#fluff kind of

[babydollrobinson]

One Thing Right

blaise zabini x reader summary: slytherin loses the quidditch match against gryffindor, and in a sick drunkenness, blaise gets in a fight. you meet him in the infirmary, and realize he's not half as bad as you'd thought. tags: fem!reader, one shot, fluff, injured word count: 999

Call It What You Want

The infirmary’s dull lights lit up the room, flickering every other second once turned on. Blaise lay on one of the presumably very uncomfortable cots that filled the corners of the room’s off-white walls. His eyes shut, Zabini looked so calm, like a lamb. The thin, black-ish grey duvet covered his body, apart from his feet, as he was too tall for the cot. The bed in itself looked awkward, but still, he slept so peacefully. This might have been the only time I’ve ever seen him without a cocky grin on his face or a snarky comment leaving his mouth.

Last night, Gryffindor won the quidditch match, and practically all hell broke loose in the Slytherin common room, or so I’ve heard. I guess Zabini got into a fight with some Gryffindor 7th year, and busted his ass pretty badly. Apparently, he won the fight, though. I didn’t take him for a fighter; I still don’t. I think he was just drunk. Blaise Zabini was many things: arrogant, pretentious, snobby, and sarcastic. But he wasn’t violent. He didn’t punch just anybody. And honestly, he didn’t really get mad too easily either.

When I heard he had gotten his face beaten up, my initial thought was worry. What happened? Was he okay?

Scratch that, I don’t care. Why would I? We aren’t friends. We aren’t even acquaintances. He’s just the sarcastic boy from my Potions 4th period. But still, I couldn’t get the thought out of my head. What if he was seriously hurt? I wouldn’t wish that on anybody. Not even him.

As I stepped farther from the entrance doorway and closer to him, the quieter and more awkward the whole scenario felt. The cold air of the infirmary hit me in a sudden wave. I stood by his bedside as his eyes gradually opened, raising himself to sit up.

“Where am I?” His words hit me like bricks. The sudden and toneless voice in such a quiet, kept room made me shudder. His dark, intent eyes stared into me. I nervously looked away.

“The infirmary,” I muttered. “You were hurt last night.” I turned away from him again, somewhat embarrassed.

“Gee, what did I do that made you upset enough to rock my shit like this?” He chuckled, clearly amused by teasing me. I was not. “I didn’t touch you once,” I protested. I shifted back towards him in a fit of anger and annoyance. “Apparently, you picked a fight after last night’s match. Angry you didn’t win, I suppose.” I looked down at him in his bed angrily. Our eyes met, and my sudden irritation settled. I breathed heavily, glancing in a different direction.

“Damn game’s rigged.” He murmured under his breath, clearly still frustrated. I tried not to laugh. I crossed my arms, trying to show more offense, when, really, he just made me annoyed at times. But I really was worried. I scanned his face, his fists. The dirty white bandages wrapped around his long fingers. The scabs forming on his cheekbones. Now, I wasn’t too sure how accurate the ‘Blaise won’ rumor was.

A moment of peaceful silence between us lasted for a good while before he interrupted it again. “Why are you even down here anyway?” My breath hitched. He looked at me, and I looked at him.

“Dumbledore sent me.” I felt his eyes move down from mine to study my whole body as I changed my hostile pose of crossed arms to sitting down at the edge of his cot. “I am one of the best healers in our year, you know.”

He fully sat up in his bed, darting his head away from me. “Yeah, I know,” he mumbled, looking down at the cover. “So are you going to heal me?”

I almost laughed. “I don’t know, I like it when my patients have manners and say please and thank you.” He groaned, and I just smiled. “Here,” I gave him a bubbling, purple-ish mixture. It wouldn’t fully heal his wounds, but it would reduce the pain. He drank up, and I looked away, trying my best not to make it any more awkward than it already was. He choked it down and handsomely wiped the corner of his mouth. I tried not to stare at his full lips, but the way he licked them was captivating.

Despite his occasional smug laugh or sarcastic jokes, he wasn’t half as bad as I’d originally thought. He was different than how I’d imagined. Yeah, maybe he was a bit snooty, but he was also funny and kind of friendly, too. His bright smile was contagious and somewhat charming. Although Slytherin lost last night, he was a pretty talented Quidditch player. He was known around the school and was friends with most of his housemates in our year.

