he rocks

no offense but louis is hugging a true, treasured, real friend there like it’s an extended amount of time, they do the little spin around rocking thing, he buries his nose into steve’s shoulder, his hands are pressing tightly like i’m so so so so so happy he has that 

driving all nature

for my bae @totheverybestoftimesjohn <3 (also, sorry)

The moon shines like a spotlight on the ripples. The end of the game. The final act.

John knows what’s coming. He’s already shivering.

He clutches at the jagged rock wall. He knows it’s useless. It’s fifty feet high, and his hands scrabble at the sharp pebbles, slashing feeling into his frozen skin. The water’s up to his waist, and only rising.

John looks up, but the moonlight blinds him. He thinks he hears a shout, maybe a gunshot, but the well makes sound echo into something indiscriminate. Sherlock’s up there somewhere, but he can’t see him.

He can hear him though.

He can still hear him.

“I love you.”

Those three words. That’s it. Three words, not even spoken to him but to his reflection, though there was no doubt in John’s mind who they were for. Three words he’d spent days and nights imagining in that voice, and still been unprepared. Still couldn’t have imagined how he would breathe them out like the most blessed of prayers and the most sacred of confessions.

“I love you.”

Everything after that had been a blur – a gunshot, a shattering of glass, a frantic attempt at escape scrambling over the rocks, and before he knew it a searing blow to the back of his skull, then darkness. Then the water, and the moon.

It’s up to his chest now, sparkling silver, and John can feel his breath coming in deep sharp blasts, trying to push out his stone-cold lungs.

“Oh God,” escapes from his lips of its own free will. “Oh God, oh God oh God oh God…”

His hand shakes on the rock.

He’s going to die here.

The realization doesn’t make his heart pound, or scream at him out of his rattling mind. It just makes the water cut deeper under his skin, a tiny little knives of ice burrowing into his every pore and all remaining air squeezing itself from him.


He’d tried to shout, but the stone barely echoes back the whisper that comes out of him. His face is wet now too – warmer though, tears – and his throat is closing up.

The patterns of moonlight on the water flicker and waver as they rise up to his shoulders. John hates the way his eyes are drawn to them, the way they morph themselves into hearth fires and gentle warmth, the way the ripples pattern out the familiar walls of Baker Street, the way the swish and slosh of the rising tide creeps into John’s ears as soft violin strings and a low, reverent whisper, three words, over and over and over again…

An ear-splitting crack shoots its way down the well, and John raises his eyes to the heavens.


He’s not even sure if he makes any sound.

The water’s up to his neck.

Two cups of tea melt away from the sitting room table.

Up to his chin.

The sun streaming in through the windows switches off.

John takes a deep breath.

The smiling blue eyes vanish into the darkness.

The water paralyzes John. It’s so cold. His skin sings with a thousand needles of pain but he has to fight through it, he has to try, he has to stay afloat ….

“I love you.”

He pushes himself off the ground, arms flailing for air.

He can’t reach it.

“I love you.”

Panic seizes him at last, making him scream.

“I love you.”

John’s lungs fill with water.

Sherlock drops his gun and his breath explodes out of him.

That’s it. It’s over. Moriarty’s body tumbled off the cliff, the ghost of a laugh still on his upturned lips. Again. Sherlock didn’t stay to see it fall.

Moriarty gone, Smith gone, the woman known as Mary Morstan gone. Sherlock spares no thought for any of them


They’d hit him over the head, one of his men, the burly one, and Sherlock only just had time to see him fall before he was wrenched back to Moriarty, hadn’t seen what they’d done with him –

“John!” He screams again into the dark. He climbs over the rocks, and the moon answers only with a sickening white light.

Sherlock’s eyes dart over the landscape, shadows, all shadows, no light, no sound, just the dim ripple of waves reflecting the silence –

Ripples. Moonlight. The well.


