#andrew's stuff

My religion teacher gives me a bible and I spend days laboring over the texts, trying to find any mercy in the words.

My best friend finds me later that day and puts on a movie as she takes the book from my hand and replaces it instead with her own.//

I crumble and cannot explain why something so simple is inherently bad.//

When I am 14,

I sit in the middle of a family that hardly knows me, and they laugh, I laugh, until my uncle takes notice of me.

What’s wrong with you, kid? He asks me, and I flinch from the question and my heart hammers in my chest. I’m not ready to tell them.

I laugh it off.//

If they looked me in the eye that day, they would have seen nothing but the terror of a sheep trying to fit in with a pack of wolves.//

My mother whispers in my ear later that night, you can tell me anything.

I wish I could believe her, but my best friend RJ was disowned and came to school bloody last month and I couldn’t risk it.//

When I am 15,

I meet Hannah, whose hands are like silk and lips like honey. She helps me up when I stumble, not looking at me with pity but with softness and concern.

Hannah doesn’t let me fall anymore. Warm arms hold me on the nights I tremble so hard I worry I’ll shatter.//

But her father finds out and by the end of the week she stops talking to me completely.//

There’s more.

Eila, a girl I love so much I could break. She starts to drink and slips from my fingers.

Aaliyah, with a bright smile to take on the world. She decides to close her eyes and never wake up after her parents find out.

James, my best friend, who comes to school one day with hollowness in his eyes. He does not tell and I do not ask.//

I.

Sherlock was a god born into a time he didn't belong in

who had eyes that reflected the depths of the ocean,

his hair like the waves

and a heart that kept on drowning.

He was a young god living to die, to feel alive, to steal fire so he can light up his cigarettes,

breathing out the smoke of glory and light into every room he entered.

His eyes, resplendent with color and devouring light with their intensity

reflects his struggle of having the insight and knowledge to tear nations into dust,

knowledge no man should carry on their shoulders.

His curse is that he sees everything and knows pain no mortal man can endure. But he must.

II

He bled gold and silver,

and you, a mortal, a dreamer, kept on collecting the droplets to sell

not seeing the wounds.

You were his prophet, his mouthpiece, his messenger,

the one tie he had in the world to connect himself to it.

You bent your knee in worship, but your knees ached

You stood too fast

and didn't understand why you felt so dizzy,

III

A spell, you said, a curse.

IV

There was something beautifully devastating about breaking a god

and ravaging their hearts surrounded in ivory pillars, something which

you can safely say no other man had done before.

There's something about drawing blood, which is not truly blood,

because the blood of other mortals wouldn't make you feel delight as if you'd struck a goldmine.

Your name on his tongue, hissing and whimpering, begging and delightful,

is sin. But you love every minute of it.

You keep drawing your name from his mouth.

V

You call him by his real name one night,

a name he hadn't been called in centuries.

He screamed and the rain poured outside like the heavens were collapsing,

his eyes darkened with his agony, and his wings trembling like he wanted to fly away.

Maybe he did.

Atlas, you call him, touching his face. He recoils from your touch.

Atlas,

Atlas,

Atlas

You will carry the weight of the universe all your life, Atlas.

Endure.

His screams echo from the walls of the castle, but the thunder outside drowns it out.

VI

His eyes see through every part of your soul.

He can dissect you to the bone marrow and know every word you've left unsaid,

every word you've never meant,

every single thought that runs through your head.

You tell him you love him

and he smiles like he smiles at everyone that lies to his face.

You wonder if one day you'll receive the same fate as them.

Or if one day he'll finally believe you.

VII

His wings are colored in shades you've never imagined,

and his halo cuts you when you dare to touch him.

Your blood is red, useless, common,

but he forgets to breathe when he sees it, his eyes going wide at the reminder of how fragile you truly are.

You step forward to take his face into your hands

but he heals your wounds in a blink of an eye and in the next one,

he's gone.

He's a god, after all. You cannot find him if he does not want to be.

VII

He says he did not realize how easy it is to break humans.

VII

You revolve around one another,

and history has you both written into its script.

His legacy will live forever, and you-

You, you mortal,

cannot die because you fell in love with a god and his touch is divine.

