the tethered man

critical role relationship week: day 3

cassandra & allura

scanlan & cassandra
percy & gilmore

The sun is just beginning to set over the mountains when Cassandra arrives for tea with Allura.

It had started out simply as an occasional thing; a desire for a moment where neither woman had to think of anything related to Whitestone, the running thereof, or the adventuring group calling it home. Quickly, though, it had become a regular staple of Cassandra’s life, clearing space every other evening for some time out on one of the castle’s western balconies, sitting together and sharing a pot of tea.

Allura is already waiting for her by the time Cassandra arrives, looking neat and presentable with her hair perfectly braided as always. (Cassandra is convinced she does it with magic. There can be no other explanation.) She sets down her cup and pours a second for Cassandra as the younger woman takes a seat, smoothing her dress underneath her and taking a moment to calm herself.

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A Mention of Solomon Little

The past several days had dragged by in a grueling blur. It had been three days since they had left Charlestown behind. Or rather, the smoking husk of all that remained by the time the deafening boom of their cannons had finally fallen into fragile silence. It had been two days since they had left Tortuga to garner news and resupply. One day since Silver finally managed to regain consciousness for a period longer than just a few minutes. Since he opened his mouth to spout yet another lie, only this time it was to him.

It went without saying that Flint had thrown himself into his duties. Not only did it stave off the harsh realities of Miranda’s loss, of which he was still rather numb, but it also helped to quell the anger burning a pit of fire in his belly. Not towards Charlestown and Peter Ashe, not now, but towards Silver. Ever since they had taken the Spanish Man O’ War, Silver had been integral in every single step towards recovering the gold. From tempering the crew’s lingering resentment to turning the tides towards recapturing the fort. And here he had been scheming behind his back the entire time.

Flint felt betrayed. He had been swindled, lied to, used. Played like a fiddle by that same mouth that had deceived the crew time and time again. Only he had fooled himself. He had thought himself different, above the rest of them, and why? Because those same lips had traveled across his own when the two of them were hidden behind closed doors? Because he had not only snuck a taste of that silver tongue, but reveled in it? It was not just that Silver had betrayed him. It was the fact that he had been foolish enough to trust him in the first place. Yet despite all that, he still felt that dull ache within his chest, pained with the guilt that resulted from Silver’s own loss. It was maddening.

The moment Flint opened the door to his cabin he abruptly halted in his tracks. Though Silver had spent some time awake the day before, long enough to weave another web of lies at least, he had eventually succumbed to the embrace of sleep once more. Not that that was in the least bit unexpected, considering the severity of his injury. He had suffered a great deal of trauma, not just from the excruciating pain but from the blood loss as well. It was clear that his recovery would be a long one. And so he had entered his chambers expecting to see Silver lying still against the cushions of the window seat. Instead he was awake. Not only that, but he was standing.

“The fuck are you doing?” Flint practically growled as he rushed forward.

Silver stood hunched over his desk, his palms planted against the charts and papers strewn across the wooden surface so that he could better support his weight. His skin that was usually warm from the sun now held an unnaturally pale hue. Sweat beaded along his forehead, a drop falling from his brow as those blue eyes angled upwards.

Flint grabbed the man’s arm to make sure that he remained steady. The last thing he needed was for him to pass out on his floor. “What are you doing?” he repeated.

Silver could only offer a minute shake of his head. His breath was practically huffing from his chest as he panted from the exertion of making it this far. Howell had decided against providing a crutch this early on for this exact reason: To encourage bed rest. Yet the stubborn man had found it in himself to hop partway across the room.

“Silver,” Flint tried again. The grip on his arm tightened.

Again Silver shook his head, but not before pushing weakly against his hand. “I can’t,” he eventually offered. Even from uttering those two words he sounded completely winded. “I can’t–!”

When Flint finally managed to get a better glimpse of his face he saw that those usually calm eyes were wide, the pupils blown. Wide, wild, and unseeing. Despite the color lacking from his complexion, the moment Flint pressed his palm against his forehead he could feel the fever that burned beneath his skin.

“Fuck,” Flint breathed. He pulled at Silver, ignoring the protests as he slung his arm across his shoulder and practically dragged him back to the window seat. A slew of curses and swears immediately flitted from Silver’s mouth. Hands shoved against his chest, an elbow knocking against his ribs as he tried to wriggle free. Part of him wanted to give in and let the lying thief drop to the floor. However, it was only a small part, one that was quickly drowned beneath the weight of his persisting concern.