He stumbles on his way to the edge of it, tearing the knees of his trousers and letting the rocks bite into his palms as he clutches the edge, and he can barely see past the blinding mirror of moonlight but the water is spilling calmly over the sides and there’s a shock of ghostly pale among the blackness that no waves could ever obscure.

Oh God, no.

In an instant Sherlock is tearing off his coat and jacket and diving in headfirst.

The cold knocks all sense of direction from him for a moment and his mind whirls to remember which way John was – he can’t see anything, can’t hear, can only feel, and that’s fading fast. His heart is still in his chest. Maybe its stopped. Sherlock doesn’t care. He tears and claws at the water until his hands land on fabric, on skin, and then he’s wrapping his arms around a strong chest and hauling up, up, up.

He’s heavy. Waterlogged. Limp. Sherlock is dimly surprised at his own strength for a split second. His head breaks the surface and he sucks in air and with every ounce of anything left in him he pushes John up onto the rocks and crawls up after him.


He cups John’s face in his hand. Skin too cold.


Lips blue. Not breathing.


And now Sherlock’s heart explodes in panic.

He strips John’s jacket open and presses down on his chest, hard.

“Come on, John…”

He counts the compressions with each of his own gasping breaths. One, two, three, up to thirty, and John’s still not breathing.

“No, no, John, no no no no no no…”

Sherlock touches his lips to John’s for the first time.

“Please, John, please…” he whimpers.

Chest compressions again, thirty beats, with steady hands, and another breath into his lungs that feels like a dagger in Sherlock’s heart because this is all wrong, it wasn’t supposed to be like this, it was supposed when they were safe, when they were finally home, when they were warm and together and John had had a chance to say it back…

“John, John, no, don’t do this, please don’t do this, please please oh God please…”

He can’t feel the crack in his voice or the tears dripping down onto John’s already-soaked skin, but he can feel the chill creeping up in his throat, ready to strangle him.

“Don’t go,” he whispers between John’s lips. “Please, don’t go, don’t leave me here.” His hands pound frantically on John’s chest. He can’t feel his heartbeat. “Please don’t die, please please don’t die, I love you, I love you, John, I love you, I love you, don’t go, please don’t go, I love you…”

Sherlock’s hands cradle John’s face, and he bends to kiss him properly.

“I love you.”

Three words, bursting in a sob from his frail lungs into John’s.

Suddenly he seizes under Sherlock’s hands. Spine arching. Pale skin stretching and furrowing.

Water splashes Sherlock’s lips.

John coughs and shudders, and Sherlock breaks himself out of his frozen shock and pulls him to roll over. He gasps and moans, nearly retches, empties his lungs, and breathes.

Tears spill afresh from Sherlock’s eyes.

“John?” he barely gasps, a hand on his shaking shoulders.

John convulses once more, then steadies, pulling in deep, uneven breaths.

“This isn’t…” John wheezes, and his hands are still trembling, but his eyes find Sherlock’s in the darkness, and somehow they still manage to shine. “This isn’t how I imagined you kissing me.”

And there’s a joy in his half-drowned face that makes Sherlock stop shivering as a half-laugh, half-sob bursts from his throat.

He can’t tell who moves first, because all that matters is that the next moment he’s holding John against his chest, gripping desperately at his soaked jacket as John buries his face in Sherlock’s neck.

“I love you,” Sherlock whispers again, because he’s said it now and he’s said it finally and he never wants to stop. “I’ve always loved you.”

It’s all he can hear, whispered back to him against his trembling lips, a chorus of I love you I love you I love you as John kisses him like he was always meant to.  

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Keep reading

Tragic creature gets plus one/plus zero
and gains first strike until the immortal
illusions, sticky tape the black
penguin back together. then he rocks
on the floor-boards, and the statue falls.

Have you ever cornered a wounded vampire?
life is a walk in the cathedral park,
a casual glance into that shadow in the corner
eye-balls bleeding ink
or blood, the poetess has not made
up her mind, yet.

