O locks so brown and flowing,
Brushed back so neat and fair.
With side burns of governance
And ends that dance in the air;
Shall never more we see you,
So cropped pixie and short?

Shall never again your bangs be beheld,
Fluttering after derisive snorts?

We miss thee, youthful locks of old,
And entreat thee come again,

Ask we now and ever more:

“Hair and Make Up- the fuck were you thinking?”

more than anything in the world,
this very second,

i want someone leaning over me.

i want someone to wrap themselves around me, to rest their chin on my shoulder and pull me back against them;

i want an arm around my ribs and legs on either side of mine and a sweet tune hummed in my ears;

i want ticklish nuzzling kisses pressed under my ears and a thumb soothingly tracing my collarbone;

i want contented sighs kissing against my jaw, fluttering over my neck;

i want peaceful, heavy but content silences with all the words that don’t need to be said and i want it for hours;

i want solid heat and steadfast companionship.

more than sex,

i want love.

tiptoe39:

cyprith:

i like this. except for the gif. it freaks me out.

do it. :)

or two sentences. 500. Idk. Whatever I feel.

Tony worries at the inside of his cheek, muscles in his jaw working in quick beats as Steve watches on. He studies the broken repulsor in his hands, turns it over and around and about with an intense look, brows dipping and etching the lines around his eyes deeper.

He looks like he’s trying to figure out a Millennium problem in his head. Steve waits.

Tony thinking about an answer is rare enough, and this question in particular needed all the patience Steve can give him.

“If you can’t laugh,” Tony finally starts, glancing up with serious eyes, “then you have to cry. I’m done crying, Cap.”

“And it’s really hard to make a plan to get out when you have tears you’re trying to see through,” Tony concludes, snapping the power cord out from the reactor and getting up. Steve follows him with his eyes, not quite willing to break the intimate seriousness his question- is everything actually a joke for you?- had inadvertently conjured.

“And- Cap? Making plans is pretty much the only thing I do.”

winzler:

Feelsing all over the place now.

_{Just so you’re aware- I hate you. I should be in bed.}

“Sparks and circuits, Tron,” Ram whispers, horrified and guilty and some tangled up compilation of secondary subrutines that he’s noticbly missing index files for. “What’d they do to you?”

Tron smiles, a movement that only barely fits the parameters of the word before opening his mouth.

And closing it. And opening it again.

“G-ȯ͙̥̖̠̭͓ͮ͋͠o̦̫̱̟̬͙͍̺̒͑ͩ̂̎̊͂́ͅd͍̠̠̭͇̝̦͖ͨ̓͛̐̈́̃͑ to ̓͟͞҉̯̹̪̖̤s̩̮̑ͥ̈́̈́͊ͮ́͟ee you,̡̝͈͖̙ͮ̒ͪ̈́̽͜[[͔͚̝̪͙͈̾RA͍̥̰̯̼̥̋̓͌̉̊́͘͜M̴̶̹͉̏͂̈́̐̇̒]̢̗̬̖̖͉͍͈̩̿̈́͒͐ͭ̈́̌͜͢.”

Ram pauses, processing. But no, Tron had-

“Tron?”

Tron smiles again, sadly. Twists so Ram can see the scar of corrupted pixels spiking up like the malignant code it was.

“How did- [abort] Why didn’t your- [abort].” Ram pauses, takes one long, careful look at Tron, and asks the right question.

“Where’s your User?”

Tron smiles again and cups the side of Ram’s face tenderly, like- Like Tron.

“Į̗̬̼̟͈͍͕̃͋͝ͅṯ̥̝̪̜͂ͭ͒ͧ̾̽̀͢’̴͉̼̦̗̳̘̩̬͕̎̓̄͛̎̊ͬs̵̡̘͚͈̹̱̠͑̄͑͂͞ g͐̋̔͏̵͚͍̖̼̟̙̤ͅo̰͓͎̩̠̙͇̻̗̾ͯ͐̐ͫͮͩ̐̀͟͝od ̀ͮ̐̿́҉͇̙͉̜̮̤̫t̷̹͋ͩ͌̆̍̈̈́̈́o͛͏̫̯̜͇ ̲͙̭̥̠̜͎̜́͋̽ͧ̋̉s̡̡̗̟͖̺̪ͭͯ̐eé̢̙̺͒̒̃̃̈͊͋͋ ͙̮͚̺̤̠̔̊͡ŷ̸̶̗̣̹̖͈̖̦̾͛ͅo̢͕̺ͩ̋ͭ̀ͪu͈̫̣̗̣̪ͯ̔̀.”

1. He feels twitchy on the ground- especially if there are tall/taller buildings around.

Maybe it’s a leftover from the circus, maybe it’s just a ‘line of sight’ thing, but the back of his neck hums if he knows there’s the opportunity to be higher up than everyone else and he isn’t taking it.

