| June 2nd, 12:04pm | ♥ 173 notes | via  src |
| Track: Ode to a Nightingale by John Keats |
| Artist: Benedict Cumberbatch |
| Album: Words for You: the Next Chapter |
| Playcount: 610 |
“Nightingale” A Sherlock/John ficlet
———-
“My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains / My sense, As though of hemlock I had drunk,/ Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains/ One minute past, and Lethe-wards had sunk.”….”
John swallowed hard and adjusted the volume on his headphones. God, that voice! He knew Sherlock could use that voice to command, to entice, to seduce…. But he could hardly believe it was doing all three to him here in 221b when Sherlock was on the other side of London by now.
It was a singularly beautiful poem, and one that reminded him of Sherlock in certain verses. But now, to hear that deep, exquisite, resonant, melodic voice speaking the words…. In perfect stereo…. Surrounding his ears, his senses…. It was utterly erotic. And John knew what was going to happen soon.
“ With beaded bubbles winking at the brim,/ And purple-stained mouth;/ That I might drink, and leave the world unseen,”
Christ… Sherlock’s mouth. Stained purple with wine. Kissing him…. John licked his lips, and imagined tasting last night’s Montepulciano on Sherlock’s tongue, and then Sherlock’s tongue seeking out John’s throat, his chest, and lower. Oh, Hell. John was so hard now, and he began to stroke himself languidly through his jeans. Each stroke was a loving kiss or caress from that perfect mouth. Oh, God, yes…
“Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget / What thou among the leaves hast never known, The weariness, the fever, and the fret / Here, where men sit and hear each other groan;”
The idea of Sherlock’s hot, feverish skin against his…. And to hear that gorgeous, gorgeous voice groan… but not in sadness, not like the poem’s speaker,…to hear Sherlock groan in pleasure. For him. Ah, yes, yes, for me…. John thought. Sherlock moaning for me… Sherlock coming for me…Ah! God! Oh..God…
“Already with thee! tender is the night,”
John was completely free of his jeans and boxers, now. Sherlock’s voice was drowning him, covering him, steeping him in honey, he felt. Each touch, each grasp was Sherlock. Oh, God, he’d never wanted anyone like this. He’d never wanted to completely possess and be possessed like this.
“Now more than ever seems it rich to die,/ To cease upon the midnight with no pain,/ While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad/ In such an ecstasy!”
Oh, Christ! Pouring forth….He wasn’t going to last much longer….. but he wanted to wait…. To wait until the last line…..like finishing with him…..like finishing together…..
…
Sherlock walked through the doorway to their flat and stopped short, smiling. He knew John would find the CD where he’d casually left it among the bills and other clutter. He’d mentioned a few weeks ago that he’d made the recording at the request of a local acting college – a lesson in dramatic reading, they’d said. He didn’t need to see the flush on John’s cheeks to know how the idea would affect his friend. And now…. Well, he certainly had irrefutable proof of the power of the human voice.
He crept, silently, closer to John, discarding his gloves, his scarf, his long slate coat. Tiny beads of sweat had formed at John’s temples; John’s eyes were shut tight, straining against the desire for release and the desire to prolong the pleasure.
Sherlock could hear the faint sound of his own voice. He knew the poem by heart, now – truth be told, he’d memorized it sometime around the years John was hitting puberty, — and he knew which verses came next.
He knelt down, stealthily, still unnoticed by John. He put one hand on John’s aching erection while simultaneously moving one side of the headphones back to expose John’s right ear.
John jumped with the surprise, but he pushed hard into Sherlock’s grasp.
Sherlock leaned in, his face touching John’s neck, his lips brushing John’s ear, and recited along with his recorded voice the final lines:
“Was it a vision, or a waking dream?/ Fled is that music:—Do I wake or sleep?”
John let out a cry followed by a shuddering gasp.
Sherlock smiled.
| June 2nd, 10:40am | ♥ 33 notes | via  src |
Prompt: Sherlock stands in the middle of the room. Black ribbons are around his ankles, his wrists behind his back, and covering his beautiful eyes.
I’m not even sorry.
He was beautiful. Thick black ribbons standing out against long pale limbs. Those sharpbeautifulintelligent eyes covered up. Vunerable and all John’s. No one had even seen Sherlock like this before, skin turning pink from embarrassment and shame and want. No one had ever had this proud man kneel at their feet, high-heeled and offering -submittanceobediencehimself- black ribbons to him, saying ‘Please, tie me. Break me. Make me bleed. Then put me back together again. I need you. Need this.’ And John had and now, now John would show Sherlock. How to surrender. How to silence that great almost sentient mind of his and just feel. John walked forward the riding crop in hand. ‘Are you ready love…?’
| June 2nd, 10:38am | ♥ 29 notes | via src |
It looks enormous.
