A-view-from-the-bridge

8

My dad lost his hair when he was very young. I think if you’re an actor and it starts going you think “well that’s it”, how do I cope with that? I was a young man I didn’t think it would yield any parts. Actually the parts have been way more interesting so it was kind of a blessing in disguise. Now I can wear wigs, I can play parts wearing wigs.

Happy 54th Birthday, Mark Strong (August 5, 1963)

5

I worked like a dog 20 years so a punk could have [Catherine], so that’s what I’ve done. I mean in the worst times y’know, the worst, when there’s no ships coming in the harbor, I didn’t stand around looking for relief — I hustled. When there was empty piers in Brooklyn I went to Hoboken, Staten Island, the West Side, Jersey, all over, ‘cause I made a promise. I took out of my own mouth to give to her. I took out of my wife’s mouth. I walked hungry plenty days in the city! And now I gotta sit in my own house and look at a son-of-a-bitch punk like that — which he came out of nowhere! I give him my house to sleep! I take the blankets off my bedroom, and he takes and puts his dirty filthy hands on her like a goddamn thief! 

Arthur Miller’s A View from the Bridge dir. Ivo Van Hove

John. John, wake up.

John rouses slowly. Mm. Mm? Sherlock? All right?

It’s early yet, very early. The light has just barely moved into the steel grey of dawn, shadows still casting long around the room. It’s cold; John automatically slides toward the middle of the bed.

Yes, Sherlock says. John’s arm comes over the dip of his waist to pull him closer, and John blinks harder against the sleep at the edges of his eyes. Brow furrows; heartbeat jumps. Sherlock is trembling.

What’s wrong? Sherlock’s fingers find the hem of John’s sleep shirt and twist into it. Sherlock? What’s the matter? 

Sherlock closes his eyes and turns his face toward the pillows, shaking his head with a rickety, unhappy smile. It’s nothing. I’m just - cold.

John reaches out to brush the hair away from his forehead; he’s sweating. You wouldn’t wake me up for nothing. John’s hands slide over his ribs, his arms. The clenched line of his jaw. Soothing, sweeping, softening the tremors in his wake. Bad dream, was it?

I wasn’t asleep, Sherlock says, and John hums. Not the same as a nightmare, no, but not exactly different, either. He leaves his hand in Sherlock’s hair.

It’s quiet, for a moment. All the things there are to be said about it have already been said, and John knows when to keep his reassurances to himself. This isn’t about talking, he doesn’t think. This is about not being alone. This is about keeping watch. 

Then Sherlock says, Tell me what you were dreaming. 

There was a dog, John says automatically, even though there wasn’t. Or, there might have been: he doesn’t remember. But what Sherlock is really saying is, tell me about something else, and whether he dreamed it really isn’t the point. You, and me, and a dog, out in Regent’s Park. Must’ve been spring, because it was sunny but you still had your coat on. 

Sherlock shifts, shuffles a bit closer. Playing fetch, were we? 

John smoothes his hair back, again and again, soothing, catching his fingertips on the ends of the curls. He presses a kiss to Sherlock’s temple because it is in reach. We were on a case, of course. 

So he invents: a case about a missing dog toy, a caricatured villain, a run through London. He takes the time to talk about all their favourite places, like the bistro that makes the best tiramisu, and the pub where John first kissed Sherlock in front of all the Yarders, and the shop that carries the lavender honey, and the view from the bridge out over the Thames. He talks about the people and the bustle, the busyness and the synchronicity of millions moving together. He talks about the way the city lights up with fairy lights in the winter, and how it blooms with flowers in the spring, the crisp glow of it in autumn. He talks about the rain, and the way the whole city smells green. He talks about the stars.

John talks, and he talks, and he talks, and slowly, something in Sherlock begins to soften. He scoots closer, and closer again, and grows heavy against John’s chest. His fingers loosen; his shoulders relax.  

Are you asleep, bumble, John finally whispers, when the dawn has become more light than darkness. Sherlock, still and warm against him, doesn’t respond. 

John closes his eyes. 

This crazy thing called love.

Authors Note: Hey!! So, I was watching a romantic movie and it kinda gave me an idea. I kinda got excited and decided to break it into a few parts because I really want to post this right now, but I need sleep so I can’t make it longer/more interesting. Anyway… I hope you guys enjoy this! Xx


You can find my blurb Master list HERE 



The air swirls past me as the autumn leaves dance along the damp pavement, eventually stumbling off of the curb and continuing their journey across the road. I draw my coat tighter around me as I hurry along the sidewalk, attempting to keep up with the busy rush of everyone else around me.

My heels come to a silence when I stop in front of the coffee shop, The London Gring, Harry standing outside already, two coffees in his hand.

“You’re late,” he embraces me with his typical, somewhat cocky smile, his warm hands handing me my coffee.

I take the coffee, my free hand clasping the napkin under the cup, “Mhm, as always,” I wink, taking a sip of the coffee, just the way I like it. Goodness, how I have needed the sweet taste of coffee on the edge of my lips. I look down at the napkin in my hand and see a number written on it. 

Harry nods his head and hums, “The day you’re not late, will be the day hell freezes over.” 

I roll my eyes at his comment, my eyes focusing on the napkin as I open it.

Grace~ 0209-1212.

I give him a shrug before holding up the napkin, “The day you settle down with one girl will be the day hell freezes over,” my hand waving the napkin teasingly in his face.

Keep reading

Hang on…

Spoilers for The Arcana chapter The Heirophant.

So Julian has a key to the shop, right? And he says that Asra gave it to him.

The shop is /yours/, and Asra has just been crashing there in exchange for being your mentor.

So this magic vagabond just give the key to your shop to his boyfriend without telling you. And then fucking leaves.

Damn it, Asra, you’re lucky you’re cute.

TBH, I wouldn’t be surprised if Asra killed Lucio, or was at least involved. His favorite flower is Belladonna, known as deadly nightshade. What are its uses in magic? It is used in astral projection, but is also hellaciously poisonous. Also associated with illusions, hallucinations, and seduction. Dude is totally not what he appears to be.