“Stop!” Thor gasps, arms reaching out for his brother. “Loki, Loki, cease. It is done.”

“No, no!” Loki shouts, pouring more magic into the still form clutched to his chest. “No, Eltheid, no. No.”

“Brother, Loki- please,” Thor whispers, drawing him in, closer, curling around him, around them both.

“He’s not gone wake up Eltheid not-,” in his arms, Loki’s breath breaks and he curls around the still form. Thor presses his forehead between Loki’s shoulders, eyes squeezed shut and his heart is breaking for his brother just as much as for their son. The son Loki doted on, praised and trained to Thor’s delight and pleasure. Thor holds the broken pieces of his family as Loki gasps and shudders beneath him.

When Loki is still and silent but for the odd gasping breath, Thor gentles and soothes until his brother lets the body be taken away to be cleansed and readied.He leads them to their rooms, Loki quiet and subdued in his grasp and he’s grateful they meet no one on the short trip.

He closes the door behind him carefully, methodically, and he removes Loki’s helm, his own. He removes armor and sets aside Mjolnir, strips them down to their under armor.

With delicate care, he places the last piece- Loki’s right bracer- in it’s place and turns back to his brother.

Loki stands where Thor put him, hunched in on himself and smaller than he should ever be.

Loki looks up from the floor, eyes lost and broken and Thor is already crossing the chamber when Loki asks, “What do we do?”

Thor doesn’t know.

“Why?”

Thor squeezes his eyes around tears, clutches his brother closer.

He has no answers.

“Why?”

(Source: pootles, via helevingnes)

beingacliche:

rangerkimmy:

#can you imagine if we left these 4 guys alone in the top floor of stark tower for like a month #or even just a week #SHIT WOULD GET DONE #we’d probably have interstellar travel in 3 days

#to be honest they probably wouldn’t get much done #they’d be too busy bonding over how much fun science is #and having sleepovers and doing each other’s hair 

Ok, okay here’s how it goes (bastardizing canon, ahoy):
(edit): Now officially reposted on AO3 as Tony Would Like to Register a Protest (With Captain Rodgers’ Ass).

Because Tony’s a nice person (and Steve’s an utter ass, no really, you have no idea) he lets the Avengers move in. It’s not like he needs the space, hello mansion, and Bruce and Cap really don’t have anywhere that’s not stamped SHIELD to stay anyway. And after Spiderman joins, it’s just easier to move Peter and MJ and Aunt May in with them.

Because the Kingpin’s kinda an ass and kinda a poser, but the man’s got reach, okay and Tony doesn’t have a family, not really, but he knows what it’s like to lose something and he doesn’t want that for the Parkers.

And, really, the kid’s a genius. Setting him up with his own corner of one of the genetics labs in Stark Tower is just good business, honest. If Peter ever actually takes him up on that job offer.

In the meantime, Bruce blows up a few tables, Hulk smashes some more, no one’s really sure what happened to the spectrometer but neither of the two of them are saying anything about it, and some Awesome Shit gets made. Between the three of them, and a Dr Conners who pops in to consult for the neurological bits, they manage to have a stable visual prosthetic prototype to help blind-from-birth people see. In a month and a half.

So, Tony awesome, right?

You following?

Good, the next bit is even easier:

Steve Rodgers is an utter ass.

Here’s how it goes:

Reed Richards is a self-absorbed, frigid bastard, and Tony is totally the one to ask. He’s completely read up on the subject, did his dissertation in ‘cold shoulder and brush offs’ and has ‘narcissistic control freak’ on his business cards (after ‘genius’, ‘billionaire’, ‘playboy’ and ‘philanthropist’. Pepper had thought it was amusing but hadn’t made him fix it. He still uses them occasionally, paper and all). Tony totally has the PhD in this.

Richards? Bastard.

So, when Tony hears how one of Hammer’s little pathetic attempts at a robot minion trashed the Fantastic Four’s labs, Tony’s not doing a little sadistic smirk. Oh no.

No- see, Tony?

Tony puts on his tube socks, his Ray-Bans, one of Steve’s white dress shirts, blares some good ACDC and dances. Oh, he totally shakes that.

Bruce laughs so hard, he clutches his sides and falls off the couch, Clint rolls his eyes and rolls right past the living room (probably to raid the freezer for the last of the peanut butter ice cream). Steve, though?

Steve tilts his head to the ceiling, puts a hand over his eyes in exasperation and tells Tony- Tells Tony- that Richards had requested housing and assistance from SHIELD until the rebuild was completed in exchange for something, something, quantum-shield, something blah.

See how that went? Yeah, that’s about what it sounded like to Tony, too, because he got distracted by Steve following it up by admitting he’d volunteered the Tower for the purpose.

Suddenly, dancing in your underwear wasn’t nearly as fun.

