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spine-buster · 5 years

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Alone, Together | Chapter 39 | Morgan Rielly

A/N: I can’t believe this is the penultimate chapter guys. I’m writing the last one and, like, sobbing. And then the epilogues - more sobbing. Just sobbing all around. Hope you guys enjoy!

Bee watched the video about thirty times in a row before she came to terms with it.

At first, it was because Hank was so cute. Sitting there on his blanket on the grass in his little striped onesie, his chubby rolls on full display, he rattled a Tupperware full of snacks with his helmet on. She couldn’t keep her eyes off of him and his big smile, and when he laughed excitedly at the end, her heart warmed. It was a happy noise he made countless times when he was in her arms too, though she hadn’t heard it in person since May. It was now September.

It was only after she registered how cute Hank was that Bee heard Jake’s voice in the background. “Where we goin’ this year? Where we goin’ this year man?” he beckoned Hank, who looked at him with some confusion. Eventually, he looked to the side, his helmet revealing the Carolina Hurricanes logo.

It was then, and only then, that Bee felt her heart drop into her stomach. Carolina. Jake, Lucy, and Hank were moving to Raleigh, North Carolina, to be members of the Carolina Hurricanes.

On the one hand, Bee was happy. She knew how hard of a time Jake had in Toronto. She knew demons followed him from game sevens of the past and bad defensive mistakes. She knew all that. Carolina would be quieter – much quieter – if there was even going to be any noise at all. Carolina was a small market team, and not on a lot of people’s radars besides their whole ‘Bunch of Jerks’ campaign and their playoff run. They were a young team, with a good coach, and nothing to lose. It would be a perfect fit for Jake after the loud, emotionally draining eight years of being in Toronto.

But she had to think selfishly, on some level. Lucy was gone. Yet another one of her rocks gone to another city. A woman who took her under her wing, taught her about hockey, took her shopping after the break in, and made her feel at home amongst the Toronto Maple Leafs organization; a woman who knew exactly how to cheer her up with pictures and videos of Hank; a woman who bestowed upon her the title of “Auntie Bee” that Bee kept so near to her heart.

For Morgan, his best friend – gone. The man he roomed with when he first came to Toronto. The man he “shared custody” of Uma the Puma with. The man who cut Morgan’s hair, helped him properly tie ties, teased with weird Americanisms and sayings, and drove crazy until finally moving out. For Jake, a groomsman at his wedding. A guy who, despite being three and a half years younger than him, acted like an older brother while navigating the hockey life and living in a new city. “Uncle Morgan.”

Bee cried silently to herself. She was alone in her office – with Morgan working out at the gym that morning – when the news broke. She assumed Jake probably tried to get a hold of Morgan before he posted the video, but Morgan never checked his phone during a workout. He would have called Bee to let her know. It was only when Mark Travers knocked on her door that she was brought back down to reality, having to compose herself in less than ten seconds before he opened the door and walked into her office.

“I was wondering if you have those updates spreadsheets for Peralta and Partners,” he said, focused on reading whatever was on his phone.

“Yeah, of course,” she said, her voice soft, trying not to sound like she had just been crying. She gathered the files he needed, getting up from her desk and handing it to him. “Here you go.”

He took the files from her and was due to walk out of her office without even looking at her once during the entire interaction. She was thankful – worried that her eyes were still red – but once he stopped in the doorway and turned around, that all went away. “You hear that Gardiner signed with Carolina?” he asked.

“Uh, yeah,” she nodded her head slightly. “I just heard.”

“Maybe we’ll finally have room for Mitch. And fuck – maybe we’ll finally replace him with a half-decent defenseman,” Mark quipped, finally looking at her. “What’s Mo think?”

Bee held her breath. She didn’t want to get emotional in front of her boss. She liked Mark, but she wanted to yell at him for his comment. “Morgan and Jake are best friends. Morgan was in his wedding party. So I assume he isn’t going to be the happiest about this,” she said simply, curtly, with no emotion.

Mark pursed his lips at her words. He realized the tone in which he said his comment probably wasn’t the best. “Ah. Well then. That makes me a bit of a dick then, doesn’t it?”

She wasn’t going to answer that question. “Do you need to bring those spreadsheets into the Peralta meeting or not?”

Mark decided to leave her alone, closing her office door behind him so nobody would bother her. Bee let out the breath she was holding and shook her head, letting a few stray tears fall again. After composing herself, she picked up her phone, reading over Lucy’s Instagram post again and again before she finally tapped to comment and began writing something out. She must have started, deleted, and changing things over a dozen times before she finally hit post.

@brionymctavish: Lucy <3 <3 <3 you know how much you, Jake, and Hank mean to me. From the beginning you guys welcomed me with open arms and treated me like family – the family I never had. The way you and Jake helped after the break in and after my mother passed away is a testament to how good you are as people. You have no clue how much I love you guys. Your Toronto family will miss you so dearly. I hope Jake won’t be able to smell Morgan in Carolina…

***

“I can come in with you, if you want,” Morgan offered as they sat in the waiting room together, her hand clasped tightly in his, resting on his lap. “If you’re really nervous or --”

“It’s okay,” Bee intervened. “You sound more nervous than I am.”

“I know this was your decision,” Morgan started, “and you know I support you a hundred percent. Always. I just know this is your first time and it’s going to be heavy and you’ll probably start talking about things that will bring up some bad memories for you and--”

“Briony McTavish?” the receptionist called out, a smile on her face. Bee perked up. “Doctor Rowell is ready for you.”

Bee could feel Morgan squeeze her hand even tighter. He gave her another look before she began to stand up. “Briony, I can come if you--”

“It’s okay, Morgan,” she assured him, bending down to kiss him. “Go get some coffee. It’ll just be an hour.”

Morgan stood up to be at level with her and kissed her again. “Are you sure?”

“I’m positive. This is going to be great. It’s going to help so much.”

Morgan nodded his head. He knew she was right. “I love you Bumblebee. Always.”

“And I love you too.”

Bee began making her way further into the office, looking back one time and noticing Morgan waiting for her to disappear down the corridor. The receptionist led her to an office near the end of the hallway where a professionally dressed woman in her early 40s was writing something at her desk. “Doctor Rowell, your new patient Briony McTavish is here.”

Dr. Rowell’s smile was warm, and she immediately stood up from her desk to greet her. “It’s nice to meet you, Briony,” she extended her hand. “I’m Georgina Rowell.”

“You can call me Bee,” Bee smiled as she shook her hand. “It’s very nice to meet you, Doctor Rowell.”

“You can close the door, Deborah,” Dr. Rowell said. “Briony, you can take a seat,” she motioned to the chairs in the room as she began walking back to her desk. Both women settled into their seats comfortably before making eye contact again and smiling. “Is this your first ever therapy session, Briony?”

“Yes ma’am.”

“Well then, let’s get started.”

***

Bee’s heart was pounding out of her chest as she tried to walk calmly through the hospital, appeasing the skip in her step and the fact that she wanted to scream from the top of her lungs in pure jubilation. ‘Aryne had the baby!!!!! Did you hear?! ARYNE HAD THE BABY!!!!!’ she wanted to scream at every doctor, nurse, patient, attendant, porter – anybody she walked by. She couldn’t contain the smile on her face. She’d called Morgan, already in Newfoundland for training camp, to let him know. She’d scream it from the rooftops if she could. Megaphone and everything.

She knocked softly on the door of Aryne’s room, flowers in one hand. “Hello?” she asked.

She noticed John peek his head back from the chair he was sitting on. “Hey, come in,” he whispered, beckoning her inside the room.

Bee shuffled in quickly, seeing John sitting on his chair beside the bed, Aryne propped up comfortably with the baby in her arms. He was wrapped up in his little blanket and hat – the traditional ones that hospitals always gave – his face scrunched up, his eyes closed. Aryne was beaming down at him. John too. In that moment, nothing else mattered in the world.

“Congratulations,” Bee whispered, hugging John from behind.

“Meet our baby boy. Baby Jace,” Aryne smiled.

Bee beamed from ear to ear. “Baby boy! Baby Jace!” she whispered-screamed, containing a squeal. She got as close as she could without being too eager and overbearing, taking into account all his little features and expressions. Aryne couldn’t keep her eyes off of him; neither could John. “You guys…he’s perfect.”

“It was quite the labour,” John commented, rubbing Aryne’s leg through the sheets. “Maybe ten hours or so? They weighed him at a whopping nine pounds, seven ounces.”

Bee’s eyes bulged out of their sockets. “Nine-seven?! Fuck Aryne…God bless,” she giggled.

“I know, right?” Aryne rolled her eyes playfully. “But he’s healthy – that’s what matters. I’d do it all over again.”

Bee set the flowers down on the windowsill before she sat on the edge of Aryne’s bed. John stood up to leave them alone, saying he was going to go get some coffee, kissing Aryne before kissing baby Jace’s forehead. Aryne told Bee about the labour and delivery, how nice all the hospital staff and nurses were, and how their families had already visited and were due back that night to help out. The meeting with the lactation consultant went wonderfully and Jace was already a pro. John had already changed a diaper. They were going to be discharged tomorrow, thankfully, so they could go home and start nesting. Jace was sleeping, or else Aryne would have let Bee hold him, but both women knew there would be many, many opportunities to hold him in the future.

“This’ll be you one day, you know,” Aryne said softly, looking between Bee and Jace. “I’m not saying it’s going to happen to you tomorrow or whatever, but it’s going to happen for you.”

Bee inhaled deeply. “Yeah. I know.”

“You see that for yourself, right? I know that Angie tells you that all the time…that you deserve all the good things in life in spite of what happened in your past. And I don’t mean kids. I mean, like…happiness.”

Bee nodded her head. “I do. I see it with Morgan.”

“He sees it with you too,” Aryne said. “Like I even have to tell you that. I think he saw it with you the first time he laid eyes on you.”

“I don’t think so,” Bee chuckled slightly.

“Well I think so,” Aryne smiled. “And I happen to think you two would make the cutest babies in existence, but that’s neither here nor there. I hope you see happiness with me too – well, me, John, Jace, the Leafs…”

Bee nodded her head. She knew what Aryne was getting at. She knew Aryne was in a very emotional state right now and that she needed to hear these words, but it wasn’t like Bee was saying them just to appease her. Bee meant it. She truly, truly meant it. Despite what had happened to her this past year – the break in, her mother dying, Morgan’s March conundrum, game seven with Boston, her friends leaving, and most recently, the alcoholism reveal, she was the happiest she had ever been, by a long shot. Despite those things happening, she met the most amazing people, participated in the most amazing events, landed her dream job, graduated with a Master’s, made more friends, and started volunteer work. It was an emotional rollercoaster, but it was the best year of her life. “Of course I do. You guys are my family,” she said softly. “I don’t…I don’t see it with anybody else besides you guys. This is the family I’ve built for myself.”

Aryne’s eyes began watering. “Okay. Okay,” she nodded, trying to keep it together. “Sorry. I’m just --”

“Why are you apologizing? You just had a baby eight hours ago,” Bee couldn’t help but smile. “I’d be an emotional fucking wreck.”

“I am though!” Aryne giggled through her tears. “I am an emotional wreck! I can’t believe how close we’ve gotten in how short a time, and I can’t believe how it feels like you were always meant to be in my life.”

“You were always meant to be in my life too. I think you were always meant to be like my big sister. The big sister I never had,” Bee rubbed her arm.

“I love it. I take that role very seriously, if you can’t tell,” Aryne said, wiping stray tears from her eyes. “Even John. Your big brother.”

“John’s…” Bee tried to find the right words to express what she was feeling. “He’s been…the best,” she was about to get emotional now too. She thought back to the phone call he made to her after Danielle approached her in the restaurant. Encouraging her to get lawyers involved. Offering his lawyer. The wise advice he gave her. He was on the phone with her for a good half an hour, listening to her and talking to her about everything. He was a rock. She always knew he was a rock, but that confirmed it for her.

“I just want to make sure you know how loved you are, and how much we consider you like family,” Aryne said. “I mean it, Tia Bee.”

“Tia?”

“Portuguese for aunt,” Aryne informed her. “Hank and Jace don’t know how lucky they are to have an aunt like you.”

***

“If your boyfriend kisses a fish he’s never allowed to kiss me hello again.”

Bee snorted at Angie’s words as Mason plopped down beside her on the couch with a bowl of popcorn. “Shut it. He’s becoming a Newfoundlander.”

“I think there are other ways of becoming a Newfoundlander besides kissing a cod fish on the lips,” Angie grimaced.

“There isn’t!” Bee exclaimed. “He told me he volunteered to do it. They’re all gonna go to a bar. They get certificates and everything.”

“You should frame it and put it up next to your Master’s diploma.”

Bee pinched the skin on Angie’s forearm tightly, causing her to yelp. Mason almost spilled the popcorn. “You’re mean, you know that?”

“Ladies, have we picked a movie?” Mason intervened. “Do I need to sit in between you to separate you? You know, like you’re five?”

“We’ll behave mom,” Angie sneered jokingly. “I think we decided on The Prince and Me.”

“The Prince and Me? Really?”

“It was filmed at Victoria College, Mason,” Bee said. “Plus who wouldn’t want to make out with a Danish prince in the stacks of E.J. Pratt library?”

“I bet Freddie Andersen made some girl’s dreams come true that way,” Angie quipped again.

Another pinch from Bee; another yelp from Angie. “Do not bring my darling Fred into this.”

“Into what?”

“Your perverted mind!”

“You’re telling me you’ve never fantasized about bringing Morgan into Pratt or Robarts to an obscure section where no-one ever goes so he could fuck you against the stacks?”

Bee stayed silent. Mason pretended to gag. Angie had a proud look on her face. “Case closed.”

“I hate you.”

“I love you too,” Angie made a kissy face. “Now give me some of that popcorn.”

They settled into the couch and cuddled into each other as they began the movie, sharing the popcorn amongst them – finishing it early enough that it forced Mason to make another batch in the microwave. Cuddling on the couch with them, stuffing her face with popcorn, watching a cheesy romantic movie, reminded Bee of her life before Morgan. Before Morgan, it was just the three of them, together, against the world. So much had changed since then, with the entrance of the Leafs, with people like Tyler and Fred and John and Aryne, with travels to Vancouver, with media attention, with DMs, and with her education and job. When she thought about it – when she really thought about it – Bee couldn’t believe it had all happened within the year. She was in such a different place than she was a year ago, but that was a good thing.

She was moving forward.

But at the same time, she could always go back to cuddling on the couch with Angie and Mason. It was somewhat true, she thought, the saying that she’d heard time and time again: the more things change, the more they stay the same.

Near the end of the movie, Bee felt her phone vibrate a few times. When she saw that it was Morgan texting her some pictures, she immediately opened the message. The first few were of the scenery around town in St. John’s, and of the coastline where it looked like he, Fred, and Jason Spezza all went for a hike on Signal Hill. It was the following pictures that piqued her interest. Darker and less scenic, she knew exactly what they were before she even opened them. When they enlarged on her screen, she smiled.

“What’s got you smirking, Bee?” Mason asked.

“Folks…I think my boyfriend has replaced me with a cod fish.”

Angie’s eyes bulged at her words. “If you show me that picture I’m gonna barf.”

Bee did anyway. She turned her phone screen to them. Mason was thoroughly enjoying it; Angie was gagging. Bee swiped through the pictures and laughed when she landed on the last one. “Look! Even the Crown Prince of Denmark got in on the action!” she squealed, showing the picture of Fred kissing the same fish.

“FRED!” Angie wailed, horrified and disgusted all at once. “How could he?!”

“He’s an honourary Newfoundlander!” Mason exclaimed excitedly.

“I’m never going to look at those soft lips the same way again,” Angie grimaced.

Mason shot her a horrified look, causing Bee to start laughing uncontrollably. In between her laughs she could hear Mason huff, “Does this mean Fred is a part of your freebie five now? I don’t know if I like that! He’s too close!”

***

“I’ve gotta bring you to Newfoundland,” Morgan mumbled in between Bee’s kisses as they were cuddling on the couch the night of his arrival back to Toronto. “The water is so blue, Bumblebee. And the people are so nice. The accent is a bit interesting, but my God, I’ve never met such genuinely nice people in my life.”

Bee giggled as she stopped kissing him momentarily to look him in the eye. “You’re gonna have to bring me,” she said, a mischievous grin on her face. “Or maybe I’ll go with Angie.”

“Whomever you go with, you just need to go,” his breathing was heavy. “You’ll love the water Bee – love the water – it’s just so blue. And you can get screeched in too.”

“Are we gonna kiss the same fish?”

“I don’t know if I like you kissing something Auston has also kissed,” he quipped, causing her to laugh out loud. “He already made out with one of your cupcakes. I think that’s enough.”

“Come here,” she bit her lip before leaning in to start kissing him again. She took the initiative to take off her sweater, leaving her in just her plain t-shirt bra. That didn’t stop Morgan from kissing down her neck and licking his way over to the top of her breasts, escalating things even quicker than she had anticipated.

“I missed you so much,” he mumbled against her skin as he worked on unclasping her bra. “Missed your lips. Your skin. Your boobs.”

“You always miss my boobs.”

“They’re the best boobs in the fucking world,” he mumbled, finally unclasping it and snaking it off her arms before throwing it on the coffee table. She couldn’t help but giggle again as he dove in, his lips running amuck along her skin, licking and sucking at one of her nipples.

Bee enjoyed the feeling of hit hot mouth and tongue on her breasts, as she always did, and slipped her hands underneath his hoodie to feel his abs and chest. Eventually, she took it off of him, leading him to wrap his arms around her and lie her down on the couch, hovering on top of her. He kissed his way down her body to the top of the leggings she was wearing, pulling them off with ease. “I missed this the most,” he mumbled, feeling the heat from her core as he placed his hand in between her thighs, over the plain cotton underwear she was wearing.

“Did you?” she breathed out.

“You know I always do,” he said. “I can’t wait to bury my face in your pussy, baby.”

“Then why don’t you?” she arched her eyebrow, her voice holding a little bit of attitude in it.

Morgan smirked, shoving her underwear off before spreading her legs open with his hands. “You saucy minx,” he said with an equal amount of attitude. “You’re lucky I’m desperate to taste you or else I’d tease the fuck out of you.”

He didn’t waste time as he began to lap at her and suck on her clit, causing her to moan out his name and squirm. Like he’d done countless times before, he brought his arms up and held her in place, keeping her pleasure in his control. The moans of his name became louder and louder the more he lapped at her, and eventually, she was a swearing, screaming mess on the couch, shaking from pleasure as she was sure her juices coated Morgan’s face, just how he liked it. When he finally stopped, rising from his position and hovering over her body, she watched as he licked his lips hungrily before he dipped down to kiss her. “You taste so fucking good.”

“Mo--”

“So fucking sweet. So fucking delicious,” he mumbled against her lips in between sticking his tongue into her mouth. She made sure to shove his pants down his legs to free his cock. “I could eat you all fucking night.”

Bee smiled as she felt his arms snake around her body again, and he pulled her up and adjusted their positions so she was sitting on his lap again. Almost immediately, she grabbed his cock and sat on it, grabbing the couch behind Morgan’s head to steady herself. Morgan buried his face between her breasts again as she adjusted to his size, slowly rocking back and forth.

“We still gonna go to Positano?” she asked softly, giving him a quick kiss.

“Of course.”

“And Lake Como?”

“Yes.”

“And New Zealand?”

“Yes.”

