india-lima-yankee

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[india-lima-yankee]

[india-lima-yankee]

Details by François Flaming 

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[india-lima-yankee]

the only 3 moods 

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it’s like that sometimes 

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“But I don’t want small talk. Text me, and without saying hello, tell me why you got so angry at your sister this morning. Tell me why you have a scar shaped like Europe on the left side of your neck. Send me paragraphs about the time you spent at your grandmother’s house that one summer. Call me when I’m half asleep and tell me why you believe in God. Tell me about the first time you saw your dad cry. Go on for hours about things that may not seem important because I promise that I’ll be hanging on to every word you say. Tell me everything. I don’t want someone who just talks about the weather.”

— This. Yes this, is the very thing I love about humans. (via amargedom)

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“I’m beginning to recognise that real happiness isn’t something large and looming on the horizon ahead but something small, numerous and already here. The smile of someone you love. A decent breakfast. The warm sunset. Your little everyday joys all lined up in a row.”

—

Beau Taplin

(via quotefeeling)

[india-lima-yankee]

my kink is when people tell me they were thinking about me

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There are never words. Not at this moment. When the sunlight streams in through the threadbare curtains, the morning chill creeping in through the practically ancient framework of the windows. Everything has a gray hue, bright, but overcast. There is a musky cloud of warmth trapped beneath the duvet. A shift is all it takes to release it, the heat radiating from flushed skin just starting to form goosebumps from the exposure of the morning chill.  A long exhale is accompanied by the scratch of morning stubble against the cotton pillowcase as Sherlock nuzzles into wake. One eye opens, the other hidden in the pillow. An amused smile as Sherlock catches John watching him wake. A guilty smirk in reply.  John’s hand reaches out to caress his cheek, just hold it there as if to anchor the moment. John’s thumb brushes over Sherlock’s cupid’s bow, lips reflexively purse to kiss. Sherlock’s arm drapes over John’s waist, his fingertips tracing absent patterns over the small of his back.  John’s hand moves to mirror his partner’s touch, fingertips brushing his cotton t-shirt up to find skin.  Sherlock nuzzles into the pillow again, closing his eyes for another doze. John can’t hold in his yawn any longer, letting it bubble up until he is quite vocally exhaling a puff of air that rustles Sherlock’s hair. Sherlock snorts and opens his eyes again with a hum. John mocks his hum with a haughty flare and Sherlock rolls his eyes, leaning forward to press dry lips to dry lips. They break apart now sharing one pillow. Arms tangle underneath the fabric, woven over each others sides. They reflexively lick their lips at the same time, John snorting in recognition before closing the space between them again. Pulling back, they smile, eyes roaming the other’s face, before they inhale a synchronized breath.  Sherlock’s phone rings. The day begins.