And Mephistopheles Spoke

He stares at the wall and tears stream down his face, though not from emotion. It is the lack thereof. He is so utterly empty, he can’t stand it. It should be second nature to him—to not feel his own feelings but those of others. To pick up the residual thoughts, the residual sadness and grief of others, and to fill his emptiness with their remainders. He should be accustomed to feeling nothing but the left-overs, the discarded table-scraps of emotions, but every so often he’ll be given something genuine and forget how it feels to not quite be himself anymore. He cannot look himself in the face, he cannot look at anything he as made because he cannot associate it with him—never, nothing is his. He cries because he gets the sensation that he lacks sentience. He is a pool of tepid water that has dribbled out of the shower curtain. He is soap scum waiting to be scrubbed from the tub. He can do nothing but sob, taking quick breaths as he spirals down.

“You’re a monster”, the younger says, not really sure of himself but disgusted all the same. It’s hard be taken serious with a hard prick bobbing between your legs, though, especially when you’re calling the dick-in-your-face a word like that. Lacks all the meaning it had before, I suppose.

“I’ve been reliably informed that I’m a sicko but I’m no monster.” He replies as his hands work another dollop out of his cock; he smears it around. “I’m just the sort of guy that sweet-talks you into giving me head. There’s nothing wrong with a bit of flattery and really, it’s your fault for not playing the Prince, honey. “

He doesn’t get the reference, “so what am I now, your damsel?”

“Shut up,” he smears his pre-cum against the younger’s face and laughs at the thought of dick lip-gloss. “Use that tongue for something useful for once, you idiot.”

The stars aren’t bright enough to play by, but it’s not as if we can see the cards anyway. My glasses lay somewhere, not underfoot but misplaced, and besides, my vision swims breaststrokes.

We have agreed that, because we have no money, the victor gets to keep a piece of clothing. I was always poor at card games. He has my jacket and my left boot.

“I win again,” you announce, swaying slightly. I place my face against the table and it’s cool to the touch.

“Piss off, you cheated.” I huff against the table, laughing slightly, lolling my forehead against the surface. Stupidly, you beam at me, red cheeks and sweaty brow. “Oh, all right. What this time?”

You scoot closer to the table, blond hair falling into your face before you sweep it back. “Trousers, trousers next.”

The boldness in your voice takes me by surprise. “Why not my right boot, then you’d have a pair.” I complain, more annoyed in jest than upset. I laugh again, fingers fumbling at my belt.

“Because I intend for you to lose the boot on the way to the bedroom anyway.”

My face colours. “On the way to the bedroom? Are you,” I pause, words slurring, “are you propositioning me?” I find my fingers can’t manage and I stop to look up, “can’t do it, if you want them off you’ll have to take them yourself.”

If your face could become redder, it would have. “Oh, right come on then. I’ll take the boot.” I laugh and extend my leg, nearly dropping from my chair, and you wrestle the boot from my foot.

We play the next round in an uncomfortable, embarrassed silence until I win.

I hum into the table, too drunk to sit up without the world spinning. “I want your bed sheets.”

What would you do if you know what a coward I am? That I lay in bed and become terrified at the thought of the next day. That I hide in my room and expect that I’ll somehow be safe from the toxic radiowaves that permeate the walls. I am a regular coward. As Napoleon would say, I die many times. He’s wrong though. Being dead would be a relief.

Now Accepting Commissions

pretty-grimm-ones-too:

theghostsofeurope:

What I Write

I write smut, typically fanfiction. I like to tackle many different kinks (I’m not fond of mpreg though, and it’s not because it makes me nervous it’s because I’m just no good at it). I regularly write angst, gore/guro, and PWP. I can write in first and third person, should that request arise.

The fandom I regularly work in is Sherlock (BBC) although soon I should be watching Game of Thrones so I may be able to work with it (in the future, should you be interested). I can also handle the Sherlock Holmes (RDJ and Law) adaptation as well. 

I also accept word prompts and song prompts. You can give me a general topic and I can write an original piece, or give me a song and I’ll write something related to it. I imagine this will be much less popular, but I can do this.

If you want a sample of my fandom work, you can go here.

If you want a sample of my other work, just check the source blog of this post. Most of the posts on this blog are original content.

NOTE: if you’re not sure if I’ll write it, just send me a message and we can talk about it. I’m incredibly flexible.

Pricing

I typically charge a dollar a paragraph. A paragraph runs 150-250 words. So for a 10$ commission, you’ll get 1,500-2000 words.  

This means a piece can be as long or short as you wish! I’m also flexible about pricing, so just talk to me!