The moment Flint got him somewhat settled he let out a piercing whistle. A low, steady tone that proved effective not moments later when Billy poked his head in from behind the door. “Get Howell,” he ordered before the bosun could even open his mouth. The man offered a curt nod before disappearing once more. Flint would have left to fetch the man himself, but with the way Silver still pushed against him, he gathered the moment he stepped away he would be trying to escape once more. He’d rather not find out just how far he could get.

“–Go!” Silver struggled. “Let go of me!” The man was in an absolute panic. Whether or not it was genuinely linked to the injury or simply a delusion fueled by the fever, he had no idea. And in all honesty, at this moment he didn’t quite care. He just needed to get him calm before he tore through the stitches or found some other way to hurt himself.

“For fuck’s sake,” Flint swore as he held him pinned at the shoulder. “Would you calm down a little–”

“Don’t call me that!” Silver all but shouted. The outburst was enough to give even Flint pause. However, it was quickly muddled over by confusion.

“What?”

“I told you I hate that name,” Silver pressed vehemently. Despite the fingernails biting into his forearm, he at last seemed to settle somewhat. At the very least, he no longer seemed determined to shove him off so that he proceed to collapse to the floor. Instead Silver shook his head, his brow furrowed and damp with beads of sweat, as a tongue reached out to wet his lower lip. “Solomon Little,” he relented then, his voice but a broken whisper. “I hate that name. I hate it..!” His chest shuddered. It was almost as though he couldn’t catch his breath, as if speaking that name had taken all that was left in him.

Flint’s own brow furrowed then. Solomon Little… The man whose name he had heard only once or twice, and always at the center of one of Silver’s stories. To his knowledge, the only one that held any sliver of truth was when he had told him of the orphanage. And all this time this figure, this figment of a tale, was him.

The man sighed before weighing his next words carefully. “It’s alright,” Flint eventually soothed. Or rather he tried to, as he doubted the usual rough edge of his voice could possibly hold any degree of comfort. “You aren’t… Solomon Little anymore. Let’s never speak of that name again, alright? He’s gone.”

Silver’s fingers clutched at his arm almost desperately. When he next released a breath it sounded like a gust of wind wracking through his chest.

“You’re John now,” Flint continued after a moment. “John Silver.” It wasn’t until after Silver managed to offer a minute nod that he noticed his cheeks were damp. What’s more, when those crystalline blue eyes opened they were wet. Glassy and wide and just as tumultuous as the seas that stretched beyond the bay window. The sight caused a lump to form in Flint’s throat; one that was promptly forced back down.

The moment the door banged open Flint immediately stood to make room for Howell. Yet the moment he so much as took a single step away that hand reached out to stop him in his tracks. Silver’s fingers latched onto his wrist with a grip so tight it was as if his life depended on it. As if he were getting pulled down beneath the waves, drowning beneath the weight of it all, and he was the only tether within sight. The fear in those blue eyes only confirmed his thoughts.

A weary sigh passed Flint’s lips as he rubbed at his temple with his free hand. His own eyes closed briefly as he cast aside his warring thoughts and settled his decision. With Silver’s hand still clutching to his wrist, and without stepping away any further, Flint scraped his desk chair across the floor so that he could sit down.

With Flint at his side, Howell began to look over their newest quartermaster. He touched his forehead briefly before setting a wet cloth against it to help stave off the fever. He checked his pupils, voiced questions that Silver could just barely manage to answer either with a shake of his head or nonsensical mumbling. By the time Howell proceeded lower to unwind the bandages around the fresh stump, Flint was no longer paying attention. Instead his eyes were locked on Silver’s face. On the rabbiting pulse in his neck and the fever that darkened his cheeks, on that strong yet broken gaze that held his own.

Flint was drowning beneath the rushing swell of his own seas. He had been for several years, and now moreso than ever now that Miranda was lost to him as well. Yet here at Silver’s side he would stay. He would be that tether the man so desperately needed in this moment. He would be the one to keep him afloat, until he was once again strong enough to stand tall and steady on his own. It didn’t matter the lies he had told again and again. It didn’t matter the trust he had betrayed, the riches he had stolen from beneath his nose. For now he realized he was drowning in him. And so here he would stay, keeping the man’s head above the rushing water, until that rope was cut and he was eventually cast aside once more.

Karnaca.

Old Man Corvo upgrades his Blink power to be just as powerful as Daud’s stop-motion version and tests it out, zipping from the Dreadful Wailer along the coastline and Blinking past Daud on his beach chair in a couple of heartbeats.

Older Daud: I see you’ve upgraded your powers! I’m made a few modifications myself!

