I know the long legs are all wrong but what I see here is John smirking at Sherlock sulking in the hotel room, embarrased because he got a hard-on in public.
John opens the door to their room, smirking at the long, lightly sunburnt expanse of Sherlock’s back that greets him.
Sherlock is at his most eloquent, which means he really is mortified. Grinning, John crosses the small room and sits on the edge of the bed, running his fingers across the dip at the base of Sherlock’s spine, where the skin is still milk-pale and cool.
"It happens to everyone, you know."
There’s an incoherent mumble from Sherlock, swallowed by the ugly tropical-print coverlet on the bed.
"Who was it then?" John teases gently. "That woman on the lounger down at the end? That tiny little black bikini with all the straps? Reminded me a bit of Irene."
This earns him a withering glare over Sherlock’s shoulder.
"No? The cute little brunette with the cherry print? A little bit Molly-ish, don’t you think?" Smiling, he runs his hand over Sherlock’s arse.
With a groan, Sherlock rolls over, the outline of his cock still half-hard in his snug black swim shorts. He narrows his eyes at John. John can’t help it, he runs his fingers across Sherlock’s abdomen, grinning eagerly as Sherlock’s cock twitches and thickens slowly, further stretching the fabric.
"You know exactly what caused it, you insufferable little man. Those red trunks of yours are obscene."
"Mmm." John preens, fingers dipping just below the waistband of Sherlock’s shorts. "I bought them for you."
"Stop it, John. I can’t go back out there like this." Sherlock’s voice is needy and plaintive, and it kicks John’s libido into overdrive.
Shifting, he settles down on the bed next to Sherlock, his hand trailing ever further downward.
"Well then, we’ll just have to stay in here for a few minutes. What a shame."
Man, I really want there to be a good Steve Rogers/Jack Harkness story somewhere. I would totally read the shit out of that.
The silence rattling around in Steve’s head was shattered as he dropped his gym bag to the floor with a heavy thud.
"J—" His tongue cleft to the roof of his mouth, and suddenly he was seventeen and gawky again. He cleared his throat and tried again. "Jack?"
Those blue eyes, that winning grin with too many teeth. There’s no way it was anyone else. He strode across the hall, arms wide.
"STEVE! Baby! Long time no see!"
Steve shook his head. Maybe he’d tripped and fallen in the gym, and this was all a hallucination. Jack didn’t look a day older than he had last time Steve had seen him, and that was going on seventy years now.
Jack waved a hand flamboyantly. “It’s a long story. And you… I feel like we’ve got a LOT of catching up to do.” He wrapped an arm around Steve’s shoulders and Steve, flustered, lost, sucked into the gravity well that was Captain Jack Harkness’s personality, followed.
I SWEAR TO GOD THE GIF DIDN’T MOVE FOR A COUPLE OF SECONDS AND IM LIKE OH YA DEAN WINCHES-HOLY SHIT THAT’S JOHN
IT FROZE FOR ME TOO AND I THOUGHT YOU WERE TALKING ABOUT JOHN WINCHESTER.
god he looks hot
oh fuckyou know what we need?
John could read it all over the hunter’s face - he’d lost someone, too. Someone important. He had his brother. His ridiculously, improbably tall brother. But there’d been someone else. Just as he was about to breach the subject, Dean opened his mouth.
"Who was he?"
John cocked his head, attempting to play coy. “I have no idea what you’re on about.”
"Yours. The one you lost. Dark, handsome, and socially clueless?"
John sighed. “How’d you know?”
Dean took a swig of his beer and shook it at John. “I didn’t. I just described mine. No idea where he is.”
"At least…" John’s voice cracked slightly. "At least he’s not dead. Yours."
"Well, shit." Dean’s brow furrowed, and he laid a hand tentatively on John’s shoulder. "Lemme buy you a beer. Make it up to you."
Somehow emboldened by having said it out loud, having finally acknowledged that Sherlock really was gone, John threw Dean an unsteady but cocky grin.
"I can think of another way you could make it up to me. Get my mind off him for a while."
Dean’s eyes - green, impossibly green, but the wrong green - lit up, and he raised an eyebrow.
I’ve decided that Winnie the Pooh and Paddington Bear are drift compatible and would drive a bear-shaped Jaeger.
Travis Beacham is the awesomest.
