Do you put the milk in the tea first or second? Cornish- or Devonshire-style cream? Do you actually eat finger sandwiches with your fingers? Afternoon tea service is a great British tradition that’s laced with rules. Learn them here.
Photographed by Arthur Elgort, Vogue, December 2001.
A/N: This piece is very long and has taken me a long time to write for several reasons. But I hope this is what these lovely people hoped for when they sent in their requests (xxx)!
Love you all and I hope you have a great day :)
Harry had always been in awe of you.
From the moment he had you in his
life, his heart had been filled with your gentle compassion. He had admired
your instinctive kindness, personally witnessing the way you’d give a piece of
your heart to everyone in your life. “Being
kind is all that I can give” he’d hear you say and it breaks him just a
little when he watches your smile falter for a fraction of a second, before you
arch your eyes and nod your head slightly towards him in reassurance. You’re
doing it again, he gathers, putting up a front to satisfy the people around
you. Making sure they remained lost in their pursuit of happiness while you’re
left alone to pick up your own shattered pieces.
Harry had regretted that night the
most. The first, of many, where your heart felt particularly heavy as you
smiled and whispered “I’m fine” to
his concerned eyes. The silk of your dress clumped at your shoulders as you
walked away from him then, away from a night of celebrating your recent
promotion at work and into a cab to nurse your friend that had gulped too much tequila
to shove away his own misfortunate thoughts.
Lance sits in the common area of the castle, sipping at his tea that Hunk had prepared him. Red had thankfully come to save him after his pod had crashed into the icy lake, and despite changing his clothes and Coran wrapping him in a tight blanket, Lance is unable to get the chill out of his bones. He’s too skinny. Too long. Too much surface area to his body that any heat he generates is almost immediately lost. He thinks about jumping in a hot shower, but Allura had warned him that that may shock his system too much. He has to warm up gradually with just a warm blanket.
Pidge has left to fetch him a hot water bottle. Hunk is running tests on Red to make sure she’s ok. She’s not built for water and ice in the same way that blue is.
This just leaves Lance with Keith on the couch. Lance takes another sip of his tea. His fingers tremble. Keith sighs.
“Here,” He slips off his red jacket. It’s not very insulated, but it holds traces of Keith’s heat.
“I’m not sure it will help,” Lance remarks. He’s already wearing his green jacket and a blanket.
“You can try?” Keith shrugs. Lance nods. He lets his blanket slip off and bravely removes his green jacket. Goosebumps appear on his skin. He snatches Keith’s jacket out of his hand.
He pulls it up and around his shoulders and sighs. It’s incredibly warm. His stomach stops knotting with shivers momentarily and Lance is able to relax. Keith slides closer to drape the blanket back over his shoulders.
“I’m sorry I can’t help more.” Keith pouts. It’s an uncharacteristic expression. Lance forces a smile.
“It’s ok. I appreciate it.” But then Lance’s shivers return. The heat from Keith’s jacket is lost as Lance’s own body heat can’t replenish it. Keith notices and scowls.
“Cold again?” He creeps closer, placing a hot hand on Lance’s thigh.
“God, where the hell is Pidge?” Keith’s brows crinkle further as he scans the entrances to see if he can see the smallest paladin approaching. Lance huffs out a laugh.
“You wanna help?”
Lance smirks. If he’s going to die of hypothermia then he wants to spend his last moments doing what he loved best… messing with Keith.
“Stay still,” He warns, before he’s thrown off his blanket and pounces on Keith, wrapping himself around the other boy like a snake. His legs drape over his lap, and his hands crawl beneath his shirt. Keith squeaks at the contact.
“What are you doing!”
“You’re warm.” Lance sighs. Keith feels his muscles relax. His hands are still frighteningly cold on his bare back and chest.
“God, you’re so warm.” Land presses himself closer, now burying his face into the crook of Keith’s neck.
“Alright, hang on, hang on.” Keith sighs. He counts to 10 in his head and heaves out a long exhale. This isn’t exactly the circumstance he fantasised about, but having Lance’s touch on his bare skin is causing a reaction all the same.
He composes himself, then starts to lean back on the couch. Lance greedily follows. He takes off Keith’s jacket and lifts up his own shirt, so that when he lays on top of Keith, both of their bellies contact each other. Keith flinches at the cold. Lance sighs.
“Guardian of fire, right?” Lance chuckles. He nudges at Keith’s arms.
