#sherlocks night before christmas

[holmesoldfellow]

"Sherlock's Night Before Christmas" book by Julie Petersen and Sheryl Dickert (Gibbs Smith 2018)

[smol-and-passionate]

Get to know me better game!!

Three Ships: Johnlock (Holmes/Watson - A* for the original);  Superbat (Batman/Superman); Cecilos (Cecil Palmer/Carlos the Scientist - I basically live through my Carlos muse so... /j)

First Ever Ship: Blue/Magenta (from Blue’s Clues. Didn’t know Blue was a girl - not that it matters XD); for a slightly older version of me though, it's probably Qui-gon/Shmi Skywalker (because I thought Qui-gon was actually Anakin's dad for some reason... probs because he and Shmi got along so well)

Last Song: Hayloft I & II (Haunted Barn Mega Edit) on Youtube

Last movie: Scrooge: A Christmas Carol (2022)

Currently Reading: Long Live the Pumpkin Queen by Shea Ernshaw. I'm not very far, but I like it :)

Currently Consuming: Ice water

Currently Craving: Ice Water.

Tagged by: @lovelylovelyartist​ Tagging: Anyone :3

[sweatervest-obsessed]

Hangovers and Hickeys

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Reader

WC: no idea rn lmao probably like 700

A/N: some Spence content before the new year (on the western calendar). Hope you all get to enjoy the day!

“Good morning sunshine.”

You winced at the sheer volume of his voice. “If I could, id shove you off of the roof Derek Morgan.”

“Fun night?”

You snorted and finally lifted your head off of the desk. “You should be a profiler.”

That caused Derek to laugh, which made you wince and close your eyes. The sunglasses perched on your nose were supposed to be helping. They weren’t.

“That’s a nice hickey you got there.”

You grunted in response and tried to adjust your sweater collar so it would cover the hickey you missed this morning when you didn’t look in the mirror. You had basically rolled out of bed, and into your car to make sure you got to work on time.

“Who gave it to you?” “Why don’t you use your super duper profiling skills to deduce it or whatever Sherlock shit you wanna do.”

Derek snorted and shook his head. ”or you could just….tell me.”

“Don’t worry about it Derek.” You grumbled.

When Derek realized he wasn’t going to get any answers out of you about it, he decided he was going to change tactics.

“Moving on from Boy Wonder?” It was no secret that you had a crush on a certain nerdy doctor. And so Derek tried to use this knowledge to his advantage.

You crossed your arms and just raised your eyebrows. “I’m not dignifying that with a response,”

“Pretty sure that was my answer.” He chuckled, sitting down in his chair and swiveling to look at you.

When you decided to just ignore Derek, and face your desk, he piped up again. “Where is he anyways?” “No idea.”

It was like he was waiting for his cue from you. Spencer pushed open the doors to the bull pen and strolled in. He had his purple scarf around his neck, over his new coat that Henry (JJ) had gotten him for Christmas. It was a beautiful grey pea coat that kept him warm during these freezing winter months. Spender was carrying a tray with two coffees on it and what seemed like a bag from McDonalds, which seemed to be for you, since he was headed in your direction.

The smell of the food caused you to groan with joy and smile at the man walking towards you.

“My knight in shining armor.” You muttered as he placed the whole tray in front of you. You placed a kiss on his cheek hasilty, causing him to blush a little.

“I got hashbrowns from both McDonald’s and Dunkin’, a little smorgasbord of grease for your pallet.” He whispered before taking one of the cups out of the tray.

“I’m going to marry you Doctor Spencer Reid.” You muttered, digging into the bag and pulling out one of the McDonald’s hash browns and biting into it. The groan you let out leaned a little on the pornographic side, which made Derek raise his eyebrows at the sound you let out, and then at tinge of pink on Spencer’s cheeks.

You continued eating, clueless about the silent interrogation happening to your left, enjoying every single bite and sip of your hangover cure.

“Derek I can hear you thinking and it’s making my head throb.”

Derek’s eyes snapped back to you, as your figure swiveled in the chair to face him, casually munching on some of the fries, in a completely different mood then from two minutes ago before Spencer had walked in the room.

“Sorry your highness. I’m just curious as to why Boy Genius here is bringing you hangover cures.”

“Well it’s his fault I’m this fucked up so he owes me.” You grumbled, swiveling around in your chair to face your desk. You pulled your lap top out of your canvas bag and started to set up for your work day.

“Wha-how is it his fault.”

That’s when Spencer turned bright red and tried to change the conversation, or at least get out of it. “I—well it’s not…I….hotch is…”

Spencer basically ran across the bullpen and up the stairs to Hotch’s office, avoiding the conversation he almost just had.

“I don’t think you wanna know.” You smirked and bit into the muffin from Dunks that Spencer had got you, not looking at the man behind you.

“I’m starting to think that too.” His eyes narrowed and he looked between where Spencer had run off to, and you.

Something was going on between the two of you, and Derek Morgan was going to figure it out.

[whorekneecentral]

Snow Storm

Pato O'Ward x Fem!Reader

Warnings: pato doesn't listen, snow storms, getting stranded, car troubles, reader's mad at him and will lowkey let him freeze, teasing, it's giving dom!pato for like 0.2 seconds, oral (f!receiving), lowkey blackmail, penetrative sex (P in V), creampie.

Word Count: 1,729

Author's Note: this is for the six pato fans out there, I hope y'all like this one :)

merry smutmas series

--

Your boyfriend insists the roads are fine to drive despite the massive incoming snow storm; as someone who grew up in cold weather, you knew better. yet, there you were stuck on the side of the road with him in the snow. 

"Do you seriously have to go right now?" You asked him, leaning over from your spot on the bed.

Your boyfriend nods, "yes, because if I leave it back - I won't finish wrapping it. Plus, it's a week before Christmas, the wrapping paper might be sold out."

Rolling your eyes, you sit up properly. "Pato, don't be ridiculous. They're not gonna run out of wrapping paper."

"You never know!" He huffed, arms flung in the air like a child.

You and Pato had returned to your home town to spend Christmas with your family before heading up to Mexico to join his family for New Year. It had been snowing on and off since you got home a few days ago but it really came down last night. Most of the roads were a disaster but Pato was insistent on getting this stupid wrapping paper.

"The roads are going to be a mess, babe. Can we not just go tomorrow?" You asked him but the man was already getting up, grabbing his hoodie off the end of your bed.

"Please," he shrugs you off, "I drive race cars, a little snow ain't nothing to a driver like me."

You can't help but laugh at his dramatics; you grew up in the snow, you know how brutal it can be to get stuck out there and yet, you stupidly follow him down the staircase and to the car.

Pato takes the side street the two of you had taken many times before. See, you lived in a small town in the middle of basically nowhere. When it snowed, people tended to stay indoors but they did plow the roads, but only the main ones took priority. This meant that the road you were on was one of the last to be plowed yesterday and had yet to be plowed today.

With the snow coming down on top of what had already fallen that morning, the mountain of snow piled up along the sides of the road. Pato's focused on the road but as he turns to go over the hill before getting into town, the wheel stops moving. He can hear the grinding, the wheels spinning but it's stuck in something.

You look over at the man, "are you kidding me right now?"

"Wha-" he sighs, "I'll go check." He tells you, pulling the hood over his head as he steps out of the car.

When he opens the door, you shiver. You had not only followed him out of the house but you were wearing sweats and a hoodie, that was nowhere close to enough to keep you warm.

"So," he says as he gets back into the car, looking over at you with a tight lipped smile. "We're stuck."

"Yeah, no shit Sherlock." You sighed, pinching the bridge of your nose.

"Okay, so I can push the car out-" he says but you stop him, waving him off. "There's no point, you won't make it over the hill and there's too much snow to make it back to the house right now."

His brows furrow, looking over at you. "So what? We're just stuck here?"

"Yeah, for now at least." You pick up your phone and text your sister, letting her know you two are stuck and if she could please call the roadside assistance. Pato sat quietly, not wanting to annoy you further; after all, you did suggest to wait until tomorrow.

"We're here for at least another 3 hours," you tell him, "she says they're gonna clear the roads and then come this way."

The man nods, staring out the window as you unbuckled, shifting in your seat to climb into the back. He looks at you, confused and you pat the spot next to you. "If we're gonna be stuck for 3 hours, we can at least be warm. Come cuddle."

He climbs over the seat, clinging to you the moment he gets into the backseat. While you were cold, you were used to this weather so it wasn't so bad but for Pato, it was as if you had shipped him off to Antarctica. He's shivering, trying to get as close to you as possible; he wonders if you'd let him get into your sweater with you.

You can't help but laugh at the sight of your boyfriend. He huffs, looking up at you. "What?"

"I told you not to come out today." You laughed and he rolled his eyes. "How rude? Don't roll your eyes at me."

"Or what?"

"Or I'll move and let you freeze to death." You tell him and Pato smiles, sitting up a bit. "You won't."

It's your turn to roll your eyes now, moving away from your boyfriend towards the door. Pato ignores your theatrics and moves closer to you again, cuddling into your side. You don't move nor do you react, you simply ignore the man.

Pato holds back the urge to roll his eyes, his lips pressed to your jaw and moves down to your neck, leaving a trail of kisses behind. "C'mon mi amor, I'm sorry."

You ignore the man, not answering him. You'd move away again but if you move another further, you'd end up outside of the car.

He huffs, "fine, if you won't help me warm up, I'll warm myself up." His hand moves from your thigh to the hem of your sweats, shoving his hand down the front.

"Pato!" You laughed, grabbing his wrist. He smiles, "oh so that got your attention?"

"You mean you shoving your freezing hand down my pants? Yeah," you laughed but the man doesn't move his hand- at least not in the way you meant. His fingers rubbed over your panties, he can feel how warm you are, how wet you were.