Also, note that I’m currently job hunting and living in a very hostile environment. I’ll try to complete your commissions quickly but there might be some delay. I never request payment until I have the product finished and on my hard drive, ready to send to you.

Contact

If you wish to contact me, please do so via my askbox. I will then send you an email address where you may give your full request and trade further information.

Please consider commissioning me. I usually finish a commission (1000-3000 words) in a two day period. I work very quickly and very well. You can see some commissions I filled recently here and here.

adventureswithcookie asked: Rain

lmao okay good coincidence

Moran botched the shot. At the last second—literally the last second—the man whirled about and looked up. His eyes were wide and knowing, like he knew he was about to be shot. He dove for cover just as Moran squeezed the trigger, blood pumping so hard he could hear it in his ears and feel it in his fingertips. Bam, and down the man fell, a shot to the shoulder. Moran sat still a beat and suddenly the man rose and fled.

“You let him get away!” Came a shriek in his earpiece. Jim, the ever-calm, ever unflappable, was shrieking down the line in a way that reminded Moran of cartoon villains. “Get him, you dolt!”

“The rifle—”

“Leave it!” Jim roared and Moran flinched, grasping the side of his head for the pain in his ear. “You chase him down and you gut him or so help me,” he snarled, “I will rip out all of your teeth and make you swallow them.”

Moran threw aside the gun, his coat whirling about him. He threw himself down the fire escape, hands sliding and slipping on the rain slickened rungs. “Did you see where he went?”

“You idiot—”

Moran threw the earpiece as he ran down the back alley, boots slapping against the wet pavement. He couldn’t have gone far—there was a trail of blood. Lights turned on in the flat across the street. People were beginning to get curious. His pocket buzzed with more menace possible for a mobile phone. He kept running, following the trail—running in circles. He had disappeared.

“He’s been eliminated. M”

He responded with a speed he usually can’t type at. “this will never happen again this has never happened before SM”

Moran slowed to a jog, then a brisk walk. Something in his gut settled to the bottom—dread. When he found the cafe, he was humourless and appetite-less. He slumped into the chair, just waiting to be terminated.

The rain clouds that had retreated earlier made their advance, drizzling the Moroccan streets with something he could barely call a proper shower. He smoked, silently, as a sleek, silver car pulled up—inching along like a hearse. The window cracked and a voice, deeper and decidedly not Moriarty’s waifed out. “Mr. Moran?”

“I am him.”

There was the audible pop of the car door unlocking and he stood. 

adventureswithcookie asked: Window

Death is a dance, Sebastian Moran has concluded. It is an art form, of a sort, when done properly. For him, Death is not a tango or the tarantella. It is more elegant. Death is a waltz—always moving in three-step.

He balances his cigarette on the window sill and picks up his rifle. He blinks, once, twice, and brings it to his eye. A quick inhale. Hold. One. Two. He pivots—there, to the left! He squeezes the trigger. Once. The target drops and there is a frightened shriek a half-beat later followed by the cellphones and the stares.

He disassembles his rifle in little clicks, puts it in the case, zips it. He throws it over his shoulder, rucks up his clothes and messes his hair, and spits down his groin. When he leaves the seedy apartment building, he looks nothing more than a concert cello player given a bit of “payment”.

He hails a taxi, takes it to the park, and pays the man. He walks a while, finds a bench, sits. The waltz is over, there is clapping and applause in the form of a welcoming text.

It is only moments later that Sebastian Moran remembers he left his cigarette behind.

ewereka asked: Laundry.

He had been missing for three days when finally, the landlord called the police. When they arrived, they found that the flat was spotless. It looked like it had never been inhabited at all. The dishes were all in their cabinets, spic and span. The furniture dusted and the windows washed. But when they went into the back bedroom, they found a body.

He was tied to the bed, naked and dead, naturally. His eyes had been cut out. Not a hack-job, something clean and deliberate and remarkably medical. The only dirty thing that remained were the bedclothes and a pile of bloody laundry in the corner. At the foot of the bed was a note written in immaculate handwriting:

“I apologize for the mess, Mr. Mercer. I tried to keep it very clean so it wouldn’t be any trouble for you.”

Textbook Expressions

John Watson grimaces. The left cheek bulges slightly as his teeth clinch, the muscles spasming slightly as he grinds down. His lips are a thin line, pursed together, pale pink surrounded by the rough expanse of his five o’ clock shadow. His brow is furrowed, deeply wrinkled, shadows fall in the trenches as his eyebrows are pulled together. Determination, worry, loyal love—John Watson has known his flatmate for only a short time but in the face of great and perilous danger, his face is a textbook expression of a British bulldog protecting his master’s child.