“Hold me dammit.” He insists. Keith laughs. It vibrates against Lance.
Keith pulls the blanket over the two of them, before wrapping Lance tightly in his arms. Guiltily, he slips his hands underneath Lance’s shirt and splays them against his bare back. His skin is soft. Lance smiles against his cheek.
“Much.” Lance laughs. He wonders if all those years in the desert have baked the sun into Keith’s skin. He wants more of it. Needs more contact. Wants to soak up every ounce of warmth Keith offers.
“Hey Lan…. whoa…” Pidge’s voice echoes in the entryway. Keith turns his head, but is unable to move the rest of his body.
“Look what you did.” He deadpans. “You were too slow and now Lance has taken me.”
“Did you even fight it?”
“Not really. He was too pathetic.”
“Hey,” Lance grumbles. His eyes are closed and he doesn’t bother to open them. “Just put the hot water bottle on my thighs and walk away.”
“Don’t you think…”
“Water bottle. legs. walk away.” lance repeats.
Pidge rolls her eyes. She lifts the blanket. Wow… Keith was really all up in there…
She sniggers as she places the water bottle on the back of Lance’s thighs. The one place Keith’s body heat can’t seam to reach. She re-sets the blanket.
Lance hums and cuddles against Keith. There’s a big, dopey smile on his lips. His eyes are still closed.
“Thank you, Pidge.”
Pidge’s eyes meet Keith’s. Keith is glowing bright red, and unlike Lance, looks like he might just overheat and combust.
“Are you suffering?” Pidge asks.
“Shhhhh” Lance brings his hand up to cover Keith’s mouth. Whatever protest he may have had is smothered. Keith laughs against his hand.
“Walk away, Pidge. That will be all.” Lance dismisses her.
Pidge turns on her heel and walks out of the common area, mumbling idiots under her breath. She bumps into Hunk just on the other side of the wall.
“They’re being weird”. She throws her hands into the air in dismay. Hunk cocks an eyebrow. He peers around the doorway to see the two boys entangled in each other on the couch. Lance looks about .5 seconds away from falling asleep. Hunk locks eyes with Keith and smiles. He gives him a thumbs up. Keith shyly smiles back. His hands are covered in blanket, but they shift in a tell-tale way that indicates he is returning Hunk’s gesture.
“They’re fine.” He chuckles. He places one of his large hands on top of Pidge’s head and escorts her away from the scene.
I want you. I want your sleepy confused look when you wake up. I want to be the warmth that fills the space in your bed. I want to be the sheets your fingers crave at night; the blanket that wraps around you all night. I want to drink tea with you, share some records we find. I want to talk about everything in the world newspapers. I want to discuss with you, to be stubborn and quick-witted with you. I want to have differences between us. I want your flaws. All of them. I want go into the deepest corners of your mind and never get bored of you. I want to be surprised by the new all the time. I want to look at you like a movie, a living piece of art; always trying to chase what you crave … and capture you.
A/N : First ever smut!! This took me a good few sessions to write and also Harry’s legs make me weak.
Word Count : 3500+
Summary : Y/N spends the morning doing what she loves most, making brownies and riding Harry’s thigh.
* * *
Leaning against the kitchen counter, a cup of tea laced between my fingers, I watch Harry with a fond smile as he grips a bag of self-rising flour in one hand, and a regular bag of flour in the other. Even though half his body is turned, I can see the small frown of his lips as the corners of his mouth sink deeper and the confused expression across his face tightens.
“Y/N,” He begins, turning his body to face me and I can’t help but bite my lips to stop a chuckle from escaping them as I stare at what he’s wearing. A pink satin pyjama tank top is wrapped across his chest, his nipples evidently straining to break free from the suffocating material. The unmistakeable sound of clothes ripping silences Harry who is halfway through asking which flour he is supposed to use, and he sends me a bashful grimace as he prepares himself to be scolded at knowing he’s ruined my favourite pyjama top. To be honest, if it wasn’t for how cute Harry looked at the moment I would’ve whined but Harry is too adorable to chew out so I just shake my head instead.
“Sorry babe…” Harry starts, “I’ll buy yeh another one but a size or two up so a can wear it too.”
I raise an amused eyebrow questioningly.
“What?” Harry asks defensively, “The silk is comfortable and soft around my torso and yeh wear my shirts all the time!”
