#let us have a moment to stretch our legs. get a slushie perhaps

[decayanddesign]

If films are going to be 3+ hours long, we should really bring back intermissions

#decay's dumb ramblings #I’m seeing John Wick 4 today and apparently it’s somewhere around there #ffs my old back injury isn’t going to be able to go that long without getting agitated #let us have a moment to stretch our legs. get a slushie perhaps

[wwwafflewrites]

Five Times Sherlock Shrugged Off John, and One Time He Couldn't

1. Exhaustion

Christmastime in London was usually tame. Children scooped up clumpy snow and formed soggy, slouching snowmen. Uncovered noses and ears blushed at the crisp breezes that whispered along the town. Christmas trees seem out of place among melting snow clusters. The weather was rather sunny that Christmas Eve; Sherlock’s definition of a day for chasing down criminals.

These were the days Sherlock was at his finest. He was a child on Christmas morning, anxious for a new mystery to distract his busy, vast mind. Most nights, the violin sang hours before dawn, its tunes rapid and lively. John often awoke to the orchestral music, and by the intensity, he could assume when Sherlock was pining for a chase.

John already understood the equation: winter equaled early chases. There was no question.

However, it was a constant battle for each roommate to cooperate on acceptable times of interruption. Sherlock never learned: rushing into John's room at the fresh hour of two o'clock in the morning. Today, he'd been disturbingly animated after Lestrade had texted the man details of a runaway criminal. He was nearly dancing in delight.

John had startled awake at Sherlock's break-in, squinting under the blinding light emitting from the ceiling. At first, he had been bewildered and dumbfounded, unable to process what he was witnessing. Then, John blinked and waved off the detective's excessive details until the man scurried away in a feverish skip. John internally groaned as he checked the time. He’d had barely an hour of rest.

The trick was to get out of bed. John was not an early riser, but years of military training taught him to pry himself from bed covers and focus on the daylight ahead of him. Today was no different than usual. John had accustomed his life to Sherlock's rude awakenings.

John was a soldier. He had survived many lifestyles through his adaptation of warfare, and sleep deprivation was one of them. He had gone several days with less than two hours of sleep once, only caffeine keeping him at a coherent state. Coffee would do today.

His journey from his bedroom to the kitchen was no particular bother, usually, but with days of scrambling to gain a wink of sleep, it was an effort. His legs were numb with a static feeling of ants crawling out of his skin. His footfalls were clumsy, scuffing against the floor.

John brewed some coffee that morning, and he was not budging from the kitchen until it was done. Otherwise, Sherlock would wear him down before noon, and John couldn't put up with another day of tripping about like a zombie.

Sherlock would pace, he knew, nagging John to forget the coffee! You’ll be fine! He would complain, pleading the doctor to just buy some in town. But John had learned the hard way that Sherlock was not one for waiting lines and coffee shops, and they would end up ditching John's much-needed caffeine. Those days John had been miserable and exhausted.

He checked his mug, inspecting for traces of morbid forgotten experiments. Dubbing it as clean, he poured himself a warm cup. The bitterness cleared his thoughts and he welcomed it wholly. Lord knows the last time he'd felt awake.

Sherlock had had enough of this nonsense. Every morning he twiddled his thumbs while John took his precious time. Lestrade had specifically stated the range of time they had to catch the criminal. If Sherlock didn't arrive soon enough, he would miss his chance. “Should I warn you that lamb brains sat in that mug last night? I was testing the acidity level with the coffee as a way to pass time. There were intriguing results.” He pointed in disinterest to the mug cupped in John's hands. It was true; however, in a moment of thought, Sherlock didn't bother to mention that the mug had actually cycled through the sink and was now sanitary and safe to drink from. What John didn't know wouldn't hurt him, as the saying went.

John coughed on his sip of coffee, “And you didn't think to tell me until now?” he spluttered in annoyance, lifted a fist to cover his mouth while he gave a light cough. He now examined his coffee with distaste, a disgusted frown carved into the wrinkles in his brow while he pictured lamb brain chunks soaking in his coffee.

Sherlock considered. “It won't kill you,” he added, offering a deceptive smile to the doctor while standing and tightening his scarf. Tugging his collar upward, he despicably asked, “Do you really need coffee this morning?"