[Daud sights south-east across the bay and clenches his left fist tight enough to make his Mark burn and smoke.]

Corvo: Am I supposed to be looking at something in particular, or-

Daud: [still clenching his fist] Give it a minute.

Corvo: I’m still not seeing anything.

[There is a whistling sound, and a speck appears on the horizon. It very quickly resolves into a bottle of King Street Brandy and smacks solidly into Daud’s waiting hand.]

Corvo: Am I supposed to believe that came all the way from Dunwall? You’re pointing in the wrong direction: firstly, this beach faces Pandyssia, not Gristol

Daud: I Pulled it from Dunwall. From around the world

Corvo: There’s no way. 

Daud: I’ve had a lot longer than you to refine my powers.

Corvo: Are you even kidding me. 

Daud: You’ve never been able to perform a Tethering, have you?

Corvo: I’m asking the Outsider for a refund.

Daud: [pouring himself a shot of the brandy] it doesn’t work like that.

Corvo: I KNOW it doesn’t work like that [Blinks away in disgust]

Daud: Hm. [smiles to himelf] I like being retired. [sips brandy]

Preference: Sleeping positions

A/N: Okay so I know I said I would have an imagine up tonight but I ran into some unexpected work and I have to get up early in the morning. I don’t want to leave you guys with nothing so I decided that I would do this little preference. I know this has been happening a lot and I am extremely sorry. I need to learn to estimate my time better but a lot of things are happening at once right now so it’s just kind of a hectic time :)

https://www.bing.com/images/search?q=different+partner+sleeping+positions&view=detailv2&id=DC22CDCD82E38D06496BC13B02505C47DFA74980&selectedindex=7&ccid=EgE%2FNahe&simid=608029153662536229&thid=OIP.M12013f35a85e6201a379b116f842e4b3o0&mode=overlay&first=1 (To reference the names of these sleeping positions)

Jax: Shingles. Jax would be the type of man that wants to keep you close but not make you feel like he’s suffocating you so normally when you two lay down or bed he throws and arm around your shoulder and pulls you close. This way he can still make sure you’re safe but still give you your space.

Opie: Leg Hug. Opie is a very big man which means that he’s going to take up a lot of room on the bed. You two normally give each other space to spread out but still keep your legs touching as a sign of affection.

Chibs: Sweetheart’s cradle. Being someone who has had people he loved taken away from him, he’d want to keep you close to make sure that you were safe. Sleeping like this take care of his need to protect you while satisfying  both of you two’s need to have each other close.

Happy: Loosely Tethered. Happy isn’t a man of many emotions, as we have learned but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t care. In this position Happy still has a hold on you, keeping you close, while still keeping you distant enough to give him some space. Your sleeping position says a lot about your relationship so it’s really likely that this reflects how the relationship between  you two is. Close but not uncomfortably so.

Kozik: The Spoon. Kozik is the type of guy who is not afraid of PDA and close contact and he is constantly doing so. Kozik would be a spooner because he loved how close you were and how nice your smaller frame fit into his larger built one.

Tig: The Pursuit. Basing this off of the scenes we saw with Tig and Venus, Tig doesn’t mind being taken care of by a woman, in fact, he kind of enjoys it. Sleeping like this with Tig is just your way of saying that he doesn’t always have to be the tough one, as you’re normally the body on the outside. After what happened to Dawn he often has nightmares but hen he wakes up and feels your arm around him, it immediately acts as a comfort to him.

Juice: Honeymoon Hug. It’s no secret that Juice is the most gentle of SAMCRO, indicating that he would be a very cuddly boyfriend. When laying in bed, Juice likes to pull you into this position and cuddle you as much as he can. Juice is the type of guy to show he loves you through actions and verbalization, so this would just be one of his ways of showing he loved you and wanted to keep you close.

Impulse [Bandit OQ]

When Regina double-crosses him on a job, Robin is forced to reconsider what she might mean to him, and how he plans to return the favor – after he escapes from the Queen’s Guard, that is. (Based on the prompt: “This is without a doubt the stupidest plan you’ve ever had. Of course I’m in.”) ~15k. [ffn | ao3]

Happy birthday to my dear friend @loveexpelrevolt. I’m so thankful fandom brought me to you, with your spunk and talent and your generous heart. You are truly one of the most inspiring people I have ever met (which we can finally say we’ve done in person!). Anyway, you gave me this word prompt many moons ago, and it was actually intended as last year’s birthday fic, but by the time I finished it there were only so many months until this one, so I figured I’d wait :)

(I would like to thank @starscythe​, @sometimesangryblackwoman​ and @revolutionsoftheheart​ for all their help in shaping this fic, and to @starscythe especially for inspiring me with her amazing manip.)