"Something's got you worked up?" He asks and you ignore him question, your bottom lip pulled between your teeth as you try not to moan.

Pato's fingers worked slowly, pulling your panties to the side to rub on your clit and you let out a little whimper - by accident of course.

He figured there had to be a fast way to get you to forgive him. He moves his hand away and you give him a look, one he knows too well - why'd you do that. "I know," he tells you, "I'm sorry babe, one second." He pulls you by your hips to lay on the bed seat, your Uggs on the floor as he reaches for your sweats, pulling them off.

"How is this gonna make me warm?" You grumbled, an arm over your face.

"Shut up, will you?" He glances up to you, repositioning himself between your legs.

His hands rub over your thighs and despite his hands being freezing, it felt like every nerve in your body was on fire. Eventually, his hand ends up right where it previously was - exactly where you wanted it.

You let out a breath when you feel his lips on your thigh, soft kisses being peppered across the surface of your inner thigh. Your head falls back against the seat when you feel his tongue on you, he’s yet to move your panties and you're already a mess.

He finally does, smiling to himself “Fuck-” you breathe, fingers tangled in his hair.

Pato glances up at you, his nose brushes against your clit and he doesn't miss the sound coming out of your mouth or the way your hips jut towards him.

"Pato," you whined, pulling on his hair when he stopped for a moment. He chuckles, "do you forgive me?" He asked, a hand running up the side of your thigh.

You propped yourself up on your elbows, looking at the man. "What?"

"Say you forgive me and I'll give you whatever you want, corazón."

"Fine," you huffed, "I forgive you." You tell him quickly, pulling him back to you. Pato laughs, his face buried between your legs once again.

Your thighs squeeze around his face; he'd die a happy man right there.

You can't wait any longer, you need him in every sense of the word. Pulling your boyfriend up, he kisses you when he meets your face and you can taste yourself on him, the two of you shuffling around a bit. Pato's sitting now, his own pants pulled down half over his thighs and you're on top of him, straddling him.

He lets you sink down onto his cock. Both of you letting out a satisfied sigh, your hands gripping on his shoulders as you set the pace.

He lets out a groan when you clench around him, his hands squeezing your bare thighs, red finger prints on your skin. Pato's face buried in the crook of your neck.

Your hand tangles in his hair, pulling his head back so you can kiss him. You kiss all over his face, Pato cheeks red from the blush forming on his cheeks.

He loves when you love on him like that.  

“You’re so good for me,” you mumble against his cheek, rocking your hips back and forth. “Mmm there,” you breathe, chest pressed to his. His lips find the base of your neck, he bites down softly before kissing up to your jaw.

Pato's arms wrapped around you, holding you close as you bounced on his lap. The two of you are tangled together, not sure where one of you ends and the other starts. The windows are steamy, you're no longer freezing but instead, you were sweating.

"C'mon, just like that pretty girl," he edges you on, lifting his hips to meet you halfway.

“My pretty girl, so good for me.” He whispers into the silence.

You pull him down onto you, his chest pressed to yours and your hand rests on his cheek. Your boyfriend kissing you and with a few sloppy thrusts, you feel yourself being pushed over the edge.

He groans, feeling you clench around him and he follows behind you, now coming down from his own high.

The two of you clinging onto each other, his hands slip under the back of your sweater and you giggle, bucking forward on his lap which makes him groan.

"Don't do that," he tells you and you roll your eyes, "then don't tickle me!"

Pato laughs, pulling you in for a kiss. "Warm now?"

"Sweating," you huffed, smiling against his lips.

--

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[jrow]

May Prompts (2)

Day 1 here. Day 3 here.

Box

The box is mocking him.

It sits on the coffee table, untouched from where it was placed seven hours (and a lifetime) ago.

He had tried to deduce its contents when John first arrived last night. He’d failed.

He hadn't been surprised John brought a gift. But he’d been sure it would be something practical. Something detached and free of overt sentiment. Gloves. A book. New safety goggles to replace the pair that melted last week.

John had given him a textbook on entomology for Christmas. That had made sense. But the big box wrapped in blue paper and topped with an elegant red bow flummoxed Sherlock. Still did. Especially since John had a touch of red on his cheeks as he put it down.  

You can open it when we get back, John had stammered. Gifts after cake. Those are the rules.

Sherlock hates rules. Breaks them when they get in his way. This isn't even a real rule, but John had looked so earnest. So, for once, Sherlock hadn't argued.

They never did have the cake. Gifts after cake, those are the rules. So, the box will sit on the coffee table. Untouched. Mocking him.

Well, he never intended on staying here anyways. The box can have the flat to itself.

He mindlessly throws clothes into a bag—pants, socks, a pair of trousers and a couple of shirts. He gently adds the textbook before zipping the duffel closed. Everything else he needs is already at the house in Putney. It’s time to go.

Adding some tags from people who commented on day 1. Let me know if you want to be added or removed.

@jolieblack @friday411 @calaisreno @raina-at @safedistancefrombeingsmart @meetinginsamarra @totallysilvergirl @helloliriels @lisbeth-kk @keirgreeneyes @a-victorian-girl

[starkraivennemad]

Facing the Storm

Mycroft looked at his phone as it buzzed with a number not heard from in nearly two years.

“Hello Inspector, I…”

"Fuck you and that inspector shit!!! I'll be home in thirty. Get over there now, you bastard!" Greg spat, then immediately rang out.

Mycroft stared at his phone and knew there was only ONE reason for the call now.

The day he has looked forward to -and anxiously dreaded was now upon him.

He sighed as he looked out of the sedan window at the dark stormy night of London on his way home. He could barely see out the windscreen, its wipers barely able to hold the tide against the torrential rain that lashed violently against the windows.

"Change of plans, Edgar." Mycroft gave his driver an address on the opposite side of London. "Inspector Lestrade's flat."

"Sir?"

"He's met with my resurrected brother."

“Ah...” Edgar made the U-turn.

This was a different storm for Mycroft to face.

----    ----

Mycroft recalled Gregory's flat faced the front of the building and realized his approach had been noted and was not surprised to find Gregory’s door slightly ajar when he reached it. He was surprised to open it and find a towel that waited on at the table by the door, but not the owner of the flat.

Gregory stood by the wide windows, his back to Mycroft as he watched the raging storm outside.

Mycroft entered, placed his umbrella in the stand and hung his coat next Gregory's on the rack before he faced the room.

In moments of weakness, Mycroft has watched Gregory via cameras. But he had not seen the man in person in nearly two years.

And Gregory… looked good.

The stress of clearing his name at work, and life in general, has made his hair more silver, but he remained a rugged, casually gorgeous man.

There were many things Mycroft Holmes wanted to say to Gregory Lestrade. What came out of his mouth instead was not it.

“You look like you just saw a ghost.”

Gregory flinched; his reflected face glared at Mycroft in disbelief. Mycroft could not blame him; he was appalled with himself at the inappropriate jest. Mycroft suspected the D.I. was purposely keeping his distance, lest he give into the temptation to lay hands on him -and not in a good way.

“Your brother made the same bad joke. He told you he’s seen me…” It was an accusation.

“No, he has not. I know you have by… your level of anger.”

“My level of…” Gregory practically snarled as he spun from the window. “You lied to me, Mycroft. For two fucking years.”

“I never lied to you, Gregory. I couldn’t…”

Gregory started for his kitchen.  "It's shit out there, have a seat. The water's hot and I have the Darjeeling you like."

“I… I think this conversation requires something… stronger.”

Gregory paused, then came back with two glasses and a gift-wrapped box. He threw the paper at Mycroft as he revealed a very expensive bottle of scotch. Scotch that had come up in a conversation during dinner some time ago. Without looking Mycroft knew it was supposed to be a Christmas present from Gregory to  him. Christmas from the previous year as the crumpled-up paper and gift tag in his hands confirmed with a gut punch.

"Thank you.” Mycroft accepted the glass. “Before you speak Gregory, or give to the ardent desire to punch me, will you please hear me out?"

Greg threw him a look, that barely hid the smirk of veracity to the threat. "Whatever."

Mycroft took a fortifying sip of his scotch; not tasting it in his nervousness, as he took a deep breath and began.

“My brother and I. Our relationship… is complicated as you well know. We obfuscate, and omit truths at times, but we never lie when it is of importance and we never break a vow with each other. I told you my brother did what he did to save John, Mrs. Hudson, and you." 

Greg made an impatient get on with it gesture...

"Sherlock made me vow, not promise vow, I would tell no one he was alive – no exceptions.” Mycroft looked at Greg, then lowered his head at the coldness found there. “On St. Bart’s roof, Sherlock found a loophole in Moriarty’s reasoning. One in which Moriarty committed suicide to close it shut… And thus, Sherlock…jumped.”

There was no time to arrange visual, but Sherlock had been wired, so Mycroft had heard everything between Sherlock and Moriarty. Still, Mycroft shuddered in the memory of those harrowing seconds after the gunshot, when he had no idea whether one or both on the roof were dead. Mycroft’s overwhelmingly relief in receiving Sherlock’s text LAZARUS was immediately overshadowed in the enormity of then carrying out LAZARUS IS GO.

Even now nearly two years later, Mycroft shuddered in the memory.

“Gregory, I made that vow in the planning stages never believing it would be needed.” Mycroft forced himself to continue. “I made that vow before I realized keeping that vow meant I had to lie to the man I was then only realizing I had fallen in love with.” Mycroft looked up and held Gregory’s eyes. He watched as Gregory took the words and processed them; saw the moment the impact of them registered and continued, “Yes, I said he jumped, but I never said that he died. No exceptions, unfortunately included you, Gregory. I could not bear to ask him to let me tell the man I loved whom I could see whenever I wanted, when he risked everything for John and could not.” Mycroft drained his glass and put it down. “And I absolutely could not continue to face you with that hanging over my head. I could not. So, I… I kept my vow… And withdrew from you.”

