was a lovely, crisp day, and Sherlock—in an uncommonly good mood—left the
window open behind him after forcing it open to gain entry to the suspect’s
curtains fluttered in the breeze, carrying a myriad of vivid city smells,
unmistakable London air, sharp and sweet and sour all at once.
breathed in deep, then turned away, clapping his hands together as he surveyed
the cluttered room.
dust everywhere, and that was wonderful, he could read years’
worth of history in dust, he could trace his way backwards through every book
the man had read, every single move he’d made in the flat right up until the
John wheezed from the window, grasping the sill and dragging himself inside.
“A little help—” he dropped onto the ground, back against the wall, breathing
hard. “—would have been nice.”
managed just fine,“ Sherlock said, smiling a little bit.
you were going to go around back and unlock the door.”
have gotten there eventually.“
made a scoffing noise in the back of his throat, stood up. Moved to shut the
window behind him.
paused, gloved hands on the window frame. “Someone might see.”
out of the ordinary about an open window on a nice day.“
are aware that breaking and entering is not actually
legal?” But John stepped away from the window without shutting it.
smiled again, an almost involuntary pull at the corner of his mouth. He liked
John like this, sharp-tongued yet indulgent.
right,“ John said, letting his hands drop to his sides. "What are we
Plenty of that to go around.”
could not seem to stop smiling. Perhaps it was the weather. “Exactly.”
any dust do, or are you looking for something in particular? Clogged ceiling
vent, perhaps? Maybe some dryer lint?“ John was looking at him, his brows
raised, something approaching amusement in his face. Ah. Teasing, then.
suspect has a rather extensive personal library,” Sherlock said, tearing
his gaze away to look at the shelves that stretched floor to ceiling along the
wall. He scanned the rows of books, eyes flitting across faded, dusty spines.
“Including several volumes on rare poisons.”
kettle,“ John said.
turned to look at him, narrowed his eyes. John offered up a shrug and a small
smirking twist of his lips.
more of a collector than a reader,” Sherlock said, turning back towards
the books. “You can see from the dust that most of these haven’t been
touched in years.”
does seem to lack a certain standard of cleanliness,“ John agreed mildly.
Sherlock smiled at a smear on a lower shelf, a small half-moon pattern where
clean wood gleamed through. He framed it with his hands, measuring. The perfect
size for a rested knee. He allowed his gaze to climb upward, catching the
imprint of fingertips in the thick dust, and there, there,
the place where a book had been pulled free, dislodging cobwebs and ancient
little light reading?“
rummaged around in his coat, withdrew a crinkling evidence bag, a bloodstained
book resting within.
groaned. "Did you steal that?”
wanted to be sure,“ Sherlock said, and he grinned, a quick flash of teeth,
the kind of dangerous grin that John usually responded favorably to. He leaned back and
looked at the gap on the shelf, looked at the book in his hand.
like it fits,” John said.
Sherlock said, and he moved carefully, delicately, resting his knee in the
smooth clean space left behind, pressing the very tips of his gloved fingers
where they would not disturb fresh trails of dust. He lifted himself slowly,
with utmost caution, climbing until he was eye to eye with the gap.
John said. His voice was muffled, slightly. As if he was speaking through
Sherlock said, distracted, scanning the shelf for anything else, anything he
might have missed in his first assessment. It was beautiful, eloquent, the way that
history was written into dust.
shelf under his foot creaked, an alarming, sharp sound, and Sherlock’s pulse
were hands on his waist, strong hands, sure hands, John’s
hands, steadying him, holding him still.
John said, his voice low. “Or you’ll bring the whole thing down with
opened his mouth to retort but found he could not speak, not with John leaning back,
taking his weight, easing him off of the shelves and back down towards the
stood facing the books, mind blank, pulse racing, John breathing close at his
right?“ John asked, when the moment had stretched too long.
turned, slowly, straightening up. Meaning to say: My weight was
perfectly balanced. There was no danger of the shelf breaking and
instead clearing his throat and meeting John’s eyes and saying nothing,
nothing, because John was very close and had not yet moved to step away.
John said, and he was so close his breath puffed against Sherlock’s face. The
window was open behind him, letting in that sharp-sweet-sour dangerous air, and John was close, he was so close, so close
and so utterly beloved and just like that, after years and years of careful restraint, all of Sherlock’s self-control
simply fluttered away on a gentle breeze.
only needed to tilt his head slightly to bring his lips against John’s, to
slide his nose along John’s cheek, to catch John’s warm surprised breath in his
stood like that for a moment, lips ghosting together, just breathing.
