We need to talk. –SH
We need to do much more than talking.-IA
Do stop being so dull. We both know we are not each other’s area. –SH
You are no fun. –IA
Tomorrow at 8pm. –SH
Not even a possibility. –SH
Dinner or nothing. –IA
Dinner or nothing. –IA
I despise you but agree to your terms. –SH
Boy, you must be desperate. John’s current date proving to a sticking plaster? –IA
Footsteps. John. Skipping steps. Good mood.
Sherlock leapt out of his armchair and flopped down on the couch. He arranged his dressing gown as intended, stretched one leg over the armrest, planted the other foot flat against the floor, one arm casually thrown over his head, the other resting over his abdomen.
The door pushed open.
“Good evening, Sher………lock.” John came into his line of vision with a gaping mouth.
He looked like a tiny clown fish, Sherlock noted. A stunned clown fish. They stared at each other. Seconds ticked by without any reaction. Sherlock began to squirm. He was cold and John’s lack of response was not helping, at all.
[Expose you body as much as you can. Let his desire run free.]
Well, he had followed the instruction to the T and this would work. It had to. Sherlock concentrated on John’s expression. He is working his jaw, trying to come up with something that will not involve my pants but failing to do so. Yes yes yes, the moment is here at last!
“Wh-why are you lying in your boxers?”
Wait, what? But this isn’t…this… “Because I am hot?” Sherlock didn’t mean it to be a question but what else he could say to this idiot?
“Hot? Sherlock, it’s freezing! You’ll catch your death like that. Come on, get up. Jesus! Come on.”
Sherlock’s stomach dropped to his knees. This wasn’t the expected result. Something went wrong in the process. But what? How more could he expose his body? He was in his pants for God’s sake! And he didn’t think John would appreciate seeing him starkers, sprawling on the couch. Nope, that’d have been an overdose. But he couldn’t possibly let this opportunity go.
He wracked his brain for the other tips Irene had stuffed into his head which may still save the day and found one. He arched his neck, tilted his head a little and said, “Do you not like what you see?”
[Subtle insinuation is the key to bring the hidden desire.]
In response, John gulped and looked scared.
He may not understand the various machination of seduction but Sherlock was certain that was not the intended expression those words were meant to bring forth, which also meant….he had failed yet again.
“What?” came John’s feeble voice.
Abort. Abort. Abandon the ship.
Sherlock got up, wrapped the dressing gown tightly around his body and stomped out of the room.
The game was not over yet, though.
Next morning, with the renewed determination of a philosopher, dedication of a scientist and cunning of a pirate, Sherlock Holmes emerged from his bedroom. Fully clothed.
“Good morning, John” he greeted his prey and watched with utmost satisfaction as the man in question shoot surreptitious glances up and down his body. Sherlock felt smug. Apparently ‘capturing his attention with your body’ was a success.
John mumbled out a ‘good morning’ in return and bit down on his toast. Hard.
The time was ripe for the next step. Sherlock smirked.
[Throw sexual innuendos at him]
Sherlock sat down opposite him with the honey jar and a spoon. Irene instructed him to find something straight with a round head. He had a beaker with a round bottom that fitted the bill, but sucking a glass beaker without any apparent reason would have hardly served his purpose. So, spoon it was.
John looked at him briefly before going back to his paper once again.
“The world has suddenly turned all merry and gay, hasn’t it?” Sherlock stated while scooping some honey up his soon.
John’s head snapped up immediately, just like he predicted. “What?” he looked like a befuddled koala.
Sherlock rolled his eyes. Seducing was so dull and boring. John could certainly do better than squeaking and squawking like this, couldn’t he? If only Sherlock wasn’t so desperate…
“I said, everything is so happy and gay (he deliberately put extra stress on the word; he did not wish to repeat the same thing again and again. Desperate or not), isn’t it, John?” he made sure to maintain eye contact and put the spoon into his mouth, wrapped his lips around it, pushed it almost halfway in and promptly gagged.
“Fuck, dammit, Sherlock!”
He heard, in between his coughing fits, the cursing, a chair being pushed back and then there was John, his warm hand patting Sherlock’s back, pouring him a glass of water, wiping reflexive tears.
“Are you nuts? What were you thinking shoving that spoon into your mouth like that?” John demanded once Sherlock was breathing normally again.
There is still time. I can still do it. I can still seduce him successfully.
