#savoury scones...

[sunmontuewrites]

Why did I think baking would be a good idea? (It's very very hot...)

[askwhatsforlunch]

Chives Cheese Scones

These beautiful Chives Cheese Scones, fragrant with the fresh garden herb and delightfully cheesy, are a special treat for a grey Sunday arvo tea. Have a good one, mates!

Ingredients (makes 6 large scones):

2 cups plain flour

2 ½ teaspoons baking powder

½ teaspoon salt

4 tablespoons cold unsalted butter, cut into small chunks

Mature English Cheddar

Parmesan

a bunch fresh Garden Chives

1 large egg

2/3 cup buttermilk

1 egg, lightly beaten

2 teaspoons milk

Preheat oven to 205°C/400°F. Line a baking tray with baking paper. Grease lightly with butter. Set aside

In a large bowl, combine flour, baking powder and salt. Add butter, and rub it into the flour mixture between your fingers until it resembles coarse meal. Grate in about 1/3 cup of the Cheddar, and 1/3 cup of the Parmesan; give a good stir.

Finely chop Chives, and stir into the flour mixture.

In a smaller bowl, whisk the egg and buttermilk together until blended.

Stir egg mixture into the flour mixture with a wooden spoon until dough just comes together.

Tip dough onto a lightly floured surface, adding a bit of flour if necessary, so that it no longer is sticky.

Flatten dough lightly with your fingers into a rough square. Using a 8-centimetre/3.25-inch fluted cutter, cut out 6 scones and place onto prepared baking tray.

In a small bowl, whisk the egg and milk together. Gently brush the top of the scones with egg wash.

Place in the oven, and bake, at 205°C/400°F, for 20 minutes until a lovely golden brown color. Remove from the oven and let cool slightly.

Serve Chives Cheese Scones warm, with heaps of butter and hot tea!

[beths-favourite-recipes]

Bacon Cheddar Scones

[bellasdonna]

Sweet savoury secret scones

[kinderes]

Hello I have questions, what do you mean a spaghetti pizza isn't what I imagine? What more could it be than a pizza with spaghetti on top???

well i mean that's pretty much it!! it's just that my family makes it a bit differently from how you'd make normal pizza, main differences being the base is actually more of a scone dough (it's so it can hold the spaghetti better than a regular pizza base would!!) and also we don't use like regular spaghetti bolognese, it's tinned spaghetti. hope that helps!!

[nkdhiman]

savoury scone recipe jamie oliver

savoury scone recipe jamie oliver

savoury scone recipe jamie oliver This recipe makes delicious and comforting scones. It’s soft and fluffy inside, with a little bit of rock crunching out the sides. You can spread butter, jelly, or jam on it for a perfect cup of tea or coffee. Basic ingredients for savoury scone recipe jamie oliver 10 oz/1.2 cup /283g self-raising flour or all-purpose(plain) flour1 teaspoon baking powder4oz /…

[inky-duchess]

Etiquette of the Edwardian Era and La Belle Époque: Tea

This is a new set of posts focusing on the period of time stretching from the late 19th century to the early 20th Century right up to the start of WWI. I'll be going through different aspects of life. This series can be linked to my Great House series as well as my Season post and Debutant post.

Today will be focusing on the rules of tea with this time period.

Tea was a staple in society, not only as a comforting beverage but as a social gathering beset by strict rules. Etiquette at tea is not only important for guests but is a sign of respect to one's host.

High Tea vs Afternoon Tea

You're reading both terms and you're thinking high tea is the formal version and afternoon is informal. In fact, no. It is the opposite. High tea was actually served far later, about 6pm/7pm and focused on more savoury, substantial dishes. High tea was more of a lower class tradition, designed to fill the stomachs of hungry workers. The word "high" is derived from the tall tables used. Afternoon tea is served at 4pm, designed to fill the gap between lunch and dinner. Afternoon tea is served at low tables with all the guests seated and involve a lighter meal, more nibbles than anything.

Hosting and Attending Tea

Tea is an event that happens every day, it's not an excuse for a snack, it's a ritual. One can have tea served in one's own home or at the home of a friend. One must be invited to tea, one can't just show up and expect to get fed. Tea was typically served in libraries or drawing rooms and done times outside in the gardens if weather permits. One had to dress for tea usually in comfortable but appropriate clothing. Men would wear suits, women would wear tea gowns or a simple gown - keeping their hats upon their head, if they are visiting. Tea was not poured by the footman but by the host or if it is a large party, by one assigned guest. The hostess or designated tea pourer would serve themselves last.

The Tea Set

Tea sets are highly coveted and much remarked upon at tea. One would usually inherit a service (that's what the collection was called) or be gifted it at one's wedding. Services would all match and most households had different kinds, the best usually reserved for important guests.

Teapot: the tea pot held the hot water and tea leaves was was usually made of china and decorated.

Cups: the cups were generally low, shallow.

Saucer: a small plate for the cup to rest on

Tea cannister: where dried tea leaves would rest until needed.