“And Turkmenistan?” she smirked.

Morgan huffed, a smile playing on his face. “Turkmenistan and Antarctica.”

“And now Newfoundland.”

“And now Newfoundland,” Morgan affirmed. “I fucked you on a boat on the west coast and I’ll fuck you in a boat on the east coast too.”

Bee couldn’t help but laugh again. “Promise?”

“Oh, I promise.”

She continued to rock back and forth on his cock, shoving her breasts into his face and increasing her pace. Morgan’s hands travelled all over her body before one snaked its way between them, his thumb rubbing at her clit. It didn’t take long for her to reach her climax, screaming out his name and shuddering in his arms. Morgan kept thrusting in and out of her until he got his sweet release too, causing her to shiver again as she felt him filling her up.

As they came down from their highs, Bee moved so she could look Morgan in the eyes, cupping his face between her hands. “I’m gonna miss you so much when the season starts again.”

“Shhhhh…” Morgan responded almost immediately. “Don’t. Don’t do this to yourself Bee.”

“I’m just saying--”

“Shhhhh,” he repeated, kissing her. “Just focus on the now. Us. Together. Right now.”

Bee nestled her face into the crook of his neck. She thought about how cold the bed would be without him, but how warm it would be when he returned. She thought about how empty the apartment would be with just her and Bruce, but how full it would feel when he returned. She thought about how empty the couch would be with only she and Brucey cuddling, but how warm and cozy it would be when he returned. Morgan just made everything better; it was the type of person he was. It was how he changed her life. “If I had my way I’d have you with me all the time,” she said, her voice quiet.

“Me too, Bumblebee. If I had my way we’d stay like this forever.”

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bohemian-rhapsody-slash · 5 years

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Can we see more of that inspection thing? Like what happens?

Andy checks his shirt for what feels like the millionth time, making sure it’s tucked in and there’s not a crease out of place.

He checks his watch. 9:54.

“Alright everyone!” Brian yells over the chaotic noise in the hallway. “Time to get ready.”

They’ve rehearsed this enough times that everyone knows more or less what position they need to be in. Andy ushers Nate and Charlotte to stand beside Liam and Sophie on the right hand side of the hall, doing a quick visual inspection of their outfits to make sure that nothing’s out of place.

“Keep your shirt tucked in, yeah?” Andy says to his younger brother gently, kneeling down to brush some fluff from one of his shoulders. “And you remember all the stuff we’ve practised, right? All the things you should say when you get asked questions?”

Nate nods, although he looks a little uncertain.

“Basically, you just need to say that Uncle Bri is the best step-dad in the whole world. He takes good care of mum and good care of us.”

“It’s okay, Nate,” Charlotte says firmly. “I know what to say. I’ll help you if you get stuck.”

She takes his hand and squeezes.

Andy stands and turns to Liam and Sophie. “I’m going to stay with your dad for the inspection as the second oldest Dom in the house. Can I count on you guys to keep an eye on the kids and make sure everything goes to plan?”

“Course you can, mate,” Liam says gently. “We won’t let you down.”

“Just let us know if you need us to do anything else,” Sophie adds.

Andy gives them a grateful smile, before turning his attention to his mother, who is making his way down the stairs. He’s dressed in formal sub robes, although they’re not quite as modest as what Andy is used to. The robes Andy’s mum is wearing today are more form-fitting and a little less opaque than usual. There’s an armlet visible beneath the see-through material of his left sleeve, a bracelet around his right wrist, and an intricate circlet on his head.

It pains Andy to see his mum dressed up just to please somebody else, especially in an outfit that is a little more revealing than he would normally choose to wear. It looks more like something he would have worn during his earlier days with Queen. But the point of this exercise is for them to show off Brian’s wealth and power, as well as the beauty of his submissives. It’s all an act, and they all have to play their part.

“Where do you want me?” John asks his son nervously, smoothing down the front of his robes.

“You should be in the middle,” Andy says gently. “Sorry, mum, but you need to be on your knees.”

Andy helps his mum into position, trying to ignore how uncomfortable the sub looks.

“It’ll be over soon,” Andy promises, kissing his mother’s cheek. “And I won’t let anything happen to you.”

It’s then that Brian interrupts them, frowning at the empty space next to John where Roger should be.

“He was just finishing doing his hair,” John says softly, which causes Brian to swear before running up the stairs to find his sub.

Andy steps to the left to check on George and James, who are stood together on the opposite side of the hall to the Doms. They’re both dressed in sub robes; Andy recognises the outfits as ones they’ve worn to school dances before.

“Should we be on our knees too?” George asks, nodding at John.

“Not necessary,” Andy reassures them. “I’ve done my homework. You’re under eighteen, so you should stand. All you need to worry about is answering the inspector’s questions like we practised. So if he says what is your ultimate goal in life, what do you say?”

George grins. “I say, I want to be a writer who focusses on sub issues.”

“Wrong. Try again.”

George rolls his eyes. “I say, my ultimate goal is to be claimed by a big strong Dom who can take care of me so that I can give them lots of children.” He makes a vomiting noise.

“Very good.” Andy glances at James. “You okay?”

James nods nervously, but he gives Andy a warm smile.

It’s at that point that Roger finally comes bouncing down the stairs, followed by Brian as he holds his skirts in one hand to stop himself from tripping.

“I’m here!” Roger says breathlessly, letting his robes fall back into place as he adjusts his circlet on his head and slides into place next to John, falling to his knees.

“Thank god the inspector is running late,” Brian sighs, “otherwise we’d lose a few points for that. Now remember everyone, stick to the script. Answer any questions just like Andy and I have coached you, and everything will be fine. You know what the goal is here and why it’s so important that we pass this inspection. I love you all and no matter what the inspector ends up saying, I want you to know how proud I am to be the head of this family and household.”

Andy gives his mum one more reassuring look before taking his place by Brian at the front door, his heart in his chest as they wait in silence.

Finally, at 10:06, the doorbell rings.

“Here we go,” Brian whispers, taking a deep breath and counting to three before opening the door.

*****

To be continued...

#i belong to you forever

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janeofcakes · 4 years

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Keep Your Friends Close..: Chapter 11

Hello, my friends! I’ve been working off and on all day to get this one out because I’ll be stupid busy tomorrow with it being mother’s day and all. As it is, I have to keep stopping for long periods of time when all I really want to do is post this and work on my bedazzling project. Gah. And I thought week days were exasperating. It’s so hard to tell the difference now anyway. Oh, shit. I need to do the laundry.

Well, here you go. It’s a pretty good chapter, if I do say so myself. I was breathless when I finished editing. Enjoy!

----

Sorry if I'm speaking out of line, but I don't want this night to be over. I don't want it to end. 'Cause it seems like when our worlds collide, it just don't feel right not to hold ya. It's getting hard to be friends.

Do you feel what I feel the closer that we get? It’s almost like there’s a force that we can’t resist.

Baby, tell me why, why you wanna stop what’s happening inside. It’s bigger than you and me. It’s like we’re fighting gravity. --NKOTB, Fighting Gravity

For the next three weeks, the three men watch everything at bouts as closely as they can. Whether home or away, Greg and John are always stationed in locations where, between them, they can see every inch of the track and every member of both teams. Sherlock does his best to help while still coaching Rock City. But nothing happens. There are no suspicious injuries or accidents, nothing but the usual rough and tumble of a bout.

Similarly, there are no further attempts on John’s life, or Molly’s. Mycroft continues to keep an eye on her through PT and in her room. Sherlock has even walked in on the two of them in the throws of a ruthless chess game. Mycroft has also proved useful in obscuring John’s whereabouts. After picking up enough clothing to last a couple of weeks, along with a few other items, John drove to a hotel and made it look as though he had checked in while actually leaving for Sherlock’s condo. John repeated this every two or three days so he appeared to be moving around.

Unfortunately, Mycroft agreed with Greg that they do not have enough evidence to prove anything and that it would be useless to go to the police. Plus, that would only alert Moriarty to their suspicions. Instead, Mycroft enlisted the help of a few friends on the force who could look into Moriarty’s activities without being noticed. There had been no news thus far and with no further attempts on anyone, Sherlock and the others must simply maintain the holding pattern. Something will happen soon enough and they must all be ready for it, but the frustration of waiting becomes more and more evident, especially in his new roommate.

“God, I’m so tired of doing this every night,” John had said one evening, just after walking in the door. “I wish I could just come straight home and relax.”

Sherlock had meant to respond, but the words stuck in his throat. Home, John had said. Just come home and he had meant Sherlock’s condo. With Sherlock. At least that is what Sherlock wants to believe.

He never did find his voice before John continued speaking. John did not think better of saying the word and Sherlock never brought it up, not wanting to hear John correct himself. Sherlock knows he should forget it, assume it was a slip of the tongue and not pin any hopes on it. His conversation with Greg weeks ago has still not motivated him to say a word to John for fear of what the doctor will say. For the time being, he would still rather live in ignorance and misguided hope than know John does not think of him in that way.

Sherlock pushes open the door to his hotel room, key card in his mouth, a bag in one hand and a garment bag flung over his shoulder. His dark curls are all askew and one falls onto his forehead, nearly into his eye as he stumbles his way into the suite. He blows it off his face only to have it drop right back down and barges head-long into the bedroom.

Dropping his bags onto the bed unceremoniously, Sherlock runs a hand through his hair and sighs. They boarded Mrs. Hudson’s charter plane that morning, destined for Baltimore and a bout against the Rolling Ravens. With the bout on the following day, they loaded a bus and went straight from the airport to the practice facility to get some footwork and scrimmaging in. It is now around 5:30 and, having just arrived at the Sussex, they are all dropping bags in their rooms and meeting back on the bus for dinner.

Sherlock walks into the bathroom and flicks on the light. He turns on the water and splashes some on his face. Once, twice. He buries his face in a soft, plush towel and holds it for a moment. Sherlock is exhausted. He always is after a flight. He does not like flying and every muscle in his body tenses to remind him of it. He can never rest his mind either, scenario after scenario rushing from room to room of his mind palace, giving him not a moment’s peace. John tried to sit next to him the first flight of the season, but Sherlock did not want him to witness his quiet panic so he convinced him to sit elsewhere. He told John he liked having time to himself when, in truth, Sherlock wanted nothing more than to have John by his side forever. After that, John did not try sitting by Sherlock again.

Sherlock pulls the towel from his face and opens his eyes, brow furrowed. He presses his lips together, shaking his head and hanging up the towel. He is still so far gone on John Watson, despite his efforts to stop himself. All of which have been fruitless, he might add. Sherlock puts his hands on his hips and gives his reflection a very unamused look.

“You are so screwed,” he mumbles to himself. He studies his features for a moment and scowls. Walking into the suite’s living room, Sherlock diverges and heads for the kitchenette to pull a bottle of water from the small fridge. His phone pings with a text as he snags a bottle. He opens it and takes a drink while pulling the phone from his pocket. He knows exactly who it is. He has given him a particular ping. Greg, the bastard, noticed right away and has teased him whenever they are alone ever since. In spite of all protestations to the contrary, Greg is truly the big brother Sherlock never had.

*Coming down to dinner, yeah? Waiting on you and The Woman.*

Sherlock cocks a brow and replies.

*On my way. I’ll swing by her room*

*No need. She just turned up. Only you now.*

Sherlock smirks and caps the water bottle, carrying it with him when he walks to the door. He should take a minute and hang his suits for the bouts, but they will be fine. He can always steam them while he showers if they wrinkle.

He runs through tomorrow’s plan while the elevator takes him to the lobby. He has plenty of time as it stops on nearly every floor to pick up what always seems to be a parent with children bound for the hotel swimming pool. He rolls his eyes and tries to concentrate over the din. The bout starts at seven, the ladies have all afternoon to do weights on their own with warm-ups starting around 5:30. Since they put in a long practice today, on top of the flight, tomorrow morning is free for sight-seeing and relaxation. Sherlock has heard some of the ladies making plans, mostly involving spas and massages. For his money, there are several historic sites to choose from, not the least of which is the home of Edgar Allan Poe.

The elevator doors finally open at the lobby and all of its occupants exit. Sherlock follows the crowd without much thought until he catches the eye of a tall blonde looking his way. It is only a glance and Sherlock thinks nothing of it for a few steps. Then the feeling of cold realization hits him and he stops. It’s a threat, danger. Sherlock’s sharp eyes shoot back to the man, but he is gone. He looks around and sees nothing. Slowly, he makes his way to the hotel’s revolving doors, wishing for the first time that Greg had been able to come with them. Sherlock and John must keep an eye on the proceedings alone and Sherlock definitely has an uneasy feeling now.

Sherlock sees the Rock City bus as soon as he steps away from the hotel, right where he left it. As he walks toward it, he once again considers how he and John can best watch everything they need to throughout the bout. He has been to the stadium many times before, but John has never seen its track and Sherlock plans to discuss it with him at dinner. Ironically, the doctor is the very person he meets as he climbs up the bus’ three steps.

“There you are,” John beams. “They were about to send out a search party and believe me when I say they would’ve carried you out here kicking and screaming. It was all I could do to hold them back.”

“A Herculean feet indeed,” Sherlock snarks.

“Christ, Coach, where have you been?” HardOn cries upon catching sight of him. “We’re starving!”

“You should know by now not to keep us waiting,” Hella teases, standing at her seat with a knee resting on its cushions.

“No man should ever make a lady wait,” The Woman lifts a seductive brow and clicks her teeth. “Even I am ravenous.”

“You’re one to talk,” Sally snorts. “Where the hell were you?”

“I was tending to something very important.”

“What’s her name?”

Irene gives Sally a very sly, knowing look and the two dissolve into snickers.

“All right, ladies,” Sherlock announces. “Everyone sit down and behave yourselves.”

“Yes, papa,” HardOn quips as heads begin to drop, the skaters finding their seats. She casts a glance at John and jokes. “Don’t let him tell you what to do, Ph.D. Keep him in line.”

“I’ll do my best,” John laughs from his own seat in the front.

Sherlock counts heads, making sure to see the face of every skater and support staffer before turning to the driver who sits directly in front of his seat.

“Lawrence, we’re all here. Shall we go to our usual haunt?”

“The diner awaits,” the man replies with a kind smile.

Sherlock thanks him and sits down. He looks back at the skaters again and then gazes across the aisle at John. He has a curious expression on his face. His lips turned up on one side in that crooked smile Sherlock loves so much. His stomach flips, even as he affects nonchalance.

“What?” he asks, grinning almost like a fool.

“This is a hired bus and yet, you know the driver?” John replies, making no effort to hide his smile.

“We always use the same company,” Sherlock answers, “and we always request Lawrence. He chauffeured us around my first time here and every one since.”

“Ah, I see,” John says fondly. “You get attached to people, don’t you?

“I most certainly do not!” Sherlock raises his chin, straightening his long neck. He looks down his nose at John. “I merely appreciate a job well done.”

“Right, right,” John replies. The expression on his face just as fond as his tone. He also looks very amused. Sherlock’s cheeks grow pink and his stomach flips again. He put that look on John’s face.

They arrive at Krispin’s Diner nearly an hour later, colonially themed and larger than one normally expects a diner to be. Perfect for their over-sized group. They are able to get tables fairly close together, in spite of the busy night. The evening passes nicely enough as they all eat, joke and laugh. Unfortunately, the opportunity to talk through the bout does not arise, much to Sherlock’s chagrin. However, there is a restaurant in the hotel and he intends to speak with John once they are there. It might be better to do it alone anyway.

Two hours after they arrived, they are all climbing into the bus again. Sherlock grabs John’s elbow lightly before the man gets a foot on the first step. He pulls the doctor aside and speaks to him quietly as skaters continue disappearing into the vehicle.

“Would you join me in the hotel restaurant? We need to talk about tomorrow.”

John gives him a very serious nod.

Upon reaching the Sussex, Sherlock ushers the skaters to the elevators while telling them all to a good night’s sleep. He knows full well none of them will. About half will sneak out and the other will behave as though at a college slumber party. His and John’s only hope is that they not play any pranks on them in the night. Either way, none will get to sleep before 1am and will likely waste the morning sleeping in. Although, John has made an effort to have everyone up by nine for a team breakfast at all the away bouts thus far. To Sherlock’s surprise, the skaters have embraced the idea and most are up to join him.

When the last of the ladies have entered the elevators and the doors have closed, Sherlock turns to see John leaning against the wall in wait. Sherlock walks to him and nods in the direction of the restaurant entrance. John nods in return and follows. Soon they are seated at a quiet table in the corner, each with a drink. Sherlock watches John take a sip of his scotch and then look at the liquid with approval. He turns his eyes to the coach after placing the glass on the table.

“So, the stadium,” John begins, “you’ve been there before.”

“Many times,” Sherlock grabs a napkin and fishes a pen from his breast pocket. He starts to draw a diagram of the track and team boxes, the spectator areas, every detail he can think of. He looks up to John when finished to see him already studying the diagram closely.

“Since it’s just the two of us, I think you should watch the bout from here. It’s close enough to our box if needed and you will be able to see anything I can’t,” Sherlock tells him while pointing at different locations on the map.

“Looks good,” John nods. They discuss the logistics a bit more and then both sip their forgotten drinks, satisfied with the plan. That is until John gives Sherlock that look. It’s the look John wears when he knows there is something else on Sherlock’s mind. His ability to know Sherlock so well is infuriating, especially when John himself remains a mystery so much of the time.

“So.”

“So?”

“What’s on your mind?”

“I’ve already told you. We’ve discussed it. It’s done.”

“There’s something else.”

“There’s nothing else.”

“Look, Sherlock, you’re good at hiding things from people,” John pauses, pursing his lips while Sherlock gives him a smile of smug satisfaction, “but not from me.”

Sherlock’s face quickly morphs into one of indignation.

“Don’t give me that look. Something is bothering you. It’s obvious. Now what is it?”

Sherlock studies John closely. He doesn’t know why he hesitates, but still does. He can trust John with his concerns. He trusts him with his life, for god sake, but this is different. This is a feeling not backed by logic. Ordinarily, he would tell no one and dismiss it as an absurd lack of concentration. Sentiment. But John. He will understand and still Sherlock watches him, unsure. He soon finds himself looking intently at every aspect of John’s expression, getting lost in his eyes. The crinkles around them, the way his brows punctuate every expression, and his mouth… God, his mouth.

Sherlock licks his lips and begins to imagine what it would feel like to touch John’s lips. What must they taste like and how would they feel against his own? Or on his collarbone, his shoulder. Sherlock stutters back, staring at John with wide eyes. He absolutely was not doing that and will not do it again in the future. He has already gone over this in his mind palace enough times to know he cannot act on these feelings. It is too great a risk.

Brushing the thoughts from his mind, he looks at John again and hopes he did not notice the hungry look in his eyes, but knows he must have. He watches for any trace of reaction on the doctor’s face, but there is none. John opens his mouth to speak and his words are not at all what Sherlock expects.

“We’re in this together, yeah?” he says simply, leaning across the table. He looks at Sherlock so intently that Sherlock tips his head to the side, almost in wonder. “You, Greg, me, we’re working together to pull this off and protect the team. Now it’s just the two of us and I can’t help if I don’t have all the pieces. I know something is bothering you and I’m sure it’s to do with the accidents. What is it, Sherlock?”

“The two of us,” Sherlock repeats. His chest and cheeks feel warm as his feelings, so soundly stifled, bubble to the surface again. “Against the world.”

