#sincerelydayyy

[broadwaylover17]

Steve Harrington 🕶1985

@muffin-n-waffle @sincerelydayyy I hope you guys like it!

Enjoy everyone! 😁

[ladytp]

Jumping from the Ropes - Chapter 1

Here comes my first-ever fully modern AU! Not necessarily by choice, but I received this prompt from @sincerelydayyy for the Sansan Christmas in July 2019 Secret Sansa challenge, “University AU, Christmas party”, and I really couldn’t see a way to wiggle out of the modern AU connotations without seriously violating the prompt… And it was an interesting challenge, so all good! I took the liberty of choosing the setting of my personal preference, a pro-wrestling world - so here goes! 

EDIT: Oh my god, where are my manners! In haste to post this before leaving for work today, I completely forgot to give tribute to the beautiful, amazing @queenoferebor1204 who kindly betaed this fic for me! Thank you sooo much!!! 😘💖💕

Summary: What could the big bad heel of the Westeros Wrestling Association, Sandor ‘The Hound’ Clegane, and the university student with dreams of becoming a psychiatrist, Sansa Stark, ever have in common? A chance meeting at the University Christmas party, a moment shared.

…could she take the risk and jump from the ropes?

Sansa

 “So, what’s Daddy’s little girl doing alone with a grown-ass man in a secluded place like this?”

The man’s words were as harsh as his tone, low and gravelly. Those, combined with his looks and menacing presence, would have been enough to intimidate anyone – and Sansa was no exception. Her heart started pounding and she almost turned on her heels to ran away, but knowing how ridiculous it would look, she grit her teeth and stood her ground.

The room was dimly lit. White light from the courtyard streamed through the half-closed shutters, but not bright enough nor far enough to reach him fully, leaving him shrouded in the shadows. Sansa‘s belly fluttered when she took in his form, really looking at him.

He was leaning against the wall, his arms crossed across his chest. And what arms; thick and muscled, adorned with ornate tattoos. Not only arms, but everything about him was impressive, from the top of his head, down his thick body all the way to the bottom of his black work boots. His hair was dark and fell lankily to cover half his face, his body perfectly proportioned for such a tall man.

The Hound.

The meanest, the angriest, the most notorious wrestler in the Westeros Wrestling Alliance, WWA.

What have I gotten myself into?  

Sansa swallowed, her mouth and throat suddenly as dry as parchment. She had probably drunk a few too many Christmas-themed Cranberry Margaritas, having reached that degree of inebriation where everything was wonderful and she felt confident, funny and in control.  Why else would she have followed him, only to find herself in a situation she knew for sure she had absolutely no control over?

The Hound leaned back, his mouth twitching and his eyes travelling down her body. Sansa knew she looked pretty, having prepared for the evening with particular care. The annual King's Landing University's Christmas Party was one of the biggest events in its calendar, its attendees consisting of university staff and selected students, invited guests and sponsor representatives. An event that was worth all the fuss Sansa had gone through by doing her hair, makeup and dress, finishing with adorning herself with an assortment of novelty Christmas jewellery to heighten the spirit of the season.

“I… I thought you might get lost. The corridors can be quite a maze to navigate.”

Sansa had seen him leave the Great Hall after having hovered at the back of the room during the speeches, emptying beer bottles, one after another, ignoring anyone who tried to talk to him. As one of the student body representatives and feeling partially responsible for the main sponsor’s guests – secured by her father’s connections – she had followed him to make sure he didn’t get lost in the labyrinth of the old building’s many corridors.

The Hound snorted. “I needed to get away from that. Too much noise.”

Sansa’s courage started to return. He was just a man, after all. A man in her father’s employ, even. Or to be precise, in the employ of Bobby ‘Stag’ Baratheon, owner of WWA, who’s COO her father was. Bobby had lured his old friend, Ned Stark, from the North to help him manage the unruly organisation, and as Sansa had wanted to take the opportunity of her university’s student exchange program, she had accompanied her father to the capital.

“I think I know what you mean. I’m not keen on big parties either,” Sansa said, relaxing her stance. Her heart rate had returned to normal and the cloying effect of the alcohol was restoring her confidence. She could do this, she could talk with him as if it was nothing special.