Sugar bowl: was a small container made of china with a cover to protect the sugar from moisture.

Milk jug: a container for the milk

Slop basin: was a porcelain dish used for disposing tea leaves left behind with the dregs of tea.

Tea spoon: small spoon used to stir tea

Side Plate: small serving plate used for food.

As you might have noticed, other than a tea spoon, cutlery is not listed. There would be a spoon for jam and a knife for a scone, most food was designed to be eaten with one's hands.

There is also one instrument not listed here and it's the most recognisable thing at afternoon tea.

The Tiered Tray

The tiered tray is a set of trays stacked upon one another holding on each one, a different course. Sandwiches and savouries were served on the bottom (Favourites include smoked salmon, cucumber, cress, egg salad sandwiches), scones on the second and sweeter delights served on the top (sponge cake, macaroons, pastries etc). One would begin ay the bottom and work one's way upward.

Making the Perfect Cup of Tea in the Edwardian Era/Belle Epoque/Gilded Age

Disclaimers: Let's make one thing clear. Tea is not prepared one way for all. Tea is culturally important across the world and every culture has their own rules about how tea is consumed and served. There's no one right way.

I will be discussing the English way of brewing tea in this post.

As mentioned before, tea is held in a cannister before use. Tea leaves were added to the hot water and lightly stirred.

Controversially for most people, milk was commonly added first.

One would then set a strainer in one's cup, tilting the pot. The strainer will catch the leaves and leave your cup almost tea-pulp free.

With the tea added, one could add in sugar. The trick is not to make a show about it or be too loud. One simply should gently turn your spoon from the 6 o'clock position to the 12 o'clock position. Also, the spoon rests on the saucer when not in use and doesn't stay in your cup.

When drinking your tea, put your pinky down. That's an American myth. Simply lift your cup to you, lifting the cup to your mouth by the handle. Saucers are not lifted unless your cup is far away. Don't slurp it, there's plenty more where that came from.

Etiquette at Tea

Afternoon tea is for light conversation, do avoid heavy topics.

Listen attentively when being spoken to.

Don't talk with your mouth full or stuff your mouth. Typically everything should be polished off with 2-3 bites.

Gloves should be removed at tea because one is eating with their fingers.

If one is leaving the table to go to the bathroom or a breath of air, simply turn to your neighbours and excuse yourself. No explanation needed.

Napkins should be removed from the table and set across one's lap when one is sitting down. When finished with tea, set it beside your plate before you rise.

Also you daub, not smear.

Don't cut your scone but break it.

Don't lick your fingers.

Don't bang the spoon on the side of the cup.

Also there's no dunking biscuits into your tea. It's just not done at afternoon tea.

Never thank the staff for fetching anything - or at very least, don't be overhead doing so.

Always say your goodbyes to the hostess and compliment the tea, even if you had a rubbish time.

Also most importantly, never criticise somebody else's manners. That's the height of rudeness.

[rebouks]

Previous // Next

Courtney: You’re so hot! Oscar: That’s what all the ladies say. Courtney: [snorts] I meant literally. Oscar: Yeah, well.. I went for a run so’s I can eat whatever this hellish creation is. Courtney: Scones! Oscar: Not yet they’re not. [Courtney shot Oscar a playful scowl and pursed her lips, angling the bowl away from his prying eyes] Oscar: Don’t put that in yet. Courtney: Excuse me… Oscar: What, you wanted me to teach you! I know you’re the spontaneous scatty type but there’s a recipe for a reason. Courtney: Boring. Oscar: You’d have more freedom with savoury stuff, y’know? [Courtney’s brow rose slightly; she didn’t know] Oscar: Sure, add a bit of this, a bit of that-.. but baking is an art form, okay, it’s a chemical reaction-.. you can’t just throw shit in and hope for the best, Cookie! You’ve gotta follow the instructions n’ do it properly. Courtney: You’re cute when you get all passionate about foo-.. ew! There’s raw egg in there! Oscar: Mmmmh. Courtney: Eugh. Oscar: That’s your fault for putting it in too soon-.. mmh, kiss me! Courtney: Oscar! [Courtney abandoned her mixing and devolved into a fit of laughter as Oscar fiendishly accosted her] … [Although Robin didn’t much appreciate his parents constant canoodling, he did appreciate the fact that they were so affectionate with one another; always so playful and tactile, they never spent much time apart. He supposed it was kinda nice, in a way, especially since a lot of couples always seemed so reserved or strained in comparison] [click] Oscar: [chuckling] Aren’t you supposed to be grossed out, yell cooties or something? Robin: You are gross, but I still like it when you’re happy. [Oscar and Courtney cooed affectionately in tandem] Courtney: You’re so sweet, honey. Oscar: We’re having rocks after dinner. Courtney: Oi! Robin: I’ll still eat ‘em. Oscar: You n’ your brother will eat anything-.. Wren’s the real test. Courtney: If Wren so much as sniffs something I’ve made, I’ll eat this bloody spoon.