Black cat, cafe, dressed up to the nines,
left, and spent coins, haunting you
enticing you into the theatre show,
regenerated animated ushers, point
you to your death row seats.

Pulsing life-line to the god
or hound, pick-pocket, got cut short
now we have no connection and the line has gone quiet,
blame the elder angels,
blame the gods of old and new, blame
everyone except no, not a mere mortal,
6 years ago, clever Soviet hackers
slipped under the radar; purple roses on violet strings,
the demons get bored so easily, new entertainment
is being shipped in,
careful, of that penguin rocking
the foundations of this old apartment.



Dedicated  to my lovely, inspiring, creative friend: @barbaranestor


Jack had become very protective of what he considered to be his forest. He had been on Berk longer than anyone else and the Vikings that had made it their home he saw as invaders.

Even so, he couldn’t stop himself from becoming curious, especially with the boy who seemed to be much small than anyone else. Deciding that he would try and talk to him, Jack sat on a rock he had seen the boy visit before, patiently waiting as he fiddled with the staff in his hand.

To Ras: Hyuk Fluff

Word Count: 2108

Your head hurt from staring at the screen and your eyes ached behind your glasses. You pushed your curly hair back in a huff and leaned back in the chair, glaring at the monitor of your laptop and angrily slamming your hand down on the keys.

“Oh, geez.”

You jumped and looked over. One of the café workers who had been sweeping around was frowning at you. Your eyes flitted to his name tag and read the name “Taekwoon”. Taekwoon pursed his lips, brows furrowed in what seemed like hesitance.

“Why are you so frustrated?” he asked carefully, rocking on his feet slightly.

“Oh, no, it’s nothing. I don’t want to bother you,” you said quickly.

“You’re a regular customer so…but it’s fine if you don’t want to,” Taekwoon turned and walked away, sweeping as he went along.

You watched him and then turned back to your monitor. He was the type of people that you put into your stories. Tall, handsome, and charming; charismatic yet soft spoken. Or, should you say, normally put into your stories. Lately you just couldn’t write anything. Not even the short, cliché romance that your followers loved so much. You couldn’t bring yourself to stream the words together and sew them into sentences and phrases that created a quilt that was a story.

Lately, you could only stare at your screen in frustration as you wrote things that didn’t exactly suit your taste. This might have been too sweet or that might have been too cliché. The things you half-assed were the things that made it but the things you put your time in didn’t hit it off. Not to mention what the people you had to deal with—gosh, it just gave you a headache. Life frustrated you.

You reached over for the mug and raised it to your lips. The slightly bitter tea revived you only a little bit before you were let back into the realty of a blank word document. Another sigh fled your lips and you threw your head back again, rubbing your forehead in agony.

“I can’t write!” you groaned, slumping forward with a choked sob. You looked back up at the screen and then awkwardly looked around. Taekwoon had gone to the back, leaving only you in the café. A breathed out, glad you hadn’t embarrassed yourself.

But even if you hadn’t embarrassed yourself, you were still stuck on writing. And what about the people that waited for you to update? But…were they really waiting for you to update? They never told you they liked the story…and the number of notes were little. You groaned again and rested your cheek against your fist as you glared angrily at the screen. Why couldn’t your story just write itself?

Your eyes flickered to your phone and your fingers twitched. Should you message your friend? But if you messaged her, you would be distracted from writing and if you get distracted from writing there won’t be an update out for anot—

You stood, interrupting your own thoughts. You closed your laptop and placed your bag on it before grabbing your phone and heading out of the café.

It wasn’t cold but it had gotten chilly where you lived. A small breeze ruffled your hair and kissed your cheek and you welcomed it, happy that there was something refreshing to wake you up.

You stood a little ways away from the entrance of the café and took a breather, glancing at your phone. You hugged yourself loosely, trying to see if your mind would just work out its own knot and allow you to finally write again. Maybe you just needed a breather—you probably just needed a way to relieve your stress and then the dam blocking your ideas would break and they would flow out.