At that he gestures accusingly to my body and I glance down to see my attire. A long silk shirt hangs from the frames of my shoulders, vibrant colours and swirls lace a pattern across the predominantly black background and I tug at the rolled up sleeves so the material falls and pools around my wrists.
“I wear your shirts because I look hotter in them.” I tease, reaching down to pop open another button. Harry swallows roughly, eagerly agreeing as his eyes don’t tear from my fingers which softly toy with the button. Unlucky for Harry, my plans for this lazy Sunday morning consist of baking, only baking… for now.
“But you just look like a drag queen in mine.” Harry’s eyes snap up, any sexual aura in the room now evaporated, and he greets my teasing grin with an equally challenging glint in his eyes.
“At least a look fabulous in this top, darlin’,” Harry says, loosening his wrists and consequently spilling a little flour. “Yeh couldn’t pull this tank off even if the colour did suit yeh.”
Harry jumps and raises his arms in a victory hoot at the ‘sick burn’ and the straps of the top completely tear apart. I break into fit of giggles at his guilty expression and soon enough Harry too gives a small chuckle before apologising profusely.
“Sorry sugar.” He says before pulling the tank top off completely; leaving him standing in the kitchen with only a pair of tight boxer briefs adorning his legs.
“S'okay love.” I sigh, but Harry shoots me a very cheeky grin and shakes his head.
“No, Y/N. A was apologising to the sugar.”
Heat rushes to my cheeks and a wave of embarrassment washes over me as I realise Harry knocked over a bag of sugar when he lifted his arms victoriously. Using a hand to cover my face, I groan, frustrated that I fell for such an obvious trap and Harry giggles as he scoops the sugar back into its bag. With his back turned to me, I dare glance through the gaps in between my fingers and I rake my eyes over Harry’s bare back as it ripples and tenses. I can’t help but stare, he’s gorgeous. Though his body is not particularly muscly, it is toned and touring abroad has done wonders for his skin; leaving him deliciously tanned, almost like a caramel apple.
I sit back abruptly as Harry finishes cleaning up, determined not to give him the satisfaction that I was staring but the quirk of his lips reveal he knows I was ogling him and he winks irritatingly.
“Seriously babe?” He asks, “If yeh done harassing me with yeh eyes, a’d like to know which flour I’m su'posed to use to make these goddamn brownies.”
Fighting back an eyeroll, I stand up from my stool and join him beside the bowl with ingredients.
“I don’t know…” I reply, eyes fliting between the packet of normal flour and the packet of self-rising flour. “I’m pretty sure you’re supposed to use self-rising flower for baking.”
“Even for brownies?”
I shrug and Harry must reckon that’s a good enough answer as he drops the bag of normal flour before eyeing the self-rising flour and pouring about half the bag in. As he cracks a couple of eggs and adds some butter, I realise we probably should’ve invested in a set of scales because brownie mixture is not supposed to look so powdery. Also, aren’t you supposed to use coco powder? Harry and I used hot chocolate powder as a substitute but that in itself poses an issue because the tub said it’s use by date expired four months ago.
Guess we’ll just have to wait and see.
After we add some water to bring the mixture together, Harry takes the role of cleaning up the kitchen while I spoon the mixture into a baking tray (of course, making sure to leave a tiny bit of brownie mixture for myself and Harry to lick while we wait for the brownies to bake). Just as I draw away from the oven after placing our soon-to-be brownies in the oven, Harry’s strong arms wrap around my middle and he pulls me close into his chest. He buries his face into the crook of my neck and snuggles close, dipping the tip of his freezing nose right into the warm pool of my skin and I elicit a small yelp.
“You’re freezing, Haz!” I squeal, touching the spot he just nuzzled. “You need to put something on.”
Harry cocks his head to the side. “Put somethin’ on?” He toys, taking a step closer to which I take a step back until he traps me between his arms against the kitchen island.
“A’d like to wear this sunshine,” He tells me, amusement clear in his voice as he fiddles with the hem of the shirt between his thumb and forefinger. “Can a have my shirt back baby?”
His lips are dangerously close and with such a short distance between us, I struggle to think straight. Reciprocating his sultry change of mood, I slide one of my hands into his dry hair and place the other dangerously close to a carton of nearby eggs. Harry swallows harshly and his eyes flutter closed as I pull him closer and latch my teeth onto the lobe of his ear. I nibble gently and soothe the skin over with the flat of my tongue before tugging on his hair roughly to expose his neck.