“My-“ he cleared his throat which had gone all croaky and raspy, “my gag reflex is better than this. I can assure you about that.” He looked at the man, who had turned him into this babbling mess, pleadingly, imploring him to understand that he could do better with a muscle than a spoon. Maybe that beaker was a better option, after all.
But John was looking back at him with something akin to horror, and Sherlock knew. He knew that he had fucked up once again.
He wanted to scream in frustration. He had almost swallowed a cutlery, for fuck’s sake! What more could he do? What more did those hateful, simpering women that John so loved to date did? Shoved a sodding lamppost down their throats? This feeling of failure was even worse than experiencing one in his scientific experiments.
“Sherlock, what’s going on?” John’s voice pulled him back from his mental ranting, “Because something is definitely going on here. Are you all right? Is it a case that’s bothering you? Or is it one of your weird experiments where you need to measure the depth of your windpipe with a spoon? What is it?”
Sherlock got up and left the room without a word.
For the next few days, Sherlock let the things die down a bit.
[Let the situation sink in. Let the tea steep.]
Despite the suspicious glances John kept aiming at him and despite his spectacular failure, twice, Sherlock was still hopeful. He had never turned his back on a stubborn experiment before and he had no desire to start now. And that was the only reason he was still at this ridiculous seduction business. Or so he had convinced himself. But deep down- where he usually locked up John’s innumerable lectures on human emotions- he knew the actual reason was his incapability to let John slip away through his fingers.
These days, John was, for the lack of a proper expression, quiet. He was still idiotically amazing, still mother-henned Sherlock to the point of annoyance. But now, he stared at Sherlock with an unreadable expression when he thought Sherlock wasn’t looking.
Sherlock refused to acknowledge those looks as being frightened or confused. He refused to acknowledge that this might be the last straw for John before he left Sherlock for good.
Therefore, he gave John and himself a three-day break and after that, the next phase of the seduction process began.
[Touch. Subtle, lingering, butterfly touches. AND talk with your body.]
On Monday, while out on a case, Sherlock kept resting his hand on the small of John’s back the whole day. Irene said it showed one’s romantic interest. So, Sherlock made sure to do so whenever he could. While ushering John out of a car, entering a building, while talking to Lestrade, even when he was insulting Anderson. Once he forgot to do it and went to check the dead body, then remembered, came back again, touched John’s back, asked him to wait there and not to breathe too loudly and hurried back again to check on the murder victim.
And he didn’t understand why Lestrade felt the necessity of fake a cough. Clueless imbecile.
But when John excused himself to go to the loo, and Sherlock, in between of a shouting match with Donovan, promptly went to him and put his hand on John’s back, John looked at him incredulously and said rather than asked, “You’ll escort me to the loo also? What the fucking hell?”
Sherlock knew a badly reacting experiment when he saw one. He pursed his lips, retrieved his hand and took a step back. To stabilize the process.
John looked at him a moment longer, then banged open the toilet door.
Sherlock sulked and went back to resume his yelling at Donovan.
On Tuesday, Sherlock offered to accompany John to Tesco. That resulted in John spilling his tea all over himself, coughing and croaking out a “What?”
Sherlock turned his back to John and pretended to tinker with the Petri dishes, “You always accompany me to the crime scenes. It’s only fair that I should return the favour once in a while. I will keep you entertained while you buy cucumber.”
Behind him, John spluttered again. Seriously!
Sherlock finally looked at him with a puppy face, “You know, those long, pointy thing with a round head and a hard body; the first bite tastes bitter but if you keep-“
“All right! Stop it! Just- I know what a cucumber is, okay? Just- And we don’t need cucumber today.”
John was so red that Sherlock looked for any sign of impending heart attack or asphyxiation.
He knew this extremely cliché and tasteless talk about cucumbers in sexual pretext would make anyone with half a brain cell ill. But that damned Irene assured him that with his talent in this particular area this was the only thing that would work. Sherlock, with all his doubts, had reluctantly agreed. But it seemed that it failed to deliver the promised effect.
Well, he still had some more tricks up his sleeves.
Tesco was crowded, as usual. Sherlock gritted his teeth and muttered his “all for John” calming mantra and tried to avoid the people like plague. How could he ever let John come here alone, unguarded?! He whirled around to see where his tiny John was and found him scanning an aisle and avoiding the fruit section pointedly.