Suddenly, Tony has to actually think about- actually think about- the logistics of hosting the fucking Richards and fucking Johnny fucking Storm on his property. Fuck his life.

(Ben Grimm was fine. Ben Grimm was awesome. Like a politer, slightly smaller, but more gravely red Hulk. No science. No rouge experiments that blew up a building, Jesus Christ, Richards.)

Fuck.

But half his problem is actually taken care of by his resident spider-geek, and they seem to be getting along stupidly well and Tony’s so going to have to sit the kid down after the sleepover and lay some ground rules like ‘not listening to a fucking thing out of Storm’s mouth, he is the king of property damage, okay and I like, and you like, the labs whole, in one piece and not missing vital components, alright, fine, you get this?’ (Maybe he’ll make Steve do it.)

And, okay, Sue is fine (oh boy is she ever) so he doesn’t have to worry about his labs with her, but that still leaves Richards floating around.

Tony would completely give him a broom closet and a cot and lock him out of all the labs in spite, but there are chemicals in the broom closets. Tony knows better.

So, instead, Tony gives him one of the isolated, pretty unused (really dusty) labs and sticks a cot down there. (He blinks innocently at Sue when she gives him a Look, because of course Richards- Reed- would much rather be on hand in case a data run finished so he could get right back to it, seriously. Tony tried not to gag when Richards looked pleased at this and nodded along with his explanation.)

Then Tony proceeds to not come out of his workshop for a week.

He’s not hiding (shut up, Clint.)

There are important upgrades that he needs to put into Iron Man (shut up, Clint.)

He doesn’t intend to forget meals until way past when everyone else (ok, almost everyone else) is already asleep (fuck you, Clint, and the fucking dick you rode in on.)

Finally- it might be Thursday- Steve lets himself into Tony’s workshop. Captain America and Thor have been requested on Asgard. Political, something something, make nice, happy gods, something blah.

Basically, they’re leaving him alone. With Reed Richards.

For a week.

Someone hates him.

Someone seriously hates him and has it in for his mental and penal health.

No. No, he is an adult, not a very mature one but an adult and he’s done board meetings and stockholder meetings and press conferences (although, those admittedly do not go as well for him. Historically.) He can do this.

He wasn’t expecting the surprise attack. (But he should’ve been, because Reed fucking Richards and that, that right there is enough of a reason to fill a bucketful of reasons.)

But how hard can it be to kill pinkish, purple goo?

Do not answer that.

Whatever you do, don’t answer that.

In fact, just- don’t mention that entire week again, okay? Because Tony? Tony’s about had it.

Johnny Storm and Reed Richards and a month and his Tower and Steve and Tony’s done. He’s just done and pink slime on top of that?

No.

Just done.

But…

Ugh, Okay, Richards might’ve, might’ve saved his life. A tiny bit. Just a little. A micron’s worth or so. Not a lot.

Because he hadn’t been in the suit when the thing first showed up and swallowed him whole.

Because Hammer was a persistent bastard and also imminently stupid.

And about to be in a whole lot more pain.

(How sending a blob of semi-sentient pink goo to get the Iron Man counts as a well-thought out and technical plan, Tony can’t figure. Then again, Hammer=stupid. It’s a theorem he’s worked with for years now, and he’s found it particularly effective.)

(Poor bastard probably needs to get laid.)

The celebratory, (mandatory, Richards) after-battle drinking binge is a lot less fun without Thor, but hey, you work with what you got. Johnny’s got a surprising repertoire of drinking games stored up in that noggin, and fewer scruples (and desire to touch expensive, delicate equipment) when plastered. It’s also refreshing to be able to drink someone other than Clint or Banner under the table. (Bruce is an adorable, cuddly teetotaler.)

The truly awesome bit comes the morning after, where Richards is up bright and early. Tony doesn’t stumble down for a few hours, but he can tell (mostly by the way the frying pan is washed and the coffee is already lukewarm.)

No hangover. Richards- Okay, that is unfair.

And Tony’s completely ready to hate him even more when Richards stretches (that will always be creepy, Richards) a small, silverish and pink pill at him.

“For your head.”

God, how can anyone be that earnest in the mor-

Holy fuck.

Richards- Reed has a hangover cure.

“Oh my god, I think I love you.”

Reed’s lips quirk in confusion, but he thanks Tony before going back to the pad and- his emails.

Hm.

“You know, I have a more sophisticated spam blocker and an email filter program that makes Outlook look like something dreamed up by a demented child.”

Huh. Totally didn’t mean to say that, but, you know, whatever.

It’s true.

So Tony informally spends the rest of his hangover-free day installing software for Reed and bickering good-naturedly about the feasibility of arc reactor production on a large scale. There might be puns involved.

And a conversation about Starbucks. And not the coffee.

(Okay, first impression might’ve been a little. Off.)

