a piece of what you need

the posh boy solution

hi hello welcome to the second part of this little piece

part one: the posh boy problem

also available on: AO3

***

Sometimes John calls Sherlock little secret names in his head. Greets him with hey, handsome in the morning, calls him genius when he’s being too clever, calls him pretty man, silly git, sweetheart. But sometimes he just needs to call him,

“You fucking idiot!”

John throws his jacket at the back of his chair in obvious distress. It falls off immediately. He is clearly angry with him, Sherlock has observed the ragged breath and flaring nostrils long ago and drawn his conclusions. He wonders what exactly he’s done wrong to upset him so much. The fact that he (technically not quite) stole a boat or that he managed to fall into the Thames? He himself is just upset about having been forced to sacrifice his woollen coat in order to save himself from drowning. Of course, he owns lots of coats. You never know when an accidence like this one might occur.

While Sherlock swam to the shore, John made sure the jewellery thieves, due to which that boat chase had originally been initiated, did not shoot at Sherlock, and in the process of that received a pretty hard blow to the head. A bump is already growing just next to the vein that always pulsates visibly when John is angry.

“You should cool that,” Sherlock suggests.

“Shut up! I will cool that when I feel like cooling it, I’m a bloody doctor!”

Sherlock swallows. It’s worse than he thought. He cannot deny that he likes John when he is on the right side of angry, but this is probably the wrong side and he is also being yelled at.

“A boat chase, Sherlock?!”

“In my defence-” Sherlock starts, but is interrupted by John raising a finger, ordering him to shut the hell up.

“Take your clothes off.”

Sherlock stares. Sherlock blinks. His mind stays blank for a worryingly long amount of time. Then he remembers. He’s wet. Soaked, in fact, completely down to his bones, and freezing too. It’s taken him a little long to catch up because these words, words spoken in the tone of an army captain, are something he’s last heard two days ago, half asleep and desperate in his own bedroom. Another one of those nights in which his imagination filled in for the needs that reality doesn’t meet.

John is waiting in this charged air of silence, maybe having realised what he just said, maybe not. Sherlock tips his chin up and obeys.

“I’m not so posh anymore now, am I?” he mutters under his breath.

John presses his lips together at this, and Sherlock worries briefly that the vein at his temple might just burst. His eyes withhold a certain kind of spark, like a candle flickering, like the glare of a predator. All of a sudden, Sherlock feels stripped completely naked by those eyes only. Then he comes to realise … He’s stripping down. The ruined jacket abandoned next to his shoes and socks, his shirt hanging open to expose his chest and stomach, and his trousers… he’s in the process of shoving them down his thighs. The process of stripping down to his underwear for John Watson. But he feels naked.

John is walking towards him. Slowly, like he means to break him. He might.

His eyes are boring into Sherlock’s own and electrify the space between them, the air they breathe. Sherlock swallows, once more, but his throat is dry and he is thirsty. He is cold, goosebumps all over his body from the river water and those ocean eyes, but his skin is hot with anticipation.

John steps right into his space. Sherlock can smell him. It does things to him, awful things to his heightened senses. It clouds them, but at the same time he is overly aware of naked skin and of John wearing way too many clothes.

“Yeah,” John whispers roughly, so rough and so low he could hurt himself on that sandpaper voice. “You’re still a fucking posh boy.”

John’s eyes drop, and his breath is ragged, but Sherlock suspects this time it’s for entirely different reasons than anger. He doesn’t know who gives in first, and frankly, he  doesn’t give one fuck about it because the next thing he knows is that John’s lips are on his and it feels like he’s dying and being reborn in one single breath.

They long for each other, and their lips meet so hard it might leave bruises. John is all-consuming, is groaning and opening his mouth by opening his own first. Sherlock’s knees buckle at the sensation that is John’s tongue running over his bottom lip. If this is what it’s like to kiss John Watson, he should be put in chains because it’s dangerous. He walks him backwards, shoves him into the wall next to the kitchen. Sherlock’s trousers have dropped down to his ankles and he almost falls over them, held upright by the hard surface of the wall where he bumps his head into.

