusions.”

“I’m not rushing to anything. It makes perfect sense. The bastard wants to win and will do whatever it takes to do it.”

“But murder?”

“Any. Thing,” Sherlock pins John with cold grey eyes. “He has no scruples. His moral compass is skewed. Classic personality trait.”

“Personality trait? Are you saying he’s some kind of psychopath?” John’s tone is incredulous.

“No,” Sherlock replies thoughtfully. “He’s a sociopath.”

John purses his lips and shifts his weight. His hands rest on his hips and he looks at his colleague skeptically.

“Sherlock, there is absolutely no proof that Moriarty has anything to do with this,” he lifts his hand in placation when Sherlock opens his mouth to protest. Against his better judgement, Sherlock remains quiet to hear the doctor out. “I’m not saying I don’t trust your judgement. He is definitely a suspect. I just don’t want you to convince yourself that we should only focus on him is all. It could easily be someone else, anyone else at this point.”

“Fine,” Sherlock says. It makes sense. It does. John is not wrong, but Sherlock still believes Moriarty is behind all of it. Everything he knows about the man, every experience they have shared is all the evidence Sherlock needs. However, solid physical proof is what police will require. All the more reason to go with John to his apartment in the morning, which he might as well mention now while he is at it. “I’m going with you to meet the police tomorrow.”

“What?” John starts. “No, you don’t have to do that.”

“And I am going to search your apartment myself once they’ve gone,” he continues. “I’ve little confidence in their abilities. I will solve this mystery myself.”

“What? Like on Scooby Doo?” John snorts. “ ‘Looks like we have ourselves another mystery’.”

Sherlock shoots him an indignant glare.

“Sherlock,” he takes a step and rests his hands on Sherlock’s shoulders, shaking his head. “This along with coaching and everything else you have on your plate? No. Besides, it’s too risky. We’ve both seen how dangerous this is. I have the bandages to prove it.”

Sherlock meets John’s earnest gaze with one of his own. His voice is quiet and deadly serious.

“Molly is my family. I will place myself in the line of fire to protect her every time. You know that. Failure means the murderer will try again. And she isn’t the only target. So are you. I cannot allow that.”

“Sherlock, I’ll not have you risk your life for me,” he replies shortly. He moves his hands from Sherlock’s shoulders and shakes his head. “That is something I will not allow. I will not put you at risk.”

Sherlock looks at the doctor wickedly and lets out a dark chuckle.

“I’d like to see you try to stop me,” his lips curl upward into a smirk as he watches John with a gleam in his eye.

John presses his lips into a thin line and for a moment, Sherlock thinks he might tell him what a stubborn asshole he is. But the anger and frustration quickly fade from his face, making way for a broad grin and bright eyes. Sherlock could look at those blue eyes for a hundred years and it still wouldn’t be enough.

“Another time,” John breathes.

Their eyes are locked on one another. The human eye can say so much without words. John’s are open and honest, conveying his every emotion so articulately. But there is also something that remains so clearly hidden, just beneath the surface. What Sherlock wouldn’t give to know what it is.

Without realizing it, Sherlock has drifted quite close to John. He knows he should pull back, but has no intention of doing so. John smells so good. Cinnamon and vanilla with a unique musky scent that must belong to John alone. Sherlock inhales deeply, wanting to memorize every detail of it, of this moment because they will never be this close again. John will snap out of this spell and step away, a window in time to be suffocated with shutters and never reopened.

But John is not stepping back. His blue eyes explore every inch of Sherlock’s face as though he has the same idea Sherlock does, but that cannot be. John does not feel the same way and Sherlock feels so many things at once - joy, safety, adoration, comfort and... He feels like he is home. Not just in his condo, but home.

The air around them crackles with electricity and oh, Jesus, he wants to kiss John. It would be so easy. Just lean down, angle his neck, close the gap. Sherlock knows full well John’s lips would be soft, perfect. John is perfect. He does not bore Sherlock, has never bored him, could never bore him. John is funny and intriguing, honest and mysterious. Sherlock loves it all. He could easily spend a night or week or month or forever with John and never know exactly what would happen like he does in anyone else’s company. People are idiots. John is brilliant.

Fear flashes across Sherlock’s features and a chill runs down his neck, spreading into his veins until he can feel it in his fingertips. Did he just profess love for John? No. He tries to deny it, but the proof of it appears around every corner he turns within his mind palace. Fuck! Fuck! What the fuck is he going to do now? It was one thing when it was just an attraction. He can live with suppressing an attraction, but love? With someone he works with and sees every day? Someone he is friends with? If he takes this chance as Molly suggested and it ends like Victor, he will have nothing to fall back on. Derby and skating, his very life blood, will remind him of John.

Sherlock jolts backwards and plants his hand on a nearby dresser to keep himself steady. His breaths are coming rapidly and he holds a palm to his chest. His distress clear, John lurches forward to help, putting a hand on his arm.

“Sherlock!” his voice is urgent and full of worry. “Are you all right?”

“M’fine,” he nods, straightening up. “Fine. Just tired.”

Sherlock shrugs away from John’s touch, leaving his hand hovering alone between them. By the time it is back at John’s side, Sherlock is at the door with his hand on the knob.

“Good night, John,” he whips the door closed and collapses against it, heaving a great sigh. Tipping his head back until it rests against the door, Sherlock’s gaze drifts up and focuses on the ceiling.

He is in love with John Watson.

He is in love with John.

He is so fucked.

----

And at least one idiot knows he’s in love! Hooray! But if, or when, will he give in and let himself show it? If/when will he admit it to John? What will John think? What will he say? Just what were his past relationships and how have they shaped who he is and how he views love? So much we don’t know yet and so much time to learn.

I hope you enjoyed this chapter, my friends. Don’t hesitate to ask me anything or just say hi. I love you all! Stay safe.

#Sherlock Holmes #Sherlock #sherlockholmes #sherlock loves john #sherlock fanfic #john watson #johnwatson #johnlock #Johnlock fanfic #sherlock roller derby

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