The internet will EXPLODE!! I can’t wait!!
PREPARE YOUR GENITALS
An Edit a Day - Benedict Cumberbatch - [382/?]
British Tumblr Posts photoset #2
Want to see more country Photosets?
I’m sorry but this is hilarious
This makes me so proud to be English :’)
Sneak peek of Benedict doing the ice bucket challenge :’D
Oh God, these otters really are special animals aren’t they?
Cate Blanchett (Kaa) joins Benedict Cumberbatch (Shere Khan) and Andy Serkis (Baloo) in “Jungle Book: Origins”.
Second appearance on Nathan Barley, Season1, Episode 3, Benedict Cumberbatch as Robin
The Doctor Who YouTube team might not have had a TARDIS, but they did have a nifty little drone camera, which came in very handy when Peter Capaldi and Jenna Coleman went for a photo shoot at the Christ the Redeemer statue in Rio de Janeiro!
DID SOMEBODY SAY TEEN BALLET!LOCK/RUGBYPLAYER!JOHN??
Okay so I saw this wonderful piece by shootbadcabbies and my hand slipped. Like 12k slipped. But I figure I owe her for all the torment I’ve put her through with My Heart Is True As Steel, plus, look at how cute they are!! So, here is my attempt at ballet!lock/rugby!john. I’ll start at the beginning and then put a link to the rest at the bottom, as well as the top if you click through the title (which is the biggest cliche, I know, but, god help me, I couldn’t help myself).
Pas de Deux
Sherlock looked down at the piece of paper in his hand, a reassuring gesture even though he had already memorized the numbers.
16, 7, 3
He huffed, not quite enough derision left in him for another full-bodied snort. When he had said he wanted to be moved as far away from Andrew Hornigutt as possible, he hadn’t been speaking literally, but the secretary in the office had it out for him ever since he had revealed that her husband was having an affair with the barista at the local coffee shop, so she had simply clicked her red varnish and smacked her red lips and grinned at him with a poisonous promise that it would be taken care of.
Which was how Sherlock Holmes found himself walking to a locker at the very end of the Year 13 corridor in the sixth form section of the secondary school that amounted to a private wing where angels—or at least Year 11s like himself—feared to tread. Not that he was afraid, of course.
He hitched his shoulder bag up a little higher, checking the numbers again. They remained the same: Locker 221, combination 16, 7, 3. Surely it couldn’t be much further. Glancing up to his right, he watched as the odd numbers steadily climbed, focusing on the shifting digits instead of the curious eyes. Finally, he found it, and, after fumbling a bit and having to restart, flung open the black locker door, a small but present barrier between him and the whispers. It wasn’t that he cared what they said, but it did wreak havoc on one’s concentration when mutterings of your name kept pulling you out of your thoughts, and there were certainly plenty of mutterings. No more than usual, however—the typical politically incorrect slurs and jeers—and Sherlock, for the most part, put it out of his mind.
He swung his bag around to the floor in front of him, placing it over his polished shoes. Slowly, he began unloading the little he had needed to move from his old locker, taking care not to accidentally pull out the wrapped bundle as he removed his books.
“Hey,” greeted a voice from just the opposite side of his fortress wall, startling him into dropping the notebooks he had been preparing to stack inside. “Oh, shit, sorry! Didn’t mean to scare ya.”
“You didn’t,” Sherlock muttered, kneeling to the floor to begin gathering the books and scattered papers that had sprung loose from them.
A small chuckle drifted down to him, coming closer as the generator bent beside him on the floor. “So you just make a habit of dropping things when people say hello?”
Sherlock rolled his eyes down at his chemistry homework as he slid the sheet just inside the front cover of the blue notebook. “I find it often discourages further conversation,” he snapped, but the voice only chuckled again.
“And how’s that working out for ya?”
“At present? Not particularly…well…” Sherlock blinked, lips hovering open before he had the presence of mind to snap them shut and swallow hard, dropping his head again, because the boy kneeling down on the ground beside him, tan hands helping swipe Sherlock’s notes off the floor, was none other than John Watson. Blond-haired, blue-eyed, cheerleader-dating, straight-A-making John Watson, captain of the rugby team and of every girl’s daydreams.
Sherlock was going to tell the secretary about her husband’s previous affair with the nanny after all, he decided.
John ‘Golly gee willikers!’ Watson beamed at him, and Sherlock tried fiercely to overrule his brain’s command to his palms to start sweating. “Yeah, well, we all have off-days,” he shrugged, eyes sparkling. “Here.” He held out the pile of Sherlock’s papers—all out of order, but Sherlock wasn’t inclined to mention it. “Looks like some pretty hard stuff. What are you taking?”
“Separate Sciences,” Sherlock replied, a little softer than intended as he took the offered pages, tucking them away inside whichever notebook his hand found first, “and all the usual ones as well.”
John tilted his head, a puzzled crease forming between his brows, and then his face stretched with realization. “Oh, you’re from the lower school, yeah? Not sixth form?”
Sherlock nodded, John following as he pushed to his feet. He was not as tall as Sherlock had thought whenever he had seen him from a distance. Sherlock was actually taller, albeit only by a couple inches, but he was still growing. “Year 11,” he replied, not entirely sure why he was still indulging this conversation. He usually made his insults and then escapes by now.
John smiled again, and the decision suddenly made a lot more sense.
Acres of marble-white skin, taut and trembling thighs, the perfect curve of buttock drawn straight from an anatomy textbook. Sherlock stands facing the wall, one hand placed high against it, fingers clawing, legs spread lasciviously wide. Sherlock’s head droops in a dark mass as noises escape his naked body and fall at his feet. His shoulder strains as it moves, quick efficient jerks that lay testimony to a search for release in the basest of methods.
John’s breath catches on the surprised inhale, his lungs seized by the proof that Sherlock does, in fact, participate in sex. But the agony wrapped in this, the strain he can see in those tense limbs - this was so much more than a simple wank.
Another strangled noise chases around the room, such a broken sound intermingled with the slick, frantic voices of flesh and lubricant. Entranced, John feels something taking root within him, feels the blood pooling between his legs and an ache pounding at his chest. Each quiet moan from Sherlock sends a current up John’s spine, the jolts wringing him out even as they harden his cock. The wood of the door scrapes on his skin as he finds his face pressed hard against the edge. It’s a precipice, and he can feel the fall beckoning.
Sherlock rises up on his toes, calves and flank firm and perfectly alabaster; his elbow and shoulder now moving in frantic concert. John is caught in it, unable to look away, breathe, move. He chokes on the knowledge that he cannot back away now, no matter how badly he knows he should, and presses the heel of one hand against the firm bulge in his jeans. He soaks in it, indulges in the burn, feels his own touch as if electrified. The battle within him rages: a need to comfort and care fighting with an animal urge to take and quell and fuck. He wonders if he can even claim worry now, hard as he is and wanting; a switch flipped inexplicably fast, a surge crashing down over his carefully-constructed walls. He closes his eyes and abandons himself to following a shiver from his crown to his toes, the fire of it coalescing low in his belly. He breathes in through his nose, trying to push down the overwhelming sensation of panicked arousal. He has to leave, he must. Go, John, he thinks, fabricating a lie that he actually intends to do so.
Explicit. 2k words. Fucking beautiful, go read it NOW.
When a particularly awful case has Sherlock and John in emotional shreds, they come together to help each other heal in the best way they know how.
Making of Little Favour: Make-up (x)
Yay Rupert Graves does the challenge :)