They’ve been marching for days, it seems.

Robin gives the rope around his wrists another vigorous tug, but the knots there are as damnably stiff as they had been five minutes previously, stubbornly refusing to loosen. The guards have already confiscated his satchel of lock picks, and of course it would be just his luck to reach for the dagger in his boot – bending himself awkwardly as he feels for the handle, hop-stepping so as not to break his stride – only to find that it’s mysteriously vanished.

Well that’s just bloody wonderful.

“Whatever it is you’re doing back there, d’you mind maybe not doing it for a while?” grumbles the man in front of him – a lumbering, overgrown sort of individual, filling out the edges of a rich red tunic that looks as though it’s seen better days – and then there’s a pointed yank at the rope where they’ve been tethered together. The man tips a hairy chin sideways to prevent his words from carrying toward the head of the line. “The last thing we need is for them to think you’re up to something.”

“Right. My apologies.”

“No harm done,” the man – giant, really – grunts good-naturedly, shrugging one large boulder-like shoulder. “But, you know, if it’s all the same to you, I’d really like to avoid getting tossed in those shackles again.”

“I couldn’t agree more.”

Feeling properly chastised, Robin drops his arms back down behind him and struggles to contain his rising frustration. Some quarter-hour that already feels like an eternity earlier, while plodding along single-file and chained at the ankles through some particularly perilous terrain, a fellow prisoner had stepped most inopportunely into quicksand, dragging several others down with him before the guards had managed to react in time.

It had been an ordeal, to say the least, to dismantle the remaining restraints before any more casualities occurred; the Evil Queen had, after all, promised her men considerable amounts of money in exchange for the realm’s most wanted, and what use was a heart that was no longer beating?

One of the guards, with a face that might have been handsome if not for the cruelty hardening its features, had given Robin a sound beating after he squandered his sole chance at escape in favor of extending a tree branch toward one of the men as the earth began to swallow him whole.

“That one was hardly worth a sack of gold anyway” had been the guard’s only comment, and while Robin staggered back to his feet, the man turned away to consult a pocket mirror, ensuring that not a lock of his golden hair had fallen out of place in all the commotion.

Robin sincerely doubted he could say the same for the state of his own hair – or the rest of his body, for that matter.

Wincing around the throbbing eye and an uncomfortably swollen nose – broken now, surely – that he’d gotten for his troubles, he forces one foot in front of the other, feeling useless in his anger and wishing, above all else, for open skies (for freedom) above a campfire pit, and for the company of John and his men, likely kilometers behind him now and at an utter loss as to what’s become of their leader.

He should have known better than to trust that woman.

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baker151910  asked:

"Mike someone's knocking on the door...OMG MIKE SOMEONE'S AT THE DOOR!"

She had been laying sprawled out on the bed, a halo of dark curls against the white bedsheets, gripped tightly between her fingers, as a guttural moan breaks free from her.

Ginny can feel the satisfied grin against her skin, Mike’s beard scratching wide over her, leaving a trail of red as he made his way down, a stinging that radiated off her in a tingling of feelings that lingered above them.

He wasn’t supposed to be here. He wasn’t supposed to doing…that.  She thinks as another whimper escapes her.  Her vision blurring, as she moves her head to peek at him through hooded eyes and fluttering lashes, to find him grinning at her from between her legs, before collapsing back into a writhing mess with every stroke of his tongue, his hand coming to rest on her hips, pinning them to the mattress.

“Mike,” she groans, and she can feel his reciprocating response of “Gin” run right through, until it’s ringing in her hears like a soft murmur pulsing over her, like a faint knocking, over and over, asking permission to shatter all her walls.

Knock.  Knock.

A dizzying “Ginny” can be heard, this time a woman’s voice, and it has her scrunching up her face in confusion, her hand worming it’s way through Mike’s hair, having abandoned the sheets as her lifeline, instead tethering herself to the man intent on making her sing.

Knock.  Knock.

This time the knocks come louder, stirring her from the daze she’s under.  “Mike, someone’s knocking on the door,” she whispers, but still, he doesn’t pause, instead gripping her thigh tighter, and leaving her hips to wander, as his dexterous hands become involved.

“Hmm,” she hums loudly, this time leaving no wonder to Mike’s ears about what tune she’s singings, it’s his rhythm that’s running through her, straight out of her mouth.  Always his.

Bang.