The Hound hadn’t moved but as Sansa’s eyes had by then adjusted to the darkness, she could see him better; the way his lips curled when he gave her another once-over.

“You, not keen on parties? I thought that’s where pretty little birds like you flock - to see and be seen.”

Something in the way he said it rubbed Sansa the wrong way. She knew some people saw her just as a pretty bimbo with no substance, but she knew better. She took her studies seriously and didn’t party any more than her friends did – probably less. She wanted to become a doctor, a psychiatrist, to help people in need, so to be dismissed as a party girl irked her.

“How can you say something like that? You don’t know me.”

“Aye, I don’t know you, but I have seen you fluttering around in your pretty pink and blue dresses, sipping champagne at the company events.”

Sansa drew in a deep breath, preparing to tell him she did those things only as a favour for her father who sometimes asked her to accompany him at official functions, when she realised what the Hound had just said.

‘Pretty pink and blue dresses’.

True, she had one pink and another light blue cocktail dress, specifically bought for such occasions – but for him to have noticed them must mean that he had noticed her.

Sansa swallowed the words on the tip of her tongue, suddenly unsure of her footing. She had assumed The Hound wouldn’t know her from a loaf of bread; an insignificant girl in the crowd when there were so many girls clamouring to be seen by him and other wrestlers.

Sansa had certainly noticed him, too. Not only was he hard not to notice, towering at least a head above most people in any crowd, but he was also the heavily promoted up-and-coming star of the company. The Hound was a heel, of course: one of the bad guys.

For a while, he had been an enforcer for the young gun Joffrey ‘King’ Baratheon – Bobby B’s eldest son with dreams of wrestling domination -  accompanying him to matches and playing dirty tricks with his opponents whenever the referee’s head was turned. Eventually, a disagreement between the two – apparently a real-life matter, not kayfabe – had seen them go their separate ways. Since then, The Hound’s career had been in ascendance and he was currently holding the WWA’s Universal Champion title.

Sansa knew people she met were often surprised to find out that she followed pro-wrestling. It had been a natural part of life growing up, being surrounded by the wrestling world due to Ned Stark’s position in it. However, even later, she had found herself drawn to it on her own although she often found it hard to explain to outsiders why. Probably partly because of its sheer physicality and athleticism and partly because of the elaborate storylines weaved into it, which hooked the viewers in and reeled them into coming back to see where the story went. ‘Slow-burn soap opera’, as her mother aptly called it. ‘A transcendental art form, where what is presented is less important than how it makes the viewer feel’, as her intellectual younger brother Bran put it.

The Hound’s ring persona was supposed to make the audience hate him – which it did, for the most part. The crowd loved to hate him, and the pop he received was no less than what was given to faces such as the joke-cracking Bronn ‘The Enforcer’ or the all-around-nice guy Gendry ‘The Smith’. The Hound revelled in that hate, spitting it back into people’s faces – and yet, when Sansa had observed him on the sidelines or after the live segment had ended, she had been struck by the air of melancholy that seemed to surround him.

One Sunday morning when Sansa had been waiting for her father at the back of the stadium, she had seen The Hound jogging towards it with a huge black dog at his heels. It had been a Pitbull or some such, as lethal looking as its owner. He hadn’t seen her as she had been sitting under a cover some distance away, but she had seen them.

Sansa had followed curiously, and, after catching his breath and stretching, The Hound had engaged in a playful game of chase with the dog, both taking turns to run and pursue each other. It had ended with him being pinned to the ground under the dog’s huge paws, laughing and play-wrestling it to eventual submission. During the whole time, his face had been transformed from its usual surliness to something more open and relaxed – he had been a totally different man.

And then the backdoor had opened and Ned Stark had stepped out, and The Hound had instantaneously changed back to his brooding self.

Yes, Sansa had noticed him too.

While still wondering how to proceed – or not - Sansa suddenly also remembered an incident that had taken place a few months before, at one of those company functions. Ned had disappeared somewhere with Bobby, and Sansa had had an unpleasant experience of being harassed by two team officials, clearly worse for wear with a drink. They might not have meant anything with their clumsy attempts at flirtation, but Sansa hadn’t welcomed their company and had grown increasingly uncomfortable when they hadn’t picked up her signals to leave her alone.