Sherlock’s back brushed against the shelf and he spared a brief thought for the
dust, and then John made a noise in the back of his throat, a noise that was
pained and joyful all at once, and his hands came up to cup Sherlock’s face, to
press against the heat rising in his cheeks, and Sherlock thought quite clearly: sod the dust and then on the heels of that came: this moment has been written in dust, scrawled here on the shelves for anyone to see.
let the evidence bag drop, the book hitting the ground with a muffled thud.
hands on his face, cradling him, thumbs moving against his cheeks. John’s mouth
on his, soft and warm and wondering, their breaths mingling.
realized that he had, at some point, tangled his hands up in John’s coat, had
grasped at the collar of it and had wound the edges around his fingers, pulling
him closer, locking him in place.
he said, mumbling against John’s lips, because each gentle slide, each damp
press, each tug and pull and nibble and rasp of chapped skin was a revelation.
laughed, not a cruel or mocking sound, but a soft huff that seemed to come from
somewhere deep in his chest. He laughed and Sherlock could taste it, sweet against his lips.
John said, nudging Sherlock’s nose with his own.
just realized—” Sherlock said, and his voice was alarmingly unsteady.
“Well. No. That’s not quite accurate. I’ve known for some time. That I—well.
But. It hadn’t seemed—”
John said, and there was a surprised light in his eyes, a dancing mischief that
Sherlock hadn’t seen in a very long time. He looked younger, somehow.
that—?” Sherlock hesitated, feeling uncertain and clumsy and much too slow.
His pulse skittered under his skin, joyful, ebullient bursts.
don’t know how you didn’t know,“ John said. He shook his head, shut his
looked at that smiling mouth and thought: I’ve kissed those
too,“ John said. He slipped one of his hands back, running it through
Sherlock’s hair, settling it on the back of Sherlock’s neck, skin warm and
slightly sweat-damp. He leaned up and Sherlock let himself be kissed.
Sherlock said again, and it was all forgotten for a moment, the dust, the
books, the crisp air and the sharp-sweet-sour London smell. He was smiling. He couldn’t
seem to stop. He thought perhaps it had never been the weather at all. He
thought perhaps it had always been John.
“This one is coffee-flavoured milk,” the waiter said, presenting the little bottle in one hand. The white label read in a light brown font: COFFEE.
“Isn’t that just coffee with milk?” I asked.
“No, no, it’s coffee-flavoured milk,” the waiter shook his head and smiled. “There’s many more flavours, if you would like to have a look. We haven’t prepared a menu yet, so you’ll have to have a look yourself.”
It was a new place. I’d spotted it while on one of my midnight walks. There used to be a hardware shop here, but then it got shut down for a few months, and this restaurant popped up in its place. “A Dairy Situation”, the sign outside said, along with a cheap graphic of a Holstein Friesian cow.
I stepped towards the refrigerator and squatted to get a good look. The waiter was right, there was quite the variety. You had the usual varieties: cocoa, strawberry, mango, orange, vanilla, pistachio, cardamom, saffron and even some strange ones like chilli, chicken, beef, wasabi, and so on.
“You make these here?” I asked.
“Right there in the back, ma'am,” the waiter nodded, and pulled out a passionfruit flavour bottle. “This is the newest one,” he said.
“I’ll have it,” I took the bottle from his hands and put it to my lips. Before I could down it, the waiter said—almost yelled—at me to stop. I asked him what’s wrong.
“There is something very important you need to know,” he nodded, “As soon as you drink it, you will return to when you were a baby. Your life, as you have lived it until now, will disappear, never to return. You will be a baby again, but the circumstances of your life will change in minute ways, culminating in a butterfly effect.”
I looked at the bottle in my hands and at the waiter.
“I’ve been here before,” I said.
“Several times,” he said, and then waved at the refrigerator. “These many times, to be exact.”
“And I’ve tried a new flavour each time?” I asked.
I contemplated the flavoured milk. “And every single time, I’ve ended up here,” I said.
“Oh, we have branches in many cities,” the waiter smiled again, but it wasn’t the same humble smile as before. Now it was a knowing smile.
I nodded. Then I flung the bottle against the glass door. The glass of the bottle shattered, and the pale yellow milk splattered across the door. I opened the refrigerator and started chucking each of the bottles at the door. The waiter watched without expression as the door was covered in different flavours of milk.
At the end, there was one flavour left. It was plain milk, without a label. Just white.
“That one’s not ready, ma'am,” the waiter said.
I opened the bottle and chugged it down. Once the bottle was empty, I slammed it on the table and wiped my mouth with the back of my wrist.
“What was this going to be?” I asked.
