Gallery
Literature
Cunning Artifice
Crack.
The last dummy's neck flopped, its unchanging blank expression adding another layer of queasiness to the jerky motion as it hit the floor. Things shaped like people should stop moving when they were broken, but apparently this early training model hadn't gotten the memo. It didn't keep moving for long, though. One hand mashed the wrists together, the other hand swept up the ankles; one boot was planted in the small of the robot's back. V's newest experiment bared its teeth and yanked.
Another crack echoed off the walls. Sam lit another cigar, more as an excuse to look down at his hands than anything.
"Amazing," said V, next to him.
Featured
2 deviations
Fanart
70 deviations
Literature
Psychobody
In the dreams there is a mirror, and a reflection in it that can't belong to him. Everything looks right— the hair that never quite lies straight, the morning trace of scruffy beard, the collar folded up at one corner— but if a reflection can have a soul, then the soul inside it is not his. Fire leaks out of its eyes and glimmers between its bared teeth, hellfire that breathes oxygen into itself only to devour, and exists only to devour.
Maybe the problem is that the reflection has no soul.
He wakes up to the possibility that something terrible has happened, headlines in the Times that drip with brutality, and a lingering stink of
Fanfic
40 deviations
Icons
1 deviation
Memes
3 deviations
Literature
Kind Companion
More importantly than anything else, Caledon looked good in a tweedy coat, with a neat moustache and gingery brown hair. You could trust that face, you could; as a lady. Sometimes he was Caledon, or Calum, or Caradoc depending on how Arthurian he was feeling at the moment. But he was every lady's friend, good with a crumbling biscuit and a floral pot of tea. Positively lady-killer. So here he was, in a rose-patterned parlor next to a casket the color of milky tea, smiling and smiling and talking about how terrible it was Miss Hawthley's time had come, happens to us all, such a sad accident when the poor dear was only peeling an apple at the
Parallel Universes Contest
4 deviations
Literature
They Call it Remorse
He felt the noose tighten around his neck; his feet dangled in the air. His vision darkened lightened and blurred. The windpipe became cut off. All the expected effects happening at once always came as quite a surprise.
Any moment, any moment now my necks going to snap, he wasn't worried. He was never particularly worried about things like death; it happened to everybody, he bloody well knew all about that.
Then the world went a funny colour, the people stopped hollering in fact stopped all together, his noose went stiff to the point where he slipped out.
He picked himself up, no movement, even the flying bird stopped dead. It seemed as if
In-Series Crossover Contest
1 deviation