“I know.” Gregory said quietly after a moment.

“You know?”

“Well, I do now…” Gregory admitted. “Sherlock snuck his resurrection on me in NSY carpark. Once I got over the shock, he told me the much the same as you about your vow. And…” Gregory ran rough hand through his hair, setting it awry. “…He begged me to forgive you - but still did not really know why I should… until now.”

Mycroft understood it meant Sherlock had not broken his vow to Mycroft to not tell Gregory of his love.

The silence stretched long and uncomfortable as both men watched the storm outside until Mycroft’s phone buzzed.

Text>> I tried to explain, but he was livid upon realizing you’ve known all this time. I did not realize it was reciprocal until I saw his face. It is the same fury and hurt I saw with John. If you see him, know that I did not tell what is yours to say to him. – SH Text>> In retrospect, I see now I have broken four hearts with this vow I forced upon you. I do not know if John can ever forgive me in this – or if Greg will with you. – SH Text>> I am sorry. – SH

Mycroft sighed and showed Gregory the texts.

“John will forgive him… eventually...”  Gregory stood, poured himself a fresh drink and walked away to stare out the window again.

Mycroft understood the silent dismissal for what it was. He went to the door and took his things before he opened it.

“Is my brother right, Gregory?”

“Yes, it is reciprocated. And yes, I am furious and hurt…” Gregory answered after a moment.

Mycroft stepped out and with his back to Greg and his hand on the door, he forced himself to ask one last question. “And will you forgive me?”

“Eventually…but not tonight.”

Mycroft left. Outside, he looked at the continuing deluge, undecided on which storm was worse.

----------------------------------------

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[leaentries]

🎄prompt 13 w/ Jamie Drysdale

this is so stinking cute

warnings: swearing

prompt 13- “if you don’t take me to see christmas lights, i’ll cry.”

lea’s christmas special!

It was finally December, the air was filled with your jolly spirit as you blasted christmas music in your apartment. The smell of your freshly brought in Christmas tree added to the sentiment. Gold, red, and green slowly crept its way into every aspect of your little space until it looked like Christmas had vomited everywhere.

Of course, this is how you preferred it. Colors strewn about, with decorations filling all the rooms. It brought joy to your heart and warmth to your soul. Jamie, although you two had been together for over a year, was still shocked when he walked into your apartment that December 1st morning.

“Wow, pretty girl,” He walked over to you, looking around at the vast amount of glitter and fake snow, “You really didn’t hold back, did you?”

You turned towards him, as his arms circled around your waist, “Well obviously not! You know Christmas is my favorite time of year!” Jamie smiled at you, taking in your appearance. The way the oversized Christmas sweatshirt hung on your body, to the matching red socks. He adored you.

“I know, I know, baby. And I love that you love it so much.” He placed his lips against your head as he mumbled, “I also brought some of your favorite hot chocolate from that little shop down the street.”

Your eyes widened in delight as you left his arms and raced to the kitchen table where he had set the drinks down upon walking in.

He admired your animated form with a lovesick grin. A chuckle left his lips as you burned yourself slightly in your over excitement. “Calm down, it’s hot.”

You gave him a side eye at his teasing smirk, “No shit sherlock.” Rolling your eyes, you gently blow on your drink, before taking a less-burning sip. The liquid’s warmth spread from your mouth through your body. You let your eyes shut in delight, a small hum of approval leaving your lips.

Jamie’s mind became void of anything as he watched your pleasured features. Your tongue darted out to lick a drop off of your parted lips. He swallowed thickly.

“This is the best drink in the world, I swear. And that little shop? God, I don’t know how they do it. I have to get the recipe from the owner.” You set the cup down, walking back to where Jamie remained at the kitchen island. “You know, I just was taking to the owner the other day actually. She was telling me about how her and her wife just got a puppy and they’re super exci-”

You stopped mid sentence as you became aware of Jamie’s staring. “What’s up with you, Jam?”

He shook his head slightly, coming back to reality. “N-nothing. I’m all good, pretty girl.” You raised a brow at him, “Promise. Now, what were you saying about the owner?”

❥.

After finishing your drinks, you and Jamie found yourselves cuddle on the couch binging Christmas movies. With the heat of his body, paired with the soft glow of the tv, you quickly slipped into a welcomed slumber.

Your body slowly began to awake, as you noticed the credits of “Home Alone” were now playing on the screen. Tilting your head, you saw Jamie’s peaceful sleeping face, the deep rise and fall of his chest could be felt beneath you. Although, your movements must have woken him as his hand came up to push your head back to the crook of his neck.

“Ja-”

“Shhhh. Not yet, don’t wanna leave you.”

You forced your head up, causing a deep sigh to leave his mouth. “Oh come on J, it’s already,” You grabbed your phone to check the time, “7:47. All of the Christmas lights are definitely on by now.”

Damn. He was hoping you’d forget that he promised to go drive around looking at lights tonight.

Jamie let another out another sigh. “What if I told you I would rather just lay with you all night instead?”

You looked him dead in the eye with no expression, “If you don’t take me to see Christmas lights, I’ll cry.”

“Fine, fine. Let’s go look at Christmas lights.”

“Yes!” Your face lit up immediately, you scrambling to your feet to slip on your Christmas slippers. You ran to the door to grab the matching pair you had bought Jamie. “Alright, J! Let’s go!”

Jamie just shook his head, chuckling at your antics.

If driving around for hours looking at lights on random houses is what his girl wanted, then thats exactly what his girl was gonna get.

[lisbeth-kk]

May Prompts (22) Night

The Luckiest Girl in the World (chapter 22)

I'm so sorry. Go get those tissues. I've used all of mine.

Summary: Rosie gets devastating news, and all she can think of is how her Papa is coping.

Twenty-Two Years Old

When Dad called with the news, my first thought was quite irrational: oh no, we’re never going to celebrate our twentieth anniversary! The second thought hit me with force and made me breathless: how is Papa doing?

“I’ll hop on the next…”

“No need, sweetheart. A car will pick you up in approximately fifteen minutes,” Dad assured me, and that’s when I started to cry.

***

Uncle Myc stood and waited for me outside the car when I ran to the kerb. His arms opened and I collapsed against him, heartbroken and totally devastated. He didn’t try to comfort me with words of nonsense, like it’s going to be ok, because he knew it would be a long time before any of us would be fine after this sudden and tragic loss.

“She seemed fine yesterday,” I told uncle Myc on the way home.

“Yes, so I have been…informed,” he sighed.

“How is he?” I asked, terrified of the answer.

“As expected.”

“Rock bottom,” I mumbled, and felt my throat tighten painfully from withheld tears.

“Indeed,” uncle agreed gravely.

***

It was worse than I expected. Papa’s loud voice boomed like a signal horn from upstairs when I locked us in.

“How could you not have seen the signs? You’re a bloody doctor, John!”

The words were spit like venom. I couldn’t discern Dad’s reply, but his voice was calm. He knew Papa wasn’t angry at him, but he needed to vent his sorrow, shock and devastation at someone. Luckily for everyone involved, Papa had chosen the right person for such an onslaught.

Before I climbed the stairs, I looked over at Nana’s door.

Gone. Dead. You’ll never see her again. There’ll be no more Christmas baking. She’ll never scold Papa for being petulant anymore. England has fallen.

The seventeen steps had never been so steep, my body never so heavy, and at the same time it felt hollow. 

“Nearly there, Rosamund,” uncle Myc murmured from behind me.

I woke from my daze and realised that the shouting had stopped. In its wake came a sound so heartbreaking, it made tears flow down my cheeks. Before I opened the door, a thought hit me like a battering ram, making me lose my balance for a moment.

If Papa mourned Nana like this, he would be utterly destroyed if Dad died before him. Not even his biological family’s demise could elicit such grief from him.

***

Inside the flat, Papa clung to Dad, and it struck me how small he seemed in that moment. So lost and bereft. This was not a puzzle he could solve, or a culprit he could catch to make everything right again.

“Rosie’s home,” Dad whispered to Papa and reached for me.

I didn’t think Papa would let go of Dad, give me room, or even detect the words, but he did. My name seemed to have a magical effect on him, because he straightened, turned his pained face at me and lifted his arm to indicate that I was welcomed into his and Dad’s cocoon. We held on to each other for what felt like hours. Dad asking if we were alright, Papa muttering something under his breath, and I just clung to my parents, wordless.

Dad, always reliable in a crisis, remembered that there was another person present, and carefully entangled himself after kissing us both, guiding our arms to embrace. Papa mumbled his name questioningly.

“Just give me a few minutes, Sherlock. Take care of Rosie, yeah?”

Papa nodded and pulled me closer, cradling the back of my head, whispering my precious girland I’m so sorry you have to go through this, and she loved you like a granddaughter.

***

The days leading up to the funeral alternated between the three of us sharing memories about the core of 221 Baker Street, what we would miss most about her, and lots and lots of crying. 

Dad was our rock in all of this, despite that he grieved his former landlady too. Some nights, Papa was inconsolable, and I thought his heart would literally break. He curled up in bed and sobbed full of despair. Only Dad could hope to console him, coaxing him out of the dark place he had locked himself in.

Both me and Papa agreed that we would honour Martha Hudson on the day of the funeral. Nana’s niece, Deidre, was her only living relative, and uncle Myc assured her that we would arrange everything if she weren’t able. From what Dad told me, she was relieved, having just started her tattoo studio, and she was quite short of money after the investments. 

***

Leaving uncle Myc and his minions in charge of the ceremony, proved to be ingenious, as we all expected. Even Nana would’ve been pleased with him, I think.

