#promptsonpaper

[rose-writer]

She was hell on earth, But I didn’t mind burning at all.

promptsonpaper

[mjluevano]

Hair wild as the ideas rushing through her head- she flickered her eyes up to mine, and blinded from them….I ran.

I always run.

why do I always run?

There’s no need.

Maybe I’m scared that I’ll love her more than I can give her. Maybe I’m not ready to give someone, so deserving, everything that I am because I’m so damn afraid that they’ll see the me that I see now. What if I’m not ready for something so intimate that it goes light years beyond sex. 

The what if’s are the scariest.

I just don’t...

I can’t hurt her.

I can’t hurt me?

[notyoursexican]

Possessions

“I feel like your itching to die for her- to sacrifice yourself for her, but you can’t even consider trying to live for me!”

Blinking, irritated, he looked away from her to one of the kitchen table chairs. It had been carved by hand out of cherry wood, with intricate Celtic designs on the back, arms and legs. The soft cushion was a dark brown velvet. At first glance it looked like a fragile chair meant for children or light adolescents. But he, a grown man, could seat himself in it comfortably with an enthralling novel for hours. Moonlight through the window behind it made the cherry glisten a color similar to blood.

She was fighting the piece of furniture for his attention, waving her hands, with fingernails and maybe a ring or two. He didn’t care. Instead he focused his eyes on the rug that the chair was on. Twelve feet in length, five feet wide, both of them were standing on it. The pattern in it had also been etched by hand with lines for borders, four inches in and a lion head proportionally inside. Even though he didn’t have a body, the lion was majestic. His eyes a steady brown and a flowing gold-brown mane. A golden nose had a scar over it from a battle defending his territory and pride. Something she pointed out often after the rug had been delivered was her resentment of cats.

He didn’t care.

@promptsonpaper

[missleias]

In Another World

Sherlock's lips turned up in a quirk, his eyes alighted slightly with both amusement and sadness. The detective quickly huffed and took another sip of his champagne, the crystal sparkling in the lights of the reception hall. Sentiment. The one emotion that made men into fools. Well, if any day was meant to have that, it would be this day. He watched as his best friend, John Watson, and his newfound wife danced gracefully across the dance floor, their steps in rhythm to the chords of the notes that played in the night. Of course, he was glad for his one and only friend. He was able to capture love in those years where it seemed that loneliness would be his only companion. Mary had brought light into the shadowy corners of John's existence, the painful journey that Sherlock himself had set him upon, when he had leapt off the roof. Sherlock shook his head, clearing his mind of such thoughts. As his sea tinted eyes scanned the vast amount of people, celebrating, drinking, and waltzing, they locked upon the one woman who had always counted. Molly Hooper. She was quite pretty, Sherlock had to admit, the buttercup yellow of her dress accenting the golden highlights in her auburn locks. Even from this distance, he could hear the trilling melody of her laugh. Oh, how he had missed that sound those years he was away, focusing on dissolving the infectious organization that Moriaty had created. Molly Hooper had been, in a way, his saving grace. The one thought that keep him alive, really. When he was someone alone and cold, all he had to do was remember Molly. The warmth of her smile. Her abounding kindness. Kindness that he had at first dismissed but grew to admire. Yet he had been too late. The glint on her left finger was proof of that, bitter and cold.

She was his sunshine. His silver lining, his everything. But he would never be hers.