Dizzy and with a sharp pain buzzing through the back of his head, he feels weightless when John lifts one of his legs, slowly running his hand over the underside of his thigh, fingers through thin hairs and over hard muscle, and Sherlock’s natural reaction is to wrap his leg around John’s middle and hold on tight, so tight. His trousers are hanging from the end of his foot like one last resort before they fall off and to the floor. The pain wears off, and suddenly Sherlock thinks he can feel everything.

The smooth fabric of John’s shirt and the rough one of his jeans that presses against the lower part of his body. Against his thighs and hipbones and the growing bulge in his pants. John’s one hand is rubbing back and forth over his inner thigh and the soft spot where it dissolves into firm buttocks. A soft spot that draws a quite whine out of the back of his throat. He places his other hand on his face to hold him. Lifting his jaw ever so slightly, his thumb is stroking over one sharp cheekbone, and he kisses him again.

Sherlock still feels like he is dying, but it’s different than it was before. John deepens the kiss, and he feels utterly devoured. He’s never wanted anything more, he thinks. Wrapped up in all of him. It fuels his addictive personality in many dangerous ways, but he cannot think, can only indulge in this dance of drawing back only to lean back in again, tongues against each other in one hot wet mess.

All the blood is running south, and as he wraps his arms around John’s neck, he isn’t quite sure how to feel, much less what he is doing.

John breaks the kiss with a sigh. A long, dreamy sigh Sherlock has trouble interpreting correctly. Is it regret? Relief? Pity? But as he closes his eyes in silence, he brings their foreheads together and leans against him. They stay like this for what seems like minutes over minutes, and it should be uncomfortable, should feel ridiculous - with one of them undressed and the two of them panting against each other - but it doesn’t. They breathe together in unison, and when John draws back to look at him, his eyes don’t show anger, aren’t predatory. They are warm, they are gentle.

“You have no idea how long…” he begins, but doesn’t quite know where he was going with it, or if he wants this sentence to end.

Sherlock’s response gets stuck in his throat and its remains come out in a sob. “Yes,” he manages.

“And all this time,” John continues, “So much time…”

“It’s okay,” Sherlock assures him. His voice is quiet, as if he was afraid of breaking emotions fragile and clear as glass. And when they aren’t clear as glass, they are a thick fog of all the things left unsaid. It’s very hard to see through it, but what he sees is sharp enough. “We’re here now.”

John leans back in. He takes his time now, is gentle in his touches and caresses his cheeks. They feel wet, somehow, but Sherlock doesn’t understand why. It’s like the tears are falling naturally.

“Bedroom,” John whispers.

How many times has he imagined John Watson in his bed before this? He hasn’t kept track, but he knows that this time couldn’t be further from his imagination. Because it is reality. And it feels so, so much better than anything else in the world.

John doesn’t hold anything back with him. He kisses him in every spot, he bites his lip and neck and, oh god, the sensitive skin up, up his thighs. He whispers names into all of those spots, lets them sink into his flesh and travel to his chest where they can burn and glow and melt his insecurities with flickers of bliss.

He calls him love when he breaks a kiss, calls him honey as he buries his face in the crook of his neck, calls him genius when Sherlock touches him in the most intimate of places. He tells him he is gorgeous, tells him I need you and I want you. It’s the hottest thing in Sherlock’s ears, goes straight between his legs. He asks him, Is this okay?, asks almost desperately how, how can I have you?

He calls him you brilliant man when he groans, you pretty, pretty boy. But as he thrusts, harder, yes harder, sinks his teeth into his flesh and moans, as his movements became frantic and they are so close and wrapped in each other with tangled limbs and desperation, and yes, as he comes, the one thing on his lips is Sherlock. Only Sherlock. As beautiful as he has ever heard his own name sound. He’s had no idea his name could sound like this, and he’s not sure how anything else could ever come close to being this good.

They lie together, cuddling and blissed out and fucking happy for the first time in what seems to have taken ages. Sherlock feels a smile stretching across his face. John’s thumb caresses long laugh lines as he is bent over him. But he isn’t smiling back. He looks like something worries him.