It is a foolish, romantic notion and Sherlock would normally berate anyone for such nonsense, but John is smiling that beautiful smile that shines in his eyes and Sherlock wants him never to stop.

“Yeah,” John replies with not just a little affection in his voice. “Something like that. Can you trust me?”

“Yes,” Sherlock breathes. His eyes must be dilating and he cannot stop them from giving him away.

“Do you trust me?” John asks slowly, voice rife with hesitation.

“Yes,” he answers without stopping to consider it. He has no need. He trusts John implicitly and he knows the feeling is mutual. There is no reason to delay any longer. There never was. “I have no real evidence of my suspicions.”

“Okay,” John’s tongue darts across his lips and it is all Sherlock can do not to look at them, not to even glance. “What suspicions?”

“I have...an uneasy feeling,” Sherlock pauses and swallows. He should feel like an idiot, citing anything as irrational as sentiment as a basis for suspicion, but it is a feeling he cannot shake. Something is not right in Baltimore.

“There was a man. When I stepped out of the elevator before dinner. He was watching me. I’m sure of it, and he was gone when I looked back.”

A moment of silence follows and Sherlock feels suddenly compelled to convince John he has not lost his mind. He leans forward and grasps the hand that lies idly on the table between them.

“I know how it sounds, John. I don’t put any stock into gut feelings, emotions or sentiment, but something is not right here. We have to be prepared for anything,” Sherlock tells him in a low, serious tone.

There it is. His intuition laid out on the table with no basis in logic, just a notion that something is off. He expects John to scoff, tell him he is a weak-minded fool and walk away.

But he does not.

“I believe you, Sherlock.”

Sherlock blinks. He cannot believe his ears. Trying to keep the surprise from his face, he concentrates on John’s features. Honesty and curiosity are the primary emotions he sees and they make him love John that much more. Flip.

Goddammit.

“I trust gut feelings. It’s what helped lead me to you. The team,” he corrects quickly when Sherlock’s eyes meet his and this time they are startled. “This man, what did he look like?”

“My height, blonde, brown eyes and fair skin. He was wearing a black turtleneck and sport coat. I couldn’t see anything else through all the people. He had this look in his eye, like he knew something about me or someone I hold dear. And smirking, but more of a sneer. He’s dangerous, John. I don’t know how, but he is involved in all of this.”

“So we’ll watch for him at the bout and around the hotel. If we see him, we’ll get a hold of him and find out what the hell he’s doing here,” John tells him. Sherlock nods, unable to keep the smile from forming and John follows suit. “What?”

“Nothing. It’s just… You’re usually so polite and charming, but now…” Sherlock looks away coyly, but then snaps his gaze back to John and continues in a firm tone because he was absolutely not being flirtatious. Jesus Christ. “Now you’re quite the opposite.”

“More kick ass and take names? I believe that’s what you Americans say.”

“Yes, something like that,” Sherlock chuckles and, before he knows it, John has joined in his revelry. John continues talking a moment later, taking on a more serious tone.

“It’s where we’re similar. You see, I haven’t been here long, but I’ve grown quite fond of the ladies. I’ll do whatever I need to protect them. And you.”

Those two words catch Sherlock completely off guard and his gaze locks in on John. They share the most sincere of looks across the table. John’s deep blue eyes sparkle, even in the low light of the restaurant. A scheme by hotel managers to appeal to couples who want a romantic evening away from prying eyes. Even those who do not seek out the experience find themselves caught up in the atmosphere. As he continues to gaze into those amazingly expressive, gorgeous blue eyes, Sherlock decides he rather likes it himself.

Then he realizes his own hand still rests on John’s, warm and soft, and for much longer than is normal for friends. He grins uncharacteristically foolishly, hoping it will distract John while he slowly slides it off. The doctor just chuckles quietly and says nothing. Sherlock chastises himself in his mind for being such an idiot. Is this what love does to him? He clenches his jaw irritably. No. He was never like this with Victor. This is what John does to him.

“Hey,” John’s hand is suddenly on his. He looks at him from under long lashes. “You okay?”

“Yes,” Sherlock whispers after a few seconds of thought and John smiles.

They spend another hour or so in easy conversation before bidding one another good night and going to their rooms.

Back in the living room of his suite, Sherlock hangs his long coat and scarf in the closet by the door. He pulls off his suit coat as he goes to the kitchen, tossing it on the bar that separates the kitchenette from the rest of the room. He removes a small bottle of wine from the fridge and takes a glass from the cabinet. Sherlock likes a good white wine and only if it is colder than what most think is appropriate. This wine is acceptable, he concludes after a sip.

Sherlock toes out of his shoes and pads into the bedroom where his bags still sit on the bed. He should shower after the day of traveling and practice, but it is late enough that he cannot bring himself to do it. His only desires are to change and fall into the covers. However, there is one thing he wants to do more. Sherlock sets the wine glass on a side table and unzips his rather large bag. He slips his violin case from it carefully and runs a hand over its smooth surface. Playing helps him relax, clears his mind of most things, like flights. He places it on the bed and turns his attention to the garment bag next to it. He takes out the suits and hangs them in the wardrobe. They are a bit wrinkled, but it is nothing his morning shower won’t fix. He has another sip of wine while changing into dark blue pajamas and then pulls on his favorite dressing gown of cobalt blue satin. The color actually reminds him of John’s eyes. He quickly shakes his head to free himself of that thought. Jesus, he’s like a lovesick adolescent.

Sherlock picks up the violin case, the wine glass in his other hand, and goes into the living room. He sets both items down on the coffee table and looks out the large window for a moment before closing the curtains. Finally, he bends down and lifts the beloved violin from its case, plucking up the bow as he does. After a moment of preparation, he begins to play. He closes his eyes reverently and sways ever so slightly. He plays and plays, careful not to be too loud in the quiet hotel. So consumed by his playing is he that Sherlock almost misses the gentle knocks on his door.

His grey eyes pop open and immediately focus on the door to his suite. He stills the bow, but does not move it from where it hovers over the strings. He waits a beat or two as if there were rests in the piece and then hears it again. Two quiet knocks on his door. Sherlock glances at the clock by the flatscreen. Midnight.

Sherlock places the instrument and bow back in the case and moves toward the door, but pauses mid-step when there is another soft knock. He rolls his eyes and places his hands on his hips. This has happened before. There’s only one person it could be and Sherlock is beyond ticked off. He stomps the last few steps, releases the deadbolt in one swift movement and jerks the door open.

“Harry, if you’ve flooded your room again, I will not be responsible for my ac...tions,” Sherlock loses the vehemence in his last word as soon as he sees the figure at his door.

“What?” John asks, bewildered. “Has Harry flooded her room?”

“No. No, not this time,” Sherlock fumbles. “She did when we were here last year.”

“She does get up to things, doesn’t she?” John snickers.

“Don’t I know it.”

“I bet Clara was pissed off.”

“Oh, she was, believe me. They didn’t share a room for nine aways after that.”

“Nine? Seems rather arbitrary.”

“One for every year they’ve been together.”

“Oh,” the word sounds like a sigh and John’s eyes are soft. “That’s so sweet.”

“Sentiment,” Sherlock’s tone is dismissive and John gives him a look. “After Victor, I determined that sentiment is a defect on the losing side.”

“And yet, you keep winning,” John replies with a cheeky smile, “and you love Molly.”

“Like a sister. It’s different.”

“It’s still sentiment.”

Sherlock looks past John for a moment, feeling himself being pulled down a rabbit hole to a place he would rather not go. He fixes his gaze on John once more, a more critical gaze this time.

“Did you have some reason for coming to my room at this hour?” he asks in a clipped and rude tone he immediately regrets. He blows out a frustrated breath as John’s playful grin fades into startled dejection. Sherlock rushes to put it right. “John…”

“No, you’re right. I’m sorry,” the doctor interrupts, taking a step away from the door. “I apologize for the hour, but I just got a message from Mike.”

Sherlock freezes. Molly’s recovery has gone perfectly by anyone’s measure, but the brotherly and ultimately, irrational part of his mind jumps to frightening conclusions. The logical, and thankfully, larger part of his mind quells the worry before it can be seen on his face. Still, John continues quickly and though he can see it all as clear as day. Damn it, he knows Sherlock too well.

“Everything looks good and she’ll be released tomorrow morning,” he rushes to say. “I thought you’d want to know.”

“Yes,” Sherlock’s body relaxes and he lets out the breath he was holding. “Thank you. Please, come in.”

He stands aside and John walks in hesitantly with a ta. In moments, they are seated on the couch, sipping from water bottles. There is an air of discomfort and awkwardness between them that crushes Sherlock’s heart. He has never felt this way with John in the whole of their association. Even when they met and he attacked him with accusations and suspicion, John was completely at ease. Irritated, yes, but not uncomfortable. Sherlock’s mind works fast for a way to fix this.

“There’s no need to worry about getting her home,” John says suddenly. “Mycroft is going to help her. He’s already arranged it and he’ll help her get settled at home. Since you’re out of town and all. Apparently, he’s taken quite a shine to her.”

“Has he?” Sherlock asks with a lopsided smile. John gives him that cheeky grin and they descend into laughter. Sherlock leans back on the couch, rests his hand on his belly and looks at John. The doctor wears an almost wistful expression. A slow smile creeps onto Sherlock’s face, but doesn’t quite reach his eyes before his lips turn down into a frown. “Mike called you at midnight?”

“What?” John asks and then raises his brows in understanding. “Oh, no, no. He phoned just after I got back to my room, but I didn’t hear it in the shower. Then I fell asleep watching crap telly as soon as my ass hit the sofa. I woke up just a little while ago and saw the message.”

John pauses. Sherlock meets his gaze and then lets his eyes drop down to John’s lips when the tip of his tongue darts out to wet them. Sherlock swallows hard.

“I came to tell you straight away. I thought you’d want to know,” he pauses to look at the coach with laughing eyes, “like I was saying.”

“Yes,” Sherlock says again in a smooth tone. He notices a shiver ripple through John’s body and narrows his eyes. “I do. Thank you, John.”

Before he realizes what he is doing, Sherlock is patting John’s knee lightly. It is warm and welcoming, the denim of his jeans softer than it has any right to be. Sherlock pulls his hand away, even though every instinct in his mind screams to stop and just rest his hand on that knee.

“You’re welcome,” John clears his throat, speaking quietly.

Sherlock tilts his head because the man sitting on the couch next to him is absolutely the most amazing sight he has ever seen. He places his water bottle on the coffee table, drawing John’s attention to the violin and bow.

“That was you playing?” he says incredulously. “You play the violin.”

“Since I was five,” Sherlock replies. “And Molly plays the cello. Our parents had us take lessons together.”

“You really are two of a kind.”

“Oh, no, John,” Sherlock corrects him. “We are very different, trust me.”

A goofy grin appears on John’s face. He glances at his own knee where Sherlock’s had just been and a soft look comes over his features. He turns on the couch, folding one leg in front of his body. One arm rests on the back and he cups his own cheek in his hand, but he says nothing.

Sherlock turns to mirror his position. Draping his left arm across the top of the back, his fingers are close enough for him to touch John’s elbow with his fingertips. A soft brush of affection, of love. Sherlock wiggles his fingers slowly, but does not get close enough to actually touch John. Oh, how he longs to.

“You’re going to visit Molly as soon as we get back?” John’s voice is quiet and gentle. Sherlock gazes at him and they slowly become the only two people on earth. The hotel room falls away. In fact, the whole hotel full of people no longer exists as Sherlock finds and catalogs every hue of blue in John’s eyes. And a fleck of dark brown in only the left one.

“You’re very lucky to have each other,” John says and Sherlock realizes he must have answered yes. He zooms out a bit to see a somewhat distant and sad expression on John’s face. “It’s a precious thing.”

“Do you have a friend like that?” Sherlock asks and then wonders if it was wise when John looks at him with shining eyes.

“I did once,” John replies in a choked voice. He clears his throat and seems to collect himself. Watching the struggle to reign in his emotions, Sherlock desperately wants to take his hand or even take the man into his arms. His body aches with the urge to comfort John in any way he is capable.

“Bill Murray,” John says louder, sounding more like himself. “Met him when I was thirteen. He was fifteen and had just moved next door. He was an only child like me and really into tech repair. He’d fix anything, tear anything apart to see how it works and always got it back together again, usually in better condition than it started. He appreciated my capacity to learn quickly and extrapolate. It helped him with his work.”

He pauses a moment and mirrors Sherlock’s warm smile. Maybe it is the wine he drank earlier, although he did not have nearly enough for this, but Sherlock feels pliant and cozy. The soft oranges and yellows from the lamp lights in the room make the deep red of John’s shirt look even softer. The corners of Sherlock’s mouth curl further and he allows his middle finger to just barely graze John’s elbow.

“Right about the time I went to uni, he graduated and joined the army. We were in contact all through med school and basic training. We found weekends to meet up here and there. I could tell him anything,” John smiles wistfully, but it fades from his face and Sherlock finds himself dreading John’s next words. “I thought about joining up once I was done with school. Figured they’d be happy to have a ‘brilliant’ army doctor.”

Sherlock studies John’s face carefully, gleaning it all from his features. He knows what happened next, but there is no way in hell he is going to let on. He straightens his middle finger again and touches John’s elbow gently. Instead of pulling away again after contact, Sherlock lets his fingertip remain against John’s arm, wishing the doctor had worn a short-sleeved shirt.

“Did you?” Sherlock asks, not failing to notice John has not moved his elbow. The doctor raises his eyes and looks at him sadly. “No, I didn’t. There was more opportunity in civilian life, in England. Bill had shipped out to Afghanistan,” a determined look comes over John’s face and his elbow presses into Sherlock’s fingertip as if he needs to ground himself with the touch. “I thought I could do more, help more people, make more of a difference working in London. Women, children, young and old…”

“I’m sure you did,” Sherlock assures him when he trails off. His index finger joins his middle one, touching John’s elbow gently. “You must have saved countless lives over your career.”

“I couldn’t save the one that mattered most,” John whispers. He turns his head away, casting his eyes at the floor below the flat screen as though he cannot face Sherlock. He can still see the shine of tears in John’s eyes in spite of it. “I’m sorry. That’s a terrible thing to say.”

Sherlock touches with his ring finger now too.

“It’s human,” his voice is quiet and sympathetic. He strokes with his middle finger, trying to comfort the wondrous man before him. John still won’t look at him. “Bill?”

John nods and blinks slowly.

“They were hit on patrol and pinned down for hours,” he sounds distant and still stares straight ahead. He looks as though he can somehow visualize the scene, like he was the lone witness who could do nothing. Sherlock inhales sharply when John’s elbow leans into his touch with all its weight. He can feel John’s pain as acutely as if it is his own. John finally looks at him with watery eyes haunted by sorrow and guilt.

“He got shot,” John says flatly. “In the shoulder. The medics couldn’t get to him for the gunfire and he bled out. Didn’t have a chance. His parents told me. Came to my flat to give me a few of Bill’s things. He’d wanted me to have them.”

As he stares at Sherlock, a tinge of anger sneaks onto his face and his voice has an edge when he speaks.

“Damn it, Sherlock,” John huffs, “if I’d been there... If I had joined up I could have saved him. If I’d just been there. I’ve...I’ve never been able to shake that.”

“What makes you think you could have made it to him?” Sherlock asks. His tone is firm, but empathetic and John gazes back with uncertainty written all over his face. He looks lost and yet, ready to hear what Sherlock has to say, ready to believe. It hits Sherlock all at once that John has never spoken to anyone about this before. He has never been able to put voice to his pain. He has never trusted anyone enough to share it. Sherlock takes a moment to let the weight of that realization wash over him before he speaks.

“You said the gunfire held them down. You would’ve been shot if you tried to get to him. Even if you had been right next to him, you may not have been able to control the bleeding. He may have still bled out.”

Sherlock leans closer. The two gaze at one another with the kind of trust and bond typically earned only after years of friendship.

“You can’t blame yourself, John,” he tells him in a gentle voice. “Bill wouldn’t want that.”

He watches in silence as John’s dark and stormy eyes slowly begin to clear. He may have heard words like Sherlock’s before, possibly from his parents, but he had never dared to believe. He could never find any peace in his heart or mind. So he bottled his feelings and carried the weight of his guilt. John clearly never spoke of it at any time, in any relationship and the fact that he would trust Sherlock with it opens Sherlock’s eyes. He sees for the first time how much their friendship truly means to John.

Sherlock closes his fingers around John’s elbow and fixes him with an earnest gaze. The next words out of his mouth are nearly ‘I love you’ and thank god, he doesn’t say them. Nothing in the world would be more awkward and John would have bolted like a frightened rabbit.

“I have no doubt that Bill treasured your friendship and never had any expectation that you would serve together. He left his things to you as a remembrance of what you shared, not to make you feel guilty or that you’d failed him. You haven’t, John.”

The doctor says nothing. He just looks at Sherlock, unblinking.

“You’re right,” he breathes, a tear slipping from his eye and trickling down his cheek. “I know you’re right. But it’s so hard.”

“I know, John,” Sherlock places his free hand comfortingly on John’s knee. “Bill’s death was a tragedy to be sure. But if you hadn’t been in London for the people you have saved before and after it, that would have been a tragedy. And I think Bill would agree.”

There is a long silence. Sherlock is just beginning to think he should have kept his mouth shut when John’s lips turn up at the ends. It is a subtle movement, one he almost did not detect, but it is there nonetheless. John places his hand over Sherlock’s where it still rests on his knee. Sherlock’s stomach flips and his brows bounce up to reach the curls on his forehead.

“Thanks,” John says, his thumb lightly feathering up and down over Sherlock’s thumb to the back of his hand. “I know that wasn’t easy to say. Certainly not what I thought we’d be talking about when I walked here.”

“I would do anything for you, John,” he replies after a few seconds. John looks at him, that ghost of a smile still on his face. He pulls away the elbow Sherlock has been touching throughout the conversation and extends it until his hand is resting on the coach’s bicep. A shiver surges through Sherlock’s body and he is sure John feels it too because his smile widens slightly.

“So,” John begins as Sherlock feels a burst of lightheadedness when he gives his arm a squeeze and then gestures to the empty water bottle on the coffee table, “any chance I could get another? Or was that wine I saw on the counter?”

***

Two hours later and they are still on the couch, giggling and snorting merrily. Not drunk, as each has only had one glass of wine, but certainly very jovial. Sherlock has a twinkle in his eye as he looks at John because a laughing John Watson is truly a sight to behold. The coach is leaning back on the couch again with his legs stretched out on the coffee table. His head is turned to face John, who still sits sideways with his arm resting on the back of the couch. They are close enough that John’s fingers touch Sherlock’s bicep and his damned stomach flips periodically with the knowledge of it. While Sherlock still finds it frustrating, he knows for an absolute fact that he would love to feel that touch again and again, every day and night. He wishes that touch meant what he wants it to mean.

Goddamn, he is so fucked.

“We turned and skated as fast as we could,” Sherlock laughs, “covered with paint and cotton candy.”

“Oh my god,” John snorts, rocking back and forth. “I can’t believe you and Molly got away with that! Did he ever show up at your house and tell your parents?”

“No,” Sherlock replies, sobering, “but he appeared in the playground after school the next day and extorted us.”

John freezes on the spot, his eyes wide with shock. His jaw drops open and all trace of humor drains away.

“Oh my god,” he murmurs.