John sighed, setting the cup on the counter. He knew Sherlock was trying to manipulate him, but he didn't think he could take another round of coffee with Sherlock constantly badgering him. “I suppose not.” He admitted reluctantly. He would regret this.

Sherlock snatched John's arm and hauled him toward the door. “Hurry! Time is precious!” Sherlock flew down the stairs, the door shuddering open at his eager wrench of the handle. John was at his heels.

“And why did Lestrade ask us to catch him instead of the Yard?” John finally huffs.

“Directly? Ah, no, there was no verbal exchange or text messaging. I may have come across the information by observing Grant’s pockets, fingernails, and an envelope I borrowed off his desk. It was blackmail if you must know. The Yard could hardly take action.”

“When you say borrowed… you mean stole? Pickpocketed? I doubt you'll return it.”

Sherlock actually smiled. “I plan to return it in pair with our criminal. I doubt it will take long.”

There was a long pause. “You… do know Lestrade’s first name is Greg… right? Not Grant.”

John received a spiritless hum.

To John, the cab ride felt stretched and extensive. To spare him the humiliation and save his dignity from the speculation of Sherlock Holmes, John forced his heavy eyes to pry open during the ride to the scene. His head would softly bounce with the jumps of the road, and he caught it before it had the chance to loll.

John shifted uncomfortably, fidgeting as a way to occupy his drowsiness. He was very aware of Sherlock in that moment, so to seem less obvious, he turned his head to stare out the window… or so it seemed. John let his eyelids sag as his body swayed rhythmically with the car...

Sherlock was not a blind man. John’s military posture had wilted and was now molded into the side of the car door like melted chocolate. When the car turned, John leaned with inertia. Though, rather than feeling guilty, a prideful smugness grew within him and he grinned at John's sluggish form. Perhaps… he'd been a tad harsh with the coffee. After all, Sherlock did owe the man; John tolerated Sherlock's constant, tireful, daily demandings.

It was actually a short ride there; the case was within a short range of their flat. When the cab lurched to a subtle stop, John jolted up from the inner lip of the car door and grunted softly.

There was a wave of exhaustion that hit John like a bus when he plodded out of the cab. It struck him dumbly, his vision blurred as he looked upon the shabby wreath leaning against the door of the flat in front of him. John stared unblinkingly until Sherlock was done inspecting the house. He yawned pathetically as Sherlock ranted on. This standing was beginning to chip at his remainder of his energy.

Sherlock snatched John's arm, pointing with his other to a window of the house. He whispered barely about the breeze tickling their faces, “The man is still in there, John. I see him. Now, according to previous calculations and a bit of monitoring, he should...”

A shadow of a man shown darkly behind thin curtains, and the door jutted open by the twist of a handle. The hesitancy of the criminal’s steps was incredibly suspicious.

“...be leaving now.” Sherlock spoke even lighter, ensuring the man would not hear him. There was a slyness to the tone of his voice, proud of his cleverness. Then, he pounced with a rap of feet signaling his exit. He had a criminal to catch.

John might as well have been a helium balloon at that point. It was discouraging that John could actually relate to the lame, latex object; like a companion to be paraded around with by a giddy child, only to be easily lost in the thrill of a different game. It wasn’t an uplifting metaphor, but the more John continued to picture it, the more real it became.

And John was not amused in the slightest. “Sherlock!” He hollered in exasperation. He stumbled past the house, dashing toward the narrow silhouette of the detective. John was a few blocks behind, and struggling to gain speed with his shorter legs. John was not as nimble as his flatmate; he would knock into pedestrian’s shoulders and trip on the cracks in the sidewalk. Yet the determined little man kept going.

John’s energy was deteriorating rapidly. As he rounded alley corners he’d sense his heels stutter and his shoes slip on the slushy ice when he hesitated. A few of the brick walls lurched and swooped into John's vision as began to feel dizzy. He blinked at his headache, awfully confused as to where Sherlock had bounded off to. He stumbled forward and backward, nauseous.

John merely breathed, collapsing against the alley wall for back support. He could only sense the irregular pulse of his heart in his ears and his heaving lungs attempting to dispel the ill feeling. John was a doctor, and he knew when a man was going to faint. And that man was himself.

