Some mornings, now, Sherlock leaves his hair
ungelled, silky and loose, to savor the way John runs a careless hand
over it, passing by. He’ll let his stubble remain until he gets a chance
to rub his face roughly in John’s neck and hear his surprised giggle.
After a shower, he stands in front of the mirror and smooths his hands
over his naked belly, feeling the softening, and smiles, because John
cooks for them every night, magnificent food, and it’s good; it’s more
than good. They’re home.
Meanwhile something’s happening to John
as he settles into the fact of Sherlock-and-John: he’s becoming clearer
around the edges, visible, vivid. His jeans hold him closer and his
shirts get brighter; jewel tones that set off the silver of his sculpted
hair. He steps out with wildly patterned socks peeking above his
sensible shoes. Sherlock never mentions the layers of John’s
self-protection coming off; but he looks his fill.
they’re reading together in the quiet of the living room when Rosie
peeks her head in; on her way out to meet friends. Sherlock reminds her
to take her pocketknife, and not to take drinks from people she doesn’t
know, and John asks her to text him in two hours and tell him how it’s
going. She smiles her reassurances, Yes, of course, yes, I will; asks
Sherlock if he likes her nail polish (teal with a subtle sparkle) and he
says he does. It goes nicely with her top. She leaves. It’s quiet.
“I liked her polish too,” John says. “I wish she’d ask me what I think of her outfits.”
“She knows which of us has taste.“
right, your taste is fine. But no one would expect you to have a
passionate opinion on nail polish, John.” Sherlock’s tone is indulgent.
“What if I do?” John’s blushing, but his chin rises bravely.
Sherlock gives him a good long stare and then starts to smile. “John. Do you?”
blush deepens. “I used to sneak into Harry’s room and try hers on when I
was six, seven years old.” He sighs. “Not stupid enough to leave it on
more than five minutes. If mum had caught me there’d have been hell to
“Your mother,” says Sherlock, clearly, “was an idiot. And
Rosie has an excellent array of nail colors in the catchall next to the
Rosie comes home at half ten to find her dads in the
kitchen, spiking their mugs of hot cocoa with the Christmas liquor, with
the third Star Wars movie on pause in the sitting room. Sherlock’s
nails are a deep, rich red, and John’s are a shimmery, starry blue, and
they’re both mussed and blushy enough that she says promptly, “Hi dads.
Bye dads,” grabs a tin of biscuits and heads straight upstairs. She
knows very well when to get out of their way.
Downstairs, the Star Wars theme song starts up, and almost covers the sound of their laughter.
“A towel, [The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy]
says, is about the most massively useful thing an interstellar
hitchhiker can have. Partly it has great practical value. You can wrap
it around you for warmth as you bound across the cold moons of Jaglan
Beta; you can lie on it on the brilliant marble-sanded beaches of
Santraginus V, inhaling the heady sea vapours; you can sleep under it
beneath the stars which shine so redly on the desert world of Kakrafoon;
use it to sail a miniraft down the slow heavy River Moth; wet it for
use in hand-to-hand-combat; wrap it round your head to ward off noxious
fumes or avoid the gaze of the Ravenous Bugblatter Beast of Traal (such a
mind-bogglingly stupid animal, it assumes that if you can’t see it, it
can’t see you); you can wave your towel in emergencies as a distress
signal, and of course dry yourself off with it if it still seems to be
"More importantly, a towel has immense
psychological value. For some reason, if a strag (strag: non-hitch
hiker) discovers that a hitchhiker has his towel with him, he will
automatically assume that he is also in possession of a toothbrush, face
flannel, soap, tin of biscuits, flask, compass, map, ball of string,
gnat spray, wet weather gear, space suit etc., etc. Furthermore, the
strag will then happily lend the hitch hiker any of these or a dozen
other items that the hitch hiker might accidentally have "lost.” What
the strag will think is that any man who can hitch the length and
breadth of the galaxy, rough it, slum it, struggle against terrible
odds, win through, and still knows where his towel is, is clearly a man
to be reckoned with.“
Sweat beaded your forehead as you ran through the sea of people flooding the airport, your breathing was erratic and Jungkook was nowhere to be seen. Your heart hammered angrily against your chest, where was he? There you were, willing to drop your life for him and he didn’t have the decency to even answer the phone the 14 times you’d called.
