4,100 notes


via: johnlockporn
source: qurre

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qurre:

May I?
Uhhh finishing some doodles…

qurre:

May I?

Uhhh finishing some doodles…

hisinstinctsmyfacts started following you

always-and-never-counted:

“Oh, hello Greg! Good to see you.”

"Hiya Molly, good day then?"

brightlyburningtiger:

hisinstinctsmyfacts answered your question: hisinstinctsmyfacts started following you Hello,…

Politely curious. It’s a professional interest, mostly. Though I’ll admit to vague curiosity regarding your hair styling products.

Never thought of you as a man with an interest in guns. Or with an interest in ex-colonels. I don’t suppose you wax?

On the contrary, I quite like guns, when they’re pointed at things that are not my body nor the bodies of my compatriots.  They make excellent paper weights, for instance. No, though I’m open to suggestions, do, please, continue.

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via: mlajobs
source: mlajobs

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mlajobs:

The College of Virginia’s Universities of Ohio at Cambridge(TM) invites applications for a half-tenured, part-time associate guru in Social Media Studies with a specialty in conveying diversified brand awareness and market-driven concept analytics. Secondary specialties may include but are not limited to: sarcastic references to 90s culture, animated GIFs of Benedict Cumberbatch, scarves inspired by video games, or Homestuck. Applications should have a Klout of 70 or higher and no less than 4000 Karma. Submit at least two (2) pictures of cats (2) doing something that people normally do, along with a photo of patio furniture filtered to totally look like a polaroid from the 70s.

the one and only job for which I am entirely qualified.

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OOC post is OOC

I am failing at replies, guys, I am so very sorry, New Zealand has wildly unreliable internet. I return to the United States Tuesday night, please please yell at me if I owe you.

Greg will buy everyone donuts. And coffee.

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via: bashermoran
source: bashermoran

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hisinstinctsmyfacts started following you

bashermoran:

Inspector. What brings you into these parts of town?

A natural sort of curiosity. And how are you passing your time these days, Mr. Moran?

773 notes


via: sniper-moranarchive
source: lustrade

Reblog

#mmmhmmm   

a-good-old-fashioned-villain:

“I gave hope to man, I have kept no hope for myself.” The pulse of blood under Moriarty’s skin was hotter with every thrust, more tangible, and Lestrade could feel the cool terror seeping through his own skin. His life, he gave willingly, his heart and his blood, but how could he attempt to control this living thing? Jim would never be his, this would never be his to keep, and the thought made him weep and tear at the too-hot skin. 

It wouldn’t be that easy, it couldn’t be, he swore he wouldn’t let it be. Greg stared back up into the eerie grey eyes above him and smiled though the salt, and met him thrust for thrust. Moriarty might think to use him, to wake up and grow and leave, but Greg wasn’t some twopenny whore, and he had no intention of letting go, not that easily. He’d sold his soul for this, he’d be collecting on what he had earned.

Simple enough to push himself up so his cock could rub against Moriarty’s stomach, and clench around the place the ghost was buried inside of him to draw small noises from his stubbled throat. 

“Fuck,” he breathed then, the first word spoken in a good while, in response to the tightening of muscles around - oh, Jesus, no. No, because if this happened, he wouldn’t be able to stop, wouldn’t be able to have it be just a one-time meaningless thing and…no.

But he was already gone, already claiming and claimed, already kept, if only by the betrayal of the body that shuddered and twitched and begged and demanded, though perhaps not by the mind, not in spirit and in truth, and certainly not by the fickle heart trapped within bird-thin chest. No, said the mind, but the body would always say yes, and would push itself in harder, and it did, and all of the skin tingled and burned with the terrible need of this

Yes, that was good, Jim thrusting in just a bit harder, that was what he needed. Greg gave in and gave up and came, shouting, biting off his voice so that he could whisper soundlessly into that perfect little patch of skin. Too quietly to be audible by either of them, he told that skin how much he loved the man wearing it, told it how beautiful and perfect and alive he was, told it how completely he was owned by the heart in his hands. He made promises he refused to think about, and then collapsed back against the bed.

His grip was tighter than before, as if to make up for his moment of weakness, and he held Jim to him as the smaller man rode out his own thrusts. Greg dug in his nails and tensed his thighs and held on for dear life, bracing himself against the inevitable tide shift. He stared upwards, eyes fixed on Jim’s face, waiting breathless to see him as he came apart.  

a-good-old-fashioned-villain:

Being kissed by Moriarty was enough, in and of itself, to drive him mad. Coupled with everything else, with Jim’s body splitting him open and two sets of hands holding them together, it breaks him entirely. Something shifts, and the rational, broken, alcoholic detective is gone, and Greg has no idea what takes up the empty space. He groans into Jim’s mouth and bucks his hips, dragging his nails down Jim’s spine even as he rubs soothing palms over the jut of his hips.