He eased his way to the dusty floor, so he was not to crack his head open if he succumbed to the advancing black dots edging the corners if his eyesight. His ears began to ring and throb. John's neck nodded dumbly as he placed a palm along his forehead. His brain was swollen and sluggish. “Sher..?” He grunted out pants, waves of exhaustion rushing over him. He was going to pass out.

The next thing John knew, he had slumped into his knees and his eyes had rolled back into his head. He didn't hear the subtle thud.

In a dank and clammy London alleyway laid an army doctor, ignorant to any caw of a nearby pigeon or splutter of a car engine. The brisk wind flapped and ruffled his hair, but he paid no mind. A polished pistol lay snugly in his pocket, but his hand did not twitch near it in anticipation. Time and space was just a peaceful, blank slate that unconsciousness allowed him. Absolute harmony was a rare gift that John Watson never acquired.

The lull of silence broke when John's eyes awakened once more with a stare of vacancy. He slowly acknowledged his surroundings, now wary. He stayed limp for a while, gathering his bearings and recalling recent events.

John knew that after fainting one should stay low and allow their blood to circulate, but boredom was a determined thing, so John lifted his head. Shakily, he managed to balance himself, kneeling with his shoulder pressed into the side of the building. He staggered on the soul of his feet, blood now rushing from his head to his toes. John curled his knees, hunching over to recover stability. It took him fifteen minutes to finally stand and regain his senses, although he had a raging headache.

A slim figure bounded around the corner in high spirits. “Ah! John! Where have you been?” With hopping, delighted feet, he closed in on his friend. “The criminal has already been caught! It was incredibly tedious and I… John? Are you alright?” Of course he isn't alright, you idiot. John's physical outlook was worn and tense, his eyes closing frequently as if breathing was a labor. His weight was leaned on the wall, nearly slumping against the brick. He was dehydrated and drained of energy. John Watson never staggered about.

Sherlock fought the urge to sulk and decided his friend was more valuable to him than a peculiar case. “I… suppose it is a bit early in the morning to be tearing through my most intriguing cases. What do you think of grabbing a bite to eat? Those few sips of coffee won't have done you any good. You… can blame me for that.” He noted the bruises around John's eyes, like that of a raccoon. “How about you rest as well? I'm sure I can occupy myself with a few elementary experiments while you nap.” Sherlock advised nervously. It was pointless; he had been the selfish one, while John had reluctantly climbed out of bed to amuse Sherlock's narcissistic babbling. John consistently complied with Sherlock's wishes until he was keeling over and winded.

John inhaled sharply and put on his brave face, reassuring smile included. “I'm okay, Sherlock, really. Just slept a bit rough.”

Sherlock stared for a second before nodding in uncertainty. He wouldn’t spare John of his countering deduction, but first, they were going to Speedy’s Cafe.

#sherlock #sherlock holmes #john watson #general fic #fanfic #fanfiction #sherlock fanfiction #sherlock fanfic #5+1 things

[nadjaofstatenisland]

Chapters: 1/1

Words: 1719

Rating: Mature

Category: F/F

Fandom: Riverdale (TV 2017)

Relationship: Penelope Blossom/Alice Cooper

Characters: Penelope Blossom, Alice Cooper (Archie Comics)

Additional Tags: parentdale, Riverparents, palice, Drabble, No Plot, Light Smut, cherry slushies, god can i write one thing that doesn't involve people eating or drinking?, no no i cannot, Femslash February

Revisiting an old favorite ship. For @penelopeblosscm

Tequila burns all the way down.

Alice doesn’t ask her what she likes, it’s not her style. Instead she takes a long sip from the cherry slushie she insisted they stop for and pulls a bottle of tequila from under her bed. She fills the plastic cup to the brim and stirs it sloppily with the straw, unbothered when a few drops spill to the cheap carpeting of her room. She licks cherry slush from the palm of her hand and raises the cup.

“Bottoms up.” She gives Penelope the second straw, the one tucked behind her ear. It’s pink, same color as Alice’s, even though she knows the gas station they bought it at keeps them in an array of colors.

