lovewillsaveyoursoul221b  asked:

I wanted to ask you a delicate question about Sherlock. It's common belief that he's virgin but Sherlock is a man of almost 40 and I believe it to be quite sad? to not have even tried sex once at that age. I'm taking for granted that he's gay, not asexual, because that would make sense. It would still work for him to reject it after having tried it and I know it's left to interpretation but it quite bothers me that many believe him not to have even kissed. What do you think of it?

It’s a bit beyond common belief. It is just the truth as the story tells us, quite forcefully and repeatedly.

It is sad, I’d say, not because of the lack of sex, but because Sherlock desperately wants and needs to share some kind of intimacy but refuses to become intimate in any way with anyone. In fact he insists that not only does he not need or want love and affection, he is also completely unloveable and proceeds to behave that way to make sure it’s true. So the sad part, to me, is that Sherlock creates a situation where he cannot get what it is he actually wants, and keeps making sure of it.

For most of this story, Sherlock doesn’t want to become too attached to anyone, and he doesn’t know why. It seems he invents a reason somewhere along the way: he’s just like that, he’s a sociopath. Now, after series 4, we all know the truth. Early on he associated a deep attachment to another person with terrible horror, grief, and guilt. Much more of each than a small boy can make sense of or manage. Because of this, he knows he can’t love or be loved by another person; the consequences are too horrific. it would be a terrible, painful, destructive thing that would destroy the person he loves and tear him to shreds. Sherlock had no idea why this was true, but he knew with certainty that it was.

This revelation makes most of Sherlock’s most inconceivable actions make a lot more sense. In series 2, Sherlock and John are so close that John finally accepts that they’re a couple, albeit a very untraditional, unusual one. And that’s the point where Sherlock thinks the best thing he can do is pretend to die and not tell John. It’s a terrible thing to do; but that’s how Sherlock’s built at that point. People can’t love him, and he can’t love other people. He absolutely takes that for granted as fact, no matter how much the evidence suggests otherwise.

It’s no surprise to me that he wouldn’t have any sexual experience at all, because what good would it have done him to experiment, under those conditions? That’s like “experimenting” with bee stings when you know you’re deathly allergic to bees. It was far too dangerous, and pointless when you already know the outcome. Sherlock knew sex, intimacy, even friendship, was wrong for him, impossible for him, really. He has been avoiding any kind of intimacy since the death of his friend when he was small.

This didn’t have to be about sexuality. He could have divorced the emotional from the physical and experimented all he wanted, but this Sherlock did not do that. The references to Sherlock’s virginity underscore this repeatedly.

Is it sad? Yes, it is, it’s very sad. Not because all people should be having lots of sex, but as a marker of intimacy that he is desperately avoiding, yes, it’s sad. It’s the final problem: fortunately, with series 4, it’s solved, and Sherlock is free. Battered, bruised, and damaged for life, but free to love and be loved.


If Graves were a kinder man, he would’ve taken the boy to hospital that day he found him adrift on the seashore. He would’ve gotten Credence a proper doctor, found him a linen-pressed bed, and been done with the whole thing.

If Graves were a less selfish man, he would’ve driven the boy down to his own office himself to fill out a missing person’s form and inquiry papers. Would’ve asked his lieutenants and old colleagues from his Dublin days about missing white boys with dark eyes, darker hair, and skin like the moon.

If Graves were a better man, he would’ve gotten on the phone with Social Protection, would’ve reported a missing, potentially underage boy found nude and trembling on the beach, would’ve reported signs of abuse.

But instead, he swoops in himself and carries the boy into his home, into his life, like he doesn’t know what he’s doing. Like he’s not purposefully making the lad dependent on him. And no, Credence has never complained, never once expressed a desire to leave, but that doesn’t mean the situation is in any shape or form okay . With a growing sense of guilt, Graves realizes more and more the many ways he’s been taking advantage. He’s imposing himself on this lovely young thing, making himself an indispensable source of comfort and shelter and love. Every kind word, every gentle caress and loving glance, is a lock clicked on the boy’s door. And Graves doesn’t even hold the keys anymore.

And even if he did, he’s come to realise that he doesn’t want the boy to leave, impossibly, selfishly. And the boy never asks, only smiles and claws out a place for himself in the vast emptiness of Graves’ life, fills up the room with brightness and silent laughter.

Graves goes back to work after four days. Four days of holding the sweet, lithe body close and safe, four days of chasing the boy’s lurid nightmares away, of feeling the gentle trembles calm under his patient touch, of letting the boy tuck his pale face against Percival’s throat, of spooning sweet porridge and soup into the little plush mouth.

To have to go and sit in the grey-lit station, a fat pile of paperwork lumped on his desk, and hear the grappling of petty thieves and vandals being wrestled into the holding cells is a horrid, cruel torture that sets his teeth on edge and makes him pace and snarl like a tiger in a cage.

He wants to be at home with his boy, his sweet lovely boy, tucked up nice and warm and safe within Graves’ arms. Because four days is too short a time to know someone so completely and even now Graves knows the boy was kind and gentle and sharp of mind.