“Harry, Harry, Harry, Harry, Harry…” I daunt, placing wet kisses down his neck softly. Suddenly, Harry juts his hips into mine and I bite my lips to stop a shaky breath. An overwhelming desire to properly kiss him floods my body, and I almost give into my primal instincts but when Harry tugs on the hem of my shirt I’m reminded of my mission.
“You’ll have to kill me for this shirt.” I whisper before quickly grabbing an egg from the carton, circling my arm up and around, and smacking the shell right down on top of his skull.
Not waiting for his response, I shove him back and run to the other side of the island. Harry, completely shocked, whips around sending egg yolk flying everywhere and I slap a hand to cover my mouth as I begin snorting at the sight of my furious, shirtless but most importantly egg-soaked boyfriend.
“"Oh Y/N… Y/N, Y/N, Y/N.” Harry taunts, mocking me similar to how I did before. He places a hand on the bag of self-rising flour and runs his other through his dripping hair. “Yeh should not have done that.”
In seconds, whatever remaining flour we had left is thrown right at me and I’m left coughing and spitting out flour as Harry creases in the corner while I mentally scold myself for being such an idiot and leaving my mouth agape.
“You suck.” I grunt, after spitting out the remains of clumpy flour and Harry’s grin grows wider if that’s even possible.
“And yeh swallow, my dear.” He winks before lunging for me. Harry’s long fingers find my sides instantly and he tickles me ruthlessly, taking every opportunity he has to blow raspberries into the crook of my neck. I squeal and slap his forearm but Harry only laughs, places a soft kiss on my shoulder, and slides his fingers up my body as he slowly peels his shirt off my body, leaving me completely bare besides the pair of cotton knickers hugging my bum. Harry shoots me a triumphant toothy smile as he pulls the shirt over his head and pushes his arms through the powdery sleeves; I, in contrast, pout and Harry ceases the chance to lightly trace my bottom lip with his forefinger. I don’t even think about when I automatically drop my lower lip further and gently suck on the tip of Harry’s finger.
The mood of the room flips dramatically.
Suddenly, I’m all too aware of Harry’s other hand caressing my hip and how his hooded eyes don’t even glance away from my lips that pucker around his finger. His eyes flutter closed as he gently pumps it into my wet mouth and I hum softly while reaching my hands up and running them through his sodden locks. The cold metal of his rings send waves of shock through my body, causing me to shiver as my body begins to shake at the temperature change.
“Are y- are yeh cold, love?” Harry stutters, pulling his glistening finger from my mouth - a string of saliva following. My eyes snap open and I nod quickly, letting a small whiny ‘yes’ slip past my lips.
“Maybe we should do somethin’ to warm yeh up then love? A don’t want yeh getting a cold…” Harry winks and he pushes himself up onto the kitchen island so that his bum and thighs rest on the surface but the rest of his legs dangle down. With a playful glint in his eyes, Harry pats his bare thigh invitingly and offers me an outstretched arm as he pulls me up on top of him.
Taking his hand, I climb up. My breasts swing as I move and my lack of clothing gives Harry easy access as he dips his head forward to suck and bite and leave marks all over them. He takes his time to treasure my body, nibbling lightly on my left nipple and rubbing the other; Harry uses his large, masculine hands to cusp and knead the rest of my breast and I automatically arch my back to give him more area.
Eventually he pulls away and Harry looks up at me through his darkened gaze. In a split second, I grab the sides of his face tightly in my hands and slam my lips onto his. A low, deep growl erupts from Harry’s throat and he drops his fingers to my thighs. Gripping them firmly, Harry groans into the lustful kiss and pulls me closer, determined to eliminate any space between us. My hands fly to his biceps for leverage as he hauls me up his thighs, my fingertips gripping his arms so tightly that little crescent moons are left in my wake.
“Ride my thigh, baby.” Harry pants, his damp breath fanning over my lips hotly. The lust in his eyes send waves of shivers through my body and the hairs on my arms stand up as goose bumps texturise my skin. “Ride me.”
His hands part my thighs and I happily oblige, following his movements and removing my panties as he plants his hands on my hips to steady me. From this height, I have to duck my head so that it doesn’t smack against the ceiling and the position is not all that comfortable but in seconds Harry has me back down into the comfort of his arms.
“Ride me baby, ride your daddy.”
I don’t need to be told twice.