Sherlock chuckled, despite himself.
At an especially crowded, human infested corner, Sherlock swiped his scowling glare all around and hissed at an unassuming John, “Take my hand, John.”
John, holding a soup can and squinting at the product description, promptly dropped it. Sherlock caught it immediately, of course.
“What did you say?”
He would have suspected John was having hearing difficulties the way he was asking Sherlock to repeat everything these days, but something about his face told Sherlock that that may not be the correct deduction.
Before answering, he quickly catalogued the possible escape routes in case John decided to hit him. “I asked you to hold my hand.”
He scanned John’s face minutely and when he found only bafflement instead of murderous aura, he felt relieved. The plan’s working!
“Hold your hand?” John opened and closed his mouth a few times, “Hold- hold your hand?”
Urgh! “Are you trying to achieve certain diction or you just like to repeat yourself for your own entertainment? Really, John, this is exactly why I tell you to avoid other people. They make you slow and lower your IQ. They are all Andersons!”
John exhaled through his nose, “Is there a reason why I suddenly want to hold your hand?”
Sherlock couldn’t imagine how John had missed the obvious, “Look at this place! It’s swarming. You can get lost in here any moment. You are so tiny and you have no ability to sense danger. I am merely safeguarding you so that- John? Where are you going? John?”
That evening, after returning home, John went straight to his bedroom upstairs and never came down again that night. Not even when Sherlock played the violin badly.
Another failure to add to the list.
“Is that our last case you are writing about?”
Wednesday found Sherlock leaning over John’s left shoulder to look at the computer screen, faces almost touching. Almost. He felt John’s shoulder stiffen immediately.
“’Sherlock stood there, eyes blazing, an indomitable force of justice….” Bravo, my dear Doctor, you have at last succeeded to turn a freak detective into some kind of Justice League character. Ah, I see it now. You chose the wrong career, John. Comic book writing was your true calling.”
John mumbled unintelligibly, staring hard at the screen.
Is he unaffected? Why is he unaffected? I need to know. I need a clue. I need….the pulse! Of course.
“Why don’t you change the format of this page? Here, let me show you.”
And before John could get any chance to respond (protest, more likely), Sherlock put his hand over the smaller one, easily covering it, thumb touching the pulse point lightly.
Sherlock let John’s hand go and straightened up, but not before accidentally rubbing their cheeks together. Success never felt so good before.
Hmmm. He needed to buy John a new razor. He liked his doctor clean shaven.
On Wednesday, 221B Baker Street witnessed a stealthy robbery. Poor Mrs. Hudson discovered that someone had robbed her pantry! All that was left was a single, bereft onion that had escaped the mass abduction somehow. The landlady blinked at it and made a hobbling dash for upstairs.
“Sherlock! You insensitive……thief. How dare you to rob an old woman’s……..oh my!”
Half of the content of the table that stood in the kitchen were dumped on the other half; a messy attempt to clear the area. There was an egg on it which had ‘good’ written on its shell. Sherlock stood in front of the kitchen counter like a deer caught in the headlights, wearing his protective goggles and a wooden spoon in hand.
“Oh, Sherlock, are you cooking?”
“No.” Just then the pan on the lit stove made a burbling sound and a yellowish liquid leaked over the edge.
Sherlock blinked at Mrs. Hudson.
This was his latest attempt at seducing John.
[To steal a man you have to steal his stomach first.]
Sherlock was appalled when Irene said that. Stealing a stomach had its own perks, Sherlock wouldn’t deny that, but to suggest that he should steal John’s stomach…
He was on the verge of lashing out when Irene added, “with your cooking, darling,” and smirked.
Now, here he was.
“Oh Sherlock, I am so happy to see you settling down finally. Never thought you to be the domestic type but you did the right thing to give John a break. Poor man, works himself weary, he does. Is he at the clinic? Why is it yellow? What are you trying to make? It doesn’t look like a soup.”
Sherlock pursed his lips to prevent himself from snapping out. John had forbidden him to snap at Hudders. Not that he usually paid heed to such warnings but desperate times made one accept abominable things.
And that preparation was not that unrecognizable. Honestly!
“I do not expect a muffin eater like you to identify a traditional East Indian dish like this.”
“You’d be surprised, young man.” Mrs. H arched an eyebrow at him which meant not answering was not an option anymore.
