The Drunk Tank: CRACKY CROSSOVER DRABBLES ITT?
Cracky crossover or AU drabbles or something.
Prompt me ridiculous shit so I can have something dumb to do while I'm not capable of having serious business thoughts! (example: "Care Bears AU" or "Sherlock is secretly an incubus" or whatever, I don't even know).
And if I'm not thinking straight or bored or am feeling blocky on some other stuff, or just am ~in da mood~, I'll then have something to fuck around with, and it may or may not get a drabble or maybe some nonsense worldbuilding or whatever.
Only caveat -- seriously if I'm filling things here I may or may not be able to walk in a straight line or answer a phone coherently, so don't expect quality so much as something that might be hilarious under the right circumstances.
um also if i don't reply i'm either a) not familiar with the canon, b) feeling shy (i'm actually kinda shy, don't take it personally), or c) totally sobered up and regretting doing this in the first place hahahah. i'll probably save these prompts for when i'm looking for something short and sweet and possibly typeable while smashed.
"You bleeding idiot," Sherlock hisses at John, and John knows he's angry -- really angry, not just petulant or peevish or in a sulk, because the white has drained from his eyes and John can't even tell the shape of Sherlock's pupils anymore, because the whole thing's black.
He laughs, and it hurts -- hurts to breathe, hurts to exhale, hurts when his ribcage expands and the skin on his chest stretches. "Literally," he agrees, because there is a wet patch on his side and he can't think but for feeling it.
He can see Sherlock's fangs when he speaks. "I could have taken it," Sherlock hisses. His hand is on John's chest -- on his ribs, over his lungs, around the edges of the wooden stake embedded just to the left of John's heart. "You know what I am."
John shakes his head. "Blessed. Blessed objects are dangerous to you." He knows because he'd used to wear a cross (it hadn't meant anything; he hadn't believe in God in ages, not since joining the army and realizing that humans did more to hurt each other than anything done by the things that lurked in the shadows).
He'd used to wear a cross and Sherlock had never mentioned it, not once, not even when the pressure between them had snapped and he'd pushed Sherlock against the inside wall of their flat and pressed his mouth to Sherlock's throat. But later, while John had been pushing into him, Sherlock's body tight and cool and beautiful beneath him, Sherlock had cringed away from him and -- and it hadn't been John, it hadn't been mistrust or revulsion or boredom.
The cross -- shaped for vampires but sterling silver for werewolves, had fallen onto Sherlock's chest, and Sherlock had cringed, had squeezed his eyes shut, and said, "Your cross. Must you?" in a strange tone, pained and resigned, like he'd been expecting John to refuse to take it off.
He hasn't worn it since.
"Everything's dangerous to you," Sherlock says, and there's something strange in his voice, some strange twist that means something and John used to know what it meant, but his chest is on fire and he hurts.
It hurts so much, it feels like he's burning to ash, and maybe he's wrong. Maybe it wasn't blessed. Maybe it was cursed instead.
"I need to take it out," Sherlock says, low and urgent and desperate, but he can't.
"You can't," John says, but he can't seem to lift his hand to make Sherlock move his hand away from the shaft of wood. "You can't, it's too deep. I'll bleed out."
"But you're dying. You're close, you're dying." John knows Sherlock's right -- vampires can sense death, have a preternatural ability to identify their prey, and they're not in London. It'll take too much time for any help to arrive. Something in Sherlock's face changes then -- not just the eyes, though they're the sort of eyes that give John nightmares, right now. But something else, something in his jaw and his head and the way Sherlock is suddenly more reptilian, disconnected from humanity in some fundamental way.
"I can stop it," Sherlock says, and the fangs look longer when Sherlock pulls his lips back, long and sharp like a jungle cat's. "I can save you."
"It won't be saving me," John says. "It'll change me, but it won't be saving me. I'll still be dead."
"But you won't --" and Sherlock stops. His tongue darts out to lick his lips, and it's not that his tongue is more red, so much as it is the color's leeching out from Sherlock's lips, leaving them pale and cold-looking and so very unnatural. He leans down, and his breath is cold like ice (not sexy at all, John notices, not right now, not when his tiny reptile brain is gibbering in fear). "Let me. Let me change you."
He doesn't want to be a vampire. But he doesn't want to go somewhere else, somewhere Sherlock can't follow him, even more than that, so even as the fear wells up in him -- becomes, literally, mortal terror, John tilts his head away from Sherlock to expose the arteries in his throat, and lets his eyes fall shut, and says, "Do it."
also http://etothepii.livejournal.com/9016.html?view=flat to see the flat view
Prompt me ridiculous shit so I can have something dumb to do while I'm not capable of having serious business thoughts! (example: "Care Bears AU" or "Sherlock is secretly an incubus" or whatever, I don't even know).