It all took place at Pembroke Lodge in Richmond Park. The Grade II listed Georgian Mansion is a beautiful and tranquil place, posh, but not over the top. 

The pleasantly warm weather allowed us to go dressed without jackets and coats. To honour Nana, all of us wore something purple, her favourite colour. Even uncle Myc acquiesced to leave his black suit at home, and instead he wore a light grey three-piece-suit with a deep purple tie.

Deidre showed up with purple nail polish, her black hair in spikes, the dramatic makeup intact, purple leather trousers, and a matching jacket with a black shirt underneath. Her Doc Martens boots were bright red. She was over the moon about the venue and to what lengths we’d gone to ensure a proper farewell for her aunt.

***

We didn’t know all the mourners, but I think I spotted a few celebrities who wore gigantic sunglasses and hats to hide their identities, which obviously had the opposite effect. 

Ginny, who conducted the ceremony was a calming presence throughout, and informed the congregation that there would be one speech apart from her own, and musical elements performed by a pianist and Papa on violin.

Papa held it together through his potpourri of Nana’s favourite classical pieces. He had his eyes closed and lost himself in the music. It was heartbreakingly beautiful. Beside me Dad clasped my hand firmly and never took his eyes off Papa. Admiration, love, sorrow and grief washed over his face in quick succession. He rose when Papa lowered his bow and looked over at the coffin that was decorated with purple lilacs. I saw the moment his knees gave way, but Dad was already at his side holding him close whispering something in his ear. I went over to them to pry the violin and bow out of Papa’s limp hands and let him lean into Dad’s arms.

“Thank you, sweetheart,” Dad murmured teary-eyed.

Papa’s sobbing was muffled by his face being buried in Dad’s neck. Dad’s hand cradled the back of Papa’s head like it was a delicate object made of china. Slowly, Dad led Papa back to his seat and he held him tight until it was my turn to honour my beloved Nana.

The night I decided how to do it, Dad and Papa asked if I was sure I would manage it on my own. I retorted that of course I would. I was not a child anymore. What I hadn't considered was that reading a poem out loud in my room was completely different than performing it in front of a crowd, not to mention the emotional impact this performance would have on me.

I got to my feet when Ginny gave the signal and walked over to stand beside the coffin and opened the book on the correct page. Dad and Papa noticed before I did. Something gave me away. Did the book tremble in my hands, did my legs quiver, or did my breathing start to go wild with panic? Whatever it was, they both stood, came over to me, embraced me with their backs to the onlookers to shield me.

“Are you sure you want to go through with this, Bee?” Papa asked with a thick voice filled to the brim with withheld tears.

“You don’t have to, you know. Nobody would…” 

I cut Dad off abruptly feeling the soothing effect the closeness of my parents had on me.

“I’m sure. Stay, will you?” I said quietly.

“Of course,” they retorted in unison.

***

I took a deep breath, let go of my parents and we all turned to the other mourners and I started to read with one father on each side, radiating comfort and love.

Warning

When I am an old woman, I shall wear purple  With a red hat which doesn’t go and doesn’t suit me.  And I shall spend my pension on brandy and summer gloves  And satin sandals, and say we’ve no money for butter.  I shall sit down on the pavement when I’m tired  And gobble up samples in shops and press alarm bells  And run my stick along the public railings  And make up for the sobriety of my youth.  I shall go out in my slippers in the rain  And pick flowers in other people’s gardens  And learn to spit.  You can wear terrible shirts and grow more fat  And eat three pounds of sausages at a go  Or only bread and pickle for a week  And hoard pens and pencils and beermats and things in boxes.  But now we must have clothes that keep us dry  And pay our rent and not swear in the street  And set a good example for the children.  We must have friends to dinner and read the papers.  But maybe I ought to practice a little now?  So, people who know me are not too shocked and surprised  When suddenly I am old and start to wear purple.

Today, I will nudge you in the direction of AO3 and the end notes to give you some context

@calaisreno @totallysilvergirl @keirgreeneyes @helloliriels @raina-at

More tags in the replies

[inevitably-johnlocked]

Five Fics Friday: March 8/24

Happy Friday everyone!! It's a shorter weekend for those of us in North America, so may as well spend all the time you got with one of these fantastic fics added to my MFL list!! Enjoy! :D

RECENT MFLs

Freeing from the Chains by writingismydivision (G, 1,552 w., 1 Ch. || Post-TFP, Angst with Happy Ending, Good Friend Molly) – It was like being held by chains, to be in love with him.

Echoes of the Heart by reveling_in_mayhem (T, 4,478+ w. || 3/8 Ch. || WiP || Magical Realism AU || Hurt/Comfort) – Sherlock Holmes is nine years old when he makes a wish. John Watson is twelve years old when he starts to dream of a boy with sad eyes. Sometimes, the wishes we make come true. Sometimes, eventually, we wish for something different. This is the story of how one wish changes the lives of two boys forever.

My heart is yours by Lock_John_Silver (E, 5,864 w., 2 Ch. || Holidays, Established Relationship, Marriage Proposal, Fluff, Light Dom/Sub, Wedding, Love Poems, Wedding Rings) – During the holiday in gorgeous Tuscany, John makes a decision for this year's Christmas. Their last night in Italy doesn't change his mind in the slightest.

Oyster and Mushroom Soup by meet_me_in_samarra (M, 8,922 w., 3 Ch. || Pining Sherlock, Jealous Sherlock, Awkward Flirting, Oblivious John, Humour and Crack, Internet Seduction Advice, POV Sherlock, Clueless Sherlock, Getting Together, Cooking) – What does a helplessly pining but absolutely clueless Sherlock do in order to woo an oblivious John? He turns to the internet for advice on the art of seduction and notes the experiments in his secret laboratory journal. Sherlock's second try to win over John involves a lot of special cooking recipes. Part 2 of the Sherlock´s Secret Laboratory Journal series

The Acquisition Of One John Watson by lookupkate (E, 17,976 w., 16 Ch. || Serial Killer AU || Serial Killer John, Vigilante John, BAMF John, Infatuated Sherlock, First Kiss) – Sherlock watched John looooooong before they ever met. John has a secret.

[pherelesytsia]

Thomas Shelby Masterlist

Mr Loverman Thomas receives a call and imagines the worst.

Forgotten DinnerSunday dinner was always important to Y/N, but the night ends differently after Thomas arrives over five hours too late.(+18) Whisper of a loving HeartThomas Shelby was always drawn to Y/N, but never found the courage to invite her to dinner but when a man dances with her he can no longer stay in the background.

Safe and SoundThomas Shelby never found time to spend a day with his wife and daughter, but one day he stays home.

Bloodbath At his daughter’s 18th birthday Thomas is not enjoying the attention his daughter is receiving from the male guests but his wife can calm him down before the feast can end in a bloodbath. Burn little witchThomas Shelby, a knight on a hunt for a witch finds his horse under the care of a woman living in the cottage instead of a wicked creature and slowly falls in love with her.

PART ONE

Fool of a Man After a fight, Thomas comes home.(+18)

Feast for Eyes Thomas comes after a long day home.(+18)

Love me tender, Y/N´s parents find out their daughter is dating Thomas Shelby.

Ragging Oceans Thomas finds his girlfriend crying by the cliffs.

Lovelier than a Dream Lazy mornings are not common in the Shelby household, but one spring morning, Thomas cannot find the motivation to get dressed.

How did you know? Y/N always had special abilities, saw the future of her family but one day after John nearly faced death, Thomas demands answers.

Stars were falling, Thomas and Y/N are stargazing and lose themselves in the beauty of the night.

Bleeding Heart Y/N takes care of Thomas after he was shot.

Forbidden Fruit Alfie Solomons finds out his younger sister is dating Thomas Shelby and forbids her to see him ever again, but his words cannot scare her.

Secret Girlfriend, Thomas Shelby, a man of many secrets, can no longer keep one of his most guarded secrets hidden after his girlfriend is in danger.

In the Shadow of Somme Thomas believes his sister is a blessed woman, never faced war nor the destruction of France, but one day they find out what their sister was up to in 1916.

Duties of a father, Thomas has not only neglected his duties as a husband but also as a father.

Duties of a Husband Thomas makes his wife know how deeply he loves and needs her.

Blinders Business As Thomas Shelby hears of a thriving business in town, he arranges a meeting with the head of the company.

I'll never be her, Finding out Thomas has been secretly seeing Grace, Y/N leaves with Charlie.

I have always loved you,Y/N finds out Thomas is warming another woman's bed and suddenly she finds herself in John's arms.

Shadows of the Untold Thomas discovers the dark past of his wife.

May I have this dance? Thomas had never found the bravery to ask Y/N to a dance, let alone talk to her, but when he notices her in the embrace of a man and hears about the men desiring to marry her, he cannot hold back.

How could you…. A rumour turned into truth, and the brothers are incapable of forgiving the youngest among them.

Dance through the Rain The romantic anniversary was planned to the smallest detail, but Thomas failed to include a rainstorm.

The Sailors Chant When Y/N's date doesn't show up, she sets off on her own through the dark streets of Birmingham.

Sealed Promise A secret, guarded like the royal crown, uncovered by Sherlock Holmes, comes to light.

The Ring In hope of getting her hand in marriage, men of high status are knocking on the door, but the man Y/N hopes to see is not among them.

The Barn Thomas and his girlfriend meet in secret, but the weather gets in the way.

Lurking in the Shadows As Halloween draws near, Charlie's mother worries that even Thomas will fear the costume of his son.

Coming Home for Christmas Returning home late after a rough day, Thomas arrives in an empty living room and not even the dog greets him.

(Un)lonely on Christmas Thomas visits Garrisons and meets the new barmaid.

Love me series

As Thomas Shelby hears Y/N´s parents are searching for a suitable husband for their child Y/N faces a loveless marriage she hoped to never encounter, but slowly the cold walls crumble as the scent of spring is dancing over the meadows.