Not that any of this was endearing or likeable, but he did seem fun to be around. But was he the same when with his friends? Or did he even really act like this at all? Was he trying to be nice to me just for laughs? He seemed genuine, but of course, I do try to see the best in everyone. But that voice in my head tells me he just doesn’t want to be punched again.

Stop. Why should I even care? It doesn’t matter if we’re friends or not. I’m just here to bring the potion. That’s it. I lift myself off of the low-rised bed, and onto the waxy, tiled floors. “I should get going now,” I said, readjusting my black, wrinkled robe. The rest of the infirmary was unoccupied, and my voice slightly echoed in the large, empty room. I turned around, facing away from him, and started towards the exit.

“Wait.”

I spun back around, facing him. “Wait,” he spoke again, calmer this time. Our eyes met, and it was hard for me to even look at him, but for some reason, I felt like I couldn’t. “Stay.”

[avenging-criminal-bones]

Stark to the Rescue

Irondad x Spiderson (PLATONIC)

Word Count: 1167

Summary: When Peter gets into a bit of a scuffle with Flash, a certain Stark is there to save the day. 

Warnings: None other that Flash styled bullying

* * * * *

As Peter sat as his final period desk, he doodles mindless webs over the corner of his notebook. It was Friday, so Happy would be there to pick him up from school and take him upstate to the compound.

Even with the exciting plans, he couldn't get the on edge feeling from his Spidey sense to go away. He knew there was no danger except for Flash's insistent bullying, but his senses didn't know that.

He's about to push his pencil back down to the paper when his notebook get's ripped away from the desk.

Peter's head snaps up, despite knowing exactly who the culprit was.

"Flash, can't you just leave me alone?" His voice is small and his usual snappy remarks are leaving his brain under the eyes of the rest of his class in study hall.

The other boy just shakes his head and laughs before speaking, "Guys! I think Penis Parker has a crush... on Spiderman!"

Peter closes his eyes to stop them from tearing up when everyone-- even the teacher-- starts laughing at the joke. He opens his eyes again and reaches for the notebook. He's about to grab it. He's almost there-

And now he's on the ground, Flash's foot is on his tipped chair, and everyone starts laughing again.

"Remember from the party at Liz's house guys?" Flash looks much too excited for Peter's liking. "Penis?"

"Parker!"

The chorus of voices around him startles him to his feet. Grabbing his book bag off the floor, he snatches his crumpled notebook and all but runs out of the classroom.

Letting out a sigh of relief he storms into the bathroom. Even down two hallways, past three walls, and in the bathroom, he can still hear the faint chant.

Penis... Parker... Penis...

His hands fly to his ears and the chant dies down. He doesn't know if it's from his efforts or Flash's boredom, but it's doesn't matter.

Karen speaks from the new watch Tony had given him.

"Peter. Your stress levels are much higher that usual. Should I alert-"

"NO! Karen, off." He yells a bit louder at the AI than he intended, but the effect was the same and Karen went to sleep.

He eventually made it out of the bathroom to see that it was 2:41. School would be let out in a few minutes. Letting out a long sigh, he started making his way back to the classroom and stopped just outside. He didn't need any more time with Flash harassing him.

When the bell rang, he turned away from the 'EXIT' sign in front of him and started going towards the back where Happy picks him up. Peter opened the door and walked outside, squinting as he did. His eyes were sensitive today apparently, so he needed a second to adjust.

He wasn't granted with the second though. The hairs on his arms stood up a second to late and he was being shoved. It takes everything in him not to lose his balance and go tumbling down the stairs.

"Hey Penis? Do you even know Tony Stark?" His question was mocking and the group of guys around them knew it too and started laughing.

"Yeah, Flash. I do know him." Peter turned back around and continued walking down the steps.

Right as he was about to put his foot on the firm ground, he felt hands on his back again. And then he heard a voice. A voice he knew well.

"Don't. Even. Think about it."

"Dad- Mr. Stark?" Peter tries to cover it up quickly, but it's too late. Flash and his gang had heard it, so there was no point.

The laughter surrounded him again, accompanied by Flash pushing him again. "Did you just call Tony Stark Dad?!"

