Sand - fluffy Johnlock for thefallenangelsside
[I apologise for this being so short as taking so long I forgot then I wasn’t inspired then I was lazy then yeah, sorry!]
The setting sun pulled the last dregs of daylight across a small Cornish beach, which was slowly being devoured by the blue-grey teeth of the rising tide. It’s warmth, however, lingered and wrapped itself around the two men who were walking along the shore, and were in turn wrapped around one another. To a far-off outsider their closeness, the softness of their words and the tilting of their heads towards one another in the orange light of the fading day would have shown love, romance and everything that is postcard-picture about the world. Step a little closer, however, and one would hear this;
"I told you to put the bloody swim shorts on. That suit is ruined." “Those things were not swim shorts. They were a monstrosity!” “You are such a bloody drama queen.” “I refuse to wear anything with a floral pattern, you know that.” “Well, you could have at least rolled your trousers up-“ “I’m not a school-boy, John!” “-Or taken your blazer off. I wouldn’t be surprised if you’ve got sun-stroke and dehydration.” “And you think I’m a drama queen… Ow!”
This, of course, does not mean the two men did not love one another. Quite the opposite in fact.
These were their sweet nothings; their “I love you,” “I need you” and “Be mine.” Each sharp word was a gentle, playful caress, each barb a teasing poke. They both knew this, acutely aware of the surges of passion and warmth that rushed through them with every insult knocked back and small push of an elbow into a stomach.
"Tell me what you hate about me again."
The taller man paused, stopped to recline against a large, damp boulder in the centre of the beach, and pondered his next words as he pulled his smaller counterpart into his arms. His chin rested upon the older man’s shoulder, his arms around his waist. “I hate your ugly jumpers,” he murmured, tucking his hand under the stripes he was wearing now and enjoying the warm touch of tanned skin across his soft belly. “And that awful pair of comfy blue pants you keep in the top drawer. Your terrible morning tea, and when you kiss me and your breath tastes like horrid toothpaste, and /especially/ when you hold my hand.” A small huff comes as a reply. “There’s no bloody pleasing you.” Two matching smiles curl upwards and two hands lace together so that matching rings clink and glitter in the fading sunlight.
"And you?" “And me, what?” “What do you hate about me?” The solider’s head tilts to one side as his new husband’s lips find his skin to press down kisses, which are soft, loving, possessive. “I hate how tall you are, and that I need to go on my tiptoes to kiss you. And I hate your awful suits and that dreadful waistcoat you wear on special occasions. Oh, and I especially detest that little curl at the nape of you neck which twists the wrong way.” His hand lifts up to find the rebellious lock of hair so he can twist it around his fingertips and use it as leverage to pull his newly wed husband down for a sweet kiss.
As their lips meet a gust of air shivers across the surface of the water, bringing with it the smell of the sea and an aching for the warmth of a crackling fire, a close body and thick blankets. “Shall we go back to the cottage?” “Are you cold?” “Freezing.” “Me too. I have been all day.” “That’s because you’re soaking wet, you dunce.” “Warm me up?” “Inside, you bad man.”
They smile fondly at one another and walk hand in hand back to the little house on the edge of the sand, the stars beginning to shine weakly onto their backs and an excited skip in their steps. “Sherlock Holmes, I bloody love you.” “And I love you, John Watson.”