And then, out of nowhere, The Hound had appeared and nailed the men with his piercing stare - and without him having to say a word, the men had departed. Yet before Sansa had had a chance to thank him, The Hound had disappeared again, moving surprisingly fast for such a big man.

“That doesn’t mean that you know why I was there or what I think of those events. Men like you are too quick to judge a book by its cover,” she finally said, still riled by his poor assessment of her character.

“Men like me? Now, who’s quick to judge? Do you claim to know me? I have seen you peeping at me by the ringside, don’t think I haven’t.” The Hound pushed himself away from the wall and walked towards Sansa. She instinctively took a step back, and noticing it, the Hound smirked.

“Is this what fascinates you? An ugly mug to stare at? Not like the pretty boys here at the campus.” He pointed to his face, the other side of which was covered with scar tissue. It was not a pleasant sight, the hardened tissue distorting his cheek into a bundle of twisted purple knots. Sansa had heard that it had looked even worse before but that one of the conditions of his first contract had been for him to undergo plastic surgery to make his appearance more palatable to the audience.

Whether the surgery had been botched or whether the intention had never been to remove the scars altogether, the end result was that many of them were still clearly visible. Oddly enough, it was usually considered to give him an extra edge in his profession, where much of the story was focussed on the heel trying to be as threatening as possible.

“No, it’s not that!” Sansa exclaimed. “I… I think you’re a good wrestler, that’s all.”

“Hmph.” The Hound stopped his advance and swayed slightly on his feet, taking a hold of the edge of an old wooden table between them. The room was dotted with them, being an old library, later relegated to a reading room for senior academic staff. Comfortable stuffed armchairs shared the space convivially with heavy ornamental tables, representing bygone times when universities epitomised dignity and grandeur.

He might have had a bit too much to drink as well, Sansa realised. He was holding a bottle of beer in his other hand although he hadn’t drunk from it during their conversation – if their exchange of thinly veiled challenges could be called one. Once again, the inadvisability of the notion of being alone in a room with a drunken stranger raised its head in Sansa’s mind, and yet, against all common sense, she didn’t feel unsafe. Despite knowing that none of her friends were aware of where she had gone after sneaking out of the big hall, and that the man standing in front of her was a simmering cauldron of testosterone, probably ready to explode at any moment.

“Your face doesn’t bother me,” Sansa continued, emboldened by her realisation. To prove her point further, she looked straight at him, letting her gaze wander to the burned side. “What happened to you - how did you get them?”

The Hound straightened slowly to his full height, apparently having regained his balance.

“Fuck - I can’t remember the last time someone asked me that question, to my face.” He cocked his head and stared at Sansa. “You’ve got some balls, girl.”

Sansa didn’t know how to respond to such a statement, so she said nothing.

The Hound seated himself unceremoniously on the table, half-sitting, half-standing, his hands crossed on his lap. He looked like a novice lecturer attempting to look hip and cool whilst sharing words of wisdom to his audience. His expression conveyed the same notion, watching Sansa as if to check that he had her attention before he started talking.

“In a house fire. In our house, in my bedroom, when I was just seven.” His tone was even, every word dropped precisely.

“Oh!” Sansa exhaled. For a child to have endured such a dreadful accident was horrible indeed.

The Hound stared at her as if waiting for her to say something else. While Sansa was trying to gather her thoughts and think of something suitable to convey her sympathy, his expression changed. It didn’t seem to be a reflection of Sansa’s inability to respond though – he appeared to have almost forgotten that she was there, instead staring vacantly ahead, his brows drawing together and his mouth twitching. Sansa drew a deep breath and soldiered on regardless.

“I’m so sorry to hear that, it must have –“ The rest of what she was going to say was cut short by the loud bang from The Hound hitting his fist on the table.

“Fuck that!”

Sansa jerked back, alarmed by his outburst.

“The fuck it was a house fire – that was just the lie my father told anyone who asked.” The Hound stared at his curled fist, his nostrils flaring. Then he lifted his head, his face contorted in rage. “You want to know what it was? What it really was?”

Sansa regretted rousing such a reaction from him. Why had she opened her big mouth and asked such a stupid question? It was clearly a sensitive subject and she of all people, an aspiring psychiatrist, should have known better!

It was too late to stop him now, however, so Sansa slumped her shoulders and tried to make herself as small as possible, hoping his ire would soon pass.