Alice’s tongue - shameless piercing and all - is already waiting on her straw by the time Penelope sticks hers in. She smiles as they sip at the same time, a few beads of condensation dripping to the floor between them.

Penelope takes the cup with both hands when Alice shoves it at her. It’s cold and she sneaks a another sip as Alice shrugs her jacket off and plops onto the bed. The tequila is cheap, harsh, but it mixes surprisingly well with the sugary drink.

“Thanks for the ride,” Alice mutters, kicking her heavy boots off. “Turn the stereo on if you want.”

Penelope’s eyes comb the room until she spots it. The stereo is no more than a radio with a single cassette deck, but she hits play and delicately sits on the edge of Alice’s bed. A rock song she doesn’t recognize fills the small room. She’s pleasantly surprised when she realizes the jarring music is being sung by a woman and not a man.

“I like your room.” Penelope regrets the words immediately. Alice snorts and pushes herself up on her elbows.

“You don’t need to be nice.” There’s no malice in her voice for once, just amusement. “Just say you’re shocked I don’t live in the trailer park.”

A lump catches in her throat. “I just mean it - it isn’t what I was expecting.”

“Yeah, you were expecting a trailer.” Alice’s voice is lined with a tease. “Believe it or not, the Southside is more than just Sunnyside Trailer Park.”

“Maybe,” she admits. “But it is nicer than I thought.”

Alice looks to the watermarked ceiling. “You must have been expecting a real shithole then.”

Penelope takes another sip, unsure if Alice didn’t mix it well enough or if she’s just getting used to the burn. She clears her throat.

“What I mean is, your room is - it’s lived in. Comfortable. It belongs to a teenage girl.” Her eyes travel, taking in a small stack of tapes and books, the posters on the wall, a contraption that looked like a bong or perhaps an incense burner, although neither seemed Alice’s style. “You can come in here and kick your clothes anywhere, jump on the bed, not worry if you need to put anything away.” In a mesh laundry bag she spots a few pieces of Alice’s unmentionables and swallows. “My room is nothing like this.”

Alice shifts her weight between her elbows and pulls her feet onto the bed. “What’s your room like?”

“A museum,” she blurts out. “Always ready to be shown off. I decorated it myself, but there was a very limited number of things I knew I would be allowed.” She slides her feet out of her Mary Janes and wonders if it would be too forward to lay down as well. “No posters on the wall. Nothing on the floor. Clothes hung in the closet or put with the laundry after each wear.” She holds up the slushie. “Definitely no food or beverages.”

“Your parents sound like real pains in the asses.” Alice is smiling again. “Is there where you got it from?”

Penelope laughs in spite of herself. “Yeah maybe.” She finally turns and looks to the other girl. “You can come over one day.”

Alice feeds her a sad smile. They both know it’s an empty offer. “Yeah maybe.” She blows a loose strand of hair out of her face. “Thanks for today by the way.”

Penelope feels the heat rise to her cheeks. “It was nothing, please do-”

Alice sits up all of a sudden and places her hand on Penelope’s arm. “No, really. Thanks.”

“It was just a ride.” Penelope’s eyes go down to the carpet. She can’t even tell where the slushie dripped anymore. “I am never in a rush to get home from school.”

“Not just the ride home. Defending me.” Alice lets go of her arm but Penelope’s skin burns where her hand was. “To Hermione and your other cheerleader pals.”

“Oh, they are not my pals.” She lets out a nervous laugh. “Trust me. They are just as nasty to me. They don’t consider me a friend.” She stretches her legs out straight, wiggling her toes through her stockings. “I don’t think I have any real friends.”

Alice touches her arm again, the burning sensation coming back. “It sucks not having friends.”

When she looks her way she realizes it’s not a barb, but Alice speaking about herself as well. Penelope looks to Alice’s soft hand on her skin and mutters, “We could be friends.”

Another sad smile. “Friends. Yeah, maybe.”

And another empty promise.

Their eyes meet. Alice juts her chin towards the cup. Penelope holds it out to Alice but the other girl just puckers her lips. She moves it slowly until it reaches Alice’s mouth and watches as she takes a slow sip, their gaze not breaking.