Close to giving up your eyes wandered the busy scene desperately once more, much to your surprise you saw a tall, broad figure wearing all black holding what looked like to be a Louis Vuitton luggage bag. Your Louis Vuitton luggage bag. That had to be him. You ran up to the man who was speedily walking away, his wide strides almost impossible for you to catch up with.
“Jungkook!” You shouted, earning a stare from a dozen pairs of nosey eyes in the process.
What starts out as Sherlock questioning why Molly always takes Mycroft’s side in an argument turns into everyone showing Mycroft how much they appreciate him. Mention of Warstan, Sherlolly and Mythea if you squint. Mycroft and Sherlock are good bros.
“Why do you always take Mycroft’s side when we get into an
Molly looked up from painting her toes, surprised at
“Because no one ever takes his side,” Molly answered. She
dipped the brush once more into the nail varnish, applying just one more coat.
Sherlock made to sit down, but she stopped him. “Jostle me and I’ll put you on
dish duty for a month, this is my third coat.”
Sherlock rolled his eyes, moving instead to his own chair. “Anyway,
you were saying? Of course, people take his side, he’s got half the government in
Request: None it’s just a “Decoy Bride” au- aka Lin just wants to get married but when his wife-to-be disappears, his friends need to find a temporary stand-in while they look for her (I like this trashy romcom too much to not write an au)
The boat bumped against the rock as her owner tied her to the roughly-hewn wooden post that served as a docking point. You looked out of the rain-spattered porthole windows and over the seemingly endless soggy fields. At your side, your suitcase seemed too small too be carrying everything you owned.
You were coming home.
Ever since you and your mother had moved to the tiny island off the Scottish coast, you had wanted to escape. You had dreams to follow and you sure as hell weren’t going to achieve them on an island where you knew the whole population by name.
You had tried countless times to leave- to go to university, to live with your boyfriend, to work a job that had promised you connections. But you always ended up on the ferry back, your suitcase getting more battered every time, packed to move back into the Bed and Breakfast your mother owned- the only accommodation with rooms to rent on the island.
“There you go, lass,” the grey-haired captain leant you a hand as you stepped off the boat and onto the muddy path. You thanked him as he passed you your case and stepped off the boat after you. It was raining hard and you had forgotten your umbrella.
Tugging your case through the wet mud and then gravel was hard work, and the walk to your home gave you more than enough time to second guess yourself. You had left your boyfriend- an abusive dickhead if there ever was one- and run. But you had left your dreams behind- again- in New York when you had taken the first flight to Edinburgh and with every step they felt farther away.
You opened the door and walked in, hoping to have a moment to compose yourself. But your mother was standing in the hallway, ironing. “Oh!” she gasped, then looked abruptly serious, “What happened?”
“I’m fine,” you said bravely, but at the sight of her concerned expression everything seemed to crash back down onto you all over again and you let out a hiccoughing sob. “Fine.”
Your mother looked you up and down and set down her iron, rushing to pull you into a tight hug. “Come on,” she said quietly, “let’s have a cup of tea and warm you up, shall we?”
We had a Swiss au pair
when I was about eight. Her name was Ursula and she was training to be a
teacher at the same time, so we used to walk to school together. I was used to
cycling, and I was used to going by myself, but I liked Ursula so I didn’t
resent the blow to my independence the way I might have done.
It was two miles to
One day, she used the
walk to teach me my 4-times table. I had a block about it, for some reason. I
could do my 3-times tables, and my 5-times table, and my 9-times table, but my
brain seemed to judder on anything multiplied by four. We tried ‘double it and
then double it again’ but it took too long. So then we beat it into submission
via repetition. Four times three. Four times eight. Four times seven. Twelve
times four. Over and over again, for two miles.
I can still multiply by
four at the click of a finger.
One crisp February
morning, it began to snow.
Ursula, being Swiss, was
not impressed. She didn’t mind the snow, but she was baffled by the announcements
of school closures on the radio and the people who refused to go to work
because they didn’t want to drive in the millimetre of white dust. We walked to
school as usual and she pointed at the snow falling around us. They must have
been tiny, but in my memory they are round, fluffy balls, like cotton wool.