Lowering myself onto Harry’s thigh, I grind lazily against the soft cotton of his boxer briefs. My lips part in a silent moan and Harry snakes one hand to the crook of my neck and captures my lips once again, while the other clutches the fleshy fat of my bum causing me to jitter forward and rut my hips right across his thigh.
“Harry…” I moan loudly, finding a rhythm and hazily grinding down on his structured thigh. The feeling is incredible, the friction rubbing against my nub providing a perfect sensation that flows in the blood around my body and makes my toes curl. Coupled with Harry’s wet tongue and perfect fingers, I really can’t imagine how I managed to live without this stupidly idiotic but all the same amazing boy for so long.
“Harry!” I cry out as Harry stretches his lanky leg across the kitchen and rests his foot against the corner of an opposite counter. The new position allows Harry to bounce his leg and a sob escapes my lips as his muscular thigh greets me halfway and heightens the pleasure.
“Don’t stop, fuck Daddy! Don’t stop!”
“Fuck…” Harry grunts, swiping a hand across his face trying to fathom how he got so lucky. There’s too much for him to handle as his eyes jump from my jiggling breasts to my euphoric expression to my bare pussy jerking across his thigh. Worse yet, Harry’s internal struggle only grows worse as I finally tug him free of his boxers and wrap my petite hand around the base of his throbbing and rather sore looking cock.
“Daddy, you’re so worked up.” I tease, instantly dropping his cock and moving my hands to fondle his balls. Harry groans loudly, throwing his head back as he fights the urge to thrust into my hand.
“Don’t tease me, Y/N.” He warns dangerously but I giggle and rub the skin of his balls between my fingers anyway, deliberately ignoring his leaking cock. This time around, Harry physically can’t stop his hips from levitating and I bite back a triumphant grin because there’s no better feeling than having your boyfriend like putty in your hands.
“I’m not teasing Daddy, just having a little fun is all.” Sending him a confident wink, I pinch his sac and Harry almost sobs, the pressure almost too much, too perfect to handle. Quite frankly, Harry isn’t finding the situation as humorous as I do and so he grabs my hips dominantly and presses me down harshly on his thigh so that I’m practically scraping against his skin. A high pitched moan escapes my chest and a few tears find their way down my cheeks, the pleasure absolutely indescribable.
“Yeh speak to much, love. I think yeh need something to keep yeh quiet.” Harry says in a raspy, rushed breath. I watch as he whips his head around, egg yolk clumping his curls together so that they fall in front of his eyes. A thin layer of sweat has formed around our bodies like cling film so I swipe my forehead with the back of my hand, but leave Harry untouched; the perspirant only highlighting his naturally toned body and adding another element of rawness to the whole ordeal. Suddenly, Harry turns back around, the bowl of raw brownie mixture in his grasp.
Harry gradually submerges his middle and forefinger into the mixture, then raises his hand and beckons me forward. I obey without hesitation and open my mouth enthusiastically as Harry slips his two fingers in. Unfortunately, neither of us thought to taste test the mixture first and so within seconds of pushing his fingers into my mouth, I gag and spit them out trying with all my might not to dry wretch on him or myself.
“Shit Y/N, did a push yeh too far?” Harry rushes, an atmosphere of concern complimenting his words. God bless the poor lad; worry floods Harry’s face as he fears he may have been too forceful and noticing his guilt, I immediately rush to correct him, hoping he hasn’t already fallen into a turmoil of distress.
“No, no of course not.” I exclaim. “It’s just those brownies are going to taste like utter shit.”
I can’t help myself from letting a few chuckles loose and when Harry catches on, he too begins giggling (though there’s still a hint of nervousness in his voice, concerned still laced in his knitted eyebrows).
“Yeh okay then? A haven’t poisoned yeh have a?”
Shaking my head no, I tilt my head to the side and stare at Harry for a moment. Reaching up, I use my thumb to iron out the creases in his forehead and I place a kiss upon his lips.
“No Daddy, I’m perfect.”
At that, the mood certainly returns to its musky and lustful atmosphere and I grab Harry’s cock tightly - but not so tightly that it hurts him; just the right amount of pressure to keep him crazy. I begin moving my wrist, flexing my fingers around his cock and base trying to draw another whimper from him and I’m eventually rewarded when he cries my name.