He found him hiding in the bedroom once, he remembers.

Graves loves his bedroom, and so does Credence apparently. Graves can’t blame him. It’s warm and dark and just this side of small to be recognized as more cozy than cramped. There’s a large window with a soft, cushioned alcove across the room facing the bed, a little bench piled high with pillows and blankets.

Graves found Credence sat in front of the wide, bay window the third day, when he was supposed to be eating lunch. There was a frantic chirping, the loud flap of wings, and it only took Graves a few moments to realize that a little bird’s frail feet had frozen to the wrought iron frame of the window.

Graves was about to make his way forward, to do what, he doesn’t know even now, but then Credence leant in, wrapped a slim, gentle hand around the bird’s plump body, and breathed low and warm. It was such an ingenious little move that Graves stopped and stared for a moment. He watched the boy melt the ice with his hot, sweet breath, and eventually Credence pried the little feet from the metal and turned to Graves with bright, happy eyes.

Look what I did!

The bird meeped in the boy’s careful grip, and Credence turned to the window and carefully let go. There was a sharp flutter of wings, a goodbye chirrup, and the fat little body disappeared into the distance, leaving behind a fluff of feather on the windowsill and a soft smile on Credence’s lips.

Graves finds himself smiling at the memory, but blinks and Abernathy, one of his subordinates, is gaping at him like he’s seen the good lord’s face in a potato crisp.

“What exactly are you looking at, Abernathy?” Graves snaps, sharper than he’d intended, and the shrimpish man stutters out something and scampers away like a spooked mouse.

“You’re in a good mood,” Tina says over lunch a bit later. She’s skeptical, and Graves thinks irritably that she’s a better detective than Chief Inspector Picquery gives her credit for.

“What about it?” Graves mutters, the smile that had been hovering at the corners of his mouth vanishing. He’d been imagining Credence this morning, sat up on the bathroom sink, chin and jaw smeared with foaming shaving cream and giggling at the rasp of the straight-edge shaver which Graves drew ever so cautiously across his jawline. Tina’s voice was a cruel break to the memory.

“You’re never in a good mood.” Tina picks at her salad, tone factual.

“I beg your pardon,” but Graves isn’t as offended as he’d like to pretend to be. He is in a good mood. Imagining his boy waiting at home for him, fiddling around with Graves’ da’s old radio, bouncing around in his longish sleep-shirt. It makes Graves’ ribcage swell, but not painfully—warm and brimming, happy.

“Well, I’m not complaining.” Tina smirks now. “You’re less likely to go off on the secretaries when you’re getting laid.”

Graves sputters—”Is that anyway to talk to your superior, Goldstein?”—but inside he’s grinning. It’s a good day.

He’s productive despite all of the distractions, and queerly it is the thought of Credence waiting, swinging his socked feet from the kitchen bar that has Graves finishing up much more paperwork than he’d thought he’d accomplish in a day. He’s able to leave early because of it, and decides for a quick stop at one of the grocery stores, thinking about picking up more milk and eggs. But instead, he finds himself perusing a techie shop front, full to bursting of sleek television screens.

Graves has never worried much about his lack of a television. He has never put much stock in that form of entertainment, though he knows his officers adore popular dramatic programs on Friday nights and Sunday mornings, coming in on Monday chattering about who cheated on who and who was brutally murdered and such and such. But now he finds himself fretting in front of an entertainment shop when he should be grocery shopping, because Credence gets bored quite easily, bright, feline eyes going blank and dazed on some middle distance Graves can’t see.

He eventually pulls himself, and finds his way to the market. He gets what he needs and heads home, the newest TV model still sat in the shop, and he’s glad of it because when he opens the door of the house, Credence comes bounding up to him, grinning, Shakespeare’s Hamlet clutched between his fists.

The boy gestures wildly at the cover, panting, but then stops and just beams and there’s a hard, sticky lump in Graves’ throat, looking down at this sweet-eyed boy. The version he’s holding was Graves’ father’s copy, the only book the old man had ever read that was written by an Englishman.

“That was my Da’s,” he says, clearing his throat roughly, and he sees a worried expression forming on Credence’s face, darkening the smooth brow and thinning the soft lips. “Don’t worry. He would’ve liked you having it.” He would’ve liked Credence period, Graves finds himself thinking, would’ve liked the mystery and strange kindness of him. “I could read it aloud, if yeh’d like,” he finds himself offering for some unknown reason. He knows the boy can read and write, seen it with his own eyes, but finds he wants to do everything he can for Credence.

And it’s worth it to see the pretty, plainly joyful smile twisting those pink lips, making those dark eyes shine.

“C’mon, love. Let me put the milk away and I’ll tell you all about the Dane.”

Queenie’s the one who tells him about the man in the bakery.

Queenie’s a sweet girl, chicly curled hair and bright eyes, and she’s sharp as a knife too—one of the many reasons Jacob’s lucky to have her. So when she sees a tall, strange Nordic man showing her patrons photos of a pale-faced boy and asking after his runaway “son”, she feels a creeping suspicion curling in her gut.

