"Every fairytale begins in the rain." When you run into an old bookshop in the middle of Paris to escape a storm, who knows who you might meet there. {Written 2014.}

What do you do when your best friend could be the love of your life? Two alarmingly awkward, clumsy, sarcastic individuals bump into one another in a flower shop, and find that they're just as odd as one another. Told through nine moments, this is a story of life, love, friendship, and flowers. {Written 2016.}

A quiet afternoon is infinitely more interesting when you add a young man who claims to be a time-traveler, a half-completed shopping list, and an unhealthy amount of sarcasm. {Written 2014}

mikey c is going bald and joy hood trys to stop it

"what's the difference between a firefly and a waterfall?" "everything. they're complete opposites."

a peter pan story turned to reality

{ a hundred ways to say "i love you" } #62 in poetry - 7/8/17

John's never seen a kid like him. He has this beautiful, crazy grace - withheld behind a smug smile and wisecracks that make John frustrated in so many different kinds of ways. And his eyes; crystal clear, decisive, cleaning through the unimportant things to find the valuables in life. He may or may not have a thing for smoking and James Bond, his favorite ice cream is mint with a chocolate swirl, and he is absolutely addicted to Pop Rocks and toffee. He enjoys pretty boys and warehouses, where he can hoard and think and be alone. Also, bumper cars, and John Watson. But Sherlock Holmes's thing, his niche, his calling in life... is to steal. Books. Wallets. Phones. Cars. Everything you've ever wanted, he's had. Everything you've ever wished for, he's stolen. Everything you are, everything you told yourself that you weren't, he owns, and he plays you like an out-of-tune violin. Does that mean that John's going to let him steal his heart? Not a shot in hell.

The TARDIS is missing. Fenric is winning. The endgame is now.

He is lavish. Masterful. Intellectual, inexplicable, overt. Sexual. Sherlock Holmes defines extravagance. He isn't exactly the best thing for John's tireless, bland stability. John works the nine to five and tries not to lose sleep over the small things - like the labor of his fiancée's expectations, and the sirens that fill his head with noise after curfew. He finds comfort in art, and drinking. Besides the war making its presence known, slowly creeping its black tendrils into the heart of Bristol - John's life is quiet. Given that, he's not surprised when he is dragged into Sherlock Holmes's orbit. There is no manual to help him navigate the moment their eyes first meet; he presents himself as the perfect distraction, a beautiful incendiary miracle. John thinks that maybe he was hoping for this, because: Sherlock is potent, and inflammatory, and perfectly willing to make John's life hell for his own self-indulgent pleasure. With one touch, John's sense of self is corrupted. And what does it matter if the world implodes? It was never kind to them to begin with.