[rockingrobin69]

Beast of a thing

“What can I get you?” asked a loud voice, and Harry rubbed his face till his eyes burned.

“Hmm?” was clearly not the right answer.

“Coffee? Seems like you might need one. And something to nibble on. Sweet or savoury?”

“I,” Harry said, which wasn’t that much better. The—person?—who kept pestering him was smiley and extremely bright-eyed. Leaned down to him over a dark-blue apron, half-conspiratorial, half amused.

“Sweet, I should think.”

How rude. Harry crawled in here to die peacefully, not be badgered about fucking coffee. But a few seconds—minutes?—later there was more bustling, and someone placed a cup right next to where he was holding his head. It smelled hot. It smelled good.

Before he could even make the decision, Harry’s hands grabbed it and—oops—spilled a little, never mind. Yeah, it burned. Yeah, whatever. Harry raised the cup with a shaky fist and sipped something horrible and scalding hot. He felt, absurdly, and for the first time in—he felt a little bit like a person again. How fucking embarrassing. How fucking inaccurate.

“There you go, darling,” this time armed with a scone. The smell of clotted cream made Harry’s eyes roll back, made him choke. The jam was even worse, so sweet he nearly gagged. “This should cheer you right up.”

He nearly, nearly laughed. Was too busy growling, rubbing his pointy teeth against his inner lip. Something in his expression must have finally registered with the perky waiter, since they hurried back, tray cluttering as they hit something. Harry could finally go back to his—

“What now?” to the movement from the corner of his eye, but—the smell hit him first, hit harder. Lemon zest and evergreen forest. Something so pleasant it made Harry whimper, made him close his eyes. The newcomer used this reprieve to sneak into the seat next to Harry, so close their knees were touching.

“What do you want?” Harry asked, or whined. It hurt behind his molars, it hurt in the pit of his stomach. The touch, the unbelievable pressure coming from deep, deep inside.

“Hello to you too, Potter. You’re not an easy man to find.”

“Not an easy man,” Harry managed.

“Not a man,” Malfoy countered.

“Not,” Harry, “interested. Go back to the Ministry and—”

“So you really haven’t heard? I quit.” When Harry chanced a look, Malfoy was busy examining his fingernails. He looked—he smelled—he—was an onslaught Harry couldn’t, wouldn’t withstand.

Instead of whimpering again, of being pathetic: “So what do you want? Why come all this way if it wasn’t some…”

“Scheme?” Malfoy uncrossed his legs, leaned back. Too fucking much; Harry’s mouth watered already. “Plot? Who said it wasn’t. Maybe I’m hunting you down all for myself now.”

“Why,” Harry growled.

“Maybe I didn’t like the way you left.” A rustle: Harry didn’t need to look to know what that sound was. “Dear Malfoy, I hope you’ll understand—”

“Enough.”

Malfoy’s gaze burned on his skin. Malfoy’s everything burned. “—there’s nothing else I can do—”

“Enough. Please.”

A bang, too loud; his fist on the table. The coffee cup trembled, didn’t spill. “Oh, is that too much? Hearing your own stupid words? You can take it, sweetheart. We’ve not even got to the good part yet.”

Harry tried to take cover behind his hand. “Please, it’s—”

“I think you might be my mate,” Malfoy quoted in the iciest tone Harry’s ever heard, “Which is exactly why I have to go—”

“I did!” hiding, hiding. “How could I stay, how could I do anything when I knew I’d be putting you at risk? The Ministry won’t stop. And even if—even if they did,” in this horrible, shaky voice. “What I’ve become—”

“A fucking idiot, you mean?”

Harry looked up.

Malfoy’s lips were so thin. “I don’t care what you are. I don’t care what they tried to make you into. You think I might be your mate and then you run? Sentence yourself to, what, a miserable, lonely existence just because you’re scared?”

The shudder took him so hard he nearly fell. “I can’t hurt you,” Harry said through gritted teeth. “I won’t.”

“You have, arsehole,” with exasperation that seemed oddly fond. “Come on, Potter. You didn’t even do me the courtesy of asking.”

“Asking?”

“Veelas have mates too. You’d know if you bothered to stick around.”

“They have—” something whirled in his belly, in his chest. Something sickening and bright. “Wait. Are you saying—what are you saying?”

“You can’t hurt me.” Malfoy bent closer. “Not in the way you imagine. Not if you stay and work it out like an adult. I won’t let the Ministry use you as a weapon. I won’t let anything—I’m saying you’re an idiot, and I’m an even bigger one, and that if you’d run from me again, you’ll regret it.”

A smile burst, baffled and hot between his cheeks. “You… are you serious?”

“You think I came all this way for a joke? I only commit to things that are worth my while.” His grey eyes, burning. “Are you worth my while?”

Helpless, he grabbed Malfoy’s hand. The scent of him in Harry’s nose, heavenly and far too strong: everything he could hope for, that he tried to escape. “Please,” Harry croaked.

Malfoy hummed, leaned back. Used his free hand to steal Harry’s scone. “I’m staying across the road. When you’re quite done—”

On his feet. “Done.” The edges of Malfoy’s lips twitched.