“It’s tasty, right?” she asks slowly when Penelope finally pulls the cup away.

She nods curtly and turns her head. She looks at the bookshelf, the clothes hanging from a rack in the corner, the fishnets balled up on the floor, the open pack of cigarettes on the desk. Anything to avoid looking back at Alice.

“Surprisingly so.” Penelope takes another sip, this time out of the straw laced with Alice’s lipstick. She licks it off her lips and hopes the other girl doesn’t notice. “I never - I don’t believe I’ve ever had tequila.”

Alice laughs. That loud, contagious, throw-your-head-back kind of laugh she was famous for. Penelope feels the mattress shake as Alice lays back down. A rush runs through her at the thought of Alice flat on her back. Her thoughts wander to laying on top of her, pinning her down, leaning over her, but she shakes it away.

Another sip from Alice’s straw and she puts the cup on the bedside table. She lays back so she’s next to Alice, both their socked feet hanging sideways off the bed.

She turns to look at her, to really look at the loud-mouth girl from the Southside of town. The one with the leather and the curls and chewing gum and the clothes that showed just the right amount of skin. The one who licked her lips ever so slowly to show off the tongue stud Penelope fantasized about when she was alone.

Alice stops laughing but the smile stays. She turns on her side to face her and Penelope follows suit.

“What are you thinking about?” Alice asks, her blue eyes dancing.

Penelope tucks a hand under her head. “I’m wondering why you invited me inside when you don’t like your own home.”

Alice shakes her head, a few pieces of hair falling in front of her face. “What are you really thinking about?” Her hand reaches out and she slowly pulls Penelope’s glasses off her face.

Maybe it’s her blurred vision or maybe it's the tequila ripe in her mouth, but she feels bold for the first time in her life. “I’m wondering what that tongue stud feels like.” She lets out her breath slowly. “What are you thinking about?”

The blonde girl leans in. “I’m wondering if you taste like cherries.”

Alice’s touch burns worse than the tequila. It sets her whole body on fire.

Their lips meet and Alice wastes no time pressing her tongue roughly into Penelope’s mouth. She flicks her own tongue against the small metal bar and, in a moment of daring, tugs at it with her teeth. Alice gasps into her mouth and Penelope uses the moment of surprise to climb on top of her. She pins Alice’s legs together with her own and runs her hands slowly up Alice’s arms until she pins her wrists right above her head.

She breaks their kiss to gauge Alice’s reaction. She struggles her wrists a bit, but smiles up at her.

“Losing your nerve?” The tease is back in Alice’s voice. Penelope presses their mouths back together before she can get another word out.

Their undressing is sloppy, their coordination off, but they laugh their way through it. Alice lets Penelope take charge even though she’s the clueless one. Neither talks until Penelope is crawling up Alice’s body. Alice’s hand comes out to stop her as Penelope is perched above her chest.

“You’re full of surprises,” Alice mutters as she thumbs the delicate piercing in Penelope’s navel. She presses her lips to it and Penelope’s legs shake as she moves her belly against Alice’s mouth. “Relax,” Alice’s breath burns against her skin too, “we’ve hardly begun.” With that she links her arms behind Penelope’s thighs and draws her closer.

Alice’s tongue stud, she learns, feels even better in other places.

They lay with their faces inches apart afterwards, the melted cherry slushie leaving a ring on the sheets between them. Alice lights a cigarette and after two puffs, hands it to Penelope without asking if she wants it. Her mouth is already a mixture of cherry, tequila, and Alice - the nicotine only enhances it.

Penelope takes a puff as Alice strokes her cheek. She swallows the cough itching to come out. “Still think I should come over your place sometime?”

Her mouth opens and a noise somewhere between a cough and a laugh escapes her. Alice takes the cigarette back before the ashes fall to her bedspread.

“No,” Penelope manages a smile she didn’t know possible, “I like it here actually.”

“Yeah.” Alice leans in and presses their noses together. “I like you here too.”

Alice’s kiss burns her in the best possible way.  

#penelope blossom #alice cooper #palice #femslash february #i know it's not pentrude but i hope you like it anyway!! #parentdale #riverparents #mature is a strong word as is smut #more like suggestive stuff...