He threw the spoon on the counter, “Chicken Kosha.”
“Hmm,” She leaned over the pan, “Isn’t it supposed to be dry? Why everything is floating, then? Oh dear, you used water instead of chicken stock, didn’t you? And didn’t you paste the onion?”
Sherlock spun on his heel, clearly surprised. “You know the recipe?”
She just smiled a bit, “Told you.”
“But how- oh, Mr. Chatterjee. Of course. But I thought you discussed only baking with him.”
“Oh, we discuss much more than baking and scratch cards.” She patted his cheek and winked at him.
“Urgh, spare me the gory details. My brain is already supplying me with all the clues.”
“Oh hush, you. Now, tell me what did you do to it.”
“I didn’t do anything!”
Sherlock drummed his fingers and checked the clock again. For the seventh time in the last fourteen minutes and forty eight seconds.
John was late. Derailed by that Sawyer woman, no doubt. So hateful.
And why the hell was he waiting like an eager puppy? Sherlock Holmes waited for no one. Unless it was a stake out for a case, or a crucial experiment, or a scheme to score one over Mycroft….but that was immaterial.
He scratched his arm where the nicotine patch was.
And yet, here I am. Just as someone, for the first time, showed any interest in me, looked at me as a fellow human being instead of an opportunity, I was swept off my feet and started following them with a wagging tail. So hateful. Mycroft must be having the time of his life. So, so very hateful. The entire situation is.
He scowled at John’s chair opposite him, as if the man himself was sitting there with that gullible face and that adorable twitching nose.
Just as that thought crossed his mind, Sherlock cringed inwardly. Good God! He had started to use sniveling words too! What have you done to me, John?
Before he could self-loathe anymore, the sound of the door being opened downstairs had him sit on the edge of his armchair.
Footsteps. Slow. Heavy. Tired.
Time with Sarah didn’t go well. Sherlock grinned in absolute glee.
The door opened. John came in.
“Why is it so dark in here?” John stopped midway while removing his jacket, “Sherlock?”
“Why are you sitting in the dark?”
“Helps me think.”
“Oh?” he finally removed his jacket and hung it on the peg, “New case?” and switched on the light.
Sherlock squinted at the sudden flood of light and didn’t answer. John undid his shoes and flopped down on the couch with a tired sigh. Eyes closed.
Time for Sherlock to begin. He got up, “So, should I bring your food here or would you prefer to eat in the kitchen. I’d say kitchen as that would be convenient to-“
John cut him off, “Food? But I’ve already eaten.”
Sherlock stopped short on his way to the kitchen and turned to his flatmate. “You had a dinner date with Sarah?” He couldn’t completely conceal the hurt that his voice carried.
John stood up as well, “No no, it wasn’t a date. You know I always tell you whenever I go out on a date, don’t I? It’s just she asked me to join her and I was hungry and thought that….” John trailed off, probably seeing something in Sherlock’s expression. He quickly hid his face from John and gave a brief nod with an “All right.”
John had witnessed his vulnerability more times than he would have liked, but there was no way he would let John witness this one. No way. This was Sherlock’s own humiliation. His own failure. Too personal, intimate. A lesson to remind him once again that no matter what he did or how hard he tried, he would never be anyone’s choice.
He entered the kitchen to bin the food and gave a mirthless chuckle when he saw it. Sherlock Holmes cooked dinner in an attempt to seduce his flatmate, how more pathetic could he be? At least, Mummy would have been proud to know that he cooked.
“This place look……clean.”
He didn’t need to turn to know that John was now at the kitchen entrance and assessing the whole scenario. The somewhat clean table, the counter that bore all the evidence of cooking being done. The truth.
Sherlock closed his eyes, not at all prepared to face the question that was obviously coming.
“Did you cook?”
He did not turn, nor did he respond in any way. The silence was almost deafening.
“Uhh…you know what, I didn’t really eat that much. I wasn’t hungry then but I am now. So, can we eat?”
Oh, John John John. The ever sweet, ever sensible, ready to be a martyr John. Ever ready to lend your sympathy to others. But I DON’T NEED YOUR PITY!
The force of his own voice startled him and he realized that he had yelled out the last part. And if anything to go by John’s stunned feature it probably had come out harsher than he had imagined. But once the dam was broken, Sherlock was unable to stop the flood of emotions that followed.