PART ONE PART TWO PART THREE

Lost series

Thomas Shelby, a single father, lost his son at the fair and finds him in the arms of an unknown woman and is enchanted by her.

Part One Part Two Part Three

Who did this to you...?

Bruised and broken, Y/N, trapped in a loveless marriage, arrives at her best friend's house, desperately hoping someone will help her, aware she cannot return to the estate of her husband.

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7

[petewentzsvaginabones]

Proper Introduction

Sup i’m Max (might change it tho)

i’m the #1 mike fuentes hater, extremely socially awkward, some sort of puppy boy (not in a furry or therian way even tho y’all are cool asf, those are just kinda the vibes 🤷‍♂️) i’ve been told that i’m pretty odd :) /ref

more shit under the cut cuz this is long

any random blurbs abt life or fandom/bandom shit go under #occasionally ace rambles

Sexuality: GAYYYYYYYY (bisexual, homo-romantic, aroace-flux)

Gender: Dude (ftm)

my silly little issues: Chronic joint pain, autism, depression, anxiety, anger issues

current hyperfixations:

dan and phil

MCR

PTV

P!ATD

past hyperfixations:

the grinch

monster high

anime (mha demon slayer ect)

cavetown

hamilton

greek and norse mythology

satanism

catholicism

cults

ghosts

sewing

crust punk fashion

scene fashion

scene music

It (2017, 2019)

SFX makeup

Gorillaz

stranger things

gravity falls

cirque du freak

asl

Harry Potter (i was 8)

beetle juice the musical

heart stopper

the little mermaid

SIX the musical

FOB

Queen (band)

The Beatles

Goth music and culture

favorite media:

Will Trent (books and show)

BBC Sherlock

Heartstopper

Dan and Phil (DanAndPhilGAMES, DanAndPhilCRAFTS, Daniel Howell, AmazingPhil)

Kaos

Cirque Du Freak

the Saw franchise (i’ve watched all of them at least three times)

Childs Play/the Chucky movies

Coraline

Nightmare Before Christmas

The Black Parade Is Dead!

Heathers (musical and movie)

The Crow (1993)

Bohemian Rhapsody

A Hard Days Night

Beetlejuice (musical and first movie)

Hamilton

Six The Musical

Shrek (1, 2, 3, and the musical, 4 is bs and unhappiness)

Flatliners (the one with Kiefer Sutherland)

RHPS

Bodies (netflix show)

special interest: Music (playing and listening)

bands/artists I listen to:

MCR, PTV, SWS, Paramore, Blink-182, Green Day, Misfits, Ramones, The Cramps, Radiohead, Pixies, FOB, FIR, Weezer, Nirvana, Deftones, Frank Iero, The Beatles, Queen, David Bowie, Roger Taylor, George Harrison, Paul McCartney, John Lennon, Jimi Hendrix, The Rolling Stones, Eric Clapton, Elton John, Wings, Pink Floyd, Gorillaz, Dolly Parton, SOAD, Tame Impala, Peter Gundry, Lil Darkie, Rob Zombie, McCafferty, The Cure, TV Girl, Dead Original, Grateful Dead

Instruments I play: Piano, guitar

fun fact: idk bro i’m actually boring asf

me lolz

[gregorovitch-adler]

Sock

"John this is ridiculous."

"I know! But it's fun, so let's go for it."

"Aren't we supposed to put the notes in some Christmas stockings?"

"Forgot to buy them," said John, closing his eyes momentarily. "Let's just use a pair of socks instead. They're perfectly clean."

"D'you think Father Christmas is real?" asked Sherlock, picking up a fresh, lone sock from the coffee table. "You think he'd fulfill my wish if I just wrote it on a paper and placed it in this stupid sock?"

"I don't! I realised long ago during my childhood that he isn't real. But Harry and I used to do it anyway. It just became a habitual thing," said John as he tore off a piece of paper from a small notebook and scribbled something on it. He folded that paper and placed it in the other sock - which was of the same pair as Sherlock's.

He looked up at Sherlock with expectation, who was just sitting there on his armchair, looking at the floor with his lips pressed together.

"Go on," said John and passed another piece of paper and a pen to Sherlock across the coffee table.

"If you know your wish isn't going to come true, this whole thing is a waste of time," Sherlock said and picked up the pen paper to write something anyway.

"It's not! Think of it as a type of manifestation." John stretched his legs and yawned.

They didn't have elaborate Christmas celebrations in 221 B, but John was still happy about tomorrow. Any special occasion spent at home - with Sherlock - was a day well spent.

"I don't believe in all that. Whatever's going to happen will happen. No matter how much you manifest."

John shook his head and sighed. "All right. Suit yourself then. I'm off to bed."

John got up from his armchair with the sock in his hand. He walked across the room to the fireplace and hung the sock over it.

His note inside it was short and simple: My Current Life.

He knew it was not a wish, technically, but he did not want any external factors to take Sherlock and his life at 221 B away from him. Again.

He'd had a deep and long talk with Sherlock about the staged suicide, and why Sherlock had to do it. John had finally started to see that incident from Sherlock's perspective too, and he really wished to keep his current life forever.

Besides, John knew that his feelings for Sherlock were unrequited, and things between them were going to be that way. It was not as though he could ask for Sherlock as his partner. He would rather keep his manifestations realistic.

With these thoughts, John went to the staircase leading to his room and started to climb up.

He entered his bedroom, closed the door behind him, and hopped onto the bed immediately. It didn't take him long to doze off.

John's eyes fluttered open in the middle of the night. He was thirsty. He got up and dropped his feet on the floor. After stretching his limbs, he got off the bed and stepped out of the bedroom to go downstairs.

John stopped in the middle of the staircase to take in the whole sitting room. They had decorated the Christmas tree a day before, and despite Sherlock's complaining now and then, it had been a pleasant time.

John noticed a pair of socks hanging above the fireplace - not just his own. He smiled. Sherlock had participated in something just because John had asked him to.

John went to the kitchen to grab a glass from one of the cabinets. He took it to the sink and opened the tap to fill it.

As he began to drink, leaning against the counter, John stared at the socks in the sitting room again.

He and Sherlock were not too dissimilar from a pair of socks, were they? Each completed the other; both were useless on their own.

He did not know about Sherlock, but John knew he was pretty much useless without him.

John closed his eyes and shook his head to get these thoughts out of his head again. He sighed. If only Sherlock felt the same.

Finishing the glass of water, he put it in the sink and wondered: What had Sherlock written in the note inside his sock?

John went to the sitting room and walked to the fireplace to reach for the other sock. He knew he shouldn't be looking into someone else's note - it was prying, and it defeated the purpose - but for some reason, he could not stop himself from doing it that night.

After all, what was it that Sherlock wanted in his life so much that he ended up hanging the sock with the note - when he didn't even believe in things like that? John felt like he needed to know.

John ran his fingers over the fabric of that sock, feeling the piece of paper from the outside.

John looked over his shoulder before finally taking out the paper. He swallowed as his heart began to race. He opened the paper carefully with his fingers, and his jaw dropped when he saw what the note said.

John.

Was he dreaming? Had Sherlock written that to mess with John? But no... he wouldn't have expected John to read the note. No, it was real!

Sherlock had wished for John this Christmas. It sounded unrealistic, so John turned around the note this way and that to see if there was more to it.

Nothing. Sherlock had actually wanted John, and that was it. Nothing else.

John couldn't control the huge grin forming on his face. But that grin quickly turned into a rueful smile. If only he had known about it sooner. Then again, John had not done a great job communicating about his feelings to Sherlock either.

Anyway, as he folded the paper to place it back in the sock, John made a decision.

The moment he faced Sherlock again in the morning, he was going to discuss this with him finally. No more misunderstandings. John was going to put an end to this pining tomorrow.

But tonight, he was going to sleep fine - cherishing the memory of Sherlock's note in that sock.

Tagging: @helloliriels @topsyturvy-turtely @gaylilsherlock @lisbeth-kk @keirgreeneyes @missdeliadili @lookingforlifeoutthere @peanitbear @a-victorian-girl @calaisreno @kettykika78

[isfjmel-phleg]

@inklings-challenge forgive me for being a day behind, but for yesterday's Chesterton Challenge prompt of "Mystery," here is an excerpt from a mystery story from the world of The Blackberry Bushes, a Morrick Hopeley story by L. D. Melbray, with annotations by Elystan Liddick. This is from the book that he annotated in the Christmas Chapter with the intention of presenting it to Levico as a gift.

(If you're unfamiliar with this, this is my fictional world's equivalent of Sherlock Holmes! So I am writing mimicking that style.)

In all my acquaintance with my friend Mr. Morrick Hopeley, I had never known him to seek out the company of a lady for any cause beyond his professional services.[1] Even his dealings with my Maira, despite the role that she played in the case of the Batsford Murders,[2] dripped with the distant courtesy of a gentleman toward a lady shopkeeper. If he ever had a mother or a sister or an aunt, he has never confided in me,[3] but I doubt not that if he did, he would regard them with his own peculiar mixture of aloofness and polite disdain. Exactly what was his reason for regarding the fair sex in this manner I cannot say with certainty;[4] it was among the unfortunate defects of my friend’s otherwise admirable character,[5] and a fault for which I have dared to rebuke him multiple times.[6] Once, when Hopeley and I shared rooms in Fisher Road, I went so far as to suggest that his aversion stemmed from a secret fear, and was rewarded with utter solitude for the rest of the evening.[7] Yet in the strange case of Miss Celeas Arkwright, which I am about to relate, Hopeley made an exception to his inexplicable rule, for indeed Miss Arkwright was an exceptional woman,[8] and it is by that designation that Hopeley has come to regard her—The Exception.

