THEIR OTP KISSING
GO TO YOUR ROOM!
That is a low blow. Ouch.
[climbs to the top of the empire state building] [yells] GREGORY LESTRADE IS NOT STUPID HE IS DI FOR A REASON STOP CALLING HIM AN IDIOT
Let’s play a game.
Type the following words into your tags box, then post the first automatic tag that comes up.
do it. hilarity will ensue!
My sacrificial celebration dance to give joy to the gods scares my cat away.
She doesn’t understand art.
OK UM. WHY DID THIS GET NOTES.
i dont like getting yelled at i literally stand there and burst into tears
and they’re like WHY ARE YOU CRYING?!!?! It’s because you’re fucking yelling at me you shithead
I get this issue alot at work when My mangier yells “Oh my god!” or “Are you serious!” because they dont mark the sandwich right. But I cant go off and tell them I have anxiety issues! I would be without a JOB!
Aw anon! I didn’t mean to be such a disappointment of an artist to you. Here you go
Snowbouquet prompted me with tan-lines :)
John’s years were measured in the changing colour of his skin. The rose-faced innocence of youth gave way to a mellow tan: skin put on display for those who cared to look. Plenty did as he struggled into the first bloom of adulthood, growing strong beneath their infatuated gaze.
Hours of study, trapped inside, bleached the flesh as it brightened the mind, but it was Afghanistan that left the boldest marks – manacles of brown as the memory of the war held him captive. They dragged him down, invisible iron that dogged him through London’s chill: a bitter reminder of all he had been.
Long sleeves and high collars charted their frontiers. Under fabric, he remained touched with honey, while time – one brief year at Sherlock’s side, three of absence, a wedding, a return and a divorce – wrote its tale on hands and face alike: weathered skin telling its own story.
Now, full lips traced along his collarbones, whispering adorations where tan bled away to a golden glow. A hot tongue lapped the sweetness from his skin, and a deep voice catalogued every tint. Sherlock narrated the stories left behind, and his swollen heart thrummed with joy.
Once, in the distant past, a lover had said his body was a masterpiece. Now, decades later and beneath Sherlock’s abundant praise, he believed it.
John is most certainly in danger
Funny doesn’t suit you
This is a much needed network tbh
If you are a T&S survivor and you need a support
group to talk about your heart shattering experience
while reading this fic, this is the network for you!
Props to Hailey for the amazing edit
.¸¸.•´¯`♥ rules for entering♥´¯`•.¸¸..¸¸.•´¯`♥ what we're looking for♥´¯`•.¸¸.
- friendly, hate free, cool blogger
- hella rad url
- pretty, clean, navigable themes
- tagging systems are always a plus!
- a mainly supernatural blog - you can post other fandoms, but the previously mentioned tagging system would be nice so others can blacklist what they don’t like ♥
- if you can write or make edits etc, brownie points for you but it’s not required!.¸¸.•´¯`♥ once you're accepted♥´¯`•.¸¸.
- +follows from both of us (if not already)
- +follows from other rad people in the network
- help with anything you need, a place to cry about everything t&s and frienship for life
- a place on the network page
- add the link to the network page on your blog
- track the tag: icandigelvisnet
- follow all of the members; you don’t have to but hey it’s the nice thing to and yay friendship!.¸¸.•´¯`♥ extra info ♥´¯`•.¸¸.
- We will be picking the first 5-10 members once this gets a good amount of notes
- Every week or two weeks we will be adding two new people at the least
- so basically, that’s it- good luck and reblog away!
In which John surprises Sherlock with his badassery.
I love that all through the car ride, through St. Bart’s, a taxi ride home, the interaction with Anderson and Mycroft and Jeanine, John had a ten-inch tyre lever down his pants and no one, not even Sherlock, noticed the difference.
Hmmmmmm. “He’s always walked like that.” Indeed. ;-)
A bit chafed.