"Oh my god, I’m turning into—a vampire!”

"But how? I didn’t even bite you yet!"

Premature edraculation

…this fucking website.

(via my-dear-corvo)


love poem for myself / collection of things i’m working towards believing, part 1. i made this for my comics project! sorry the scan quality isn’t so great.

(via my-dear-corvo)


d’you think the avengers ever play a game where they try to push steve’s buttons and get him all riled up and patriotic?

tony casually throws it into a conversation like “oh yeah I don’t vote” and steve trails off mid-sentence and gapes for a second before he starts in on the…

"when the boys pull your hair and push you to the ground
during recess
I promise not to tell you that it’s because they like you.
when the teachers call home to tell me that
you pushed them to the ground in return
I’ll take you out of school early and buy
you your favorite ice cream.
when you get older and the boys
try to touch you when you don’t want to be touched
I’ll look at you like the sun when you come home
with anger in your fists.
they all tell you not to fight fire with fire
but that is only because they are afraid of your flames.
when the boys yell after you like hyenas
you yell back, baby.
I will not teach you to be afraid of your anger
so that you look for it in others.
I will not make you be the better person
because you already are.
you wanna fight ‘em? fight ‘em.
don’t you dare apologize for the fierce love
you have for yourself
and the lengths you go to preserve it.
when the boys try to tell you to soften up
I hope you make them bleed with your edges.
I hope you remember that you are not theirs
that their disappointment in you is not yours.
when the boys come to your door with pretty words and
angry eyes
I hope you show them the anger in yours.
I hope you show them just how strong your mommy
thinks you are.
I hope you show them the animal they can’t always
see in their own reflection.
when the boys come with the intention of hurting you
my advice will always stay the same, my darling:
give ‘em hell."

— when the boys come | Caitlyn S. (via zombiebondage)

(via buttbuttbadoo)

Benedict Cumberbatch recites John Keats’ Ode to a Nightingale.


comic © me

satan © himself

(via wolfsheadwolfsheart)


So, these two met on my blog and it looked quite extraordinary.

(via what-the-random-est)

Oops, I did it again.

Helper of Mankind (or, Greg finds Mycroft the Genie)

He had known there would be bad days. He hadn’t become a copper with the wide-eyed naivete of most of his peers—he’d seen the long hours, the relentless bureaucracy, the utter thanklessness of the job in the slump of his father’s shoulders after a long day slogging through the paperwork some higher-up couldn’t be bothered with. His granddad’s wild stories around the dinner table had taught him the danger, the risk. In the tightness of the lines bracketing his mother’s mouth, waiting up on a night because they didn’t know, he’d learned the fear of uncertainty, of never knowing if this call out would be the last. He had stood by his father at enough gravesides, missed his presence at enough school games, seen the fights, the nights when one drink wasn’t enough, to know there would be bad days.

He’d understood, even, that the bad days outnumbered the good. It would be difficult not to know, he had breathed it in from the very beginning, much to his mum’s despair. Policing was as much a family business to him as being royal must be to the Queen. He’d seen it from just about every side before he’d even taken his A-levels. He thought he’d been prepared. But it was impossible to prepare for the worst days. The first time, a week and a half of eighteen hour work days, a handful of screaming rows with Liv, and the endless, exhausting pursuit of just one more clue that had ended in the bloodbath of a vicious murder-suicide… The first time he had felt betrayed. Surely, surely, someone should have told him about this: the total loss of faith in humanity, the pressing weight of guilt on his chest. He’d known, of course, but he then again, he hadn’t. Not truly.

It might be that he’d expected to make a difference. Pride goeth before a fall and all that. He’d prided himself on knowing the job and he’d expected that to change something. He really had, even if it had been some small change in the world around him, some tiny betterment. He had wanted to fight for the greater good, right wrongs, champion justice. It didn’t work like that; he was such a small piece of a greater whole, one of the countless cogs in a machine that far exceeded him. He’d known it from the very beginning, hadn’t he?

There were good days too, of course. Days when they caught the bastards before they could hurt anyone else or—the best days—when they caught them before they had managed to hurt anyone at all. The best days coaxed hope back into his chest, took him home with smiles and frozen yogurt for Janey, let him navigate the trembling waters of his marriage without an eruption. The best days persuaded him that perhaps, perhaps, if he just worked a little harder, gave a little more, spread himself a little thinner, that he could help make a difference after all. But the worst days…

Whatever little hope the good days shored up, the worst days dashed away with all the force of a tsunami. The worst days sent him stumbling home with exhaustion and impotent anger spiking into a headache behind his eyes, at a loss to explain the evil at the core of humanity and desperate to fix something that could not be repaired.

Read more at Ao3

Well. It’s been ages. I miss tumblr. :( hoping to have internet back sometime next year. I wish that was a joke. That’s my actual timeline right now. If I’m lucky. Anyway, since I’m stealing online time at work, have some fic:

A Proud Woman


Mycroft Holmes is so glad to have her little brother back in London. Except when he’s being a tit.


Inspired by The Least of All Possible Mistakes by rageprufrock.
The title is taken from Yeats’ “A Dialogue of Self and Soul.”

Most of the dialogue here is taken from “The Empty Hearse.” It’s not my genius. This is a largely introspective piece. There are absolutely spoilers for Series 3 if you haven’t seen it.

This was an accident. I read a fabulous girl!Greg Mystrade fic and then this happened. I’m not sure about it at all. It wouldn’t be seeing the light of day except that I can’t stare at it any longer. That said, it’s not betaed except in the sense that I harassed a few friends into reading it and they didn’t die bleeding from the eyes, nor has it been britpicked further than a texted conversation with my fellow (and far superior) anglophile sister.

Mycroft Holmes was perfectly aware of each and every one of her inadequacies. The problem wasn’t too thin lips or an over-large nose. It wasn’t that her hair couldn’t decide whether or not it wanted to be ginger or brown (in as much as hair decided anything) and had settled on some muted color between that was neither distinctive nor pretty. She had grown accustomed to freckles and “beauty” marks; it was impossible to do anything other than accept her body, after nearly forty years inhabiting it. …read more at Ao3.