If I recall correctly, it began in the autumn of 1898.[9] Despite the moderate success of my literary career, the call of the stage once again had compelled me,[10] and I had joined the cast of a respectable, if not grand, production of The Misfortune of Mr. Naym.[11] My role was but a supporting one,[12] yet it provided enough comedic interest to keep me as diverted as our audiences for the next month. I had not seen Hopeley in weeks. If he had heeded my telegram pleading with him to attend my first night if he could, I had missed his unmistakable features among the crowd—no surprise, for my friend is a master of disguise.[13] I expected him to turn up anywhere during our run in some outlandish persona or another,[14] but on this particular night he chose, as ever, to defy my expectations and turned up in my dressing room in his own character after the end of the performance.

The expression on his face, as he leaned against my dressing table, arms crossed over his chest and long legs stretched out before him like a frog’s, plainly indicated that he relished the prospect of startling me.[15] I confess that I took some umbrage at his neglect of my first night,[16] and determined that I would not give him the satisfaction of my genuine reaction to his abrupt manifestation in my private quarters. I flatter myself that I am a creditable enough actor to maintain such a ruse.[17] Without a glance at him, I strode into the dressing room, shed the outermost layers of my costume, donned the dressing gown Maira gave me for Christmas (a quiet brown with a subtle self-stripe),[18] and seated myself at the dressing table to begin the rituals of cold cream, quite as if there were not an absurdly tall and silently perturbed man practically at my elbow.[19]

Halfway through divesting myself of greasepaint,[20] I allowed my eyes to drift in his direction and acknowledged him with a nod.

“Ah,” said I, “Hopeley. There you are, old chap. I see you have been dining with the ambassador of Faysmond—that is, when you have not been taking a lengthy stroll through the countryside near Fifield or acquiring the hobby of brass-rubbing. Between your days at the Coregean Library researching for that case with the bishop’s nephew’s dog, of course.”[21]

A proud beam brightened Hopeley’s thin face. “My dear Wystan,” said he, “you have at least learned to apply my methods. Do tell me, my boy, how you have deduced these things.”

“The answer is simplicity itself,” I remarked. “I read the newspapers.”[22]

[1] Because he has better things to do!

[2] I can’t blame Hopeley. That was the most tiresome part of that book.

[3] Based on his remarks in “The Adventure of the Baboon’s Umbrella,” I theorize that Hopeley’s mother is dead and has been dead for a long time. And if he had a sister, he would have mentioned her by now. I cannot imagine his growing up alongside anyone except Seoras. They wouldn’t hate each other so much otherwise.

[4] He—has—better—things—to—do! This isn’t a mystery.

[5] Oh, your friend has unfortunate defects, Wystan? Need I remind you of what you did when Hopeley needed you most in “The Secret of the Cursed Candlestick”?

[6] I want to read this conversation very very very very very badly. How soon can you write it, Mr. Melbray?

[7] This one too! And he’s wrong. Hopeley isn’t afraid of ladies. He isn’t afraid of anything.

[8] I rather like Miss Arkwright too. She isn’t soppy like Maira.

[9] He does not recall correctly, because in The Batsford Murders, he married Maira in December 1898, and he’s obviously already married to her in this story, which cannot take place any earlier than spring 1899. Perhaps Wystan should try keeping a diary so that he could remember dates correctly once in a while.

[10] So much for “I shall never tread the boards again. I vow it to you, Maira, my own!”

[11] I approve. That is the most amusing play I have ever seen.

[12] Why didn’t you tell us whom he played? Was it Alcidon? It has to have been Alcidon. He’s the funniest character in the whole play, and it would be a shame to waste Wystan on anyone else.

[13] No surprise, for Hopeley wouldn’t bother to disguise himself to go and see Wystan, because he knows that Wystan knows all the costuming tricks and would see straight through him.

[14] As he did in “The Mystery of the Fish-Fry Brotherhood.”

[15] I would have startled him first, but Wystan isn’t quick enough for that.

[16] For shame, Wystan, he has a perfectly good reason! He always does. Nobody cares about your first nights when there’s a case to be solved.

[17] More than creditable. I wish Wystan wouldn’t talk about himself like that; he’s brilliant. Remember “The Businessman and His Cat,” when he convinced everyone that he was the Prime Minister’s secretary?

[18] How could she have given it to him for Christmas if this took place in autumn? This is further evidence that the dating is incorrect. Also, she has hideous taste in dressing gowns.

[19] This is one of my favorite scenes. I laugh so hard that it nearly sends me into coughing fits whenever I reread it.

[20] It is even funnier when you realize that Wystan goes through this whole conversation with his face covered in cold cream.

[21] FOUR cases that you haven’t given to us! I am dying of suspense! Write more! Write faster! I can give you ideas if you want.

[22] But we all know that he could have deduced these things if he wanted to. He just wanted to annoy Hopeley.

[girl-next-door-writes]

Just Because

Characters: Mycroft x reader

Summary: Mycroft hires himself a companion to show his family that he is entirely capable of making friends, but when the lines blur between the fiction and the reality is he heading for heartbreak?

Word Count: 1714 words

Prompt: Fake dating and a kiss without thinking.

A/N: This little angsty piece is for the incomparable @achromaticerebus who always sends me the most interesting Mycroft plot bunnies. Now, I know this was an angst request, but you all know me, so…

This was not where he had intended to be. In fact, if he had been in his right mind then this would be one of the last places he would wish to frequent, but he had not been in full control of his faculties for some time now. It was as if his body held some kind of autopilot, as if you had installed a homing device within his nervous system. It was infuriating and maddening and totally beyond his powers of logic, but it was the only thing that still connected the two of you and so he clung to it.

Mycroft found himself wandering around the places the two of you would go whilst in the midst of your masquerade. These were establishments he would never have set foot in previously, and yet they were perfectly you. The echoes of you were still there, causing his skin to tingle as if you had brushed against him, driving him to distraction.

Somewhere in his heavy woolen coat, his phone vibrated, alerting him to a new message. The leather gloves covering his hands made the task of opening said message more cumbersome than he would have liked and Mycroft swore under his breath, his eyes moving from the alert to his lock screen where you beamed up at him. He really should remove your picture from his phone, it was dangerous to appear so sentimental, but each time he tried to delete any traces of you he found himself entirely unable to press that final ‘delete’ button. Perhaps he should have Anthea do it for him. Mycroft knew he wasn’t really going to let that happen, but it somehow made him feel more in control pretending he had that option. His eyes flitted back to the image of you on his phone, standing in his parents garden, glancing at him over your shoulder, your eyes twinkling as you laughed. Anyone looking at this photograph may have believed the moment had been real, however, Mycroft knew the truth.

The situation was ridiculous, and he should not have allowed himself to feel inadequate, yet here he was. The Holmes family were gathering for Christmas upon his mother’s insistence and knowing that Sherlock had a whole entourage attending with him made Mycroft feel… not lonely, never lonely, but, well, alone. He had seen the joy on his mother’s face whenever Sherlock brought home a ‘friend’, and his heart ached to see that look aimed at him. That was when he had the great idea to procure a companion for the few days he would be at his family home. Surely it couldn’t be that difficult.

It turned out, that for Mycroft Holmes, it really was that difficult. He had a long list of qualities he felt required to be met by anyone he was to be spending so much time with and that person, most likely, did not actually exist.

He had just about given up and was considering paying someone to play the role when Anthea strode into his office and dropped a folder on his desk.

“I think this might solve your problem.” She gave him a knowing smile and left.

Mycroft eyed the folder suspiciously before flipping it open and raising an eyebrow as he read the content. Yes. A perfect fit.

And it really had been. He had arranged an initial meeting and the two of you had gone for afternoon tea to discuss the details. You were a professional companion, not to be confused with an escort, you simply provided your company, nothing more. You had attended family functions, weddings, work events with various men who felt they needed someone on their arm, all for a very reasonable fee.

“And so it would be for three days and two nights? Am I playing the role of friend or significant other?” You had asked so casually Mycroft nearly choked on his tea.

“Friend, simply friends.” He managed to splutter, although he could feel a heat rising up the back of his neck. “If my mother believes there is more to it then she will be planning the wedding by New Year.”

“Then I shall get the contract drawn up and send directly to you, Mr Holmes.” You gave him a polite smile and he nodded.

“I think, perhaps, given the current situation, Mycroft would be more appropriate.”

“Mycroft.” Your smile became one of amusement, but it wasn’t cruel or teasing, and it made his heart do a strange swoop.

That would not be the last time your smile had a strange effect on Mycroft Holmes. In hindsight he wondered if he should have cut all contact after that first meeting, after that first rush. It would certainly have saved him from all these ‘emotions.’

Christmas had been a roaring success. His mother loved you. His father loved you. Sherlock… was suspicious of the two of you but found you rather delightful. Of course, this then led to a whole other problem Mycroft had not anticipated. Whenever his mother decided to visit, Mycroft found himself in need of your services once more. This often led to covert meetings, somewhere convenient for you, to make sure you had your stories straight. Walks through the park, tea at tiny little coffee shops he would not ordinarily step foot in, a rendezvous at a small second hand book shop which smelled more like mold than paper… not the usual place for a business meeting, but Mycroft found himself looking forward to discovering these places which were obviously part of your world, not his.

Things had been going well, this arrangement between the two of you working perfectly for just over nine months, so when his parents insisted the two of you join them at the theatre, Mycroft saw no reason to decline. He didn’t know that accepting this invitation would be the beginning of the end.

“I really thought Roger was the murderer.” His father was muttering, still flipping through his program as if searching for a clue he may have missed earlier about the huge plot twist that pretty much everyone in the theatre had seen coming.

“It’s okay dear, I think that was rather the point. Roger was there to throw us all off.”