She stills, propping her head up, she knows that sound.  She’s been greeted with it several times upon trying to open her door and being met with a lock.

“Oh my god, Mike, someone’s at the door!”  She says, panicking as he gazes up at her.

“What?” he says confused.

“Get in the closet!”  She demands, pushing up from the bed, frantically searching the room for something to throw on.

“Gin,” he starts, but the door’s clicked open, the and cheery voice of Evelyn rings through, just as a glimpse of Mike’s ass passes over her as he slams himself in the closet next to her bed.

Ginny runs a hand through her hair, a grin like the Grinch spreading over Evelyn’s face, as she stares at Ginny’s bare legs, wild curls, and flickering eyes towards the closet.

“Hey, Ev.  What’s up?”  She tries to play it cool, her voice coming out hoarse and weak, and she can see the excitement bubbling in Evelyn’s eyes, the strangle of a scream being suffocated in place of her response.

“So why’s Mike’s naked in your closet, Ginny?”

Leave the first sentence of a fic in my ask box and I will write the next five sentences.

Request: See You Next Time

Request: I was wondering if you could write an imagine where they meet the reader on a hunt and she’s with another group and she’s all bad ass and what not. You know? Like she can shoot a gun really well and fight really well, she could possibly save their lives. Just a badass reader character, idc how you plot it I would just like a bad female character.

Word Count: 756

Warning: Slight violence.

I hope this is what you wanted! Thanks:)

“Keep going, this way!” You call out to your group. There’s three of you, and you’re leading down a narrow, darkened corridor. The place has been infested with demons and you’re finding them all and exorcising them.

The two guys follow you. The group is small now, but it used to be bigger. You’ve had new members and old die or leave constantly.

Suddenly, you hear a yell, presumably coming from the floor below. You share a look with the guys, before slipping towards the staircase.

“I’m going to go see what that is. You guys continue.” You tell them, before silently slipping down the staircase.

Checking each room, you’re about to give up when you see a crowd of people. Most are standing, there’s probably five. Then there’s a guy tied to a chair, and another who’s been tied to the ceiling by his wrists. They’re both protesting and covered in blood.

You curse under your breath, but they don’t hear you. Pulling your gun from your belt, you line up the shot quickly, and with a loud bang, you successfully shoot straight through the rope tethering the man to the ceiling. He collapses to the ground, but the demons don’t care as their attention has been moved over to you.

In a quick movement, you pull the flask of holy water from your pocket and splash it over the demons. While they’re writhing in pain, you make a start on the exorcism chant. It’s simple enough, you’ve known it off by heart for years.

They recover pretty quick, but by that point you’ve laid down a salt ring around them. There’s still a tiny gap and a couple escape. A bullet through their skulls doesn’t do much, so you decide to thrust your elbow into their faces, and once they’re on the ground, it’s too late. You’ve finished that chant and the room is filled with black smoke. You cover your face, and once it’s dissipated, you dash over to the guy on the chair.

He’s bleeding but still very much conscious.

“Who the hell are you?” He asks as you take a knife to the ropes holding him to the chair.

“Y/N Y/L/N.” You introduce yourself. “Who the hell are you?”

“Dean Winchester. That’s my brother, Sam.” He says, standing up and stretching out. He goes over to his brother, who is just regaining consciousness.

“I’d say what it was nice to meet you, but these circumstances are less than ideal.” You go over to him and help Sam up.

“Evidently. So, you’re a hunter too?” He asks, and you nod.

“I got a little group upstairs. Do you need help getting home?” You offer, draping the taller man’s arm over your shoulder to help him walk.

“I thought you said you had a group upstairs.” He says, but you shrug him off.

“I’ll call them. Don’t worry about it.”

Once you get Sam into the car, you call your friends and tell them that you’ll meet them back at the motel.

You drive to the motel they’re staying at, and take a very tired, injured Sam inside. You help patch them both up, and get talking.

“So, you don’t get many chick hunters. I’ve never met one as badass as you.” Dean smiles, and you shrug.

“I’m not sure whether that was a compliment or you’re flirting with me.” You answer with a small laugh.

“It can be whatever you want it to be.” He winks, and you roll your eyes.

“Can it, hotshot.” You tell him, and he chuckles. You chat for a little while, until it’s time for you to leave.

“You should stay with us.” He says, and you shrug.

“Nah, I’m good.” You say.

“Why not?”

“You got your loyalties, Winchester, and I got mine.” You tell him, and he sighs.

“Then if the loyalties ever break, promise you’ll call me.” He says, and you nod.

