lauranm

        Running, running, more running. Thats what most of John's days now consisted off, that and watching the back of Sherlock's tailcoat, and broad shoulders, and slim waist, and....He always did this, getting caught up in Sherlock's appearance, but how could one not? With those tall cheekbones, sharp, silver eyes, and full lips....He did it again. He knew it wasn't healthy, he would never do more than look at Sherlock, but he was content to do that for the rest of his lifetime.        Sherlock and John stopped to breathe as their chase of the china-vase-thief was brought to an end, by cornering him into Lestrade's waiting people. Their

when the desire to disembody arises, do not wipe the sweat from your forehead. cut your fingernails with a sharp tongue until they bleed. do not launder your bed sheets, do not dust off your insecurities. expose teeth expose wink expose flesh & everything else. make an excuse to visit the cemetery; try and fail to put to rest the festering that has become you. hammer the nail so deep into the coffin that you can hear your late grandfather’s welding tools mold metal abstractly. gargle salt water and then spit at the mirror. tell yourself this will be the last time you caress cursed skin. tell yourself you never saw him leaving.

Dean walked into the motel, gun in hand.  He wiped the sweat from his brow and sat down on the creaky single bed.  He rested his head in his hands and ran through today's case.  Letting out a heavy sigh, he leaned back to fall asleep. "Hello Dean." The deep raspy voice sounded from a shadowed corner.  Without getting up or opening his eyes, Dean replied quietly, "Hey, Cas.  Any news? Rogue angels? Omens? The usual?" "Not so far" Cas said, a little hint of impatience in his voice.  "Besides," he said hesistantly," That's not why I'm here." Dean sat up, staring at the nerdy little man wearing a trench coat.  "Ok?" he asked, "So why are you h

Han Solo was conflicted. It was a feeling he did not experience often, and it was making him uncomfortable. Usually he knew pretty much what he wanted. He was a simple guy. Food, and for his ship to work, and for jobs to keep him in the clear with Jabba the Hutt—his needs were generally finite and his wants usually coincided with those needs. Then that kid and the old man walked into the cantina, sliced the arm off of that pig-nosed bastard at the bar, and proceeded to turn his entire galaxy upside-down. The kid, Luke, was spunky and reckless and a little too fervent, but there was something to be said about his courage, and the fierce

Desert hands tell tales of a hundred arid summers, but you are no longer as cloudless as they (there is a storm creeping through blue, blue veins). But tell the sky to keep her sorrow, that grey cascade blurring against eyelids and horizons; and suppress her misbegotten droplets, seeping into the sodden ground underfoot— for there is still sun in your sky eyes.