Tag: queue

erinpaint:

“The Sheath of A Sword” is a Johnlock fanfiction that I liked, please click here to view it if you are interested. Unfortunately, it is only available in Chinese now. I have come up with s series of artworks based on selected scenes from this work.

以下文字版权全属《归剑入鞘》by tangstory 
翻译：papaya_twilight

All rights of the texts belong to “The Sheath of A Sword” by Tangstory.
Translation by papaya_twilight

[0] [1] [2] [3] [4] [5] [6] [7] [8] [9] [10] [11] [12]

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“GOD，总之Sherlock的‘工作’肯定会嫉妒这个的，毕竟它永远长不出一张嘴来跟他接吻……呃，希望不会嫉妒到要跟他离婚的地步……”John胡乱揣测了一下同居人婚姻状况，同时隐约感到自己正在慢慢往下滑，被Sherlock的体重——以及那个该死的完美的吻——压得逐渐躺倒在床上。
但John完全不知道自己的内裤是什么时候被扒下去的——顺便一提某位倒霉的探长也总为自己上一秒还好好呆在西装口袋里，下一秒就不翼而飞的警官证感到困惑不已——直到他们结束了那个漫长的、八成会被Sherlock定性为“无聊的唾液交换行为”的吻。
“GOD, Sherlock’s work must be jealous about this, after all it would never have a mouth to kiss with him…eh, hopefully it won’t be jealous enough to file for a divorce with him… “ John wondered wildly about the marriage status of his flatmate, and faintly felt that he was sliding downwards. He was crushed on the bed by Sherlock’s weight as well as that damn perfect kiss.
Yet John was totally unaware of when he had lost his knickers, by the way, just like one pathetic DI never knows how his badge flew away from his pocket. Till the end, they finished that long kiss, which would have been defined by Sherlock as “boring, meaningless exchange of saliva”.
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Because it’s Friday, please allow me jump over 5 to post 6 🙂
Happy Penis Friday. XD

random-nexus:

mirabilelectu:

sherlockiansforlife:

hungariansherlockian:

pernillo:

SOMETHING GLORIOUS NO DOUBT

 #I need fanfiction #like right now #someone PLEASE WRITE IT

(via imgTumble)

Sunlight had no cause to be that bright, honestly. Not when you were waking up with the worst hangover you’d had in years, a hangover so bad that it nearly matched several of the mornings when he’d woken up covered in his own vomit and delirious from the amount of cocaine he’d injected into his body the night before. To have the sun already causing pain by beating at his closed eyelids simply wasn’t fair, and he was not happy about it.

With a groan, Sherlock rolled over onto his side and pushed himself into a sitting position, his head spinning wildly as he did so. There was a brief moment of panic as it felt like the room would spin out of control and the contents of his stomach would make a sudden appearance all at the same time, but with several deep breaths the moment passed. Sherlock still did not want to open his eyes, did not want to admit to himself that this was happening.

How had this happened, anyway? How on earth had he allowed himself to get into this state again after so many years? His memories of the night before were distressingly scattered, beginning to fall apart around the time the first bottle of champagne had been opened in celebration of successfully catching a murderer that had been at large for twenty years. After that, nothing. Nothing but a blur of colors and snippets of memory that blended together into a picture that made no sense. Because it made no sense for him to vaguely recall a shirt flying into the air, or handcuffs being clumsily dragged out of a bedside drawer. Ridiculous.

Well, there was nothing for it then. If he was to figure out what had happened to him last night – and he would figure it out – he would have to brave the sun and open his eyes. He groaned again as he peeled his eyes open, hating himself more with every millimeter, until he was blinking blearily and looking around his room for clues.

What.

Well that made no sense. Why were there two empty glasses on the floor of his bedroom? And why were John’s trousers carelessly discarded next to the empty bottles as if they had every right to be there. Dawning horror began to work its way into Sherlock’s clouded brain, and his eyes opened wide with shock as he tried to process this information. Headache forgotten, he jumped out of bed and whirled around only to have his worst fears confirmed.

John was in his bed. Or, to put it more accurately, John was handcuffed to his bed, passed out and entirely naked except for the shirt that had not quite made it off his shoulders. The carnage of their night was littered around him – more empty bottles, a bottle of lubricant, empty condom wrappers clearly thrown aside in drunken, careless haste. There was a ring of blood around the handcuff from where John had pulled against the restraint, more blood around his mouth, and nearly countless bruises, bite marks, and scrapes covering his body. Sherlock suddenly felt the sting of the scratch and bite marks covering his shoulders and back, and the soreness of muscles that had not been strenuously used in years. As he looked at John, still blissfully unaware of what he would wake up to, Sherlock felt his mind begin to spin out of control in horror, confusion, and no small amount of remembered arousal.

What the fuck happened last night?

ZOMFG! WOAH!  ART AND FIC?  I NEED MORE!  PLEASE?  WITH… EVERYTHING! ON TOP?

Seconded.  So very very seconded. ^^^