“Alright.” He’d given you his number before, when you were in the car. Just before you leave the door, he grabs your wrist, pulls you close, and kisses your lips briefly.

You stare at him, and nod.

“If that was incentive to come back sometime, you got what you wanted.” You wink, closing the door behind you with a smile.

You walk over to your own motel where your group waits for you, and they ask a million questions. But when you check your phone at the end of the day, you see you have a message.

See you next time around.’

I’ve been trying to work out what fascinates me so much about the Silver/Flint relationship and why, despite Silver being the one who actually gives a jackshit about the men of their crew, I still always fall into caring more about Flint

and I think it’s because in a story about the power of stories Flint is the deconstruction of a villain and Silver is the construction of one

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Remember how every Cap movie thus far has made it a point that despite circumstances, what Bucky remembers is Steve?

Captured and tortured by HYDRA? Rescued by someone who bears only passing resemblance to the man he once was? “…Steve?”

Brainwashed by HYDRA into a weapon whose only motive is his mission? “That man on the bridge….I knew him.”

On the run, trying to figure out who he is and where he is, recovering from decades of mind control and abuse? “Your mom’s name was Sarah. You wore newspapers in your shoes.”

We see so much about how Steve’s Othered and Isolated by his super status. By being a man out of time. We forget that now, Bucky is, too. That his story is in some ways a dark parallel to Steve’s–borne not of a choice, but of circumstance. And just as Bucky becomes Steve’s tether to the man he used to be Before…

Steve becomes Bucky’s tether, too. A memory, when everything else goes to hell.

Steve didn’t truly become Captain America until Bucky was in danger in the first movie. Maybe in this movie, we’ll see that Steve is a similar talisman, a motivation, for Bucky’s superhero origin story.

dragonsbain  asked:

Sherlock and small of the back? (All the obvious parts have been taken.) :)

“I’m still not sure what to do at the end. It feels weird to just… stop,” John says as they break apart.

“You could dip her,” Sherlock offers against his better judgment. He knows he should just let it go–let him go–but here’s a chance to keep John in his grasp a little longer and he’s going to seize it if John will let him. John has been a better student than Sherlock expected, picking up on the steps with ease, his proficiency coming far more quickly than Sherlock would like. They won’t have an excuse to keep practicing soon, which means Sherlock will never again get to take John’s hand in his or feel the gentle, guiding pressure of John’s grip on his waist. But this, this will give them something else to practice, something to prolong Sherlock’s time in John’s arms.

“I’m not that good. Isn’t that getting a bit too complicated?”

“Not at all. I’ll teach you.” He steps forward again and extends his arms, waiting for John to take his place. When John’s soft palm slips into his hand, Sherlock has to force himself not to sigh in relief. John’s other hand goes to Sherlock’s waist as Sherlock’s goes to John’s shoulder, and he can feel the quiet energy flowing through them where their bodies are connected, as if together like this they make a completed circuit. He wonders what it would be like if that connection were more intimate. How electrifying would it feel if it were more than just hands touching–if it were lips and chests and thighs and more? He has to force himself to take a cleansing breath, to push the thoughts from his mind, before he can meet John’s gaze, terrified that he might see the images flashing behind Sherlock’s eyes. “Ready?” he asks, as steadily as he can manage.

John nods, so Sherlock begins to explain the mechanics of the dip. “The key is for you to stay standing as straight up and down as possible. If you lean over, you’re more likely to drop m- her or for both of you to fall.”

“Well that would be embarrassing,” John chuckles.

“Quite,” Sherlock replies with a quick, tight-lipped smile. John squeezes his hand, and it takes Sherlock a second to remember what he was talking about. “Right. So. You’ll let go of her hand,” he says, and John releases his grip. “And place your hand between her shoulders instead as she leans back. You can slide your other hand farther around to the back if needed for support.” John brings his free hand around to place it between Sherlock’s shoulder blades, the position slightly awkward with their height difference, and splays the fingers of his other hand across Sherlock’s lower back. The change in hand placement brings their bodies closer together, and Sherlock forgets everything that isn’t this contact, this moment. Only when John looks up at him expectantly does he finally remember to respond. “Um… Good,” he says, swallowing down the desire swelling inside of him. “Now, um, now bring your leg forward to widen your stance, and bend your knee. And remember, don’t lean over.”

John does as instructed, and Sherlock allows himself to lean back into the dip, trusting that John will keep hold of him. John doesn’t dip him far, just enough to test out the concept, before he pulls Sherlock back to his feet. “Ok. I think I’ve got it. Should we try it with music?”