Sherlock stares back at him with a grim expression. However, a grin he cannot hide lurks beneath. The corners of his mouth begin turning up and he bites his lip to hold it in. John raises a brow in confusion as Sherlock’s head tilts up and laughter bursts from his mouth. His head falls back on the couch as he laughs and laughs, a sound from deep in his belly and he clutches at his stomach.

“You should see your face,” he struggles to say, his body tilting slightly from side to side with laughter. Realization quickly dawns on John’s face and he shoves at Sherlock’s arm, mumbling something that sounds like prat. He wears a smile of genuine amusement only a moment later and laughs with the coach.

“I can’t believe I fell for that,” he gasps out between two rather undignified snorts. “Bastard.”

He shoves at Sherlock’s arm again, watching fondly as Sherlock tries to reign in his merriment. When he has finally collected himself again, he looks at John with a more serious expression. It does not last as he starts to giggle and then quickly descends into laughter again. John shoves at him a third time, making both laugh even harder.

Suddenly John lunges at him and Sherlock yelps. They topple over on the couch in a mess of limbs and giggles.

“Ass,” John accuses playfully from atop Sherlock’s chest. The coach wriggles beneath his body to no avail. He places his hands on John’s hips and then slides them a few inches up John’s sides. Sherlock’s breath hitches and he blinks once. His nerves are somewhere between disbelief and sheer panic. If they keep this up his body is going to react in a way he cannot easily hide from John. He must end this here and now before he gives away everything.

Sherlock delivers two quick but light pinches to John’s sides, just under his ribs. The doctor yelps and twists fiercely.

“Shit! Stop. Stop!”

John flounders and then jerks hard to one side. Unfortunately, he tips right over the edge of the couch and brings Sherlock with him. His back thuds onto the floor loudly, the taller man thumping down on top of him.

“Oh,” John groans. His head lays back on the floor and his hands fall to his sides. With the air knocked free from his lungs, he cannot answer Sherlock right away.

“Fuck! Are you all right?” Sherlock straddles his hips and rests on all fours above him, his hands on either side of John’s head. “John. John! Just try to relax, okay? That’s it. Take deep, slow breaths.”

John’s breathing normalizes within a minute and Sherlock should really get off of him. He knows he should. He absolutely cannot take advantage of their close proximity and position, but a war rages in his mind, each side battling for control.

Jesus, John smells so good. Stop it. Stop it!

He had not meant for this to happen and, while part of him wants to stay this way forever, another part tells him he can’t possibly do that and keep his friendship with John intact.

“I’m fine,” John chokes in a quiet voice. “Just need to catch my breath.”

“Sorry,” Sherlock mutters and makes to move off the doctor, but warm hands on his sides stop him.

“Don’t,” John whispers.

They stare at one another. Sherlock sees both fear and desire in John’s eyes? It is only then that he begins to notice other tells that he should have seen long ago. An elevated heart rate, flush blooming up John’s neck and onto his cheeks, and his pupils have grown tenfold. Sherlock is shocked to the core and his breath hitches again when he sees those gorgeous, perfect eyes with only a sliver of blue left flick down to his own lips. In fact, his whole brain screeches to a halt in stunning realization.

John wants him.

John wants him?

No.

Yes?

“John?”

“Yes?” he breathes.

But Sherlock has no words. He has no idea what to say or do. He knows John is nothing like Victor, but the risk...the pain seems inevitable. Sentiment. He should ignore it, douse out the flame.

“Sherlock?” John whispers, bringing the man back to himself. John looks worried, his pupils already shrinking. “Are you okay?”

Unacceptable.

Without a word or thought, Sherlock lowers his head. His eyes slip closed and he just brushes his lips against John’s. The slightest touch, light as a feather and completely surreal. Sherlock’s entire body tingles with just that one touch. It starts at their lips and spreads through his chest, down his arms and legs to fingertips and toes. It. Is. Amazing. Glorious. Perfect.

Sherlock feels like he is floating. He lets out a long, smooth sigh and then opens his eyes to find John staring back with an unreadable look on his face. The doctor blows out a quiet breath, his eyes searching Sherlock’s. His body is full to the brim with tension.

“I…” he begins in a hushed tone. “I should go.”

Sherlock bites his lip. It is too much. He lifts himself, putting more space between them and adopting an air of nonchalance that grips his heart and squeezes.

“Of course.”

Minutes later, they stand at the door to Sherlock’s suite. Neither has said a word and Sherlock feels like a complete idiot. Why the hell did he think that was a good idea? After all he had told himself about getting hurt, of John not feeling the same way? But why had he said don’t when Sherlock tried to get up? God, he must find some way to salvage this. He cannot bear to lose their friendship. He cannot lose John. It would be like… No, it would be nothing like losing Victor. It would be exponentially worse. A piece of his own heart ripped from his chest, never to return, and what a piss poor job he has done protecting it.

Sherlock feels numb. He watches John reach for the doorknob and then something in his mind explodes. His hand juts out abruptly and he touches John’s arm.

“John, wait,” he prides himself on the fact that his voice sounds steady.

John turns to face him with an expectant look and Sherlock has a sudden flash of unadulterated panic, but he pushes it aside before he shows. At least, he hopes so.

“I’m sorry,” he says simply. His big brain cannot come up with anything better or more eloquent than the truth. “I shouldn’t have done that.”

Please let us still be friends. Please don’t turn away.

John’s brows raise and he looks at Sherlock with a hint of surprise on his face.

“Is that what you…” he stops and shakes his head ever so slightly. His brows lower into a thoughtful crease. His features become deadly serious, but soft and understanding as well. “Don’t apologize, Sherlock.”

Sherlock’s mouth opens, but no words come out and he ends up staring at John like a lovelorn fool. Don’t apologize. What the hell does that mean? Surely not what he wants them to. Why is this man so damn murky in a world that is otherwise, clear as glass? Everything and everyone so obvious and Sherlock likes it that way, but John Watson is an anomaly, an enigma he cannot quite piece together. It is absolutely infuriating and yet, everything Sherlock has ever wanted.

Sherlock stares at John without blinking, unsure of what to say or do. Don’t apologize could simply mean that John takes no offense and does not want to dwell on it. Several internal dialogues rapidly play out in his mind and Sherlock ignores them all to concentrate on a decent response instead. He begins to speak, but is not beyond John’s name before he is being manhandled towards the door. His back thuds against the wall with a curse and John’s body is against his, pinning him there. John’s face hovers in front of Sherlock’s, looking uncertain and a little scared, but heated and full of want. Without a word, he presses his lips against Sherlock’s and Sherlock’s mind goes blank.

-----

AHHHH! Omg, we finally made it! They finally got there. Can you even believe it? Eleven chapters in and slowest of slow burn, but YIKES, how exciting! When I got to the end, even I was thinking NO! YOU CAN’T STOP THERE! And now you all have to wait a week to see what happens next. Oops. And truly, with me, you just never know. Will one of the ladies knock on the door because someone’s trying to take down another lady? Or Mycroft phones with some news? Or Greg suddenly turns up to help with the bout? You just never know.

I wish you all a good weekend, a Happy Mother’s Day and an excellent upcoming week. I usually say I hope this brought you some solace, but this time I hope it continues to distract you all week long. Mwahahahaha!

Love, Jane

@zentris @221b-carefulwhatyouwishfor @toooldforthissh-stuff @shana-movershaker @melmey-fanfics @louise175dk @technicallywiseoncns @underestimatemethatwillbefun @jhamishw @weirdlittlegoofball @superwholockpotterincamelot @superwholocklmt @ladidragonuniverse @kittenmadnessandtea @srebrnafh @welcometomyharddrive @annecumberbatch @kingdomofbrokenhearts @philliphooper @whodwantmeasaflatmate @gloriascott93 @vvaticancameoss @cow-mow @echosilverwolf @spazzz32 @absentmindedstuff @swissmissing @shuukichan @maeliandmyself @wtgilsa @thetranslucentwallaby @red-pen-revolution @britishaccentfan @dischorde @plasticstrawsmuggler @youknowyougrow @francj96

#Sherlock Holmes #Sherlock #sherlockholmes #sherlock loves john #sherlock fanfic #john watson #johnwatson #johnlock #Johnlock fanfic #sherlock roller derby #sherlock au

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lucy-sky · 5 years

Text

Birthday Headcanons Vol. 2

Happy Birthday my dear friend and Rockwell Psycho soulmate @magnetoserik!!!

I’ve already written a longer introduction to this post, but Tumblr didn’t save it. Pretty frustrating because I planned to make 3 things for your Birthday, but due to these sudden health issues managed to finish just this one... And it doesn’t let me post it! Okay, attempt #2:

Here you will see the characters who didn’t take part in Birthday headcanons last year (however there’s a little bonus in the end). Some of them might be a bit too cheesy (Charley), sorry for that. Also I apologize for possible mistakes and promise to correct them later (that’s why I put the whole text under “read more” thingy) Hope you enjoy these anyways and they will make you smile :)

Once again, Ily and I am really really blessed to have you in my life.

Hugs, Lucy

Update: Mistakes corrected, woohooo!!! Well, most of them, I hope :DDD

Victor Mancini

You’ve just recently started dating and it’s important for Victor to show you that you mean way, way, WAY more than just a sexual partner for him. Normal relationship is something still new and a bit confusing for him, but he’s trying his best. So he asks you out on a classic date: a movie and a dinner. What could go wrong? Yet, you didn’t make it to the dinner. Who knew the lovely romantic movie Vic chose for this date would suddenly become such a turn on for both of you. You could blame it on the movie setting, or the chemistry between the characters, or… But who are you lying to? The truth is – yes, there was chemistry, but mostly between the two of you. You enjoyed his closeness, his hand on yours, stroking your skin gently… Eventually you ended up shamelessly kissing and cuddling, thankfully the cinema hall was half empty… Somehow you managed to watch the movie until the end, but afterwards the only thing you both could think about is bed. So instead of the dinner you headed straight to your place and had a really passionate night (honestly, you almost did it right at the door, if you get what I mean…) In the morning Vic, with a slightly guilty look on his face presented you a chocolate cupcake with a lit candle on top of it.

- It was in my bag all the time, but uhhh… I completely forgot…

- That’s okay, - you say with a soft chuckle. - Not that we had much time for that…

- Wonder why all my attempts to be sweet and romantic end up naked in bed like this, - Victor murmurs as you cuddle closer to him. - It’s more than that with you, do you know that?

- Sure, - you reply, stroking his soft messy hair. - I don’t have any doubts.

John Moon

John loves hiking. You love it too. So you both liked the idea of celebrating your birthday together, just you and him, in a place far away from the annoying hustle and bustle of the city. You grab your favorite snacks and drive along the woods to the mountains. You find the most beautiful place with an amazing view on the autumn forest. When you stand there together, him holding your hand, you feel like you’re on top of the world and no one can reach you. You make photographs and John watches you, smiling silently. He loves seeing you so happy and excited.

In the evening before heading home you kiss at the campfire, him holding you close to keep you warm. Instead of a Birthday cake you have coffee from the thermos and baked marshmallows for dessert.

John didn’t forget about a present for you too, it’s a small and simple silver pendant in a shape of your favorite flower – a daisy. There are quite a lot of things you like about John, and the fact that he remembers some small details about you which may seem unimportant, is one them.

You come back home pretty late. At Cecil’s farm down the hill the lights are already out. You feel sleepy after such a long day, so you go straight to bed where you make love gently and tenderly and fall asleep in each other’s arms.

Coach Bill

Oh no… His team is playing today!.. You’re a tiny bit sad that he’s busy, but of course you understand. Bill has a suggestion: how about you come and see the game, and afterwards you’d go celebrate your Birthday to your favorite Italian restaurant that serves best pizza in town. You’re not the biggest basketball fan, but you’re always ready to support him (and pizza sounds great too), so you agree on that plan.

So, here you are now, in a school gym, screaming and cheering your boyfriend’s team. After the first period it’s time for the cheerleaders’ performance. At some point you see them unfurling a big banner and your eyes widen in surprise as you see your name and a “Happy Birthday” on it. Bill runs up to you with a wide grin on his face, offers you a hand and leads you to the center of the field. Everyone is clapping to you and you are shocked and incredibly flattered.

The game goes well, Bill’s team wins and as you approach to congratulate them, they all thank you and wish you a Happy Birthday too. Bill asks if you liked his surprise and you tell him how overwhelmed you are and that it’s the most epic thing someone ever did for you.

- And the banner, Bill!.. Did the girls help you making it?..

- Uh, no, you see… I got this idea rather late, so I had to paint it myself, that’s why it’s far from being perfect… But I’m glad you appreciate the attempt, - Bill laughs and you can see him blushing.

- I think it’s absolutely perfect, - you say, as you hug him tightly, pressing your lips to his.

Guy Fleegman

You go to the geek store together, where you spend quite a lot of time discussing books, comics, toys and other cool thingies. Eventually you find costumes and other cosplay stuff. Of course you have to try all these on! In the end you decide to buy something, because the shop assistants already start giving you not very friendly looks… So you choose Princess Leia’s costume for you and Han Solo’s – for him.

Without taking the costumes off you head to the city center and just have fun there walking around and taking funny photos together and with people you meet on the way. It’s a lovely day and your inner child is absolutely happy.

Bob Fosse

To be honest you are pretty sure that Bob forgot about your Birthday. You’re a bit sad about it, but not surprised. You know very well how he can get lost in his work completely. Yes, you prefer to think it’s work, not some other women involved… You’re in relationship for quite a while, but this man is still a mystery for you. You’re not sure how serious this relationship is for him. Anyway, you don’t want to think about it today. You just put on a nice dress and go out with your best friends.

It was a lovely evening, you had fun, but since it’s a weekday, you arrive home before midnight. As you enter your apartment, you immediately hear the phone ringing. Of course it’s Bob. He asks you to come over.

- Bob, it’s late and I’m exhausted, - you say.

- Take a taxi, I’ll pay for it. Come on, y/n… I need to see you…

Mentally cursing yourself for being so weak you agree.

Bob meets you at the door and kisses your hand. As you follow him into his apartment, you see a table served for two, candles twinkling. Music is playing softly.

- Happy Birthday, - says Bob, giving you one of these charming gentle smiles of his.

- Oh, Bob… - You’re a little lost for words. – I… I thought you forgot…

- How could I, sweetheart?

- Well, you’ve been so busy these days we hardly saw each other, - you shrug. He reaches out to stroke your cheek as he looks you in the eye.

- That’s true. And trust me or not, but I missed you as hell. So I ordered some nice food and wine, and… We can finally have some time together, just you and me. How about that?

He sounds honest, or you just want to believe him. You don’t want to analyze it right now.

- Sounds amazing, - you reply, letting him pull you into a gentle yet passionate kiss.

Bucky “The Kid”

Bucky tells you it’s a surprise, so he covers your eyes and doesn’t let you open them while he leads you to his place. When you finally open your eyes, you see a throne made from an old yet pretty cozy armchair on a pedestal of wooden boxes, all decorated with flowers, garlands and twinkle lights. It looks too much in a way, but still really cool. Bucky suggests you get on this throne and pronounces you The Queen of these woods. Of course he didn’t forget to make a crown for you.

Bucky also managed to find a cassette with your favorite movie and you watch it together on his old TV set, eating snacks he prepared for the occasion: cookies, chips, sweets and chocolate bars.

- Oh my god, Bucky! - You laugh. - It looks like a 12 year old kid robbed a supermarket!

- So what! We’re having a party! But if you don’t want this or this, don’t worry – I’m pretty much able to eat all this alone…

- Nah-huh. Don’t even think of it, - you reply, grabbing a chocolate bar.

In the evening there are also fireworks.

Later, you cuddle with him in bed under the stars, and it feels so weird, absolutely surreal. But also incredibly beautiful.

Pero Maholovic

The district Pero lives in is far from being a luxury one. He doesn’t have much money to take you out to a fancy restaurant or something. But he’s one of those guys who can create romance out of nothing, and this kind of romance is always the most sincere. You spend a lovely evening on the rooftop, sitting on a blanket, drinking wine and watching the sunset.

Pero’s gift for you is a big bunch of bright yellow balloons.

- They’re just as shiny as you are, - he says.

Together you make paper airplanes, write your dreams and wishes on them and let them fly.

When it gets darker and colder, you get inside his flat. Pero makes you coffee. The radio plays softly and he pulls you into a playful dance. You wrap your arms around his neck as he hugs your waist, bringing you closer, and then you kiss devotedly, until he eventually grabs you tightly in his strong boxer’s arms, lifts you up and heads to the bedroom.

Francis

Francis has big plans for tonight. First – he takes you to a shooting club. You’re not sure how you feel about this idea, because you were never really interested in guns and shooting, but later you understood why he chose this place – him teaching you how to shoot is actually sexy as hell. You love him speaking in this quiet voice, standing so close your bodies almost touch, his hand on yours… In the end you really enjoyed it and it also gave you some sort of adrenaline rush.

Afterwards you go to a party in a club. There’s a dancing competition, and Francis wouldn’t be Francis if he didn’t convince to take part in it. Once again a new experience for you – you don’t mind dancing in general, but competition… You’ve never consider yourself confident enough for such things. However with him you managed to catch the right mood, and you even win a bottle of expensive champagne which you drink together in bed a couple of hours later.

Robert Goode

Robert is an absolute sweetheart. He brings you flowers and a big box of your favorite candies. He takes you out to a nice bar where a jazz band is playing. Surprisingly it turned out that a couple of the band members used to study with Robert. When they learn about your celebration they play Happy Birthday to you in your honor and all the audience is clapping. Later they invite Robert to play with them, and after a bit of hesitation he sits at the drums. He does really good and you feel proud about your boyfriend.

The rest of the evening you dance, drink, enjoy great music and nice company. Then he takes you home. The weather is lovely even though it’s autumn, so you decide to walk instead of taking a taxi. You hold hands, talk about nothing and everything at once, admire the lights of the night city… You even sing and dance a little on your way. As you get to your porch and it’s time to say good night, you just can’t let him go and after a passionate makeout session at your door you decidedly invite him in. Rob doesn’t seem to mind.

Eddie

Eddie is quite a simple guy. You just take a long stroll with him around the city center. You kick the leaves in the park, take coffee to go, walk into some funny or geeky stores you see on your way, take silly photographs, buy the biggest and the spiciest pizza in a cozy diner, talk and laugh a lot… You feel very comfortable with him, even though you’ve just started dating it feels like you know each other for ages.

In the evening you go to the amusement park where you eat cotton candy and caramel apples; Eddie wins you the biggest teddy bear, and then you kiss on the top of the Ferris wheel.

Charley Ford

Charley’s all sweet and shy. He brings you a bunch of wildflowers and kisses your cheek. You go to one of your favorite places – a beautiful meadow not far from the forest river, hidden from strangers’ eyes by the tall trees.

Lying there on the grass, you watch the clouds passing above you, talk about what you see in them. He holds your hand and you snuggle closer to his chest, feeling warm, calm and safe. Charley kisses the top of your head, and as you look up at him and see his soft and loving gaze, you both know there is no need for words. His lips finally capture yours in a gentle kiss, and for a while the entire words slips out of existence. There’s just you and him, his soft but determined lips, his warm breath against your skin and the sound of your hearts beating together.

Bonus #1:

Biker! Silas Groves

Silas is not a very big fan of crowded and loud parties. Also you’re really special for him so he wants this day to be for just the two of you. You both hop on his bike and head to the seaside. It’s a bit chilly there at this time of year, the weather is rather cold, but it’s still very beautiful and calm. There’s no one else except you and it’s amazing.

