bruises for life

She was falling, falling hard and falling fast. Hitting bumps and edges on the way down, scars and bruises.
She was entering a big dark hol-
She suddenly landed in some soft arms…

‘I told you I’d always catch you, i couldn’t let you fall again’


He caught her.

—  Falling
poems-she-wrote

It happens at a crime scene.

Sherlock is bent double, crouched over the body of the killer’s most recent victim. It’s a lady, late forties, dressed sloppily, grease stained clothes littered with patchwork and holes from a hard life. Bruises and swelling around the carteriod artery make it obvious that she died from oxygen deprivation, strangulation. What was peculiar was the set of lacerations across her back, from the back of her neck to the back of her pelvis, blood seeping through the material of the shirt to stain the white fabric red.

Sherlock has his magnifying glass out, peering fiercely at the abundance of unidentifiable spots dotting her shirt.

“Sherlock.” John’s found a letter, luxurious envelope, embossed with an official looking insignia.

“Sherlock!” Brows furrowed, Sherlock continues to study the stains, probably cataloging the origins and compositions of the blemishes across her shirt.

“Sherlock!” Sherlock remains unresponsive, still taking in the scene in front of him.

Huffing in annoyance, John heads over, already used to this side of Sherlock. Deathly focused on the task at hand, tuning out any outside input he considers a distraction. A smile lifts the edges of John’s lips, exasperation written in the creases of John’s brow, as John leans down to speak to Sherlock.

“Hey Sherlock I found-”

John is met with silence, and straightens up again, sighing. Sherlock was brilliant, but why did he always have to be so difficult.

Standing with hands resting on his hips, John’s lips curled with mischief, shuffling closer, only to poke one finger sharply below Sherlock’s ribs.

What John didn’t expect, was such a visceral reaction from Sherlock.

Sherlock yelped, head whipping around to fix a glare at John’s laughing figure. Sherlock had dropped his magnifying glass onto the floor, expensive glass now useless due to the multitude of lines stretching across the instrument.

“S-Sherlock,” John choked out, still chuckling to himself, “are you ticklish?”

Sherlock stood stiffly, only pausing to pocket the ruined magnifying glass, a faint blush stark against pale cheeks. Sherlock’s eyes flickered over to rest on John’s shaking figure, muscles taut as Sherlock wrapped his Belstaff tighter around himself, walking swiftly away and towards the main road.

John hurried along, hands stuffed deep into his pockets, a soft smile playing across his features.

-

Nestled in the warmth of the taxi and speeding across London back to Baker Street, John let his eyes roam over Sherlock’s lean figure. Sherlock, who had always been cold, untouchable, and had walls so high John would never be able to see over them, was ticklish.

It was an entirely new thing to accept, but personally, John thought it was adorable.

-

“Sherlock”, John was almost at his wits end, this was the fifth bullet Sherlock had put into their fridge.

Sherlock whirled around, heading back into the living room, before dropping heavily onto the sofa, staring sullenly ahead.

“Come on Sherlock, we need that fridge, you of all people should know that,” John fumed, fists clenching sporadically.

“Bloody hell even you use that fridge!” John stopped in front of Sherlock, glaring down at the impassive detective.

“I was bored John.” Sherlock states, emotionless, still staring straight ahead, unmoving.

“Bored are you?” John bites out, blue eyes hard and unflinching, before memories of a yelping Sherlock invades his mind.

John lets his features melt into a blank slate, hoping to mask the sense of childish anticipation building in his gut.

As John leans down, inching into Sherlock’s personal space, suspicion makes itself evident in Sherlock’s verdigris eyes, tracking John’s every movement. Sherlock thinks for a moment, teeth worrying a pleasingly full lower lip, before his eyes widened, flickering up to meet the warm blues of John’s eyes. John can tell the moment Sherlock realises what he’s about to do, nothing escapes Sherlock, not really, but this time, Sherlock is a second too late to stop John from launching himself at Sherlock, bowling him over with his fingers relentlessly attacking Sherlock’s sides.

An unwilling yelp escapes Sherlock, before a series of maniacal giggles bubble out of Sherlock’s throat, accompanied by the frantic twisting of Sherlock’s body, writhing in a valiant attempt to rid himself of John’s hold. As of now, an ear splitting grin has covered John’s features, elation welling up deep inside his gut from the laughing, relaxed image of Sherlock before his eyes.

Soon, Sherlock is tired out, lying loose limbed and pliant across the length of the sofa, head lolling back to accentuate the curve of a pale throat. John is seated across of him, nursing a cup of tea, both men still panting from the exhilaration that they felt not even minutes ago.

Sherlock’s head swivels around to pierce John with his gaze, eyes somehow still cold and passive, but imperceptibly warmer than before.

“That was mean.”

Silence hangs in the living room for a few moments, before John bursts out laughing, the happy, joyous sound ringing loudly in the previously silent room.

“I was mean? Sherlock, you put five bullets into the fridge!” John lets his eyes wander, and they rest on his cup of tea, steaming on the coffee table for a fraction of a second, before snapping back up to Sherlock’s horizontal figure on the sofa.

“What did I say? I was bored John.”

“Go get that parcel by the door Sherlock,” John calls, ignoring Sherlock’s dramatised groan.

“John,” Sherlock’s voice travels over from the doorway, suspiciously thick, “did you get me a-”

“Yeah I did,” John revels in the quiet surprise and muted happiness flickering on Sherlock’s face, “figured since I caused you to break yours the last time that I should get you a new one.”

Sherlock bounds towards his room, coming out with a few sheafs of paper and jumping onto the sofa, causing the tea on the table to shake precariously as he leans back against the armrest of the sofa.

John sighs exasperatedly, but his hands are gentle when he gets up to smooth back the sweat matted curls off Sherlock’s forehead.

