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Literature
running on loop
 Fandom: Temple Run, Temple Run 2
Characters/pairings: Guy Dangerous, Barry Bones, Maria Selva, Santa Claus, Scarlett Fox, Francisco Montoya, Zack Wonder, Karma Lee
Warnings: None. Well. Character death, which kinda comes with the 'fandom'.
Summary: Rings for all

endless

 
His ring is the heaviest of the lot, the Shard second only for its size, and he knows because he’s handled them all, once upon so many runs he can’t for the deaths of him tell if the Loop really did come before the Wings.
 
It doesn’t look like much, the thin twist of silver that looks almost too elegant for the finger – rough from flame and rope and injury, and whose fault might that be – he jams through it (it’s too tight and every so often he has to swap fingers), but he still hates it every time he does.
 
That doesn’t stop him from looking at it at every opportunity, and cursi
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Literature
limited time only
 limited time only
Fandom:
Temple Run, Temple Run 2
Characters/Pairings: Onesided Montana Smith/Scarlett Fox, implied Scarlett Fox/Guy Dangerous, implied Scarlett Fox/Francisco Montoya, Karma Lee, Maria Selva, Barry Bones, Zack Wonder, Tom Brady, Peyton Manning, Santa Claus
Warnings: None
Summary: Do you want to buy one Tom Brady for £0.69?
It occurs to Montana one day that he’s been in the game a while now.
 
He realises this tearing a knot of beef jerky hard from being at the bottom of his bag so long to strips with his teeth; from the other side of the small fire they’ve built up from an assortment of twigs of varying degrees of dryness and Montana’s pocket lighter, Scarlett pauses in unwinding the strapping from her ankle to roll her eyes at him. Less out of disgust than habit, he now knows, not that someone who digs out soggy pizza and offers him a slice each time – since he&
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Literature
And Thus Trumps Redbeard Mycroft
Fandom: BBC Sherlock
Disclaimer: is not mine
A/N: unfortunately

However many times Sherlock freak-fine-but-not-a-psychopath Holmes snaps that he is in fact a high-functioning sociopath now shut up and let him think, Mycroft doesn’t buy it.
Nevertheless, sentimental as he’s getting in his middle age, he only ever calls Sherlock out on the ‘high-functioning’ part.
--
Mycroft used to call Sherlock stupid, on a daily basis, for the very simple reason that Sherlock was. Stupid. On a daily basis. It was only when they came out of their seclusion (happy ignorance) that Mycroft realized that Sherlock, that all of Sherlock’s mindless, pointless, stupid little idiosyncrasies were in fact normal.
Like getting attached to things, which was always unwise, especially if they were things that Mycroft could get to. Toys could be broken, tampered with, hidden; Irish Setters only had an average life expectancy of eleven years anyway. If Mycroft r
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Marx by ScherbenByOpium Marx :iconscherbenbyopium:ScherbenByOpium 0 0
Literature
Self Portrait In Ten Parts
1.
Things that burn, and burnt things.
There's a maggot egg under the skin of my forearm, a knotted capsule under the water droplets that glistened there. I wish time would claim it for its own already. It's so tempting to give in and concede that ignorance is bliss and I'd be happier off trading my brain for a handful of pills.
Tip back acetone. It's the truth that ends up purged at sandalled feet, purple leather and pleas. Maggots are quite ugly. 
2.
I like cold showers.
There's joy in skin as cold as the sluice of icy water. Turn it colder, hold yourself under until it aches like a plane taking off. There's a mirror: those aren't crystals in your hair, but water. Do it right and it's better.
Step out. The air's warmer than you are. Think, maybe someone could find me beautiful.
3.
I like hot showers too.
Not scalding but a few degrees to the left of warm, curling. Shiver under it, believe for a tendril of steam that this is all the love I need. Steam on the mirror; steam on the
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L2 by ScherbenByOpium L2 :iconscherbenbyopium:ScherbenByOpium 2 0 18.5(-1)'s the Charm by ScherbenByOpium 18.5(-1)'s the Charm :iconscherbenbyopium:ScherbenByOpium 1 0 L1 by ScherbenByOpium L1 :iconscherbenbyopium:ScherbenByOpium 2 4 cena Haterii by ScherbenByOpium cena Haterii :iconscherbenbyopium:ScherbenByOpium 0 0 Nyotalia!Austria With Scarf by ScherbenByOpium Nyotalia!Austria With Scarf :iconscherbenbyopium:ScherbenByOpium 3 2 Farin by ScherbenByOpium Farin :iconscherbenbyopium:ScherbenByOpium 10 12
Literature
Grass
Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia.
With Austria he needs no words, needs not justify himself with turns of sentiment that fall stilted and lugubrious and distort themselves into the wrong metaphors entirely, needs not explain the situation, paint the layers of context and subtext and smear a careful thumb over the details.
He does not deny their potential – in a world removed from this. This, is the bubble in reality where redaction swirls the absurdities of history and its baggage they clutch to their chests from one new city to another all hazy and iridescent somewhere high above their heads.
The dirt is damp and unevenly dark with the stains of rainwater, and a hand pressed to the rocks comes away with grit rather than dust. The grass, though, isn’t too bad, at least if they brush them flat and sit on the dryer parts. No, not grass, but the type that are longish with thin stalks that are surprisingly tough to pull apart, that range in haphazard patches fr
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Merry Christmas by ScherbenByOpium Merry Christmas :iconscherbenbyopium:ScherbenByOpium 4 2 For The Sake of Dreams by ScherbenByOpium For The Sake of Dreams :iconscherbenbyopium:ScherbenByOpium 3 5 Failed John Mayer. by ScherbenByOpium Failed John Mayer. :iconscherbenbyopium:ScherbenByOpium 0 0 For The Sake of Dreams by ScherbenByOpium For The Sake of Dreams :iconscherbenbyopium:ScherbenByOpium 3 0