It was just like in last period. Everyone laughing, and Peter on the ground. Only this time with a sprained wrist that was already healing. Everything made him forget that Mr. Stark was even there.

"I said, ENOUGH!" Tony shoved his way through the crowd of kids and stopped about an inch away from Flash Thompson's face. He wasn't laughing anymore. No one was.

Except maybe Peter, but only internally.

"Now. Who are you?" He looks threateningly into Flash's eyes and the rest of his squad leaves.

"Um. F-Flash Th-Thompson." He tries to look down but Peter knows that won't last long.

Tony reaches out and with scary gentleness, lifts the boy's face up to meet his eyes.

"If you ever- and I mean EVER lay your slimy hands on my kid again, I will not hesitate to find suitable punishment for you. Understand?" Flash's face grows whiter with every word and he doesn't open his mouth, so Tony speaks again. "Do you understand me?"

"Y-Yes. I'm sorry, Mr. S-Stark." He casts a glance to Peter and then turns on his heel and runs off.

Peter had stood up halfway through the conversation and painfully shoved his hand in his pocket. Tony had noticed, but didn't wanna make the kid uncomfortable.

"Hey, Mr. Stark?" He asked quietly as they walked to the car.

Tony glanced over, "Yeah, kid?"

"Hold on. Where's Happy and the van? Why are you here?" Peter looked over and forgot about his hand, yanking it out of his pocket and pointing at the car.

Tony didn't miss the wince, or the swelling, but he answered Peter's question first. "I felt like coming to get you because Karen said you were stressing."

"Ugh. Stupid Karen. I told her to shut off." Peter mumbled a bit and huffed as he sat in the passenger seat.

"Let me see your hand." Tony commands after he gets into the white Audi. When Peter doesn't make a move to show him, Tony grips his elbow and pulls the boy towards him. "You're going to need to let that rest for a few hours. How long has that Flash kid been bothering you?"

Peter shrugs a little, gingerly dropping his arm in his lap. "A while. Forever?" He gives a dry chuckle and shrugs again. "It's no biggie."

"Like hell-"

"Language, Mr. Stark." Peter laughs slightly and sighs, "I don't really wanna talk about it. Okay, Mr. Stark?"

The older man just nods and starts driving. About thirty minutes later, Peter speaks up again.

He pulls one of the strings in his hoodie into his mouth and bites it like he does when he's nervous. "Mr. Stark?"

"Yeah kid, what's- Get that out of your mouth. What are you doing?" He scrunches his eyebrows up in confusion and then glances between Peter and the road again. "Whatcha need?"

"I'm sorry... About the whole. Never mind, just know that I'm sorry about it." Peter looks down and curls into himself a bit.

"Okay? You are forgiven." It sounds more like a question then a statement. "Is that what you need to hear?"

"Yes. That was exactly it." Peter felt relieved that he hadn't heard it. He wasn't ready to admit to himself that Tony was his accidental father.

[dreamss-of-boston]

it was rare

(i was there)

i remember it

(all too well)

[-]

A millionth glance out the window-- yet again, you were met with the obtuse feeling of loneliness upon learning that they were not back yet. 

(That he was not back yet.)

The inside of your mouth was raw from chewing on it so much. They were scheduled to be back today, at midday, to be exact. Your clocks were not off-- all of the clocks in the Survey Corps headquarters couldn’t be off, either. Plus, the sun was setting-- so something was wrong. 

You clasped your hands together without thinking, and upon seeing what you were doing, you decided to follow up with a normal action and so placed your elbows on the table in front of you in order to rest your chin atop your clasped hands. But even that was uncomfortable. 

(You thought for a moment about how he would hold his teacup to his lips, how he’d hold it there as another barrier so that you couldn’t guess what he was thinking.)

You huffed out a sigh again. And again, you looked out the window. 

But this time, a sea of green and tan (sprinkled with red-- it always was when they came back) graced your eyes, and you felt your stomach climb into your throat as you rose to your feet. You vaguely noticed that you disturbed the chair you had been sitting in as you rushed from the common room, towards the sinks and aprons. 

Other doctors joined you in the ritual cleansing, murmuring about what might await them down below while they scrubbed at their fingernails, wrists, upper arms. The doctors of the Survey Corps rarely got new recruits, as it was much more comfortable to live in one’s own home and perform their duties in town or at the local hospital, rather than be on call 24/7 in military barracks and face the most gruesome of wounds every time an expedition rolled around. 