Sherlock nods and turns toward the mp3 player, grateful for a moment to escape John’s gaze while he marshals his thoughts and steadies his breath. He starts the waltz over and resumes his place within John’s arms. John leads them around the sitting room in time with the gentle one, two, three, one, two, three of the piece Sherlock has composed specifically for the wedding–specifically for John. Sherlock had poured his thoughts and feelings into it, letting his sentiment flow through each note, allowing it to become a love letter of sorts, a statement of the things he’s never said and now never will. The resulting sound is bittersweet, speaking of love and longing, of laughter and sorrow, of Sherlock’s desire for John’s happiness and his selfish yearning to keep John to himself. The music reflects Sherlock’s warring emotions better than he could ever possibly put into words. It is perhaps an inappropriate choice of composition for John’s wedding, but when has Sherlock ever really cared about impropriety? This will be his only chance to show John a glimpse of how he feels, even if John won’t see it as such, and he’s going to take the opportunity to let his composition speak for him as best it can.

“Sherlock,” John says, the name a hesitant question on his tongue, as they continue to dance around the room. Sherlock pulls himself out of his head and meets John’s gaze. When their eyes lock, he feels that familiar warmth begin to spread. It burns through him, the heat of his desire, of their unspoken connection, scorching through his veins, setting fire to his fingers and his toes and every solitary cell in between, smoldering beneath his skin until his entire body is ablaze. He can feel himself melting under the flames, all the essential bits of him breaking down, dripping from his bones thick and sweet like honey.

Neither of them looks away as they waltz on, the connection only growing stronger as they allow themselves to breathe life into it. This is what it could be like, Sherlock thinks. If John were his, this fire between them would be allowed to catch and thrive, to burn hot and bright as they allowed it to consume them. If John were his, he would spend his days stoking the flames rather than extinguishing them, adding fuel to keep the inferno inside them roaring rather than raking across dying embers. If John were his, they could waltz whenever they wanted, with no worries about open curtains or Mrs. Hudson’s footsteps on their stairs. If John were his, Sherlock would bend his head and close the distance between their lips, letting them speak their desires in the twining of tongues and the sharing of breath. If John were his.

The end of the song sneaks up on him, and Sherlock’s breath catches in his throat as in one smooth motion John moves his hands to their proper places between Sherlock’s shoulders and on the small of his back, and takes a wide step forward. Sherlock falls back in John’s arms in a deep dip, tethered to the man he loves by the small, steady hands on his back and the power of their eyes on one another. The air between them shimmers with heat, and Sherlock lets himself believe for just a moment that this could be possible. John’s tongue peeks out to wet his lips, his eyes darting to Sherlock’s mouth and back, as if asking for permission. Unable to bring himself to speak, to break the potential of this moment, Sherlock responds in kind, flicking his gaze to John’s lips and back up to meet his sapphire eyes, hoping his yes is clear enough. When John starts to bend his head, his mouth inching closer, Sherlock lets his eyes flutter closed. He can feel the small, quick puffs of John’s breath warm and moist across his lips.

A loud buzz rattles from the coffee table, distracting John, throwing them off balance, and sending them both crashing to the floor. Sherlock lands flat on his back, his head hitting the wooden floor with a loud thump. John’s knee smashes into the ground, but he manages to get his arms out in front of him in time to keep himself from face-planting. He groans as he sits back on his heels, offering Sherlock a hand and pulling him up so that he’s at least sitting rather than sprawled on the floor. “You okay?” he asks. Without waiting for a response, he slides his fingers into Sherlock’s hair, fingertips probing gently at the tender flesh at the back of his head. Sherlock winces, and John mumbles, “Sorry,” pulling his hands back a bit but leaving his fingers still twined in Sherlock’s curls. John’s concerned eyes catch his, and even through the pain, Sherlock can feel the soft smolder starting to spread again. A thumb sweeps up and down against his left temple, and he leans into the gesture, letting John’s touch soothe him. It would still be so easy to close the distance between them. It had seemed for a moment that they could. Perhaps they still can.

Sherlock inches forward, watching John’s face for any sign that he should stop and seeing none. Instead he sees encouragement in those hungry eyes and desperate lips, feels it in the way John’s fingers tighten in his curls. He sees want and need and maybe something more, allowing himself to hope that maybe he isn’t alone in wanting this after all. But he needs to be sure. He has to know for certain that John wants this, too. He pauses, their lips nearly brushing, and breathes, “Can I?”