“Very well.” He got up, cast a look from under his endless lashes. “Potter. If you leave again—”

“I won’t,” Harry promised, and meant it. Won’t be able to, now that he had Malfoy back in his arms, smelling and looking and being like that. Now that Harry felt alive, and like a person, and also not. Better than any treat, sweet or savoury. Bitter and sour, lemon zest and evergreens: his Malfoy. His mate.

 For my dear @generalpizzaengineer and their prompt 💖

[topgun-imagines]

The One With The Barista

Requested: yes

Summary: Bradley is a regular at the coffee shop you work at. One day, he finally works up the courage to talk to you.

Word count: 0.9k

Warnings: none.

Pairings: Bradley ‘Rooster’ Bradshaw x barista!reader

The coffee shop was always busy on Saturdays. Every week, people would come in waves to try the new treat that the baker chose for this week. Why he did it on Saturdays, you weren’t too sure. But you did know that everyone packed into the tiny building loved it.

Today’s treat was a lavender and lemon scone with a honey glaze. All morning, people had been filing in and out of the coffee shop, either with the delicacy in their hand or on a mission to get one. All except for one.

A man sat in the corner, similar to how he did most weeks. Every week without fail, he would come in and claim his seat in the corner, spreading out his books while he sipped on the latte that you brought him. He hardly ever moved, nose buried deeply into whatever he was reading.

Today, it looked as if he were reading a novel rather than some type of manual. From where you were standing, you could see the light brown cover of the book and the cursive lettering that was strewn across the cover. He seemed deep in thought as his eyes slimed page after page. Even with the loud distractions of the coffee shop, nothing drew his attention away from the words in front of him.

Over the past few weeks you had noticed that if he did order a pastry, it was always one with fruit. Never something savoury, and never something too sweet. He often ordered a strawberry bagel with butter, but occasionally he would try the week’s special. You guessed that he liked this week’s, judging by the fact that he was nibbling on his second one as he flicked the page of his book.

Usually, the mysterious stranger left around noon, only sometimes staying for a few minutes extra. This time, however, it was well past two and he was still in his seat. After he finished his latte, he ordered a strawberry lemonade that he had yet to finish. Maybe he wasn’t planning on leaving for a while.

The bell chimed above the door as another customer walked out. You began wiping off the tables, still occasionally sneaking a glance at the handsome man in the corner. The rag ran across the table smoothly, leaving small wet streaks in its wake. Once it was dry, you moved along to the next table, repeating the process like you had many times before.

You returned behind the counter just as your coworker untied their apron. She offered you a friendly smile as she moved to collect her belongings. With a quick glance at the clock, you realized that her shift ended five minutes ago. A sigh escaped you at the sight of the empty room. Now it was just you and the handsome stranger.

A few minutes of comfortable silence filled the shop, only interrupted by the grinding of the coffee machine and the sound of the man flipping pages.

You busied yourself with cleaning the cappuccino machine. You began humming along quietly with the soft music flowing through the shop. As you ran the cloth over the smooth metal of the machine, you began to space out. Everything became distant background noise as you cleaned out the coffee grounds.

The sound of someone clearing their throat behind you had you startling in your spot.

You turned to find the handsome man from before standing in front of you with a nervous grin on his face. Offering him a shy smile, you dropped the cloth on the counter and smoothed your apron out. “How can I help you?”

The man sucked in a short breath as he straightened his shoulders. “Hi,” He started. You smiled softly at his obvious nerves. Subconsciously, you found yourself fiddling with your rings under the counter. Maybe you were more nervous than you thought. “My name’s Bradley.”

You smiled. The name suited him.

“It’s nice to meet you, Bradley.” You introduced yourself afterwards.

The man, who you now knew as Bradley, smiled at your words. “That’s a beautiful name,” You blushed. It may have been a cliché, but you enjoyed it all the same. “I was hoping,” He grinned, preparing for the cheesiness of his words. “That you would let me buy you a cup of coffee sometime.”

You watched the way his mustache twitched as he ran a hand through his light brown curls. “I would love that, Bradley,” You noticed that he had collected all of his belongings from his table. He must have to leave. “I get off at 5.”

Bradley stretched a hand out when you asked for it, quickly scrawling your number on the back of his hand. “See you in a bit.” One final smile was exchanged between the two of you as Bradley began walking toward the door.

The bell chimed above it as he stepped into the warm California sun. A quick glance at your watch had you smiling giddily. Only an hour and a half until you saw him again. Needless to say, you couldn’t wait for an opportunity to get to know the handsome stranger. Although hopefully, he wouldn’t be much of a stranger by the end of the night.

a/n: I hope you all enjoyed! This is my first time writing an au so feel free to send in any feedback or tips! Requests are open.

Tagging: @topguncultleader @soulmates8 @t0kyoreveng3rs @there-goes-thefighter @blueoorchid @dreamgirl3300 @atarmychick007 @alexxavicry @bradleybeachbabe @chaoticassidy @genius2050 @ice-doc-val @nyx2021 @aviatorobsessed @avada-kedavra-bitch-187 @natt-67 @angelbabyange

Join my taglist!