But no doctor was a stranger to death, and you were certainly no exception.

(You would always hold your breath until he came back-- you wondered if he knew?)

Footsteps rushed down the stone steps of the medical wing, and you followed with them. A sea of once white uniforms adorned with the sigil of the Corps made their way to the ground level with beds and medical tables lining the walls, and there was exactly three seconds of silence before the soldiers spilled into the expansive building. 

You and your colleagues jumped into action, trotting alongside stretchers or pulling bedding back to usher the wounded into their station, and metal instruments were taken into steady palms, and soon there was sweat and the metallic tang of blood clouding the atmosphere-- and you opened all of the windows but it never left. Muffled cries, strained breathing, sobs-- it was all routine, by now. 

“Keep pressure on the wound.” You ordered your assistant-- he nodded, even though the blood was never ending and the faceless soldier kept crying out in pain, nonsensical and pathetic.

You never saw their faces until after; right now, it didn’t matter who they were. 

And so you worked-- bed to bed, soldier to soldier. The sun was well past set, by now, the moon having replaced it. With a sigh, you retracted your hands from bloodied and now stitched flesh, and you dared look around the room to find that it was all over. 

You looked at your patient-- a girl, couldn’t be over the age of sixteen. 

You washed your hands in the basin next to you, though it seemed pointless since the water was stained long ago with her blood during the procedure. Her little voice reached your ears, though it was muffled from your tunneled focus.

“What?” You asked, and your voice sounded like it came from across the room and not from yourself. 

“Am I gonna live?” She asked again. Her wide eyes were pricked with tears. 

You managed a smile. “Yes.” 

While she slept, you made your way upstairs, to the sinks and the private rooms for patients with more severe injuries, or for the superior officers. You noticed for a moment how many vacancies there were-- and you knew that either meant there were more dead than alive, or more alive than wounded. Very rarely was it the latter.

One of your comrades exited one of the rooms just as you were about to enter the washroom, and you paused to hear what he was up to. 

“Humanity’s Strongest.” He said with a twinkle in his eye, and your heart leapt into your throat. You comrade saw you tense, saw your shoulders rise even the slightest, and you took a step towards him with stupid hope and relief plastered on your undoubtedly tired features. He chuckled as he walked towards you, and a kind-hearted hand pat your shoulder. “I don’t think he’ll wanna talk to you like that.” 

And you looked at your blood-crusted hands, and your cheeks turned almost as red as them. You washed yourself-- twice-- because you knew him and his desire for cleanliness, and you liked that about him. (You liked most things about him.)

You could feel your comrade’s knowing eyes on you as you hurried to the Captain’s room, and you knew that he knew-- you knew that everyone knew even though you rarely spoke about it. 

And you turned the handle and all at once you were in his room, and you were standing across from him while he sat on the edge of the bed, and he was alive and you felt your words catch in your throat as you accepted the fact that he had come back to you. 

Gray eyes: a cloud of mourning, and your good mood was gone. Levi was slouched, elbows resting on knees, cravat removed and folded neatly beside him. It took him a moment to look at you-- his eyes had landed on you as soon as you had entered, but now he really saw you. 

He said your first name in greeting-- recognition. 

“Where the hell were you?” He clicked his tongue disapprovingly. “Sanders just about cut off the circulation in my leg.”

Your lips twitched in the smallest of smiles, and his gaze softened when he saw it. “I’ll be sure to let him know.”

How many expeditions had you stitched him up after? 

Almost every single one, now that you thought about it. 

You sat next to him, though you kept a space between the two of you because you knew him. He appreciated it-- though in the back of his mind, he was disappointed. Through the fog, through the memories of what he had just witnessed, he found himself gazing at your hand. It was relaxed and resting in your lap, your fingers were slightly curled towards your palm. He thought how he might want to touch your hand with his own-- to trace his fingers along the ridges and lines, to affirm how real you were, how similar you were to him, to feel your warm palm against his. He wanted to feel that instead of the cold handle and triggers of his gear, but when he looked back at your face (he knew it so well), he couldn’t bring himself to touch you or even look at your eyelashes for too long. 