The Hound turned away so that Sansa was facing his broad back. He started with a low voice, so low that Sansa had to strain her ears to hear what he said.

“I was seven all right. My brother had a wrestling figurine he had gotten from somewhere, and it was the fanciest figurine I had ever seen; moving joints, exchangeable championship belts, the works. I played with it in our garden – I was just borrowing it - and he saw me. The BBQ was heating up – we were going to grill some sausages later – and he just picked me up, not saying a word, and carried me to it.” He stopped for a moment. “I think you can guess the rest.”

Sansa recoiled. Could it be – no, surely he couldn’t have?

The Hound seemed to have read her mind as he growled darkly. “Yes, he fucking did. Pressed my face against the coals and there was nothing I could do.” He exhaled sharply. “Except scream.”

Sansa stared at his back, her skin crawling. Helplessly, she hung on to the only logical thing that stood out for her in that macabre tale. “Your brother… surely he had to answer for it?”

The Hound threw his head back and laughed, a dry, barking laugh that stopped as unexpectedly as it started.

“Answer for it! Gregor was just about to be signed for the NGW, and had they known about it, he would have kissed that hefty contract goodbye! So my father made up the story about the fire and no one was ever the wiser.”

Next Generation Wrestling was a stepping stone to the WWA and the best way to proceed in the business. Sansa understood the importance of it, and still… Nausea washed over her just from thinking of what she had just heard.

Without conscious thought, she stepped closer and reached out to touch him, her hand meeting his shoulder, the heat of his body radiating through his T-shirt into her palm. The Hound tensed, his muscles as rigid as steel but he didn’t move.

“I am so sorry. I mean it, I really do. He did wrong and he should have never been allowed to get away with it.”

He didn’t reply but Sansa didn’t remove her hand. Eventually, after an indeterminate amount of time, she felt The Hound relax under her touch. To lay her hand on him for longer would have been too awkward, so Sansa pulled away slowly.

The silence stretched on. The low hum of music from the direction of the Great Hall drifted to the room, signalling good times and a party in full swing, somewhere far, far away. Headlights of a car driving into the courtyard traced a bright path across the wall before moving past, shadows reclaiming their place again.

The Hound’s back was still turned but he pushed himself away from the table, slowly, and walked to the window. He stared outside for a moment, then spoke. The heat was gone from his voice and he sounded weary.

“The shit is going to hit the fan soon. In the company.”

Sansa was taken aback by the sudden change of topic.

“Bobby is losing his grip and Cersei and Joffrey want to take it over. And when they do, your old man is going to get the boot.”

Sansa wasn’t exactly sure what he was referring to but lately, she had noticed her father being more distracted than usual and under a lot of stress. If this was the reason…it made sense. But why bring it up now?

“I don’t know much about it. Father doesn’t tell me about those things,” she offered, cautiously.

Slowly, The Hound turned to face Sansa. His mouth was set in a hard line and he clenched his jaw.

“What will you do, then?”

Sansa thought for a moment. “I’ll be fine. I am only here on a student exchange anyway, so once the semester ends, I’ll go back to Wintertown uni.”

“I know what I’ll be doing. Leaving. Don’t want to be Joffrey’s lackey, ever again.”

“I see.”

The Hound fell silent again. He looked at his hand and appeared surprised to find the half-empty beer bottle still in it. That state of affairs didn’t last long, though, as he gulped it down in a few greedy mouthfuls, then dropped it on the floor.

The thick carpet absorbed the sound almost without a trace.

Sansa shifted on her feet, thinking she really should be getting back to the party. It was her responsibility to look after the other guests as well. She hadn’t been surprised not to see the main sponsor himself, Bobby B, in the party, the scene not being his usual hangout. She had been surprised, though, to see some of the wrestlers and coaches there. Beric ‘The Sword’ Dondarrion was there, as was women’s champion Asha ‘The Squid’ Greyjoy, accompanied by their grizzly but good-natured head coach Barristan Selmy with his assistant Jorah Mormont.

“I should get back to our guests.  I’m one of the student body hosts, and…” She let her voice trail off, The Hound continuing to stare out of the window showing no signs of having heard her – or caring about what she said.