“You know, every
snowflake is unique.”
“I know,” I said. I was
too busy pretending to be a dragon to pay much attention. “They look different
under a microscope.”
Hello! Could u do an imagine where rhe reader is like bff with the marauders, but they get very angry with her and then a bully is harrasing her and the marauders come and they help her? Thank you love❤️
warnings//bullying, some crude language
Y/N had instantly clicked with James, Sirius, Remus and Peter the first day they had met. Defying their ‘only boys allowed rule’ and coming up with some of the best pranks they had ever pulled, she was definitely their best friend. She helped Peter with his homework, and overcome his insecurities, she helped James try and woo Lily Evans, she helped Sirius to get over his awful family, and she helped and supported Remus throughout every full moon.
Everything was fine.
For some reason, the boys had been ignoring her, sending dirty looks (although Remus was sending more apologetic ones)and shoving past her in the corridors. Y/N was beyond confused, and she tried to think over anything she could of done, but nothing came to mind. It was quite upsetting really, being ganged up on like she was.
The first thing she thought of doing was going to Lily, who was sat reading a book in the common room.
‘Hey, Lily.. do you have any idea why the marauders suddenly hate me?’
Lily rolled her eyes and sighed. 'Apparently, they’re annoyed that you helped a first year slytherin with they’re homework, which is frankly ridiculous!’ She said, snapping her book shut.
'O-oh, thanks Lily.’ She said, backing out of the common room with a few silent tears running down her cheeks.
She knew she was being over dramatic, but she loathed being ignored, and she was only trying to help in the first place! She hates how she messes everything up.
As she slowly walks down the corridor, she can hear voices in the distance. They grow louder as she goes closers, and before she knows it there is a cold hand around her mouth. She squeaks, panicking, her eyes widened.
'Hello filthy little mudblood. I heard that even your friends don’t want you around any more.. maybe they’ve finally realised what filthy blood you have and don’t want to be contaminated by it. I don’t blame them really.’
The words stung, and Y/N cried out as fingernails dug into her cheeks.
Her capture was about to open their mouth again before-
'Hey!What the fuck are you doing!’
Y/N breathed in relief. Remus.
He stormed over and clubbed the capture in the face, before casting a few of his favourite hexes.
'I’m so sorry Y/N, he shouldn’t of said those things, and it wasn’t reasonable to go along with the boys, you were only trying to help-’
'It’s fine Remus, Honestly.’
Remus Lupin was not having it. He had always been like an older brother to you, extremely protective, and taking no ones bullshit.
'Not until those bloody gits apologise as well. Come on, we’re going to the boys dorms.’
As soon as they arrive, Remus-no-chill-Lupin kicks down the door in his anger, and gives his friends the 'don’t-fuck-with-me-right-now’ look.
'Alright you poncy fuckers! You little shits are going to apologise to this lovely women, right here, and right now. I just found her being BULLIED, and it was mainly because people think that WE left her. I was a complete plonker, and so were you three, so bloody apologise now, before I write to your mothers informing them that I caught you all wanking to your great aunts pictures, and that I am extremely concerned about your sexual health.’
James, Sirius and Peter, who had never heard their friend this angry before, blushed sheepishly, and avoided eye contact with Y/N, who was currently holding back a giggle.
'Sorry Y/N,’ Peter was the first to speak, 'We were stupid to be so horrible to you, and we will try and be better friends from now on.
Y/N beamed. 'Apology accepted Peter!’ Peter beamed back.
'Sorry Y/N..’ James and Sirius said at the same time, looking like two toddlers that had been caught with their hands in the biscuit tin.
Y/N raised an eyebrow. 'Apology accepted, morons.’ She was slightly less forgiving towards them, as they were the main two to be so mean.
'Now, we better have a bloody group hug, or I swear, I will let Lucius Malfoy fuck me in front of the whole school.’ Remus piped up, causing everyone to scramble together around remus, who still looked slightly menacing.
In which Louis Tomlinson can’t cook, there’s a very special shower curtain, and Harry Styles used to be a baker.
