thefadedalliance-blog - Tumblr blog

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Commission for @twelvebrightducks based in Nostalgia.

Thank you so much for trusting me to do this illustration. It was a pleasure!

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Thanks!

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He love John

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siri read a message from my mom (2017)

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THE BIG JOHNLOCK KISS POST

Stunning edit by Zuzka Klementová. Mmmmmm

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Today was... the fucking worst, honestly. First day of clinicals this semester. My instructor seems really cool, but my god am I terrible at talking to people. I get so obviously nervous around everyone, and at the end of the day I get home and don't feel like doing anything because I'm exhausted from being around people and I'm constantly replaying all the stupid things I've said

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Commission pic for @sherlock-and-john-getting-it-on ! Full nsfw pic is here at my new blog of smut @theotherendofthebath

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Patrick Melrose edit 😂👌🏽: https://mobile.twitter.com/sherlockspeare1/status/950138295849172992

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❤️👌

*ahem* Nose kisses. John and Sherlock both love nose kisses. That is all.

Warm. Calm. Safe. 

Happy. Content. Protected.

His.

These are the words I can use to describe how I feel lying next to John Watson. His head shares my pillow, his arm sprawls possessively across my chest. His hand subconsciously covers my gunshot scar, as if to hide from the world that I had once been vulnerable to something he feels responsible for. It makes my heart ache to think that John feels he should atone for my mistakes, but my John’s heart is bigger than the sun and he feels too much and cares very little for his own well being.

His only goal is only ever to make me happy. 

This thought overwhelms me, my heart races and a niggling fear that I will never be enough for him tears at the forefront of my mind.

I tug him closer, breathe him in. It calms me.

He smells like home and like me; it is intoxicating, and it gives me a high like nothing I have ever felt before.

John is the drug of which I cannot and will not give up, especially now that he is finally mine, readily available to me whenever I need him. The thought terrifies me; my addictive personality yearns for him constantly. I crave his presence so much it hurts. I’m addicted to his laugh, his smile, his taste, his smell. Everything. 

Inhale. Exhale.

I gently pet the arm across my chest with both of my hands, and spend an eternity studying his knuckles; I find his hands endlessly fascinating.

John stirs when his subconscious senses that I am awake. He snuffles into my neck, and it makes my skin tingle. I miss him when he is sleeping. I love him.

“Mmph,” he mumbles softly, rubbing his face against my clavicle, his morning stubble scratching a pleasant burn into my sensitive skin. He lazily crawls on top of me, chest to chest, his head pushing up to lean against mine.

It is pure bliss. I never say it out loud, but I love lazy mornings with him like this, pliant and soft and mine.

The weight of him on me is a security blanket. I wrap my arms around his back, one of my hands mimicking his earlier protection of my scar over his own on his left shoulder blade. I love his scar: it brought him to me.

He pushes his arms under my shoulder blades, and hooks his ankles around my calves, and gives me a full body squeeze. I shiver, and it causes John to think it’s because I am cold. I do not mind, for he in turn allows his full body to relax onto mine, as if by doing so he will cover more of my body in a John-shaped blanket.

The best sort of blanket, I think. Though, I may be biased. 

Sentiment has made me think the most inane things John does as important; I love him.

“G’mornin’, Love,” John says softly to my ear. The endearment causes butterflies in my stomach and my chest cavity to constrict with fondness. ‘Love’. Like I am the embodiment of the word itself to John. My breath hitches at the thought.

“Good morning, John,” I breathe out in reply, his name always and forever an endearment. John knows this; I have told him in the countless ways I enunciate it. He knows, and I love him. 

He lifts his head to sleepily look at me in my eyes; his are Pantone Blue Swatch #655 this morning. They will be #647 once he’s fully awake, but they will always sparkle like a sun-covered ocean. 

Unless I have upset him, or wronged him in some way. I’m pleased that the sparkle is rarely gone anymore, and that I am also the reason it always returns.

His arm under my right shoulder shifts to find its home in my armpit, the back of his hand pushed up so that he can stroke the side of my head. His pinky finger gets stuck in my curls and his fore and middle fingers brush softly on my cheekbone on each pass, and it makes me want to cry with how tender the moment is. 

John knows how much this intimacy affects me, and he smiles his sideways smile, the one that reeks of fondness and love for me. My brows furrow as a small smile cracks my face.

I love him.

“I missed you,” I admit to him, blinking back the tears threatening to escape.

He glows at the admission. It pleases me that I do this to him.

He leans down and pecks a gentle kiss to the tip of my nose. I giggle, and John’s face lights up at the noise. In moments like this, they are my favourite kisses.

He brings a hand up to my forehead and strokes down, pressing my hair back behind my ear. 

He proceeds to peck me again on my nose. Before he can pull away too far, I return the gesture, and his giggles are the sun breaking through a cloudy day. I love him so much, and it overwhelms me, clenching my throat and my heart picks up its pace.

We giggle in unison, and to my ears it sounds like an angel’s choir. A tear betrays me, and of course, my John notices. My laughter is choked, and he tilts his head to the side as if to understand why. But he smart, my John, and knows that moments like this are why I have scoffed sentiment for so long. He knows how emotional I am. He brings both of his hands up to stroke each side of my head, his thumbs gently brushing against my eyelids and then at the corners of my eyes.