When Steve gets back with Thor, he expresses his effusive disbelief at Reed’s continued existence.

Peter, the little shit, opens his mouth- and his doom- with ” Oh, no. It was cool. Well, about ten minutes after you left, Tony hid in his room for- well, until the gay-goo attacked. Then they went at it like school girls. I think someone actually used the words ‘that colour is horrible with your skin tone, you’re completely a Winter.’”

Tony’s going to reprogram his room to nothing but show tunes.

Then he remembers what MJ does.

Damn. Okay, maybe Lambchops?

He’ll figure out.

(Source: lucasbryants, via emberfiredrake)

hotrodngold:

So.

I have some free time, and a cap_ironman bingo card.

Let’s have some fun! :D

Here’s a list of the prompts I’m considering:

• Canon: Avengers: Earth’s Mightiest Heroes
• Kink: Rimming
• Curtain fic
• Art: Black and white
• Kink: Multiple orgasms
• Established Relationship
• Marriage Proposals

 Votes?

I have one for curtain fic, and two for proposals. The proposal fic is started (Tony ran off and is being the teeniest bit dense, at the moment, so we’re on schedule) and I’m searching for a suitable start for the curtain fic.

I don’t want it to be too ridiculous, you know.

#What am I saying this is Marvel #We live on ridiculous

So.

I have some free time, and a cap_ironman bingo card.

Let’s have some fun! :D

Here’s a list of the prompts I’m considering:

• Canon: Avengers: Earth’s Mightiest Heroes
• Kink: Rimming
• Curtain fic
• Art: Black and white
• Kink: Multiple orgasms
• Established Relationship
• Marriage Proposals

 Votes?

So, yes, this is a consent-play fic, so read with caution because I’ve warned and anything after is at your own peril. Also a bit of hinting at past, off-screen sexual assault but completely vague.

John waits until the door of their rooms shuts, Sherlock three energetic steps and an enthusiastic ‘John!’ ringing through the flat before he moves.

It takes him seconds, quick, brutal, efficient. Arm under the chin, around the throat, pressure-

He’s silent for a moment, looking out over the Thames, squinting against the bitter winter wind.

When he does speak, it’s not the expected question, but Sherlock answers it anyway.

“He’ll be upset.”

“Yes.”

“He’ll hate you,” Lestrade points out.

Sherlock can’t help the small smile that flits across his lips. “Yes.” At least its appropriately self-derogatory.

“He’ll hate me,” Lestrade mutters, hunching down further into his jacket either against the wind or- no, there, the slight frown. Against the idea, then.

And Sherlock laughs. Chuckles, “no he won’t.”

Lestrade smiles sadly, shakes his head ruefully, barks out a laugh. “No, he won’t.”

“You’ll do it, then?” Sherlock asks, though he knows the answer already. He knows the answer and how much this will hurt (both of them- all three of them), but he has no one else to ask and Greg is possibly the last person anyone would believe to be involved.

Lestrade shuffles, hunches further (cold, this time). Looks up across the Thames and then further up. Stares at the stars.

“Yeah. I’ll do it.”

Sherlock smiles, sad and slow.

To be alone once more…

reapersun:

it’s been awhile~

John’s mouth at his neck, wet open kisses and Sherlock tips his head back, breath sharp and fast drawn in through his nose. He cups a hand over John’s ass, just below the small dimple, kneading and uses his other to nudge John’s shirt up.

It’s been awhile.

But no, no thinking of that. Not now. Not now that he has John warm and moving and here, in his arms. Finally.

The leather of the chair creaks under John’s grip, ringing alongside the sharp puffs of breath and Sherlock draws John closer so-

Sherlock pauses the same moment the breaths against his shoulder catch, hitch. He doesn’t move, head up, neck exposed, his hands cradling John, doesn’t shift his arousal away from John’s obvious lack of one. He doesn’t shift at the first drop of wetness against his neck or the second.

He only moves when John’s body starts shuddering from more than gasps of air.

Arms come up, wrap around John, cradle him close. He couldn’t be there for three years, could help or comfort. Couldn’t heal the hole he made.

Sherlock rubs the heels of his palms over John’s back, holds him tight and tucks his head into the crook of John’s neck.

He whispers.

“I’m sorry… I’m sorry… I’m so sorry…”

(via cautionzombies)

toestastegood-fic:

Sherlock isn’t the only one who likes to watch from the shadows.

Moriarty keeps his distance. He’s aware that Sherlock is out there somewhere: neither one of them is lax enough to allow a little confrontation like the one on the roof to be their final end. Moriarty would have been highly disappointed if it had ended like that.

Nobody has appeared to have told John that, however. He’s still moping about and sulking in his therapist’s office once a week. Such a shame - such a waste.

It seems natural to put him out of his misery.