The waiter’s mouth opened and closed as he answered my question with a smile. Even as he spoke his words, I felt them slipping away from my mind. My vision faded, and soon, all I could hear was the sound of my own crying, and the warmth of my mother’s breast.
Request: I’m always a sucker for Bucky x reader fluff so I was wondering if I could request the reader have a panic attack, and Bucky helps them with the “5 things to do during a panic attack” “Look around you. Find 5 things you can see, 4 things you can touch, 3 things you can hear, 2 things you can smell, and one thing you can taste.” thank you!
Bucky X Reader
Word Count: 1955
Warnings: Mentions of anxiety, reader having a panic attack.
A/N: WELL. I FINALLY finished this request!! I am SO SO sorry this took so freaking long!! I really hope that it was worth the wait!! Great title I know.. Thank you for all of your patience everybody!! I started working on the next parts for Arsonist’s Lullaby and This Means War but they still may take a bit! xo
Summary: A nonathletic!Jack fic, where grad student and history nerd, Jack Zimmermann meets the cute Samwell student/baker Eric Bittle at the Bread and Butter Bakery. Will the two make a love connection? For @devereauxsdisease and @victorineb who love this incarnation of Jack as much as I do.
They’d chatted at the bakery enough times that Bitty was able to pull the information from Jack. He’d started coming to the bakery about four weeks ago, and during that time Bitty became more and more charmed with the second year grad student.
He always sat in the corner armchair, ordered a black coffee, two macarons and a slice of whatever the pie of the day was. Bitty first noticed him when he came in to order a slice of Weary Willie cake.
Bitty loved his job at the bakery, it gave him some extra cash while he attended Samwell. Whenever Bitty was there, he was the de facto person in charge. Shirley and Spencer, the owners of Bread and Butter adored Bitty.
“We never had any kids of our own, so you’re the closest thing to it, Bitty,” Shirley said to him one evening over a cup of earl grey tea.
So Bitty stood there, face to face with the bluest eyes he’d ever seen the first time Jack walked in. The Clark Kent glasses in front of them did nothing to hide the fact that they were beautiful. It was a good face, a handsome face. He was burly and tall, and Bitty loved that. He smiled, and Bitty’s body language invited Blue Eyes to speak.
“Can I get a slice of the Weary Willie cake?”
“Sure can, handsome,” Bitty said as he began to ring up Blue Eyes’ order, who blushed furiously. “What else can I do you for?”
“Coffee. Black. Medium, please,” he replied looking down at the counter.
“Why don’t you go find yourself a seat and I’ll bring it out to you,” Bitty said with a warm smile.
“Thank you,” Blue Eyes said softly and then turned to walk toward the corner armchair.
When Bitty approached, Blue Eyes had pulled out a laptop and several textbooks, the one on top of the pile was called Foundations of Modern European Intellectual History.
“Doing a little light reading, huh?” Bitty said as he put the cake and coffee on the side table.
“Oh, haha. Yes.”
“Do you go to Samwell?”
“I’m finishing up my masters in history there,” he said as he held up his book.
“That’s great. I haven’t seen you here before,” Bitty said wanting to know more about History Blue Eyes.
“I saw the chalkboard outside listing the Weary Willie cake and the history nerd in me became curious.”
“Look at you! You certainly are a history major.”
“Did you make the cake?” Jack asked raising his eyebrows.
“Sure did. My moomaw had the recipe from her mama.”
“Well, it’s not often I find a somewhat obscure historical reference on my way back to the history building.”
My family is going to be moving houses at the end of June, and since I’ve started packing away my books, I thought I might as well share some of my books with y’all and give some book recs while I’m at it!
First up is the LGBTQ+ books I own. Unfortunately, I don’t have very many given it’s kinda difficult to find ones with plots that I like. (I contemplated whether or not to include the wtnv novel in this one, but seeing as it’s not centered around Cecil and Carlos, I decided to leave it out for now).
But anyways, here they are:
Aristotle and Dante Discover the Secrets of the Universe by Benjamin Alire Saenz - A coming-of-age story about two young Mexican boys, Aristotle “Ari” Mendoza and Dante Quintana, who are as different as can be, but who somehow manage to forge an unbreakable connection that spans from childhood to adolescence, and beyond. Ari is angry and confused and from a broken family. Dante is gentle, and emotional, and is “crazy about his parents”. Dante knows he’s gay. And Ari has no idea what to make of his relationship with his best friend.
This one is super sweet and isn’t in the picture because it’s with Natsu at the moment. But it’s really thoughtful and adorable, and I just love Ari and Dante to bits and pieces. Definitely a must-read, guys!
