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Poster - MormorPeople are putting up posters of you. Their saying shit like "Richard Brook was a fake" and "Moriarty was real." It's annoying, to say the least.
I miss you, you bastard.
Jim stared at the text he got, feeling a mixture of humor, at how Sebby was annoyed by the posters, and sadness, remembering how painful it is to stay away from his lover for so long. He's been away for months before but that was business. Not that this wasn't business either, but it was business in which he could only stare at the texts Sebastian sent him with a heavy ice-cold heart and empty wishes to be able to text him back. But he couldn't. Not yet. He typed out a reply-
"I miss you too, pet.
and was tempted to send it. His thumb hovered over the send button but he shook his head and shoved his phone back in his pocket.
No. Not yet.
Cold - MormorIt was freezing. The heater was broken and there was a horrible draft. They were in the dead of winter and a hail storm was raging outside, the tiny balls of ice beating at the window violently. It was surprising that the glass didn't shatter altogether.
Jim sat on the couch with Sebastian's hoodie and a blanket wrapped around his small figure. He was tempted to go downstairs and yell at someone about it, but he didn't want to move from his warm cocoon he created around himself. It was too cold to even think about moving. He didn't dare let his fuzzy-sock-covered feet touch the icy ground.
He silently urged Sebastian to come back to their flat faster. He was out on a job Jim gave him earlier, no doubt out there in the freezing mess that people called the weather. Jim smiled slightly at the thought. That Sebastian would sit out there in the swirling flurry of ice, unseen and waiting for the perfect time to shoot, all for him.
It was at that time that Sebastian decided to walk into the f
Tiger - Mormor(?)Sebastian had long since gotten used to the nicknames Jim gave him, but that didn't mean he had to like them.
"Pet" had to be the worst one. Jim only ever used it for the most meaningless tasks. "Pet, make me tea.", "Pet, we're out of spaghetti."
"Pet, my experiment went horribly wrong, come clean it up for me." Jim's voice echoed from the kitchen, as if to prove his point.
Sebastian sighed and stood up from his place on the couch to get a mop. He entered the kitchen to see some sort of bubbling, radio-active green mass on the white tile floor. He looked around to see that Jim already fled the crime scene. He turned back to the thing in front of him, wondering if a mop would even be the right tool to use for something like this. He shrugged and used it anyway, trying to ignore how the mop started to turn green. "Shit Jim, what the fuck did you do?"
Although the nicknames did annoy him to no end, he had one that he preferred over all
You're Not A PoetYou’re not a poet because of strung words
Together on row upon row again
Of blank verse or perhaps liberal rhyme.
‘Slam’ all you want, other poets wonder;
Your ignorance of couplets a blunder?
Yes! I speak harshly, but it’s no gross crime,
To point with honesty failed verse of thine.
No real poet discards upper case words;
Lets prose crawl on paper like listless worms.
You seek to free verse of those stern letters,
Sever away bleak capital fetters,
But it doesn’t sing of great speech sublime,
Rather, it sneaks of writing in spare time.
Wait! before you throw me in the icy Rhine;
It’s hard to put verse together in rhyme,
To make our dull words sound great all the time,
Hear them ring out loud, like a clear clock’s chime,
Heralding a poet’s summer prime.
Yet the sacred muses weep at your crime;
Your pentameter mangled thick like slime,
The subject not gilded in raiment fine;
Your bold ink font, crystal waters divine
Tastes bitter to the ton
Un roti de Cupidon"Patron.. je suis pas sûr que ça soit une si bonne idée..."
Un bruissement d'ailes presque froufroutant sur sa gauche le fit se retourner d'un bond, mais il ne put percevoir qu'un bref mouvement du coin de l'oeil. Ils étaient rapides, bien trop rapides. Jamais le vieux ne réussirait. De nouveau ce bruit soyeux, semblable à des ailes de tourterelles, mais bien plus proche. Dans son esprit il pouvait les voir, tournant au dessus de sa tête comme autant de vautours prêts à la curée.
Le bruit assourdi des détonations résonna et tout autour d'Emmanuel une pluie de plumes commença à virevolter tandis que cinq bruits sourds accompagnaient la chute d'autant de corps autour de lui.
"Ramasse les, petit. On a encore du boulot."
Avec une grimace mi admirative, mi dégoûtée, le jeune homme se mit au travail, enfilant des lourds gants de cuir pour se protéger. Son sup
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