[raina-at]

Green

John sips at his tea, breathing deeply. The air smells of earth and the sea, salty and fresh.

It rained yesterday, but today the sun is out and it’s warm. The grass is lush and green in the summer sun, the birds are singing, the neighbour’s bees are humming in the garden. 

They've only been here two days, and John feels - renewed. Settled. Calm.

He turns his eyes from the lush greenery of the Sussex landscape to Sherlock, who's baking... something. He can't tell from here, but judging by the number of bowls, implements and ingredients, he guesses it's something complicated. Right now, Sherlock is either whisking egg whites or whipping cream, it's difficult to say. He looks absorbed and yet abstracted, fully concentrated on the task at hand yet miles away.

John wonders what he's thinking. Why he brought them here.

John needed a break, no doubt about it.

He thought nothing could be worse than the war, but then he worked in a London A+E during the worst of a global pandemic. Of course he’s ten years older than he was when he was in Afghanistan, but it’s something deeper than that. The last two years have taken something from him, something he didn't even know he still had. It’s like a well inside him has dried up. 

He looks out the kitchen window, past Sherlock, towards the sea.

It's beautiful here. Quiet. Sedate.

Boring, he hears Sherlock’s voice in his head whisper.

They arrived on Sunday. Took a walk through the village. Went to the beach. Napped. Had savoury pie for dinner. John fell asleep at nine, the sound of the sea lulling him into a deep, dreamless rest.

It rained all day yesterday. They spent the day quietly indoors. Read books, watched some telly. John baked scones, the first time in a long time. It felt a bit like coming home.

They had slow, lovely, calm, dreamy sex in front of the fireplace. Also the first time in a long time.

After, they lay on the sofa, his head pillowed on Sherlock's chest, and John didn't have the words for a truth that’s slowly become clear to him, that has been sitting on his chest for a while now.

He still doesn't have the words. He doesn’t know if he’ll ever have them.

The click of the oven door and the whirring of an egg timer being set tells him that Sherlock's contraption is in the oven.

He looks up from his tea. "What are you making? Smells amazing."

Sherlock shrugs, leaning against the counter. There's flour on his cheek. "A three-layered Neapolitan pie.” 

John walks over into the kitchen and wipes the flour from Sherlock’s cheek. “Show me?”

*-*

They spend hours in the kitchen, baking, tasting, having tea while the fillings set in the fridge. They don’t talk much, except for simple requests for implements or ingredients. 

Finally, the pie is done and the last layer is setting in the fridge, and John is whipping up a quick and easy pasta dish for dinner. He feels more relaxed than he’s been in weeks. Months. Possibly years.

“It’s okay, you know,” Sherlock says after a good half hour of silence, during which John sliced and fried onions, tomatoes and courgettes, tossed a salad and started cooking the water.

“What’s okay?” John asks, adding another teaspoon of salt to the pasta water.

“You don’t want to go back. And I’m telling you it’s fine.”

John freezes. His entire world whites out a bit on the edges. He can’t really breathe anymore, doesn’t remember how it works.

Then Sherlock’s hands are on his shoulders, massaging the cramping muscles between his shoulder blades. Sherlock’s other hand comes to rest on his belly. “Breathe, John.”

John breathes, concentrates on breathing into Sherlock’s hand on his belly, on the warmth of him, the reassuring strength at his back. 

“How did you know?” he finally asks, little more than a whisper.

“I live with you, remember?” Sherlock says, sounding just a tiny bit amused, but then turns serious again. “Do you think after twelve years together, I can’t tell when you’re unhappy? Do you think I don’t know what the last two years have cost you? I was there every time you came home after eighteen hour shifts, every time one of your patients died, every time one of your colleagues died. I was there when you got sick, and I know how afraid you were, even though you did your best not to show me.”

John closes his eyes and lets himself lean back against Sherlock’s body, lets Sherlock’s arms come around him, lets his head fall back against Sherlock’s shoulder. 

“I can’t quit,” he mutters, finally saying out loud what he’s been thinking about. “They need me. I can’t abandon my post.”

Sherlock sighs and gently turns John around so John has to look him in the eye. “John,” he says, gently, seriously, “don’t you think you’ve done enough?”

John bites down on his lips to stop himself from bursting into tears, because he will never believe that anything he does is good enough, and he knows Sherlock knows this, and disagrees. For Sherlock, John needs to do one thing: exist. That’s it. And John’s never been able to wrap his head around the simple fact that he doesn’t have to do anything to make Sherlock love him. He just does. 

Sherlock seems to realise that John’s about to do or say something incredibly stupid, because he takes him by the shoulders and says, “I know that if I told you that you don’t have to be perfect to be allowed to exist, you won’t believe me anyway, so I’m going to tell you something else. Something selfish. I miss you. I want you home with me more. I can’t stand watching you like this. I don’t know how much more of this I can take.”