“Don’t ever risk your own life like that again,” he warns him, but warns him softly.

Sherlock thinks about it in the most rational way he can. He is very serious when he says, “If risking my life leads to this right here, to you and me, I might just consider it.”

John goes ahead and bites him. Just below his jawline, as he has very recently learned he likes a lot.

Sherlock gasps and John lets go.

“Oh no,” he whispers. “This wasn’t a reward, Sherlock. It was… long overdue. I’m still mad at you.”

Sherlock looks away in honest concern and fear. “Are you really?”

John sighs. “No.”

They cuddle in silence for a long while. Sherlock is very close to falling asleep. He is much closer to losing himself to whatever he feels for John Watson. He knows it is love. He’s not sure how much more it is, but it might just kill him one day. That might just be fine with him.

“You’re my posh boy now,” John murmurs right before he feels himself drift away.

He smiles, honestly. Wholeheartedly.

“I’ve never been anything else, John.”

***

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anonymous asked:

how u draw genji ??? He's so hard for me to draw i cry

This reply is late as heck, I was gonna draw something for it but I’m lazy as hell. But!

The key is to simplify!

I’ve never ever drawn Genji with all his details, and frankly I would probably throw myself into the sun if I did, because there are so many (which is one of the things that irks me about these character designs, but I digress).

You don’t draw every bit and piece of detail. You draw only what you need, which is the basic shape, and move on.

You don’t even have to put in a lot of effort, because all you’re basically doing is taking his existing model, and doing the bare minimum of drawing by removing details. And drawing him actually becomes really easy when you do that!! 

How much you simply is up to you, so you can make it closer on-model by including details, keeping the same shapes, and making proportions more realistic, or throw the details out the window for even more simplicity.

I hope that helps???

Also, bonus picture I made in Source Filmmaker that I was going to use as a reference but, again, l a z y

(You can use Source Filmmaker to make yourself references too!! Folks have added a bunch of Overwatch heroes.)

rebuilt (piece by piece)
robert/aaron, liv, chas, vic, adam, paddy, rebecca, chrissie, lawrence

GENRE:    dubious consent/consent issues, angst, protective!aaron
WORDS:    11,826
SUMMARY:  “I’m sorry,” Robert says, in lieu of an answer. “I don’t
want you to leave me.”
 It sounds small, quiet, but Aaron can’t make his voice
work, can’t do anything except stare at Robert’s face.
“Robert, I need you to tell me. What’s the last thing you
remember from that night?”
  Robert lifts on arm in the approximation of a shrug. “She
took the whisky off me. Told me I’d had ‘nough. Told me I
was drunk, too. Told her I wanted her, but I lied,” Robert
says fast, words tripping over themselves. “I just wanted
you, but then she told me I was drunk. Don’t remember much
after that.”

it’s finally here! the consent fic.

bear in mind that this fic is extremely cathartic for me and i am a huge robert stan. if you don’t like robert, this is definitely not the place for you and you’re probably not going to want to stick around.

thanks to @beyondthebridge @robertsuggles @rocketdocket @beautifulhigh and @turquoiseterrier for beta duties, cheerleading and just all around general support during the writing of this <3

“I’m sorry,” Robert says, quickly, sounding as devastated as he looks.

“Why are you sorry?” Aaron turns, frowning at the death grip Robert has on the mugs. “Robert?”

“I cheated,” Robert says, finally looking up to meet Aaron’s eyes. “I didn’t – it’s not what I wanted, not really.”

“I’m not talking about that,” Aaron tells him, pressing, he needs Robert to understand. “We’ll talk about that when we’re calmer, when it’s not right there. Robert, I’m talking about what Rebecca did.”

Robert frowns, confused. “She didn’t do anything.”

Aaron raises an eyebrow. “She didn’t have sex with you when you were drunk?”

