Posts tagged with "my writing"
Over the years Castiel could be likened to many things, mainly baby forms of anything, innocent and endearing, an untarnished desire to learn and explore, that childish need to please. It was sort of funny, looking back, that this being behind the man that was built to be a weapon, an unfeeling and blindly obedient warrior, had become this. Sam leaned back in his chair, ignoring its groans of protest, and laughed, smile remaining as he raised the bottle to his lips again. Across from him, Castiel’s mouth quirked at the corner as he mimicked the action, catching Sam’s eyes through heavy lids.
Time Does Not Bring Relief - A John Watson snippet
He couldn’t remember life before that dull ache. It was ever-present - a heaviness in his chest, a tightness in his throat, a sickness in his stomach - and it was unbearable, infecting everything. He couldn’t remember how it felt to genuinely smile, or laugh. He’d all but forgotten anger and frustration. It had reached the point where feeling was apparently not something that came to him naturally any longer, merely something he could catch glimpses of in memory. draw out once in a while if he concentrated particularly hard. Everything but that ache was completely and utterly numb.
My goal for today, now that Christmas baking is…60% complete, is to get chapter 5 finished and uploaded.
Because oh my god
I’ve missed writing and I actually have breathing space.
But not really.
There was something about nature that fascinated Sherlock on a completely different level, underneath the deduction, the hyper-analyses, the constant figuring and processing and whirring in his brain.
It was pretty.
Reasons I feel terrible
I am slowly getting more work done on Means for Our Own Destruction, but with work (I get 5 days off this month and open shop 22 of the days I’m on…) and such…I’m finding it hard to sit down and write. No energy, no inspiration, no time to be with the people who fuel me.
There’s an added problem.
I’m living in London.
I’m besotted with London.
I want to write about London all the time, and Sherlock has been lending itself to that desire much more than those Kansas boys and their angels. This makes me sad, but…
I am a broken record, I know.
don't know wtf can be done with this but i'm listening to it right now and I wanna see what you can do XD "I had a heart then, but the queen has been overthrown"
Aww man, prepare for some Sherlock feels (surprise, surprise…)
Loss under any circumstances meant pain. It meant that something cherished for even the shortest of times had been ripped away, lost completely. Loss was not a new concept, not a strange and sudden happening that would pass with the ages, replaced by new fears and fads. Loss was a constant threat, one that people tried their hardest to guard themselves against but failed to understand the obvious.
Loss would always come and claim, mark your soul, especially where you least expected.
John Watson was used to loss, both self-imposed and otherwise, and the years had taught him better than most trying to avoid it did little to help. A natural progression of sorts took place in him, a sort of slow burn of his senses that left him in a strange sort of cocoon, impervious to many of the normal human responses to things yet still all heart when it came to his fellow man. Death and destruction were things he found himself rather desensitized to, but he’d still offer to walk Mrs. Gibson across the road to make sure she was safe. Being with Sherlock had only made these dichotomous traits more blatant and confusing over time.
Being with Sherlock…
Loss wasn’t a new concept to John. He’d seen the war, he’d lost family and friends before, cut several people out of his life that really, truly should’ve been there. Loss was fairly normal, and yet losing him…well, he still woke up in the middle of the night in a cold sweat with a hammering heart, the image of blood marring his friend’s face and colouring the ground beneath.
After all this time he was still haunted and horrified to the point that it was dizzying, he couldn’t catch his breath for the rising bile and the tremors throughout his body. He wanted to forget, tried desperately, but it was all still there in his mind, a permanent scar. The dreams went on long enough that he closed himself off, forced himself to stop caring about Sherlock, stop caring about himself, stop caring about the world around him.
He shouldn’t be sentimental, it didn’t suit him and, quite frankly, Jim would’ve retched at the sight. His boss, his leader, his lover - well, no, he was the hired hand to a complete genius. Their work was rough and bloody, power and intensity, and at the end of a particularly thrilling or terrible day, the hatred and anger and adrenaline would overflow until suddenly he was pinned up against the wall and good ol’ Jim was tearing at his mouth, knee forced up against Seb’s thigh, completely in control.
Jim would be ferocious, biting and scratching and marking Sebastian to say at least for a moment that he belonged to Jim.
And that was exactly how he liked it, Sebastian, all blue and red, branded with his lust. At least, that was how it began. Over time it shifted, the angry fucks becoming interspersed with something more tender, more casual, and suddenly Sebastian was living under Jim’s roof for ‘practicality’s sake’ and they were acting strangely domestic. They fought more than the average pair of course, fought rougher and had much more of an arsenal at their disposal, but they also saw each other’s vulnerability, calm, joy. Jim showed Sebastian a rare glimpse of the man beneath the suits and devastation, and Sebastian showed Jim a devotion that ran far deeper and stronger than that of a mere hired hand, beyond the workplace norm, beyond the sex and the violence and the odd need Sebastian had to be ruled only by Jim. It was perfectly imperfect on their own destructive scale, and it was all gone with a bullet and a stupid fucking genius in a ridiculous coat.