-

Sherlock is just about dead on his feet.

“That’s enough.” John cuts Lestrade off, herding a stumbling Sherlock towards the main road with gentle hands and soothing whispers. Lestrade protests weakly, saying something about having to take their statements and witness accounts and-

“We’ll do it tomorrow.”

Sherlock is John’s first priority. Always has been.

John’s insides feel generically warm and mushy as he takes in the sight of a mussed, vulnerable Sherlock. Throwing out an arm to flag a taxi, John slips his other arm around Sherlock’s waist, pulling the lean detective snug into his side, sliding him into the taxi with surprising tenderness.

Sherlock slumps into the seats, verdigris eyes glazed with exhaustion, eyelids fluttering lightly as a fine-boned hand comes up to grasp at John’s sleeve. John’s heart clenches achingly at the sight of a worn-out Sherlock, clutching feebly at John’s jacket, and as John climbs into the taxi, Sherlock tugs at John’s sleeve, pulling John close.

A sound of discomfort escapes Sherlock, as he attempts to curl his entire body into John’s shoulder, head butting placidly against the underside of John’s chin. John smiles, eyes warm and mouth soft, as he wraps an arm around Sherlock, palm coming to rest at the nape of his neck, fingers sorting through the curls he finds there.

Sherlock mumbles something unintelligible, jostling them both in an attempt to coil himself closer to the source of warmth. John is surprised by how protective he feels of this brash, coarse detective in this very moment, wishing for nothing more than to stay in this moment forever as he leans down to press his cheek against Sherlock’s riot of curls as his fingers stroke his love into the skin behind Sherlock’s ear.

Too soon, the ride to Baker Street is over and Sherlock is definitely fully asleep on John’s shoulder, snoring gently and hands clenching erratically in John’s jacket.

“Sherlock,” John shakes the flaked out detective, stifling a snort at the dismal sound that Sherlock makes, a cross between a dissatisfied grunt and a wet snuffle, “we’re here.”

Sherlock gives no indication that John’s even said anything, so John flashes an apologetic look at the cabbie, before leaning down and hissing sharply at Sherlock to wake up!

Sherlock moans under his breath, long limbs taking the chance to curl more firmly around John. In a moment of distraught motion, John pokes Sherlock in the ribs, trying to wake him up.

Sherlock jolts awake, the top of his head colliding painfully with the soft underside of John’s jaw as he straightens up, fumbling with his scarf as he almost trips over the sidewalk in his haste to exit the taxi.

John climbs out after him, catching ahold of the end of Sherlock’s jacket, and tugging Sherlock around so that they stand face to face in front of 221B Baker Street.

John looks up to see the quiet curiosity reflecting in Sherlock’s eyes and chuckles to himself before lacing his hands behind Sherlock’s neck, pulling the startled detective down so he can smile straight at him, before placing a chaste kiss on the corner of Sherlock’s mouth, meeting Sherlock’s gaze with the ever present question of is this okay?

Coupled with a decisive nod, Sherlock swoops down to capture John’s mouth with his own, tracing the seam of his mouth with infinitesimal care, suckling softly on John’s lower lip as John arches into Sherlock, pressing upwards in an attempt to feel more of the soft, wet heat when Sherlock breaks away, panting slightly, a smile curving his features.

Dropping one last, quick kiss on John’s lips, Sherlock pulls away, unlocking the door to 221B.

Sherlock turns back, running an appraising eye over John’s still flushed cheeks, rumpled jacket, and mussed hair, grinning as he holds out a hand for John to take.

“We’re home.”

***
some tags ( let me know if you ever want to be tagged in my crappy works + if you want me to stop tagging you ) :
@softjlc ; @thejohnlocker ; @shag-me-senseless-watson ; @johnlockshire ; @b221 ; @gentleholmes
^ i’m hoping to add a little perk & fluff into our lives since the end of tfp so i hope this helps !!!! i love everyone

Under the midnight sky, she whispered these words to me…

I didn’t become
This beautiful overnight.
I was broken,
Beaten,
Bruised by life’s unexpected
Hate for me.
There was a time
I dwelled in darkness
Simply because the pain
Felt too good,
But I could no longer take
The endless nights of tears
Raining upon my pillow case,
Nor the loneliness that dwelled
Within my heart.
I could no longer take
The emptiness
That drained my soul
Each day.
And so,
I became the other part of myself.
The part I knew could emerge
From the darkness
With a bursting light.
So, like I said, I didn’t become
This beautiful overnight.

—  @cjdexter
I’m sorry that I am soft
And easily bruised
This life has left me
Hypersensitive and emotional
Dripping with intensity
Like plums left in the summer sun
I know I’m messy when touched the wrong way
But maybe that’s all love is…
Learning how to eat rotten fruit
Without getting your fingers sticky
—  “Juice” by Jessy Hudson

that harry potter au nobody asked for

Nathan Prescott as Draco Malfoy

Warren Graham as Harry Potter


so basically my friend compared Blackwell Academy to Hogwarts and this got in my head. I also hardcore ship Drarry and the dynamics and what not reminds me a lot of Grahamscott. Not to mention Draco and Nathan are basically the same person  (✿◠‿◠)

when nightmare warren asked max if she got hot watching him fuck up nathan i screamed hella loud because i thought he asked if she got hot watching him fuck nathan oops (not to mention he follows the statement with something along the lines of an “i know i did” woAH GRAHAMSCOTT CoNFirMED)

So, I’ve been babysitting most of the day, and one of the girls wanted to draw with my ‘proper artist pencils’. So I drew her a quick, scruffy face just to show her how you’re supposed to hold them and be gentle with them. And then I said she could draw the hair, if she wanted, but she went another step forward and drew a body as well and

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