Mycroft saw you dip your head to hide your smile, an action that caused butterflies to cascade around his stomach. You seemed really fond of the relationship between his parents, and it warmed his heart to see that.

“Well, I had best be heading off. It was lovely to see you both again.” You gave Mr and Mrs Holmes a warm smile and Mycroft watched his mother pull you into a tight embrace.

“Next time, we should have a girls afternoon.” She beamed, cupping your face and looking at you meaningfully.

“That would be lovely, Mrs Holmes.”

“Righto, be seeing you.” Mr Holmes gave you a hug and Mycroft rolled his eyes, although there was a hint of a smile on his lips.

“What is it with you two and hugging people?”

“Oh, you know you like it, Mycroft.” You had teased and he had found himself pulling you into a farewell embrace too.

“Just don’t go telling Sherlock.” He chuckled, loosening his grip but not quite breaking the hug.

“Damn it, that was the first thing I was going to do as soon as I got in the taxi.” You smirked.

“Minx.”

“Posh boy.”

“Right, off with you.” He chuckled, shaking his head fondly.

“Goodbye, Mycroft.” You had given him that smile of yours that made the corners of your eyes crinkle and he had instinctively, without any thought, leaned down and placed a soft, tender kiss to your forehead. It was an action he had never undertaken before, and he felt the shift in you before he’d even fully pulled away.

You had given everyone a wave and then hurriedly bundled into a taxi… and that was the last time he had seen you.

The next morning he had received an email formally stating that you could no longer offer your services to him. It had pointed out a clause within the contract he had originally signed that stated any physical contact was to be agreed upon prior to the event and that he had breached this.

He had sat at his desk for a long time that morning, just staring at the email. It was so cold, so clinical, so unlike the person he had come to know. Then again, he had hired you to play a role. It was his own fault that he had allowed himself to believe in the lie.

For weeks Mycroft wallowed in a malaise, wanting to throw himself into his work but unable to concentrate. When the invitation to his brothers Christmas ‘do’ came through, he initially ignored it. Then his mother asked him repeatedly if he would be attending. Then he got a text from Greg Lestrade and another from John. It appeared that his presence was required, not merely requested, at this event and Mycroft’s heart sank as he realised it wasn’t him they wanted to attend, but you as his plus one.

After an entire day miserably touring around the places the two of you would meet, Mycroft found his feet had indeed brought him to his brother’s flat. The sounds of merriment could be heard spilling from the window and Mycroft let out a deep sigh, might as well bite the bullet.

Mrs Hudson gave him a strange smile as he entered Baker Street and headed to the stairs, she was practically vibrating with excitement, and he wondered just how many sherries the woman had drunk already. As he reached the top of the stairs, the door to 221B flung open and Sherlock grinned.

“Merry Christmas, brother mine.”

“Please tell me this is not going to become an annual event.” Mycroft sighed, already itching to leave.

Sherlock stepped to one side, bouncing on the balls of his feet, and revealed the party inside his flat. There was John, talking to Molly and Lestrade, there was his father rearranging ornaments on Sherlocks tree, and… and talking to his mother was…

Mycroft’s eyes widened and his jaw fell slack.

“Merry Christmas.” Sherlock said softly, patting his brother on the back.

[raccoon-eyed-rebel]

Part 14

Masterlist

Series Masterlist

Part 13 🟣 Part 15

A reverse harem vampire AU ft. Mikey, Marshall, August and Sherlock

Series summary: Somehow, you've managed to live with your boyfriend and his roommates for months before finding out they're vampires, but the real shock first comes when they find out you have a special quality. A quality the guys would love to make use of...

Warnings: Ongoing vampire shenanigans, mentions of blood, biting, angst.

Word count: 2.5k

A/N: I promised I'd fix this <3

@geralts-yenn @deandoesthingstome @summersong69 @teamfan7asy @mis-lil-red @ellethespaceunicorn @sillyrabbit81 @livisss @itsrubberbisquit @ktficworld

It was the first week of Christmas break, which meant you finally had the time to sit around and sulk all day over Mike’s absence. Not that you hadn’t been doing exactly that for the past three weeks. Now you just had the time for it. The first week had been bearable, but slowly, hope that Mike would come back had begun to fade in everyone and you just grouched around the house.

The good news was that – as far as the guys could tell – Mike had calmed down. But that had been the case for nearly two weeks now, and he wasn’t back yet. In the meantime, the mood in the apartment was dark and gloomy, and the guys were all glares, exhaustion, and dark circles under their eyes. It didn’t help that they refused to feed more than was strictly necessary to keep them alive – or whatever the fuck it was that this was supposed to resemble. They were cold and distant, avoiding you as much as possible – even when they heard you cry yourself to sleep at night. At some point, someone had taken it upon himself to put a blanket over the pile of gifts under the tree. You didn’t know who had done it, but it had been a very welcome change, as every glance at the heap of boxes had made you want to cry.

One morning, when all three of them were sitting in the living room, you couldn’t take it anymore.

“Would at least one of you please feed,” you begged, surprising yourself with the desperate undertone in your voice.

“It hurts too much, darling,” Marshall groaned from the couch. “Right now, I can barely hear your thoughts, or anyone’s. I can barely feel him.”

A wave of anger so intense that your vision went blurry surged through you as you spoke: “Have you assholes considered what this feels like for me?” Their confused expressions told you that they hadn’t. “Seeing you guys like this hurts me in ways I can’t even explain,” you cried out. “I want you happy, and fed, and warm and… And close to me. You’re all sitting right there, and I miss you!”

Sherlock got to you first, wrapping his arms around you, then Marshall appeared by your other side. August hesitantly followed, standing in front of you with a somewhat lost expression on his face. Slowly, you raised a hand until your fingertips brushed his cheek.

“You too, August,” you sobbed, “I miss you too.” Standing there, with the three of them holding you, didn’t bring Mike back, but it sure as hell helped you feel less lonely than you had in the past few weeks.

August put his hand over yours, pressing them against his cheek. “I’ll feed,” he said, swallowing hard. “If it’ll make you feel better.”

You looked at him in disbelief, your eyes wide – as did the others. Not only was August not being… ‘a selfish prick’ would just about cover it, right? He was volunteering to suffer more than either Marhsall or Sherlock would if they fed. He’d have to feel your pain, the pain of his brothers – including Mike – all on top of his own, even though he hadn’t exactly admitted out loud that this situation took its toll on him.

“Are you sure?” It was so unlike August…

“I’m not offering again, princess.” Now that was like him.

Barely a second later, you were on the couch, in August’s arms. It’s clear he wasn’t going for your wrist that time, and you were fine with that, as long as you got to be close to him. And oh, boy you were close, alright? Flush against his body, your leg pulled over his hip, his hand on the back of your thigh, inches away from your ass… His other hand was on your back, crushing you to his chest just shy of too tightly and you could feel his breath in your neck.

“Keep it decent,” Marshall growled, “this is a shared living space.” Yes, you had to agree with him, but at the same time: Who gives a fuck? Teeth, neck, now – please! You were about to beg August for exactly that when he sank his teeth into you. All you could do was gasp and moan as the warmth washed over you.

You could tell he purposely dragged it out; drinking slowly to make sure you felt warm and cozy for as long as possible, and then when he finally stopped feeding, you could tell he tried his very best to mimic the feeling with his gift.

“It’s slightly different every time,” he murmured, “which makes it hard to replicate.”

“I knew it!” you muttered as you buried your face in his chest – uncharacteristic as it was for him, he let you. “It feels different to me, too. As if you own have your unique flavor of bliss.”

“Any favorites?” Of course he wanted to know… Leave it to August to turn this into a bit of a competition.

“Mikey’s,” you sighed. “Playful and… giddy, in a way. Very different from you three.”

“Why do we get lumped together?” Sherlock asked curiously. It was a polite and professional-sounding curiosity, as always.

“It feels more similar with you guys. Deep and soothing. Or, in August’s case, always a little deviant.” He didn’t seem to mind – in fact, he quite seemed to like your description. “But Marshall nearly puts me to sleep every single time. That’s a compliment, by the way.”

“I already knew that, no worries,” he chuckled as he sat down in front of the couch and leaned his head back until it rested against your back. “You know you can always stop by if you’re having trouble sleeping, right?”

Of course you knew. You knew Sherlock would always read you paragraphs from your textbooks in the teacher-voice that made you remember things. You knew August, despite his objections to being called a ‘walking pain killler’, would always get rid of your cramps and headaches for you. And even though you’d never taken him up on that offer he’d never made out loud before, you knew Marshall would always be willing to wrap you up in a warm hug and feed until you were asleep. Because they loved you.

The realization made you squirm in August’s arms, because it came with another, far less welcome realization: That their love was completely worthless without Mikey’s. That there was a gaping, bleeding wound in your heart, dead center, that could only be closed with ‘playful and giddy’, and stroking dark curls throughout the somehow amazing experience of soft lips wrapped around your nipple and sharp teeth piercing sensitive flesh. Dammit. Mike completed your little universe, that had a cure for everything, always a pair of arms to crawl into, and at the center of which you had quickly found who you were always meant to be: Theirs.

You nestled against August’s chest until you almost fell asleep – partially because of August, who was trying really hard to relax you. Somehow, despite just having finished feeding, he didn’t quite manage: You were antsy, as if you were waiting for someone. And then, before any of the others heard, saw, smelled, felt, or sensed anything, you shot up – nearly falling off the couch in the process, of course. “Mike!”

The others looked at you as if you’d gone insane.

“Darling, there’s absolutely nothing…” Sherlock started.

“He’s coming home,” you cut him off. August hadn’t been able to calm you down before, but now his efforts were completely wasted: nothing could tame the growing restlessness you felt build inside you.

