a whisper in the dark

upstairs on the roof, where the sounds of the party were muffled and the lights were low, the echoing laughter from downstairs the only thing cutting the sound of the wind and of new york city itself, alec found him. magnus was standing at the roof’s edge, a glass of whiskey in hand, silhouetted by the skyline and he looked just as handsome as he had a couple of hours ago.

he had looked gorgeous then in the low lamp light as alec smoothed his fingers over his lapels and straightened his tie. he had been giving alec an incredulous look as he asked yet again what it was that alec had planned. and for the hundredth time that night, alec had only leaned in to peck his lips and whisper, “none of your business.”

now, in the same dark navy suit, the velvet fabric catching the soft low light, magnus looked just as good, bringing the sparkling glass of whiskey to his lips to take a slow sip. alec smiled to himself, stepping closer and sliding his arms around magnus’s waist as he gently pressed their cheeks together. instantly all of the stately control that had been hanging around magnus’s shoulders melted just a little bit, as he relaxed into the touch and let their heads rest together.

“happy birthday, mr. lightwood-bane.” alec whispered, right there against his skin and immediately magnus’s lips spread into a huge smile, his free hand dragging over alec’s forearm. after a moment, magnus turned his face to catch just the edge of alec’s mouth in the softest, warmest kiss.

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for the @hpwritersnet first prompt: the Weasley Twins

it starts like this:

The sky in the Great Hall is dark and cloudy when the Ministry first speaks, coily words delivered in a sickly sweet voice and malicious gaze wandering the tables. They are known as troublemakers and they boast the title - they know trouble when they see it, and -

no. that’s not quite right.

it starts before.

They’ve been ushered to spend the rest of holidays in the forgotten home of an escaped convict. It’s already in the early hours of the morning, but none can sleep. They can’t stop thinking about whispers and secret meetings, a resistance movement growing in the kitchen of a dark and dusty house and the stern look of a scared mother, who wishes to keep them safe from the horrors of war.

and it starts with a spark.

It was a task doomed from the start; they tasted the ash and copper and rot of war when Harry, horror in his gaze and a body in his arms, first spoke “he’s back”.

fire always starts with a spark.

“This is really happening.” George mumbles one night, the first night their parents return home late after being gone for hours in mysterious reunions, faces tight and tired and terrified. “He’s back.”

“He’s back.” Fred murmurs in agreement and feels a tight knot in his stomach “We have to help.”

There’s silence - and then something shifts.

“We will.”

and it grows.

Youth has long ago strayed from childhood, a time left between chess pieces and hidden chambers and institutionalized injustice. Youth has felt the claws of conflict and the weight of duty fall upon their shoulders and when the stern look of a scared mother turns into the closed door of an Order meeting -

There are dark bags under Ginny’s eyes and Ron’s clenched fists shake.

The twins feel the sting of rejection and the helplessness of authority. That new resolve, that spark of defiance flickers and flares and they can’t just sit around and do nothing.

They are troublemakers, ingenious and groundbreaking. They’ve learnt to mix your worst fears with the best of jokes and if there’s something they know how to fight with, something they know how to weaponize - it’s laughter.

The twins are bright and bold and driven and at 17 they’ve invented Extendable Ears.

and when it spreads?

The sky in the Great Hall is foreboding when the Ministry first speaks, meaningless words delivered in a deceivingly caring voice and malicious gaze wandering the tables. They are known as troublemakers and they boast the title - they know trouble when they see it, and this woman reeks of it.

There’s no time to waste - they post announcements in the Common Room and test products behind Hermione’s reproachful back, for they have no time for rules and norms. The fiery ambition of a lifelong dream (haven’t they always wished for their own joke shop?), the youthful spark of war (which they would fight for, no matter what mom said) and there was - something else.

The cold grip of foreboding and the uneasy, restless feeling that something bad is going to happen every time a bright flash of pink catches the eye.

there’s nothing you can do to stop them.

Harry is haunted green eyes and challenging words when he stands his ground in the Hog’s Head and there’s something so unbelievably fierce about it - there’s no doubt that this was the sight the Dark Lord was faced with in that graveyard and there’s no doubt that this is what they should fear the most.

Teens like Harry, like Hermione with a ruthless gleam in her eyes, like Ron and the way he flanks his two best friends, tall and threatening and loyal. Like small, devious Ginny in her floral dresses, like Lee and his refusal to stay quiet.