John’s lips part to respond, but his mobile buzzes again, clattering loudly against the table. Sherlock pulls back as John closes his eyes and sighs. He untangles his hands from Sherlock’s hair, reluctantly leaning over to pluck the phone from the table. He reads the message, a crease forming on his forehead, and taps out a quick response, sighing again as he stuffs the phone into his pocket. “I have to go,” he says, standing and sticking out a hand toward Sherlock. Sherlock ignores it and pushes himself to his feet, trying to tamp down the bitter disappointment welling up inside of him. He’s annoyed at Mary for interrupting, annoyed at John for letting her, annoyed at himself for hoping that this could have turned into something more. John’s getting married. He’s made his decision. It isn’t Sherlock that he really wants, and it never will be. And Sherlock has to start accepting that.

He turns and walks to the window when John reaches for his coat. He knows he has to let John go, but he can’t watch John leave. He can’t. From behind him, Sherlock can hear John slip on his coat and pull open the door, his footsteps hesitating before he swivels back around. “Sherlock, I…”

Sherlock turns to face him. John is standing in the doorway, looking torn. As much as Sherlock wants to tell him to stay, to beg him if he has to, he knows it isn’t what’s best for John. This is a fantasy. Everything Sherlock wants, everything he allows himself to imagine John could want–it isn’t real. And more importantly, it isn’t what will make John happy. “Go home, John,” he says softly. “You wouldn’t want to keep Mary waiting.” The set of John’s jaw tells Sherlock that he’s warring with himself, trying to decide if he should say what he started to say or if he should just leave. He watches Sherlock, looking for some kind of sign perhaps, something to make the decision for him. Sherlock gives him none, though inside he’s breaking, this fantasy shattering into tiny pieces along with his fragile heart.

Eventually John gives him a sharp nod, and before he can step toward the door again, Sherlock turns back to the window, struggling to maintain his composure as everything crumbles around him. The door snaps closed, and he manages to hold back until he hears John’s feet hit the entryway floor. Unable to stand it any longer, Sherlock throws himself onto the sofa, curling in on himself and letting the tears fall. They run hot and fast down his face, and though he tries to stay silent, a sob breaks through, heavy and harsh as it’s wrenched from his throat, his body trembling with the failing effort to keep in the others threatening to escape. He cries hard and loud, his disappointment and longing and self-loathing and need all pouring from him with every tear. His own pain becomes his sole focus, so he never hears the sound of hurried footsteps on stairs, the click of a door opening, that familiar tread crossing the distance between them. He barely registers the way the sofa dips behind him as someone sits or the gentle pressure of a hip grazing against the small of his back. All he hears and feels and knows is John–John left, John doesn’t want him, John is getting married, John, John, John. Until a voice that sounds as broken as he feels breathes, “Sherlock.”

Why Yuuri needs to ‘end this’ with Viktor

This show never ceases to surprise me.

(Same, Vitya.)

I took a little while to process, but I think I’m good. The end was a lot and definitely had a small existential crisis and questioned everything that every made me happy about this show.  However, after some contemplation I’ve decided I’m ok with it. Actually, I’m really good with it. It makes sense and I’ll explain it below if you’re ready for an essay.

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Bath time

Rating; Once again it’s pretty G rated.

Author; jem-hirano

Original imagine; Imagine having a bubble bath with Loki. Imagine him smiling at you before scooping up some bubbles to form a little butterfly, which he then blows into to give it life with his magic. It flies over to you and lands on your nose before popping, and then Loki kisses you on the nose

Notes/Warning; there aren’t any except that this is only my second imagine so please I hope everyone likes this. Oh and also that some of this sorta hints to something I’ve started writing somewhere else. I hope that doesn’t bother anyone.

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It had been a long day, Loki had taken care of his princely duties—which for him were more mental than physical—and he was exhausted. He hadn’t seen Lolita since the morning, he had told her she couldn’t come along with him like she did every other day. Instead she spent the day with Frigga. He was surprised, when he entered his chambers, that he wasn’t greeted by the young girl. He scowled searching the room for the small devil haired child, expecting her to be hiding from him. When he determined that Lolita was not in the room, he shrugged and headed toward the bathroom that connected to the room.

                It was a large room with gold painted walls, and a bathtub in the center of the room. it was more like an in ground pool than a bathtub, but none the less that’s what its purpose was. Slowly Loki made his way to the large tube and reached for the spigot turning the nozzle to let the hot water flow into it. Usually such a chore would be left to the maids, but Loki didn’t wish to be bothered so he drew his own bath. He filled it with scented oils, flower pedals, and bubbles. Though he wouldn’t admit it, he enjoyed bubble baths.

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