Just moved to Evergreen Harbour with a dream and no money.
I just started the Very Legacy challenge by @lilsimsie for my personal gameplay. I'll probably will share some screenies now and then but there won't be a lot of storytelling. This challenge feels really like a new thing (I never did rag to riches longer than a sims week lol, my sims live in luxury) so I'm super excited to start this.
Thanks Rishella for providing us with the cute artwork!
Sherlock wanted to ask John why he had been running around all day, gathering various snacks and drinks. He’d even bought a new blanket!
But, instead, he had been working on a case.
Well, thinking about you for part of it, but mostly working on a case.
Somewhat.
A tiny bit.
Whatever.
The point was, Sherlock was busy, and he couldn’t be concerned with whatever crazy date John was preparing for. His friend would just have to work around him, because he was not getting up from his chair today. He had plans with his own mind, and nothing was going to change that.
He heard the gentle tap of slippers against the stairs, and knew immediately that you were walking up. It was easy to distinguish the sound of your movements from everyone elses.
So easy, even John could do it.
Before the man in question had the opportunity to move towards the door, Sherlock intercepted him, opening it up for you instead.
John held his hands up in surrender, and Sherlock may have thrown a comment over his shoulder, but his voice was lost at the dazzling smile you were giving him.
Not dazzling.
You were not dazzling. Dazzling was not even a word he would ever use to describe anyone. Absolutely not.
“John didn’t mention that you’d be joining us!”
Was that excitement in your voice? Were you happy he was there?
His back straightened a little more, something in his chest swelling to the beat of his heart. Maybe he was sick? His body seemed to be reacting oddly lately, and he didn’t even want to think of the implications.
You’d become something of a permanent fixture in their flat. It seemed, at least once a day, you found a reason to end up there.
And Sherlock found himself looking forward to that visit an infuriating amount.
“John didn’t know he was,” John pointedly shoved Sherlock out of the way, locking his arm with yours to guide you inside.
It was an unnecessary gesture done with the sole intent of maintaining some kind of physical contact with you, and once again, Sherlock struggled with what his mind was telling him, and the sinking feeling in his stomach.
“I hope you picked a good movie this time, because you’re oh-for-five right now.”
The teasing between you and John seemed so natural. He knew he shouldn’t be as invested into the implications as he was, but he just needed to know.
Earlier, John had rearranged the living room so that there was a massive pile of pillows and blankets. It was obvious that this was the space he intended for the two of you to be watching your movies at. So, naturally, Sherlock cut John off once more, taking a seat and pulling you down to join him on the impromptu mattress.
“Guess I’ll just take the chair then,” John mumbled, and both you and Sherlock missed the satisfied smile that pulled on his lips as he found his seat.
Checkmate.
Not one to be too bothered by a sudden change in plans, you pulled the blankets up to your chest and settled in next to Sherlock.
John didn’t waste a minute before he started the movie, formulating a plan on how he could make a swift exit as soon as humanly possible. If he could leave early in the movie, you would likely want to stay until the end, and so long as you did that, Sherlock would too.
It took him all of twelve minutes to realize, with the hushed whispers and only-person-in-the-world eye contact, you and Sherlock wouldn’t notice anyways. So, he carefully got up, not making even a squeak, and made his way to his bedroom, feeling very happy with the work he’d done. Mrs. Hudson would be pleased too when he told her over tea tomorrow morning.
Unbeknownst to John, you and Sherlock both noticed. However, neither of you questioned it, deciding it was best to just let John believe he accomplished whatever it was he was trying to accomplish, and you continued your conversation, though a little louder now.
The movie went on, and you’d be lying if you said you watched any of it. You were too drawn in by Sherlock’s presence, fascinated with the stories he told you. He told you about some of his cases, and how he’d managed to solve them. He also asked a lot about you. You weren’t particularly tight lipped about any of it, unless the answer involved something that would hint at your connection to the divine.
After a while, you’d been drawn closer to Sherlock, your thigh pressed against his, hands inches from each other. The movie had come to an end some time ago, and it was far later than you planned on staying, but still, you continued to talk.
“You still don’t know what you want to do?” It was a concise question from Sherlock, and despite how much he had learned about you (or how little, in his opinion) he felt like you were the type of person to take exactly what you wanted, so he was a little surprised that, in this particular case, you hadn’t figured it out.
Sheltered childhood, if he had to guess. Maybe even into the beginning of adulthood.
“Oh, I know a lot of things I want to do,” your voice dropped an octave, silky sweet and sultry dripping from your lips.
He did not miss the way you ran your tongue over your teeth, letting it peek out just the smallest bit. You looked up to him from beneath your lashes, and you were every bit as seductive as you were trying to be.
Sherlock felt a pull deep in his stomach, causing him to shift uncomfortably. Arousal hadn’t really been something he experienced this way. His encounters of a sexual nature had always been out of curiousity, not out of some pure, carnal need. But that look you were giving him?
His will faltered, just briefly, and just enough for you to see that look on his face.
That same look you’ve seen many times before. Only, this wasn’t an incomprehensible attraction to the divine, this was an attraction to you, as you were.