I will not write this scenario. I will not write this scenario. I will no… oh fuck it.
The alarm went off, interrupting the relative peace in the Shatterdome.
"Oh, bother" thought Pooh, as he feebly attempted to pull his paw out of the jar of honey Dr. Gottlieb had given him. He liked Dr. Gottlieb, he was quiet and smart, and for some reason he found Pooh endlessly amusing. Pooh didn’t think Dr. Gottlieb smiled enough, so he was glad to make him happy now and again.
Paddington waddled into the room and doffed his hat.
"Come along, Pooh! They are prepping the Kodiak Omega for us."
Sighing, Pooh held up his paw. Paddington laughed and helped pull the jar off. They skipped off down the hall, passing Miss Mako, who squealed in delight. Paddington bowed deeply, smiling as she clapped her hands. Miss Mako was charming and gave some of the best hugs, but this was not the time for hugs. They would have to wait. There were Kaiju to destroy.
I’m still kind of depressed about my health so I asked the lovely folks of the #innercircle for some distracting fluffy prompts, and they suggested “Fluffy 69”, so here goes.
Relatively explicit, so under a cut. Read more at your own risk!
I doodled this at work on break. I feel like this had to have happened at least once.
The noise causes John to look up over the newspaper. Sherlock’s lying flat on his back, his mobile glaring brightly into his face. John manages to stifle a laugh.
"You know, Sherlock, if you sat up like a proper adult this wouldn’t happen so frequently."
"I did it on purpose." Sherlock’s voice is muffled - he still hasn’t moved the mobile. It’s also wounded and embarrassed and John can’t help the smile that spreads across his face as he gets up and walks across the lounge.
"You… dropped your mobile? On your face? On purpose?"
"I was testing the weight and velocity of it. Trying to determine if it could have been used as a weapon."
Gently, John lifts the mobile off Sherlock’s face and strokes his reddened nose.
"You are an utterly ridiculous human being, you know that? I also don’t believe you one bit."
He grins again and leans over the arm of the couch, pressing a soft kiss to Sherlock’s wounded face. Sherlock grumbles and resolutely does not kiss back, which only makes John smile more.
john getting out of the shower and looking at himself in the mirror seeing his scar and runs his hands over it and into the grooves of it he almost starts crying but wills himself to stop and puts a war face on and goes out into the living room and sherlock can tell something is wrong
This is always the worst time of day. The air in the bathroom is warm and muggy, so different from the dry, hot air of the desert, but somehow the two have ended up inextricably linked in his mind. John steps out of the shower. He takes them so hot. Too hot. His chest is flushed red, blood drawn to the surface of his thin skin. Vivid red skin, vibrant and alive, highlighting the puckered starburst of inert, shiny scar tissue.
John reaches out and wipes the foggy haze off the mirror, tries to wipe the puckered scar off his skin. The reminder of the failure he was, the useless weight he’s become. Reminder of the times he nearly died; not once, like his dossier claims, but twice. He wonders what would have happened if he hadn’t met Sherlock that day. Would he have had the bollocks to go through with it?
He grips the edge of the sink and gulps in a shuddering breath.
Get it together, Watson.
Groaning, thighs trembling, he sinks to the floor and leans against the wall. He presses his face against the cool porcelain tile. It’s beautifully soothing. He reaches up to scrub the tears out of his eyes before they can fall, and notices his left hand is trembling, far more violently than it has in ages.
He’s not sure how long he lies there, balled up on the bathroom floor like so much dirty laundry. Eventually, he manages to calm his ragged breathing and slow his racing heart. He gets up and dresses methodically. Vest, shirt buttoned all the way to his throat, thick jumper. Armour, hiding his flaws from the world. He studies himself in the mirror. His eyes are clear, his colour even. If the rings under his eyes are a little too dark, the muscles in his jaw a little too tense, well there’s nothing to be done for that.
Squaring his shoulders, he walks down the hall into the lounge where Sherlock is draped in his chair. He stands immediately, a curious look on his face.
“John. What’s wr—“ John nods minutely, cutting Sherlock off. Sherlock, for once in his life, listens. He walks past John, toward the kitchen, hand gently brushing against John’s arm as he does. It could have been an accident, but it wasn’t. Feigned nonchalance masking bone-deep concern.
