Daringly Domestic

Chapter 8 of A Vicious Motivator is now live!

Author Note: Thank you so much to the readers who have stuck with this story. I know it’s been a long while since I’ve updated, but this year has been full of unforeseen events. I hope the culmination of this fic is worth the wait, and thank you for loving these fatally flawed men as much as I do.

Fic Summary: After the Fall, Anderson is put on suspension and ultimately fired from the Yard. He descends into a dark spiral, fueled by lack of purpose and obsessive research relating to the events of That Day. A crucial discovery leads Anderson to seek help from the one person who may know more than he is telling, but Mycroft Holmes refuses to work with him. Unwilling to give in, Anderson decides to follow the breadcrumbs on his own until a critical mistake forces Mycroft to intervene. Will Anderson unravel the mystery of the Fall or will the pursuit of the truth be his ultimate undoing?Forced to discover who he is without his job, Anderson finds something (and someone) about whom he is passionate.

Chapter 8 Sneak Peek:

“So there is more to the story. I thought so. Thanks for verifying,” Anderson sneers.

Holmes heaves a weary sigh.

“I would prefer not to do it this way. There’s always the chance that someone will overhear.”

It’s a fair point, but Anderson wants answers. He swallows down the instinct to push back and keep digging for answers. After all, Holmes has not shut him down - he’s simply suggesting a more cautious approach to the conversation.

“What do you suggest?” Anderson inquires, forcing a cool politeness into his tone.

“I know a place where we can continue this without being disturbed or overheard. Be ready at 6pm. I’ll send a car.”

The presumption in the other man’s statement leaves Anderson breathless.  

“You’re so sure that I’ll come.” he says incredulously. “I might not be free, you know.”

There’s a momentary pause, and Anderson takes it as the concession that it is.

“Well are you?”

Holmes’ voice is surprisingly soft, and the vulnerability of the query strips away Anderson’s defensiveness.

“Am I what?” he asks.

“Available.”

Anderson doesn’t know how to respond. He definitely doesn’t have plans for the night, but somehow he knows that’s not really what the other man is asking. It’s a simple enough question, but the answer is dangerous. The very idea of it quickens his pulse. He can feel the anxiety rising in his chest, and his voice is caught in his throat.

Holmes mercifully spares him the necessity of answering.

“Six pm. I’ll send a car. And don’t worry, I already have the address.”

Read from the beginning on AO3!

“I should be heading out,” Crowley plucks his shades from the table and perches them on his nose, standing slowly.

“So soon?”  He says it before he can catch himself.  It’s such a needy phrase, and he is needy.  He needs Crowley to decide to stay.  He watches Crowley cringe minutely, look to the floor and then the doorway and then the table- anywhere except him.  “Or, maybe not.”  An out.  There’s always an out.

“It’s late.”  Crowley fiddles with his needlessly complicated watch.

“It’s early, really.”

“Really late, then.”

Aziraphale sighs and looks away from Crowley.

“I won’t keep you.”  He won’t.  He won’t pin him down to this bookshop and this quiet life.  Crowley’s always been bigger than that, wilder.  He can’t ask him to stay for his sake.  Crowley has to decide that’s what he wants.  But, after so long, so many years of pushing the demon away… He fears he doesn’t even know how to stay.  Maybe he doesn’t even want to anymore.  Maybe this is all out of an obligation of some kind.

Crowley hasn’t moved and hasn’t looked at him, either.  It’s like the man is frozen on the spot, dithering.

“Goodnight, then.”  Aziraphale stands to usher him out.  Maybe he’s waiting for a more obvious sign that it’s okay to leave since Aziraphale said the needy thing.

There’s another silent pause where nothing seems to stir around them, but something does stir between them.  Something slithering and double edged and very, very old.

“I would rather you did.”  It’s said so quietly that if he didn’t have ethereal hearing, he’s sure he wouldn’t have caught it.