And if I'm not thinking straight or bored or am feeling blocky on some other stuff, or just am ~in da mood~, I'll then have something to fuck around with, and it may or may not get a drabble or maybe some nonsense worldbuilding or whatever.
Only caveat -- seriously if I'm filling things here I may or may not be able to walk in a straight line or answer a phone coherently, so don't expect quality so much as something that might be hilarious under the right circumstances.
um also if i don't reply i'm either a) not familiar with the canon, b) feeling shy (i'm actually kinda shy, don't take it personally), or c) totally sobered up and regretting doing this in the first place hahahah. i'll probably save these prompts for when i'm looking for something short and sweet and possibly typeable while smashed.
"You bleeding idiot," Sherlock hisses at John, and John knows he's angry -- really angry, not just petulant or peevish or in a sulk, because the white has drained from his eyes and John can't even tell the shape of Sherlock's pupils anymore, because the whole thing's black.
He laughs, and it hurts -- hurts to breathe, hurts to exhale, hurts when his ribcage expands and the skin on his chest stretches. "Literally," he agrees, because there is a wet patch on his side and he can't think but for feeling it.
He can see Sherlock's fangs when he speaks. "I could have taken it," Sherlock hisses. His hand is on John's chest -- on his ribs, over his lungs, around the edges of the wooden stake embedded just to the left of John's heart. "You know what I am."
John shakes his head. "Blessed. Blessed objects are dangerous to you." He knows because he'd used to wear a cross (it hadn't meant anything; he hadn't believe in God in ages, not since joining the army and realizing that humans did more to hurt each other than anything done by the things that lurked in the shadows).
He'd used to wear a cross and Sherlock had never mentioned it, not once, not even when the pressure between them had snapped and he'd pushed Sherlock against the inside wall of their flat and pressed his mouth to Sherlock's throat. But later, while John had been pushing into him, Sherlock's body tight and cool and beautiful beneath him, Sherlock had cringed away from him and -- and it hadn't been John, it hadn't been mistrust or revulsion or boredom.
The cross -- shaped for vampires but sterling silver for werewolves, had fallen onto Sherlock's chest, and Sherlock had cringed, had squeezed his eyes shut, and said, "Your cross. Must you?" in a strange tone, pained and resigned, like he'd been expecting John to refuse to take it off.
He hasn't worn it since.
"Everything's dangerous to you," Sherlock says, and there's something strange in his voice, some strange twist that means something and John used to know what it meant, but his chest is on fire and he hurts.
It hurts so much, it feels like he's burning to ash, and maybe he's wrong. Maybe it wasn't blessed. Maybe it was cursed instead.
"I need to take it out," Sherlock says, low and urgent and desperate, but he can't.
"You can't," John says, but he can't seem to lift his hand to make Sherlock move his hand away from the shaft of wood. "You can't, it's too deep. I'll bleed out."
"But you're dying. You're close, you're dying." John knows Sherlock's right -- vampires can sense death, have a preternatural ability to identify their prey, and they're not in London. It'll take too much time for any help to arrive. Something in Sherlock's face changes then -- not just the eyes, though they're the sort of eyes that give John nightmares, right now. But something else, something in his jaw and his head and the way Sherlock is suddenly more reptilian, disconnected from humanity in some fundamental way.
"I can stop it," Sherlock says, and the fangs look longer when Sherlock pulls his lips back, long and sharp like a jungle cat's. "I can save you."
"It won't be saving me," John says. "It'll change me, but it won't be saving me. I'll still be dead."
"But you won't --" and Sherlock stops. His tongue darts out to lick his lips, and it's not that his tongue is more red, so much as it is the color's leeching out from Sherlock's lips, leaving them pale and cold-looking and so very unnatural. He leans down, and his breath is cold like ice (not sexy at all, John notices, not right now, not when his tiny reptile brain is gibbering in fear). "Let me. Let me change you."
He doesn't want to be a vampire. But he doesn't want to go somewhere else, somewhere Sherlock can't follow him, even more than that, so even as the fear wells up in him -- becomes, literally, mortal terror, John tilts his head away from Sherlock to expose the arteries in his throat, and lets his eyes fall shut, and says, "Do it."
also http://etothepii.livejournal.com/9016.html?view=flat to see the flat view