When Graves comes into the shop Saturday morning, searching the shelves for the lemon tarts he knows Credence likes the best, Queenie tells him all about it.

“It was strange, you know,” she mutters lowly to him. “I hope it’s not true, the poor lad.”

Graves’ skin crawls with nerves. “What made you nervous?” he asked, tone suddenly serious and businesslike.

Queenie’s got good instincts. He remembers vividly when Siobhan O’Hare got engaged to some Dublin slicker last July. Queenie had called him a cheat, and two weeks later Siobhan’s mother had found the scrub in bed with one of the Langer girls. If Queenie thought this man was bad news, Graves was inclined to believe her.

Queenie hesitates for a second. She’s the lovely type of person who doesn’t like to speak badly of people she doesn’t know, but she eventually talks, instincts winning out over courtesy. “I don’t mean to be rude or anythin’, but he was a bit weird, the man. Some sort of thick accent, tall. Well-dressed. And there was something wrong with his eyes, you know?”

“His eyes?” Graves prompted, more and more ill at ease.

“Something missing. Something—wrong. I dunno how to explain it.” Queenie fiddles with her apron, frowning at a muffin whose top is the slightest bit lopsided. “Wonder why he thinks his son would run all the way up here, middle of nowhere.”

“What did the boy in the photo look like?”

She shrugs. “Waifish, dark hair, pale skin.” She blinks gold-spun lashes. “He looked sad.”

Spine icing up, Graves manages to calm himself enough to buy the pastries and walk home at a normal rate. He doesn’t burst out into a sprint the moment he sees the swell of his hill, but it’s a near thing. He nearly wrenches the door off its hinges, though, and Credence is startled enough to nearly fall off the living room couch.

He can see the question in Credence’s face— “What’s wrong, what happened?”—but he can’t physically do anything other than crowd Credence up against the couch and just press their foreheads together. He twitches, then gives in, grabs the boy by the waist, slides his nose down Credence’s cheek to his neck, and just breathes.

Graves remembers when he first found the boy washed up on the shore, cold and pale and faded. He thought the boy was a ghost, a faerie from one of the old legends, flickering on the twilight. He thought if he dared to touch him, his hand would find mist and magic. Now, he can’t think that anymore, because Credence is warm and soft and solid underneath Graves’ hands and arms. The boy doesn’t tremble or whimper, only makes a soft, confused noise, a little hum in his throat that Graves can feel under his lips. He presses three quick kisses, gentle and fond, up the boy’s neck and jaw, before pulling back, cupping the boy’s cheek with a large, warm palm, can’t help himself because the boy is safe and here.

Credence is flushed and confused, but pleased, smiling brightly, and Graves can’t help himself.

“Sorry,” Graves whispers, and then dips in for another kiss. This time his mouth touches smooth, soft lips instead of the silk of Credence’s neck, and the boy shudders, clutching at Graves’ shoulders as they trade heat and warmth, and a weight loosens in Graves’ chest, unfurling into something hot and sweet and beautiful. The boy’s new at this, lips clumsy and unsure and his hands flutter in the air, hesitant to touch, but his inexperience only makes Graves growl, low and pleased in his throat. He cups the boy’s crystal-line jaw, feels the impossibly smooth skin, trails his thumbs over the arch of the jugular. There’s a quick, thrilling slide of tongue, the catch of teeth, and Graves has to pull away, panting like he’s just run twelve kilometers, because if he doesn’t stop, he’ll consume . And he just wanted to hold the boy, wanted to gather the boy lovingly in his arms so the world wouldn’t be able to rip him away, and now, without planning it, he can taste the sweet on his lips, the ghost of the boy hot against his side.

“Credence,” he murmurs, and the boy looks up with limpid eyes, shy and delighted. He gives a little huff and nuzzles into Graves’ chest, arms trapped between them. He fingers Graves’ tie, pressing his swollen lips to the fabric, and Graves’ heart plays a tap dance on his third rib.

“Oh lord,” Graves murmurs, stunned. “Oh—I didn’t plan that.” He pulls away, bereft at the lack of Credence’s warmth, and his heart hurts at Credence’s soft noise of protest. “No—I—it was my fault, something happened today at the bakery.”

Credence stands there, stunned. Graves draws back, paces, rakes his hands through his hair. Credence blinks, makes a little questioning sound. What happened?

“Queenie—the baker I go to—she said a strange man had come round, asking after his son. He had a picture.” Graves can’t look at Credence, doesn’t want to see the happy light in his eyes at the news that his father’s come for him. Doesn’t want him to leave. “Is—did you run away from home, Credence?”

The boy doesn’t answer, and Graves looks up, and—

The boy’s stricken, healthy color leaching from his skin as he pales. Graves sees the tears well up silently, watches as they roll down trembling cheeks and drip off the sharp jaw and dampen the boy’s jumper, and automatically he reaches out, but the boy flinches back.

Credence,” Graves fumbles.

Credence gets small, his shoulders hunch, and Graves wonders frantically whether the boy is going to shatter.