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Literature
How It Began
"God, your two o'clock is here."
"I have a two o'clock?"
"He's been here since 7:45. I figured it's only polite to... sir."
God sighed. "Fine, send him in."
While He waited God cleared His desk of papers and blueprints; no need for outsiders to see His plans. Soon enough the door to His office opened and God stood, smiled, held out a hand towards one of the two visitor's chairs.
"God! Great stuff you're doing in sector 2-7-0! Great stuff!"
The man's hands were clammy, his handshake limp. Rumpled suit, porkpie hat, briefcase... oh Jes-- oh dear, a salesman. God's smile slipped a little but He soldiered on gamely. With luck He could shoo the poor guy away in a few minutes.
"So, what can I do for you?"
The man sat, briefcase across his knees. "Sector 2-7-0! Everyone's talking about it! What do you call it? Man and merman?"
"Man and woman, actually. And thanks. But we're pretty busy around here, and..."
"Oh! Right! No time for the wicked, eh?" The salesman winked and popped his briefcase,
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Literature
Ironman
Hear me read it
My friends used to call William "Ironman" because the first time we kissed he got a nosebleed and the taste of his blood haunted me for a long time after it. We'd only been twelve years old and apparently the anxiety spiked his blood pressure to the point of combustion... I remember that when we were forced to take sex ed a few years later we were divided into separate classes for boys and girls, in case a diagram of an ovary was too risqué and we became animalistic and started clawing at each other in our seats, but nonetheless when our teacher Ms Jacobs had explained to us what an erection was in my mind all I could picture was the blood rushing to his nose and then the slash of cranberry across my blouse.
With the idea planted in his mind it didn't take long for William's hands to start wandering, but the image persisted. Every time I thought about just letting it happen I wondered what would happen if he got too excite
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Activity


1. There are so many moments you know are dead even as you live them, and it aches like homesickness (at first). Just this once; please?

2. You've started referring to yourself in the second person. Because, well. It's embarrasing. There.

3. You miss the roll of sweat down your back, probably, because it was never any punishment to you. You aren't - prissy. As prissy. Lukewarm water and faulty wall-fans couldn't give you this, you knew, couldn't set you ablaze in exhilirated joy and the impulse to keep running and that spark of defiance that glitters wild in your eyes, glistens on bared teeth and wet fingertips. You don't pant at all.

4. Still, London is different. Sluggish. You discover Sherlock and keep discovering it for all the three days it takes you to finish it. Fanfiction does the rest; you're at your most lucid when you first wake up, which is saying something.

5. Maybe. You had no problem waking up on the bunk bed(s), half-past-four air chilly bare arms but unwilling to pull on your uniform, mind in perfect clarity, watching your dorm-mates (who irritate you, quite a lot. If only they'd be a bit more - spontaneous.).

6. You start off normal too, though, as normal as being English gets. English gets you off the hook, sometimes, though: you can feign semi-illiteracy, you're automatically excused from the more tedious conversation, because naturally you won't be squealing over the same barely-teen idols they are. You do squeal, a few times - test runs. Pilot. The view is as disinteresting as the rest of them.

7. You withdraw into silence. There is a lot of time to think, but you can't draw the right inspiration. Not that there aren't times you wish you could draw or write -

8. A stool, green and red, twisted to rest strung between two dust-filmed trees in the morning.

9. The ripple of a yellow fan seen through bars.

10. Hands folded around a paper plate slathered with too much cake. Almost elegant.

11. At first it was the photograph you fell in love with, a photograph you never captured even though you had your phone weighing guilty in your pocket because you just didn't have the audacity. Jaw-neck-hair-eyes. The perfect arrangement, goddamnit, the lighting and the railings and the balconies in the backdrop, white-blue-grimy, and just the right focus -

12. - Fuck. That's all it takes. Pretty things or broken things, remember, but who would have thought simplistic.

13. Oh, on another note, the canteen. There's a drink that tastes like nostalgia that your mind goes quiet when you first taste it, intent on finding a match somewhere from the depths of your memories, but you don't find it. Grandmother, but you can't be certain. (You make yourself sick on it later.)