But when you asked him what happened-- he knew that you knew something was wrong. And you asked so quietly; in this world full of yelling brats and screaming comrades, you were always so quiet and gentle. The question coming from you, who cared, who could see through him, caused him to set his jaw and furrow his brow in order to try and stop the onslaught of memories. 

He cleared his throat, but it didn’t help the hoarseness in his usually steady voice. “They’re dead.” 

Levi was always so simple and straightforward. His admission caused you to let out a breath you weren’t aware you’d been holding. 

You hated seeing him like this, seeing his furrowed brow and deep frown. You only hated it because you knew what he could look like after you’d told a particularly crude joke, or after you’d absolutely roasted a comrade in private; his mischievous glance that he’d share with you, as if you two were the only ones in on a very fun secret. Like you two were the only ones who got it, and you knew he’d never let anyone else in on your fun. His lips would always curl just the smallest bit, and you’d always catch it before he looked away. You knew that he let you see. 

He let you see him now, you realized-- he let you witness how he was just as weak as the others, just as battered and tired of death as they all were. Levi saw your perfect hand clench into a fist, but he wouldn’t have it. Upon instincts he only just now allowed himself to act on, he reached for your hand and unwound it with his own, your fingers curling through his own instead of buried in your warm palm. 

You were both startled, unsure if the either actually wanted this. So you looked at each other, to find out what the other was thinking and to confirm that what you both wanted to be happening, was in fact happening.

Apprehension, hope, nervousness was reflected back at you in his gray gaze. Upon the realization that you both felt the same, that you were both treading in unfamiliar territory that you wanted to be in so long as the other was there, you felt relief wash over you. The world outside was caked in blood and death, but right now, with your hand in his, you could only fathom the warmth from his hand mixed with the smell of him-- sharp and familiar, for once so close and gentle. 

And Levi felt a sort of thrumming throughout his whole body-- a soft rhythm that he could only pinpoint as coming from you, whether it was your heartbeat or his own, it didn’t matter, because he felt it and welcomed it with such ease that it frightened him. 

And when he looked at you-- he remembered deciding that he didn’t think he could ever feel anything like that in his whole life, a little boy from the Underground with knives of steel and a gaze to match. But now that thought seemed like the most preposterous thing in the world; how could he be so cold when you were there, holding his hand? Such a simple thing-- he would chide himself for being so childish if this didn’t feel so very natural. 

And suddenly his head felt very heavy. His heart, freshly opened, felt the loss of his comrades all over again. You were there and you had seen him and still you stayed-- you would be lying if you weren’t startled all over again when Levi’s head suddenly nestled into the crook of your neck. 

Your hand resting on the nape of his neck-- his breathing hitching over your skin as grief took hold of him again. Though it was familiar, it was never welcome. A salty trail of tears coasted down your skin until it met fabric, wetting the material as Levi’s arms wound around you, and you had never been held so tightly in your life, and you held him back, hoping to hold him as fiercely as he was you, but you knew you never could,

but he thought you were the strongest of them all,

and he knew your arms were made for him the longer he stayed.

[bezkitt]

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Haikyuu!! Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Hanamaki Takahiro/Matsukawa Issei, Hanamaki Takahiro & Matsukawa Issei Characters: Matsukawa Issei, Hanamaki Takahiro Additional Tags: matsuhana - Freeform, References to Drugs, soft, Sweet, painless, Silly, Seijoh - Freeform, aoba johsai, Help, i have a headache, matsukawa issei - Freeform, Hanamaki Takahiro - Freeform, Haikyuu - Freeform, haikyu!! - Freeform, mlm, hoodie sharing, raining, Love Confessions, Friendship/Love, Confessions, brief trigger warning, Weed, pot, high, they're so soft and i love them help, That's gay Summary:

(Brief TW for direct references to drugs!) It's finally a break for the Seijoh team! During this, Matsukawa's family takes a trip, but he decides to stay home. In the midst of his boredom, his friend Hanamaki texts him, asking to come over. They go to a corner store, smoke some weed, and various events unfold.

[imaginekingsshieldshipping]

Imagine AZ seeing a Pokémon that he's never seen before (for instance, a Spheal) and doing the fangirl squeal and hand flailing thing.

[221bottlesofbeeronthewall]

You're now chatting with a random stranger. Say hi!