“Shit, Y/N! Keep doing tha’!” He begs, his leg bouncing like crazy. This only spurs me on more, and I jerk him off lazily, both of us moaning and kissing each other in unison. Harry’s eyes are screwed tightly shut and he rocks his hips into my hand urgently, chasing his release with breathy grunts and moans. My chest tightens with pride as Harry’s fingers dig deeper into my skin and he begins shaking his head because he just can’t comprehend how good it feels. Sweat drips from his forehead and I use my hand to push back his falling curls to free his face. The expression he sports is one of pure bliss and I almost wish I could freeze time, just so that I could stare at him like this for however long I want. I realise though, Harry orgamsing is a better sight to see.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck me - are yeh close?” Harry struggles, the hope in his voice clear as day. Relief shines in his eyes as I nod excessively and he clenches his fingers around my hips even more.
Without warning, Harry’s fingers have suddenly slipped under me and he rubs my clit furiously, rolling the nub between his fingers. It’s more than enough to send me over the edge and I squeeze Harry’s cock as I slump heavily over his body, coming loudly. My final moan triggers Harry’s own orgasm and he thrusts into my hand one more time before long spurts of come are landing on my arm and belly, sticky and slightly warm.
After coming down from our highs, we take a moment to lie there together, limbs sloppily intertwined and damp skin sticking.
“I love yeh so fuckin’ much.” Harry whispers, carefully drawing his hand out from underneath me and using those exact fingers to free my eyes from stray strands of hair. He places a soft kiss on my lips, ever so gently caressing my jaw juxtaposing the animalistic and crazed lustful self he was only a minute ago.
“I love yo-” A shrill ring abruptly cuts me off as the oven timer sounds, alerting us the brownies are done. Harry jumps immediately, and lightly places me down on the island before hopping over to the oven and opening it. The metallic device produces a tin of sickly grey looking brownies and my face twists at the sight of disgusting lumps of butter swimming in the tin.
Although both our standards where low, the brownies end up succeeding our already awful expectations and land themselves the title of the worst brownies we have ever tasted. Harry sighs and I can tell he’s a little disappointed.
“Am sorry these are shit, Y/N.” He huffs, chucking the entire batch into the bin with a grimace displayed on his face.
“Harry, love, don’t be upset.” I coo, delicately cupping his chin with one hand and with a confident wink, I run my fingers through his drying come on my stomach and stick the digit into my mouth. “I much prefer tasting you anyway.”
Needless to say, those buggy brownies were soon all forgotten about.
* * *
PS. Let me know if you enjoyed and send in any requests!
In which Sherlock comes back after pretending to be dead for two years, finds John moved out of Baker Street and nearly engaged. He’d deduced two possible reactions… but not this.
Of all the outcomes Sherlock had prepared himself for, this was not one of them. There had been two scenarios in his head, two ways John’s emotions could play out. Shock was, in both scenarios, naturally the primary stage. That is logically what happens when a previously thought dead person presents themselves. It was the stages that came after the shock is where it got tricky, given that Sherlock had to take into factor that they were surrounded by the public eye, in a very crowded, very upscale restaurant. It was where the road split. Road one: Shock would be followed by disbelieve, perhaps tears, but most likely not with John. No, it was more likely disbelief would lead to laughter, the slightly bitter kind that Sherlock could picture on John’s face, the kind that would melt into relief, maybe even a slightly uncharacteristic hug. It might be a briefer display of emotion due to the public eye but at least Sherlock would know it was alright now.
The second road was not preferred but it ended the same. On this path anger followed the shock, maybe John stormed out of the restaurant, maybe delivered Sherlock a rightly deserved punch… But they were together in the end. Sherlock was forgiven in the end.
He never thought, however, that the stage of anger would be so prolonged. He never imagined that John wouldn’t eventually get along to embracing his lost best friend. Sherlock never pictured John leaving him standing alone on the curb of a dumpy fish and chip place with a bloody nose.
Ms. Hudson, on the other hand, had had exactly the reaction Sherlock had predicted when he walked into 221B. She’d screamed, cried, screamed again when he placed a gentle hand on her arm, and proceeded to alternate between the two for the next hour. Sherlock could barely focus on her however, only being able to think about how, as she wrapped him in a very tight hug, he would do anything to have experienced this reaction twice that night.
“Oh Sherlock,” Ms. Hudson patted his cheek fondly, a smile brightening her face, “I take it you’ve seen John?”
Sherlock tense, “Yes. Yes, of course.”
She laughed delightedly, squeezing his hand before bustling into the kitchen, “I’ll get the kettle on for you two, then.”