Or: Louis owns all of Harry Styles’ cookbooks, and he never intends to cook a single thing out of any of them.
Or: I don’t know what the fuck this is, sorry.
Louis Tomlinson can’t cook. He can, for the most part, feed
himself and generally keep himself alive, in a frozen pizza, tins of soup,
cereal-for-dinner kind of a way. He can do pasta and sauce, and cheese on
toast, and sandwiches, and microwave meals and things which require zero
attention, zero skill, and even less enthusiasm. Louis Tomlinson likes Tesco
meal deals for lunch and cans of coke on the way to the bus stop after work. He
likes bags of crisps, and the biscuit tin by the printer in his office.
He has a long list of things he doesn’t like – including but
not limited to courgettes, baked beans, couscous, fish, posh sausages that
taste of stuff that isn’t pork, vegetables on principle, drinks that are green,
kale, stuff they sell in Waitrose, mushrooms, weird fruit, lentils, and
pineapple on pizza.
All of this is perfectly normal and doesn’t bother Louis one
It doesn’t, however, go any way to explaining why Louis has
an entire shelf in his bedroom devoted to Harry Styles cookbooks, or why his
best mates Liam and Niall bought him a custom-made Harry Styles Cooks… pillowcase and duvet set for his birthday last
year, with Harry Styles’ ridiculous face plastered all across it like on the
titles of his stupid cooking TV show, or why Louis had to buy a DVR purely to
save all the stupid episodes of each of Harry Styles’ stupid cooking series so
he could watch them whenever he wanted. It definitely didn’t explain the three
different Harry Styles-themed mugs in the kitchen cupboards, and it 100% did
not explain the special shower curtain.
There obviously is an explanation for all of that, but it isn’t
something that Louis can file under any sort of ‘wants to learn to cook’
Despite the sun only recently rising, John and I have been awake for hours. A grizzly baby, a sick dog and six other children who never miss an opportunity to be out of bed means that our house has dissolved in chaos.
“Want me to have Dotty?” John asks, glancing at me from the floor as I cradle Dotty to my chest.
The shop emptied out not long after Bucky had left, as if it
was giving up already. I locked the
door, and tidied up slowly, finding myself patting some of the books as if in
apology at what they might be facing next.
I fed Steve, and gave her an extra pet too, as much for my own comfort
as mine. If I wasn’t going to be coming
back here, I was going to have to face up to the mess of my own life. I’d been
putting it off under the guise of helping James, but an empty flat, no job and
no friends was all waiting for me to deal with.
I put the biscuit tin and notebook out on the desk, so I
could show Bucky that I was being honest, then packed up my painting things,
putting everything in a bag by the door. I couldn’t settle to reading anything,
being too distracted to concentrate so eventually I sat myself down in one of
the chairs in the shop with a sketchbook and pencil, and started to
sketch. I drew Steve, sitting on a pile
of books, thinking it might be nice for James to have in hospital – or wherever
it was he ended up, if he couldn’t come home.
I sniffed a few times and had to wipe my eyes, then cursed myself for
Just after six, I heard a knock at the door, and on
unlocking it, found Bucky outside. He
was carrying a suitcase, and a bottle of wine, and his face looked softer than
it had done earlier. He had bags under his eyes, and I wondered how far he’d
flown today before getting to the hospital.
Oops, I didn't send characters... Um... Robert & Vic :) for number 8
#8 - “i’ll be right over”
Robert was sprawled out on the sofa when his phone rang, his face pressed to Aaron’s chest, the television blaring in the background. Groaning, Robert reached across to the coffee table, Victoria’s contact picture flashing on his screen.
“Answer it,” Aaron nudged, muting the television.
Robert unlocked his phone, shifting slightly so he was propping himself up on Aaron’s chest, half smiling at the fingers Aaron was running through his hair as he held his phone to his ear. “Hiya, what’s up?”
“Robert?” Victoria sounded tearful, her voice cracking as she mumbled out his name.
“What’s happened?” Robert was imeadiately alert, scrambling to untangle himself from Aaron.