Glancing in the mirror at his frill-covered bum, that was Sherlock’s first thought. Shifting on blood-red heels, rubbing a hand along the fussy flounces, his second was, Not sure I care for these.
His third didn’t matter as the call he’d been waiting for came through and Sherlock went belly down on the carpet, pawing through case notes.
Sherlock’s fourth thought came an hour later—along with Sherlock—as John frantically humped the frills on his back end, while jerking him off at the front.
Must—ohgodyes—go back for the blue pair.
— Fic: Atlin Merrick; shoes and knickers: unknown
| June 2nd, 10:27am | ♥ 30 notes | via src |
“So, you want us to do an experiment? Is that it? With intimacy? Sherlock, we’ve only just started out together, I don’t think it’s-“
Sherlock pulled John’s face close and stopped the end of that sentence with a soft, tender kiss.
Quite effective. Really, this intimate relationship brought with it advantages even Sherlock could not have imagined.
“It isn’t a test of your devotion, John. It’s merely a way to help me understand how my - our - feelings for each other can affect even the most mundane experiences.”
John pursed his lips for a moment, then nodded. “Okay. So, mundane. And we just pick blindly from the newspaper?”
“Exactly. Close your eyes, turn the page, let your finger point to a word.”
| June 2nd, 10:09am | ♥ 340 notes | via  src |
So, Atlin is staying with me. Apparently, this means that I have to write about shoes - despite ranking heels slightly above thumbscrews as instruments of torture and finding them as sexy as Anderson on a bad breath day. What can I say? She is as persuasive as she is adorable…
“You have a shoe.”
“I know.”
Sherlock sat up on the sofa. “Is there some reason…?”
“She bought them… to go with my jumper.”
Sherlock kept his face straight with an effort. “And you have one because…?”
John glared at him. “I have one because she threw one at me.” He dumped the stripey footwear on the coffee table and pulled up his jumper to display the distinctive impact mark of a stiletto heel on his chest.
Sherlock attempted to focus on the mark rather than the chest.
John dropped down onto the end of the sofa. “Apparently I am too ‘into my flatmate’ to appreciate her efforts.”
Sherlock managed not to enquire exactly how far into his flatmate John would like to go.
John sighed, leaning his head back on the top of the seat cushions.
“I don’t know what I’m doing wrong.”
“Would an itemised list be helpful?”
“I doubt it.”
Sherlock hesitated, an array of contradictory platitudes marching confusingly through his mind as he debated taking a risk he’d been skirting for months. “Perhaps you’re looking in the wrong place?”
John rolled his head round to the side so that he was looking at Sherlock’s face. “I don’t see…” His words died away, the world fading around them as they stared at each other.
“You idiot!”
Sherlock sat up straighter. “There’s no need…”
“There’s every need! Why the hell did you never say anything? You knew I was interested - you’ve known since that very first night! Why did you…?” John broke off. “Never mind. That’s enough time wasted. Come here. You come here to me right now.”
There was no room for argument and no objection to be made.
Sherlock came.
— Fic: Verity Burns; shoe: Charlotte Olympia
| June 1st, 1:05pm | ♥ 3,789 notes | via  src  |
“Sherlock, it says I’m pregnant.”
Oh fuck I nearly peed myself
Sherlock looks like might have peed himself.
If he hadn’t passed out instead.
“I feel weird,” John says, and puts his fork down and stares. Tikka Masala really is a favorite, but it just tastes so strange all of a sudden.
Sherlock doesn’t even look up. “Define weird. Because if you’re not going to be precise, I can’t help you.”
“Don’t be such a dick. Between the sickness and the lightheadedness yesterday and forgetting everything lately, I’m just feeling really, I don’t know, off.” Oh, his stomach is really not taking this well. John leans back in his chair, wipes a hand across his suddenly sweaty brow. He feels like he’s going to be sick. “You better not have brought home any specimens culturing bacteria, or you’re going to regret it.”
Sherlock stands, peers intently in John’s eyes, rubs a gentle hand across John’s tummy. John flinches; it really is a little tender down there.
“Go lie on the bed, I’ll be right back.” Sherlock ducks out the door and John can hear him clattering down the stairs into the basement through a haze of queasiness. The steps make their way back into the bedroom and Sherlock shoves a box under his nose.
A pregnancy test.
“Oh, don’t be stupid,” John says. “Sticking your dick in my arse won’t get me pregnant. You’ve deleted a lot of things but I highly doubt you’d forget that.”
