help none of my friends think rupert graves is attractive
WELL, THEN. YOU NEED TO SIT THEM DOWN SO I CAN EXPLAIN A THING.
RUPERT GRAVES IS A FUCKING ASSHOLE THAT HAS RUINED MY LIFE WITH HIS BEAUTY.
EXHIBIT A: Maurice
HE’S GOT CURLY HAIR AND HE’S GAY AS HELL THE ENTIRE MOVIE AND IT MAKES ME WANT TO BREAK THINGS BECAUSE IT’S SO PERFECT.
EXHIBIT B: A room with a View
HE HAD THE FUCKING NERVE TO GET NAKED AND SPLASH AROUND LIKE IT WOULDN’T KILL US ALL.
EXHIBIT C: Different for girls
I’VE USED THIS GIF A MILLION TIMES BEFORE BECAUSE IT’S SELF EXPLANATORY. ALSO HE RIDES A FUCKING MOTORCYCLE IN THIS MOVIE AND I HAD A HEART ATTACK.
EXHIBIT D: A SPAM OF RUPERT BEING A SILVER GODDAMNED FOX
YOUR FRIENDS
ARE WRONG
FIND NEW ONES
TAYLOR OUT *drops mic*
stephrc79 all but demanded some Stucky porn, so here you go. 😉 Short and to the point:
Bucky didn’t like to admit it, but there was something attractive about Steve wiping the blood from his split lip after yet another alley fight. He wanted to lick it off Steve’s lips and cheek, wanted to pull his friend close and unbutton the shirt that hung too loose on him. Wanted to press him against the alley wall and do so much more. And then he realized the way Steve was watching him.
Steve’s breath was still coming in short little pants. His blue eyes were dark, but it didn’t look like fear. Suddenly Bucky found himself shoved against the wall behind the dumpster, Steve’s hands on <i>his</i> body. The metallic tang of blood as their lips crashed together. Bucky leaned down to return the kiss, but Steve pushed him back harder.
Heart pounding in his chest, Bucky was aware they could be caught at any time. Steve didn’t seem to care, going for Bucky’s belt and yanking his pants down to his thighs before flipping him to face the wall. Bucky braced himself with one arm, his other hand dropping to squeeze his own cock. And then Steve was pushing in. It <i>burned</i>, but Bucky couldn’t care less right then.
After a moment Steve pulled back. Bucky whined softly at the loss. He heard Steve spitting and then pushing back in again. That wasn’t much better. He was going to feel this for a <i>week</i>. Good. Every step he took, he’d remember the cold bricks bruising his arm, the way Steve was pushing deeper inside of him, hot breath against his back. He stroked himself, swearing softly.
It was quick; it had to be. Steve came first, groaning softly against Bucky’s shirt. A few more strokes and Bucky was following him over, spilling against the brick. Steve stayed there a moment longer, then pulled out. Bucky waited until he heard the clang of Steve’s belt being done. Then he got his own pants up. He turned and leaned in to kiss Steve one more time, licking his split lip.
Steve gave him a smile and they headed back into the city.
sherlock and molly going for mani-pedis together before molly’s date with greg and sherlock giving molly unsolicited blowjob tips
#I was expecting something fluffy and I got filth #not that I’m complaining #I can envision this scenario perfectly #what I’m also envisioning is John and Greg doing the exact same thing #but instead of giving advice John just goes on about how good Sherlock is at blowjobs (via willietheplaidjacket )
First
The first time they kiss has nothing of the expected drama about it.
It is months since Mary, since that whole mess had left them both reeling, battered and uncertain in each others company.
Weeks only since the last nightmare had disturbed the relative silence of Baker Street. John’s, that time. A rapid red-tinted cacophony of fire and of precious things falling, fingers clutching at air. A body landing on hardwood had Sherlock hurrying up the stairs to find John hyperventilating in a ball on the floor. Sherlock had knelt beside him, talking in his ear and giving him his voice and his hand, two true things to latch onto.
They had not kissed then.
It’s been days since their last case, running blindly though familiar streets, both of them winded far sooner than they would have been six years ago. A helter-skelter thing that had ended in Sherlock tripping over a stray cat that had gone screeching onto the night, while Sherlock himself had flown cursing into a stagnant puddle that hadn’t borne too close an examination.
John had gone to him, fighting for breath, both because of the chase but also because of the laughter—sputtering and weak as he’d knelt carefully at Sherlock’s side and pressed instinctive fingers into all the usual places.
“Alright?” he had gasped, as Sherlock lay panting in the litter-strewn filth, cursing whenever heaving lungs let him. Sherlock had snarled, a wordless sound of frustration, and snatched at the fingers kneading carefully at his skull.
“Fine,” he’d snapped, even as he’d held those fingers between his own, not quite letting go, John not quite trying to get them back, a point of languid and unintentional contact hanging halfway between them and going nowhere, till the light of the beat sergeant’s torch had extinguished it.
They hadn’t kissed then, either.
No. When they kiss, they are walking.