You walk along the beach holding hands, and Silas hugs you tightly, wrapping in his leather jacket to protect you from the wind. You collect seashells and take a few nice photographs of this stunning landscape. You've got coffee in the thermos and Silas has a small flask of whiskey to keep you warm. After a while you leave the beach and spend some time walking around the town. You know in summer there are quite a lot of tourists, but now it’s unusually empty and calm. Most of the bars and cafes are closed, but you still manage to find a lovely diner to have lunch.

Since it’s already pretty late and you drank a bit, you choose not to get back on a bike tonight and stay at a small but pretty cozy hotel. As you got a little cold during your walk, you decide to take a warm shower. Soon Silas joins you and his strong arms wrapping around you, his lips peppering your neck and shoulders with soft kisses, his tickling beard against your skin and his firm body pressing closer to yours warmed you up a lot more than hot water.

You woke up rather late, Silas a bit earlier than you, as usual. You ordered breakfast in the room, and after regaining some energy, you’ve spent a couple more delicious hours in bed before getting back on the bike and heading home.

Bonus #2:

Jason Dixon

- Hey there! - You smile, entering the kitchen. - How are you guys doing?

- Heeeey, Birthday Girl! - Jason beams at you happily. - We didn’t expect you that early, right, little man?

The little boy giggles in his chair as you come over to give him and your husband a kiss.

- Didn’t you enjoy the girls’ night, huh? - Jason frowns.

- I did! Thank you so much for letting me go, - you reply contently, sitting on his lap, your arm wrapping around his shoulder, as he hugs your waist. - But… I just missed you two so much!

- Well we missed you too, and we made something for you, actually.

- What’s that? - You raise your eyebrow curiously. - Oh! You made me a Birthday card! How cute!

On a sheet of cardboard you see a big sun painted with yellow gouache. It grins at you happily. Its rays are made of spiral pasta noodles, also colored with gouache. Above this work of art there is a caption “You are our sunshine!”

- You like it? - Jason smiles proudly.

- It’s the best card I’ve ever seen, - you say honestly. - Can’t believe you made it by yourselves!

- Bill did a great job, I almost didn’t help him!

You look at your son, who is apparently more interested in coloring another sheet of paper with an orange crayon rather than paying attention to his parents’ conversation.

- I’m very proud of my boys, - you say, leaning in to kiss Jason again.

- That’s not the only surprise, you know, - he smirks against your lips.

- Really?

- Uh-huh. Since it’s your Birthday, I’m gonna grant your any wish tonight… After we get the little one to bed, of course, - he winks.

This playful tone of his never fails to make you weak.

- Oh yeah? - You chuckle, stroking his hair. - Any wish? Absolutely?

- Abso-effin’-lutely, - your husband replies, raising his eyebrows. - I can even wear my uniform…

- Oooh, - you laugh. His jokingly-seductive attitude is absolutely adorable. - And what about the handcuffs, officer?

- Shhh… Let’s not talk about that in front of the kids… - Jason smiles, and you shiver as he kisses the side of your neck. - I’ll think about it though…

You look at his face. His features are so familiar and dear to you. Sometimes, as you look at him like that, and he looks back at you with this tender gaze, and his green eyes are sparkling, the feelings overwhelm you and you feel so lucky you can hardly believe it.

- You know you’re the most precious gift for me, right? - You ask, reaching out to stroke his cheek. - Both of you.

He just nods, kissing your lips again. No need for words, you already know that he feels the same.

- You’ll gonna love me even more after you learn about my most epic surprise, - he murmurs softly in between the kisses, - I ordered pizza...

Thanks for reading, and once again -

HAPPY BIRTHDAY!!!

#sam rockwell #headcanon #lucy tries to write #Happy Birthday!#rockwell psychos l and m

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burning-up-ao3 · 5 years

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Edge of 17 ch 5/10 “Best At Being Stupid”

https://archiveofourown.org/works/22297483/chapters/53682697

**NSFW**

Evgeni’s finger traced Sid’s abs, followed the trail of coarse hair from his belly button to the brief’s elastic. Sid breathed a yes. Please. And as Evgeni dipped below the elastic waistband

Sid woke up, drenched in sweat, his heart pounding. Jesus Christ, he was half of a finger away from humping the bed and there would have been no coming back from that mortification. That was the fucking hottest dream he’d ever had, kissing Evgeni’s plush lips, touching his pale skin, being skin to skin, and then he’d—

Shit. No.

Sid sat up quickly with his back to Evgeni so he couldn’t see Sid’s raging wood because that would be—

Since it was close enough to the alarm, Sid grabbed his phone and hurried to the bathroom. He ran the shower and tried not to think about his dream, but it was no use. He carefully shucked his sweatpants and underwear and stepped into the shower, barely yanking the curtain closed before he had his cock in his hand. Soap, some soap. Just the right amount so there was slick and friction. He replayed the dream and expanded it, Evgeni’s lips on his neck, kissing down, stopping to play with his nipples. Slide his tongue over one, return with a flick before sucking on it. Teeth? Just a little, maybe.

With his free hand, Sid scraped his fingernail over his hard nipples, and yeah, that was—yeah. Good. Really good. He thrust into his fist, harder, faster, as he imagined Evgeni sinking to his knees, the water running over his face as he took Sid into his mouth as far as he could, allowed Sid to fuck his face, and Sid had never done anything like this before, but it was amazing, perfect, wet and so hot. A sound escaped, a moan cut off, a shuddered sigh.

With each thrust, Sid felt his orgasm spiraling through his body, ready to spin out, a thousand winter shocks, each a tiny firework. Evgeni would carefully roll Sid’s balls in his hand before reaching further back and dragging his finger over Sid’s hole and—

It’s too much; he can’t hold off any longer, and he breaks, pulsing over his fist and onto the wall, gasping as quietly as he can, if he could even be quiet after the best orgasm he’s ever had.

Sid collapsed against the shower wall, ragged breathing and using willpower to stay upright. Thank God he’d been quiet, because if Evgeni had heard that—total humiliation.

When he’d built up enough energy, Sid slung the shower curtain open and stepped out.

Evgeni burst into the bathroom, fumbling to take his dick out of his underwear.

“What the fuck?!” Sid asked, standing naked and dripping on the small rug.

Evgeni mumbled something in Russian as he flipped open the toilet lid and peed.

“Seriously, what the fuck? You can’t just come in—” Sid scrambled to cover up, clawing at a towel from the linen shelves.

“Pee.”

He was being stupid. Guys saw each other naked all the time in locker rooms. But this was intimate—or yeah. Maybe he was just being stupid.

Sid wrapped the towel around his waist, but he was still half hard, and his dick pushed at the terry cloth. He pressed at it, willing it to go down.

Evgeni flicked and flushed, then washed his hands. When he turned around, Sid felt like he was still naked under Evgeni’s gaze. Like he could see everything, and not just Sid’s body. He could barely breathe under the weight of it.

“Why shower when we practice in little bit?” Evgeni asked, his voice still sleep rough and his accent thicker than it had been the day before.

Which was not helping his erection. At all.

“Just—needed a shower. Long day yesterday,” Sid shrugged and grabbed at the towel that was coming loose. “We should probably get going because, y’know, breakfast and stuff.”

Evgeni nodded like that made sense and left the bathroom, dropping his boxer briefs along the way. Sid struggled to breathe, faced with Evgeni’s ass, which was gorgeous. Thick and muscled, definitely a hockey ass.

Sid stumbled into the end of the bed and almost fell on top of it. Evgeni turned around to see what happened, and Sid smiled awkwardly, pretending to reach for yesterday’s t shirt that had gone flying out of his hand. “I think Mom’s calling. Yeah. Hurry up.”

Sid stepped into his briefs as quickly as he could, then threw on last night’s sweats and a clean t shirt. “Do you want a t shirt or sweats or something?”

Without waiting for an answer, Sid tossed a t shirt and a pair of sweatpants at him. “They’re gonna be too short. Don’t make jokes.”

“Is ok, Sid. You like candy bar. Fun size.”

Sid flipped him off but Evgeni’s tongue poking out from between his lips as he tried not to laugh was too much. “Asshole,” Sid laughed as he left the room.

~*~

“Guys. This is Evgeni. He’s new here. Don’t treat him like one of us. Actually be nice to him, please,” Sid said when the team was gathered at center ice.

“Ev-what?” Flower asked, feigning confusion.

“Evgeni,” Sid repeated slowly. “He’s Russian. He’s living with Coach Gonch.”

Evgeni stood smiling broadly, nodding.

“He needs a nickname. No way I can pronounce that,” Tanger said.

“You can’t pronounce your own name half the time.” Horny elbowed him in the gut, and Tanger nodded as if to say, That’s true.

Evgeni stood smiling broadly, nodding.

“Does he speak English? Can he even understand what we say? Like, if we nicknamed him Asshole, would he even know?” John Marino asked with a glint in his eye.

Evgeni stared him down, his face dark with anger. “Try me.”

Marino held up his palms in apology. “Sorry, my dude.”

“Is okay, but don’t do again.” And in the space of a moment, Evgeni’s face was sunny and smiling again.

“Geno. That’s a good nickname,” Flower decreed, and everyone agreed.

The coaches skated onto the ice. “Malkin! Show us what you got. Dumolin and Letang. Defend him. Flower, don’t let him score.”

Easier said than done. Geno slipped past Dumo, spun around Tanger, and went top shelf on Flower without him even moving.

“It’s okay baby,” Flower said, patting his goal cage. “The bad man didn’t mean it.”

Geno laughed a huge doubled over belly laugh, and Sid patted him on the back. “Great job!”

“Crosby!” Coach Sullivan hollered. “Center Malkin and Hornqvist. Let’s see how it looks.”

It was a thing of beauty.

Sid’s blind pass hit the tape of Geno’s blade as if he’d known it were going to be there, expected it to be there. Geno took another shot that banked off Flower’s pad and popped into the goal.

Again and again puck on tape, whether it was Sid to Geno or Geno to Sid.

“Jesus,” Sid heard Coach Sullivan say. “They’re like a goddamn two headed monster. We might just win it this year.”

~*~

After skate, the guys stripped out of their smelly uniforms and sweaty UnderArmour. They chirped Geno like he’d been part of the team for years, called him and Sid the “Two Headed Monster.”

“What are you guys doing later?” Flower asked, struggling with the buckles on his leg pads.

“Go with Sid,” Geno shrugged. “Sid best.”

“Sid best. Isn’t that cute?” Flower said to no one in particular, but Sid caught his meaning.

He glared at Flower who only grinned. “Are you living with Sid?”

“Flower!” Sid hissed, “Shut up!”

“Live with Coach, stay with Sid.” Geno, who was shirtless wearing only his compression shorts, wrapped his arm around Sid and pulled him in. “Sid best.”

“If my parents go out, we’re having a party at my house tonight.” Tanger barged in and broke up the conversation. “Check the group text.”

The locker room emptied out with the boys heading home or out to lunch. Geno went to find Coach Gonch. Flower, who had taken as long as he possibly could getting out of his pads, was alone with Sid.

Sid packed his bag up with his back to Flower. Maybe, if he couldn’t see Flower, he wouldn’t say anything. Or would go away. Or a hole would open in the floor, and Sid wouldn’t have to have this conversation.

“So—”

Okay, so none of those things…

“Geno’s staying with you, huh?”

Sid decided it was best to just do this. He zipped his bag, dropped it on the bench, and turned to face Flower. “Yes, he did last night.”

“Did he stay in Taylor’s room? Or did you?”

Sid’s silence was answer enough.

Flower shook his head in disbelief. “Sid! Tell me you at least slept on the floor.”

“I—he—he made me share the bed. I mean, it’s big enough for fuck’s sake. It’s not like anything happened.” Nothing had happened. And his dream was probably a one off anyway. Right?

“Sid. He’s, like, your dream guy.”

Please don’t say dream guy.

“He’s tall, built, brown eyes, nice smile. And he’s got a fucking huge dick. It’s actually frightening.”

Sid collapsed on the bench and hid his face in his hands. All he could do was nod his head.

“He can’t stay with you.” Flower rubbed Sid’s back as if it would take some of the future pain away. “This isn’t gonna end well, mon chum.”

“Back! What I miss?” Geno asked, his brow furrowed as he watched Flower and Sid. “Sid, you okay?”

Sid smiled wanly as he looked up at Geno. “Yeah, G. I’m ok.”

“Good. Coach Gonch say I’m stay at your house tonight! We play video games and watch more Friends.”

Against his will, Sid grinned. “Sounds like a plan.”

Geno grabbed his gear bag. “Sid best.”

Yeah. I’m best. Best at being stupid.

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crzcorgi · 7 years

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One Fateful Night

This is a request that I got eons ago from the beautiful @prettyepiic! I have to apologize for taking so damn long, but I started this, then sat on it for months! I decide to pick it back up and see if I could do it justice.

This is far from finished, but I want to put feelers out to see if it’s good enough to continue.

No warnings for this chapter, but eventually NSFW

Negan x Reader, Jason Crouse X Reader, John Winchester x Reader

2200 words

@negans-network

What do a high school coach, a disbarred lawyer/ investigator and a hunter of supernatural beings have in common? You might think nothing, and most would agree. Except for one special lady, that brought them together for one spectacular night that none of them will forget.

What brought them here, to some hole in the wall bar, is a mystery. But what drew them together isn’t. You walked through the door like you owned the place, because, well, you did. One day you received notice that your great uncle Henry had died, an uncle you never knew existed. And he left you his pride and joy, Henry’s Watering Hole. Yeah, real original name. But you kept it, as it did have it’s regulars who didn’t like change.

You took to being a barkeep like a fish to water. It was like it was your true calling. You spent all of your time there, even moving into the tiny upstairs apartment. You gradually made some changes, mostly just updates that we’re necessary to pass the health inspections.

You enjoyed the customers, mostly workers from the nearby shipyard. Sometimes things would get a bit rowdy and you take out your uncle’s peacekeeper, an old wooden bat with the name “Lucy” painted on it. Everyone knew you’d use it, as you had before.

Occasionally, Henry’s would get some outsiders, just passing through town. But it was rare. So when you had 3 strangers in one night, eyebrows were raised.

“So, what can I get you stranger?”

“Well, doll, I’ll just take whatever’s on tap.”

After you set his beer down, he grabbed your hand. You quickly pulled it back.

“Sorry doll, just wanted to ask your name.”

You pointed to a sign one of your regulars had jokingly changed up. Henry’s crossed out, with Y/N’s replacing it.

“Y/N, hmm, fits you doll. I’m Negan by the way.”

“Negan, that’s different. First or last name?”

“Just the one name, easier to remember when you’re screaming it.” Giving you a wink and smirk.

“You’re quite forward, Negan.”

“You think, doll? Does it make you uncomfortable?”

“Very little makes me uncomfortable, Negan.”

He watched you walk over to one of your other customers, another of the strangers.

“Can I get you something?”

“I’ll take a Guinness, please.”

“Gotcha.” And you couldn’t help but stare. Not only was this man gorgeous, he looked very familiar, but you couldn’t place it.

After you placed the coaster and then the glass down, you felt the need to introduce yourself. “I’m Y/N, what brings you to these parts?”

“Jason, and to be honest, I’m not sure what drew me here. I was on my way back home when something brought me to this bar.”

“Strange, you’re not the only foreigner here tonight.”

“Hmmm.” He nodded at you.

Moving on to the next newcomer, you set a paper coaster down, startling him from a leather bound book he was engrossed in. “Sorry to make you jump, what can I get ya?”

“Uh, just a beer, sweetheart.” He looked at you quickly, then went back to his book.

“Okay, be right back.” And once again, you had a strange feeling about him, sending shivers up and down your spine.

As you placed his beer down, you again felt a pull to introduce yourself, “I’m Y/N, and I’m just curious what brings you to these parts? We don’t get too many outsiders.”

“Uh, John.” He seemed a bit hesitant, almost as if he didn’t want to speak. “And honestly, I’m not sure why I’m here. I was about an hour away and something drew me here.”He smiled at you, dimples on full display.

You started to say something when you heard a voice.

“Doll, refill?”

You brought a fresh tap over to Negan. “Here you go. Sorry, we’re kind of busy tonight “

“S’ok doll, if it quiets the fuck down, maybe we could chat a bit, mhmm?��

Jesus, what is happening here? You’re mind was spinning from the thoughts and feelings that you were experiencing from these three strangers. Each one affecting you differently, but why? What was happening? Who were these men, these strangers? And why were they so familiar?

“Maybe, Negan, kinda straight out here.”

“I’m a patient man, baby.” He said with a wink.

You went into the backroom, I need to get a grip. This feels like the fucking Twilight Zone!

Grabbing your purse and letting Joe, your bartender, know that you needed a break, you headed out the backdoor for a smoke.

You lit up, looking up at the clear night. It was chillier than when you first came in, making you shiver.

“It is getting cold, guess it comes with the changing seasons.”

“Good God, you scared me!” It was one of the strangers, Jason, you thought.

He moved a bit closer. While normally you’d move away, you somehow felt drawn to him.

“Sorry, darling, didn’t mean to startle you. I see we had the same idea.” He pointed to the cigarette in your hand.

“Yeah, I don’t usually take a break when it’s this busy. But tonight is batshit crazy, I’m kind of freaked out. And I don’t have a clue why I’m telling you this.” You shook your head, looking up at this stranger that is making you question your sanity. “Are you feeling it too?”

“Yes, I am, darling.” He walked even closer, his hand coming up to touch your cheek softly. You leaned into it, feeling the warmth.

The sound of broken glass snapped you out of the trance you were in. “I’ve got to get back in there, sounds like they need help.”

Turning back towards the door, you risked a glance back at him. He was stepping on his cigarette butt, but looked at you as if he sensed your eyes on him.

“I’ll see you back inside, Y/N.” And he smiled, and you swooned.

Jesus Christ, get a grip!

Walking back inside, you realized it was quiet, almost too quiet. Yes, it was near closing, but you usually spend a good half hour shooing customers out the door.

“If you don’t need me, I’m heading out, Y/N, okay?” Joe yelled to you across the bar.

Hesitating, your internal monologue going wild, it’s fine girl! They’re harmless!

“Yeah, it’s fine Joe. Thanks for all the help, have a good rest of your night!” You waved to him.

As he stepped out, Jason stepped back inside.

“Oh, are you closing?” He asked looking around at the now empty bar.

“As soon as you three gentlemen are finished, then yes. Would you mind locking the door and turning off the sign, Jason is it?”

“Sure thing darling.” Winking, he turned to do the tasks you had asked of him.

“So, doll,” Negan had moved a few stools down to where you were cleaning up the cutting boards. “So, what do you like to do after closing? Got a man you go home to?” The way he said it, you were sure he knew the answer already.

“What I want to do, and what I will be doing are two totally different things, Negan.” And you winked at him, not understanding what came over you. Shit.

“So what is it that you want to do doll? Maybe I can help you out with it?” And he winked back.

What’s with all the winking?

“Well, I would like to have a nice relaxing evening, but that won’t happen. After I close here, I have to work on the books, repair a broken toilet in the ladies room. And do laundry for tomorrow.” Looking down towards the floor, you mumbled under your breath. “ This is when I want a man.” Thinking they wouldn’t hear you. But you should have known, the only time a man does hear you is when it might possibly benefit him!