He was the one who held on almost permanent grasp on Jim’s attention, the one who kept driving him onto wilder and greater plans, who drove him straight to the fucking brilliant idea of blowing his goddamn brains out atop St. Bart’s…
He couldn’t decide yet who he loathed more, but he was leaning towards Jim for one simple fact: It turned out for someone who seemed to be an absolute marvel, a mastermind, he was a colossal idiot. Motherfucker… The man shows up slick and smooth and oozing sex and danger, and he goes out in such a pointless way, leaving Sebastian to pick up the pieces in their home, figure out what the hell to do and how to carry on when the purpose he’d been given in life for so fucking long was just gone.
He was alone, his guide no longer leading the way for anyone, and he wouldn’t admit the pain to anyone. It was weak and pointless and unfounded because, after all, it was just business. There’d been a job to do, it had been done, and there was no more to it.
Sentimentality did not suit Moran, not one bit.
Fandom: BBC!Sherlock (set in the Adventures!verse)
Rating: NC17? I don’t know, it’s porn.
Warnings: ^ There’s really nothing to note here, just straight up smut. Well, I should mention John has a prosthetic/bionic leg.
Notes: This was written for Tseecka to keep her awake on the drive home. I should have been replying to our ongoing roleplay, or finishing off chapter 5 of Means, but instead I wrote smut in a universe she apparently likes because I wanted to make sure she got home in one piece. For a bit of background, this is based upon my series The Adventures of John Watson which, essentially, is BBCSherlock rewritten as a Steampunk saga wherein John Watson’s leg was blown off in the war and replaced with a mechanized prosthesis and Sherlock Holmes built his own replacement brain, a harddrive, with a little…interference from Mycroft.
His pupils were strangely dilated and John could almost swear his face was more angular, taut and set, as he approached. When he breathed it was shallow but slow, and when he spoke the sound rumbled through his chest like a beautiful weathered cello, a deep and resonant sound that sent sparks along the whole length of his spine.
“There are certain things I have researched, John,” he uttered softly, yet the words still came out as a growl, “things that are exceedingly difficult to gather data on via conventional…acceptable means. Taboo, controversial, secret…” He leaned in a little closer and fixed his eyes directly on John’s, narrowing them slightly and instantly darkening the entirety of his face in a way John thought should be humanly impossible. “So obviously only the most exquisite things that I needed to know.”
Sherlock’s proximity to him, the heat of the man’s breath against his neck, the gentle and precise inflexion of his words and pressure of his hand on his arm, all combined in a rush to fill John with a sudden headiness that left him all but swaying on the spot. He didn’t speak, found that he couldn’t move his gaping mouth even if he’d had the words to convey with it, but it was perfectly alright. Sherlock smirked.
“Do you remember when I asked for you assistance? That day you were tinkering around inside my brain and caused that…spark?” He had switched to slowly circling John now, seeming predatory, eerily threatening, and John didn’t even bother trying to keep up. All he did was nod. He wasn’t fearful - dear God, no - but there was a great sense of anticipation hanging between the two, an excitement more within the realms of tension than gaiety. “You literally touched something I had not known existed, made mefeelsomething I had long ago feared and fought to eradicate, but I understand now.” He stopped pacing abruptly, face to face with his friend and hands on his shoulders, gripping him firmly, closely, with a look that was beyond comprehension to John. “I understand.”
And with that John found he had no chance to attempt speech again, his lips pulled and plied viciously by Sherlock in seemingly desperate kiss. In the midst of it, underneath the heat and the flood of feelings, John couldn’t help but hear the alarm bells ringing, feel the twinge of fear coursing through him that at any point they could be caught and life would be made unbearable for them both in mere minutes. Still, this was what he wanted, Sherlock was what he had wanted all this time, and actually having him in that moment wasincredible. Throwing all caution and sense aside, his hands snaked their way up Sherlock’s neck, caressing his jaw and winding through his curls, straight to the near imperceptible ridge where panel began. Instantly, Sherlock pulled back, panting, but it was with a smirk-cum-smile rather than any discomfort that drew a smile of his own from John. A silent knowing look passed between them, and John darted forward for a quick, hard, bruising kiss.
“Don’t tell me you’ve filled one of your drives with-“
“Then I won’t,” Sherlock interrupted, the sides of his mouth twitching higher in his amusement. A sigh of amused disbelief and john was shaking his head, quietly laughing.
“Christ, if Mycroft knew of the monster he’d created here… Tell me, what vital information did you discard this time? At least promise me you’re still aware that we are in England, or at the very least the planet Earth.” The amusement abruptly faded when Sherlock’s expression warped into complete and utter confusion. “You…you are joking, ye-” But Sherlock was laughing, a beautiful, true, deep and rare laugh that brought a half-hearted scowl to John’s face. “I will get you back for that, you bastard.”