And it’s so easy to let himself into John’s new flat. Hardly any security at all, and it isn’t as if a bolt or a chain has been invented that could keep him out. He spends his time while he’s waiting going through John’s things: so many pointless and dull belongings, yet none of it feels real to him. Moriarty feels as if he’s standing in the middle of a manufactured room. This isn’t where John Watson belongs, not the real one. Not the one who had held himself together while there was a bomb laced around his chest, or the one who had met his gaze in court with nothing short of stern disapproval.

The John that lives in this flat is an empty shell. Moriarty thinks that it’s long past time he was brought back to life.

When he hears the sound of John’s approach he settles down in the armchair and grins. The grin only widens when John steps in the door.

His shopping bags fall to the ground immediately. Smashed eggs and crushed bread. It’s all rather dramatic.

And then, most delightfully, John pulls out his faithful gun. “You’re dead,” John states, blank and certain. “What’s going on?”

Moriarty hasn’t had this much fun in years.

“The whole ‘being dead’ thing isn’t nearly as entertaining as you’d think,” Moriarty drawls. “I thought it was time to crawl out of the woodwork.”

“Crawl back,” John says. “Haven’t you done enough damage already?”

He really doesn’t know, Moriarty concludes. Sherlock really has kept him in the dark all this time. So much for friendship. So much for love.

John stares at him, his aim with his gun steady and true; right at the heart. Moriarty takes a breath, grins, and relishes the moment as he says, “Sherlock isn’t dead.”

John swallows and continues to stare at him, breathing heavily through his nose. Moriarty can practically see the wheels turning in his little mind, as he tries to put everything together. It’s like watching someone fall in slow motion. Nearly as funny too.

“Why don’t you and I join forces and smoke him out?” Moriarty suggests.

John’s eyes narrow. “Why would you want to do that?”

“Maybe I feel like joining the side of the angels for once,” Moriarty says. He breaks into a grin. “Or maybe I’ve decided that the world is a little more interesting with him in it.”

Maybe he feels like having the sidekick for once and going on adventures; maybe he wants to have what Sherlock had, someone to look up at him and admire his genius. What is life without an audience? Sometimes ordinary people could have their uses, and John was so very perfectly ordinary.

Moriarty has played a lot of roles in his life. He doubts that any of them will be quite as fun as playing at being Sherlock.

John’s not ordinary.

That’s the first mistake James Moriarty makes and Mycroft watches his brother’s greatest enemy in his brother’s flat taunting his brother’s friend.

He can see the thought on Moriarty’s face, the “this will be so much fun- he’ll be so easy to yank about and marionette and if the game ends and I’ve won him- well, wouldn’t that just be swell?” But Moriarty’s wrong on two counts, because it won’t be easy. John’s spent nearly two years with Sherlock Holmes and his own peculiarities make him interesting enough before adding Sherlock’s influence.

John’s amazing.

He may be ordinary, but part of what makes him amazing is how he’s really not.

John is loyal. John is loyal to a fault, to murder, to leaping off tall things and into darkness simply on his brother’s word. John will never betray Sherlock.

It’s what he and Sherlock were counting on.

He and Sherlock were counting on it, and now four months after his brother gave up everything important to him, he’s sitting in a very posh office watching his brother’s “murderer” get close enough to touch John, get close enough to bait him and he’ll have someone’s head for not paying closer attention to the feed.

Moriarty should never have gotten this close. Nowhere near this close.

He’ll have someone’s dick.

‘Sorry, what?’ John’s voice comes through small and flat from the desktop speakers, but Mycroft makes no move to adjust them.

His eyes are focused on John’s hand as it slides under the edge of his jacket.

He leans forward, eyes intent on Moriarty’s face as the doctor slides the gun free, kicks the door shut behind him and locks it one-handed.

He stares and watches the expression Moriarty puts on and then deeper, past it, unblinking when John steps to the desk, gun still on the Consulting Criminal, opens the drawer and-

Mycroft draws in a breath.

Someone’s getting skinned.

John delicately sets the bomb on top of the desk.

Mycroft sits, watching a live feed of his brother’s flat where his brother’s greatest enemy sits with a gun at his head while a bomb blinks a cheerful red light at the man Sherlock had made him swear to protect.

John doesn’t turn his head from Moriarty when he reaches into his trousers and draws free a knife. He flips it open one-handed, glances quickly down at the bomb before locking eyes with Moriarty again. He reaches down and cuts a single wire.

The red light goes out.

‘Well,’ Moriarty smiles, loose and pleasant, ‘That was-’

But John doesn’t pay any attention, simply turns the bomb over with the flat of the blade and cuts another two wires.

Mycroft doesn’t realise he still is watching Moriarty’s face until the emotions snap off it. The skin at the corners of his eyes is tighter.

Mycroft spares a small, grim smile.

‘The Yarders let me look over the bombings case,’ John’s reply seems obvious, but then he was no genius. Not ordinary, but still felt the need to spell things out.