You cannot die.

Your name is written into the book of history

and you will live forever alongside your beloved.

You hope the wax wings he gave to you can hold you up,

and the sun will not blind you to your love for him,

Part 2 of 5

For simplicity’s sake and to not keep everyone waiting for each new part, I will upload the story and these photoboards separately. The story can be deduced from the photos for all you impatient little boys, girls and non-binary folk, but here is a snippet of this part:

There was something changing between the two of them, but Sherlock was still trying to piece together all the facts in a way that made logical sense. 

It had been a pretty regular night, and he smiled as John paraded him around the party filled with the porcelain faces of the upper class, trying to remain pleasant in an environment he didn’t belong in. The long festive night finally drew to an end, and they stumbled back to John’s hotel room, giggling, perhaps drunk from drinking too much of the wine. John grinned at something Sherlock said- he couldn’t, for the life of him, remember what it was that had left his mouth- and the next thing he knew John was pressing a wet and sloppy kiss to his mouth as he pushed him against the mattress.

He melted under John’s hungry hands, coming more and more undone with each brush of skin against skin, but even drunk, he noticed that tonight was different than the other nights that came before. There was a softness in John’s touch- a gentleness that Sherlock hadn’t experienced during the previous nights he’d spent with the man- as if they had all the time in the world and there was no need to rush. John deliberately laced their fingers together and Sherlock shut his eyes tightly, his breath hitching as he fought to remember how to breathe. It was that delicate act that unraveled something in him, waking up something long dormant in his chest.  

This was just a job, he reminded himself, yet it was becoming harder and harder to convince himself that John Watson was just an ordinary customer. Just an ordinary client.

The realization came to him later, the night quiet and melancholic as it usually was after a session, his heart beating in his chest like birds trying to fly home. With a cigarette hanging limply in his hands as he stared at John’s sleeping form, he came upon the conclusion as all the data snapped together and forced him to see what he’d been trying to ignore: he was utterly in love with John Hamish Watson, a man whose name was worth billions. Him- a simple rentboy, with hardly any money he hadn’t made from being an escort- in love with a billionaire.

How absurd. 

How laughable.

How infinitely humiliating. 

And yet, how painfully true. He was truly and undeniably in love, and now he didn’t know what to do. For a person who sold his body on the regular, he’d never actually had someone come close to claiming his heart like this. He’d thought it was impossible that a client would manage to actually get close to him in such an intimate way. It was different with the others, who were quick, cold, professional, slapping bills into his hands and then barely even nodding at him as he left his calling card on the table. This was somehow becoming more personal, and that was… dangerous.

With trembling fingers, he slipped on his coat, needing some air as he tried to figure out what to do now.

I’m not sure if this is what y’all wanted, but this is just to give you all a taste of the story and to sorta not keep everyone waiting for weeks or more for the edited story. Quality matters to me and I’m in the middle of exams, so please understand. However, your opinions matter to me, so I wanna know what you think. Do you want me to post these boards first, with a small summary/ snippet, or would you rather wait for the full finished product (which could take weeks or more due to my current workload)?

Tags under cut (If you would like to be tagged or would like not to be, please let me know via message or comment or any other way)

@alexxphoenix42

@love-in-mind-palace

@savedbyholmes

@mischiefgoddessofloki

@inevitably-johnlocked

@88thparallel

@its221blu

@carefreegirlat221b

@inneisme

@cumberbooze

@muffy-the-alchemist

@trained-cormorant

@buried-alive-in-my-mind-palace

@thelastshipperstanding

@violetwylde

@cow-mow

@nessanarmolanya

@gelos

@ligeiasand

@debzwez

@neady-night

@steadymentality

@cyn2k

@nebel-kraehe

@221bsweetheart

@theconsultingtimelady86

@nicillfhinnein

@rozensabaku

@lestradeslover

@chinike

@gryssenielsen

Their relationship is kept ambiguous and can be interpreted as the reader pleases. Sherstrade, just friends, father figure, etc. 

