I’ve never known what’s good for me
Fandom: Homestuck
Characters: Dirk + Dave
Warnings: Gore - Eye Gouging
For Kankiri
the sea he sighed
It’s awfully cold.
He’s cold in places he has never been cold before.
He pretends like it is the Alternian sea, lapping so ice cold at his body that he had simply lost feeling, like it was the caress of the ocean and not the fact that his body below the hips no longer existed in a state of any use to him, if he turned his head just so, he could find them.
But he didn’t want to.
His chest heaved, stomach quivering on the floor as bright violet exploded from his lips.
“Seasickness” thought he “Ridiculous, a sea dweller with sea sickness”
he coughed, choking for a moment on his own blood, lungs shivering where they sat cooling in the air.
That was fine though, he was fine with sea sickness, if it meant the ocean were there kissing his hips, salty sweet, all brine and memories.
His Lusus stirred in the swirling place between sleep and wakefulness, big like the first grub borne memory he had of him, too huge muzzle and large flat eyes in the fish-eye lens of his memory.
“Father…?”
He lifted a pale hand to the air, and the vision shattered with his pained movements.
“I’m so sorry father.
I’m so sorry, Fef…
Kar…”
His heart in its cooling organ nest thrummed, lub-dub, lub-dub.
And he closed his eyes.
And like the tide, receded.
Woops I’m on your dash again looking for Homestuck prompts.
I feel relatively comfortable writing the following characters:
Dave
Dirk|Bro
John
Karkat
Gamzee
Tavros
Eridan
Kankri
Mituna
Cronus
Any pairings involving those? Go for it.
I’ll write pretty much any kink as well.
And nonsmut.
superheroes-and-tea asked: THAT FANFIC WAS AMAZING AKLFJERIAGJORIIIGIEIOTGEGJKLREIJOPEWAVD
ORLY? I’M GLAD YOU LIKED IT
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing: Dean/Castiel
Rating: R
Prompt: Wing!Kink.
words; 780
characters; 4229
#Still in-character tbh #WHY COULDN’T YOU JUST BE FRIENDS? #AND WRITE BOOKS ON SUBJECTS NO ONE CARES ABOUT TOGETHER? #These set photos always inspire so many AU feels #They just look so happy and buddy-buddy
The perfection on this.
“We could take over the world, you and I, and it would be oh so easy”
The last word comes with the drawl that Sherlock knows so well, and he rests his cheek against his hand to listen to his closest friend’s newest ramblings on.
“Normal people are so boring, would it be so bad to shake them up a bit? Bomb here, robbery there?”
The detective’s brow furrows, sometimes Jim gets like this, and it makes him uncomfortable. “I’m a detective Jim, god knows you wouldn’t get away with it for long, your mind is better put to use solving cases with me, not creating them”
The other man inhales deeply, lets it out in a huff, a roll of the eyes.
“Sebastian is normal, yet he entertains you” Sherlock reminded, half lidded eyes unfocused for a moment, just a moment, finding shapes in the cloud cover.
“He entertains me, that makes him not-normal” came the reply after hardly a moment of thought. “But you would know about normal people, you have John”
lips quirk up into a small smile, his eyes flickering back to Moriarty once again.
“He is a brilliant conductor of light” he stated simply, and no explanation was needed.
“I’m sure, I’m sure”
Jim’s laugh is a unique sound, it pulls life into Sherlock’s eyes, just for a moment, before they become cold and glassy again.
“Come on, we have a case”
and the subject is dropped as quickly as it came up.
(Source: jamesmoriartyfromit)
Love is about caring for someone enough to die for them.
“You understand that of course, don’t you?”
His head turns with a sort of rolling motion, fluid, almost lazy.
“Come again?”
He hadn’t been paying attention to her, to this girl who had approached him on the street. Her arms full of fliers, corkscrew curls of blond bobbing around her face. Porcelain skin and ruby lips. His eyes flickering over her tell him everything he cares to know. She’s been seeing a blond man, living with him, something keeps him up late, she stays up with him, the makeup is thick under her eyes, hiding the dark circles.
“I said, Love is about caring for someone enough to die for them!”
Her brow furrows, adjusting the papers in her arms, he watches the way her dress shifts, a gift, the size is a bit off for her but she was grateful enough to not return it. A gift from someone important, so a gift from whomever she’s seeing.
At last she pulls a flier free, shoves it into his hands.
He glances at it, then double-takes, there he is on the front, no, who he used to be. All black curls and blue scarved, bright eyed, not wearing dull brown contact lenses. He had to, his eyes were simply too unique.
I believe in Sherlock Holmes!
It’s a catchy little phrase, lines of ariel text beneath the image explaining how he was not at all a fraud—-no, how Sherlock wasn’t a fraud, because he isn’t sure if he’s still Sherlock at all.
He’s still reading over these things when she turns to leave, gets a mere few steps away before his eyes seek a name for her on the page, it’s not hard to find, it’s in her Email address.
And then he understands, why one girl in the whole of London is standing out on the street handing out fliers, desperate to convince the world of something they no longer cared about.
“A sweet gesture” he speaks at last, folding the paper crisply to tuck it into the pocket of his jacket.
“But you’re wrong” she’s long out of ear shot now, why he continues speaking he doesn’t know, it’s pointless.
“Love is about caring for someone enough to live for them.” his eyes fixated upon her leaving form, show little sign of emotion beyond a dull sort of resignation. “You wouldn’t understand that, of course, you’ve never had to think about it, have you?” a smile, a turn of the head.
“Mrs Mary Watson”
{{Beloved . says
|D thank you
Tera betha says
now you have to do oceans :P
Beloved . says
challenge accepted}}
————-
You were me, we explode to the sea
We try to drink the knife empty
It swallows everything, that gaze of his, every minute detail, Sherlock insists that he doesn’t see any more than anyone else, simply that he notices, Molly Hooper can’t agree with that.
She agrees with everything Sherlock says, whether she means it or not, but not this, not this. She can practically feel his eyes probing her, more intense than fingers, than hands, like the little blades she uses to cut chest cavities open, to cut hearts out, he does with his eyes what she does with her knives.
And it’s thrilling.
Like the sharp sting of a shark bite, devouring, sinking. His eyes are the sea, not-really-blue, but it isn’t the colour, they’re the sea when they’re silver, when they’re green, because like waves, they roll, and take and rarely do they give back what has been taken.
She feels like that now, in her silly Christmas dress with her silly gift, all red, just crimson everywhere, and she should have known better because that bloody shade can’t help but draw in the predators, she’s a little girl lost in the ocean of his eyes.
And she doesn’t think it’s a good thing anymore.