The grip Robert has on the mugs is starting to concern Aaron; his knuckles are white, his fingers trembling around the porcelain. Robert swallows. “Yeah, but it wasn’t anything I wasn’t asking for.”

rebuilt (piece by piece)

anonymous asked:

Jen and Colin's answers at the con have helped a lot with my nervousness. I knew that CS would be fine before, but they didn't seem to place a huge emphasis on this secret and how it'll impact the relationship temporarily or otherwise. Even Jen was talking about the engagement being fun!! How did you feel about everything you heard them say?

The news out of yesterday’s panels made me do a little happy dance in my seat. There’s no need to fear what’s coming or look for one piece of good news to cling to. There is a flood of good things coming our way.

At the risk of sounding repetitive–this is an EPIC love story. And those get epic love story treatment.

These are two characters who love, trust, and respect each other. They believe in each other as individuals and themselves as a couple. They are two strong individuals who are even stronger together. 

And maybe the most important thing they’ve both learned along the way is giving yourself over to another person mind, body and soul doesn’t make you weaker–it makes you stronger.

We’ve seen them each wrestle with that concept over the past couple of seasons. We’ve seen hearts open and walls come down. We’ve watched them become an epic couple.

And now we’re about to see the results of that.

Take two people who share an epic love–throw a few obstacles at them–and watch what happens.

Seriously–watch.

Because it’s gonna be AMAZING!!!!

#Repost @cheyennedaltonshoots
・・・
Let me introduce you to my newest gun children!! I am so excited to see what these beauties will do, they’re @coreriflesystems HARDCORE X1 rifles with all of the goodies on them. I still need to add the @dueckdefense RTS and a couple of other small things. Thanks to @vortexoptics @americantrigger @americandefensemfg@umtactical @brigand_arms @teammfer for making these pieces of ballistic art possible!!

anonymous asked:

Thank you so much for reblogging that ask about how to tell what constructive criticism is. I have this one friend, whenever I show them a piece that I worked super hard on, the first thing they *always* do is criticize it, and they won't acknowledge anything else but some small mistake. I always thought I just needed to learn to take constructive criticism and that I was too sensitive about receiving comments. BUT THIS HAS HEALED MY SOUL THANK YOU SO MUCH

You’re welcome!! I’ve seen lots of people giving critique to artist without asking the artist first whether they’re okay with that or not. I personally don’t really mind if people give me critiques but sometimes the way they word the critiques that irks me a lot ; w ;

anonymous asked:

What would Ivar or a woman do if one walked into the other masturbating?

You were so focused on your own pleasure that you did not notice the sound of a body dragging across the forest floor toward you. You had hidden yourself down near the riverbank, under some low brush, for what had to be the most embarrassing reason imaginable. Ivar Ragnarsson and his awful, condescending way of flirting had gotten you so hot that you just had to run off and touch yourself. The need for release had become unbearable as you watched him handle his axes out in the training yard, throwing each one lazily into its target. Everything he did was sexy to you, and you just couldn’t take it any longer.

It was silly, but here you were, on your back on the ground, one hand shoved into your breeches and the other pinching at your own nipple as you softly whispered his name.

“Yes, y/n?” the prince’s sardonic voice answered. You flipped up in terror; Ivar was resting on his elbows and grinning at you, only a few feet away. He gestured toward your hips with his fingers. “What is it that you are doing, there?” he asked, though the arrogant way his lip curled in over his bottom teeth showed that he understood exactly what was happening.

You didn’t know what to say. Heat flooded your cheeks; you kind of wanted to curl up and die right there, but you couldn’t help but enjoy this predicament a little bit, yourself.

When you didn’t move, Ivar crawled forward on his elbows until his laughing face was looming over yours. “Were you thinking about me, and touching yourself, y/n?” he asked.

The bastard just had to make you say it, didn’t he. There was a reason you had slipped away to take care of yourself alone rather than pull Ivar along with you. Everyone that you knew, hated him. You didn’t want him to be your boyfriend, and you didn’t want to admit the things you dreamed of him doing to you.