“Hey Molly-” Greg began before he froze, feeling the tension in the room like a slap in the face. John had a heavy scowl on his face, directed at the other man who stood across from him. Slowly and cautiously, as if walking in the middle of a war zone, Greg entered the room completely, approaching them. “What's going on here?”

John faced him with an acrimonious look, though it wasn't aimed at him. “Why don't you ask the prodigy here about what he did.”

Greg met Molly's eye, but she quickly looked at the floor. With slightly nervous steps, Greg walked forward and stepped in front of Sherlock whose chin nearly touched his chest, refusing to look up. Oh, Greg gasped, his heart stuttering and freezing in his chest. Oh, Sherlock what have you done. “Sherlock?” he asked, voice soft and gentle even though it hurt to see Sherlock like this.

Silent, hardly breathing and still, Sherlock stood there, surrounded by an air of vulnerability, unresponsive to the world. Slowly, verdigris eyes met Greg's, reluctant and filled with sorrow that didn't fit there. How long have you been suffering alone? “It was for a case,” Sherlock said, voice weak and tight, not holding the same defensive tone he had earlier with the others. Not needing to hold up masks anymore.

Greg sniffed, nodding as he looked away, trying to make sense of the entire situation. From the corner of his eye he spotted Billy who looked at him with a haunted gaze of an addict. Billy was, unfortunately, one of the men who slipped from Greg's fingers all those years ago. Greg went wrong with him. He wouldn't go wrong with Sherlock.

“Right well. Are you done here? I mean, can you... go home now?” Greg asked him, and Sherlock looked up at the others before he nodded. There was nothing there for him here, nothing but shattered dreams to stare back at him in the form of baby blue eyes that always looked either mournful or furious when he dared to meet them. Those same eyes that he'd fallen in love with for their softness and warmth were now filled with ice and bitter regret.

Am I just one of the ones you couldn't save now, John? Just one of the names you write on the list you keep in your mind of who you couldn't save? Who slipped past your fingers?

Not everything is your fault. And then:

Well, perhaps this was. After all, my love for you was what destroyed me. And you know that. You're not stupid or blind, John, I know you're aware now how I feel about you. We just don't talk about it. Because that's how we are doomed to be for eternity- forever dancing around this fire to keep from burning once again. If I fall, you fall.

Or will you?

“Sherlock!” Greg called, snapping Sherlock out of his reverie and looking at him in concern. His eyes softened when Sherlock finally looked at him, and he gave a soft smile. “Let's go home, yeah? I'm sure you're tired.” He led the young man out of the room, keeping close in case if he began swaying. Greg had no idea how much he took, and at this point in time it was best to stay on the safe side. Greg looked behind to bid the others goodbye, giving them a perfunctory nod.

John looked between the two of them, his anger dissipating slightly. “Oh you're taking him home? I mean, I could- if you're busy-”

Greg gave him a small smile. “It's not problem, John. I know what I'm doing.”

“I'll visit him later then,” John said with a sigh, and sadness filled his eyes as he stared at Sherlock's back. How sad it was that every time he had that look in his eyes it was always when Sherlock didn't see it, couldn't see it. How sad was it that they never saw the looks the other gave them when the rest of the world could see it.

“Sounds great.” And with that, Greg walked Sherlock into his car; silent. Waiting. Greg didn't speak, and Sherlock sat in the passenger's seat, buckling himself in and staring out at the buildings as they passed by. Greg waited for the inevitable break so that he could work on putting Sherlock back together.

It was 5 minutes into the car ride when it happened: a soft, stuttering breath, a ragged exhale that soon turned into a sob. Greg glanced at him, watching him unfurl, defenses crumbling like dust. You act like you're a dragon but you're always the one burning like a phoenix.

“I'm sorry,” Sherlock repeated like a mantra, like a guilty man begging for his life and Greg sighed.

I know Sherlock, you always are. “There's no reason to be sorry, Sherlock. You're fine. I've got you.”

In a state of hysterics, Sherlock kept sobbing beside him, and it was all Greg could do not to lose his focus on the road. If he hadn't been hardened by his years of being an officer, perhaps he would have lost sight of the road. Perhaps he would have crashed the car. Perhaps it would have been more merciful if he did. Instead, he drove them home- not Baker Street, Greg's- and pulled into the driveway. Stepping out of the car, he walked to the other side and helped Sherlock out. “Come on, I've got you,” he whispered equanimously, half-guiding and half-carrying Sherlock who just kept on weeping. “It's going to be alright.”

