She wasn’t my first kiss but she’s the kiss that mattered, the kiss that made me realize I didn’t want to kiss anyone else. So now my lips belong to her. Just look at them… Her name’s written all over them.
They’ve come back from a case, Rosie long-asleep in the upstairs bedroom where there’s just enough room for her cot and John’s bed, and Sherlock is ranting.
“Stupid,” he spits out, pacing to and fro in the living room, his hands in his hair. “Why was she so stupid? Why kill them in the first place, when she knows she’s the best suspect?”
“Well, she loved him,” John offers, even though he knows Sherlock doesn’t really want his opinion.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” he snaps, not even looking at John. “She didn’t love him.”
“What?” John sits up from where he’s been lazing on his chair. “Of course she did. Listen, I know you like to dismiss ‘sentiment,’ Sherlock, but love makes people do crazy things, so-”
“That,” Sherlock says and his voice is flat and angry at the same time, “was not love. That was possession, that was ownership, it may even have been jealousy, but it was definitely not love.” He infuses the word with such contempt that it makes John flinch, but Sherlock is moving again, glaring at the world as though it had personally offended him. “If she loved him, she’d have let him go. She’d have done everything in her power to make sure that he was happy, even if that meant he was with someone else. She’d have killed - she’d have died herself - if it meant that he would have one millimetre more happiness in his life than otherwise. She would have protected his lover with her life, she’d have done absolutely anything in her power to give him anything he wanted. Instead, she killed them both in a fit of jealous rage, because she never really loved him, she loved owning him. Like a favourite pair of shoes, or a pretty picture.”
John is still trying to absorb that rant when Sherlock crosses the room and slams his bedroom door behind him.
John sits in silence for a few moments before heading to bed.
He wakes up an hour later and John Watson has never actually experienced an epiphany before, never experienced that moment Sherlock is always chasing where all the pieces come together and your brain dissolves into fireworks and you know everything but he’s pretty sure that he just had one.
Before he can even think, he’s downstairs, pushing open Sherlock’s door and standing there like a fool.
Sherlock sits up, sleep-mussed and soft, and says “John, what’s wrong? Is it Watson?”
John licks his lips and tries to speak and…nothing.
“You…you love me,” he manages, and it’s a bare whisper, all he can force past the weight in his chest, of ten years of unsaid words. “Sherlock?”
Sherlock is looking at him with horror in his eyes.
“I-I” Sherlock says, and John interrupts him.
“Please say I’m wrong, Sherlock, please say I’m wrong,” and he’s speaking quickly now, tears running down his face unchecked, and his leg gives out and he finds himself on his knees by Sherlock’s bed, a ragged penitent in old pyjamas, prostrating himself before a saint. “Please say I haven’t been wrong all this time, haven’t wasted all these years, please, Sherlock, please…”
He hides his face in Sherlock’s bed, so that he can’t see Sherlock’s eyes, his beloved face creased in confusion.
“John?” Sherlock asks. “I don’t…I don’t understand.”
But John is sobbing too hard to answer, great heaving sobs, and Sherlock puts a hand on the back of his neck that burns like a brand because of course Sherlock would try to comfort him, even though he doesn’t understand what John is on about, even though John has hurt him so terribly so many times.
“I love you,” John gasps into the bed. Sherlock’s hand stills for a moment and then, cautiously, resumes its smooth comforting stroking.
“John, you’re upset,” he begins, but John cuts him off mid-sentence.
“Years, Sherlock, years,” he gasps. It’s becoming easier to speak, the weight on his chest becoming less with every word. “I’ve loved you for years. Since Angelo’s that first night, I think, since the cabbie, since the first time I saw you sleep-soft in morning light. I loved you in Dartmoor and I loved you at the pool - God, how I loved you in that moment, I would have fallen to my knees and worshipped at your feet for the rest of my life and I would have been content. I loved you on the roof of Bart’s and on the pavement a moment later. I loved you every moment of every day you were gone, and I loved you every time I stood in front of your grave and begged you for one more miracle, and I loved you when I punched your face because it was that or kiss you, and I loved you when you were bleeding out in Magnussen’s office. I loved you on Magnussen’s porch and I loved you on the tarmac, and I loved you in the morgue and in the hospital and in the prison and the well and I’ve loved you every moment since the day I met you, I love you I love you I love you.”
He doesn’t stop so much as run out of breath, chanting those three words - three words he’d never thought he’d be able to say - like prayer, John is a monk and this is his religion now, this is his faith, this only thing he knows for sure.