Like Fred with a loud voice and George with a keen mind.

Like the rising strength and cutthroat passion of youth when everything loved is hanging in the balance.

I must not misbehave

(every scratch of quill against paper draws blood but the striking pain in their hands doesn’t hold a candle to the amber flames in their hearts and the wariness of before is gone, burnt and replaced with pure determination.

She smiles sickly at every flinch and wince and doesn’t realize that - for how could she, hateful and cold and corrupt - there’s no such thing as forgiveness in the house of lions.

There’s pride and fire and nerve and she’ll do well to remember that they’re already painted in red, like blood.

Like war.)

I must not damage school property.

(their father was bitten by a snake under Dumbledore’s orders, under Dumbledore’s protection, during Order duty.

The door to the meetings remains closed and if Fred stays up all night writing about prototypes and products and ideas and plans - then George punches the wall of their room until his fist is bloody and he doesn’t think about anything anymore.

They love being lighthearted and the jokesters lighting up the world with joy. They don’t know how to deal with the frustration, the anger, the fear bubbling just under their skin

They have to do something.)

I must not insult a Professor.

(And if there’s something they know how to fight with - it’s laughter)

Gryffindor bares its teeth.

“You know, George? I’ve always felt our future lies outside the world of academic achieve.”

“Fred, I’ve been thinking exactly the same thing”

After seven years, they’ve learnt to do so too.

~Little Secrets of the Night~

Little secrets of the night
Dance upon the winds
Bringing me some hope
The world isn’t so dark and grim
They whisper words of love
And tales of adventures not too far
I listen to them and wander
Following closely as they speak
Through rivers and over peaks
The voices are near now
And I can feel my spirits lift
What I once lost was found
In the embrace of my friends

Poem written by me, Tiffany.
Photograph is mine as well.

Steps to Resuscitation.

Step one: 

A blank slate. 

Step two:


I haven’t exactly 
figured that
 out, yet. I am still a slave 
to habit. 

I see everything in a dream state
Hear everything in slow 
Drowning in an ocean of 

All around me, emptiness

Stretching outward 
to infinity 

The same wave 
and crashing 
down on me

And everyone else’s blurred whispers

Pounding above the 

And underneath 

Just me.


In the dark. 

Lights out.

Keep quiet. 

Don’t ruin the routine.
Get up tomorrow and 

Start all over again. 


Up the stairs. 

On my knees. 

A prayer, a question

Addressed to 
Or something— 

For hangman’s gallows

Lay not far an end to yet another

Exhausted, poorly-executed
of me.



The Teacher

posted by reddit user prolix_verbosity

Mr Lane was our Math teacher in high school. He didn’t stand out in any way, and his lessons weren’t particularly interesting. He was just—always there. Always there in his usual button-down shirt and pants, earnest in his hope to interest us in algebra and isosceles triangles and whatnot. Seldom was he successful though.

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Movies Bloodborne fans should watch: (if you ask me :P)
  • Brotherhood of the Wolf (French movie about the Beast of Gévaudan. Bloodborne’s fashion is most likely inspired by its beautiful costumes.)
  • Bram Stoker’s Dracula (Cainhurst? Cainhurst. Cheesy at times.)
  • Crimson Peak (Gothic romance at its finest.)
  • Hellboy 1 / 2 - The Golden Army (Just watch the two movies, okay? SO GOOD.)
  • Van Helsing (yeah yeah, I know this one isn’t that great. WHO CARES! harmless fun with crazy weaponry and big monsters.)
  • Mary Reilly (the classic tale of Dr.Jekyll & Mr.Hyde seen from the point of view of Jekyll’s housemaid who, obviously, has a crush on him. )
  • From Hell (Jack the Ripper. Johnny Depp, Alan Moore, lots of drugs.)
  • The Whisperer in the Darkness (The best adaptation of Lovecraft’s story of the same name.)
  • Red Riding Hood (this movie gets all the hate just because it has the same director as Twilight but is a pretty decent movie with great atmosphere and a nice twist near the end. It’s not that easy to figure out who’s the wolf! My only complaint about this flick is that the actors are waaaay too attractive in pure young-adult romance fashion. Still worth a watch.)
  • Tenshi no Tamago (aka Angel’s Egg. Weird, visually stunning, very esoteric and reminds me a ton of Fishing Hamlet for some reason. The plot is cryptic and mysterious, just like Bloodborne’s.)
  • The Company of Wolves (a weird classic based upon Angela Carter’s dark fairytales ~♡)
  • Pride, Prejudice and Zombies (It’s better than you think.)
  • Goya’s Ghosts (SPANISH INQUISITION! Heresy! Torture! Drama! Doesn’t “look” like Bloodborne, but the themes are there and is overall a good historical movie with great actors.)
  • Penny Dreadful (TV series. This one is a mixed bag for me, but the photography is stunning and Victorian to the core. Rushed ending tho. And a lot of gratuitous sex scenes that don’t go anywhere. I warned you.)
  • Taboo (TV series. PRETTY NICE)
  • Hellsing Ultimate (Anime OVA which needs no introduction.)
And it feels like all that comes out of my mouth are apologies.
    I’m sorry.
I never do anything right, I am always messing something up.
   I’m sorry.
I don’t do enough for people, I’m not good enough sometimes.
   I’m sorry.
But I’m trying, I’m trying so hard to do things right for you.
   I’m sorry.
I want to be good enough for you, but I’m just so tired of trying.
   I’m just so tired of saying sorry.
—  sorry for being the apologetic one