That’s what you had been telling yourself for the past couple of months anyway. You knew it wasn’t going to work. You had basically lost hope and began to limp along, trying to write what came to mind even if it was bad. It was forced, almost, with the lack of ideas. And the longer you stood out there, the more hopeless you felt.

“Why can’t I just have some sort of romance to loosen my brain,” you grumbled, kicking at the pavement.

You sighed and turned back to the café.

“Excuse me!”

You stopped and turned, looking back at the man who had called out to you.

He looked at you sheepishly, “Is this…yours?”

You looked down at the bracelet he held and then to your wrist. You smiled at him taking it back, “It is! Thank you.”

You turned to your wrist and struggled to clasp it on. As you were about to raise it to your mouth, he interrupted you.

“Do you want me to help?”

“Oh…yeah, actually,” you laughed sheepishly.

He smiled and moved closer, carefully clasping the bracelet onto you and making sure it didn’t pinch. Once it was secured, he stepped back, “There.”

“Thank you.”

“No problem, I was just returning a bracelet to its owner,” he shrugged. He looked at the café and gestured to it, “Were you about to go in?”

“I was,” you nodded.

He opened the door and tilted his head, “Ladies first.”

You quietly thanked him, looking down to hide the smile on your face. You walked back to your seat and pulled your bag off, opening your laptop up again. You straightened your glasses and watched as the young man stepped into the café.

It was a bit like a scene from a movie, the way his slender fingers lingered on the handle of the door. The setting sun cast just the right amount of light onto him and spread his shadow cleanly across the floor. He looked at you and smiled before stepping in and walking towards the counter.

“Hyung!” he called out, leaning against the counter and sticking his head in, “Hyung, are you still there?”

The “hyung” the young man was calling for came out. Taekwoon frowned at him, “Can’t you be a little quieter?”

“I didn’t know if you were asleep or not,” the young man smiled brightly.

“That’s why you should be quieter Han Sanghyuk,” Taekwoon grumbled. He shook the grogginess from his eyes and then turned to look at him, “Did you need something?”

Hyuk grinned, turning on his charm immediately, “Hakyeon-hyung said that you would give me a job…”

“I would what?”

“Please?” Hyuk stood straighter.

You suppressed a giggle, trying to force your attention to the screen instead of the scene unfolding before you.

“I’ll work really hard! I won’t bully you,” Hyuk promised.

“It’s not a matter of you bullying me or not. Hakyeon told you I was going to let you work here?”

“It’s closer than his shop to my college and you know I’m sort of strapped for money,” Hyuk smiled sweetly. He took Taekwoon’s hand in his, “Please?”

A sigh left Taekwoon’s lips and after a second, he nodded, “Fine.”

“Yes!” Hyuk grinned, “I knew you weren’t cold-hearted.”

“You start tomorrow. Don’t bother me until then,” Taekwoon grumbled, looking unfairly defeated as he turned to arrange some cups.

“I won’t let you down!” Hyuk assured him. He turned, his eyes falling on you. He hesitated, wondering if he should say goodbye but you looked like you were concentrating. With a content sigh, he left the café, hoping that he would see you again soon.


You went to the café on Fridays and Saturdays and stayed there all day while you visited on Tuesdays and Wednesdays for a brief period and instead of coffee, you normally got tea. You always sat at the same table in the corner, typing and backspacing, and then typing again until you were scratching your head in annoyance and pulling your hands from your laptop. This is what Hyuk had noticed in the three months he had been working there.

He found your frustrated quirks entertaining and rather cute. There was something about the way your lips pursed and your brows furrowed that made Hyuk smile no matter how tiring of a day he was having.

When there was a lull in activities, he found himself casually leaning against a table or a wall or the counter and watching you. He’d find himself wondering what you were writing and whether it was for school or for work (or even fun). He questioned Taekwoon, asking if he knew much about you since you were a regular, but Taekwoon had said no and heavily disappointed Hyuk. However, no matter how much he paid attention to you, he never spoke to you.