“John,” Sherlock breathes. “Why didn’t you…”
“I thought,” and John is trying to think of a way to say this right, a way to really explain, “I thought that you didn’t…I didn’t think you didn’t love me, but I thought you wanted me as a friend, just a friend, and so I tried to be the best friend anyone could ever have, but obviously I’m pretty shit at it, but I tried and I hid it, and hid it, and I married Mary because I thought…I thought I’d break apart from missing you and later I thought I’d die from wanting you, and I couldn’t bear to lose you but I was losing you anyway, but the surest way to lose you was to tell you, you didn’t feel the same, you didn’t want the same things, and that’s the best way to kill a friendship, and if friendship was all I could-”
And John shuts up, because Sherlock has slithered out of his bed and fallen to his knees in front of John, and stopped his panicked babbling with his mouth.
When Sherlock finally pulls back, John stares at him, shocked into silence.
“So many years,” Sherlock says, stroking a thumb over John’s lips. “We could have had so many years, John. If only we hadn’t been…”
“Afraid,” John supplies. Sherlock nods, and he’s so close that his nose rubs against John’s when he does, and it’s unbearably intimate. “We could…” And John has to stop for a moment to breathe, to lick his lips and gather his courage in his hands. “We could still have years,” he says. “If I’m not too late. If you still-”
And Sherlock doesn’t say anything with words, but when he kisses John, he writes eloquent poetry in this new language they are building together.
Yes, he says as he licks into John’s mouth
I want, he says, as he sucks a bruise into John’s neck.
I still, he whispers into the curve of John’s ear. I still love you. I will always love you.
Stiles laid back against the sheets, staring up at the uneven surface of the ceiling. The words fell from his lips before he could stop them, “Hey, Derek, have you ever kissed a guy?”
Stiles’ heart lurched as he realised what he had said.
Derek thought about it for a moment, lying still next to Stiles. He replied, “No, I haven’t. I have done some things - dancing at clubs, drinking with guys and some… intimacies - but no, I haven’t ever kissed a guy.”
“Have you ever wanted to?” Stiles asked. “Like, to see how it felt? To know whether you get that flutter in your stomach or that warmth?”
“I don’t know,” Derek admitted. “I guess it depends.”
Stiles rolled onto his side, his whiskey-coloured eyes meeting Derek’s gaze, his rosy pink lips growing closer as he said, “If I, a guy, were to kiss you right now, would you want me to?”
Derek wanted as Stiles’ lips quivered with his warm breath. He swallowed hard, losing himself in the golden depths of Stiles’ eyes.
“I guess it depends,” Derek repeated.
“On whether it means something,” Derek whispered. “On whether you like me or I like you. If not, then it’s just a kiss; it means nothing.”
“And if it means something?”
Derek’s heart beat against his chest, his ribs aching as his mind screamed at him to end the torment, lean forward and seize Stiles before he lost his opportunity.
“Does it mean something?” Stiles asked before Derek could. “If I were to say I liked you, would you-?”
Stiles’ question fell short as Derek cupped the back of his head and pulling him closer. He brought their lips together, shattering the tension as Stiles relaxed into the kiss.
It was a blistering warmth and a flutter in his stomach, but at the same time it felt so right; it felt normal, like this is how it should be.
After a moment, Derek broke away from the kiss.
Stiles rested his forehead against Derek’s their shaky breaths mingling and playing across their lips.
“I’d say it back,” Derek confessed.
A sweet smile lifted the corners of Stiles’ lips as he craned his neck and brought their lips together again in a tender, slow kiss.
Imagine Stiles accidentally professing his love for Derek because he walked in when Stiles was shouting at Scott about how he and Derek shouldn’t go waltzing into danger becasue they’ll end up hurting themselves.
“Derek’s a werewolf - an alpha - he’ll heal.” “That’s not the point, Scott!” “Why do you care so much if Derek gets hurt?” “Because I love him!”
Anonymous Asked: “Hey! Do you happen to have any prompts for two old friends who bicker a lot and are just discovering they have feelings for each other? You know, typical rivals to lovers trope… Plus an awkward confession, if it isn’t too much? Thank you in advance! I love your blog a lot!”
Anonymous Asked: “Hi, could you please write a hitman/spy guy trying to apologize to the girl he had to give to the hitman boss and also trying confess his love for her?”
I’ve gotten several other requests that partially included confessions as well, so I figured I’d tackle them all here.
Different confession prompts:
As an apology:
1. “Look, I know this doesn’t make up for anything, but… I did it for you. So you’d be safe. Because I… care about you. A lot.”
2. “I know this isn’t the best time, but I thought you deserved to know: I… I love you. I have for… Longer than I can remember.”
3. “I didn’t have a choice. They never give me a choice. I could either let the one I love die-that’s you, by the way-or they’d… They’d go after your family.”
