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do my dark circles and deteriorating health make me look hot

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how are you so quiet about it? your sadness i mean. how do you hold it in your chest, in your eyes, in your teeth without letting it speak; how does it stay still?

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anyway, whom else in this club loves gay victorian authors who just want 2 kiss boys and maybe write some poetry but keeps ending up following their cute flatmate on adventures involving snakes and possible hellhounds???? This is an indie & selective rp blog for John H Watson as based on ACD’s aventures of sherlock holmes, although I’m probably kinda canon divergent at this point idk either way smash that mf like or reblog if u want this good and kind son to come bitch abt life with u bc he Gets It my dudes 

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you fall in love with the little things about someone, like the sound of their laughter and the way their smile forms.

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@vicemirrored

me: man i love this villain

someone on the internet: awww noo poor small precious baby is not really bad, they didn’t do anything wrong, they’re just misunderstood :((((

me: you come into my house, you insult my trash evil child,

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@swordlost (cont) 

If heaven exists and Watson is, by some miracle, able to get there, then this is surely what it must look like. More than anything he wants to explore the bookshop; to run his hands over each title, to find out what ancient and wonderful texts Azira has stored here. Oh, he had a library as a boy of course, or at least his father’s house did, but this is different. Here there is no looming drunken presence ready to hit him for being too loud or moving the wrong book. Nor is there a portrait of his dead mother, lovely though it was, to remind him of everything he’s been robbed of. How many hours could he spend here? How many days? There is an itch deep in his soul that makes him want to take as many books as he can and read until his eyes go blind with the effort of it, but he doesn’t. 

Watson is no fool, and he’s already observed how particular Azira is about his books. This may be a bookshop, but nothing here is meant to be moved or bought. Instead Watson forces himself to be content with simply craning his neck around and memorising as many titles as possible so that he might enquire about them later. He even sees a small pamphlet on Calvinism and chuckles to himself ruefully. 

As beautiful as the books lining the walls (and the floor, and just about every other space) are, they are nothing compared to their owner. As soon as Az hops into the seat across from him, Watson feels his breath catch in a way that has nothing to do with the unpleasant rattling in his chest. Lord. Lord, what did he do to deserve this? How can he possibly deserve to be this lucky? Even with Azira’s mock seriousness, Watson cannot help a gentle laugh falling from his own lips, though he attempts to quell the coughing that threatens to follow it. 

“I’m sure they’ll be perfectly edible,” he wants to leave the sentence at perfect, but stops before he can embarrass himself, “but I promise you have my word.” 

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butfierce:

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“That is so not true!” Hopping on one foot with a toothbrush halfway out of her mouth, Hermia manages to pull on her boot, and resumes to brushing her teeth while her phone lies peacefully on her desk with the speakerphone on. “He actually thinks you’re a catch.” The words tumble out in-between paste and teeth, and she has to quickly run to her private bathroom and spit so she won’t miss any possible retorts from the young man on the other end of the line.

With her teeth done, she grabs her phone and leans it against the mirror in the bathroom, where she attacks her eyes. Hermia isn’t a fan of makeup, not on herself anyway. It’s not that it doesn’t look good, it just looks wrong, like it’s this estranged friend you’ve invited over for a BBQ and the two of you are growing apart and it’s starting to be really obvious, but you don’t really mind them as a person, you’re just in different places in your life. That. That’s how Hermia feels about makeup. Regardless, she smears on liquid eyeliner and follows it up with chunks of mascara, all a sort of disguise. Maybe ‘ her kind ‘ comes in all kinds of different shapes and sizes, but she knows what people expects, so she knows how to avoid it. Even if that’s what feels natural and right.

“Alright, I hear your car, be right out. Don’t be alarmed, I’m wearing makeup, it’s all for a good cause. Mwah,” she kisses into the phone, “see ya,” and hangs up. With a last glance in the mirror – she hates what she sees, which means that her dad will love it – she grabs her phone and purse and heads downstairs, where her dad awaits her date with as much excitement as Hermia ( she might not be dating John, but he’s a pretty awesome friend, not to mention a very talented beard, so she does enjoy hanging out with him ).

“Patera,” she greets her father mock-formally, and leans up to kiss him on the cheek. “That will be John. Don’t wait up!” She goes for the door at the same time as it is opened from the outside, and she knows her dad catches a glimpse of John as she slips out of the door. To him, she says: “It sounds like your car is giving up on life. You sure it’s safe to even sit in it?”