Quietly, Sansa turned on her heels and walked to the door. Just as she was about to step into the corridor, he called after her.

“Little Bird.”

Sansa stopped, debating whether she should react to such a nickname, especially after how he had used it to disparage her earlier. Yet his tone was subdued, not challenging. She turned around, slowly.

“If you ever tell anyone what I told you tonight…” He had turned away from the window and faced her. His expression contradicted his words: the former spoke of a veiled threat of consequences if broken, the latter conveyed anguish and silent plea. “About anything I told you tonight…”

He didn’t finish his sentence, but it was not necessary. Sansa understood.

“I won’t. I promise.”

A flash of something passed between them, the man and the girl. A quiet understanding, a secret entrusted to the care of another.

“You better get back to your party. Your friends must be missing you.” The Hound’s voice was husky, almost soft.

Sansa nodded and finally made her exit, all the time being aware of the Hound's eyes following her all the way to the corridor, where she broke into a small run. She had an odd urge to leave, to go home, to be on her own and ruminate over the strange encounter she had just experienced.

Once, when she had first arrived in King’s Landing, she had been given a backstage tour around the WWA stadium by the team fitness trainer Davos Seaworth. He had taken her to the ring itself and explained some of the basic training techniques and common moves, Sansa having a go at a few of them. Just simple stuff such as bouncing off the ropes, somersaults and falls.

Then Davos had helped her to climb up on the corner turnbuckles and she had stood there, supported by him from her ankles and knees, and looked down at the middle of the ring. It had seemed to be so terribly far away, and the thought of leaping into the air to execute a diving elbow drop, diving crossbody or, heaven forbid, some even more challenging move such as swan dive, had made her dizzy and caused beads of perspiration to trickle down her forehead. How anyone could have so much confidence, strength and skill to take such a leap, mystified Sansa. How could a human being ignore all common sense and its warnings to jump from so high up, just like that?

Her feet had trembled and sensing her unease, Davos had climbed half-way up and supported her by the shoulder while guiding her steps all the way down. When Sansa had finally felt the solid floor of the ring under her feet, she had taken a deep breath and sworn never again to climb so high - and most definitely never to fool herself into thinking that she could jump from the ropes.

She felt something very similar in that very moment – dizziness, a glimpse of danger, trepidation.

Yet it was ridiculous to think of the encounter in such terms so Sansa tried to push it out of her mind, stopping to gather herself behind the last door leading to the Great Hall. She took a deep breath, squared her shoulders and only then stepped back into the bright lights and a pulsating swirl of the humanity of the party.

[afteriwake]

To Get (And Keep) Her Attention (COMPLETE)

So this was a birthday present I had started for @sincerelydayyy last year and is now done (almost close to another birthday, it seems). I had a lot of fun with this particular Sherlolly unilock AU, and I hope all of you enjoy it as well.

To Get (And Keep) Her Attention - Sherlock will, grudgingly, admit he has a crush on his friend Molly. But how does he get her attention away from that wanker Tom? And more importantly, how does he keep her attention?

READ CHAPTER 1 | HELP ME SURVIVE? | COMMISSION ME?

He hated studying. It was as though if the information wasn’t instantly absorbed during the lecture or, at the very least, during the group discussions that most of the professors held then it was worthless. He’d always felt that way, but the exams he was presented with here at Cambridge were a bit more difficult than he was used to.

A bit.

Fortunately, he had a secret weapon that made studying much easier to stomach. And tonight they were in the uni library, sharing their regular table.

Molly Hooper didn’t appear to be as brilliant as she was, but as he had found time and again, looks could be deceiving. She had an aptitude for absorbing knowledge, and a thirst for it as well, and the things he often considered too frivolous she knew more about and would patiently discuss them with him until he saw the merit in knowing that information. He’d had to admit, his marks had gotten better since the day she’d snapped at him to stop his incessant humming in the library so she could concentrate. What should have become a huge and very public row, knowing him, had become an invitation for coffee and a better understanding of biology.

He could not have been more grateful.

But he could be better at showing it.

“So he’s a shite physics professor,” he was saying to her. “Please tell me that’s a subject you understand?”

She smiled at him. Literally, her smile was one of the few things that could stop a full-on tirade and cause abrupt speechlessness in him. Otherwise, he would ramble on and on with increasing vehemence. “I’m sure I can get you through it. It’s basically a combination of upper-level math and science, isn’t it?”