It is one of the things that fascinate Sherlock so.

The smile is back on Moriarty’s face.

‘Just a little insurance,’ he smiles, then tilts his head back and forth, as if vacillating between two possibilities, ‘Didn’t know if you were going to shoot me when you first saw me or not.’

‘I’d’ve gone with “yes”,’ John says and takes a step toward the kitchen.

Moriarty smiles and John makes a quick look about, ‘No more ‘insurance’ hanging about?’

‘No,’ Moriarty drawls, ‘I really do want you and your bloggee in one piece, you know.’

‘I doubt that,’ the microphones barely pick up John’s murmur but Moriarty’s smile flashes wider.

‘Well, you are right about that, John.’ The smile flashes predatory for a moment. ‘The game will have to end some time.’

‘But for now you’ll play the part of the muzzled dog so you can trick me into- What? What exactly are you after?’ John shakes his head, forehead creasing in confusion and frustration.

‘I told you,’ Moriarty says it slowly, as if doubting John’s ability to translate, ‘Sherlock. Holmes. I want him back to his old tricks.’

‘Yes, no, I heard you.’ John glances suspiciously over his shoulder and into the kitchen before settling his eyes back on Moriarty. ‘I’m just wondering when the sense is going to come back to the conversation? Sherlock Holmes i-’ Mycroft hears the hitch, notes the pause, even as he watches Moriarty note the same thing, ‘- is dead.’

‘Aaand, maybe you’re just not paying atteeention,’ Moriarty sing-songs back, ‘Sherlock Holmes is alive.’

‘Stop- would you just- stop it,’ John barks. ‘Stop saying that.’

‘Why? It’s true,’ Moriarty shrugs, eyes widening and glancing down as if he really wanted to say “oops, my mistake”.

‘Just-,’ John runs a hand over his brow and Mycroft tenses. Stupid mistake, he thinks. But Moriarty shifts slightly, and the gun still tracks the movement.

‘Just figuring, for a second- just one second- that you’re right, why should I help you?’ John drops his hand and Mycroft’s heart sinks. The look of dejection he finds there is not heartening at all.

‘Why, John,’ Moriarty purrs, ‘supposing I’m right?’

John opens his mouth, anger furrowing his brow, but Moriarty continues before he can get a word out.

‘Supposing I’m right,’ he pauses with a meaningful glance at John, ‘well, we’re going to play a little game.’

Moriarty drops finger tips to the arm of the chair, walking them over the surface before stroking swirls in patterns.

‘I’ll tell you when and where, and you’ll show up,’ Moriarty glances up at John and Mycroft tenses again, ‘with that.’ He nods to the pistol in John’s hands.

John glances down at the gun. He pauses for a long moment.

‘And if I don’t?’ He raises his head, stares at Moriarty.

‘Well.’ Moriarty smiles, serene and threatening and slightly mad at the edges, ‘Then I suppose the game is over and I can proceed hunt down our favourite Consulting Detective.’

Moriarty rises from the chair in one graceful move and heads toward the door. John backs away, keeping at least three steps between himself and the mastermind, gun never wavering.

Moriarty pauses when he reaches the threshold, one hand on the open door’s knob. He turns back around and- continuing his previous thought- says ‘And gut him one organ at a time’ with that same chilly smile.

The door clicks quietly behind him.

John pauses, eerily still for a moment before he lets out a shaky breath and sinks heavily into his chair.

Then-

Mycroft blinks again, startled.

John’s staring intently right at the camera.

Slowly and with an affected air of weariness he says ‘God, I need help. I feel like I’m falling.’

A chuckle that doesn’t reach his expression, ‘Again.’

He’s still staring at the camera and Mycroft spares a moment to wonder again at this man.

‘Message received, Dr. Watson,’ Mycroft murmurs, already reaching for the button to page his assistant.

While he watches, John rises from his seat, casts a wary glance at the diffused bomb and heads down the stairs.

While he’s making his first phone call, John convinces Mrs. Hudson to go out for the day, smoothly talking her into a coat and asking her, as long as she was going shopping for her own, if she wouldn’t mind stopping by the grocery for milk and eggs for him as well.

-

Two hours later, Mycroft Holmes walks up to Dr John Watson on the top of St Bart’s.

‘You’re late,’ John greets him, eyes strangely cool.

‘I believe there was something that needing taking care of at your flat,’ Mycroft replies.

John gives him a loaded look, mouth crimping slightly at the corners, ‘I didn’t think it would take Mycroft Holmes two hours to get a bomb disposal unit in London.’

Mycroft nods in acknowledgement of even the backhanded compliment, ‘I’m sure you’ll agree that discretion really is the best form of valor, particularly in these circumstances.’