He reached his hand out, strong fingers framed by those distinctive gauntlets he always wore. Gods, how you’d longed for that hand. He let it hover over your body as still you remained silent. “Nothing to say?” he smirked. “Actions speak louder than words, anyway.” You both watched his palm slowly descend to your breast. His fingers scooped around your flesh and squeezed, and you couldn’t help but arc your body into it. You had been so close to climax when he interrupted you. A single moan escaped your lips at his teasing now.

Ivar’s eyes blazed as he looked back to your face, triumph glowing within them. He continued to hold your gaze as he dragged the hem of your shirt up until your chest was completely bare for him. Still with that mocking smile, he lowered his face and sucked one of your nipples into his mouth.

“Put your hand back in your pants,” he ordered, then closed his eyes and savored the taste of your skin. He scooted himself a little closer, until he could settle on one elbow and reach your breasts with both hands. “Don’t let me interrupt you.”

You could no longer conceive of making a different choice. There was no use resisting the sight of Ivar thoroughly enjoying your naked chest, the feel of him rolling your nipples between his fingers and pulling them between his lips. You propped your head up on one arm to relax as you enjoyed the view, letting your other hand resume its earlier activities. This time your fingers moved lazily, not wanting this to be over too quickly. Now that the damage was done, Ivar had caught you, you weren’t planning on letting him go for a good, long while.

anonymous asked:

Good luck! As a struggling author myself, I completely understand the desire to revamp and polish a piece that's garnered so much interest, and I look forward to seeing what the finished result will be. Hopefully anyone who is enjoying it also understands that they'll benefit from this, as well. I hope you never run out of ideas when you need them!

Thanks! I plan to sit down soon and properly plan out a good portion of the story, at the very least. I hope your writing goes well too!

i have evaporate by gabrielle aplin on repeat and ohmygod it just hit me that it fits swan queen so much i wanna shoot myself in the face ok let me tell you the chorus is so them it goes like this “when it’s too hard and it’s too late, when i’m too tired to run away, when it can’t stay the way it was.. i need you cause you smash the troubles i can’t take and all the pieces of the break evaporate..” and then there’s this line “i don’t know how the words you say hold a thousand times more weight than any word i’ve heard before” help me i dont know what to do with all these feelings

A Supermarket in California - Ladypigswagon - Stalion - 1/1 - 6191 Words

“So what is Death, Destroyer Of Worlds doing in a grocery store at 3 am?” Stiles asks. He’s shattered the moment. Taken the photograph and ripped it into pieces.

 

“The same could be asked of you,” Deucalion replies.

 

“I asked first,” Stiles says. Deucalion chuckles. The music changes to neon lights and cigarette smoking pop. I wanna love you in the worst way baby, you gotta kiss me just to taste a little danger.

 

“I needed tea,” Deucalion says. Stiles rolls his eyes. Someone graduated from the Alan Deaton School of cryptic non-answers. “And yourself?”

 

Stiles looks back at the ordered rows of tea.


“A distraction.”

  • //-A conversation I just had with myself while trying to focus on studying-//
  • Me 1 hour after eating a salad: Hey, I could really go for some orange chicken
  • Brain: You actual crazy person, you are not remotely hungry, why would you-
  • Me: NO, I WANT A PIECE OF CHOCOLATE CAKE
  • Brain: You don't need that, you will get a sugar-
  • Me: NO, WHAT I REALLY WANT IS PIZZA
  • Brain: Ah, no, how about–
  • Me: NO, GARLIC ROLES! I WANT CAKE. GARLIC ROLLS. PIZZA AND ORANGE CHICKEN!
  • Brain: ...
  • Me: ...
  • Narrator: This series explores a year in the life of 600-pound individuals trying to regain control of their lives.

anonymous asked:

Same anon of the Jack story-and yep, that's what it is. I don't know any other details but i do love the theory of them having to go back there to find their true love sapling-or even the beanstalk itself IS the sapling, who knows! Maybe they need it to save Emma? I don't know, this is just spec on my part, i only know what it was.

Okay, very interesting!  So if you’re right, then the spoilery set piece is the beanstalk then (I’m not saying you’re wrong, I’m just saying your an anon, and I don’t have any way of knowing that what you’re saying is 100% accurate other than your word, so no offense).  