Sherlock unknotted his scarf, hanging it on the familiar coat hanger, taking note in the back of his mind the relief that filled his chest at being, well, home, “Sorry?”
Ms. Hudson looked over her shoulder, “Well, I gather he’ll be around shortly, yes?”
Sherlock froze half way through shrugging out of his coat, the thought hitting him harder than he expected. Would he?
“Yes.” Sherlock said stiffly, dropping his coat over a chair—John’s chair—with a flourish, “Yes, of course. Tea would be lovely, thank you.”
Ms. Hudson gave him another firm kiss on the cheek and a Oh Sherlock, do play some violin for me tomorrow. I can’t tell you how I’ve missed it, and left him to “get settled.”
Sherlock had prepared the tea with shaking fingers. Of course John would be around. He wouldn’t let the night end like it had would he? He’d want to see Sherlock. Definitely. John was a man of answers, and he had two years worth of questions to ask. Sherlock had poured the water into the tea pot, set out two cups (he’d looked for John’s favorite mug only to find it no longer in the cupboard), milk, and sugar. He’d put it all on a tray, set it rather too harshly onto the coffee table, fell into his chair…
And the waiting had begun.
Sherlock was very good at sitting still usually. He could go days on end without speaking, without moving. But he couldn’t seem to manage it tonight.
He paced, drummed his fingers, watched the clock. By the time he decided to change into his pajamas, it was nearly two in the morning and he had already retuned his violin and stabbed the fireplace mantle approximately 57 times. The tea was cold and he hadn’t had a drop. He hung his coat up from its place on John’s chair, fluffing the flag pillow and smoothing the velvet out.
It was two thirty and Sherlock listened to Ms. Hudson’s bedroom door close downstairs. No doubt she had been waiting up for John. She’d given up. He wouldn’t.
Sherlock kept his phone in hand. John may call rather than come over now that it was so late. He had a…fiancé now, after all. Sherlock swallowed hard at the thought, checking his phone again. Another outcome Sherlock had not expected. Of course, he felt foolish now, thinking John had—thinking John could ever feel… whatever Sherlock had felt. Whatever Sherlock feels. That it was John and him, him and John. He never dreamt that there could be any other version of either of their lives, he never thought…
Sherlock pressed his hands over his eyes.
But perhaps he should not have left for two years. For a so-called genius, he seemed to have a habit of realizing things too late when it came to John Watson. Maybe one could only be a genius in one aspect of life, one field. Sherlock considered this. If that was the case, he’d gladly trade his knowledge of chemistry, of crime, of anything, for an upstanding understanding of John. Just John. It may not be more useful in his line of work. But he would be happier. Emotionally. Sherlock blinked at the realization. He was surprised, but it felt… true.
It was approaching four in the morning when Sherlock resigned to his bed. He couldn’t stare at the empty chair across from him any longer. If he did he was worried he may throw something, or miss the mantlepiece and stab himself instead with the amount he’d been at it. He let his phone rest on his chest, fingertips to his chin.
He didn’t want to admit it, but his hopes were crumbling around him. John was not calling. John was not coming up the stairs. John had left him on the curb after hitting him once, twice, three times. He found that his chest hurt more than his cheek or nose.
Sherlock was just beginning to resign himself to a few more hours of sitting completely still until it was considered a socially acceptable hour to rise and start a day in the life of the living, when his phone buzzed against his ribs, shocking Sherlock’s eyes open.
The screen said John.
Sherlock had barely picked up before he was saying his name.
He was met with a few beats of silence and then, slowly, “You’re awake.”
Sherlock felt pinned against the mattress, “You don’t sound surprised.”
The response was more immediate this time, “I’m not.”
Sherlock nearly closed his eyes at the familiar scoff, “Yes, of course I’m awake.”
“I… I’m not surprised… either.” Sherlock had never struggled for words so much in his life.
Silence followed and Sherlock thought he heard John pouring himself tea, or maybe a drink.
“Jesus,” A chair scooted back over the line and John sighed as he sat now, “I’ve not a clue what to say. How’s the nose?”
Sherlock felt himself smile a little at the comment. This was the most normal he had felt in two entire years, “Not as bad as the ribs.”
John chuckled softly, the way he did when he was confused, “What? I didn’t hit you in the ribs.”
“No. You didn’t.”