“Credence, please, what is it?” Graves had never wished so much that Credence could speak as he does now. He glances around frantically, finds the pad of paper and pen on the writing desk. “Please.”

The boy swallows, sniffles, but takes the paper.

Are you going to give me back?

“Back?” Graves’ mind whirls. “To—to the man?”

Credence nods, doesn’t look up.

“Remember what I said. No matter what, you’re welcome here.” Graves takes two steps forward, silently cheers when the boy doesn’t back away. He opens his arms, reaches out. “You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to, Credence. Not in my house.”

The boy lifts his chin, swipes roughly at his wet eyes, but doesn’t move yet. He scribbles something down instead.


“Always,” Graves whispers, the tiny word in the middle of the paper cracking his heart, and the boy rushes into him, crumpling, sobbing and hiccuping loudly. “Oh, baby. Baby, I’m so sorry, I didn’t—Come here, let’s—” He picks the boy up by the soft thighs, lets the boy nuzzle into his neck in a parody of the loving embrace they had entwined in only ten minutes prior. He adjusts his grip, and then sits on the couch, the boy clinging to him, a trembling, warm mess on his lap, terrified. And this isn’t right, can’t be right. No teenager in their right mind should be so petrified at the idea of their father coming for them, no young person should sob and tremble and flinch at the very idea.

“Is that man your father, Credence? The one looking for you?” Graves whispers, and he feels the boy shake his head in the negative, curls tickling his chin. “Who is he?”

The boy shifts, finds his pen.

A bad man.

“What did he do?” Graves can feel a beast awakening in his chest, a feral animal dripping from the maw, teeth snapping and clawing at the ground. Fury makes his jaw stiff, but he’s careful to keep his grip on the boy’s waist firm, but careful. “What did he do to you, Credence?”

Credence looks up at him with dark eyes and doesn’t answer. Doesn’t even move to reach for his pen. Graves remembers vividly the dark, splotched bruises on the boy’s hips and thighs, remembers him naked and trembling on the beach.

Graves is one of the few men in the local Garda who is certified to carry a gun, and for good reason. He doesn’t like guns, never has. Has met one too many egomaniacs with god complexes because they had a finger wrapped round a factory-made trigger. He respects the power a gun has. He has never, ever felt the urge to kill someone unthreatened and unprovoked, never had any sort of temptation to threaten or degrade.

Until now.

Now, his eyes shine red and his breath gets thick and heavy in his chest. Now, he finds himself struggling to not pin Credence to the couch and blanket his weight over the boy, protective and feral as a mother bear, the world unable to pry him away from the sliver of boy he guarded. Now, he finds his own fist curling in on themselves, teeth gritting against each other, and he can see in his mind Credence’s faceless tormentor crushed and broken from Graves’ bare hands.

The only thing that jerks him out of his bloodlust is the feeling of Credence shifting closer, slim fingers sliding up to twine at the hair at the back of his neck. He pulls back a bit, just to see the boy’s face.

“You’re so beautiful,” Graves says aloud, feels his own eyes water hotly as he cups the soft, rosy cheek. “How could anyone ever hurt you?”

The boy doesn’t answer, just dips his head, holds Graves tighter, and Graves thinks about thick, clotted blood and the spatter of gunfire.


He can’t go back, he refuses to go back.

When Graves comes home, feral-eyed and hungry-mouthed, swoops down and presses his lips to Credence’s, Credence thinks he might swoon. He feels lost, feels stardust swoop through his veins, leave grit of glitter to ache in his chest and swell in his fingers. He clings to the man as long as he can, but then.

Then Graves retreats and he says something about a strange man, looking for Credence. And Credence knows the witch has come back for him, will take him. And he looks at Graves, looks at his uncertain face and his beautiful eyes and his darkened brow and Credence thinks he would let himself drown in the murky depths of the sea, his own home turned against him, before he gives up this lifetime with Mr Graves.

He knows it.


The man is taller than Graves originally expected, thick ashy hair carefully combed away from the pointed, lupine face. He’s dressed finely, sleek dark suit with a pale silver tie, but it is his eyes that draws Graves’ stare—they are flat and dull and Graves can’t help but compare them to a slow-gliding shark circling a stranded swimmer. Patient and watchful one moment, murderous and terrifying the next.

The man smiles. He has a cruel mouth. The lips look thin and soft, but the eyeteeth are wolfish, long and needle-sharp. “Yes, how may I help you?” His voice is thick and heavy, the Baltic salting the slanted vowels and clicking consonants, and Graves knows this is the man that Queenie spoke of. The bad man.

Graves takes out his badge, allows the man a look at his identification. “Inspector Percival Graves, district Garda.”

The man blinks down at the badge and says, “Ah.” He reaches out for a handshake. “Gellert, Gellert Grindelwald. May I ask why the sudden visit?”

Graves smiles tightly, keeps his grip light and unthreatening. A heavy, cold ring digs into his palm. “A few concerned folk downtown have let me know you’ve a missing son.” The lie leaves his mouth smooth as butter. “Wanted to ask if yeh wished to file an official report with the authorities.”