When you brought your head back up, all three men were standing on the other side of the bar, just staring.

“Uh, can I help you?”

Leaning in towards you, Negan spoke first. “I don’t know about these other fuckers, but I think I can certainly help you doll!” His tongue darting out across his bottom lip. “I’m damn fine with laundry!”

That wasn’t exactly what you were expecting him to say, but help with the laundry would sure be welcomed.

“Okay, that would be awfully nice, Negan. But don’t you have someone waiting for you?” You didn’t know why but you were so hoping he would answer no.

“Free as a fuckity fucking bird dollface!” A big smile spreading across his oh so handsome face.

“You know, I’m rather adept at numbers, maybe I can take a look at your books?” Jason spoke up sliding onto the stool next to Negan.

The smart side of your brain was screaming WTF?! He could be a crazed killer! Either one of them! But, like always, the not so smart side spoke.

“Wow, really? I so hate working on that part of the business. I would be grateful!”

“Sure, darling. Just let me finish my drink and then you can show me to the office.” He held his glass up to his lips, a slight sideways smile appearing as his eyes never left yours.

“I’m pretty handy with tools.”

“Fuck! You scared the shit out of me!” Your hands came up to your chest as you looked over at the third stranger, John?

“Sorry sweetheart, it’s part of my job to be quiet.” Then he laughed, a sweet sexy laugh. “I could take a look at your toilet if you’d like?”

Was this a dream? A freaking hidden camera show? Who were these men? And why did you seem to trust them?

“Uh, yeah, that would be great!” This night was turning out much better, albeit stranger, than you thought.

You got Negan set up with the laundry, Jason went into your office, pouring over your books. And John not only was fixing the broken toilet, he said he would check out why the water pressure was so low.

You told them to come upstairs when they were finished as you needed to feed your cats. As you sat on your couch, you began pondering about what just went down. Three strangers in your bar, all in one night. Why were they here? What brought them? And why were you attracted to them? All 3 of them?!

A knock at your door drew you out of your thoughts. As you made your way to the door, you straightened your top, fixing your hair in the mirror you passed. What am I doing?

You opened the door to all 3 men, stepping back to let them enter.

“Doll!” Negan bellowed as he stepped inside. “Laundry is all fucking folded and ready for tomorrow!” He went and sat in a kitchen chair, stretching out his long lean legs, letting out a big sigh.

Jason stepped in with John right behind him. “Books like fine darling, just a few mathematical errors but it doesn’t effect anything.” He joined Negan in sitting.

“Toilet’s fixed, and just a few turns with a wrench and your water pressure is up to snuff.” John just stood near the door, looking a bit uncomfortable.

As you made your way over to the counter, you spoke over your shoulder. “Any of you boys need something to eat? Drink?”

They all said no and then looked at each, as if silently speaking. Okay, not too creepy.

Negan spoke. “Doll, we all were discussing tonight, how fucking odd it is that we all were drawn to your little hole in the wall. Then we agreed how drawn to you we are. And we,” He stood up, walking towards you and making you simultaneously nervous and turned on. Standing next to you, he leaned down to your ear and whispered. “believe you are fucking drawn to us the same way, hmmm?” Chills running up and down your whole body.

You didn’t dare move, frozen in your space. You eyes darting to all 3 men, their eyes never leaving yours. What do I do, say?

Jason stood up, making his way over also, standing on the over side. “We certainly are all feeling some sort of connection, don’t you think?” His eyes, looking into them, made you feel almost hypnotized. Until John spoke up.

“So,” he said as he walked over. “we have a proposition.”

You were now surrounded by these three men. These incredibly handsome strangers that just seemingly dropped into your life. Strangers that the smart part of your brain would tell you to get rid of. But oh no, the stupid part of your brain kicked the smart side to the curb hours ago.

Suddenly feeling emboldened, you placed one hand on Negan’s cheek, the other on Jason’s, an almost silent moan escaping your mouth when you felt both of their scruff. With eyes moving from Negan to Jason finally settling on John’s, you purred,

“So what is this proposition?”

#negan #jason crouse #john winchester #negan's thirst squad #negans-network #negan x reader #jason crouse x reader #john winchester x reader #negan x you #negan au #negan fanfiction #jeffrey dean morgan #jason crouse au #john winchester au #reader insert #crzcorgi writes

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whatdoyouthinkmyjobis · 7 years

Text

Hunters on the Hellmouth

masterlist

first chapter

previous chapter

AN: More gory than typical canon. Torture. Takes place a week after chapter 30 and GND 11.

Chapter 31: Christmas on the Hellmouth

Dean pushed the cracked door open and caught Sam lying in bed reading A History of Slayers, Volume I. How the Slayer came to be and what fueled her was his latest obsession ever since he learned she was a vessel.

Dean didn’t like this track at all. They’d argued about it weeks before. “God dammit, Sammy! Why won’t you let me be happy for once?”

“I’m just curious, Dean! This has nothing to do with you and Buffy.”

“And if something stinks, what then?”

But it was Christmas Eve, and Dean didn’t want to have that fight again. He pulled the bedroom door closed and knocked so Sam could pretend he was reading something else.

“Come in.” Now Sam held one of the battered Goodwill paperbacks he kept stacked on his dresser.

“Can I grab one of your extra blankets? Dawn’s cold.”

“Sure, go ahead.” Sam’s girlfriend, Jada, was always freezing, and had filled his bedroom with what Dean estimated to be a hundred different blankets, each for a very specific temperature.

Dawn, who had been livid when her sister said she was spending Christmas Eve at their apartment, was nested on the Winchester’s couch staring at the small Christmas tree on the coffee table. “I still can’t believe you decorated,” she said, adding the purple fuzzy blanket to her pile.

Dean leaned against the arm of the couch, shifting his weight off his broken ankle. The tree, small and squat with little red balls and enough light to speckle the walls with stars, was very pretty. “Jada decorated before she headed north. She thought it would cheer us up.”

“I’m glad. I didn’t think I’d get a tree this year.”

“Don’t get your hopes up. Santa ain’t leavin’ any goodies under there.”

Dawn rolled her eyes. Buffy, an expert-level eye-roller herself, found this annoying and disrespectful, but he delighted in getting a rise out of the girl. “Dean, I’m sixteen. I don’t believe in Santa.”

“Got everything you need?”

“Yeah, I’ll be fine.”

Dean hobbled back to his room, already fantasizing about finding a naughty Mrs. Claus in his bed. Not that he was in any condition for sex. Moving from his bed to the bathroom meant the agonizing choice of putting pressure on his foot or his ribs. Moving his arms hurt. Laying flat hurt. Broken bones on top of Buffy’s busyness with the Potentials meant their sizzling sex life had started to fizzle.

Dawn called after him, “Hey, thanks for letting me come! Buffy was just a big wall of no.”

“You’re family, kid. Why wouldn’t you be here for Christmas?”

A flush rose to her cheeks, and she pulled the blankets up to her shocked eyes.

Waiting on his bed was something better than a vixen in red lingerie. Buffy, with a smile on her lips and sleep creeping into her eyes, had made herself comfortable in his red plaid shirt and nothing else. By her side, was a green box topped with a white bow.

“That took longer than I thought,” she said.

“Your sister wanted another blanket.”

Buffy rolled her eyes. “You have a broken ankle! I could have gotten it for her.”

Crawling into bed beside her, he planted a quick kiss on her cheek. “You said no presents.” The phrase boyfriend test flashed in his mind, but she didn’t look at him like he’d failed.

“No presents. Not really. This isn’t for you to keep. I just thought bows were festive, and I sort of need the distraction.”

His lingerie dream revived, he unwrapped his not-present. “A book?” It was burgundy with a stamped gold trim.

Buffy removed it from the box as he leaned against his pillow pile. “I ask you to tell me stories all the time, so I thought I’d tell you some of mine.”

It was a photo album. On the first page, an orange-tinged Polaroid of a young woman with large, deep set eyes and blonde, deflated Farrah hair in a hospital holding a baby. Beneath it Baby Girl Jan 19, ‘81. “My parents fought over what to name me, but the hospital wouldn’t let them leave until they decided. Dad wanted Jennifer, but mom said I was too special to have the same name as every girl on the block. Mom got Buffy on my birth certificate while Dad was out celebrating.”

“Smart woman.”

“She was.” Buffy grinned. “She would have liked you.”

Dean had been caught off guard when Buffy said she loved him, but the idea that her mother would have liked him was shocking. With his heavy drinking, gambling, scars and tattoos, he didn’t think of himself as the take-home-to-mom type; but then, he’d never been a there-in-the-morning guy before Buffy either.

The next few pages were a blur of a blonde baby, usually smiling, often in ruffle-butted tights. Dean secretly loved babies. They were innocent and joyful. The end of the world meant being hungry or needing a change. Suit their needs, and they’re laughing again. He tried to suppress the now familiar blonde-haired, green-eyed girl who met him in his dreams.

The baby gave way to a toddler. In every picture, she gazed at her father with complete adoration. Soon, little Buffy was ice skating and dancing. Blowing out birthday candles, heading off to school, and holding a baby sister. The Summers family went to Disneyland, had barbeques, and stuffed presents under the Christmas tree until it overflowed. Once the round-cheeked, homecoming queen version of the Buffy he knew appeared, the album ended.

“We, uh, moved to Sunnydale a little after that.” That’s when monsters became real.

“What do you think Buffy Anne Summers would be doing if she hadn’t moved to Sunnydale?” he asked.

“I don’t know. She’d be entering her last semester of college. Probably would have spent too much time partying. Sorority for sure. She’d probably be dating some popular guy because he was popular and everyone said they were cute together.”

“Doesn’t sound like you,” he said, knowing how much brushes with the supernatural changed a person.

“Popularity is a strong drug,” she said.

Burning down her high school’s gym had no doubt ousted her from her typical social circles. Much as Dean hated Buffy being tied to the Slayer until it killed her, he was grateful it had put her in his path.

“And what would Dean Winchester be doing out of Sunnydale?”

He rubbed her leg, not wanting to confess that had Cas never brought him here, he’d be drunk and scared in a no-tell motel trying to plan a Hail Mary against Heaven and Hell. “You know me, darlin’. I’m gonna be hunting evil sons a bitches wherever I am.”

“I guess you didn’t have a lot of time before...” Her voice trailed off.

“I remember a few things,” Dean said. “I played t-ball. Dad coached. We lost every game. I was pretty obsessed with rocket ships and war games. Dad always made me the general and he was a sergeant.”

“Sounds tough,” she said through a smile.

“Tough as nails. I mean, I fell down, didn’t even cry until I got home.”

He opened his nightstand and pulled out a brown, leather book. Tucked under the journal’s jacket was Dean’s entire collection of family photos, creased and foxed from being touched so often.

“This is before the fire. I think Sammy was only a month old,” he said, holding up a small picture of four happy Winchesters in front of their blue house in Lawrence.

Buffy stared at the picture, hovering her fingers over Mary. “Your mom was very pretty.”

“Yeah, she was. Sweet woman. Total badass.”

“That’s your dad?” John smiled in the picture, his arms encircling Mary and Dean, nothing on his mind but family. “I think you take after your mom.”

He only had a few pictures from his childhood. Some with his mother. Some with his father. A couple with Bobby. All of them with Sam.

“Whatever happened to those pictures we took in San Francisco?” Buffy asked.

“They’re still on my phone.”

She blushed. “Not the sexy pictures. The other ones.”

The disposable camera was in his dresser, images of the two of them enjoying themselves still trapped inside. “I haven’t gotten them developed yet. It’s been a few years since that was a thing.”

“You should. We need more happy pictures.”

Christmas evening, most of the Potentials were piled among their pillows and blankets, watching It’s a Wonderful Life on a small television while self-appointed snack-fetcher Andrew popped a third batch of popcorn.

Dani leaned against the kitchen counter and tapped Willow’s foot with hers. “Wanna join us? It’s a Christmas tradition, and what’s more traditional than a couple of lesbians heckling Jimmy Stewart?”

“Rain check,” Willow said, taking another wet cup from Buffy. “We officially have more people in the house than dishes.”

“Your loss,” she said, biting her lip and walking away.

“She’s friendly,” Buffy teased.

“Yeah, she is. But this has already been my most Christmasy Christmas. Don’t feel like topping it off with more festive,” said Willow as she refilled the cabinet with cups.

“Sorry!” Buffy cringed. The madness from The First had started in the middle of Hanukkah.

“It’s okay. My parents went out of town to visit old college buddies anyway, and Xander even lit the candles for me while my eyes were covered. I just tell myself everything’s closed because it’s Anti-Capitalism Day, not the celebration of Santa’s birth.”

“That’s festive?”

But the look on Willow’s face as she stared at water droplets on the tumblers was anything but celebratory. Last year for Winter Solstice, she and Tara had celebrated by holding hands in the pitch black house and willing the hundreds of tealights they’d spread around to spring into dancing flames. It was beautiful, like the floor was covered in stars. This December, she’d been in and out of the hospital with her own injuries and those of friends, close to losing her best friend less than a year after losing her girlfriend.

“How are you doing, non-holiday wise?” Buffy asked.

Willow rested her head on Buffy’s shoulder. “The other day, I caught myself longing for a simple vampire patrol, like how we used to with just you, me and Xander. It seemed downright quaint, and vampire patrol quaint? I’ve gotten so nostalgic for not-now that you could sprinkle a little snow on a fresh corpse and I’d find it all Norman Rockwell.”

“Picturesque. Why aren’t you making the decisions about holiday stamps?”

“I know!”

Squabbling rose in the living room.

“They can’t stay here forever,” sighed Buffy. “Either we all die horribly, or we save the day and have a dance party at The Bronze, the three of us, like old times, less the high school drama.”

“I’ll take high school drama. Getting shoved in locker is majorly preferable to nearly being blinded by an ancient evil.”

Buffy dried her hands and drew her friend in for an embrace. Willow wasn’t alone in wishing for simpler days, and time with friends -- the close friends a person could be quiet with for hours -- was sorely needed.

They released each other as a clamor of footsteps filled the house. Molly, Andrew, and Vi, a spacey redhead in a perpetual beanie who’d arrived the prior morning, searched the kitchen for snacks. “Why are all the good Christmas movies so depressing?” Vi asked. “Jimmy Stewart’s trying to kill himself. Then there’s the one with the mountain goblin invading everyone’s homes and robbing them blind. Don’t get me started on Rudolph--”

Buffy’s cell phone rang. Since everyone but the Winchesters was at her house, she headed toward her room, hoping to hear Dean’s deep voice on the other end asking what she was wearing.

Instead Dean screamed, “Buffy! Sam! They took Sam!”

Giles sped toward the Winchesters’ apartment, as Buffy called out directions. “Turn left!” she cried, causing him to squeal around a corner.

They took Sam. Dean had said nothing else before disappearing from the phone. She had no idea who took Sam or if they’d taken Dean too. He’d just stopped talking. Buffy’s heart was trying to climb out her throat.

“Stop!” she screamed, opening the door before Giles could slam on the breaks a few blocks from the apartment. On the sidewalk, a bloody, nearly naked Dean stumbled away from them.

“Dean, I’m here!”

Not seeming to see or hear her, he pressed on.

Buffy stood in front of him and shook him by his blood-slick arms. He was sweating yet cold to the touch. The gashes on his arms looked painful, but survivable. The gushing stab wounds on his shoulder and stomach made her dizzy with worry. “Dean, stop!”

He kept walking. Staring at something on the ground, he muttered, “Took him. They took him. Gotta get him back.”

“Leave that to me, okay? You’re going to freeze to death!”

He kept walking, his gait uneven with his cast foot. Losing Sam was Dean’s biggest nightmare. As with other times when he couldn’t shake his nightmares, Buffy drew back and slapped him.

Dean looked at her with tear-filled, frightened eyes. “They took him, Buffy. The Bringers broke in and took Sammy.”

He didn’t resist as Giles placed his jacket over his shoulders and directed Dean to the idling car.

“I was in my room, and I heard this big bang. Before I could even get up, Bringers were crashing through my door and window. I could hear Sam screaming. Oh God, Buffy, he was screaming and fighting, and I couldn’t get to him. I could-I couldn’t--”

“Shh! I will get Sam back. Let’s get you stitched up first.”

They retraced Dean’s bloody footsteps to find his apartment door in splinters. A dead Bringer lay nearby, a broken bookcase on top of him. By Sam’s bedroom door, another Bringer, pieces of its head blasted against the wall. As she escorted Dean to the bathroom to sew up his wounds, she glimpsed two more bodies in his bedroom.

“How many of them were there?” she asked as she wiped the blood off his chest.

“Seven? Eight? I think Sam was sleeping. Hard to stay awake on all those drugs.”

“What would they want with him?”

Dean shook his head.

“Babe, I think we need to take you to the hospital. These stab woun--”

“No! Fuck! We have to get Sam!”

Buffy had seen people in the throes of loss, but this was the first time she’d seen someone out of his mind with grief.

“One of them is alive!” Giles called.

Dean bolted from the bathroom. The Bringer under the bookcase was still twitching. Dean yanked him from under the rubble and slammed him against the wall. “Listen up you filthy fuck, you’re gonna tell me where my brother is, or I’m gonna cut it out of you.”

The Bringer coughed, spraying Dean with blood. It smiled a twisted red grin.

Scooping a dagger off the floor, Dean dug it into the Bringer’s shoulder, letting its weight hang on the blade. As it opened its mouth to scream, they saw its tongue had been cut out.

The wound in Dean’s own shoulder gushed. His eyes were dark with hate, a snarl on his lips. He looked like a stranger.

Buffy tugged on Dean’s arm. “We’re not going to get anything out of him,” she said softly.

With one swipe across the neck, Dean finished the Bringer. He stumbled back, slipped in a smear of blood, and crashed to the floor with a cry. Pale and sweaty, he began to shiver.

“Call 911,” Buffy barked at Giles.

“God dammit, Cas! Where the fuck are you?” Dean muttered.

“He’s stuck at the wrong airport. Travel’s a bitch.” A handsome middle aged man with black hair just starting to grey stood by the kitchen, a know-it-all smirk on his face. “Hell, I don’t think I could have snuck over to this fun new playground if it wasn’t for you two, always leading the blind, doomed charge.”

“Who--?” Giles didn’t need to finish his question.

Though she knew it was pointless, Buffy scanned the room for weapons. The man in front of her was dead, memorialized in Dean’s tattoos, which meant the man was The First, who they still didn’t know how to hurt.

Dean’s breathing turned short and sharp. “Dad?”

The apparition scowled. “Don’t blame me for your existence. I wanted all you muck-monkeys wiped out.”

Dean’s eyes went wide with fear. “You!”

“Finally!” The First said with a clap as Dean tried to crawl away. “You know, I’m surprised little Sammy hadn’t figured it out yet. You? Well, everyone knows you’re an idiot skating by on good looks and charm.”

Dean’s eyes rolled back in his head and he passed out. She couldn’t do anything about The First, but Buffy wasn’t going to lose the man she loved. Wrapping Dean in a purple blanket from the couch, she picked him up and started to head downstairs.

“This is adorable, by the way,” said The First. “Never thought I’d see Dean Winchester in puppy love. So cute. I’d root for you two kids if I wasn’t planning on torturing and killing you. For his sake, it would be kinder to let him die now.”

“No one’s dying today, asshole.”

