brief excerpt from a novel thing im writing
heat up the turntables. just a drabble.
your name was dave strider and you could feel the beats. they thrummed up your fingers and rocked your joints, added a jump after your pulse. your blood was dropping the bass with you. you could feel it down in your gut, down in your palms and lower back, your hips, your dick, the soles of your feet. you thought you could feel the sound waves. they kept you on beat, bouncing against the rhythm and moving your head, pulling down your eyelids and making you lose track of any time that wasn’t 4-4, 7-8, 2-3.
you could feel all of the events of the day coiled up in your lungs, and you couldn’t open your mouth or you’d cough them up, so instead you let them smear out your fingertips, add to the black of the turntables and rub in grease and sweat to your keys and buttons. let it get so you couldn’t separate yourself from the music, where you’re just a channel for it, coming out your fingers and going back in your headphones, a loop you edited and cut and pasted and edited until it slithered through the right veins and hit the right drums and felt good. when your fingers tripped they got nicked on the side and you didn’t stop, kept spinning until the blood made circles and got added to the feeling of it, ‘cause pain aint nothin but some nice ky jelly to make everything go in and out nice and smooth, through the cords and the tears and the promises, the drops and hiccups and sweaty, nasty-ass passion.
you never got dusty, never kept clean, got in and out of the speakers by the grin in your gums and the cum on your fist. as filthy as the beats, as heavy as the bass in your gut, pinning the melody against the wall and making it squirm until it wriggled out of your grasp and pushed you down and made you wail.
until there was nothing but the wall outside the club and it was hot enough to get your sweat stuck to it even at two am because fuck your town and fuck your whole fucking state, you’re so sick of it all of it and theres nothing left but the music, nothing left but the beats and the way it makes you weave and feel dirty like you never wanna stop, feel it all and feel it in the skin and blood under your nails, feel it in our bruises and your spit and hear it in the way it lands on the weeds in the dirt.
but you come down because you always have to come down, cant just go on forever or you’ll fall. the notes sound off and the beats come hollow instead of full, the backing trite, and you start winding down before deciding to hell with that and just flipping the off switch and listening to your breath pant and your blood pound.
Wow, I actually won? I couldn't resist. So I'll say a Molly/Lestrade fic. Just because ;)
AaAAA!! hahaha i thought it might be someone i know offline. i was like “i’ve definitely only ranted about this online like once but offline i’ve spent like hours”
—
Greg Lestrade had seen a different side of Molly Hooper, the girl from the morgue, at the Christmas party. He decided that he quite liked it, and since had gotten to know her as a friend, and a good one at that. He’d learned, as time went on, how wonderful of a person she was. She was so much stronger than people gave her credit for, once you looked past her shyness. And, like Greg himself, she put up with Sherlock’s awful treatment because of an understanding of how important his work is, and how great a man he is.
There was a quiet strength to both of them, a passivity in surviving the world that they discussed over friendly tea, where he would tease her about the face she made when she sipped it while it was too hot. They would both shift awkwardly in their seats when their friendly joking brushed too close to flirtation, and were both equal parts relieved when they embraced the topic change.
The night the divorce went through, Greg ended up at Molly’s house. He didn’t remember driving there, but when he saw her, he broke down. She cradled him in her arms and told him it was okay, made him his favorite type of tea and stroked his hair while he cried. She told him, as he talked about how he didn’t even know why he was this upset because it had been him who’d insisted on it in the first place, how his feelings were valid just because he was feeling them, how he had nothing to be ashamed about, how it was important he let himself deal with it in the way he naturally felt inclined, that he couldn’t just bottle them up because that wouldn’t make them go away.
And both of them knew how easy it would be to give in, to kiss, and Molly surprised them both by being the one who acknowledged it, kissing him on the forehead during a moment of particular tension, but it was the wrong time.
The right time came several months later, when Greg was finally beginning to feel better about things, even if he still couldn’t stand to sleep anywhere but his side of the bed, and had a few of his wife’s things she hadn’t wanted that he hadn’t thrown out yet. It had been her, actually, who made the first move.
“I know that this is too soon, I’m sure it is, because she hurt you and it takes time to get over that. And I’m here for you. Always and no matter what. But I just want you to know that, when you’re ready, um—not to suggest that you’ll ever be ready, or that, uh, rather that you’d ever actually want to, but—”
He interrupted her with a kiss.
Prison Bitch: Samifer
I should probably have waited before posting this and edited it when I wasn’t almost falling asleep at my computer, but I’m too excited to have finished it, so you guys get it now.
Disclaimer: NC-17, dubcon, not very consensual D/s, light orgasm denial, light abuse, uh idk does Lucifer count as his own warning? I probably missed a few. If you point them out to me I’ll sure to add them