The eyes go flinty and sharp, and then the predator subsides. The hairs on the back of Graves’ neck stand. “It’s nothing.” The man’s dismissive, and he has some charm, Graves can see that. But it is an empty charm, empty words and empty eyes. “Just a bit of family business, I wouldn’t want to trouble any of your fine officers.” Another depthless smile.

“With all due respect, sir, if a child is in danger, it’s the Garda’s responsibility to put out a missing minor’s report,” Graves says, affecting sternness.

“Ah, yes, no it is nothing like that.” Grindelwald waves him off. “I would offer an invitation in, but I was in the middle of something just before you came. Perhaps we could have this conversation at a later date?”

Graves looks at him and his expression must’ve been extremely skeptical, because the man laughs deeply and says, “No, no, of course. You take safety very seriously here in Ireland, yes. I understand.”

He opens his room’s door, and Percival is ushered into a dim-lit sleeping/sitting area, a rumpled bed shoved in the corner, a couch shoved in its opposite. Nothing sinister or out of place, a dirtied coffee mug set out on a coaster, a wrinkled shirt hung on a hanger on the curtain rung. A pile of musty, old-spined tomes draws Graves’ eye, but he can’t make out the titles on the back, even though they glint brightly and embossed. Some sort of Cyrillic alphabet, entirely foreign to him.

Grindelwald clears a small chair and a desk off for Graves, but Graves declines to sit. “I won’t stay for long, won’t want to inconvenience yeh.”

Grindelwald smiles humorlessly. “Of course, of course.”

“If there’s any light yeh could share on the situation, maybe?” Graves prompts after a tense, awkward silence.

Grindelwald draws a quick, sharp breath, dusts off the tops of his pants. “Yes, yes. Hmm. Where to begin.” He taps his mouth with his middle finger, a habit it looks like. “To clear some things up, no, my son isn’t a minor.”

(Inside, Graves lets out a long, relieved sigh he does not want to address).

Grindelwald continues, oblivious, “He’s not missing. He’s left, after a very heated argument. Our opinions differ greatly on some things, you see, and it’s created a large rift between us.” Grindelwald moves to the kitchenette, trailing long fingers over the miniscule counter. He doesn’t seem uncomfortable, meets Graves’ gaze head on. “I am here looking for him, yes, but my son is an adult. I have no legal holding over him. I cannot force him to come home with me. But I wish to talk sense with him. To apologize, and get on with our lives.” He licks his lips, a small wet flicker, perches on a stool. “I’ve heard rumors among his friends that he’s found refuge in a little Irish town named Perth. And so here I am. Still searching.”

Graves blinks. “And you’re sure there’s nothing you want to be done in search of your son?”

Grindelwald dips his head politely. “Ah, no thank you. It is a kind offer, but a misplaced one. He will come to me when he is ready to make amends.”

Graves moves his lips in the small image of a smile. “Ah, alright. Just lettin’ you know, Perth’s a small town. Size of a shoebox, nearly. If your son was hiding here somewhere, people would know, trust me. Strangers aren’t common, not in Perth.”

“Thank you, Inspector,” Grindelwald nods. “But I’m sure he’s here. I can feel it.”

“Just one more thing, Mr Grindelwald, before I leave,” Graves says, adjusting the lapels of his coat, careful to not look the man in the eye. “Do you have a current picture? Of the boy?”

Grindelwald smiles, reaches into his pocket. He withdraws a small, battered leather wallet and flips it open. Graves cranes his neck, takes a quick peek—no credit cards, strangely, or pictures of family that he can see, just a glossy Polaroid slightly bent at the edges.

“Here,” the man reaches out, and Graves grasps it, brings it close to his eyes to see.

A pale, wane Credence, but the same age. Sunken cheeks and puffy mouth, lovely, knobby knees bared in cut-off shorts, slim arms vulnerable and bared in a black tank. He’s sitting on some sort of porch-step, and it would’ve looked like any other suburban teenager lounging in a friendly neighborhood had Graves not seen the eyes. The boy looks terrified, eyes blown and wild, mouth open the slightest bit as if he were about to yell. And there is a kind of vagueness to the whole scene, the background too cloudy, the clothes the boy’s wearing too sharp, as if the photo had been modified somehow, tampered with.

“Yes, I’m sure I’ll recognize him now,” Graves says faintly instead of any of these things, already slipping out the door. He barely manages to hand the photo back, barely manages to return Grindelwald’s unnerving smile. “I’ll—I’ll notify you if I hear anything.”

A few more smiles and thank yous and have a good days, and Graves begins to wander his way down the drive.

“Oh, before you go, officer,” Grindelwald stands in the doorway, watching as Graves stumbles his way to his patrol car. “My son’s name—it’s Credence. Credence Grindelwald.”

Graves sits for a good few minutes in a grocery shop parking lot after that, an accented voice rattling in his head, I can feel it.

anonymous asked:

Omg do you have any more scones headcanons? Because they give me life


Imagine the Enterprise receiving a distress signal from a nearby passenger ship. One of their passengers aboard is some important diplomat, who has collapsed and is unresponsive. He also happens to be a cyborg, with such seamless machine to flesh integrations that the ship’s doctor doesn’t know what to do. 