John’s mouth tightens further as he turns to look out at the city. ‘I would just like to point out that this world you Holmes’ live in is completely bat shit.’

Mycroft smiles slightly, ‘So noted, doctor.’

They both stare across the skyline for a time, John obviously lost in thought beside him, as Mycroft fights the urge to tell him everything. It didn’t use to be so hard to lie, and suddenly he wonders if that, too, is another thing that fascinates Sherlock about John Watson.

‘He’s coming back. Right?’

Mycroft spares a fleeting moment of sadness, because he knows that if Sherlock never returns, John will still be faithful.

John keeps staring out at the skyline, even as the silence stretches.

Eventually he sighs, glances down at the rooftop and scuffs grit with his shoe.

‘I’m going to tell him yes, you kno- what’m I saying, of course you know,’ John sighs and rubs a hand through his hair roughly before dragging the palm over his face. ‘Anyway, might be nice if you found a way to keep a closer eye on me. I doubt I can fool him for long, even if I had a choice, but I can, maybe, keep him a little distracted?’

He raises eyes to Mycroft’s own, ‘Give you two time to do…’ he waves a hand, ‘-whatever the hell it is you do.’

Mycroft turns back out to the city. ‘Yes, Dr. Watson, that would be more than sufficient on your part.’

Because he could forbid John to help, or participate. He could have Moriarty quietly disposed of, but the point of the entire exercise is to get Moriarty to keep pulling on strings so they can find him. If the lines don’t get tugged upon, they can’t be entirely sure they’ve gotten them all.

Sherlock may never forgive him for this, but Moriarty’s survival was rated at less than 1 per-cent in their second outline and nearly 34 in their first. As much as it pains him to say it, Mycroft hadn’t seen this particular set of events unfolding.

‘Good,’ John nods, glancing back towards the stairs. ‘I’d… I’d appreciate any literature you might have on bombs? Or IEDs- my skill set in that area ends at removing already-detonated pieces from bodies.’

Well. Mycroft smiles morbidly. ‘It’ll be in the post within the day,’ he says. At least John’s trying to prepare. He doesn’t think it would be a comfort to tell him there’s no point- Moriarty won’t make such a route explosive again.

But, he supposes on further reflection, at least it will give John something else to think about.

John nods, turns to leave, but Mycroft reaches out, pulls gently at his arm. John turns back around slowly, question forming on his lips.

Mycroft kisses him

A small, innocent press of lips against his right cheek.

As John blinks up at him in confusion, Mycroft smiles. He knows it’s slightly sad, because he made it that way, but the pleasure at seeing John so flummoxed is completely natural.

‘Thank you,’ he says, firmly. ‘I know you don’t have to do this. But thank you nonetheless, John.’

‘I, yes, I,’ John stops and squints at him. ‘You’re not-’

Mycroft fights off a furiously amused smile, ‘Rest assured, Dr Watson, you are far too male for my tastes.’

‘But still,’ he darts in and presses another kiss to John’s cheek as fast as he can before releasing John and stepping back, ‘thank you.’

[Round Robbin, anyone?]

(Source: howevermanywords, via toestastegood)

krystalicekitsu:

alovething:

AU Meme: Sam&Dean as spies with Castiel as their handler

“Copy that, Huggybear.”

um. yes please.

It wasn’t the first time they’ve failed a job.

It might’ve been the worst.

Dean can hear Cas, their handler, through his earwig, predictably wigging out, “—ever seen. I swear you have nothing better to do than make my life a living hell- why in the world would you ever give a civilian your legal? That’s what we gave you aliases for, you assbutts—”

“Yeah, yeah, chill it, Feathers-”

“That’s ArchangelOne to you, you dick-”

“-it’s not like I screwed the mission on purpose. I didn’t think anyone from my old school would recognize me, let alone be at some posh gig like this.” Dean yanks at his bowtie, scowling before Sam’s hands slap his away and get to untangling the knot.

ArchangelOne is still yammering in his ear and with a grimace, he pulls out the earbud, killing the feed.

Sam huffs, still concentrating on Dean’s tie.

“No, Archangel, he’s not listening. Well, I don’t know, maybe it had something to do with your blaming us for a ridiculous turn of fate that no one, save maybe God, could’ve predicted. No, I’m not telling him that. Or that.”

Sam finishes with the tie and yanks it off, his face flat and tight. Must really be pissed, Dean thinks, if Mr. Masks isn’t putting on a pleasant face.

“Look, if you two want to continue your petty, married spat, that’s fine, but don’t make me your go-between.”

They both buckle up, the old Impala offering them a relatively safe form of transport, both sturdy in it’s steel frame, and blessedly free of any sort of advanced computer system that could be monitored or tracked. Dean starts up the car and pulls out without a word, the further tightening around Sam’s eyes showing his distaste at whatever Cas is still ranting about until his face falls completely blank.