“I suppose,” he said with a frown.

“Then we’ll muddle along just fine,” she said, reaching over to squeeze his hand. His mind blanked on him and he looked down at their joined hands, which much to his dismay were unjoined rather quickly. “Do you have any new compositions?”

Sherlock shook his head. “I haven’t had time to play the violin lately. But I should work on something, shouldn’t I?”

“Yes!” Molly said with an enthusiastic nod of her head. “You play the most brilliant things, Sherlock.”

A flush hit his cheeks and he looked down. “Thank you,” he said, damn near mumbling. Her encouragement to continue the violin was one of the few reasons he kept the blasted instrument around. The remembrance of his parents' insistence he master the instrument had led to some dark times, the times he preferred to never think about, let alone speak of.

Times Molly knew nothing about.

As close as they were, he kept things to the vest, even as she was open fully with him. Sometimes he wondered if he deserved her friendship. And other times, he sometimes wondered if she might be open to more if he were honest with himself. He was smitten and that, it seemed, could pose a problem.

But his mind was jolted out of its thoughts by the soft press of her lips against his cheek, and she saw she was gathering her things. “Where are you going?”

“Tom wanted to have a cuppa with me today, so our session for today is over, I’m afraid.”

“But why…?”

“To get your attention.” She smiled at him as she put her books in her messenger bag. “See you in two days?”

“Yeah, of course,” he said, bringing his fingers to where she had kissed his cheek. What did it all mean?

This was something he needed to ponder more...

CHAPTER 2

[benedictsvestcollection]

Me Without You is Like a Present Without a Bow

A Kastle Christmas Secret Santa gift for @sincerelydayyy Merry Christmas! 

The holiday's just another day that's cold Standing all alone under the mistletoe I don't feel the cheer, ooh, without you here There's no red and white stripes on a candy cane And Silent Night just wouldn't sound the same Where'd the magic go? All I know is me without you is like a present without a bow.

AO3

[mousedetective]

Hush Little Children (An “A Little Holmes” Story)

@creativereadingfanfiction requested a G rated fic and I saw in the folder there was a prompt based on @sincerelydayyy‘s Sherlolly headcanons that was the second half of one I had already started. I hope you both enjoy it!

Hush Little Children - One night Molly wakes up and realizes Sherlock has finished composing the lullabies for his children.

Read @ AO3 | Series Page | Buy Me A Coffee?

She had slept.

She woke up with a start, realizing two things almost immediately: she was alone, and there was violin music on the baby monitor and no babies crying.

Her mind worked really rather quickly at that point, even though she was a bit befuddled from sleep. Sherlock had gotten up when either one or both of the twins had cried, allowing her to sleep. He must have finished at least their lullabies, and so he had taken his violin into their room and was playing one of them while they remained blissfully silent.

She really should marry him as soon as humanly possible, weight loss to fit into a dream dress be damned.

She smiled as she listened to the soothing sounds, muted because they were over a baby monitor and not in the room where she was, and she settled into the bed more. He really was quite talented, she realized. She had heard bits and pieces of other compositions before, but this was different. She was a secret audience for a show he was putting on for the twins, and she felt contentment that they seemed to enjoy it as much as she did.

There was a soft whimper and she started to get out of bed but the song changed. This one was also quite lovely, lilting and happy but soothing at the same time. If she had to guess, this one was James’s, not Rebecca’s. The first one had seemed more likely to be for their son and his more pensive personality that was emerging. This one seemed as bright as the ray of sunshine that was their daughter.

Soon there was a different whimper on the other monitor and she knew the twins' big sister was going to wake up. She could take care of Abigail while Sherlock continued his concert for the twins, she realized, and she made her way to Abigail’s room. She just seemed lonely, once Molly had given her the once over and seen she wasn’t hungry or thirsty and her training pants weren’t wet. She picked her up and carried her out of the room, moving towards the twins' bedroom.

Sherlock had stopped playing and was leaning over James’s bassinet, pressing a kiss to his son’s forehead. When he straightened up he smiled at her and Abigail. “She was just lonely,” Molly said, returning his smile.

“Well, perhaps you both would like to hear Abigail’s finished lullaby,” he said.