He places a long, meaningful kiss to my nose, imbuing it with all the love he has for me that he can in just a kiss. He moves to touch our foreheads together, and he mutters, “I love you,” as a whisper for my ears only. A tear escapes my eye again. 

I am an emotional mess this morning, but my John doesn’t seem to mind. I tilt my head so that our noses brush against each other, and then push a kiss onto his lips. He smiles into the kiss, and moves his head low enough so I can kiss the tip of his nose and imbue it with my own love.

I pet his shoulders, and he my forehead. We stare into each other’s eyes, just relishing in the quiet moment together.

This is more sensual than anything we ever do together, and I love it.

We love each other, and that is enough, at least for me. If our lives were reduced to just this moment over and over, I would never want to die.

He flops down to snuggle back into my neck, his breathing in tandem with mine, our heartbeats in sync. He re-tucks his arms under my shoulder blades, each of his hands curl up onto my shoulders.

“I love you,” I whisper to his ear, squeezing him tightly to me.

He kisses my shoulder. I kiss the side of his head.

We are happy. Content. Calm. Warm. Safe. Protected.

Loved.

So uh, hope you don’t mind Nonny, I had an idea for this headcanon and went with it.

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I'm booooooooored. It's only 9pm. Too early for sleep

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Introducing Ken Bolden as Dr. John Watson! We can see why Sherlock is smitten!

   #Sherlock #JohnWatson #Watson #Johnlock #FinallyJohnlocked

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fluff fluff fluff 

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finding out picasso died in 1973 feels like the fakest thing ive ever heard. everyone talks about him like he lived in a cave with nothing but a torch and paint he made from berries or bear shit or somethin but nah this dude probably sat down watchin looney tunes thinkin “damn i should draw some dude with a nose on his forehead thatd be dope” i feel so lied to

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I’ve been re-watching “The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes” (aka the Granada Series) and I just have to draw these beautiful boys. <3

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December in 221B

Sherlock pacing around the sitting room while he talks out loud about the current case he’s working on, and every once in a while John stands up from his chair or walks from the kitchen and stops Sherlock mid-sentence with a kiss.  Then he goes back to whatever he’d been doing without a word.

Sherlock walking slowly around the flat as he plays his violin, eyes closed, completely focused on the music until suddenly John’s hand is on his wrist, and the violin screeches to a halt as its lowered so that John can press up onto his toes and kiss Sherlock, softly, slowly, before he pulls back and goes back to making dinner.

Sherlock sitting cross-legged on the floor in the sitting room, pictures of a gruesome crime scene spread out around him when John comes home from work.  Sherlock starts talking rapid-fire about the case, and John, without a word, comes to him, kneels down, cups Sherlock’s face in his hands and kisses him.  Then he stands up to go make tea.

John convincing Sherlock to help him decorate the tree with the ornaments and lights Mrs. Hudson has leant them, and they walk back and forth from the tree to the boxes of decorations, and it’s taking an obscene amount of time in Sherlock’s opinion because John keeps stopping him in the middle of the floor every couple of minutes to kiss him, and, not that he particularly minds the kissing, in fact he loves kissing John, but it’s been happening at such odd moments lately, and it’s all very distracting, and he’s very confused, and he doesn’t like being confused, it’s frustrating.

So when John steps in front of him again, hands settling low on Sherlock’s hips, Sherlock tilts his head back when John leans in so that he’s just out of reach of all the kissing.  Far from being deterred, however, John just presses sweet, lingering kisses to Sherlock’s jaw instead, which is even more distracting, but Sherlock manages to the get the words out anyway.

“Why do you keep kissing me?”

John chuckles and nuzzles his face against Sherlock’s neck.  “Since when am I not allowed to kiss you?”

Sherlock rolls his eyes.  “Don’t be an idiot, you’re always allowed to kiss me, I just…”

John pulls back some, tilting his head up to look into Sherlock’s face.

“You just what?”

Sherlock worries at his bottom lip with his teeth.  “I just don’t understand.” John quirks an eyebrow and Sherlock snaps, “Oh, shut up!”

John tries to hold back his grin, but he doesn’t quite succeed.  He makes up for it by sliding his hands up and down Sherlock’s sides soothingly.  “What don’t you understand?”

“The kissing, John!  It’s so…so random!  Why do you kiss me when I’m talking or when I’m playing violin or when I’m holding a bunch of tinsel, it’s maddening!”

John is giggling by the time Sherlock’s rant ends, and Sherlock is infuriated until John says, “C’mere, you idiot,” and pulls him down into a deep, lovely kiss that never seems to end and that makes Sherlock’s toes curl in his shoes.  

When John pulls back, he looks up, flicking his eyes in a way that takes Sherlock’s kiss-hazy brain a bit longer than normal to understand.  Finally, he follows the trajectory of John’s gaze, and there, hanging above him, right in the middle of the ceiling, is mistletoe.

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#WHY TEACH THEM THIS#THEY WIL NEVER STOP#THIS IS YOUR LIFE NOW

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I'll just be here, stroking my leg hair