They ask Jim for help and his face LIGHTS UP and he says something like ‘I know the PERFECT MEN FOR THE JOB’

That leads to Scotty and Bones doing their BEST to save this man. Scotty focuses on the metal parts, Bones focuses on the living. Bones determines what is is needed, and Scotty does his best to make the tech work. 

Bones admires Scotty’s professionalism in the operating room, and Scotty likes how Bones always goes with his gut. 

They share a drink together in Scotty’s quarters after they save their patient, and neither of them can stop grinning. 

Blue Blooded (M)

Originally posted by saintminyoongi

: You’ve been happily married to Crown Prince Seokjin for months now. Or so it would appear to the public. What only you and the palace staff know your shameful secret: you never consummated your marriage.

Member: Jin

Word Count: 8.6k+

Genre: Smut, Angst, Fluff

A/N: Requested by @forever-young-got7​! Because Jin really is royalty, isn’t he?

Ever since that night you’ve keep asking yourself. What did you do wrong? Was it the way you looked? Something you said, something you didn’t say? Did he just… hate you?

If anyone had asked you prior to your marriage to Prince Seokjin, you would have never even entertained the notion of him hating anyone. The man just seemed too perfect, not only in looks, but in disposition as well, never one to lack poise, always composed. The few times you and your family had visited him prior to the wedding, he had been nothing but a gentleman.

And certainly it didn’t seem like he disliked you, in fact it seemed to be the opposite, even if there seemed to be some distance between the two of you but you attributed this to the fact that you had not known each other for very long, and had expected things to gradually change once you two had actually wed.

The warm expression on his face as you walked down the aisle gave you a hopeful outlook on what the rest of your marriage would be like. However, it all came crashing down later that night.

Keep reading

Assassin’s Creed  {Sentence Starters}

  • “Of course I am afraid!”
  • “Here, let me show you.”
  • “Why? Why have you done this?”
  • “I know what waits for me. For all of us.”
  • “Can you lend a hand? Perhaps a blade?”
  • “You truly believe you were helping them?”
  • “They want me dead. Me! Can you imagine?”
  • “A small sacrifice to save many. It is necessary.”
  • “I killed them because I could! Because it was fun!”
  • “Do you think he’ll let you live? Knowing what you do?”
  • “It is done then. Your schemes, like you, are put to rest.”
  • “You’d kill people simply for believing differently from you?”
  • “Aside from the failure and the hatred, I envy you very much.”
  • “Do you know what it feels like to determine another man’s fate?”
  • “I applied my heart to know wisdom, and to know madness and folly.”
  • “I have seen what comes of those who raise themselves above others.”
  • “I believe there was a book that claimed the world was created in seven days. Best-seller too!”

I don’t know what to say other than I really like this moment here. Here, Rick acknowledges that what he’s doing here could be seen as a bit of hypocritical, that he’s replaced alternate versions of himself before. But he also just knows that this situation is different. 

And it is. Rick’s switched universes before and replaced other Ricks without others knowing, sure. But as we’ve seen with in “Rick Potion #9″, he only replaces Ricks that just died around that time. Meanwhile Doofus Jerry is living the life of a man who misses his wife and kids dearly right now. The man whose life he’s living is now suffering because he couldn’t let go of a chance at overcoming more challenges.

After practice at St. Petersburg:
  • Yuuri: [after seeing younger photos of Yakov online] Yakov, I hope you don't mind me asking, but how did you lose your hair? I mean, it was really thick and long when you were younger.
  • Yakov: *looks into the camera like he's on The Office*
  • Camera: *pans to show the faces of Viktor "I am the biggest drama queen on and off ice" Nikiforov, Yuri "Oi, camera man, make sure to get a good shot of my tiger shirt *thumbs up*" Plisetsky, Mila "I wonder what I can do to annoy Yurio today *breathes* *Yuri screams in the backfround*" Babicheva, and Georgi "I am so emo for Viktor and Yuuri they are relationship goals"
  • Yakov: I don't know, age, I guess.

The thing that drives me nuts is when people say “oh Trump will only be around for four years, it’s not the end of the world” do you realize what the man can do in four years? Do you know how dangerous he is to our planet? We don’t have four year to loose, we need to keep moving forward. Do you realize in four years people’s rights can be taken away? So I’m sorry if you think four years is no big deal, but it is. And I’m heartbroken at what a huge setback Trump is for our country, our rights, and our planet.

anonymous asked:

Rappers and boys will say that a pussy is special to them but how do I make mine special for a boy. I've only been with one boy in my life and I know that mine wasn't special to him like that :/

what do you mean, “make it special” ??? it already is.

if you’re giving your pussy to some man he should be appreciative he even gets the opportunity to fuck. if he ain’t then he doesn’t deserve it.



anonymous asked:

Do you have many followers who have left husbands/long term boyfriends because of being gay? I need their wisdom. I entered my 7 year relationship knowing (and he knew) I was bi, but I may have gotten gayer (?). How do I know when i'm too gay to stay with a dude? How do I leave my best friend/family?