Beautiful Music For Ugly Children by Kirstin Cronn-Mills -
About a young trans teen named Gabe who recently came out to his best friend and parents. The book is about him trying to make peace with who he is. Mostly, he does this through his love of music, and his bond with his next door neighbour, an old man who helps him get his first radio show, where he quickly develops a following of fans who fall for his unique taste in music and his quirky personality.
Carry On by Rainbow Rowell - A Harry Potter-inspired fantasy book with an absolutely fascinating magic system. We follow an orphaned chosen one who’s just trying to get through the his last school year at his magic boarding school, the Watford School of Magicks, while the entire magical community somehow expects him to save them from the villain who’s been stealing their magic. And not to mention having to deal with his archnemesis vampire roommate who has probably been trying to kill him since the moment they met in first year. But after being broken up with by his girlfriend, and invited to his aforementioned archnemesis’ house over Christmas break, needless to say nothing is going as he would have expected. This entire book reads like some kind of strange, drarry roommates au fanfiction, and it’s absolutely GLORIOUS.
every day by David Levithan - “A” doesn’t have a body of their own. For every single morning of their life, they’ve woken up in a different person’s body, with no friends or family or life to call their own. And it’s all fine. A’s gotten used to it, made peace with their fate. They’ve learned not to get too attached to anyone, learned not to attract too much attention or interfere too much with the life of the body they wake up in. That is, until they somehow find themselves falling in love with the girlfriend of one of the guys whose body they’re borrowing one day. I actually had to consider for a while whether or not to include this book, because a lot of the most important bodies A inhabits throughout this book are male bodies, and the main female lead is straight. But A themself is nonbinary and pan. They identify as whatever gender the body they’re in is, and are attracted to people regardless of their gender. Loved this book to bits and pieces, really bittersweet. It has a sequel called “Another Day” which is focused mainly on the Rhiannon, the female love interest, but I haven’t read that one yet since I’m not terribly interested in her.
Fan Art by Sarah Tregay - This one is….very juvenile. And by that, I mean it’s one of those idyllic, clichéd ya romances that we all like to pretend we don’t like, but that has all the tropes that we just adore in fanfiction and that we inevitably end up finishing in one sitting. It’s about a high schooler named Jamie who’s recently realized he’s head over heels for his (seemingly) straight best friend, Mason. Cue teen drama and angst and mutual pining. A really cute, light read with an adorable little comic near the beginning.
More Than This by Patrick Ness - Seth attempts suicide by trying to drown himself, and is pretty sure he succeeded. He felt his skull bash against the rocks after all. Only…he wakes up, naked, thirsty, starving, and utterly alone. He has absolutely no clue where he is, but the abandoned, crumbling, overgrown streets seem somehow vaguely familiar to him.
A suspenseful, thrilling, heartbreaking post-apocalypse with a gay protag that absolutely definitely has room for a sequel, though I don’t think the author has any plans to write one.
Openly Straight by Bill Konigsberg - Rafe Goldberg is openly gay, and has a pretty good life. His parents are super supportive, he’s popular at school and has lots of friends, and no one really cares that he’s gay. But he’s getting tired of always being labelled as “the gay friend”. He just wants to be a “regular guy” and not “the gay guy.” So when he transfers to an all-boys’ boarding school, he decides to become “openly straight” instead. But just when everything was going perfectly for him, it all starts unravelling when he finds himself falling for one of his new friends.
I have mixed feelings about this one. I enjoyed it quite a bit while I was reading it, but the ending left me quite unsatisfied, and after having some time away to think about it, I’m not entirely sure I like the main character very much. He’s kinda really manipulative. Read at your own risk.
Proxy by Alex London - Sydney “Syd” Carton is a proxy. Rescued from the wastelands as an infant, his debt to the city was bought by a huge corporation that sells the lives of orphans like him to various rich and powerful people, who buy them as scapegoats for their own children. Syd’s patron, Knox Brindle, is exactly the rebellious, asshole bad boy that every proxy dreads. When Knox breaks an expensive vase, Syd is beaten. When Knox crashes a car, Syd is forced to donate a dangerous amount of blood to keep him alive. When a girl dies because of Knox’s aforementioned car crash…Syd gets the death penalty. His mad attempt to flee his fate leads to the accidental kidnapping of his patron and has the two of them branded as terrorists, leading to a crazy, cross-country chase that will change their entire world as they know it.
This book. Is literally one of my favourite books in the entire fucking world. Hands down the best dystopia book I’ve ever read. The characters are absolutely fantastic, the character development is fucking amazing (Knox somehow ended up becoming my fav character???), the world is rich and vibrant, and the book is beautiful and thrilling and utterly heartbreaking. If you read just one book from this entire list, let it be this one. It also has a sequel, for those of you interested, though I haven’t read it (and don’t plan on it either), so I can’t really vouch for it.