“She’s right,” Marshall said after a while. He was still exhausted and starving, so Mike had to be close, otherwise there was no way Marshall could have heard him. The thought had barely crossed your mind, or you already heard the key turn in the lock – the next second, you were overwhelmed with both the urge to kiss the stupid face that appeared in front of you, and then punch it really, really hard right in the nose.

“Punching him is going to hurt you, princess, but I’ll gladly do the honors,” August snarled when he saw Mike.

Mike only had eyes for you – teary eyes with dark circles underneath them, but still. For a moment, he stood there, looking at you. Then he dropped to his knees – possibly because he couldn’t stand up straight anymore; he was so cold you could feel it without even touching him.

“Forgive me,” he whispered. Was it just you, or was that a little dramatic? “All of you, please, I… I’m so sorry!” Either he couldn’t fight back the tears anymore, or he just didn’t bother to try. You sat down on the floor next to him, putting an arm around his shoulder.

“It’s okay, Mikey, you’re home,” you said softly. “We can talk about this later, you need to eat.” He was in worse shape than the three others had been – combined.

“You still want me?” His voice was small, and it trembled. He looked at you with nothing other than abject terror in his eyes, not moving a muscle – even when you pulled him into your arms.

“Yes, of course!” You moaned when your lips touched his again for the first time in weeks. “I never want you to leave again, silly. I need you!” You were so busy kissing him that you didn’t even notice when his fang sliced your lip open. He did, however, and he stopped. Well… He stopped kissing you, sucking your lip into his mouth instead.

“Mike,” Sherlock interjected, “hardly an effective way of… Oh, never mind!” Everyone laughed at that – the same full, happy sound you’d heard so many times before. The same full, happy sound that had been absent from your life for far too long.

“It kind of hurts, though,” you pointed out after a while. Mike’s eyes had regained some life, you noticed when he looked directly at you again as he let go of your lip. There was something mischievous in them, too, and before you knew it, you were thrown onto your back and Mike went for your neck.

“I’m going to get dinner started,” August said, his voice the vocal equivalent of an eyeroll. Just the words brought you incredible joy: you hadn’t had dinner together – let alone August’s home cooking – in weeks.

“Mike, leave some for the rest of us,” Marshall teased. To your surprise, Mike sat up with you in his arms, lifting you into his lap. You were fairly sure that the gesture he made behind your back was an invitation to join him – a hunch that was confirmed when Marshall showed up behind you and you felt his head on the other side of your neck.

“Oh my god,” you whispered when the pain from Marshall’s bite subsided, and you were left with a blissful combination of ‘playful and giddy’ and ‘warm and relaxed’.

“Are you alright?” Marshall asked. His concern echoed through your mind.

“Yes,” you moaned, “never better.” Oh god, was there something overtly sexual about the sound you’d just made? There had to be, right? Not that the feeling itself was erotic in any kind of obvious way – although it wasn’t a stretch to turn it into something like that, as Mike had proven to you countless times now, but still.

Mike was everything you were used to from him, but Marshall… He was grabbier than usual, with his fingertips digging possessively into your hips. Both of them, however, were definitely pacing themselves.

“You’re not used to this,” Marshall explained. “Neither are we, by the way. We don’t want to hurt you.” That seemed fair. And it made the whole thing last longer, which meant more of your favorite warm, fuzzy feeling for you.

“The word carnage comes to mind,” August suddenly said. This time, you could see his face, and he did roll his eyes.

“Jealous?” you managed. The end of the word got slurred a little in the disappointed moan you let out when Marshall let go of your neck. Mike soon followed.

“Incredibly,” August responded sarcastically. “Dinner is ready.”

Dinner was fantastic – it always was, but Mike’s return, although it made everything feel infinitely more normal than it had before, had put a fairly large – and extremely hard to ignore – elephant in the room. In the end, it was Marshall who brought it up, by subtly punching Mike in the face.

“Yeah, I deserved that,” Mike laughed, looking up at all of you from the kitchen floor.

“As far as I’m concerned, that’s all there is to say about it,” Marshall said to your surprise, “don’t do that again. It hurt.”

“Whoa!” you yelled – strangely enough not about the punching. “We’re… This… I… That’s not all there is to say about it! If you want to be a bunch of men about this, fine, but I’m not going to pretend to be okay because you can just let this go! Get u-” Alright, he was already on his feet again, you hadn’t noticed…

“I’m sorry, Swee-“

“Don’t ‘Sweetcheeks’ me right now,” you cried out. “You almost destroyed everything, Mike. What do you have to say for yourself?”

“I’m sorry,” he said softly. Sorry? Sorry?

“You had better be sorry!” you yelled. “You poked a hole in my heart by leaving like it was nothing, and you think you can just-“

“It was not nothing!” Mike countered, throwing his arms up in desperation. “Why do you think they refused to feed? So they wouldn’t have to feel how much it wasn’t nothing!”

“Spare me the fucking details, Mike! I already know what they went through, because I went through it with them!” You shoved him back as hard as you could, knowing full well the step he took was purely to humor you. That knowledge made you even angrier – although you were quite sure you would have gotten at least as angry if he’d just stayed put. “And you just ran! First you tell me you’re okay with whatever, and then something happens and you don’t even talk to me! You left me, Mike!” Somewhere during your speech, you had started crying, and it didn’t seem like you were going to stop that anytime soon. “You fucking left me! You’re a jerk, and an asshole, and a dick, and literally the worst!” Mike had tears in his eyes, now, too. “And I wish I’d never even met you, and don’t you ever leave me again! I mean it, don’t you fucking dare! You belong right here, Mike.” You put a hand on his cheek. “Right here with us.”

You fell into his arms, crying – and he held you, his head on your shoulder and his arms wrapped all the way around you, squeezing you tight. Right here, this… this was home.

“Do you really wish you’d never met me?” Mike muttered after a while, his voice riddled with guilt and drenched in uncried tears.

“No,” you whispered, “I love you. All of you.” He didn’t ask in what way you loved them, and you wouldn’t have been able to answer him if he had asked.

“What made you come back?” you asked after a while of standing there, holding each other close.

“I realized something,” Mike mumbled, kissing you in your neck before pulling away to look at you and the others. “Even if I only get you for a quarter of eternity… That’s still an eternity.”

[worstqueerbaittournament]

Submission messagefor Merlin and Arthur: merthur (merlin and Arthur from the BBC show merlin

Submission message for Steve and Bucky: Does Stucky count? Steve and Bucky from Captain America

Additional propaganda: I refuse to shut up about this. Merlin is not queerbait!! At no point during the show is there a genuine possibility of Arthur and Merlin to be in a romantic relationship. They are queer coded but they do not create a false impression of their relationship. See Sherlock for good example: they constantly bring it up in the show itself and dangle it in front of the viewers, only to not follow through. The show Merlin does not set them up. There are no offhanded remarks, comments, or jokes that they’re more than friends. There is simply no chance in the show that they will get together. They are queer coded, which is not the same. Coding says: this character displays some traits and characteristics that ___ people may relate to. Baiting says: oh you want these two together? hmm, you wanna see that? wouldn’t that be nifty? what if they talk about it and act like it? aren’t you gonna keep watching to find out if they really do? Then follows up with: SIKE! Wow we got you, of course they’re not together! All of that was meaningless! Let’s please stop confusing these two entirely separate concepts!

Merthur is just gay I don’t have to explain merthur on the merthur site. They’re talking to each other at night and giving each other flowers and shit— things Arthur NEVER does with his canon romantic love interest and if I’m not mistaken I think Arthur like goes to sleep for a hundred years and Merlin is like. Still waiting for him? Let them kiss, damn!

Stucky: "Of course, this is still a rollicking adventure tale and no adventure is complete without a love story.....the longest, most tortured one in Marvel history" - Christopher Markus and Stephen McFeely (writers of Captain America movies + Avengers Infinity War and Avengers: Endgame)

"from the meet cute to the tragic separation, their bond has all the elements of a classic romance." - Christopher Markus and Stephen McFeely

"Just as Jeph and Tim’’s earlier Daredevil: Yellow, Spider-Man: Blue, and Hulk: Gray all dealt with the major love interests in, the heroes’ lives, so too does Captain America: White. Steve and Bucky are each other’s soulmate." - Christopher Markus and Stephen McFeely

“So you have a character in Captain America who is searching for the only thing that he has left from his past that has any meaning to him, and that’s Bucky; and people have interpreted that relationship all kinds of ways and it’s great...we will never define it, as filmmakers, explicitly." - The Russos (Captain America: Civil War press)

"You mean, aside from Cap and Bucky?" - Anthony Russo (co-director of Cap 2 and 3 and Avengers: Infinity War and Avengers: Endgame) when asked about romance in Captain Amierca: Civil War

"Moderator: But you already had a romantic B story with Cap and Bucky, right?

Anthony: We sure do

Joe: We still do

Moderator: Did you ever had to dial down the sexual tension on set?

Joe: Why would we?" - Anthony and Joe Russo (directors of Cap 2 and 3 and Avengers: Infinity War and Avengers: Endgame) at a screening of Captain America: Civil War

Just a few examples directly from Marvel and the writers and directors.

merthur totally should win for so many reasons but mostly. most because the show writer, when advertising the last episode, said it was “a love story between two men” and then arthur just died in merlin’s arms for 42 minutes. on the day before christmas.

I put the first episode of Merlin, because I heard it was such a great show. I knew nothing about the ship at that point. I only put it on because i love shows like that. Before the first episode was over I was like OMG those two are gayer than later seasons Destiel. There is no way it was not intentional. NONE. Big time homoerotic vibes. It was great

I get the coding critique, but I think I disagree with the person who said they never teased a relationship with Merthur. If we’re talking “offhanded jokes that they’re more than friends” (or that other characters thought they were together a la Sherlock), I think the poetry and pants scenes fit that.