John blanches, breath hitching in a moment of blind panic, Don’t leave don’t leave don’t ever leave. 

Sherlock seems to catch his drift because his hands wander to the sides of John’s face and he presses their foreheads together. “No. Not this. I will never leave you. Ever. But I can’t be happy when you’re miserable. So please. If you can’t do it to save yourself, save me. Please.”

John makes a strangled noise, incapable of responding, but he hugs Sherlock tightly, clinging to him like he’s a lifeline. And he is. He never would have made it through the last two years without Sherlock. And he knows that it wasn’t an easy time for Sherlock as well, but he realises only now how much Sherlock worried about him, how many times Sherlock must have swallowed down his own worries and needs to avoid putting any more pressure on John.

They stand there for endless minutes, holding each other tight, while John pulls himself together. 

“I heard you,” he finally mutters into Sherlock’s shirt. “I’m trying.”

“I know,” Sherlock says, lips pressed into John’s hair. “I know.”

“Let’s finish dinner before this becomes inedible,” John says, and Sherlock releases him with a laugh. 

They finish preparing dinner in silence, then take their plates out into the garden, watching as the sun sets over the lovely green landscape, the sound of the sea a beautiful background music to their meal.

“What would I do instead?” John finally asks, finally puts the thought he’s been carrying around into words. 

Sherlock smiles at him, and the relief in his voice is hard to miss when he answers, “Whatever you want, John. Whatever you want.”

I've always wanted to write a Bakers story that deals with John being a frontline health worker during the pandemic. I can't even imagine what hospital staff has been through these last years. Heroes, the lot of them.

This was written for @notjustamumj 's promt Green.

I'm tagging some usual suspects: @calaisreno @lisbeth-kk @meetinginsamarra @jrow @keirgreeneyes @7-percent @totallysilvergirl @peanitbear @missdeliadili @topsyturvy-turtely @the-reading-lemon @thetimemoves

I hope I didn't miss any horrible typos or anything.

[bradshawsbitch]

of pet-names and pumpkin patches | bradley bradshaw x f!reader

warning: mentions of sex, fluff, petnames, rooster is too good for this world, no use of y/n, uh-- yeah idk

disclaimer: I'm running on redbull and will-power at this point. I've been thinking about this all day at work and I had to get it out. I don't know if it even makes sense but uh, yeah! I hope you enjoy it none-the-less!

plot: You and Bradley (but mostly you) love October! What better way to spend the first days of the best season of the year at the pumpkin patch?

◇─◇──◇─◇◇─◇──◇─◇◇─◇──◇─◇◇─◇──◇─◇◇─◇──◇

Soft voices permeated the air of the kitchen, singing in time with percussions, a jaunty guitar, and something that sounded like birds playfully singing to one another - perhaps a flute?

"If I had to do the same again, I would my friend... Fernando!" It was dramatic. There was flailing of arms, twirling of bodies, the cry and tremble of your voice echoing throughout the house. It was a one woman show. You and ABBA against the world. Well, the world was your kitchen - which was currently drenched in flour, dough and apple peel.

It was October. Your favourite season of all. The changing of the leaves was something you looked forward to every single year, without fail. Fall was also perfect for re-watching Gilmore Girls, and Hocus Pocus. You still hadn't managed to lure your boyfriend, Rooster, in to watching the latter. But you had been working on it since the beginning of September - or, as you liked to call it, pre-October.

When you'd uttered the term, Rooster had at first looked bewildered, until his honey eyes twinkled with mirth and adoration at your giddiness.

Elton John's 'Your Song' had suddenly started to play, and you turned serious for a moment - wanting to pay respect to one of your favourite song. You couldn't joke-sing Elton John... in fact, you were pretty sure it was blasphemy. Jesus was surely against it.

Whilst singing merrily along, you glanced at the recipe book splayed out before you. It held a recipe of apple scones with a caramel drizzle. A sweet kind of scone. It felt very autumn-y, and seeing as it was now the beginning of October - you felt quite justified in force-feeding your man some apple-cinnamon-caramel-goodness.

Chancing a glance at the clock above your kitchen counter, a frown started to make its way onto your face. Bradley should've been home twenty minutes ago. A sharp twinge of anxious worry settled deep within your chest, but you shook your head. Perhaps he'd been held up at work. Hangman probably made a bet, and Bradley probably took the bait - as always.

Moving around the kitchen, you checked your almost-ready scones out in the oven - putting two bottles of apple cider in your weaved picnic-basket. You'd already filled it to the brim with a savoury pie, two small pumpkin pies, cinnamon rolls and water bottles. The only thing missing was the scones. You'd wanted them to be warm and toasty when Rooster came home, so you could enjoy them whilst they were still hot.

"Darling Harbour, I'm home!" that voice. God, that voice could make a smile appear on your face no matter how bad of a day you were having. Grinning, you almost skipped to the front door.