Will Grayson, Will Grayson by John Green and David Levithan - When two boys from completely different social circles and personalities somehow stumble across each other on one mutually crappy night, their shared name brings both their lives careening together in a strange, complicated, and downright frustrating way.
This one….was kinda dark. It was funny, because one of the Will Graysons is an edgy lil emo kid who thinks strictly in lowercase and writes angsty poetry and he’s absolutely adorable. But it also addresses some very real hardships and struggles that both gay and straight teens have to face.
It had been months since Dean tossed Castiel a mix tape. He’d handed it off to Castiel with averted eyes, a strange flush coloring his skin. “Made this for you,” he had said. Castiel took it from him curiously, promised to listen to it on his upcoming drive in his continued search for Kelly, and that was that.
It had been slightly less time than that since Dean had told him tersely that the tape was a gift, and meant to be retained indefinitely.
And, of course, Castiel had been dead for quite a lot of the elapsed time since then. Still, it bothered him that he had not yet reciprocated the gift giving.
At first it hadn’t occurred to him that reciprocal gift giving was something that ought to happen. It seemed apparent that Dean had some free time and had chosen to spend it creating a musical compilation for Castiel. And Castiel had listened to it. When he needed respite, he’d parked, closed his eyes, and let himself drift along the melodies on the cassette. He’d climbed up to the stars with the crescendos and fallen down into the thick earth when the songs fell low. Castiel kept the cassette in his breast pocket and when he’d fought back to life and retrieved his coat from Dean, the cassette had still been there. Waiting.
* * *
When hunts were slow and the itch for solitude began to feel like an entire ant colony under his skin, Castiel liked to go to the nearby public library. The library was an institution that he at first avoided, understanding it to be a warehouse of human fiction and a location for passionate assignations in the stacks. At least, that was the knowledge passed along to him from Metatron, and the hundreds of library romances Metatron had devoured.
However Metatron, who had claimed to deliver to Castiel all human knowledge, had missed a considerable amount of it. Namely, Metatron had apparently eschewed nearly everything except for fiction and biographies. When Castiel had realized that there were shelves and shelves of books he’d never read – or second-hand read before – he became addicted to the nonfiction section of the public library. Reading about how humans interpreted the world – sometimes inventively, sometimes laughably – had become both a fascinating diversion and a welcome retreat. (The physics textbooks were a delight when he needed a little light reading in the quiet morning hours.)
One comfortable afternoon he sat ensconced in a study carrel near the 300’s with a book cracked open before him: The science of gift giving. Castiel had pulled the book from the shelf, his heart rate speeding up a little. He appreciated a good scientific tome; they tended to be written in a slightly more straightforward manner. He looked forward to at last learning how gift giving worked. Castiel patted the cassette tape through his coat and began to read.
When Castiel finished the book he sat back in the chair, frowning at the white tiled ceiling. If anything, now he felt more confused than ever. Still, he resolved to try to apply some of the outlined lessons from the book to at last return the gesture to Dean.
Tip One: Give something they can use
Castiel arrived back at the bunker to a smoky hallway, the fire detectors in the bunker honking irritably, lights flashing. Castiel squinted among the chaos, then descended the stairs, his target acquired. Dean stood in the center of it, talking to Jack with exasperation painted across his features. He looked up when Castiel approached.
“Hey Cas,” he said with an expansive eyeroll towards the repentant young man leaning against the map table. “Just teaching Jack here how to cook is all.”
“Ah, and how is it going?”
Dean glanced around the smoky room, grimaced, and shot Castiel a thumbs up. “Awesome. What’s in the bag, man?”
Castiel shifted the large grocery bag he held awkwardly in his arms. “Um, I’d noticed you were low on shampoo, so I purchased some for you. I also have,” he peered into the bag as though he could have possibly forgotten which items he’d agonized over in the store, “beer, some magazines, a jar of peanut butter, an apple pie, and five bags of flavored beef jerky.”
Dean glanced at him then, an odd half smile lighting his face. “You planning a wild night there, Cas?”
Castiel shook his head and thrust it at Dean mumbling, “I thought you might need it, is all.”
Dean accepted the bag with a head tilt and a short laugh. “Uh, thanks, man.” He turned his attention back to Jack. “Tip nine,” he said sternly, “always use an oven mitt. You shouldn’t rely on your magic heaven powers to heal you every time.”
Castiel retreated from the smoky din to the quiet of his own bedroom and considered his next move.