He had tried to take your orders several times in order to make conversation, but he always missed the timing. There was even a day where he refused to move until you came in but Taekwoon had forced him to take a lunch break and when he finally did, you had come in. It just didn’t match. It was almost as if someone up there was trying to screw him over and mess up his chances with you—not that he was going to do anything with that chance. He was just curious. He just wanted to know you better.

It wasn’t until December that Hyuk got a chance to talk to you.

It was around closing time and Taekwoon had left early because he was going to visit his niece. After watching Taekwoon close shop a few times before, the owner had finally placed some confidence in Hyuk and allowed him the privilege of locking up. Hyuk wasn’t excited but he was happy that he got to do something other than taking orders and making drinks.

As the people began to leave, Hyuk noticed you still at your table but you weren’t sitting up. He didn’t think anything of it since he had seen you like this before. The frustration had probably gotten to you and you were just resting. Hyuk shrugged it off and began to clean the shop.

By the time he had finished however, you were still sitting there. Hyuk pulled his coat on and walked over. He picked up the emptied mug and set it back down. He knocked the table a few times before placing a hand on your shoulder.

You shot up, eyes wide as you stared at him. You reached for your glasses but accidentally brushed them off the table. You leaned down to get them as Hyuk did as well. He grabbed them first and held them out to you.

“Here you go.”

“Sorry,” you slipped them on your face and looked at the time. Your eyes widened and you turned to him, “Oh my gosh, I am so sorry! The story closed already—“

“It’s fine,” Hyuk said, “I’m closing today and I just finished cleaning.”


Hyuk smiled, taking the cup, “I’ll just wash this and go. Be careful on your way home.”

You nodded awkwardly and watched him leave. You packed your things up and by the time Hyuk came back out, you had already left.

He took deep breath and looked around. He brushed his hands down his coat and turned the lights off. He locked up the shop and turned around, a gasp escaping his lips when he looked over to find you still there.

“I felt bad for making you stay late,” you said awkwardly.

“I said I didn’t stay late,” Hyuk laughed, “You were just still there after I cleaned.”

“It’s twenty minutes after closing time,” you said after checking your phone.

“Well, if you really feel that bad,” Hyuk thought for a second and then looked at you, “Can I have your number?”

Your eyes widened and you looked at him in surprise, “My number?”

“I’ve been wanting to talk to you but I never found the right time,” Hyuk said sheepishly, “But we’re talking now and I realized I actually kind of like you. Could you give me the chance of getting to know you better?”

You stared at him in shock for a second before stretching your hand out and giving him your phone.

Hyuk tried to keep his composure as he put in his number and then handed it back to you. “Thank you.”

He looked around and then back to you, “Are you taking the bus home?”

“Yes, actually,” you nodded.

“Which stop? That way?”

You nodded again and Hyuk grinned, “Good, I get to spend more time with you. C’mon.”

Hyuk walked ahead and you stared after him. After a second, you shook yourself out of your daze and smiled, following after him.


“Our uncle had transformed his house into a tourist trap he called ‘The Mystery Shack.’ 
The real mystery was why anyone came.”

an actual conversation i had
  • my friend: so I had to break up with my boyfriend today.
  • me: what? why?
  • my pal: he told me he was bisexual.
  • me: ...
  • my bro: well you know theres only a matter of time before he cheats on me with a girl. if he wanted to break up so bad he should've just said so and not made up something stupid like that.
  • me: i? what? thats not how it works...
  • my not so much friend: you're either gay or straight Dylan. the rest is all bullsh*t.
  • me: (gets up and starts packing)
  • my enemy: what're you doing?
  • me: looking for that friendship contract we made when were like ten because im pretty sure you didn't freaking read the fine print of the terms and conditions where is says you can't be a biphobic a-hole. I'm taking back my jonas brothers CD.