4. “Even if you can never forgive me, you deserve to know the truth. You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”
5. “No, I won’t calm down! You almost died, and I can’t lose you! … Not you. Please, not you.”
6. “Don’t you get it? I-I’ve tried to tell you, so many times, but it’s like you aren’t listening!”
7. “Why? Because I love you, okay? Because I. Love. You.”
8. “Please, just think about this! If you do this, you could die! I can’t lose someone else that I-”
Awkwardly: (Popular request,)
9. “I-You know I’m not good at this stuff. Words, and junk. But… You’re important. To me.”
10. “We need to talk. About something important. I… I l… I love your face. And the stuff in it. and around it. Just you, in general.”
11. “So, the thing is-you know how we weren’t even friends? But then, you know, we were? Are? So…. What if I don’t want to be friends anymore? Not that I want to go back to hating you, more like… I want to start… Dating you.”
12. “We should date. For science. Because I like science. And you.”
13. “If I kissed you, would you punch me? Because I want to kiss you, but not if you’re going to punch me.”
14. “The thing is, it’s you, okay? It has always been you, for as long as I can remember. And even if you never feel the same, that won’t change.”
15. “I will always choose you. Every day. Every time. No matter what. Because I love you that much.”
16. “I’ll sing it, if I have to. Shout it from the rooftops. Whatever it takes to make you believe it.”
17. “When I look at you, I see something I haven’t seen in a long time: A future. But only if you want it.”
As A Goodbye:
18. “I know this is too little, too late, but you deserve to know.”
19. “We’ll see each other again, right? I still need to spend the rest of my life telling you how much I love you.”
20. “Shhh. Everything’s okay now, my love. I mean-No. No, that is what I mean.”
“Get the fuck out of my face, you half-and-half bastard!”
“No one’s in your face, idiot. Has your temper corroded your brain?” Todoroki retorted. He was standing beside Midoriya, Bakugou staring him down. Or rather, attempting to, but Todoroki had grown quite a bit in the past couple of years, inheriting almost the full height of his father. Bakugou, on the other hand, hadn’t grown quite as tall, still the shorter between the two.
Midoriya attempted to break up the animosity, placing his hands out in front of him, “Guys…quit it…”
Although they had all recently graduated from UA, all of them having turned eighteen, some things never changed. Such as Kacchan having a short fuse and feeling the need to pick fights with Todoroki, and Todoroki having no patience for Bakugou’s unnecessary anger.
After finally getting the two of them to agree to spending the day together–all three of them–Midoriya had hoped they wouldn’t fight while he was around. Both of them had confessed to him on different days before graduating, expressing their desire for a relationship greater than friendship. But Midoriya hadn’t been able to choose between them, instead proposing that he go on dates with each of them separately. At least, to start. He wanted to see if he liked one of them more than the other. It seemed only fair.
In all honesty, he had been hesitant about the entire situation. He hadn’t really given his feelings about anyone any thought, especially not to these two boys, but he found he couldn’t refuse them. Not when Bakugou turned into a blushing mess who started saying cute things while attempting to continue wearing his tough facade, and definitely not when Todoroki had been so sincere, so direct, and so resolute that it forced Midoriya to look away from that intense gaze, heat rushing to his face.
Having gone on a couple of dates together with each of them, Midoriya found that he couldn’t choose between them, enjoying his time with both of them in very different ways. While his time with Bakugo always wound up being fun and often an adventure, his outings with Todoroki were calming and romantic.
He didn’t feel that anything was lacking with the two of them around; what he couldn’t get with one of them, he could get with the other. It was a good balance that made him happy. But…he was starting to feel like he wanted more. Like he wanted to be with them together rather than always having to spend time with them separately. Maybe being with the two of them could help him come to a decision, or at least, let him talk to both of them about how he was feeling.
As Bakugou continued trying to pick a fight with Todoroki, his explosive quirk beginning to spark in his hands, Midoriya shook his head, lips pulling down into a frown. Maybe getting them both together had been a bad idea, but…this was what he wanted. They both liked him, didn’t they? They would listen to what he had to say, wouldn’t they?
“Umm…Todoroki, Bakugou. I wanted to talk to–”
“Don’t look down on me, you bastard,” Bakugou cut Midoriya off, shifting one of his legs back and moving into a slight squat as he moved into a fighting pose.
“Bakugou,” Midoriya attempted.
“Sorry. It’s not my fault the only way to look at you is down,” Todoroki smirked, smoke and ice beginning to drift off his skin.
Oh no, oh no, oh no.
Midoriya could understand Bakugou letting his anger get the best of him, but Todoroki? The calm and collected one? No way. No fucking way. Not on this day. Not when they were supposed to be going on a date together. He’d be damned if he let them ruin it. How could they even think to do such a thing? After they had both agreed to spending the day with him.