14. Sickness made you irascible, and you won't accept concern. (It wasn't the drink, but it didn't make you feel better and you stuck to other options after that.) There is someone who buys you food, brings you food, attempts to cajole you into eating the food. It's a good person, yes. A piece of fruit per meal does it for you. Both hunger and appitite have been flipped off without warning. You ask leave in the evening, when the stools are out, supposedly to use the toilet. It's not that you haven't eaten enough to bring anything up; there's no bile to burn the back of your throat, either. Not Italy. (Maybe alcohol would have helped.)

15. Maybe you fear illness. You did last night, English time, woken a minute from one with a stomache-ache. (But I ate this time. Why? Will it be recurring, from now on?) Forced yourself to eat half a banana and all, trek to the kitchen and back made irrational with fear of (the dark)? Not that simple, but growing out of the phase of being scared of the dark was just a phase. (Can't remember what brought it back. Something. Ah. A foray into cinema. The rating was for a good reason. Fear by association. For God's sake.) The banana helped, in the end, but that end came a few hours later when you woke again and actually shivered when you curled back up. You're slipping.

16. Because you managed a fair bit better a couple of weeks ago. The cold bamboo was of no help whatsoever, and the blanket for once far too thin. The night was sleepless, and, hell, you heard your own whimper. (Can't remember when the disgust appeared.) You were brought to medical the next morning, and had more medicine than you took in the past few years altogether thrown to you. The green-packeted one you recognised, because 2011 and at least you kept quiet that time. (Drama queen.)

17. You fight against the cough for breath. The cough wins, and trails you all the way to England.

18. It takes a long time for you to accept eighteen.

19. You've never done this before. Space, oh how you could do with this, and the privacy of night, darkness. Twenty-five minutes, she said, to make the call. And if I can't make it back by then? Zai shuo. Lie into the phone: you have more money that what you fed it, and more time than the claimed nine minutes.

20. You lack the self-discipline to keep running to the point of collapse, but you do manage something that flushes your cheeks hot when you sit and bring your head between your knees. Use the hairband. The agony is wonderful, fifty-something in, or just starting to get wonderful but of course you have to roll to the side and let the breeze cool you. Run the equivalent of screaming. You can't recreate it, though you do slam your back to the floor hard enough for it to swell red down your spine and possibly/probably your left shoulderblade. You kept shifting, kept getting caught by the different stone. You want it to bruise so you can take it away. 

21. It wasn't supposed to end that way. The three weeks were supposed to be a closed episode: forget, distort, never contact again. It was my fault, though, because I did forget because there was no confidentiality never any confidentiality did the knife story teach you nothing apparently not you forgot yourself and thought friend and no I don't make friends so easily and this guilt I refuse it because I did try being kinder subtler more sparing than leaving you to leave and leave the bed to me thank you very much I wanted to sleep alone anyway and I was hallucinating actually I wouldn't have kicked you out of my own accord but I'm not that sorry I could sleep an hour, two, three four five o'clock it was that I woke and sit on the balcony ledge ah there are bars on the window for a reason but they're very ineffective and here I am and oh, find me.

22. days actually, inclusive. Not a perfect three weeks if you count both Sundays, 27 and 17. Shower, jacket, plane. Loss in a wet-wipe.
  • Reading: Sub-par Sherlock fanfiction
  • Watching: Sherlock
  • Playing: Candy Crush

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ScherbenByOpium
Fanxi
People's Republic of China
Fifteen, pretty much a hermit, and a Germanist to boot. Hello.

(looking pretty much three shades shy of death)

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Comments


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:icontixielix:
TixieLix Featured By Owner Jan 12, 2015  Hobbyist Digital Artist
Thanks for the fave on my Tolkien piece! ^^
Reply
:iconanguana:
anguana Featured By Owner Oct 6, 2014
Thanks for the watch :smile:
You have a great style of drawing!
Reply
:iconcalimer00:
calimer00 Featured By Owner Oct 5, 2014
Vielen Dank für den 'fav' und die 'watch'!
Reply
:iconcommanderprussia:
CommanderPrussia Featured By Owner Oct 3, 2014  Hobbyist Traditional Artist
Thanks for the +fav 
Reply
:iconscheherazades:
scheherazades Featured By Owner Sep 26, 2014  Hobbyist Writer
thanks for the watch/fave!~
Reply
:icongoodbyeafterglow:
goodbyeafterglow Featured By Owner Sep 26, 2014  Professional Writer
thank you for the watch and the fav. i like your drawings
Reply
:iconpoetryod:
PoetryOD Featured By Owner Sep 24, 2014
Hey, thanks for the watch :love:
Reply
:iconilyilaice:
ilyilaice Featured By Owner Sep 15, 2014
Hellooo. Thanks for the watch. How're you today? (:
Reply
:iconscherbenbyopium:
ScherbenByOpium Featured By Owner Sep 16, 2014
You're welcome.

I'm alright. How are you?
Reply
:iconilyilaice:
ilyilaice Featured By Owner Sep 17, 2014
Good, too. (:
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