I love the idea of CS returning to the beanstalk, to where it all began for them!  Talk about coming full circle!

imasmallchild  asked:

Anxiety misses you. But he also knows that seeing you might bring back a bad memory or something. Maybe you should write notes and slide them under his door. You don't need to see him, just let him know you care

That not a bad idea *gets up and gets a piece of a paper and a pen* hmmmm what should I say….

All You Need to Do Is Ask

Commission for @konfuse: Franky learns what Robin did during her time de-aged in Film Z. 

One Piece 
Frobin 
Word count: 1266 

Commission info here

“Hey,” Franky said, ever-concentrating on his work even as Nami sidled up to him with a sly smile. “If this is about money—”

“It’s not, but if you’re giving any away, I’ll take it,” Nami said sweetly.

“You know I’m not!” Franky exclaimed. “What is it?”

“Did Robin keep that dress?”

“Dress?” Franky said, finally looking at her. “Uh, what dress? She doesn’t really wear dresses.”

An image of Robin with her hair up, a veil behind her head, and wearing a shimmering white gown flashed through Franky’s head. He smacked himself and looked at Nami expectantly, who gave him a strange look before saying, “The one from that island. Purple top, leopard-spotted bottom?”

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new idea: hell chess
  1. all the basic rules are the same like playstyle wise
  2. trash talking is encouraged
  3. you get as much time as you need but if you look away from the board your turn is over
  4. the referee is yelling everything like a sports announcer and you cannot complain
  5. you can take one of your pieces from the board and throw it at your opponents head but you sacrifice that piece
  6. you have to name the king and queen something

fun additives to make the game unique:

  • a. close your eyes and reach into a bag of about 48 chess pieces to pull out your sixteen pieces. whatever you get is what you play and you must follow the rules of those chess pieces. if you get four queens good luck. if you get no queens good luck
  • b. the referee can decide to throw in as many checkers pieces as a time as they please, as long as equal pieces are distributed to both players. the players are now not only playing chess but also checkers on the same board.

Does anyone else feel like they are going to miss some of their classes once the semester ends? Not even just the class but the people in it that you may never have class with again? Because I do, I’m going to miss you, guy in my classics lecture who watches smash bros videos almost everyday and reads one piece and who just opened an Incognito window to search up “kirby air ride” looked at two pictures of it and then closed the window, I’ll miss you

Masterpost of Cryptic Shit from The Adventure Zone

Because damn Griffin’s given us a lot of mysteries to work with. (Excerpts from the show under the cut.)

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Believe the hype: ‘Hidden Figures’ is as great as it looks

The choice to give Hidden Figures an Oscar-qualifying run ahead of its wide release next year was a wise one: This movie is a home run, a veritable fist-pump of a film that celebrates the tremendous success of these women while never forgetting exactly how difficult their journey to the stars was.

Taraji P. Henson, Octavia Spencer and Janelle Monáe are all terrific — the latter coming off an incredible debut year as a film actress, having also co-starred in Moonlight — and the supporting ensemble is strong across the board. (Hidden Figures makes for a great best ensemble SAG nominee.) Their performances, with Schroeder and Melfi’s smart script in tow, keep these figures from becoming mere chess pieces in history. Their wants, their needs, their loves and their pains are rendered with specificity and sympathy.

In truth, Hidden Figures would have been required viewing no matter what because of its historical importance. But now, it’s a movie you’ll be anxious to see again minutes after walking out of the theater. Read our full review

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TRADITIONAL ARTISTS LISTEN UP

OR ANY ARTIST THAT MAY DO TRAD ART AT SOME POINT

BC IVE SEEN THIS SHIT INFORMATION PERPETUATED ENOUGH TO GET ME PRETTY FUCKING HEATED

EVEN IN FUCKING ART SCHOOL I WAS TOLD LIES AND IM SURE YOU WERE TOO IF YOURE AN ADULT ARTIST SO PLS LISTEN

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