Moriel - A Court of Mist and Fury

“Azriel’s head lifted from where he was sprawled in his own blood, eyes full of rage and pain as he snarled at the king, ‘Don’t you touch her.’ Mor looked at Azriel – and there was real fear there. Fear – and something else. She didn’t stop moving until she again kneeled beside him and pressed a hand to his wound. Azriel hissed – but covered her bloody fingers with his own.”

- please do not repost edits -

  • Me, lying awake in the dark at 3AM and whispering to myself: The Coopers and the Blossoms have been fighting for decades over maple syrup. Maple syrup is the reason for this fucking blood feud. Cheryl's great grandfather murdered Betty's great grandfather because of maple fucking syrup. MAPLE SYRUP. What the fuck, what the fuck, wha
Headcanon: Lance doesn't want kids

He could really go either way. Sure, he likes kids and loves his big family, but growing up he saw how he and his siblings drove his parents nuts and thought a couple of times “Is that something I really need in my life?”

Then he joined voltron and just accepted that kids were not happening for him, no family of his own. He’d fight his life away in space and if he ever made it back home then it would probably be too late for him. He’d just recede into his own family and become crazy uncle Lance with the war stories and he’s not super ok with that but it doesn’t tear him up inside.

And then, he found out Keith wanted kids. Keith was alone for a large portion of his life and while he would never admit it outloud to anyone, Lance can see it in the way he stares and smiles at the children they save. In the way he looks longingly at the families they reunite. In the way Keith asks him about his huge family back home with tons of kids running around and his eyes soften at the stories. It’s dark in the room they now share, wrapped up in eachothers arms and Lance asks the question he already knows the answer to.

“Do you want kids?”

Keith blushes and sputters and avoids eye contact but somewhere in the middle of all that nonsense he mutters an “I guess” and he’s so embarrassed by it he turns away from Lance and he spoons him, resting his head in between Keith’s neck and shoulder. And then he hears a small, terrified whisper in the dark.

“Do you?”

Lance answers with no hesititation.

“More than anything.”


@wiredpirate and @clears-jellyfish-dress this does not count as me writing and publishing fanfic ok it is headcanon that’s different you fucks

anonymous asked:

prompt: the disciple who loves Jesus arrives at the tomb of his beloved

if the light touches him,
it does so like this: gently.

if he touches the rock
that covers the cave mouth,
he does so like this: gently.

judas presses one damp cheek
to the warm limestone, & then
both of his blistered
rivermud-stained palms.

mere nights ago, a thousand
lifetimes ago, yeshua had held
those hands in his own,
under a moon-kissed fig tree
in gethsemane while the others
had slept unknowing.

you must do this, yeshua
whispered through trembling
lips, do this for me.

judas thinks of dark thorns,
iron nails, the soft flesh broken
open. he thinks of how he hid
himself in the faraway rushes so
he wouldn’t hear anything but
the water & his own heart roiling.

judas did this for him
but his soul still howls,
his mouth still aches.

they’ll call me betrayer. he stumbles
over the words of his prayer.
whether this is true or not,
i’ve still killed you. my laughing
poet king. my armored starlight.