“You’re the one with the symptoms, John, not me. Look, its expired anyway, it’ll take just a minute, then we can all have a laugh and I’ll put you to bed with a cup of tea. Okay?”
John takes the box gingerly. “You’re serious. You want me to pee on a stick and see if I’m pregnant. That’d be hilarious, considering the complete lack of uterus in this equation.” John stares at Sherlock, but he nods solemnly, completely serious. “For fuck’s sake. Fine. Hope it thrills you. Hope it gives you whatever mad data you need for whatever reason you have a pregnancy test to start with.”
John stalks off toward the bathroom, absolutely certain that he’s shagging a madman. The trip makes him a little dizzy, so he shucks his trousers and drops on the toilet, tears open the wrapper, assembles the stick and stares.
He’s about to take a pregnancy test. Well, not the oddest thing he’s done in Sherlock’s company, but perhaps the most unexpected.
The angle is a bit awkward, trying to pee in the bowl like a kid while he’s sitting, but he manages and caps the end. Sherlock better be satisfied. John looks at his watch, marks 90 seconds, and walks back out into the bedroom, where Sherlock is standing by the window.
“Did you do it?” Sherlock asks, eagerly, a gleam of amusement in his eye.
“Yes, you idiot. Here, it should register just about … oh my god.” John’s world narrows to the tiny blue plus sign that appears in the window. “Sherlock. Sherlock, it says I’m pregnant. Sherlock, you fucking wanker where the hell did you go off—” There’s a sigh and a thud and John looks up only to find Sherlock out cold on the floor.
Bastard, John thinks as he toes at Sherlock’s leg. He better take that case he complained about this morning, because diapers are really expensive.
| June 1st, 12:51pm | ♥ 109 notes | via src  |
Sherlock Tumblr Porn
“It’s fine Sherlock.”
Sherlock figleafed his crotch, glared at the photographer.
“I’m a touch underdressed.”
John took his husband’s arm, smiling over at old Dr. Benson. He’d always hated Benson.
“You look ravishing my pet.”
Despite Sherlock’s formidable glower the photographer kept snapping photos. Sherlock wondered if he gave off a slightly less intimidating vibe wearing little other than fishnets and heels.
“You could have told me it was formal dress.”
John grinned when Benson, still staring, walked into a drinks cart.
“You hate tuxedos. And I knew you were busy with the club case. This was easier, wasn’t it?”
John scoped out the room. Where was Matthews?
John’s encouragement that he simply come straight from the strip club had, indeed, ensured Sherlock would attend his husband’s ‘little event.’
“You might have mentioned it was your medical school reunion. I’d’ve ‘cleaned up nice,’ as you say.”
Where was she? John would stand here grinning and nodding until he was dead, or until Matthews saw them, whichever came first.
“Since when are you shy, my darling?”
Sherlock shifted on spiny stilettos. At least he was wearing something moderately appropriate.
“I’m not shy John, but the room’s a bit chilly and I’m not showing to advantage.”
Ha! There she was!
John turned to his husband with a mischievous grin. “Well darling, I think I can fix that.”
John whispered sexy things into his husband’s ear awhile, and though the good doctor’s voice remained soft, eventually other things did not.
Minutes later Sherlock stood tall, extended a black-lacquered hand. “Dr. Matthews, my husband’s told me all about you.”
Victoria Matthews had unceremoniously dumped John during their residency, claiming he just hadn’t been her type.
Matthews winched up her jaw, forgot to shake Sherlock’s hand. Well it sure as hell looked like she hadn’t been his type either.
Previous story: Crave
The amazing LadyGrinningSouls said, “Someone, anyone (Pssst, Atlin) wanna write a short story to caption? Give it an explanation, because I most certainly don’t have one…” Well from where I was standing, it seemed to go something like this.
Bless you. Oh, bless you my dear lady. All the rainbows, all the sparkles, and all the Sherlocks bound up in tight black leather and even THAT still wouldn’t be enough.
| May 31st, 5:35pm | ♥ 92 notes | via  src |
Sherlock Holmes isn’t an emotional man.
The detective in him needs to understand why, how much, and when. Feelings, slippery things, are notoriously difficult to quantify.
Sherlock Holmes isn’t a lyrical man.
The scientist in him requires precise words, clipped and clear, definitive phrases that leave no room for interpretation or shades of grey.
Sherlock Holmes isn’t a lover.
The human being in him has learned many things over many years: Being smart gets you hurt. Speaking your mind loses you friends. Seeing what others don’t makes you a freak. Of what benefit is love?