“I don’t need your pity, or your consideration to mend my wounded heart,” he almost spat the word, “for I do not have one, remember? Therefore, no need to trouble yourself to appease my whim to feed you. What would it achieve, anyway? You’d tell me what a good little boy I am to think of you, how my talents have no bounds, or- or how this little domestic act makes me look almost human? Then what? Then you’ll go out on those numerous dates, once again, with faceless strangers whom you’d pick up in a pub, at a Tube station, or even at Tesco. But never me, oh no, heaven forbid, never me. You will never notice me.”
Bile rose and burned his throat. Through his panting haze, he watched John open and close his mouth several times. A feeling of absolute loathing crept up and engulfed his body and mind like slime. He turned his face away.
“What- Sherlock- what are you talking about? What is- I don’t- I don’t notice you? Ho-How could you even say that? It’s all I do! I watch you day in and day out. I watch you, I follow you, I listen to you. My fucking life revolves around you!”
“Really? You watch me? Of course, you do. But just like the rest, you just see, John, never observe. Otherwise, you would have had noticed by now how I am practically throwing myself at you, begging for your attention, doing all those pathetic mindless things for which I have taunted other people all my life. All so that you would GIVE ME A FUCKING CHANCE!”
The “Oh God” followed by John’s audible gulp didn’t help Sherlock calm down. If anything it only increased his misery. But Apparently, John still had something more to say.
“Sherlock- I- Sherlock I didn’t- oh God, I didn’t know. I didn’t have any clue that you- that you wanted me to notice you that way. I swear I didn’t know that you wanted me at all.”
An ugly and cruel smirk appeared on Sherlock’s face at that, “Why not, John? Why didn’t you have a clue? You are not straight; you check other men fairly often, and I know you have had a few serious homosexual affairs too, in your past. Then, tell me, how can you miss how the man, whom you so claim to ‘watch day in and day out’, leaving no stone unturned to seduce you? How can you not know when my actions for the past few days would have been obvious to even Molly Hooper, who is hell bent to think me straight? Is it because it’s me who was doing these things? Am I that much repulsive that you can’t even imagine to link me with romantic advancements? Or is it because for you also I am just a brain to be taken advantage of? What is it, John?”
“It’s so easy………standing there, throwing accusation after accusation at me, demanding to know why I never thought of your actions as your attempt to secure my romantic affection rather than one of your many bouts of eccentricities. And it’s so rich coming from you when you are the one who turned me down first. Or have you deleted that already? Because I haven’t, and every time I wanted to confess my feelings to you, I reminded myself that whole scene, everything you have said to me that evening and backed off.” The bitter sarcasm in John’s voice felt worse than salt in wounds.
“What else did you expect? That I would promptly fall into bed with an ex-military with trust issues, a psychosomatic limp, and in need of adrenalin fix, after meeting him for the first time? Would you have done differently if you were in my shoes?” Sherlock’s voice, though devoid of any trace of sarcasm, mirrored the same bitterness. He was getting tired of this. Honestly, he couldn’t even fathom now why he thought this was a good idea.
“But you turned me down,” John repeated stubbornly, refusing to move an inch from his argument.
“And I regret it ever since. Regret it every time I see you go on a date. Regret it every time I smell someone else on you. I loathe myself for regretting it so much. Yet I regret it every damn day.”
None of them uttered a word for a long time. John was now gripping the backrest of one of the chairs, head bowed, shoulder slumped in dejection, breathing hard. To his horror, Sherlock’s eyes began to fill suddenly. He sucked a deep breath in, clenched his eyes to get rid of the saltiness before John could see it, and exhaled loudly.
So much for dreaming a future with John. That forced out a laugh from him. John looked up.
Sherlock looked at him but quickly looked away and shook his head, still smiling bitterly, if one could call it a smile, “I took tips from Irene to seduce you. Isn’t that the best thing about this mess? Or worst, I guess.”
John just gaped at him, eyes big as saucers. He looked like a kinkajou. And Sherlock seriously needed to stop comparing John with various animals. In fact, he needed to stop thinking about John altogether. There was next to no chance that their friendship would survive this. And John would leave soon.
His vision started to blur again. He stormed out of the kitchen.