“I think we would,” Molly said, and Sherlock nodded to the doorway behind them. Molly headed back to Abigail’s room and settled into the rocking chair, and when Sherlock joined them he stood in front of them and put his violin in position and the bow to the strings. In a moment glorious music filled the air. It sounded slightly familiar, and after a moment she realized there were parts that were inspired by the song he had composed for Abigail’s mother, which he had often played for Abigail. But it was also uniquely her own, being more uplifting and jaunty and yet still something that was lulling and soothing.

And it worked wonders, as the combination of rocking in the chair and the music soon had Abigail back to sleep against Molly’s chest.

He played the song through to the end and then set his violin and bow on Abigail’s dresser and reached for his daughter. Molly handed her off to him and he cradled her sleeping form in his arms. “All of the lullabies are beautiful,” she said. “We should get them recorded and put into those heartbeat bears for the children.”

“I think that sounds like a good idea,” he said, running a knuckle along Abigail’s cheek. “Though perhaps an actual heartbeat bear for each of the twins with your heartbeat might be best for now. They sleep easier when you hold them.”

“And Abigail should have one with your heartbeat,” Molly said fondly. “It would be more familiar than mine.”

He was quiet for a moment. “Do you have regrets?”

“No, never,” she said almost as soon as the question escaped his lips. “In fact, earlier I thought I should put you out of your misery and marry you as soon as possible.”

“I would appreciate that,” he said, a smile crossing his face.

“I just might,” she said, standing up. She pressed a kiss to his cheek. “Spend some time with Abigail in the rocking chair. Join me in bed when your arms begin to ache.”

“You know, I’m composing a song for you, too.”

“Oh?” she asked.

He nodded. “To play at our wedding.”

“If it’s anything like what I heard tonight, I can’t wait for you to whisk me around the floor to it.” She pressed a kiss to Abigail’s forehead and then decided to kiss Sherlock softly. “I love you, you know.”

“I love you too,” he said, pressing a kiss to her hair. Molly pulled herself away and moved back to their bedroom, leaving father and daughter in peace. She’d have his attention all to herself soon enough.

[textsfromumbridge]

You know now that I'm thinking about it I'm not sure if it was Les Mis or something else but I know we've been mutuals then friends for the longest time. Kinda insane that I don't remember but I adore you. - sincerelydayyy

We’ve been buddies for so long that I don’t even know if it was sherlolly or les mis or SOMETHING (maybe it’s just your general awesomeness).

But I’m so blessed!

[shieldshockfanfic]

ShieldShock Image Set from @shieldshockfanfic inspired by

ShieldShock Fanfiction- Take Care written by daisherz365 at Ao3 / @sincerelydayyy

Part 1 of the Living on coffee and homemade soup series

Summary: University AU-  He’s seen her before. Stumbling, cursing at the world for her luck and yet he’s never stepped in out of hesitance for how she’d receive him. Today she’s unwell and he decides perhaps it is better they start on shaky footing than not at all. Steve x Darcy

Notes: For canibecandid.

He knew who she was. Darcy Lewis, a political science major who was known for doing crazy experiments with one of the professors. They say strange things happen around her. Steve didn’t really see her that way. She was much more than strange. He’d call her beautiful on one of her good days – or always as James continued to tell him whenever he mention he’d crossed passed with her.

[ladyedelgards]

RULES : LIST TEN OF YOUR FAVORITES FEMALE CHARACTERS IN TEN DIFFERENT FANDOMS AND THEN TAG TEN PEOPLE. 

Tagged by @goddessofgodless - thank you, darling!! :* (Even though there are numbers, I didn’t write the characters in a specific order!)

Jane Eyre (Charlotte Brontë)  

Molly Hooper (BBC Sherlock)

Anne Bonny (Black Sails) 

Liv Moore (iZombie)

Wanda Maximoff / Scarlet Witch (Marvel / MCU)

Belle (Disney and Once Upon a Time)

Luna Lovegood (Harry Potter)

Leia Organa (Star Wars)

Buffy Summers (Buffy The Vampire Slayer)

Sophie Hatter (Howl’s Moving Castle)

I tag: @100years-to-live @sincerelydayyy @hiddlebum aaand whoever wants to do this? x’D <3