John feels a pang in his chest, a weight lifting off his shoulders. How had he ended up living with this impossible man, this man who claimed to take pride in his lack of tact, in his disdain of basic human emotion. This man who could soothe everything with a disjointed brush of his fingers.
He turns to study Sherlock, who is rummaging in one of the cupboards. He holds up two mugs.
“Shall I make some tea, then?”
Impossibly grateful, John smiles.
It’s so damned HOT outside. Summer comes and I have freckles everywhere. So does Sherlock in my headcanon.
His ginger blood is showing
The kitchen door slams, causing John to look up. Sherlock’s standing there, shirtsleeves rolled up in an effort to combat the heat, and all it’s managed to do is frame the heavy smattering of freckles on his forearms even more effectively. They run up his throat and across his ridiculous bloody cheekbones, and John immediately finds himself imagining where else they might be. Could they have spread across his collarbone, across the smooth, pale expanse of his back? John’s fingers twitch subtly, urging to stroke and explore.
The look on Sherlock’s face is murderous and combative, as if he’s daring John to make a joke. John gulps, his tongue suddenly thick and sticky. He pulls his hand back.
"Hello, Sherlock." he manages to choke out.
"Don’t even say it. Whatever you’re thinking, keep it to yourself."
John blinks. “What? No.. It’s…” he shifts awkwardly in his seat, hoping that Sherlock’s too angry and distracted to notice his burgeoning arousal. He’s too old to be getting this worked up over his lover with a bad case of freckles. Sadly, this is not the case. Sherlock turns his pointed gaze to John, studying him inquisitively.
"Really, John?" He drops his voice to a low, teasing purr. "A freckle fetish?”
John feels the blush raise across his cheeks and looks down, studying the carpet intently. Normally John has no qualms about voicing what he wants or needs from Sherlock in the bedroom, but somehow this particular kink embarrasses him, and he can’t quite pinpoint why.
Sherlock paces across the lounge, stalking John in all his freckly glory. A jaguar today, instead of a panther. Gracefully, he drops down in front of John’s chair and peers up at him. He reaches out to stroke the line of John’s jaw, and John notices a smattering of the bloody spots on the inside of his forearm and has to grip the arms of the chair to prevent himself from knocking Sherlock to the floor and licking them.
"What was her name, then?" Sherlock murmurs, curiosity thinly veiling the jealous undertone.
"Aileen. She… she was my first." John’s voice is mortifyingly ragged. He stares at Sherlock’s broad throat, the trail of freckles creeping down under the collar of his white shirt.
Sherlock smirks, rubbing John’s blush with his thumb. “First with freckles, or first in general?” He laughs, cutting John off before he can answer, he already knows the answer, he’s just teasing. “Well, what do you say to making me your last with freckles?”
John barely has time to nod before Sherlock pounces, nearly knocking the chair over as he throws himself onto John.
Fandom: Sherlock (TV)
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Characters: Irene Adler
Additional Tags: 221B Ficlet, Riding Crop, Non-Explicit
A tiny little moment in Irene’s professional life.
It hurt. It hurt almost more than anything John had ever lived through. That wrenching, that tearing apart. Removing one’s own wing was akin to removing part of one’s soul.
But as Sherlock lay there, silent and vulnerable and unconscious, the thread of life fluttering so faintly within him, there was no question in John’s mind. He knew this was the right thing to do.
Gently, carefully, he severed the wing and with an impossibly steady hand, he sliced Sherlock’s back open, just to the right of his spine. With skilled surgeon’s hands and angel’s magic, he transplanted the wing, reattaching bone and vein and tendon and sinew. The whole time, Sherlock’s breath was faint against John’s thigh, but mercifully steady.
After what felt like years, the work was done, and John cradled Sherlock in his hands, waiting to find out if it would take. Eventually, Sherlock’s face nuzzled sleepily against John’s thigh, and the wing fluttered and stretched, his body instinctively testing the bonds and connections. John let out a shuddering breath and stroked the soft curls at Sherlock’s nape.
"John?" Sherlock’s voice was muffled with sleep and trauma. "My back feels odd."
"Shh, Sherlock. You fell, you hurt yourself. I’ve taken care of it. Sleep for now."
Pliant and obliging for the first time in his life, Sherlock nodded off again, and John’s heart-rate settled for the first time since seeing him jump.