Imagine Person A is addicted to painkillers, and Person B finds where Person A keeps their painkillers and confronts them about it. Person B offers to help Person A recover and Person A sighs, nods, and says “Yeah, I’d like that.”
Published a list of sentence prompts - going to file it in the Word Prompt Challenge : [Send me a word or phrase and I’ll write a story.]
7: if I could do this all again, I would
This comes as a previously unseen moment from Close Quarters. An hour that I skipped over in the original oneshot based on this prompt: Put two people who hate each other in an elevator for 12 hours. What happens?
@wherewellshine - wasn’t it you that was asking for the missing hours? I’m sorry. It’s been two years and I’ve forgotten who it was who asked about the hours that I skipped over.
Your would-be-rescuers seem to be no closer to figuring out
a way to free you than they were when they started and a calm has settled –
post dinner, murder attempt, and restroom relief found. Rather than continue to
watch the proceedings like the trapped rats that you are, you and Tom do the
best you can to entertain yourselves.
Tom has his head tilted back again and is staring up at the
sides of the elevator that loom above the pair of you. It gives you a lovely
view of the way his Adams apple bobs as he speaks. “Do you think they wipe the
walls down every night?”
“Hmm – what?” You blink away your distraction, because
admiring anything about him is just
wrong. You try to pretend a focus on the nearly-reflective wall behind him and
catch up to his line of thought.
“Or maybe just ever other
night?” He squirms as his focus drifts over the stainless steel that surrounds
the pair of you, “There’s got to be some routine in place.”
They clean the hallways, that you know for certain. But what
about the elevator? Tom’s right – at least you hope he’s right – they probably
have a routine in place for wiping down the most frequently touched surfaces.
Suddenly you don’t want to be leaning against anything for a
You shudder, leaning forward until the thought can escape
your brain and you can relax again. “Thanks for that, Sunshine.”
Tom smiles, removing his attention from your surroundings
and focusing on you once more. You’re starting to get used to his smiles. They no
longer send a wave of irritation coursing through you. “I have a confession.”
Tilting your head to the side, you blink at him, “Do I want
to hear it? If it’s something more about the—”
“I’m enjoying being stuck in here with you.” He cuts you
off. “I was mentally damning myself for not choosing the stairs, earlier. But
now…” he tosses his shoulders in a lazy shrug, spreading his fingers wide as he
turns his palms up, “If we could somehow restart the day again, jump back? I
wouldn’t change a thing. I’d choose the elevator, just like before.”
You harrumph, not quite smiling at him. “You wouldn’t choose
exercise over this extended quarantine?”
“Nope. If I could do this all again, I would.”
A yawn cuts off your response as it forms. You stretch
instead, allowing the yawn to go its course as you study the man seated on the floor
before you. This morning? You hated him. Couldn’t stand to do more than walk
past him in the hallway. Now? Now you’re feeling much the same way. Being stuck
with him, being forced to get to know him… maybe he’s not so bad, after all.
#101 from the prompt list with Sherlock Holmes? (maybe the reader could be the one saying it?)
Characters: Reader x Sherlock Holmes
Warnings: drug addiction
Prompts: “I love you. I’ve loved you since the moment I first laid eyes on you and – Oh, screw it!”
Word Count: 427
A/N: Hope you like it !!
NOT TAKING ANYMORE REQUESTS !
You cautiously stepped over the abandoned papers that Sherlock had left lying on the floor and gripped the edge of your coat. You moved deeper into the apartment, unsure of what to do. You peered into the living room, and sure enough, saw Sherlock laying on the couch, staring at the ceiling.
“What do you want?” he asked in his usual bored tone, and you sighed and gingerly sat opposite him. He titled his head up to look at you, then put his head back down. “Come to lecture me again?”
“Jesus, Sherlock.” you ran your hands through your hair and looked at the disastrous state of his apartment. “What the hell are you doing?”
“Working.” Sherlock looked around him, waving his hands halfheartedly.
“This isn’t work, Sherlock.” you hissed, standing up and looking around. “Where is it?”
“Where’s what? Sherlock closed his eyes, as if he had a headache. Impatiently, you looked around his fireplace.
“I know you’ve been using again.” your voice was low as you continued looking. “I’m taking it away from you.”
“Oh, why do you care?” Sherlock asked airily, running his hand along his jaw. He looked like he hadn’t shaved or showered in a few days, and your hands balled into fists.
“Because I don’t want to see you destroy yourself, Sherlock!” you exclaimed, slamming your hands down on the mantlepiece. “Look at yourself! You’re killing yourself!”
“Yes, and?” Sherlock raised an eyebrow at you, and you gritted your teeth.
“Sherlock, I love you.” you tried to maintain your temper and looked away from him. “And it hurts me to see you doing this to yourself. I love you. I’ve loved you since the moment I first laid eyes on you and – Oh, screw it!”
You suddenly came up to Sherlock, grabbed his collar and pulled him towards you to kiss him. Sherlock froze, eyes wide, before you finally pulled away and dropped him back into his chair. He paused, running his hands through his hair.
“Well,” he finally spoke. “That was… interesting.”
“For crying out loud,” you held out your hand, trying to cover up your embarrassment. “Where is it?”
“Behind the statue on the bookshelf.” Sherlock gestured to the side, and you smiled.
“Thank you.” you marched over and took away the drugs Sherlock had stashed. You moved to leave the apartment, when Sherlock called out to you.