“I had a few - hic - drinks, and I just, I’m so sad, Rob.” Victoria sounded so helpless, so sad that it had Robert’s heart racing, wondering where the hell she was, what kind of state she was in.
“Are you in the pub?”
“No, ‘m at home.”
“I’ll be right over, okay?” Robert said, already searching the living room for his trainers. He was dressed in his comfy clothes, he and Aaron planning on a lazy night in.
“Is she alright?” Aaron asked, sitting up on the couch. He looked worried, and for a second Robert felt his heart swell with love for his husband, and the love he had for Robert’s little sister.
“She’s really upset about something, I don’t know what,” Robert knew he sounded panicked, grabbing a discarded hoodie of Aaron’s to throw on over his tracksuit bottoms. “I’d better go over there.”
“Do you want me to come?”
Robert shook his head, grabbing the spare key he had for Victoria’s place before he planted a kiss to Aaron’s lips. “I’m sorry, I know it’s meant to be our night in,” he apologised, hating that their lazy evening in was being cut short.
Aaron shook his head, giving him a soft smile. “Go look after your sister, Rob. Text me if you need me, yeah?”
Robert nodded, heading for the front door. He walked the short distance between their flat and Victoria’s cottage, letting himself into the house. “Vic?” he called out. “Vic, where are you?”
“In here!” Victoria called, shouting from the living room.
Robert’s heart broke as he took in his little sister’s position on the living room floor, a picture frame clutched in one hand, a half drunk bottle of wine in the other, her cheeks tear stained and flushed bright red, whether it was from the alcohol or the crying, he wasn’t sure.
“Come here,” Robert eased the bottle of wine from her grip, his stomach clenching uncomfortably as he notice who was in the picture. It was of the four of them, a photo taken long before Andy, even - Victoria a tiny baby bundled up in Sarah’s arms, Robert tucked under a proud Jack’s arm.
“I miss them.” Victoria admitted tearfully, letting Robert hoist her up off the floor, settling her down on the couch. “Do you miss mum and dad?”
Robert nodded, brushing a hand through Victoria’s tangled hair. “Yeah, I do. Everyday,” he admitted, knowing Victoria was feeling the all too familiar ache of grief in her chest, that tight, twisted feeling that made you feel as though it was taking an effort to breathe properly.
Victoria nodded tiredly. “I didn’t mean to get all drunk ‘n sad,” she mumbled, hugging her knees to her chest, looking every inch the six year old kid Robert remembered her being, confused as to where their mum was, why she wasn’t coming home.
Robert sometimes forgot, what Victoria had been through. She’d lost everyone by time she was fifteen, and Robert hadn’t even been around when Jack had died, hadn’t been there to help her get through it.
“I’ll make you a cup of tea, eh?” Robert said, unfolding the blanket Victoria kept folded on her couch. He vaguely recognised it as a blanket they used to have up at the farm, a blanket he remembered used to be thrown over the armchair in their living room, the chair their mum would always curl up in with a book in the evening time.
He tucked the blanket in around Victoria, his sister snuggling into the couch. He padded into the kitchen, flicking the kettle on, setting about making them two cups of tea.
Extra sugar in Vic’s, just in case.
“Here you go,” Robert handed her the cup of tea, kicking off his trainers so he could get under the blanket with Victoria, the raggedy old blanket a familiar reminder of the home they’d grown up in.
It hadn’t always been a happy home, but it had been their home.
Victoria nestled in close to his side, starting to sober up a bit as she sipped at her tea. “Will you tell me about mum?” she asked, her voice muffled by the material of Aaron’s hoodie.
Robert wrapped an arm around her, pressing his chin to the top of her head. “Did I ever tell you about the time she caught me stealing the Christmas biscuits from the tin? It was only November, she went absolutely mad!”
I’ve just been going through two huge biscuit tins full of photos from the last century and I’ve found a pair of photos from the 70s (that I’m not gonna scan because the subjects children are still alive) of a husband and wife both making rude gestures in the direction of the other one who is out of shot. So if you put them next to each other they look like one continuous photo. And they BOTH have “True Love” written in the corner, each in the others handwriting.
I need Hux & Kylo drawn like this like I need oxygen because it captures my vision of their relationship PERFECTLY.