"Home from Australia?" you giggled as you wrapped your arms around Roosters' neck, smiling up at him. He chuckled, his hand softly stroking your hair out of your face, before his thumb swept across your cheek. He looked amused as he took in your flour-covered state.

"Sweetheart..." he began softly "What have you been up to whilst I've been at work, hm?" his thumb had traveled slowly from your cheek, until it rested on your plump lower lip. A shaky breath slipped past your slightly parted lips.

"I-I..." a shuddering breath ran through your body as Roosters other hand had found the back of your neck, gripping with just the right amount of pressure to make your cheeks flush with warmth.

"Yes, baby?" he hummed, his lips ghosting past your earlobe. God, this man was too fucking much. Your eyelids had fluttered closed before you could utter "Scones,"

"Scones?" Rooster chuckled, his warm lips trailing butterfly light kisses against your neck.

"I made scones for a picnic," it was breathless, it was barely spoken words.

"Aw, sweetheart..." The way his voice dropped. The way his words were drawn out and slow. God, why on earth was he so hot? "You prepared a picnic for us?" he leant back again to look at you, a grin stretching across his face.

"Yeah, but I'm kind of regretting it now. Let's stay home instead so you can fuck me senseless," you spoke matter-of-factly, which made Rooster clutch his belly he was laughing so hard.

"God, I'm so in love with you," he spoke tenderly, whilst you grinned up at him, your palms laying flat against his black t-shirt clad chest.

"Lucky me," you mumbled, leaning your cheek against his chest, letting his strong arms embrace you, his cheek resting on the top of your head.

"What did you have planned today, honey?" he mumbled against your hair, lips pressing in to a kiss as he inhaled your sweet scent.

"I thought, since it's officially October now, we could take some food out and pick some pumpkins and-- and maybe we could get some and then maybe tonight we could watch Hocus Pocus or something..." you trailed off

"but now I'm torn because you made me all horny and now I'm confused. Do I want to go to the pumpkin patch, or do I want to fuck? Can we fuck at the pumpkin patch?" you rambled, jokingly adding the last part just because you loved hearing Bradleys deep laughter rumble in his chest. It worked, and the feeling of his chest vibrating against your face had a shit-eating grin making its way onto your face.

"Baby, I don't think we can fuck at the pumpkin patch." Bradley tried to sound morose, but he couldn't really keep a straight face.

You pushed off his chest and offered him your best pout

"Aw, shucks!" he smiled down at you, before bending down and letting his lips connect with yours in a soft, warm kiss. You couldn't help the soft noise of content that spilled from your lips onto his.

"We're quite productive people... I think we can manage both, don't you think baby girl?" Bradley's face was still so, so close to yours as he said this, his words rolling on to your lips, in to your skin. God, he would be the death of you.

"You have to know that you're making it worse with all these pet names?" you sighed. He just smirked before turning you around.

"Don't let those scones burn now, darling Harbour!" he gave your ass a small pat before ushering the both of you in to your kitchen.

"Darling Harbour - you fucking weirdo..." you muttered under your breath. You'd never been called a location in Australia before, but it was oddly endearing. At least the implication of the name. A Harbour. It was sort of sweet even if it was a little strange. Your heart fluttered at the notion that he might find you to be a safe haven. Ugh, he'd turned you in to a love-sick fool. You used to be a cool independent girl. Now you might as well get a freaking Volvo and pop out a dozen of children. Christ.

The drive to the pumpkin patch was nothing short of serene. The radio was playing soft 70's songs, the two of you taking turns singing the lyrics. Bradley's fingers were intertwined with yours for most of the ride, his thumb softly gracing your skin over and over again, alternating between circling the skin and playing absentmindedly with your fingers. The sun was still rather high on the sky, but the temperature had already started to drop slightly.

The patch was everything you could have wished for and more ("oh my god Bradley look at the tiny pumpkin!! We have to take it home!"), and feeding your man so much food he could barely walk ("Jesus, babe - you made food for the whole dagger squad. I should've invited Payback!"). Giggling like two teenagers in love, you held hands and wandered through the field, enjoying the scenery and each others company. The sun was starting to set, and the golden hue made Roosters skin almost glow, his eyes - that were usually pretty, were now magnificent in their warm brown glow. You stopped to wrap your arms around his waist.

"I love you so much, Bradley," you sighed "Thank you for humoring me today. You must've been exhausted after work." you continued softly, your fingers gracing his cheek lovingly. "You made me nervous when you were late," you confessed with a lopsided smile.

His eyes were filled with adoration and love as he bent down to place a kiss to your cheek.

"You're heart-achingly sweet, baby girl," he muttered "and I love you endlessly," he smiled softly. "I never want to worry you, I should've sent you a text. Hangman bet me he could do 300 pushups faster than me, and that's just simply not true." you shook your head as laughter spilled from your smiling lips.

"God, you're ridiculous, Roos," you smiled.

"C'mon sweetheart, let's go home," was the only reply you got as he led you back to his car.

"Now, the pumpkin patch was a hit. What was next on the agenda? Hocus Pocus, or was it fucking?" he smirked at you as he helped you with your belt, his knuckles suspiciously close to your lower abdomen. Your breath hitched mid-inhale, and your eyes widened at his statement.