“Dean. Dean, put in your ‘bud,” Sam says, smacking his brother with the back of a hand.

“Ok, ok, jeeze, gimme a second,” Dean pulls over and fishes in his suit jacket for the earbud.

When he puts it in, it’s to the sound of a radio news broadcast, “—and reports are still pouring in from the sight of the devastation, though deaths already number in the hundreds. Again, for those of you just tuning in, a bomb has been detonated in downtown LA. So far, no claim of responsibility or demands have been sent, though there are already FBI and FEMA agents on scene armed with ultrasound scanners and—”

There’s silence from the other end of the line before Cas’ voice comes over, clipped and tense.

“ArchangelTrue is calling all agents back to base. There’s a plane at McKinley fueled up and waiting for you. Come back now, KansasOne, Two.”

“ArchangelOne…” Dean hesitates, but Cas must anticipate because he offers up a short phrase before signing off.

“…Preliminary reports indicate it might’ve been Lucifer Inc.”

Beside him, Sam crumples forward, cupping his head in his hands.

Dean swallows.

Adam.

“Hello, Dean.”

Dean turns around slowly. Sam isn’t supposed to be here. Sam’s supposed to be across town, distracting their target for another three hours.

But then, when he turns around, the Sam before him isn’t really Sam.

“Took you long enough,” Sam says, mouth quirking up in a darkly sardonic smile, “But then, I was always better at security.”

“Sam…” Dean backs slowly away from the desk, wary of the gun in his brother’s hand- confused by the gun in his brother’s hand, but not stupid. They’d both been trained that you aim a gun with the intent to shoot and nothing else. Sam was going to pull the trigger, it was just a question of where the bullet came to rest.

“What’re you doing here? If Johnson got away, you were supposed to radio in to Archangel so we could arrang-“

Dean stops mid-word at the bullet that goes skipping past his ear. Sam just-

“Sam?” Sam just-

Sam just.

“Dean?” Sam mocks. “What, you and Archangel never saw this coming? Really. You never had one hint,” Sam stalks further into the office, eyes flicking for a beat to the window and Dean’s harness, the large mahogany desk behind Dean. “Never considered that there might be someone inside? I didn’t figure you would get it, but not Cas? Not Michael?” Sam spits out their Director’s name like snake venom.

“You never wondered how baby brother was getting so much of everything.” Sam all but purrs the words.

“It was too easy, you know. Everyone overlooked me. Always. You never cared. It was all ‘Oh, Sam. He’s so nice’ or ‘Oh, Sam. He’s so good, so perfect, such a good little fucking soldier’!” The light in his brother’s eyes was nearly feral, and Dean began slowly backing away, back to the harness. If he could just get Sam out, get him back to HQ then maybe…

Maybe what?

Dean had no idea, but one thing at a time and getting Sam away from the gun and down nineteen stories would be hard enough without worrying past that.

“You never looked at me for me. Never! Do you have any idea what that’s like, Dean? Dean, Everybody’s Favorite? So while you were busy all patting me on the head and sending me back to my crate with a biscuit and a ‘good boy’ I found someone who cares about me.”

“Adam,” Dean felt wooden.

“Yeah, Dean. Our brother. He knows a thing or two about being abandoned. Taught me the best thing to do is abandon them right the hell back.”

And, with icy, dead eyes, Sam raised the gun and fired.

_.

Dean stares up at Sam, his brother, harness dangling next to him. He can feel the glass shards piercing his palms and tries to hang on through damaged tendons and ligaments.

Sam stares down at him, one foot peaking over the edge.

Sam stares down at his brother over the barrel of a gun and Dean’s fleeting thought is thankfulness that he won’t have to live with the knowledge of his brother betraying him for very long.

Sam takes aim.

“Sam.”

Dean jerks and almost lets go. A face appears from behind Sam, glances down at him.

Adam.

“Let’s go.”

Sam looks away from Adam and back to Dean. Sam’s eyes lock on his for a frozen moment. Something flickers in their depths-

And then Sam’s gone.

Sam’s gone and Dean can’t feel his hands, can’t reach his radio or his harness even if he could’ve moved his hands to use them.

He feels himself slipping, tries desperately to hang on.

Dean struggles for another grip-

-but-

-falls-

-down-

.

~~~

_{“d-ean ! dean can … hear m … stay wi … … dean “}

_{“dean hold on”}

_{“hold on”}

~~~

Dean wakes four weeks later in a sterilized hospital room. His back aches, his palms are bandaged. He can feel the itch caused by surgery and sutures and steri-strips.

It’s eerily silent compared to his dreams.

He looks to his left, sheets rustling as he turns to the chair Sam alwa-

He squeezes his eyes shut.

“Is it true?” He rasps.

A beat.

“It’s true,” Cas replies.

Dean turns his head away, and weeps.

(via mdmnelson-deactivated20120829)