“Only because he knows nothing about me, I’m only a catch as long as I’m an enigma.” The words are completely true, but there’s more humour behind them than any genuine regret. Junior doctor he may be, but he’s also poor as shit, and massively gay. Still, as long as Hermia’s dad sees him as a respectable public school sort that’s all that really matters. He flicks the indicator on his car and smiles at the phone resting on the dashboard. 

It’s not that he needs a beard, exactly, his father is dead after all, and yet...gossip. Gossip spreads quickly in his old social circles. He doesn’t really like the idea of his old school “chums” and distant relatives sitting around discussing how he’s the family queer now. So he dates Hermia, or pretends to, and both of them are the better for it. Well, for the most part anyway. Her dad absolutely terrifies him, and he dreads to think what he’d do if he figured out the truth about his daughter’s lovely heterosexual boyfriend. Once upon a time it wouldn’t have mattered, what with John’s rugby training and all, but the crash had rather put an end to that; he rubs his damaged shoulder absentmindedly and frowned before pushing the thought away for a happier one. 

Makeup. Christ. “I have baby wipes in the car,” he laughs. It’s like they’re living in some kind of fucked up play. A pantomime, painting themselves in face paint to fool the audience. Look out Mr Gavras , it’s behind you. Hermia hangs up and once again gentle guitar music fills the car. It’s one of those bands where John has no fucking clue what they’re on about, but they’re still nice to listen to as long as you don’t try and think about it. As always the houses lining Hermia’s street draw a low whistle from his lips. They’re not that extravagant, but compared to his shitty shared flat this might as well be the fucking Balmoral. 

He clambers out of the car and smooths down his shirt and trousers. Hermia probably won’t care, but her father will no doubt. It’s for his benefit that he attempts not to limp too much on his way to the door, opening it just as Hermia goes to do the same on the other side. From here he can just about see Mr Gavras, so he smiles slightly and raises a hand in friendly greeting before Hermia shuts the door on him. He laughs, offers her his elbow. “As a trainee doctor I wouldn’t recommend it, but as a poor student?” he grins, “just be thankful we’re not hitch hiking.”  

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But do not ask the price I paid, I must live with my quiet rage, tame the ghosts in my head that run wild and wish me dead. should you shake my ash to the wind Lord, forget all of my sins. Oh, let me die where I lie ‘neath the curse of my lover's eyes. 'Cause there's no drink or drug I've tried, to rid the curse of these lover's eyes

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@swordlost

Apollo, that is of course the obvious comparison to draw. Certainly he has the beautiful gold ringlets and stunning blue eyes that one associates with that God. Watson scribbles the name into his poem only to scratch it out a moment later. It doesn’t feel right, God of light as Apollo may have been, the image still doesn’t do justice to the breath taking beauty of Watson’s muse. If an angel appeared to him this very moment, it’s beauty would have be insignificant compared to that of Az. Oh, now that isn’t an entirely terrible sentiment; he scribbles it down before turning his attention once again to Greek gods. 

Perhaps he is going about this all wrong, and he ought to draw his comparisons elsewhere. Aphrodite is the name that keeps springing to the forefront of his mind. What better way to express Az’s beauty than to compare him to the very Goddess of love and beauty herself? The only issue is the rather notable fact of Aphrodite being a woman. While he doubts Az would be offended by the comparison, Watson still finds his pen hovering uncertainly above the page. Can he do this, or is a line that he is never intended to cross? Then again, the very fact that he is writing this poem is an offence in the eyes of the law, and most others no doubt. In for a penny, in for a pound, or so they say. He writes the name.

It is then that he hears a light footfall behind him and glances quickly over his shoulder. As always, his breath catches in his throat and his heart just about stops for a few seconds. Az, making his way over, towards him of all people. Watson isn’t really one to believe in divine blessings, but if there was ever an occasion... 

The poem. All at once his mind jumps back into gear and he scrabbles to hide the paper in front of him. Granted it doesn’t mention Az’s name outright, but any fool with two eyes and half a brain could work out who the muse of the whole thing is. They wouldn’t even need half a brain to realise that Watson wasn’t writing about a woman, Aphrodite or no Unfortunately in his haste to cover his shameful work, Watson only succeeds in spilling the ink pot all over his hands, staining them black and leaving the poem still uncovered. He swears passionately under his breath and then stops when he realises Az is within earshot. Dammit. A solider of the queen’s army, a survivor of maiwand of all god forsaken places, a bloody scotsman; and yet he is reduced to a blushing schoolgirl. “dammit.” 

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I’m still laughing at this

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Neither of us says the word love, not once. It would be tempting fate; it would be romance, bad luck.

Margaret Atwood, The Handmaid’s Tale (via courcel)