Sherlock cleared his throat, and you found yourself transfixed on the bob of his Adam’s apple.
“You are a master of deflection,” Sherlock commented cheekily, though his tone was strained, like it took a great amount of strength to break the charged air between you.
Unable to resist, and unwilling to try, you raised a hand to his cheek, running your thumb gently along the cheekbones you’d spent more time than you care to admit admiring. Sherlock was an attractive man, and it was only natural you would want him. There was no emotional connection.
None at all.
You were sure of it.
You’d never had an emotional connection like that, and you weren’t about to start now.
Still, the way he leaned into the contact just the barest amount, like he was trying to calculate his next move, but his body had betrayed his mind and just gravitated to you, tugged at your heartstrings.
“Years of practice,” you assured him, meeting his gaze.
You could see the gears turning, his mind hard at work trying to piece together the puzzle you presented. In your eyes, he could see a quiet strength and a caring soul. How would you react if he were to kiss you?
It would be so easy. You were so close, almost waiting for it. He’d just have to lean forward a few inches…
As if reading his mind, you spoke.
“Do it,” you challenged in a breathy whisper.
So he did.
Light sparked in his chest the moment his lips met yours. It was a feeling unlike any he had ever experienced, his heart threatening to beat out of his chest as he wrapped one hand in your hair, the other left to hold onto your neck. His thumb ran the length of your jaw as he pressed himself more firmly against you, desperately chasing the new sensation.
It was indescribable, like a rush in his veins from a high he couldn’t quite understand. Everything he thought he knew, what he’d thoroughly believed, burned with the inclination of his desires, alight with the press of himself to you.
He wanted more.
He wanted to burn in the fire of your passion, let that brilliant brain of his drown under the sweet temptation of your touch. Sherlock had never been a touchy man, but he was so sure he couldn’t ever go without the feel of your mouth against his every day of his life.
He deepened the kiss, exploring your mouth with his tongue as he tried to pull you closer. You, without needing any more prompting, climbed into his lap, straddling him.
That foreign, primal need reared up in his gut, fanning the flames dancing between the two of you.
Whatever amount of control he thought he had in the kiss was lost as you began to take over. You gripped both hands in his hair, peeling him off you just enough for you to pull at his lip with your teeth. His breath halted in surprise, a shock of pleasure shooting down the base of his spine.
He took the opportunity to allow his hands to wander along your body, mesmerized with the feeling of your curves against his palms. This feeling, whatever it was, felt so right, so natural. He pleaded with anything that would listen that this moment wouldn’t end, that he could hold onto this experience until it was forcibly removed from his mind.
Your lips had moved down his jaw to his neck, nipping and licking your path there. When you got to his pulse point, you lazily sucked, instinctively grinding down against him when he unintentionally let a moan slip out.
The burning in your veins froze cold when the distant ache of that spot just above your heart roared to life, causing you to stagger backwards. It was a blinding pain, for just a fraction of a second, and then it faded in intensity a small bit.
“Are you okay?”
Sherlock’s voice was softer than you’d ever heard it. In an effort to escape the pain, you’d scrambled away from his lap, but still only an arm’s length away from him. He reached his hand out, as if to comfort you, but then quickly retracted it.
Your chest was heaving as you tried to figure out what was wrong with you. Something was wrong.
Something was really, really wrong.
“I-I-” you stuttered, looking up to Sherlock.
Tears were beginning to well in your eyes, threatening to fall. There was something in your mind screaming at you, begging for you to listen that there was something so monumentally wrong. Despite Sherlock being by you, you didn’t think this had anything to do with him.
Your dad then?
It had to be him, right?
Your body was on full alert, fire alight in all of your nerves.
“I have to go,” you breathed out, darting to your feet and out of the door before Sherlock could react.
You were sprinting down the stairs, listening to the whispers of something you couldn’t understand in your mind, urging you on. Each step drew you further from the life you were beginning to know, beginning to love- back to the life of devils and demons and angels and gods.
As soon as the cool night air washed over you, you unfurled your wings, letting them free far more carelessly than normal. You had always been careful to not reveal them in a public setting, but with the combination of a basically empty street and a building panic on the horizon, you opted to waste no time in getting in the air.
That was how, despite your typical cautiousness, you failed to notice the eyes that followed you the entire time, right until you were swallowed by the clouds above.
Fic Summary: After an injury leaves Barry unable to run track anymore, he struggles to stay in control of his life, including his relationship with closeted football player Len.
Read on AO3
Chapter Snippet:
He could picture how he would take it if Barry told him they were really over. Only angry if Barry was, quiet and accepting, careful. Devastated, but refusing to show it for Barry’s sake. Understanding, like he was with everything else. Tapping the nail of his thumb in multiples of three, twirling the ring on his index finger around and around, never putting up a fight.
That was the Leonard Snart only those closest to him knew: vulnerable, seeking control where he had none, bracing for the aftermath but not the fight. It was different from the Len the rest of the world knew, the Len that played football and went to frat parties and sat at the back of all his classes. That Len was careless, fists ready to be clenched and swinging in an instant, calling all the shots and not taking no for an answer. It was what made him a good quarterback, what would one day make him a good coach.