“y/n?” he asked, and you paused. “I…thank you.”
Smiling to yourself, you closed the door behind you, knowing that was the only thing you needed to hear from Sherlock.
feeling like a walking drugstore / bedside tables of bowie and bic / Southbank midnights with dear C, two decades on but as baby-faced as ever / stunning exhibition of photography at the Barbican; Parr stirring patriotism / reunion with the crane-obsessive and what better way to celebrate than sitting on the floor pretending its 2008
Some people asked me for the journal prompt list I was following for my art journal entries so here it is! If you do want to start a journal based on this list it would be great if you could tag me in it @cheerychow and link back to this post so others can join in too! 💕
Neither of you have spoken in the half an hour after the fight that had been a knock-down, haul-it-all-out, say-everything-that-had-been-lurking-under-the-surface fight.
You couldn’t stand to be in the room with him, afterwards, and he let you escape to the library. His library, but he allows you space. Just like it is his home, his life, but he has made room to include you in it.
You hear the shuffle of feet and sense, rather than see, the change in the room as he momentarily blocks the light spilling in from the hallway beyond. Your refusal to look up at him keeps you from tracking his progress.
You were calmer, not two seconds before, but his presence brings a stirring of emotions again. Still wounded and bristling from the exchange, you refuse to acknowledge him. If you shift to attempt to focus on him and speak, you’ll probably launch back into the argument you’d stormed out of before.
He continues to move through the room, determined to bring himself out of your peripheral vision and into focus.He’ll wait you out, or tough it out.
Stubborn man, incredibly stubborn.
You’re not even reading the book in your lap anymore. The words don’t even process. You might have even read the same page several times over at this point.
Edging your eyes off the page to focus on his knees allows you to keep your head down and pretend that you’re fully ignoring him still. He sways a bit, but maintains his ground a few steps away from you.He’s got his hands stuffed down into his pockets as he waits you out. Clever manipulation to zero your focus on pleasurable bits? Or just a comfortable stance.
Irritation spikes again, and you huff, dropping pretense and forcing your chin up so that you can glare at him full on. Maybe a withering look will make him retreat again. But no. Instead of withdrawing from your more-than-obvious displeasure at his disruption of your Stewing, he tweaks his lips, and then his eyebrows.
You can read him clear as though he spoke aloud. He’s still fuming too, but is of the mind that allowing it to go on any further isn’t productive.
You jut our your jaw, giving your head a hard shake in the negative and continuing your glare.
To your shake, he nods, giving just as much emphasis to the motion as you had. He won’t be dissuaded.
You move to stand, to fling the book to the side-table and push past him. He allows you room to stand, but rather than allow you to escape him again, he reaches out - not to snare your arm, which would have brought on Many Bad Words, but simply to touch you.
A hand softly pressed against your shoulder blade.
So much was said in the silence. A plea, beckoning to wait, stop.
You shake off his hand and turn back to face him, severing the established contact.
He twitches his eyebrow, challenging, waiting to see your response. You can either retain your anger or you can give in, give in and try to reestablish a connection with the only person who can make you feel better.
You inhale a deep, long breath, arcing an eyebrow at him as you try to roll the tension from your neck. It will only work if both of you can push past the things that were said.
Your shoulder roll is mirrored, along with a ducking on his head. Concession.
I’m waiting for what I guess will be chocolate chip waffles. The last plate drops in front of Lo, a breakfast burrito with hash browns, his hunger apparent as he immediately takes a bite. They forgot to order for me, I guess. […] I trail off as a waiter appears, a plate in his hand. The minute it rests in front of me, I start crying. It’s a slice of chocolate cake. Lily scoots against my side and she says, “Cake fixes everything, remember?” I smile through my tears. I remember. “Thank you,” I whisper. How silly, to think my sisters would forget about me. They haven’t. Not in a long, long time.
Oh man, you know you can always get me with that punk!Steve ;P
Steve pushes his glasses up on his nose, chews his lip, lets out a quiet little hum as he looks around the flower shop. Everyone is looking at him like he’s some boogey man or mythical creature or something - what with the tattoos dancing up the side of his neck, down his fingers, across his exposed collarbones, the pierced bridge, lip, tongue that flicks out to wet his lips. Whatever. Some fucking Walmart bouquet is just not good enough, not for the man of his dreams.
“Um, excuse me,” he asks the timid-looking florist who’s been watching him like a hawk for the past fifteen minutes, “what flowers do you recommend for asking someone to marry you?”
Omg I love your
writing so much. Could you write one with Baron Corbin, where someone
walks in on a heated moment backstage, and you get embarrassed but
Baron comforts you? Tysm << additional notes << reader is
in a relationship with Dolph Ziggler but he’s caught by reader with
another girl backstage and Baron swoops in to save the day… with
his glorious cock. (fluffy smutty goodness))
3,433 sinful words.. again, i got carried away. I really really hope you like this, you awesome shaded sinner !!!
Baron Corbin - WWE
SMUT AHEAD! There. I
warned you. Lots and lots of smut. And angst. And fluff. And a rare
look at Baron not being such the epic badass that we all love him
advanced addition to the introvert collection / overgrowing freckles in the overgrowing garden / Peter Pan themes at ‘work’, cardboard ticking crocodiles and I’m crossing my fingers for a thimbled heart and a trip to never land (have slept with my window ajar since childhood) / 5-year-old Jack’s (aptly named) drawing of a sinking titanic / spelling of meanwhile/meenwile made my little heart ache