“Dirty mouth! I see why he likes you. Well, I have go try on my new suit. You keep vainly trying to save everyone,” He raised his hands in a mock gun and fired at her with a smile, “and I’ll keep knocking them down.”

After finishing his interview with the police, Giles rubbed his temples and joined Willow, Xander, and Dawn in the hospital waiting room. He opened his eyes at a rattling sound. Willow handed him a bottle of aspirin. “Can I use the entire bottle?”

“Save some for the rest of us,” said Xander.

They looked about the room blankly, needing to focus on something other than the reality of being in the hospital again, of nearly losing Dean again, of being attacked again.

The faint sounds of Buffy arguing with a nurse drifted down the hall. Despite her insistence, the doctor wasn’t going to let anyone see Dean for a few more hours. He had a collapsed lung, and had nearly bled to death. As soon as those pressing concerns were attended to, the doctors wanted more x-rays to determine if they would need to put pins in his ankle.

“Merry Christmas,” said Dawn.

Pouring himself a cup of spoon-eroding tar from the waiting room coffee stand, Giles downed four aspirin and mulled over the situation. First Spike, now Sam. The former had been The First’s pawn. Abducting him may have been a simple matter of keeping him quiet, though he didn’t doubt Spike was being used for more nefarious purposes. But Sam? Other than their fight over a week ago, he should have been unknown to The First. And why would the Bringers take only one brother, when It had left a bloody message about both? Judging from his desire to flee, Dean recognized The First as something beyond the image of his father. How did It know their father?

“What does The First want with Sam Winchester?” Giles asked.

They turned their tired stares to him.

“I’ve not been around them enough to earn their confidence, but there is something about the Winchesters they aren’t telling us. Have they disclosed anything about their more bizarre interactions with the supernatural?”

Xander, his unsure eyes darting to the girls, started, “One time there was this cursed rabbit’s foot--”

“No, that’s not it.”

“Okay, another time a ghost just wanted someone to come to his birthday party-- ”

“Dear God, what have they been filling your head with?” Giles asked.

“In defense of all the guy-folk, we were usually pretty tipsy when these stories came out, so I may be hazy on the details.”

Buffy, her coat still smeared with blood, stormed into the waiting room. “Give someone a medical degree, and they think they know everything.”

The pounding of her pacing punished Giles’ throbbing head. “Please, sit down.”

“I can’t! I hate waiting like this! I need to either be with Dean or out saving Sam, but I don’t even know where to start!”

They didn’t know how to save Sam either, so they surrounded their friend with hugs. The edge in Buffy’s countenance softened as she drew strength from her friends.

Unfortunately, Giles could not spare her the moment of relaxation. “Would you like some coffee?”

She shook her head and slumped into a chair beside Willow.

“We were just sharing stories about the Winchesters,” Xander explained.

“Like how they’re wonderful and have made my life a thousand times easier?” Buffy pouted.

“Heaven sent, you could say,” Giles encouraged.

“Well, yeah, an angel brought them here,” said Dawn.

“And an angel brought Dean back from the brink of death.” He took another sip of his coffee. “Does no one find it odd that angels are so interested in them, and yet offered no protection against this attack?”

“Mysterious ways sure are gosh darn mysterious,” Xander said, clueless as to what Giles was driving at.

“It’s not just angels.” Willow’s eyes darted between Buffy and Giles. “I, um, I had a spell go wrong a few months back. It let me see in people, and there was something weird in Sam. Inside, he looked almost like Spike, a soul wrestling a demon. When I confronted him about it, he said the demon that killed their mom was, uh, it was feeding Sam demon blood.”

This was news. This was progress. Giles leaned forward. “Feeding demon blood to a baby. That could only be for a ritual of some kind.”

“That’s what I said, but he didn’t know anything else.”

“He doesn’t have voices tell him to do bad things, does he?” Xander asked. All three of the girls glared at him.

A chess board formed in Giles’ mind. On opposite sides, Sam and Dean, one moved by the forces of Hell, the other the forces of Heaven. Whatever the game was, it was still in play. “Buffy, I need to know the circumstances surrounding Dean and Sam’s deaths.”

“I told you: it’s private.”

“Dammit, Buffy! This isn’t about betraying privacy. It’s about saving Sam,” Giles snapped.

“How could anything that happened over there matter over here?”

“Because I think whatever was after them, followed them.”

Buffy fixated on Giles, her loyalties wrestling inside her. Finally, she whispered, “Sam was murdered right in front of Dean. Stabbed. He died in his arms...”

Dean kept his eyes closed and took stock of his body. A dull throbbing in his ankle. A stronger pain in his side. It didn’t feel like his body. It was distant, like it was floating slightly to his left. Someone was rubbing small circles on the back of his hand with their thumb. He squeezed the hand and tried to open his eyes, only catching a flash of blonde before closing them again.

Sam. Sam surrounded by men in robes. Sam screaming, the bandage on his stomach blooming red.

A far away voice. “Hey Dean, your Girly’s here.”

The Bringers. A flurry of knives. He still slept with his .45. Shot the one who broke through the window.

The voice again. It was sweet, familiar. “I’m going to fix everything.”

Another one burst through the door. Took two bullets to the chest before going down. Sam was screaming. A crash. Sam was fighting back.

“Baby, I need your help. What’s after you?”

In the living room, he saw them carrying his brother out. Couldn’t shoot or he’d hit Sammy. White hot pain. He threw a Bringer off his back. More pain ripping through his body. Head shot. Quiet. Sam was gone.

Dean could barely keep his eyes open, but he knew he was in a bed. He couldn’t save Sam from bed. He tried to get up, but something pulled at his chest. Two hands pushed his shoulders back into the mattress.

“Dean, you can’t get up, okay? You need to rest.”

“Gotta get Sammy.”

“I know.”

He tried to get up again. Buffy shoved him back into the bed. He glared at her.

“Saving Sam is my number one priority right now, or don’t you think I can do it?” Buffy asked.

He knew she couldn’t. She could kill any beast Hell threw at her, but this wasn’t a hellbeast.

“You recognized The First, didn’t you? I need you to tell me how to kill it.”

They’d broken up, in part, because of lying. Since getting back together, they’d tried to be as upfront as two monster hunters could, but there were parts of his world too crazy to share. Rather than lie, he avoided them. Steered her away whenever she got close. The questions now sat under a glaring spotlight, and he couldn’t get away. “You think I’m keeping secrets.”

She looked away, biting her lip until it turned white. “It’s what you do.”

Buffy’s eyes usually sparkled with curiosity and fire when asking him questions. Not now.

“Go get Giles,” Dean said. “I only want to say this once.”

As Dean sipped his water, Giles examined him, looking as annoyed as Buffy did concerned. “Just say it,” Dean said.

“Who are you, and how do you know The First?” Giles demanded.

All of Dean’s anti-authority snark rose up. Were Giles a cop, he’d delight in giving him the run around. But he wasn’t. He was someone who also cared about Buffy, and they were both in harm’s way because of him. “Back home, we’re going through the Apocalypse. Not one of your generic baddies trying to end the world apocalypses, a bonafide four horsemen, seal-breaking war against Heaven and Hell.”

“Revelation?” said Giles in shock.

“Bingo. It’s just skirmishes now. But when the players are big enough, skirmishes wipe out cities. The angels ain’t doin’ so hot. I think they bit off more than they could chew when they triggered the whole thing.”

“The angels started the Apocalypse? I thought they were supposed to be on our side.” Buffy so wanted allies. After his miraculous healing, she’d asked Dean daily questions about Castiel.

“With a few exceptions, angels only care about angels. Right now, Heaven’s biggest concern is bringing God back.”

Everyone’s eyes went wide. “God?”

“Story is, he went awol after Lucifer tricked Eve. Left the archangel Michael in charge.”

Giles removed his glasses and slipped into a nearby chair, his face buried in his hands.

“Thing is, they can’t really settle the fight until Michael and his brother Lucifer have a brawl.”

“Lucifer, like, the devil?” Buffy asked. “We’re talking about a red, horned guy with bad facial hair?”

“Lucifer, as in the fallen archangel with a grudge against humanity,” Dean grumbled.

Giles took a deep breath. Part of Dean thrilled at seeing the Watcher so spun by the news. “What happens if this ‘brawl,’ as you call it, takes place?”

“If Michael wins, the angels are guessing half the planet dies. If Lucifer wins…” Dean shrugged, confident they could imagine that outcome.

“What’s stopping them? They’re archangels. Can’t they do whatever they want?”

Dean set his cup back on the side table and tapped his fingers before continuing. “Remember what I told you about demon possession where we’re from? To carry out any work on Earth, angels need to possess someone, but angels are different than demons. I mean, these are beings you can’t even see without losing your eyes, and that’s just the bottom rung. They can’t possess just anyone or they’ll blow their vessel.”

“Vessel?”

“The person they’re possessing. So only a few people fit, and those people have to give the angel permission.

“Archangels have an even rougher time finding someone who’ll fit. Essentially, they have to use the Cupids--”

“Cu-cupids?” sputtered Giles. “You mean with the,” he mimed a bow and arrow.

“I mean fat naked guys who trick people into falling in love, yeah. See, they get two people who can be possessed by angels to have a baby, then make their kid fall in love with other possible angel vessels until they breed an ultra strong, dishwasher-safe, microwavable kid to keep on standby in case they want to sully their holy feet with Earth muck.

“Heaven was patting itself on the back, ‘cause they got two vessels for Michael.”

Buffy, her eyes unfocused, silently dropped into the other chair.

“Dear God,” muttered Giles.

“Only Hell wanted a vessel for Lucifer.” Unable to bear Buffy’s response, Dean stared at his hands. “They snuck into Sam’s nursery. Fed him demon blood. Claimed him and several dozen other kids for Hell. But they took a special interest in Sam. Couldn't resist the whole brother versus brother angle.

“Whatever Cas did to get us here left enough room for the Devil to squeeze through. So I gotta save Sam as soon as possible. Who knows what hell they’ll put him through to get him to say yes.”

“Wake up! Wake up! WAKE UP, SAMMY!” Cold and stiff, Sam opened his eyes to see Dean standing over him. Sam was lying on the stone floor of a fire-lit chapel, his feet and hands in shackles.

“Dean, where are we?” he whispered as he tugged at his bonds.

Unbound, Dean crouched beside him, a satisfied grin on his face. “We’re in my playroom, little brother.” Then Dean shoved his hand into Sam’s chest, setting of a small, painful series of shocks to his heart.

Trembling, Sam pushed himself away, but his irons prevented him from a comfortable distance.

Dean’s warm, familiar face -- the face that had calmed Sam’s fears his entire life -- morphed into a man with deep set eyes and blistered skin.

“Lucifer!”

“I would say, ‘In the flesh,’ but I’m having a teensy problem there, Sammy. See, this world, whatever it is, is short of even inadequate vessels. All I can do is appear as the dead, which ironically includes you and your brother. I’ve had to recruit minions.”

Lucifer whistled, and two Bringers dragged in a barely conscious Spike leaving a trail of dark blood from the stump at his knee. Following close behind, was a Turok-Han. The Bringers dropped Spike at his feet and bowed before leaving.

“It’s nice to find people who share your vision for ending the world. This one,” he said as the Turok-Han kicked Spike in the ribs, “was the first creature I found here. He was stumbling through the street whining about his soul. I offered him purpose. I offered him his heart’s desires, and he didn’t deliver. He is the only creature I’ve found here that I could use, and he refused to be my vessel. Couldn’t kill your brother or the little souped-up whore he’s fucking. Spike’s still useful though.” One by one, the Turok-Han bit off Spike’s fingers while his screams filled the cave.

“Either of you say ‘yes’ and it stops.” Lucifer grinned.

Spike laughed, spending a spray of blood from his lips. “My exes are better at torture.”

“Isn’t it hilarious?” Lucifer said. “As long as we keep his head attached, the parts just grow back. He’s like an etch-a-sketch of pain. Get comfy and soak in the show, Sammy, because when my pet is finished learning the vampire’s limits, it’s your turn.”

Yes, Amends. Addressed in a future chapter.

Read Giles’ dossiers on: Dani Molly Vi

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cutie1365 · 8 years

Text

Hello Detective (Sherlock) Chapter 50

Pairing: Sherlock x Reader

Word Count: 1955

masterlist Part 51

You shoved the note into your pocket and pushed your way past John and down the stairs. He called after you, but you didn’t stop. You left 221B, knowing that it could possibly be your last time there. It began to rain as you walked down the street, and you thought about popping into your own flat around the corner but decided against it. Like everything, it would just remind you of him.

You wandered around London in the rain, your wet hair sticking to your face. You noticed the strange looks you were getting from people walking by, but you didn’t care anymore. You didn’t care how you looked, you were broken inside so what use was it not being broken on the outside.

You found yourself in front of a familiar door, ringing the bell. You didn’t know who else to turn to, but you knew someone who might understand, even a little.

The door was tugged open quickly.

“Y/N, my God get in here, you’re soaking wet!” Lestrade said, pulling you out of the rain. He was clearly surprised to see you. He took your coak, but your wet clothes clung to your body. He frowned when he saw your lips had a blue tint. He wrapped a towel around your shoulders. You looked up to him, you still hadn’t said a word. You wrapped your arms around him, hugging him as a tear streamed down your check.

“It’s going to be okay, Y/N.” He said, rubbing soothing circles on your back.

‘It’s not though, it’s not going to be okay, Greg. Nothing will ever be the same.” You said, pulling back.

“It will just take time, trust me. You can come back to work when you’re ready, things can go back to normal.” Greg said.

“You don’t get it do you. I can’t go back there, I can’t work there anymore. Everything reminds me of Sherlock, every case I work I would just think of him, not to mention if I saw Donovan or Anderson. I can’t do it Greg.” You said, shaking your head.

“Does that mean you’re quitting?” Lestrade asked.

“I would only be there for a few months before leaving anyway. There’s no reason to go back now.” You said.

“What do you mean?” Lestrade asked confused.

“Greg, I’m pregnant... I’ve known for about a month. I’ve been staying with Mycroft, he’s offered to help but I still don’t know what I’m going to do.” You said quietly. Lestrade was obviously surprised.

“So it’s Sherlocks? Are you going to keep it?” He asked.

“Of course, it’s my last connection to him, the last bit of him I have left.” You said, lowering your head.

“Did he know?” Lestrade asked gently. You shook your head, your heart filling with regret. Maybe if you had told him he wouldn’t have done what he did.

“God...” Greg muttered, “Well if you ever need anything, I’ll be here for you. Always.”

“Thank you. I might go back home for a little while, to America I mean, still not sure. I think I need to get out of London for a little while.” You said.

“Well, you’ve always got a friend on the force... And if it’s any consolation Anderson quit and Donovan is very sorry.” Greg said.

“Sorry for what? Helping kill Sherlock and destroy his reputation, or for agitating me enough to break her nose?” You asked.

“Both, though I do think she’s had to have surgery to fix that.” Lestrade said.

“Small price to pay compared to what she did, don’t you think.” You said, now standing.

“He wasn’t a fraud was he?” Greg asked.

“He was many things, but never that.” You put your coach on, which had dried a little.

“Are you leaving?” He asked.

“It’s getting late, Mycroft will worry.” You said.

“Call me if you need anything.” He said and you nodded as you walked out the door.

After walking a little more it began to rain again, just your luck. You had made it back to Mycroft’s house and walked in the door, soaking wet.

He jumped to his feet when you arrived, rushing to you.

“Well?” He asked, curious.

You pulled the note out of the inside of your coat where it had managed to only get a little wet. You placed it on the table next to you and walked past Mycroft to hang your coat up and change into some dry clothes.

When you reemerged, newly dry, Mycroft was waiting for you, with the letter in his hand.

“Where did you find this?” He asked.

“At his flat.” You said simply, moving towards an armchair.

“Yes, but where?” He pushed as you curled up in the chair.

“In his room, his wardrobe. In a box of jewelry that used to be in my flat, but somehow ended up in his.” You said. He eyed you suspiciously and you wondered what he was thinking.

“What kind of jewelry?” He asked, why was he so curious.

“It was a necklace that he had given me for Christmas. Why do you care?” You asked.

“Just curious. Are you okay?” He asked.

“Of course I’m not okay! I’ve just lost the love of my life, and I’m pregnant with his child! Mycroft I know human nature is a mystery to you, but don’t you think it’s a bit obvious!” You yelled. He sighed and rubbed his temple.

“I think you should see someone, someone who can help you.” Mycroft sighed.

“Like a shrink?” You scoffed.

“A therapist. Y/N, please, do it for me.” Mycroft pleaded.

And you did, the next day you found yourself sitting in front of a therapist for the first time. Surprisingly you had never been to one. She told you that you were having trouble coping with Sherlock being gone, but you knew that. She also told you that a good way to handle that was to write letters to him, to say the things you wanted to and never did.

That night you sat at the desk in your room, pulled out a pen and piece of paper and began to write what was on your mind. Tears stained the page as you held it up to read it before tucking it away.

Sherlock,

My therapist thinks this will help, writing to you, saying the things I wanted to and never did. Yes, I went to a therapist, the same one John uses I think. How ironic. I doubt this will help though, nothing helps. Nothing numbs the pain, and believe me I’ve tried everything. No one really understands, they try but at the end of the day they go back to their perfect little lives and I’m left all alone. And let me tell you, the nights are the worst. Sometimes all you can do is lie in bed, and hope to fall asleep before you fall apart. I think my mind is still having trouble wrapping itself around the fact that you’re gone.

I used to think I couldn’t go a day without seeing you. Without telling you things and hearing your voice back. Then, that day arrived and it was so damn hard but the next was harder. And I just know it’s going to get worse and I won’t be okay for a very long time. People don’t realize that losing someone isn’t an occasion or an event. It doesn’t just happen once. It happens over and over again. I lose you every time I pick up your favorite coffee mug; whenever I hear a violin, or when I see a deerstalker.

I lose you every time I think of kissing you, holding you, or wanting you. I go to bed at night and lose you when I wish I could tell you about my day. And in the morning, when I wake up and reach for the empty space across the sheets, I begin to lose you all over again.

I missed you every hour. And you know what the worst part was? It caught me completely by surprise. I’d catch myself just walking around to find you, not for any reason, just out of habit, because I’d seen something that I wanted to tell you about or because I wanted to hear your voice. And then I’d realize that you weren’t there anymore, and every time, every single time, it was like having the wind knocked out of me.

It’s sad Sherlock, how you were such a big part of my life and now you’re just gone. Missing you comes in waves, and tonight I’m drowning. I had so much left to say to you, and that’s the worst part. It’s 2:00 AM and I’m still trying to figure out how everything went wrong so fast. Was there something I could have done? If only I had been smarter, if only I had figured out his plan sooner I could have helped you, I could have prevented this from happening.

Sherlock, I miss you so much. I miss you when the lights go down, because it illuminates all my doubts. My therapist told me that we place all love in the dark, and I’m not sure how true that is, but at moments like this I began to believe her. She tells me I need to move on, but how can I? If you weren’t the one for me, then how come I hate the idea of being free? And part of me keeps holding on, hoping for a miracle. As each day passes, that hope gets smaller and smaller. I’m terrified that one day I’ll wake up and forget the sound of your voice, the color of your eyes, or the curl of your hair.

I remember all of the things that I thought I wanted to be, I was so desperate to find a way out of my world and to finally breathe. Only when I moved to London and when you followed me into Speedy’s did things start to feel right. Right before my eyes I saw my heart come to life. And it wasn’t easy loving you, but then again when it’s real it’s not meant to be easy. Every story has its scars, and ours always seems to lead to pain and scars. But that didn’t scare me when I had you by my side. When I had you I felt safe. Since you’re the only one that mattered, tell me who do I run to?