I hate you, you broke me, you killed me, I’m yours.  Whatever he had been before, he gave up, it was as good as dead and buried anyway. Greg’s life was Jim’s blood on his hands—when had his nails gone that deep?—and the aching stretch of his ass and the way he can’t stop leaning up into the kiss. He wanted reassurance, but he wasn’t stupid enough to ask for a cold drink in hell. If this was what he could have, he’d take it and come back happily for seconds, and he was smiling slightly as he leaned up to kiss his new favorite spot next to Jim’s ear, and told that piece of skin he loved it.

Audible groan and the scrape, press, promise, itch, burn, bleed of nails against his skin, in his skin, and the beast that stayed locked up slipped out to play. Eyes grew shadowed, hungry, hips moved faster still, and harder, sharper movements to bring him in up to the hilt, and a conspicuously inhuman sound escaped from the back of his throat. 

But then, Greg was still being gentle, achingly so, and the conflict of man and creature continued as always, a raging battle inside a body too small and too wearied to truly hold it in, and fingers found silvered hair to pull hard, and yes, this, this was the animal he had been born to be, harsh and demanding and tearing things apart, a destructive force of nature, and he grinned his adder’s smile, couldn’t help it, because yes, Lestrade had brought him back to life, but not as the ‘good man’ he probably wanted. Never to be on the side of the angels, forever the half-demon left to wander in his greyscale purgatory.

"I gave hope to man, I have kept no hope for myself." The pulse of blood under Moriarty’s skin was hotter with every thrust, more tangible, and Lestrade could feel the cool terror seeping through his own skin. His life, he gave willingly, his heart and his blood, but how could he attempt to control this living thing? Jim would never be his, this would never be his to keep, and the thought made him weep and tear at the too-hot skin. 

It wouldn’t be that easy, it couldn’t be, he swore he wouldn’t let it be. Greg stared back up into the eerie grey eyes above him and smiled though the salt, and met him thrust for thrust. Moriarty might think to use him, to wake up and grow and leave, but Greg wasn’t some twopenny whore, and he had no intention of letting go, not that easily. He’d sold his soul for this, he’d be collecting on what he had earned.

Simple enough to push himself up so his cock could rub against Moriarty’s stomach, and clench around the place the ghost was buried inside of him to draw small noises from his stubbled throat. 

a-good-old-fashioned-villain:

Greg had been ready for a rough shove, to be slammed into and pulled back out of, just another warm body for this dead man’s entertainment. He’d been so prepared, so braced, mentally and physically, that at first he was at a loss for what to do with this…this gentleness. It sucked the breath from him in a way violence never could, and his eyes were wet as he wrapped his arms around Jim’s shoulders. He exerted no pressure, not trapping him, just holding him there, for the moment, to feel the beautiful pressure of life under his skin.

The stretch was perfect, the fullness made him gasp and rock and whisper endearments. It was like a strange type of translation, he’d said all of these words before, but Moriarty’s very existence seemed to chop them up and spit them out with a whole new meaning. Love you, need you, oh god please Jim, more. He could feel the edges of his former self cracking, ready to reshape his soul around this, singular, man. If he’d had any tears left, he would have wept, instead he kissed Moriarty’s eyebrows, and the space next to his nose, and the tiny wrinkles in the corner of his mouth. 

More, yes, he could do that, could take Greg away from himself and into Jim’s own ribcage, could keep him there, a little chirping bird…yes, he could, and with marks created by lips and teeth pressed to collarbone, to neck, to chest, with quiet whimpers and with increasing the pace at which his hips moved, again he shivered, right down to the very core of that which made up the broken man and the caged beast that twisted together inseparably.

Enough, though, enough speech, because he was quite sure in the part of his mind that was still capable of coherent thought that Lestrade had just whispered something about love, and that…that was not bearable, at least not for the moment. Sentiment is a chemical defect in the losing side, and so he ignored it, instead trapping the lips that insisted on wandering and on spilling out foolishness between, against, within his own. Shut up, you idiot. Shut up. Please. This is difficult enough as it is, and I am not supposed to be human. I am not supposed to feel any of these things, I am supposed to be soulless. Take it. Take this wounded soul from me and bury it.

Being kissed by Moriarty was enough, in and of itself, to drive him mad. Coupled with everything else, with Jim’s body splitting him open and two sets of hands holding them together, it breaks him entirely. Something shifts, and the rational, broken, alcoholic detective is gone, and Greg has no idea what takes up the empty space. He groans into Jim’s mouth and bucks his hips, dragging his nails down Jim’s spine even as he rubs soothing palms over the jut of his hips.

I hate you, you broke me, you killed me, I’m yours.  Whatever he had been before, he gave up, it was as good as dead and buried anyway. Greg’s life was Jim’s blood on his hands—when had his nails gone that deep?—and the aching stretch of his ass and the way he can’t stop leaning up into the kiss. He wanted reassurance, but he wasn’t stupid enough to ask for a cold drink in hell. If this was what he could have, he’d take it and come back happily for seconds, and he was smiling slightly as he leaned up to kiss his new favorite spot next to Jim’s ear, and told that piece of skin he loved it.