John Hamish Watson puts lie to everything Sherlock Holmes thinks he’s not.
Not once, not twice, not three or four or five times but more times than Sherlock can count John’s stepped between him and a gun, a fist, a shout. He’s offered to die so Sherlock can live.
With world-weary eyes and crossed arms he somehow manages to say, “You went about this all wrong but yes, now I see what you see and I agree, you’re right, they’re wrong and you’re right.”
Every day they’re together, John listens to him, looks to him, understands and respects him. He guides, teaches, and most of all takes—no, wants—the things Sherlock knows how to give.
“Even before all of this, before the long nights and bright days, before the chaos and the cases and the clues…before all of the things we’ve done and been and seen together, I knew. How could I not? It’s all there on your face. The patience, the wisdom. The certainty and strength. Even before you loved me John, believe this: I loved you.”
Sherlock Holmes is an emotional man.
A lyrical man.
And John’s lover.
Previous: School Reunion
AnnaCarrota’s beautiful drawing was the inspiration for this wee fic. His eyes, lord oh lord, I love his eyes.
Beautiful, emotional story by atlinmerrick
I dedicated this drawing, John’s close-up to her. She is so fabulous (yes, you’re right. You can hush me)
Thank you!
| May 28th, 11:43pm | ♥ 1,495 notes | via src  |
“I know about the dreams, John.”
“What drea—”
“Please. Don’t be obtuse. You shout in your sleep, and it is more than loud enough for me to hear from downstairs.”
“I must’ve been dreaming about Afghanistan—”
“Interesting. You knew someone there named Sherlock, did you?”
“I…”
“And you often begged this Afghanistan-based Sherlock to handcuff you, and beat you with the riding crop?”
“Look, I don’t —”
“And take you from behind, ‘Harder, fuck, yes harder, harder, all of it, break me in two’ was it?”
“……..”
“I’ll be waiting for you in MY bedroom. You have ten minutes.”
“Oh, God, yes..”
| May 23rd, 12:19pm | ♥ 304 notes | via  src |
“Okonomiyaki” means “as you like it,” Castiel says. “We both like red meat, so I took the liberty of ordering us a Kobe beef okonomiyaki. I’m afraid it will be somewhat expensive.”
Dean nods. So that’s what Castiel had been saying to the waitress. Japanese seems to fit his tongue even better than English does, or maybe it’s just because Dean doesn’t understand that he thinks Castiel sounds fluent and relaxed when he speaks the foreign syllables. Maybe to the waitress he sounds just as stilted and strange as he does in English.
“You took a lot of words to order one oko— oki—- whatever that thing is.”
Castiel’s lips quirk. “It’s a sort of pancake,” he says. “If that’s easier. And the language is extremely polite.” The waitress, now serving another patron, lets loose with a trill of syllables that seem to go on for 10 seconds. “For example,” Castiel says, “she just said the equivalent of ‘Coming right up.’”
Dean whistles. “That is one long-winded language.”
“And yet its people are known for being reticent,” Castiel goes on. Dean suppresses a laugh. No wonder Cas fits right in. Big words without saying much? Sounds about right.
When the “pancake” arrives, it’s two inches high and steaming, an absolutely mouth-watering aroma of meat rising up from it. The waitress brings an assortment of sauces and dips as well, and Dean doesn’t know one from the next, but he has no idea why you’d have to temper anything as good-smelling as this with any kind of condiment. Nonetheless, Castiel is reaching over Dean to grab something that looks like a shaker for cheese, but the stuff inside it is brown and unfamiliar.
“What’s that?” Dean says. It looks more like dead leaves than anything.
“Katsuo,” Castiel says. “Flakes of bonito fish.”
“Fish flakes? Seriously?” Dean wrinkles his nose. When Castiel shakes them onto the okonomiyaki, Dean picks one up with his finger and sniffs it, then pops it in his mouth. It tastes like nothing. “Why?”
“Seasoning,” Castiel says. Dean takes a cursory look around and sure enough, the other folks dining there are using it liberally. He shrugs. Go with the flow. Just one more inexplicable facet of this weird, weird country.
Castiel doesn’t seem to have retreated entirely to his place on the bench. He’s pressed against Dean, and Dean realizes a rather large man has settled in on the other side of him, forcing Castiel to fold up his coat and lean in to avoid contact. Dean doesn’t entirely mind, but he can’t say that out loud. “So it means, as I like it?” he quips. “What if I’d like a little bit of personal space?”
“It’s a very crowded bar,” Castiel says without withdrawing in the slightest.