But when the pain cuts too deep, and the nights keep me from sleeping that’s when I realized you were my remedy. It was always you that pulled me back to what really mattered. You keep me right, though I’m sure you would argue the opposite. When the world seems so cruel, and my heart makes me feel like a fool I wonder if maybe you were right. Sentiment is a chemical defect found in the losing side. We lost... I lost. When has it ever worked out for me? This disappointment we call love? You were my one chance at happiness. You were my remedy and without you I am broken.

Not much is certain in this world, death and taxes and all that, but among all the lies, the one truth I could always hold onto was your love, and I will always love you.

Y/N Gregson

You folded the letter and placed it in an empty envelope that would soon fill to capacity. Tomorrow was Sherlock’s funeral, you were supposed to say something, to stand in front of everyone and speak. Tomorrow was going to be a long day, and you hadn’t even thought about what you were going to say.

Part 51

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andrewuttaro · 5 years

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New Look Sabres: GM 14 - WSH - Season’s First Rant

6-1 Washington Capitals over Buffalo Sabres

I’ve thought the Capitals are a soft team for about seven years now. The President’s Trophy years and even the year they won the Stanley Cup: they’ve been a beatable good team for a while. I know that’s some high alcohol content coming from a Sabres fan but they’re not a beast of a team, not since maybe before Eichel was drafted. Don’t get me wrong, they’re lethal with the likes of Backstrom, Kuzy, Oshie, Carlson and of course the greatest pure goal scorer of his generation Alexander Ovechkin. They have what this young Sabres squad are still very much learning: killer instinct. Having your moment and converting on them even when you got a lead. They also got a powerplay that just fires cannon after cannon after cannon. They’ve got all the makings of Champions and most of them do have at least one title to their name. But even the Caps on a hot streak aren’t unbeatable. I predicted the Sabres would stay with the Caps for a little bit before getting run out of town. I was half right. The Caps got the first goal and never really looked back. This one ended 6-1 for the home team. Grab your leftover Halloween candy because you’re going to need em! This one was the first honest to god roast. We got a little taste of the roast we know so well against the Rangers last week, this time we got full open flame! The most well-done parts of this roast? The defense: that cut is charred real good. But before we eat the main course how about we have some appetizers. This won’t be the fun bread and butter appetizer. No, it’s time for the salad! And no, you don’t get dressing! No, not cheese! I think we need to have a little talk as fans. This is a fan blog after all, and the team didn’t exactly give us a lot to talk about tonight.

Did they have a bad game? Yes they did. The first period the defense was absolutely rocked. For the playing connected Sabres it was the most distinct chasm between quality of play between the offense and the defense. Ask Conor Sheary, he almost drew first blood before the post denied him! That’s my segway: fellow Sabre fan let me ask you this. Do you feel denied? I started watching this team in 2009. For five years the nicest thing this team gave me was a cute little Winter Classic game. Would it have been nice for them to let Edmonton take Tomas Vanek and keep those draft picks, so they could’ve built a winner for when I was in High School and my dad and me were watching games all hunky dory? Yeah. Somedays when I’m really bored I feel denied a Lindy Ruff Stanley Cup. Bah, let’s talk about this team. Jack Eichel played his 300th game tonight. Wow isn’t that crazy. I’d say I feel old but I’m young enough that he could be my brother. He’s been a Sabre for all 300 of those games. 108 goals, 276 points and a big zero goose egg playoff games in four seasons. Does Jack Eichel feel denied the postseason competition that big olde ginger heart beats fast for? He did… in 2017. Then he became a leader and decided this club was the only way he was going to get that sweet sweet postseason play and got over it. He’s still on pace for a career year by the way. We’ve put up with a lot of garbage, many of us longer than Jack has, but let’s be real here: is this a club you don’t want to bother with on a Friday night? In 2017-2018 I was going to painting classes with my in-laws instead of watching Sabres games. That team was accidentally the worst in the league. This version? I cleared my afternoon for that Dallas game a couple weeks back and was richly rewarded! I think we’re afraid. I think we’re afraid of how to handle a team that is actually good. When we’re bitching about them losing to a good team saying same old Sabres typing SpongeBob font “cAn I bE nEgAtIvE aBoUt ThEm NoW?” That’s a loser’s mentality. We’ve wanted them to be good so long that we can’t handle them when they’re good, get our hopes up and then have a stinker. They’re not as good as the Caps right now, is that remotely shocking? Should that be something that makes us check the draft rankings? Are we really cowards like that? Jack Eichel took the shit and dealt with it and so should we. Captain Jack is not one to sit in the shit and mope about it. Maybe we shouldn’t either. And if some curly haired New Englander is the right messenger how about the other team’s C. Ovechkin gave the Leafs a decent white board quote when they shellacked our northern neighbors over the weekend: “Will they play for themselves or for a Cup?” He knows struggling for a long time to eventually breakthrough. I think we’ll breakthrough as a fanbase to not panic at the slightest sign of difficulty soon. We just got to be smart when we got a bad night.

Alright, Pep talk’s over. Let’s rant together. They’ve lost back to back for the first time this season and it wasn’t until November; but they’ve finally failed enough to shake off my first rant! And it starts with our favorite jock-voice jet setter Coach Krueger! This new coach is marching out my sweet baby boy Linus Ullmark against one of the most potent offenses in the Eastern Conference! AAAHHHHH!! If master motivator Ralph Krueger isn’t going to turn it around after a rough patch in the most stacked Atlantic Division in twenty years then I am not going to defend incompetence this time! I finally get to write a blog for money (southtownstickets.com, check it out) after years of writing about this god forsaken team for therapy and now you’re going to drive me into insanity right as opportunities like a 9-2-2 start to crop up!? GIVE ME A BREAK! There has to be some 70-year-old dude looking at me like a real amateur. Imagine that: imagine remembering every single disappointing year of this franchise and being made to get excited about a team everyone who knows any insight at all about the sport thinks are likely 10-15 points out of a playoff spot again. Imagine that! That guy must feel really denied, eh?! I feel insulted for him! You know who I don’t feel insulted for? YOU DUMB ASS TONAWANDA/CHEEKTOWAGA/ORCHARD PARK BOOT KISSING GAS LIGHTING TROLLS WHO ARE JUST DYING TO ROAST ANY USAGE OF ADVANCED STATS! WHAT DO YOU DO? I’m not talking to you old guys, no you just grew up with a league that encouraged assault with a deadly weapon, and you miss it. I’m talking to you: yeah you, you under 30 Trump voting fucks who think math is out to ruin your hockey! WHO HURT YOU? WHY ARE YOU LIKE THIS? DOES CHAD’S FACE JUST MAKE YOU IRRATIONALLY VIOLENT BECAUSE YOU WANT TO PUNCH IT? GET THERAPY, don’t take it out on the someone who just happens to enjoy hockey with a few extra numbers! UNFOLLOW YOU IGNORANT PRICK! DAHLIN DOESN’T NEED TO BE BENCHED BECAUSE YOU REWARD CREATIVITY YOU SELF-DEFEATING SHITHEAD! Ugh, you stupid fucks…*deep breath*… okay you probably want some real content now… okay per Darren Dreger Sabres GM Jason Botterill is looking to make a trade for forward depth …*takes another deep breath*… okay let’s talk about this game for real now.

Henri Jokiharju scored his first goal as a Sabre. It was a weird one. It bounced off a Caps’ back and over Brendan Holtby. That’s nice anyway for a guy whose been fantastic so far. He deserves it more than most even deserved to be on the ice in this game. Every defensive pairing except maybe John Gilmour and Colin Miller was roasted on an open fire. It’s like a Bills tailgate with less liquor and no broken tables. It’s hard to compliment forwards here since none of them scored but Conor Sheary and his line with Casey Mittelstadt looked sharp. Maybe it’s time to get Victor Olofsson off Eichel’s wing? We’ve been thinking about it for a while, but this is the first official skid so maybe Krueger actually does it now. Hell, maybe the Isles have to face Skinner-Eichel tomorrow. Now that I think about it, please do that, I’ll be in attendance. I also feel the need to bring up Evan Rodrigues. Dude: what’s going on? I want you to get your mojo back but you’re not looking good. I saw a trade scenario with you as an add on and I didn’t hate it. You maybe running out of time. If you’re going to turn it around you probably have to do it… like now-ish.

Like and share this blog. While you’re at it rant with me in the comments. We haven’t had good grounds for a rant yet. Let’s be thankful it didn’t get here until the Christmas music started playing. The Isles are hot right now and I want to call em soft since I’m seeing them live tomorrow I just can’t. Look, there’s no cakewalks this month. If they suck ass tomorrow at home they’re going to get booed. I’m not in booing mood after a 9-3-2 start but lord knows if they trail at all tomorrow at home some Tonawanda fucks are going to do it! Well enough bad words for tonight. I’m tired and I’m heading to Toronto in the morning tomorrow before the game. Drop me any recommendations that come to mind. I’m already doing the Hockey Hall of Fame so be more creative. Nothing makes me cheer for the Sabres harder than going to Toronto! Let’s Go Buffalo!

Thanks for Reading.

P.S. If you are from Tonawanda, Cheektowaga or Orchard Park those insults are not aimed at you for simply being from there. They are aimed at the high number of gas-lighting trolls who originate from your town. Please don’t make this disclaimer relevant, don’t be a dumbass.

#buffalo sabres #hockey #blog #NHL

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viralhottopics · 7 years

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6 Insane Ways Movies Are Trying To Be Authentic

A great artist knows that the most important details are the ones their audience might not necessarily notice — like the soft clouds in the background of the Mona Lisa, or the surprisingly detailed scribblings in John Doe’s notebook in Se7en, or the recipe for The Antidote that I’ve been hiding in my articles for the past few years. (“Antidote for what?” you might be asking. Don’t worry. All will become clear soon.) This is especially true of movies, that often hide the weirdest and most interesting work in the places nobody bothered to check. For example…

Everything In Zootopia Is Moving All The Time

What most people don’t realize about animated movies is that most of the frame isn’t actually animated. There’s usually a single static background with a few animated cells on top of them — this is clear in low-budget TV cartoons, where the moving frames tend to have a slightly different color from the immobile background, but it’s more cleverly hidden in big-budget Disney movies because of that aforementioned big budget. The reason they don’t animate the entire frame is, of course, because that would be insanely fucking time-consuming. It’s way easier to have one still picture while Batman or Scooby-Doo conduct their slapstick antics on an entirely different layer.

Unless you’re making Zootopia, in which case — for the first time in Disney history — absolutely everything is moving. And by “everything” I mean, in fact, “all the things.” Every shadow shimmers. Every car sputters. Every strand of hair twitches and wafts in the wind. All 30,000 leaves on that tree are moving, thanks to technology developed just for this movie.

Part of the reason this is so crazy is, as made clear in the first paragraph of this entry, it’s completely unneeded. As humans, we’re pretty dumb, and aren’t likely to notice that maybe that bush back there doesn’t have an ant crawling on it. But Disney had to push the boundaries, just like they always have, to create a living, breathing, utterly convincing world that is so magical and wondrous that it never even had to get around to explaining what the hell the predators eat in this universe. A fox can’t live on blueberries, guys.

John Carpenter Hinted Who The Thing Was With Eye Light

The Thing is a movie about a shape-shifting alien who infiltrates a team of rugged, hairy, stern men. The interstellar beast picks them off one by one, feasting on their sweet, succulent, deeply heterosexual juices, until only the manliest — Kurt Russell and Keith David — are left alive. One of the nerdiest film debates in modern pop culture is about the order in which this happens — The “thing” is indistinguishable from a human once it takes that human’s form, so a lot of the tension comes down to figuring out who can be saved and who needs to be consumed through cleansing fire. It’s sorta like being out to dinner with a bunch of your friends and one of them keeps farting.

Director John Carpenter specifically shot the movie so it’s unclear in what order who gets infected, and whether Russell or David are infected at the end. But it turns out there’s one detail that Carpenter and cinematographer Dean Cundey kept secret until recently, and it has to do with eye light.

“Eye light” is a camera trick that puts a slight gleam in an actor’s eye, giving them slightly more life. You can see it here, with Keith David’s character Childs:

And here with Kurt Russell’s MacReady:

But not with David Clennon’s Palmer — who, in this scene, is revealed to be The Thing.

…Which, again, was intentional. That’s supposed to be the hint. Now, does this completely change the movie? Spoiler alert: Nope. I rewatched it, specifically watching for eye light stuff, and I didn’t notice any great foreshadowing or crazy hints. But it’s quite possible I’m just not smart enough to put the whole picture together. Since this is a whole new tool available for our collective movie-watching, feel free to post your wacky eye-light-based theories on my Facebook wall, after you’ve rewatched the movie of course.

Gangs Of New York Has Period-Appropriate Dialects

People love to offer their opinions on whether movie accents are “good” or “bad” because people love to pretend that they’re smarter than they are. A lot of folks ripped apart Charlie Hunnam’s accent in Pacific Rim because he talks like a mush-mouthed victim of a botched neural surgery, apparently not realizing that his real accent also sounds fake (also also that movie is perfect, and none shall dare criticize it before me). Everyone talks weird, and it all sounds insane, so can anyone really say what a “good” accent even sounds like?

Of course, and Tim Monich, the dialect coach for Gangs Of New York, managed to do the impossible by researching dead dialects — that is, ways of speaking that no living person had ever heard with their own ears — and teaching it to modern actors. “But how do you research a dead dialect?” Easily! Well, no, not easily at all — with incredible difficulty, in fact: Monich studied old poems and newspaper articles that were mocking the dialects to try and deduce the way people of the era spoke. Then he forced Liam Neeson and Leonardo DiCaprio to talk that way.

At one point, Neeson’s character called a bunch of his enemies “nancy boys,” only for Monich to clarify that the correct term for the era and location was “Miss Nancies.” Which was a huge relief for all the 19th-century New York hooligans in the audience, who totally would’ve noticed that sort of thing.

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That set points to something else pretty cool about the film’s development. Those buildings you see in the background? They haven’t existed in over a hundred years, so Scorsese had most of 1860s New York rebuilt from scratch in Rome, because “had most of 1860s New York rebuilt from scratch in Rome” is the kind of predicate you can be the subject of when your name is Martin Scorsese. I’m allowed to make those kinds of stupid grammar jokes when my entry is about dialects, okay?

Anyway, here he is poking around the place, rambling like a crazy old man. The poor camera operator can’t keep track of what he’s even talking about. That is one of my favorite videos in the world. I honestly like it better than Gangs Of New York.

Oh, and speaking of dialects…

Arrival Makes Way More Sense Than It Needs To

Arrival is a sci-fi movie about figuring out an alien language and, spoiler alert, using it to see the future (it’s also one of the best movies I’ve ever seen oh my god go watch it so good). And since I brought it up, I know what you’re thinking: “Wow — did they actually invent a language that I can use to see the future?”

No. But they did do absolutely everything else. You know those weird circles that the aliens use to communicate? Yeah, that functions as a consistent language. You could learn to read and write in it just from watching the movie enough, if you’re that kind of person.

Then, they wrote an actual computer program that could interpret the language they made up. The stuff you see in the movie where a computer analyzes the symbol? That’s not just random, science-looking animations. That’s a program, written just for the movie, interpretting a language that was also written exactly for the movie, in real time. Science consultant Stephen Wolfram even came up with a scientific explanation for how the aliens travel. It involves quantum! All this despite the fact that 99 percent of audiences would’ve been fine with the explanation I just gave (which, if you’ve forgotten, is just the words “It involves quantum!”).

But you see, it really seems like this movie was made for that one percent of geniuses in the theater. There’s even a part later in the movie when Amy Adams is standing in front of a white board covered in physics jargon:

All those equations are relevant to the problems her and Jeremy Renner’s characters are facing in the movie right then, but — here’s the kicker — that wasn’t what was on the board when they shot it. Due to an oversight during shooting, the whiteboard was accidentally covered in high-school level physics, so they had Wolfram come up with a bunch of equations to use and then super-imposed them into that scene with computers (a process made especially difficult because of Amy Adams’ hair).

All so that every physicist who saw this movie could finally enjoy a sci-fi flick without ripping their own hair out in frustration.

The Witch: All The Materials And Music Are Authentic For the Time Period

If you haven’t seen The Witch, stop reading this article and go watch it right now. (Then come back and finish reading. I need your click-dollars to finance my underground squirrel-fighting ring.) If you’ve seen The Witch, then oh my god, how good was it? Sorry for fanboying out for this entire column. I promise I’ll get myself under control for next month.

Part of the reason people love The Witch is because it’s so beautiful. Well, there’s a reason for that: Like Kubrick’s Barry Lyndon, it was shot almost entirely with natural light. Which, for indoor scenes, meant they had to use as many candles as possible.

I say “almost” entirely because of one scene involving a crow, which had to use a flickering lightbulb, since fire would’ve scared the crow. If you haven’t seen the movie, I’m not going to spoil the scene with the crow. If you have seen the movie, then there is not a sliver of a chance in hell that you’ve forgotten the scene with the crow.

On top of that, all the music was recorded with period-appropriate instruments, using period-appropriate techniques. Which is not something anybody would ever notice but certainly helps the movie feel unique. Even the story itself — and lots of the dialogue — is based on real accounts of witchcraft and possession from 17th-century Massachusetts. When Caleb is in the throes of a fever/possession, his delirious ranting is word-for-word the rantings of 17th-century children who were, allegedly, possessed by Satan. Making this officially the most metal movie anyone has ever seen. Also I’m going to move on because 400-year-old dead children aren’t very funny.

Meryl Streep Can Do Everything

Meryl Streep is so good that it’s become a punchline. People genuinely worry that she’s too burdened by how good she is, and that people expect perfection from her and take it for granted when she delivers. And after some research, I’ve figured out her secret: She’s not actually pretending. Like Stanley Kubrick and Akira Kurosawa, she’s doing all this shit for real.

The first, and most famous, example is her portrayal of Sophie in Sophie’s Choice. First, she learned German. Then she learned Polish. Then she learned to speak German in a Polish accent. Roger Ebert (whose opinions on film are unassailable) described it as “the only accent [he has] ever wanted to hug,” and I don’t even know what that means, but it sounds pretty positive?

But okay, accents are whatever — we’ve seen lots of accents in this article already. Fine! How about the freaking violin? That’s the hardest instrument to learn, according to people who argue about this sort of thing on the internet, and she learned to play in a matter of weeks.

Most recently, for the movie Ricki And The Flash, Streep learned to play guitar… from Neil Young, because that’s who teaches you guitar when you’re Meryl Streep. Jesus, between Streep and Scorsese, it’s becoming increasingly clear to me that rich people just seem to have more opportunities to do cool stuff than people like me. Maybe I should become rich? Anyway, Streep then practiced with a band in a bar for months. By the time she actually got around to shooting the damn movie, she had ripped her fingers open on the strings.

Alright, enough gushing about cool stuff I like. Let’s end this article in the best way any article could ever end: with a video of Neil Young and Meryl Streep jamming out on a stratocaster that probably cost more than my fucking car.

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Let’s be real. I drive a Civic.

JF Sargent is a senior editor for Cracked and the only writer you can trust. Follow him on Twitter and Facebook.