Silence followed again. Sherlock heard John’s breathing stop and restart, “Sherlock-“
“Don’t worry, I’m okay-“
“No, that’s not the point, Sherlock, the point is that you let me- You let me knock you around when someone else had been doing god knows what god knows where.”
“Don’t worry, you’re much gentler than Serbian interrogators.”
He heard John set his tea down too hard, “What? I- Oh my god, I swear, if you’re joking-“
“I don’t joke.”
Another laugh, this time disbelieving. It sent another shock of relief through Sherlock, “Yes you do, Jesus, Jesus-“
“John. I’m okay-“
“Well, you were dead this morning!”
John’s breathing was harsh over the phone. Sherlock could picture him rubbing his eyes. Sherlock just listened for a moment to the familiar sound. He didn’t know how to start. Sorry was nothing, not what was needed, it wasn’t enough.
“John…” Sherlock let out a breath, “I-“
“Don’t you dare say you’re-“
“I wanted to tell you so many times-“
“God, did you now?” John was nearly fuming again, “That’s the first time you haven’t given into one of your impulses.”
Sherlock closed his eyes. Hardly, John. Hardly.
Sherlock breathed deeply through his nose, “You’re right. I should know better.”
Sherlock heard a clatter that sounded like John throwing his cup in the sink, “Yes. Yes, you should.”
“Maybe I’ll give into one right now.”
A beat of silence, “What?”
Sherlock was already halfway to the door, “I’m coming over.”
The laugh was back, nervous and relieved this time, “Sherlock it’s nearly five-“
“I’m giving into an impulse, John.”
“Right…” A chair scraped back, “Yes, okay. Alright.”
“I’ll catch a cab. Text me the address, would you?”
Sherlock thought he heard a hitch in breath, a small sniff maybe. It made his chest ache, “Yeah.”
Sherlock shrugged half way into his coat, “Okay-“
“Right, can we not say goodbye?”
Sherlock’s brows furrowed, “John?”
“’s just the last time you said…” John couldn’t seem to finish but he didn’t have to.
Sherlock understood. He understood and he knew he’d never utter the word ‘goodbye’ to John Watson again.
Baekhyun could feel his heartbeat pounding hard against his
chest, loud and fast as he slowly weaved through the chairs towards you and a
shy Zoe. He’d never felt this nervous for anything in his life, not even when
he debuted and performed at his first showcase with the rest of EXO. He didn’t
want to mess this up: his daughter was too important and this was his chance to
make up for the years he’d lost.
He introduced himself cheerfully, trying not to let his
nerves shine through his voice. He flashed his daughter a bright smile that he
hoped would comfort her a little. On the inside however, his stomach was doing
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Wind chimes dance and ring against one another in the slight breeze. You latch the screen door behind you and step onto the front porch, glass of iced tea slipping between your fingers, drips of condensation roll down the side of the glass and burst against the red wood beneath your feet. Songbirds chirp in the nearby bushes, passing news of some new visitor rumbling past the house in a flawless black vehicle.
You fall onto the two-person porch swing and pull your knees up as the world rambles on around you and the lazy birds. The smell of orchids and freshly turned dirt float by as another short gust of wind sends the wind chime tinkling again. The evening summer sun rains down onto you, warming your cold bones, loosening your tense shoulders.
A sigh drifts out of your mouth as you tilt your head back and close your eyes. Who knew the south could be so peaceful?
Cicadas buzz in the fields across the road as another car thunders past and spits pebbles out everywhere. The entire world is at peace here and has been since you arrived eight days before.
The only missing piece is Newt’s laugh. Which, you remind yourself before the tears can nip at your eyelids, you are perfectly okay with never hearing again.
“Can’t you see I’m busy, Rosa?”
Your little sister wraps her bony hand around your wrist and tries to jerk you forward. “I’m serious. Get up.”
You pull your arm from her grip and frown. “Are you okay?”
hanzo, walking into the apartment building having a full blown panic attack and trying not to cry as he slowly takes his nose piercings out, lays them on the table and clutches the corner of the wall so hard it looks like he's trying to tear out drywall:
genji. genji, I think i'm dying.
genji, sitting on the couch wearing aviator glasses and sipping on a mango flavored bubble tea while his finger nails, painted green dry:
just give it a few minutes ur good man
hanzo, falling to the floor and breathing heavily:
no, i think i'm actually dying
it's just a panic attack. it happens. you probably just need to shit real bad. hey, wanna see the outfit my fallout character is wearing? it's really cool