Dean shifts. Their thighs bump together a little harder. He swallows a sudden lump in his throat. “I don’t like it,” he grumbles, and breaks his block of chopsticks.
“Yes, you do,” Castiel says without missing a beat. Dean’s too busy chowing down to answer.
(Source: xxxtmns)
| May 21st, 8:06pm | ♥ 213 notes | via  src  |
umm…I don’t know if I should post this. LOL I just wrote somethings (since I didn’t write anythings in a long time) and didn’t know how to do with it. “orz
sorry for my terribly English, so if there’re wrong/uncorrected words just ignore it. ; A ;
<edit> I never post something these long before, so if I’m kindda mess up, I’m sorry!!
.
When Loki was 7, he fell down the stairs.
“Are you alright, my dear?” His mother asked him.
It was hurt like hell
But he didn’t want her to worry about him.
So he lied.
“I’m alright, mother.”
She smiled at him.
.
When he was 12. he had a fight with Thor.
Father so angry, his face has been red. Then he demanded to know who started this fight.
Thor didn’t look at him. Neither was Loki.
But he want this to end.
So he lied.
“I’m the one who started.”
Father looked at him. The disappointment in his left one eye.
It’s not fair.
But Thor smiled at him.
.
When he was 17. Odin summoned both of them to his chamber.
“I’m so proud of you two and one day….one of you will be King”
Odin said it but his eye was always stared at Thor.
He always been a good liar.
So he lied to himself a little bit longer.
.
When the first time he realized how much father and mother adored Thor and saw him like a golden boy.
The son of Odin, The mighty Thor.
Then he done what he always done.
“It’s good to have a brother like you Thor”
Sounded bitter, even his own ears
But he smiled anyway.
.
When the day Thor dismissed from Asgard by Odin.
Loki was crowned King.
Nobody believed him.
Everyone called him a liar.
So be with it.
.
Someone told him that liars can’t be trusted.
Also you can’t trust no one but yourself.
So everybody is liar.
Why can’t he become one himself?
But there’s only truth thing that you got from the liar.
That the liar never tell the truth.
| May 21st, 12:10am | ♥ 138 notes | via  src |
Based on this gorgeous picture http://nautilusl2.tumblr.com/post/23205512776/the-time-he-was-found-worthy-it-did-not-matter
| May 18th, 1:27am | ♥ 10 notes | via src |
“Sherlock,” John called as he walked in from the sitting room, “I know you’re smoking in here. Hiding in our room isn’t going to….” John stopped in his tracks.
Sherlock was leaning against the frame of the open window, cigarette in hand, long legs crossed at the ankle. Between the lacy nothing covering his long calves and the curls of smoke drifting around his dark head he was the very image of decadent sin.
It was all John could do to cross the room to kneel before him and worship his veiled love.
shoe: Christian Louboutin “Alta Dentelle”
| May 18th, 1:26am | ♥ 23 notes | via src |
He wobbled. Actually wobbled.
“Careful,” said one.
“Eight inches,” replied the other.
John smiled up at Sherlock. Way the hell up. So far up his neck creaked.
“Oh thanks darlin’, but it’s more like seven. On a really good day.”
Sherlock wobbled again. Scowled down at John. Way the hell down. All the way down.
“Very funny Dr. Watson. The shoes. And false modesty doesn’t become you; you’re every bit of seven point two five.”
John resisted the temptation to tip Sherlock over on his gargantuan heels. Instead, he paced slowly forward, cradling his husband’s hand in his. Long minutes later the good detective was walking steady on his own.
“Getting used to it?”
A grin ghosted over Sherlock’s face. He ran a slow hand over his arse. “Oh I did. Eventually.”
Now John tipped him over. Sherlock didn’t resist.
— Fic: Atlin Merrick; shoes: Olivia Emily(?); thanks for the submission Aznschoolgirlcorner!
| May 17th, 1:05pm | ♥ 37 notes | via src |
“They reminded you of my pretty, pretty eyes.”
“Stop it.”
“Sparkling silver…”
“Stop it.”
“…bright blue…”
“I’m warning you.”
“…that’s why you bought th—ouch!”
Cross-legged at the foot of their bed John Watson released Sherlock’s foot and admired his bite marks. “I told you to stop.”
Sherlock wiggled his wounded toes. “You’ve damaged me.”
John slid the other glittery shoe on Sherlock’s vandalized foot. He smiled. “Close your pretty eyes, open your pretty legs, and I’ll apologize.”
Sherlock wrapped a leg round John’s waist, flipped the small man onto his back and straddled him. “I think it’s my doctor’s turn to ‘open wide.’”
— Fic: Atlin Merrick; shoe unkown