“Mmm, I’d expect so. I can assure you that the information I’ve replaced has not been discarded, I simply took the files out and put them elsewhere for safe keeping. I felt having thisknowledgeon hand would beimmenselybeneficialfor the both of us.” His voice was doing all sorts of funny things, and it was doing all sorts of funny things to John, leaving him tingling with the adrenaline and excitement and the pressure starting to build in his groin. He wasn’t quite sure when his eyes had closed, but he was starting to enjoy the sensation of feeling Sherlock around him in the blackness.
“So what exactly did you find in your research then?” He asked, but as he heard Sherlock dropping quickly and gracefully he had a feeling he knew, andgood Godthe idea alone was giving him shivers of excitement. His cock twitched in anticipation and the pulsing extended out to his legs as he fought to stay standing.
And then there were hands clasped at his hips, slowly trailing down his thighs in meandering, random patterns, touching upon oddly sensitive areas that forced John to jerk uncontrollably, embarrassingly. He was glad his eyes were closed in those moments as he couldn’t decide if he was more aroused or mortified when the even the slightest bit of contact left him shuddering and holding back little moans. They ran back up his sides again to the hips and curved to the front, making quick work of his trouser buttons and the zip beneath. It was surprisingly delicate for being done so quickly, and as efficiently as expected, Sherlock peeled down both trousers and pants in seconds, suddenly but not unpleasantly exposing a half hard John to the chill of the air and the light warmth of his breath. Sherlock didn’t linger - which, admittedly, did disappoint John somewhat - and his hair brushed along John’s glans as he moved lower down, steadily stripping him completely from the waist down. When the sensation stopped he knew, could hear it still, that Sherlock had reached his leg and his self-consciousness reached a strange and unprecedented high. He wondered briefly if Sherlock cared beyond the usual scientific scope of it, if the sight of it bothered him or intrigued him, and he cracked his eyes open out of curiosity.
Sherlock’s hand ran along the edge of the prosthesis, thumb slipping up to lightly stroke the flesh above. There was a flash of sadness in his eyes before he tore himself away, coming back to settle before John’s cock, but the image and the thoughts were still there.
“I swear nothing like this will every happen again, John,” he’d said. “Not to you.” And seeing Sherlock like this, his face so dejected, made him truly believe in that promise. Still, maintaining the warm, hopeful feelings was a little bit difficult once Sherlock’s mouth was surrounding him, pressing and pulling with far too much initial skill for it to be fair, but John was in no way going to complain. His hips were already jutting forward sporadically though he tried to restrain himself, and his hands tangled straight into Sherlock’s hair with a far too needy tight grip. The sensations were a complete blur of techniques, movements of tongue and teeth that blended into an overload of feeling overtaking all else. John forgot about his grip in Sherlock’s hair, forgot his questions, forgot what day it was and how he’d promised himself he’d keep control and some grip on his senses just in case.
The noises he was making were the best form of positive reinforcement to Sherlock, and he picked up his pace, grew a little bolder, tightening his jaw a fraction as his head drove back and forth, dragging absolutely everything he could from John. His teeth lightly scratched along John’s cock, eliciting the mostwonderfulmoan from the man, and if Sherlock was able to he’d have smirked in triumph. He curled his tongue along every stretch of skin he could manage, adjusting his pace and path with each anticipated thrust from John, until he could feel it all coming to head, felt John’s desperation for release climb and the sudden, distinct responses to orgasm, taking note of every little detail to compare against the data he had already stowed away.
Swallowing silently, he withdrew and rose to his feet, managing a smirk in spite of his aching jaw. There was a slight sheen across his brow from the sweat, an effect he’d neglected to think upon but had now been stowed away with the rest of his data, and he was still out of breath, but the hazy, sated look in John’s eye more than made up for any personal physical discomfort.
“Consider that a thank you for your discovery,” he muttered, and John burst out into a fit of laughter, honest and contagious, dragging Sherlock down with him. It seemed after all his time and efforts believing otherwise, there was an awful lot to love about human nature.
So, I said I wasn't going to show it...but...here is a preview of a story I have stashed away to work on once Means is done. The Adventures of John Watson, a steampunk universe.
30 Days of Writing: Beginning
First one of the lot right before bed and it’s a tie-in to the Means ‘verse.I’m fairly sure the next one on my list will be involved in another story world that is yet to be released to the public (Steampunk BBC!Sherlock…) but…whether or not there’ll be more tie-in drabbles over the other 28 days is as yet completely unknown. I have a lot of ideas floating around though.
Beginning. 222 words. Sabriel.
The Means for Our Own Destruction: A Sabriel College AU
I’ve finally sorted it all out.