A rumbling laugh sounded from him as he started the car, a smug smirk on his face as his large hand massaged your thigh the whole way home.

• • • • • • •• • • • • • •• • • • • • •• • • • • • •• • • • • • •• • • • • • •

hey! hope you enjoyed it and it's not complete sleep-deprived garbage lmao. my mother always used to call me 'darling harbour' as a child, and I always found it rather sweet. but perhaps it's just weird, lmao! anyways! please let me know if you'd like more stories with x reader, or x oc :)<3

[beths-favourite-recipes]

Spinach, Feta, Red Pepper and Fennel Seed Scones

[macadamianutmilk]

My sourdough scone recipe turned savoury with scallions, parmesan + black pepper (I just reduced the sugar by half!)

[phdmama]

On a Wednesday, In a Café

(For @phoebe-delia who puts up with me and lets me pop in to ask things like WHO INSULTED TAYLOR SWIFT’S SENSE OF HUMOR?? This is just a tiny little vignette inspired by Start Again. I think this also fits for @drarrymicrofic and the prompt “hope” - in a way.)

The café is weirdly busy for a Wednesday morning. 

Draco is moderately disgruntled. He’s used to having the place to himself — his Wednesday mornings are sacred. It’s the one day of the week he can sleep in, as he doesn’t have to be at work until after lunch, and he loves coming to this small, cosy coffee shop. He always gets the same thing, the largest café au lait they serve with two shots of vanilla and whatever savoury scone they’re baking that day, and he always sits in the same place, one of the big comfy overstuffed armchairs in the corner by the fireplace. He reads whatever journal he’s brought along and he eats his scone and he drinks his coffee and it’s just. Really nice. That’s all. 

Okay, at least today, no one is in the other armchair, so when Draco sits down and pulls out his journal, maybe it’s a little louder than usual, but things are still fine in his world. He’s managed to tune out the sounds of the people around him, reduced them to background white noise as he reads up on the latest innovations in cauldron technology (spoiler alert: InstantCauldron™ is a misnomer because it does not, in fact, do all the prep work for you even if it does brew in less than half the time a standard cauldron takes, so there’s really nothing Instant about it, not that Draco is bitter). In any case, he’s focused on what he’s reading which is why at first he doesn’t really register the words that he’s hearing.

“Did you hear about…”

“I read that…”

“Did you know he…”

And Draco doesn’t even have to look up to know what’s happened.

Potter is here.

Draco slowly lowers the journal to his lap and learns that he is, in fact correct. Standing at the counter in a pair of ratty jeans and a giant hoodie is one Harry James Potter. His hair is ridiculous and his trainers have seen far, far better days, but he is, as always, infuriatingly handsome.

Except for the tension that Draco can read clearly in his shoulders, the way his eyebrows furrow in a frown, and the way he’s glaring suspiciously at the cashier. He has his reasons, Draco knows.

Late last year, some eight months ago now, Potter had come home from a mission to find his live-in lover in bed with not one, but two young men. Not just any young men, it turned out, but two young men who were high on the Ministry’s Most Wanted List.  Potter had arrested them all on the spot (Draco has to give him credit for a cool head under what had to have been rather stressful conditions). When the now-ex was out on bail, the first thing he’d done was go to the press and air all of Potter’s… Well, not dirty laundry exactly. None of what Potter gets up to in his own bed chamber is particularly sordid or shocking (some of it sounds like great fun, actually) but it is, well, private. 

And privacy is a luxury Harry James Potter has had very little of. 

Potter accepts his drink, and turns around, eyes scanning the room as if searching for the knife he knows is aimed at his back, but then he catches sight of Draco and something very strange happens.

Potter’s shoulders drop, the lines in his forehead smooth out, and then, shockingly, he smiles.

Draco blinks in confusion but no, his eyes are not deceiving him. Potter is raising his cup to his lips and taking a sip, never breaking eye contact, and then, after he swallows, that smile still playing about his beautiful lips, he starts walking toward Draco.

“Anyone sitting here?” His voice is low as he nods towards the empty chair next to Draco and for a moment, all Draco can do is stare at him, dumbfounded.

“Malfoy?” Potter prompts and Draco shakes his head.

“Oh, sorry. No. No one’s sitting there,” and to Draco’s deep astonishment, Potter sits down.

Potter leans back, cross one leg over his threadbare knee, and takes another sip.

“So,” he says, “how have you been?”

[theangel-aziraphale]

Hello Mr. Aziraphale! Would you like some biscuits and gravy? It's a family recipe.

..... biscuits? With gravy?

Oh! Do you mean American biscuits? Plain scones with a savoury gravy? I'd be delighted to try some. Is there a secret flavour that makes them better?

If I recall, I had some back in the 18th century! In terms of taste, it's delightful, as are most dtaple foods! It's just a shame about the visuals. I've never figured out a way to dress it up so that it was restaurant worthy.