“Did what, dear?”  Aziraphale studies him, taking in Crowley’s stiffened stance and his continued reluctance to look at him.  He watches him swallow hard, but otherwise remain motionless in that way that they can because they aren’t entirely human; they don’t need to breathe or fidget or adjust their muscles the way humans do to be comfortable.  But, they do anyway.  The stillness now is unnerving in comparison.  “What would you rather?  You can tell me.”

“Keep me,” it looks like the words are pulled from Crowley against his will and his teeth clench after the second word as if expecting a physical blow to follow in their wake.

“I would, you know.”  Aziraphale watches Crowley break his stance minutely, glancing his way sharply and then away again.  “For as long as you like.”

“As long as I like.”

“mmhmm.”  Aziraphale feels a bubbling of hope somewhere under his lungs- that he doesn’t strictly need- and his first response is to shy away from it.  Instead he decides to grab it with both metaphorical hands.  For both of their sakes.  “You can’t want me to keep you longer than I would like to keep you, I assure you.”

“You’re so sure.”  But, he can feel Crowley looking at him from the corner of his eyes even though he can’t see through the glasses.  Crowley can feel the same hope, he knows it.

“I am positive, Crowley.”

“Could be a very long time…”  The stiffness is still there and Aziraphale wishes he could smooth it away with his hands, make him breathe again; come to life as the creature of motion he knows.

“I am sorry,” he moves slowly towards Crowley, careful to watch for any sign that he should stop, “that I’ve given you the impression that any amount of time with you could be too much.”

“Any?” Crowley can’t look away from him now because he’s directly in front of him, only a couple breaths away.

“May I, please?”  Aziraphale motions to the glasses on his face and Crowley stares for a moment before taking a steadying breath and nodding.  He reaches up and removes them, setting them on the table behind him before straightening back up to face Crowley again.  “I…” And this is hard for him, too, isn’t it?  But one of them has to cross the emotional minefield between them and take a chance. “… would like you to stay.  Please.”

The tension in Crowley’s shoulders visibly melts as his eyes dart back and forth between Aziraphale’s, looking for the honesty in them and finding it.

“There you are,” he reaches up and strokes Crowley’s cheek, “you don’t have to be afraid of me, darling.  It’s okay to want more here.  It’s okay to ask for what you want with me.”  There were more words he was going to say, but he finds himself being kissed suddenly and so softly it makes his heart ache.  He traces his fingers along Crowley’s jawline, behind his ear, and into his hair; holding tight to prove this is absolutely welcome.

“I want to stay,” Crowley says, sucking in a deep breath as he breaks the kiss.  Not only is he making eye contact now, he’s maintaining it steadily.  Aziraphale leans his forehead gently against Crowley’s, savoring their shared breaths.

Aziraphale heard the click of the receiver on the other end and simply frowned; he expected Crowley to insist that he come over, to tempt him into letting him come - because that’s what he always did. No cake in the world would be worth more than Crowley, so he set his mug and plate aside and started back up on his letter.

My Dearest,

I write this in the hopes that I am able to convey in the written word what I perhaps cannot begin to articulate in conversation. I have been thinking, as I usually do, that we have a smidge more freedom now that either side has been sated for now. It warms my corporation that we have found solace together on Earth, even if we are not physically near.

But the thing is, my dear, is that I want you near, whether the world is on lockdown or not. I admit it is a bit selfish of me, maybe, but it’s the truth. I want you to come over and drink wine with me, and watch me eat cake. I’d like you to bake with me, and comment on all the ways the recipe gets the original wrong, and have you pick out one that you know I’ll love, and read to me books you think I’d like. Because I know you’ve registered my wants in passing.

But now I will demonstrate the same.

You like soft, sun-soaked places to lounge. The entire shop can be lit to your desires. You like fresh sheets and fluffy pillows, and upstairs has both. You adore poetry - don’t correct me, you and I both know you do - and as I’m sure you’re aware, at least half the shop is dedicated to iambic pentameter. I have a bathroom stocked with every hair product imaginable, even if I haven’t a clue what you use them for. The bath is large and spacious, exactly like the olden days in Rome. And, I still have two more cases of our wine, and no one to share it with.