Midoriya felt the rage rising within him, unable to control himself as he watched Todoroki and Bakugou’s quirks fully manifest.
Bakugou lunged forward first, fist aiming for Todoroki’s face.
Powering up his One For All,Midoriya swiftly stepped between them, using the force of his speed to blow away their fire and ice with a large gust of wind, a hand coming down against both of their chests.
In a voice unbeknownst to him, ripping out from the pit of his stomach, Midoriya belted out, “ENOUGH!!”
With both abilities having been blown away, along with Midoriya’s rare anger, Todoroki and Bakugou stared at Midoriya in disbelief, mouths hanging open. Thank goodness they were in an outside area no people were in.
“I’ve had it with your fighting–I didn’t come here for this! I came because I thought you’d set aside your differences to fucking be with me, dammit! You said you both like me, so fucking act like it!” There were tears threatening to spill out. Just like Bakugou’s anger, some things hadn’t changed with Midoriya either.
Bakugou spoke first, “Whoa. Deku...” He looked over to Todoroki who met his eyes. They both nodded at each other as if they had communicated telepathically.
Midoriya caught his breath, huffing out an annoyed, “What?”
Bakugou continued, “It’s just that…well, you’re surprisingly cute,” he looked over to Todoroki and smirked.
“Huh?” He had just yelled at them and Bakugou thought he was cute?
“Yeah. You’re, uh,” Todoroki chuckled, “You’re cute when you’re angry.”
And just like that, both Todoroki and Bakugou bust out laughing, as if they hadn’t just been trying to kill each other moments before. Now it was Midoriya’s turn to stare at them with his mouth open, brows scrunching together in confusion.
Once again nodding to each other after they finished laughing, they each took one of Midoriya’s hands into theirs.
Todoroki raised the hand to his lips, “I’m sorry. You’re right. We’ll be on our best behavior from now on.”
Bakugou squeezed the hand, interlacing the fingers with his own, “Yeah. What he said. I let my anger get the better of me again, huh?”
Midoriya couldn’t help but blush, the steam from the blood rushing to his face so rapidly that it practically rolled off his head similarly to Todoroki’s quirk. He closed his eyes tightly for a second, wondering how he got so lucky to have two amazing boys that cared about him, even though they got on his nerves sometimes.
Without giving it much thought, he blurted out, “I love you. Both of you.”
He opened his eyes again and was met with surprised expressions, each face developing a tint of red.
Todoroki turned to Bakugou and shrugged, still holding Midoriya’s hand, “I guess it can’t be helped, huh?”
Bakugou rolled his eyes playfully, the corner of his lip raising in a smile, “Yeah. Looks like we’re stuck with each other, half-and-half.”
“The things I want to do to you,” Derek goes on. “Wanted to spank
you when you mouthed off to me, imagined pinning you down and fucking
your thighs until you are screaming to be fucked, throw you over the
back of my couch and pound into you until you are broken.”
Derek is cursed with a truth spell and just needs to tell Stiles all the filthy things he has always dreamed of doing to him.
“Scott. You call me back right fucking now. What the unholy hell is
going on with Derek right now? This is … this is NOT RIGHT. Is he
possessed? He’s … talking. A lot. And SAYING NICE THINGS ABOUT ME.
Really specific, awkward things. What’s going on, man? Am I
hallucinating? Call me back right. fucking. now.”
Fucking witches, man. Stiles has dealt with them
before, but a truth spell, seriously? Not to mention he had to swap spit
with one of them to make the spell work, and the only person he’d like
to swap spit with is Derek, thank you.
To top it all off, Lydia, Allison, and Erica only make it worse.
Through the trials and tribulations of the past year or so in Beacon
Hills, the social circle of the pack has grown and shrunk in various
ways. The only thing that’s remained a constant is that Derek and Stiles
really don’t seem to get along too well. Neither of them seem to want
to budge from this stable state they’re in, but it just feels
uncomfortable for the both of them. They can’t seem to understand each
other, neither able to really see them. Only through brand new eyes
could they really see for the first time.
He’s been acting like an ominous storm cloud is hanging over his head the entire morning. It was noticeable when he came back from his run, but is now even more apparent, as he’s had time to stew in his thoughts for far too long. When Steve Rogers starts over-thinking things, it’s pretty fucking difficult to get his headspace back into somewhere positive. He’s stubborn like that.
You’re eating lunch together, sitting side-by-side at the kitchen island. Your attempts to start up a conversation with Steve are met by a brick wall — you’re getting nothing out of him besides the occasional grunt and some monosyllabic replies. Eventually, you stop trying, resigning yourself to an eerily silent meal.