You both like teenlock, johnlock, and femlock.

You: Joan swallowed hard as she stared at Sherlock's bare, pale back. He was scared far more than he had been when she saw him last, before he had jumped. It had taken him so long to come back, three years and he still hasn't said a word other than that he missed her. "Where did you get this one?" she asked, finger trailing down the scar that was too close to his spine, "Please, I want to know."

Stranger: Sherlock sighed softly. The scars were just more painful memories of things he wanted to delete, but he complied in telling Joan after a few long moments. "I was in Paris, I believe...One of Moriarty's men...Sebastian Moran..He came at me from behind...Had a knife." He spoke slowly, not wanting to recall the moment. It was one of the times he actually thought he could die.

You: She leaned forward, pressing her lips to the marred skin in a soft kiss, not needing to hear any more. She wrapped her arm around his waist, pulling him so that his back was against her chest, "I dreamt of you often," she said, "Even when I thought I had finally accepted it, that you were dead, I still saw you in my dreams and you would smile and kiss me and tell me how you would never leave."

Stranger: Sherlock hummed softly, leaning into Joan's touch. "Hm....I don't plan on leaving again." He mumbled, turning so they were facing each other. "I dreamt about you too...That I'd finally be able to come home and we'd be able to be like this." Sherlock wrapped his own arms around Joan in turn and smiled at her softly.

You: "I wish I could have come with you," she whispered, nuzzling into his neck to keep him from seeing anything in her face, "I know you were trying to keep me safe but who was there to run after you, protect /you/," she said softly.

Stranger: "Not in a million years." Sherlock murmured, shaking his head. "I had to keep you safe...Running after me would be counter productive. I don't need protecting as long as I could come home." He shifted so Joan couldn't see his face. The sentiment there was still hard to deal with. The pain of the thought of losing Joan.

You: She leaned up, drawing his face close and kissing his lips slowly, "It wasn't fair, you know," she whispered, "All that time you knew, you had a hope...I was about to move on, force myself to marry someone I didn't love and hope I could get over you because how could you still be alive! And then of course you were...I spent three years without you. Three years of you gone. Dead," she shook her head.

Stranger: Sherlock tenderly kissed her back and sighing softly. "I know....I'm sorry about that, Joan. So sorry about it. I would have come home earlier, but it wasn't safe yet....I couldn't lose you." He whispered, tightening his arms around Joan protectively.

You: The way he held her was something she had never experienced before. It was so full of need, as though he's certain that if he let's go, she will slip away forever, "Sherlock Holmes, I-I love you." They had never said it before, it was obvious, one might say but still, words meant something, didn't they? Especially those three. She let her fingers card through his hair slowly, letting herself feel him so close.

Stranger: Sherlock's breath nearly hitched at the words. Besides his parents, Joan was the only one to say that to him and it made his heart swell incredibly. "I love you too, Joan...Immensely." He whispered, gently rubbing her back. It seemed so obvious to everyone around them, and Sherlock wasn't good at affection, but the words came easily to him. As if he'd spent his entire life trying to find just the right person to say them to. And here she was.

You: She shuddered slightly, suddenly cold despite the warmth of the room, "You don't know how many times I've pictured you saying that. All different. A thousand different ways I've heard those words from your lips and nothing felt as good as that."

Stranger: Sherlock's lips upturned into a smile. "Hm...The human imagination is a great thing, but sometimes it falls short." He murmured, pulling Joan in for another soft kiss. "I love you." He repeated, adoring the chill it sent through her.

You: "If I had my way you'd never say anything else," she whispered, smiling slightly as she rested her forehead against his.

Stranger: Sherlock chuckled softly. "I speak far too often for that to happen.." He started with his smile widening. "But if it helps, you're the only person I'll ever say it to."

You: She pressed a kiss to his nose, smiling slightly at his laugh before sobering, taking in the moment, "Will you tell me one day?" she asked softly, trailing her finger down one of the longer scars on his chest.

Stranger: Sherlock's face became more serious, but the smile still held faintly. "It's not something you'd like to hear..." He mumbled, capturing her hand in his own and grazing his thumb against the back of her hand.

You: "I think it's something I need to, Sherlock," she said, turning her hand and interlocking their fingers, "You can tell everything about me with a glance and I can't... I want to know you, everything there is to know. And you don't have to tell me now, but one day... please Sherlock, it's all I ask."