Aziraphale paused, bit the tip of his tongue ever so gently, then dipped the pen back into the ink to write what he had really led up to.

I’d like to share it with you. I’d like to share everything with you, if you’ll have me.

Yours forever more,

Angel

Then he set his pen down to evaluate his work; it was all sincere, every ounce of it oozed of him, and that was all he could do. Crowley would know what that meant, or, at least, Aziraphale hoped he would.

So he folded the letter carefully with crisp lines, heated the dark green wax, and dripped it onto the edges before sealing it with his ring. But he wasn’t done yet; after a moment’s hesitation, he lifted the letter up and pressed a kiss right above the seal, just for good luck.

But then he wasn’t ready. A bubbling frustration grumbled in his chest, right under his sternum, and, like his phone, he threw himself down on his bed to stare at the dark ceiling. Of course it was stupid. Of course he was stupid to think that Aziraphale would actually want to be cooped up with someone as drab and dreary and sullen as this pile of bones on a mattress.

Stupid. Fuck it.

He could make a better cake than Aziraphale; it would be thwarting his efforts just so, wouldn’t it? Of course it would be.

But then he felt more than heard the ethereal presence of a miracle, and there laid a slip of parchment beside his head, sealed in- fuck, it’s too dark- whose idea was it-

He snatched up the letter - carefully - and sauntered into the kitchen to see properly, and his eyes ended up on a dark green seal. Aziraphale was always one for symbolism, so much so that Crowley had kept up with all the classic trends his angel had a tendency to utilize.

So his heart almost stopped.

Suddenly the letter was the most precious thing in existence - second only to Aziraphale - and had his utmost gentle care as he broke the seal and lingered on every word.

So this was why he had insisted upon a delay. He wanted to send a love letter. At some point, Crowley had to teach him how to use a smartphone to end this nonsense (he wouldn’t; he adored this nonsense).

With the letter sitting primly on the counter, an almost-equivalent for Aziraphale, Crowley ran a hand through his hair and got to work. The letter remained untouched and unperturbed by flour, sugar, rum, yeast, or pastry cream. Crowley was so loud as he clanged pans and mixing bowls in his kitchen that his neighbors were startled that he was even alive, as he didn’t bother to think of soundproofing his kitchen. There was no time, it was urgent, important to make the perfect Baba au Rhum for his angel, to make it say what his throat didn’t let him.

It would have been a crime to make Aziraphale wait any length of time for an answer, so he was quick and precise and in less than an hour he was donned in his usual skinny jeans and jacket combo, holding a bundt cake that had more rum than cake and was topped with a chocolate-dipped strawberry. Exquisite.

He didn’t even waste time taking the Bentley - or even slipping on his sunglasses - and in one moment after readying himself, he was knocking on the bookshop’s door.

“We’re closed! Don’t you know there’s a plague going about-“ Aziraphale peaked through the shut blinds and Crowley could see his eyes go wide at such a sight, and it was all a rush of getting inside with the door opening, the bell ringing, the angel’s hand folding around the demon’s crook of the elbow to yank him past the threshold.

And all at once they were standing blissfully alone, sunshine streaming in through the little opening Aziraphale had made and casting a golden glow across Crowley’s face.

Aziraphale looked from the cake to Crowley, then Crowley to the cake, then back again, stammering quietly - because this was all too good to be true.

“That’s- what- how- did you-?”

“Did I get your letter? Yes. Yes I did, angel. Had a little demonic delay in my napping plans.”

“And- and you’re here- to give a parting gift?”

“Angel.”

The cake could be the focus when Aziraphale was eating it; for now, he hastily set it on top of a stack of unmarked books and turned back to lay his hands on plush cheeks.

“I’d like to take you up on your offer.”