I recently left a long term relationship with a man after realizing I was a lesbian and my father actually left my mom five years ago because he was gay. If you have come to the realization that you are in fact no longer attracted to your partner because you are a lesbian//no longer attracted to men then you need to sit him down and have an open, honest conversation.

Please don’t do what my father did and just leave without giving your partner and family closure. You still have a responsibility to your family and cannot just leave because you have realized your identity is different than it was seven years ago. Your family is going to still love you if you support and love them.

I know it’s an incredibly difficult thing to leave a relationship, especially after spending such a significant part of your life with them, especially when you view them as a best friend. Three years was enough to have me drag out the inevitable long enough, I can’t imagine what seven years feels like. But if you feel you are no longer happy, cannot be fulfilled in this relationship and only see yourself with women, then you need to sit your partner down and let your feelings out.

I hope this could help in some way. I wish you all the best in this difficult journey and congratulations for discovering yourself. Take care!

-Mom Em

anonymous asked:

I love that idea of Bruce getting a thicker "joizy" accent once he becomes Batman. I get the feeling that his multilingualism would somehow effect his accent (or vise versa). Like he may accidentally slip up pronunciations of words like he was a foreigner to English or he starts speaking another language but it's kinda tinged with that rough north-east street tongue. I bet he may have to tone it down a bit on missions 'cause the rest of the League members have trouble following.

I had a friend in college who was from New Jersey, she was my bio/chem/o chem partner and after 3 years of knowing her I can assure you that I think I only understood about 92% of what she was saying. She was brilliant and I loved her, but that accent man. Bruce will totally slip into the joizy accent and it’ll be so thick you could cut it with a knife and League has no idea what to do. He’ll go through a whole meeting, tired and annoyed as his accent gets progressively more thick and pretty soon you can’t understand anything he’s saying. After the meeting, when Bruce asks if there’s any questions, Hal raises his hand.

“Yeah ok, could you summarize the last hour except this time in English.” (jokes on you Hal, all the batkids make fun of your surfer-esque California drawl)

In which my uncle responds to my photos from the Women’s March on Boston and I start crying because of fucking facebook.

You know, my father has screamed some horrible things at me over my lifetime, but the reason I know how he really feels about everything I am is because I know what he says about his brother. My mother will generally try to talk him down when it’s my whiny stupid liberal existence he’s enraged over, but not when it’s about my uncle. And my uncle is still (as far as I know) a straight man! Imagine what my father thinks of those extra deplorable things about me! 

I obviously have a different view of how good a man my father may or may not be than my uncle does (since you know, he’s not THEIR father, who my uncle also had to suffer) and I do have some ideas about where the anger comes from, but everything else he said was so validating? Which is a thing I don’t really get from members of my family? And I DON’T KNOW HOW TO FEEL ABOUT IT??? I mean, I feel good about it, obviously, but my brain is very confused because family = fear/anxiety, but this is a member of my family who is actually supportive. A member who I have met like, four times in my life because my father hates so many of the things about him that I share with him. So the crying. 

I don’t know what I’m going to do if my father responds to any of the threads on that post. Especially considering the argument my friends and I had with some asshole who thinks just like he does in the comments above that where I basically outed myself as queer* and assaulted on facebook, which I had never done before. If he does respond to a comment I super hope it’s this one: 

You know, just so we’re all on the same page about exactly how many of the things that I am that he hates. It’s a lot of things. My existence is super inconvenient, which is why some days I feel like I’m only still alive out of spite. 

(* Yes, I did post those Halloween photos where I was draped in Sarah’s bi flag, but I super don’t expect him to get that, given that he gives zero shits about people who aren’t straight and probably isn’t hip to the different flag jives.)

bitterbiracialbibliophile  asked:

It's also worth noting that Peter's sphere of actually-okay adults to learn from is like...May? MAYBE like...Rhodey or someone but it's doubtful.

peter pretty much NEVER learns how to deal with things in a healthy way??? like. may and ben were there for him when his parents died, and they helped him navigate the loss and anger and confusion and guilt that came with that, and what he learned from that is to keep moving forward, which worked really well for him then. but after he becomes spider-man, moving on from trauma becomes moving toward new trauma. he watches someone die while on patrol? well, what he needs to do now it throw himself at even more deadly situations to make some kind of reparation. to ease the guilt and loss and anger and confusion that are threatening to eat him up inside.

and then he gets adult superhero friends!!!! who he thinks understand what he’s going through and what he sees and experiences every day and know how to deal with that but surprise, no one knows how to deal with that!!!! rhodey’s probably the best out of all of them, but his way of dealing is pretty much just accepting things as they are and soldiering on to do better another day.