“I'm sorry.”

“You don't have to be.”

Greg guided Sherlock into the living room, sitting him down on the floor before he worked on setting up a fire. Sherlock stayed where he was placed, sniffling, rubbing at his eyes in frustration at the emotions that tore his insides up. Greg took a seat on the sofa, giving Sherlock space. “Let's talk,” he said, voice soft, though Sherlock knew that it wasn't a suggestion. “Why didn't you call me?”

Sherlock shrugged like a child being scolded. “It's for a case.”

“Try again.”

“It was! It was for a case.”

“And again.” Greg stared back at Sherlock with unyielding eyes, not believing Sherlock in the slightest. They could stay here all night and he'd probably be fine with that if it meant getting the answers he wanted. It was a daunting and touching thought, that someone would be willing to stay with him all night just to see he was okay, and yet... Sherlock wasn't sure if he wanted that, wasn't sure if he wanted to let anyone get close enough to hurt him again. But maybe you've already found a way in, Sherlock mused silently.

“Alright, fine, I didn't want to bother you and John was busy and Mrs Hudson's been out of town. I didn't know what to do. It won't happen again,” Sherlock said with earnest eyes. “Please... don't tell Mycroft.” Greg let out a sigh before nodding and agreeing to keep his dirty secret.

“Fine, but if I get even the smallest hunch you're spiraling back down, I'm going to make that call and you'll probably be staying with him again for a while. Do we have an understanding?” Greg asked firmly and Sherlock nodded in relief. He could do it, He would have to do it. He had no other choice but to manage his impulses if he didn't want to move back in with Mycroft like a grounded child. Staying with Greg was more comfortable anyway.

Greg had always been there for him, ever since he was a lonely disheveled teenager on the streets. Doing weed, coke, you name it, Sherlock did it. He'd always been the one to raid drug dens and take him home, help him settle down, help him step back from the edge. Sometimes Sherlock craved his help, sometimes he cursed him. I don't want to be saved, he had told the older man many times in the past. Greg was the one who sat up with him all night in the hospital. Who peeled away every layer and mask he had-from the bourgeois posh-boy to the capricious sociopath- to get to his heart. It was a rigid dichotomy between Sherlock Holmes the quintessential genius and Sherlock Holmes the man.

“Fix it,” Sherlock said suddenly, turning his face away from Greg.

“Fix what?”

“Me.”

Greg shook his head, wincing at the words filled with despair and hopelessness.  “You're not as broken as you think you are, love.”

You don't know that, Sherlock wanted to scream, you don't know what it's like inside of my mind. Instead of speaking, Sherlock reached out his hand, slow, deliberate, afraid. “Please,” he asked with desperate fervor, no longer caring that he was begging. Greg looked at the outstretched hand, the palm facing him, and he could only nod and took the hand, pulling Sherlock close.

He pulled Sherlock to his chest, wrapping his arms around the scrawny boy, shielding him from the rest of the world. Sherlock melted into his embrace, breathing in the scent of cigarette smoke, old books and Greg's cologne. The smell hadn't changed much over the years. He always felt safe here, in Greg's arms, where he could feel Greg's feet holding the both of them up. It was no longer necessary to keep up the charade of being okay when Greg could see right through it, and Sherlock could finally- finally- be himself. And he... wasn't okay.

And Greg was okay with that.

He always told Sherlock that, it's okay to not be okay. Just let help you. And Sherlock would. Even though he'd fight it at first with sneers and cold masks, eventually he would cave to Greg's persistence in his mission to unravel Sherlock and find the scared, lonely little boy underneath the mask. Eventually, Greg would be able to pierce through the darkness that surrounded Sherlock and reach out a hand, pulling him out of whatever mess he was in.