His eyes went wide at Crowley’s heartfelt words, at his cool hands that had never graced such a part of him before, and he felt as though he wanted to melt right into his grasp.

“You mean-“

“Yes, angel. Do you need me to send a letter just so you can see how the wax has changed?”

“No, that’s quite alright-“

But Crowley cut him off with with a kiss, one soft and slow and utterly delightful, one that makes Aziraphale stop fretting and set his hands tentatively on Crowley’s shoulders as they part only centimeters away.

“I missed you,” Aziraphale murmured breathlessly.

Sherlock doesn’t fantasize. He finds it tremendously tedious, because really, there’s only one thing he could fantasize about and if he’s not going to have it for real, he should not be wasting his time on imagining it happening. 

One evening, he climbs up the stairs two by two to inform John that there’s a new interesting case in his emails, except that he doesn’t push the door open because it’s evident by the sound of it that John is rather… busy at the moment. 

It takes Sherlock days to admit that it turns him on, listening to John masturbating, because it’s not something he has to imagine – it’s happening, right there, on the other side of the wall. It takes him a few more days until he finally slips his hand into his pants, in front of John’s room, biting his fist to not make any sound, as to not to betray himself. It’s dangerous – John could get out of his room and catch him at any moment, and that thought, above everything else, makes him harder than he’s ever been.

What he isn’t aware of is that John knows. That John has heard him that first night and each time after that, because Sherlock has no control over his whimpers when he comes. And John toys with him, putting up a show every time it happens, panting hard, letting out little uhuhuhs and fuckfuckfuckfucks and yesss, you’re so good, so fucking good.

It lasts until the day when they’re just done with a case and going to their respective rooms for the night. Sherlock can’t resist climbing up the stairs, knowing precisely what John will be doing at this hour. He leans his back on John’s door, careful for it not to creak, and promises himself as he strokes his cock that it’s just for this time, because he absolutely needs the proximity.

He’s so close—he’s so very close that he doesn’t hear John getting out of bed, only the BANG against the door that makes his whole body vibrate with want, and he sees it clearly: John on the other side of the door, stroking his cock hard and fast, fingers raking at the thin piece of wood that’s separating them.

“Are you— coming?” John pants, his voice low and hoarse. “Because—fuck, I’m coming.”

Right: Write.

We are planning a virtual 221b Con Writers’ Suite experience for this weekend. Word sprints, flash fic, quiet hours (hang out and write), just talking words, being together across the world...but first we need to decide on a platform.

By “first,” we mean...*checks watch* within the next eighteen hours or so.

We want a platform that allows for both video and chat capabilities, so we’re deciding between Zoom and Discord. Please go to our poll on Twitter at https://twitter.com/221bconwriters/status/1244822449989881856?s=21 as soon as possible or comment below if you have a preference.

Q. What is it?

A. 221b-consolation is a quick-and-dirty cheer-up fest for people who cannot make it to @221bcon the weekend of April 3-6, 2020. (We are not officially affiliated with them in any way.) It’s a way for writers, artists and other content-makers to keep ourselves busy by offering little gifts to make other sad stay-at-Holmes happy. Because 221B Con was cancelled due to the COVID-19 crisis, this year that means EVERYBODY

Q. How does it work?

A. The days leading up to 221bcon (from RIGHT NOW until 5 PM EDT Friday, April 3th, 2019) will be prompting and creating fills. There are a couple of different ways for a writer/artist/vidder/ etc to participate in prompting:

1. Post on your own blog offering whatever it is you want to offer, @ this blog, use the #221B-consolation2020 tag, and we will reblog your offerings post. You’ll be asking for prompts from as many people as you feel comfortable accepting. (If you do not want your post reblogged, let us know!)