(actually, now that I think about it, sam probably has useful coping techniques to pass onto peter bc he’s the only person in the entire marvel universe to understand that sometimes you can’t deal w trauma alone, but the way canon is right now, sam has no idea peter could use some of his advice.)

plus??? does ANYONE really know how much trauma peter goes through???? bc if they’re not monitoring him, and peter’s downplaying everything that happens, then how could anyone know about the 8yo girl he couldn’t get to in time, or the supervillain who almost slit his throat, or the angry crowd of protesters who told him exactly what they’d do to him and his family if they ever figured out who’s the freak behind the mask. peter is terrified, but he’s a superhero now, he just has to deal with this stuff now, right?


anonymous asked:

The team knows to give Kenma a wide berth at training camps because sometimes his kicks have impossible range. He probably got both Taketora and Kuroo one night and Kuroo wasn't surprised at all and Taketora was like what the hell man. :D

ahahaha I bet Tora was offended like “what did i do??? i thought we were pals???” and kenma holds it over him like “i won’t kick you tonight if you get me apple pie” despite the fact that he can’t exactly control it (but tora doesn’t know that) and when kenma kicks him again that night and tora’s like “??? but i got you pie!” kenma’s like “i want some more” and kenma makes tora his apple pie slave until kuro catches on and makes him stop XD

sleepover sunday!


Outside, there was another visitor. Ben had come to ask Javier if he could stay with them while he thought about what to do about Asala.

“Man, I don’t know if she’ll let you stay. We’ve got…well we’ve got Ana to think about too. She’ll need convincing.” Javier sighed.
“I know. I’ve been clean for months, though! She knows that. I guess I could try the college dorms.” Ben replied.

Fic sneak peek #2

sneak peek #1

This is one of those scene that popped into my mind very early on even though it takes place only in chapter 5. 

Mercier and Betty are working for the organization and they somehow find themselves in a sort of archive cupboard…

Keep reading

dominanttrait replied to your post “y’all be safe and don’t put yourself in dangerous situations for a…”

What do you mean by “clicktivist”?

you know those old men that come home from fishing and say they caught something the size of Jaws and like 50 other people that were there says they only caught a worm or something and you realize the first old man just wanted to feel bigger than he was? people like that. people that act like they were at the March of Versailles. people that egg on teenagers to do things they’d never have the guts to do behind a keyboard. those are clicktivists to me

anonymous asked:

I think Jess already knows she's just with Robby for now. She knows he's not going to be the love of her life. I think she just thought well, I have to do something since Nick is not happening. Boring tv. Sometime soon Nick and Jess will start happening and all this Robby stuff will be moot. In a way, our talking about the Robby stuff is our "Robby," something to do until the real story begins.

I think the writers just didn’t know what to do with her if she wasn’t with a man. If she had simply decided she needed to do something else with her life since she can’t act on her feelings for Nick I think she should’ve decided to focus more on herself, her career, help her friends, etc. They could’ve really used her more in story lines with Cece, helping each other trough career and love problems, or helping Nick with his book, starting a new project for her school, having random and silly ideas for her “singles only” group to keep everyone busy, whatever. Anything but dating a guy she has zero chemistry with and doesn’t feel anything for.

dimplehobi  asked:

1, 6, 7 (lol), 19, 23, 27, 28, 29 !!!

holy shit this is gonna be a long post :’O im so grateful 4 u

1. what was first intriguing about bangtan?

personally, since i got into them near debut, i think it was their whole ‘fuck the system’ vibe,… i thought it was so cool that an idol group would debut w not a love song but a song talking abt a stressful time in life aka being in school and not knowing urself??? am i going 2 deep idk i think not

6. fav kimdaily and why



7. fav hope on the street dance and why

this video always blows my mind its like a classic hope on the street and it rlly makes me question the density of this amazing mans bones??? how does he do it??????

19. if ur a content maker what made u decide to dedicate ur work to them?

hmm well i do base most of my art on them,.. idk they’re just such beautiful boys!! i love admiring them!!!! but other than that they make shitposting so easy lmao

23. how did they impact ur life positively? 

i genuinely believe that i wouldn’t be here w/o them…not tryna get deep or dramatic but they r my driving force and i appreciate every second they’ve made me smile…they got me through my last couple years of high school too hehe :)

27. a song of ur choice that u want the dance line to dance to

i srsly can’t choose !! D: but i rllyrllyrllyrllyyyyy wanna see hobi cover the dance from kanye’s fade mv lmaO

28. most touching/sentimental moment of them

when they sang born singer at the bts begins concert?? i cried so hard watching it. also… when yoongi bowed to his parents at the epilogue concert… im tearing up just thinking abt this fukck

29. the proudest moment of them so far

im always so proud of them!!!! idk how to pick!!! maybe when they sold out for the olympic gym stadium???? maybe during the whole bst promotions when they broke like a billion records???? maybe all the time??????

:^D i did it

anonymous asked:

i've been dating this man for over three years and now, we live together after two years of LDR. at the same time, i have met my soulmate who is a boy over a year ago. obviously, my boyfriend hates him and our friendship. i don't know what to do. i kinda wish my boyfriend was my soulmate, but i know he's not. both are so precious to me. should i choose one? how should i deal? what is right things to do here? thank you x

This is a really hard decision to make and, unfortunately, you’re the only one that can make it. I would strongly advise you to follow where your heart takes you. You deserve to be happy. - R