Spelled The Way It Sounds

mormorheart:

taggianto:

WARNING: NSFW

Sometimes Sebastian lost control of himself.

In the past he’d tried, he really had, to stay above it, to be the bigger man (literally), to lock it away, to distance himself from it. He tried couting to ten, then to fifty, then to a hundred, then to a thousand in multiples of seven but it didn’t help.

Sometimes he was just so fucking tired of it all. All the restraint, the denial, the restriction…

Read More

YES. FUCK. YES. MORE.

I. I want like eight more pages of this. 

(Source: taggianto-too)

lawfulgoodpaladog:

jackmarlowe replied to your post:jackmarlowe replied to your chat: Cat is a demon…

I KNOW. I’m posting an Edie-influenced drabble in a few minutes when it’s done. Damn herrrr and her insufferably contagious headcanon. » AND DAMMIT I think I’m catching the Moraniarty. MorMor….

CHILDREN WE ARE WAITING

(Source: thepaladog)

lawfulgoodpaladog:

jackmarlowe replied to your chat:Cat is a demon tonight. It is decided.

Those tags tho. xD

Every time I stop having Moriarty/Moran feels, Edie texts me or FB!messages me with her own headcanons, which gets me thinking about my headcanons. It’s an endless spiral. Everything is Sebastian and, unfortunately, everything hurts.

I just can’t stop.

(Source: thepaladog)

Seb has grown used to ducking as soon as he unlocks the door. To Jim having rearranged the whole kitchen so that he can’t find the spices. To talking him out of having the postman killed.

He calls when he’s hungry, or bored, or murderous, and Seb goes to him. 

Seb has learned to smoke a whole cigarette without using his hands. He has been taught to wear a suit, and to strip to undershirt and trousers when there’s a chance he’s prettier than Jim.

He has discovered that guns, to Jim, are toys, and sometimes he thinks this scares him. His own rifle is a thing to be respected, treated with a mix of love and reverence.

Seb sees, now, what it is not to sleep.

He can take in the signs that Jim has forgotten to eat this week, or clean his nails, and he has worked out how delicate his touch must become to take a phone from Jim’s pocket.

Seb has found out how to both hate and envy Sherlock Holmes, but he can turn Jim from the subject like a cape turns a bull.

He understands that one night he will come home to a flat that is empty of those things that now make up his world, and he takes that knowledge, and puts it somewhere he cannot see. 

Seb knows the planes of Jim’s back beneath his shirt, the short hairs at the nape of his neck, and all the ice-white bones and tendons of his hands. There are times when he cannot comprehend what it would be like not to have those hands sliding through him.

And he knows that Jim is trying. 

sherlockians-on-omegle:

Sherlocked

We are all of us reaching out to each other,
John and Sebastian both home all alone;
Texts to the darkness, hope against hoping
That Sherlock, or Jim, will knock on the door—
All of us mourning, and halfway to praying,
Strong shoulder to shoulder, surviving the fall. 

These are the things that we do for each other:
No names, no identities, nothing but them.
We stand on St. Bart’s, waiting for Sherlock—
We stand on the pavement, watching him fall.
We mourn and we hope all through three years,
Pacing in Baker Street, limping, with cane—
We move in with Molly, drive her to distraction;
We run for Sebastian, bleeding crosstown.

It’s not our division, but here we’re all standing—
Lestrade next to Mycroft, Mrs. Hudson, Irene.
Here are our hearts, breaking to pieces—
Here are our hands, holding the phone—
Here is the roof, and below us, the falling—
And here’s what we’re hoping: Sherlock. Come home.

This was me. (I am so glad people like it.)