Stranger: Sherlock squeezed Joan's hand and sighed softly. "I can't deny you knowing...You deserve to know." He murmured, resting their foreheads together again. "I just have to warn you now....It's not a fun story...There are parts you'll hate hearing..I nearly died quite a few times."

You: "And that is when you'll stop talking, and you'll kiss me, and you'll tell me you love me before you tell me the rest," she said, bringing his hand to her lips and kissing the back of his palm. She flicked her eyes up to meet his, "And if it's particularly bad I suppose you'll have to make love to me first."

Stranger: Sherlock smiled and kissed Joan softly. "Then I suppose we'll be doing that a lot." He murmured, running his nose along Joan's. "I do love you...immeasurably, and this...This story is hard for me to tell you. There's so much..."

You: "We have our whole lives," she whispered, kissing him softly, "And I'll tell you things too, whatever you want to know," she said, trailing her hands down his sides.

Stranger: "Everything.." Sherlock murmured. Since they first met, Sherlock had gone out of his way to not deduce Joan. He didn't deduce the people he cared about. "I want to know everything about you."

You: "I'm not nearly as exciting as you must think I am," she whispered, blushing slightly. Her stories, her childhood and service and life after he left... she was never him, she was never Sherlock Holmes.

Stranger: Sherlock smiled and cupped Joan's cheek with one of his hands. "You intrigue me. You're beautiful and smart, though I may not tell you often enough, and...Christ, everything about you is just perfect."

You: "Who are you and what have you done with my perfectly condescending lover?" she teased, licking her lips as she moved to straddle him, leaning down and claiming his mouth, "My favorite color is green."

Stranger: "Haven't done anything with him...Just made him realise how important life, and love, is." Sherlock chuckled softly, kissing Joan deeply. "Hmm.." He hummed in response, hands resting on her hips. Green, then. He'd keep that in mind for future reference.

You: "You being a sap turns me on a little, but then, so does you being a complete arse," she hummed, moving to suck on his throat as she spoke. "When I was younger I had a dog, a pit bull, and his name was Gladstone and I've always wanted another dog."

Stranger: Sherlock hummed, tilting his head to the side to give Joan more access. "Maybe we can talk Mrs. Hudson into letting us get another..." He murmured, gently rubbing circles on her hips.

You: She smiled slightly, "I think she's going to claim that we'd be lucky if the dog managed to tear up the flat more than you. At least it was clean for three years."

You: ((Brb for a moment))

Stranger: Sherlock chuckled softly. "At least there's that..." He murmured, shaking his head a bit. "We'd be a great team in tearing the flat apart, wouldn't we?" ((Okay))

You: "Yes, perhaps that's now my greatest fear," she teased, kissing him slowly, drawing him deeper as she placed her hands on his shoulders.

Stranger: "Hm.." He hummed, kissing her back, teasingly nipping at her lower lip as his hands continued to trace circles on Joan's hips.

You: "Getting harder to focus," she whispered, unable to keep thinking straight as he nipped at her mouth.

Stranger: "Definitely." Sherlock mumbled, smiling a bit.

You: "I love you," she whispered, kissing him deeply as she focused on how he felt beneath her.

Stranger: "I love you too, immeasurably." He murmured against Joan's lips and gripping her hips instead of trailing his hands over them.

You: ((Just in case, my email is __)) She ground down slightly, distracting them both away from the more dangerous topic and on to the promised love.

You: ((I'm kind of passing out so I apologize if I die, I'm trying to stay up))

Stranger: ((Haha it's okay. If you pass out, I'll email the log))

Stranger: Sherlock gasped at the friction that Joan caused and his lips upturned into a slightly giddy smile. He deepened the kiss and rolled his own hips against her's.

You: She usually let him take control, exploring her as he pleased, however he pleased but now, with this, she wanted to show him what this meant to her.

Stranger: Sherlock pulled out of the kiss to smile at Joan and nudge their noses together. He could tell the woman wanted to take a different turn this time.

You: She slowly shifted, kissing down his chest, licking at the marred flesh, kissing every scar. ((Okay, I'm sorry, absolutely passing out, could you email me?))

Stranger: ((Of course :) ))

Stranger has disconnected.