Greg was rather odd in that way. Instead of snapping at Sherlock to “grow up” or calling him a freak or anomaly, Greg saw an unorthodox genius in need of a cause and purpose and went, I could work with that. He saw something in Sherlock nobody else did; though of course, when he met Greg, Sherlock wasn't Sherlock yet, he was William. To some, he was Liam, the boy who would fill his head with smoke to drown out the pain. A lost cause, most people shrugged. He was about 19, with ragged black hair and ripped skin-tight jeans, a skeleton t-shirt the only thing keeping him from the biting chill of December.

Why don't you go home, kid? Greg had asked him, with gentle brown eyes that hadn't hardened in the following years, thankfully. He'd found him in a bar with older men flocking to him like moths drawn to a flame, and Greg asked for an ID and then walked him out when he couldn't hand one over. I can drive you home.

No! No, I'm fine, thanks.

Do you... have a play to stay?

Not currently, but thanks.

Lestrade had paused, shifting from foot to foot, trying to decide on something. At the time, Sherlock's heart had pounded, wondering if he was going to be turned in or his parents called. Terror had filled him then, and he was about to start begging before Lestrade spoke again.

Alright, well, I can't leave you here. Get into my car then, let's go home. My home, that is, since you don't have a place to stay right now. You can stay there until you have somewhere else to go.

“Home” became Gregory Lestrade's arms at some point, and Sherlock didn't even want to try and figure out how that came to be. Then John came into the picture with a bright smile and warm blue eyes and tea. And then John, the gregarious and charismatic bastard that he was, found someone else, and the flat that they'd shared suddenly felt filled with empty rooms and an even emptier person living in it. Where was home now?

Greg shifted, pulling away from Sherlock for a bit. “Let's have something to eat. I'm sure you're starving, I sure am. What would you like? We can call in some pizza or Chinese, or I can cook some pasta. Your choice.”

“Chinese sounds great,” Sherlock responded with a soft smile, and Greg nodded, fishing out his phone.

“I'll ring them now. You can go and change into more comfortable clothes. Your bedroom is the same as it was before, and I'm sure you can still fit into your old clothes,” Greg said, typing into his phone.

“You kept them?”

Greg turned and blinked at him owlishly for a few seconds. “Well yes, of course I did. In case if you ever needed a place to stay again.”

This. This is home, echoed in Sherlock's mind like waves crashing against a beach, and before he was consciously aware of it he'd crossed the room and wrapped his arms around the bewildered older man. “Thank you.”

“My home is always home to you, kid.”

@savedbyholmes

@thepapalestradecult (not sure if it’s okay to tag you)

Castiel, Don’t Look So Blue- Fanart

Castiel, Angel of the Lord. I realize that the fandom has pretty much decided that Castiel’s wings are black or black with other colors mixed in, but I really wanted to play with the color blue for his wings, so I apologize if I didn’t go with the norm :) 

[Image Description: A fan-made digital art piece of the character Castiel from Supernatural. He is shirtless and sitting with his arms on his knees, his teal-turquoise wings spread behind him. The background is a gradient of blue to violet, with blue at the top and violet  on the bottom. His face is blank to add to the melancholy/nostalgic feeling the piece is meant to produce.]

@shag-me-senseless-watson @kateis-cakeis @savedbyholmes @love-in-mind-palace @carefreegirlat221b (I’m working on Greg, just... give me time, gurl) @simpleanddestructivechemistry @alexxphoenix42

I didn’t make this to bash John, for the record! I just wanted to make something angsty and show the strain in their relationship by the time that the fourth season ends. It’s like they know each other on a surface level, but the longer they’re together the less they truly know one another in the way that they did in TRF or pool scene where they both decided to die together with a single look. 

Come Back, I Still Need You

Amnesia teenlock AU! moodboard

Sherlock has amnesia, and he can’t remember much about his past, Greg and Mycroft are trying to help him but he can’t seem to find his place in a world that feels painfully foreign and cold. 

@mischiefgoddessofloki this is the moodboard I decided to make for the story. It’s a slow progress, but steady enough that I’m gathering ideas and writing out scenes that I’ll put together at some point. 

Quick Drawing Practice

This was just a rough and quick sketch, probably won’t be finished unless if my muse comes back from wherever she’s buried. I tried to make it look like Sherlock but meh. It’s just a sad, lonely little boy.