There was a knock at his bedroom door. Clearly John. Sherlock snuggled deeper into the mass of blankets. The door pushed opened a moment later. The mattress beside him dipped a little. Sherlock curled into himself even more. He was sure he resembled a ball now. John began to unwrap the blankets until his head peeked out, but he still refused to change his position to look up at John. He really hated being pitied upon.
Sherlock responded ducking his head even deeper.
“No no, none of that now, look at me.”
When Sherlock still refused, John yanked the blankets down to his waist and said, “You’ll suffocate yourself, you idiot. Look at me.”
His voice sounded normal, familiar, and if Sherlock dared to hope, almost fond. He chanced a look at John.
He looked…………affectionate. Why did he look affectionate? Wasn’t he angry?
“Why aren’t you angry?” Sherlock was genuinely curious and couldn’t help asking.
John arched an eyebrow- he had picked that habit from me, thought Sherlock absently- and asked, “Should I be?”
He frowned, well, yes. “That is the logical conclusion, yes.”
John smiled a little and ran his fingers through Sherlock’s hair which made Sherlock’s mouth go dry, and said, “We both know you are the logical one and I am the idiot.”
They stared at each other, John’s finger carding through Sherlock’s curls and he, in turn, gripped the blanket with white knuckles. This look on John’s face….these emotions in his eyes….this was…this was it. This was what he was trying to achieve. This was IT.
“What now?” He asked, hating the way his voice cracked a little.
“Whatever you want. What do you want, Sherlock?”
“…….You.” It took a great deal of efforts to coax that lone word out, but he did it at last.
“Then that’s what you’ll get,” said John and swooped down to press his lips to Sherlock’s.
Nothing extraordinary happened as those melodramatic people loved to suggest, like everything went white or the time seemed to freeze. Nothing of that sort happened. Only a funny tingling sensation ran through Sherlock’s lips, his heart rate quickened, and he wanted John never to pull his lips away again. But then John pulled away and Sherlock panicked, thinking that maybe it was just an experiment for John. But no, the idiot was grinning his loony grin and something in Sherlock’s chest uncoiled a little bit.
“You know, a simple “I’d like to date you” would have worked just fine.”
“Hah, yes, and had you drag me to a clinic to do a drug test. Yes, that would have worked just fine.”
“You are the detective, you should have worked it out.”
“You are the Three Continents Watson, you should have tried harder.”
“Okay, all right, now that we’ve distributed the guilt between ourselves, and on the same note I’d like to promise you to do things harder and faster in future, can I act like an idiot now?”
“You mean you weren’t all this time?”
“Shut up, you cheeky brat. So, Sherlock Holmes-“
“Shut up and let me complete! Jesus…” he cleared his throat dramatically, “Sherlock Holmes, will you be my Valentine?”
“……………..John, I hope you are aware that this is March”
“And your point being?”
“Oh, nothing, only that even idiots do not celebrate that stupid day in March.”
“We were late at confessing, I missed my chance to take you to a Valentine’s Day date; I always had a soft spot for that sort of thing, you know. Therefore, I am asking you to one now. And love doesn’t need to be date bound. Any day can be a Valentine’s day.”
“Uh…yes. Why, is that a problem? And why are you looking at me li-“
“You love me?”
“Erm, I thought that was obvious! God, you’re such a sucky detective.”
“Is that a challenge, Doctor?”
“Do you need any more confirmation, Detective?”
“Oh, you are on.”
“I always am.”
“And…um, an…..ah…… jus- just to……mmmmm….just to clear everything…… I do too-oooh…”
“Mmmm…..You do….oh God……what?”
“No…..ah…Sherlock, slow down….oh God….I don’t.”
“Yes, yes…..yessssss, yo- you do.”
“Ohhhh, okay….ummmm….mmmm….ahh….but- but….do what?”
“I- oh Jawwwwn……it’s…..ah….ahhhhh…idontremebeeeeeer.”
“God…..oh God….oh fucking Chist…ohhh…mm…”
“Shouldn- shouldn’t…ahh…it…be….'frotting Christ'…huh?”
“Oh dear God….”
Much later that night:
I have secured John safely to myself. No thanks to you. –SH
Is that so? –IA
Yes. And he has asked me out on a March-Valentine’s Day date. –SH
Well done. You have exceeded my expectations, Princess! So, where is he taking you to? Disneyland? –IA
Jealousy doesn’t become you. –SH
But pink will, for you. Make sure to wear it. With glitters. ;) –IA
That's all for now, Folks!