2. Any general prompts sent via ask this blog will be published and up for adoption by as many people as want them!

3. Or, you can simply commit to making whatever you want to make, and posting during the posting period.

How to prompt creators:

1. Find people who are accepting prompts, either here or in the #221b-consolation tag, and prompt them directly.

2. Send an ask to this blog, anon or named, and it will be published as a prompt to be claimed by anyone who likes!

At 5 PM EDT, just as the first panels would have been getting underway in Atlanta, the AO3 collection will open, and posting will also be open on tumblr. Post your works to the collection and/or here tagged #221b-consolation. DO NOT POST your works until the weekend of the con (April 3-6) - the idea is that people who can’t go to the con (which, again, is everyone) will have something to look forward to on that weekend. (Anything posted to the AO3 collection before the weekend will only be revealed when the collection opens!)

Q. Are all ships/characters/kinks etc. welcome?

A. Yes, this is a non-judgmental ship-war-free zone open to all. It’s up to the individual creators what they are/are not willing to make, of course. NSFW and sensitive content should be tagged/warned for as per usual fandom etiquette.

HERE’S WHAT IS NEW THIS YEAR.

1. It is open to all fandoms now, not just Sherlock-related.

2. We have a FUNDRAISING OPTION.

It is optional and opt-in. If you, as a creator, would like to ask for a small donation to a charity helping people in need due to the crisis. you may do so as a “tip jar” addendum to your offerings post. Understand this is OPTIONAL, for both you and your requester. Many of the people participating in this fest are themselves under great financial stress due to the crisis and we do not want to pressure or guilt-trip anyone. The fest is for all, whether they can afford to donate or not.

IF you choose to do this, and your requester is able to make a donation, this should be done by a direct donation to the charity, and if the donor wants it to count to the fest total, they should send us, the mods, a screenshot of the receipt (with personal information blotted out if they prefer.) We will not make public who donated and who did not, but we will announce how much overall money was raised.

Chapter 7 of A Vicious Motivator is now live!

Fic Summary: After the Fall, Anderson is put on suspension and ultimately fired from the Yard. He descends into a dark spiral, fueled by lack of purpose and obsessive research relating to the events of That Day. A crucial discovery leads Anderson to seek help from the one person who may know more than he is telling, but Mycroft Holmes refuses to work with him. Unwilling to give in, Anderson decides to follow the breadcrumbs on his own until a critical mistake forces Mycroft to intervene. Will Anderson unravel the mystery of the Fall or will the pursuit of the truth be his ultimate undoing?Forced to discover who he is without his job, Anderson finds something (and someone) about whom he is passionate.

Chapter 7 Sneak Peek: 

*Why should he care about the opinion of a relative stranger? Just because he’s attracted to him?*

No. That’s not it. Anderson is well acquainted with the frantic drumbeat of lust roiling beneath his skin. He’s experienced attraction, arousal, and it had never called his life into question. Yet, somehow this infuriatingly prim man has cut right to the heart of Anderson’s insecurities with a penetrating look and a few kindnesses.

Anderson slams his coffee mug onto the table and rises.

It is one thing to be attracted to the man. Anderson is no stranger to the rugged appeal of a firm, muscled chest and a strong, square jaw. He’s even had the pleasure of a large worn hand coaxing him towards his own release.

It is another thing entirely to have the acrid poisonous betrayal of *feelings* bubbling up and seeping through the patchwork holes in his chest. He is dismayed to find a raw fluttering thing in the place where he’d thought he only had the shriveled husk of a heart too broken to beat.

If he’d ever entertained the possibility of reviving his heart, he would have imagined it to be a soft, tender flow of feeling returning to its proper place. That’s not how it happens. It is the raw sting of a rushing wave over an open wound. It stings and burns no matter how he tries to twist away from it. He has no option but to grit his teeth and ride it out in the blind faith that there will be another side at the end of the pain.

This discovery is too much to absorb as Anderson paces barefoot across his kitchen in the early morning sunlight. The promise of possibilities is entirely too dangerous to be entertained.

Read from the beginning on AO3!

Crowley: I don’t have a boyfriend

Kidnapper: he made us reevaluate our life choices and now we feel really bad so can you come pick him up?

Crowley: oh my god, you have Aziraphale