{ alright it is time to sleep before i cry too much over bioshock merchandise i can’t afford }

my mom really likes birds so one day we googled “bird cake” to get birthday ideas and long story short we ended up making her a normal cake

my mom really likes birds so one day we googled “bird cake” to get birthday ideas and long story short we ended up making her a normal cake

kingmycroft asked: "Hmm. Think of yourself more as a heated pillow with soft skin if it makes you feel less used." Mycroft has never been one to sugar coat the obvious, which is of course he loves his brother in his own manipulative and rude way, but it is still love all the same and with the bond of soul mate between them, Mycroft is sure Sherlock couldn't mind less.

"Oh yes, being likened to an object makes me feel significantly less used," he counters with a note of amusement. Even so, he reaches for the blanket again, pulling it up over them. He so rarely gets this kind of time with his brother, and he’s not going to squander it by lamenting on aspects of his brother’s personality that were unchangeable.

moranument asked: [ sms ] You're sweet. My curating work is tough, sure, but it's not worth comparing to your creative genius. I'm very impressed, Sherlock. - SM

[ sms ] Then clearly I’m doing my job right. And as for your work, I disagree; it requires a lot of creative ability. -SH

kingmycroft:

image

There’s a snickering in his mind, that he doesn’t let
translate into a noise, making sure that any inclination
to act upon such childish notions dies in his throat.
His eyes are dark, and he looks upon his brother with
such intent that he might seem dangerous to those 
other Sherlock. Perhaps, in truthfulness, he is dangerous
to Sherlock. Their dance is beautiful, spread out across
small moments and macabre gifts, each step bringing
them farther out until they’re on the thinnest piece of
ice. Mycroft lives for these dances, his heart beating
faster at the mere thought of their courting coming to
an undignified end.

          ❝
  —When you see me through your lens,
               little one, do you see a r t or do you see the very
               refined art of pornography?❞

They both know this game so well now
that occasionally Mycroft forgets whether
he is winning or falling prey.

That name- little one- and the word pornography
being put in the same sentence was not a blow
he was prepared for or comfortable with. It was
absolutely ridiculous the way he felt his stomach
twist, and he swallowed around it, hoping the
camera was blocking his face enough that
Mycroft wouldn’t see.

—“It doesn’t matter what I see; it matters
    what the professor sees and what
    grade he’s willing to give me for it.”

Even as he speaks, he knows the words sound
stale and forced. Pornography without a doubt,
but pornography he felt guilty for enjoying. Best
not to think about how he was enjoying and
producing it- Mycroft wouldn’t even be here
modeling if he hadn’t requested him to be.

Grade.    Project.     Proportional grids.
                Composition.    Colour.     Editing.
Synapses that tell nerves to direct fine motor skill
muscles to press down on the shutter button.
Physicality and technicality, safer by miles than
the other direction his mind wishes to go.

kingmycroft asked: "what?— no come back here," he says still keeping his eyes shut while groping for Sherlock's frame in the bed. Mycroft latches on with some difficulty, pulling him in close and leeching the warmth he finds provided. "I'm not sick you bloody pain, I'm tired - exhausted even. I haven't slept well. I need my rest."

He relaxes somewhat when he hears that there isn’t an actual risk of infection, letting Mycroft cling to him without protest. “And I’m a requirement for that?”

Artificial Nocturne
Metric

( kingmycroft )

                          I’m just as fucked up as they say
                          I can’t fake the { daytime }
                          Found an entrance to escape into the dark

                                                     Got  f a l s e  lights for the sun
                                                                It’s an artificial nocturne
                          It’s an outsider’s escape from a broken heart

(Source: musicbloge)

kingmycroft asked: "Was I?" Comes Mycroft's voice heavy with sleep and a tiredness that comes from a mere three hours of sleeping. If it can in fact be called that. It feels instead as he has shut his eyes an opened them again, a raw sandpaper like quality inside of his eyelids. "I think I might stay home today. I'm feeling under the weather. . ."

—“Alert the Queen and the major media
    outlets- the British Government has a cold.”

He’s only teasing, perfectly content to stay put and to have Mycroft do the same. Until he realizes the implications of physical contact and sickness. Eyes snap open and sleepiness leaves his voice

—“Are you honestly ill? Because I am
    not about to let you get me sick.”

i-amthemoney asked: "You're warm."
Send "you're warm" to see my muse's reaction to yours randomly cuddling up to them.

—“We should really get another bed-
     this is getting somewhat awkward.”

kingmycroft asked: you're warm
Send "you're warm" to see my muse's reaction to yours randomly cuddling up to them.

—“I thought you were getting up to get ready for work.”

He hums the response though, not exactly refusing the contact.

Bioshock Blog?

Allow me to direct you to my Bioshock sideblog:
jazz-and-genetics