my blood’s tainted with the sins
of skin, silver, destruction.
should it be that hell exists, find me
there & say i am forgiven.

silence. then suddenly
winds sing past him,
& in the distance a host
of dust-colored sparrows
tears into flight.

epikegster 2k14 “Oh” au
  • in an au where parse never showed up to epikegster, i like to think jack had his “oh” moment in the hazy dark of that cold, loud winter night
  • (like, what could be more different than graduation? in the warm, bright day, scared but certain of his immediate future, speaking to his father in soft french while bells and birds sing overhead?)
  • it’s a different kind of “oh” – it’s not one last shot before everything changes, it’s one more layer of confusion and uncertainty as he enters his final semester at samwell
  • but it’s also…comforting.

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To Be Alone - A Moriel Fic

For @acotarshipweek  moriel week which was…sixteen centuries ago, I am aware, but the prompt came from there so credit where credit’s due. Speaking of credit, blessings upon my dearest, @pterodactylichexameter for betaing/general encouragement with this thing, ‘twas a pain at times. 

Title: To Be Alone 

Summary: moriel sin week prompt: secret rendezvous. Mor and Az find themselves alone in a quiet corner of Velaris, having been each told to meet someone important here, not knowing they were being set-up. Little does their High Lady know they’ve already been in a relationship for some months now. They decide to make the most of this time alone they’ve been given and slip off together to a nearby inn… 

Teaser: She hadn’t thought it possible – that she could want him more once he was hers but…From that first brush of his tongue against hers, that first taste of him, she had known that she would never belong to another heart again. She was his. She had always been his, really. As he had always been hers. She had known she would never want anyone else – and that she would never stop wanting him. 

Link: AO3

Mor sucks in a deep breath as she steps from the whisper of darkness winnowing always envelopes her in. It’s near sunset and the streets of Velaris are busy, full of people heading home for their evening meals before the city comes alive for true when night falls. She smiles politely and nods greetings to a few of those who meet her eyes but she doesn’t linger to chat with anyone this time. She’s already a little late for her appointment.

The crowds fortunately start to thin as she heads towards the quieter, more residential area of town near the river. It’s much less densely populated and a faint kiss of mist cools her flushed, warm skin as she emerges from the hot press of bodies. Through the shifting eddies of swirling white she sees the bridge over the Sidra she was asked to come to and hurries her steps when she dimly spots a solitary figure waiting for her – a column of shadow among the white river ghosts.

Mor is within spitting distance before she realises that the person waiting for her is not the one she had expected. Old instincts, sharpened by the recent war, have her reaching for her power, gathering it in her body, preparing to attack or defend- But a heartbeat later she recognises the person and her defences shatter on instinct.

Azriel stands with perfect stillness, leaning on the stone wall of the bridge a calm, tranquil expression upon his handsome features. He doesn’t turn towards her, shift his position at all, or give any other outward reaction to her presence. Mor isn’t fooled. He knows perfectly well that she’s there. For one thing she had seen the shadow curling around his ear moments earlier, informing him that she was – though Mor suspects he had known even before that. The damn male is impossible to sneak up on; unless he lets her, which is frankly just insulting.

Approaching him with long, easy strides, Mor mirrors his unconcerned posture, standing beside him and letting her gaze drift out over the Sidra as well, following his gaze. She manages a full, impressive, ten seconds before her restraint cracks. Az smiles thinly, fondly, as the words burst from her, interrupting the peaceful silence, “What are you doing here?”

At last Ariel tears his gaze away from the view in front of them to look down at her. His face softens as his eyes meet hers, the mask of cold composure that some, wrongly, assume is a permanent feature of her shadowsinger slips. His quiet affection shows through instead, that tender smile lingering on his lips. The shadows that twist around him thin then vanish, as though giving them privacy. Her belly swoops with the usual familiar pulse of pleasure and joy that he feels safe with her, safe enough to let his instinctive guard down.

Az’s voice is its typical dark, velvet calm when he answers her, “I was told to urgently meet an informant here and was advised that the meeting would be…” his lips curl into a tighter smile, his eyes tinged with obvious amusement as he looks her up and down, appreciating her even though she’s dressed rather simply, “Advantageous to me.”

“By?” Mor prompts him, eyebrows quirking up.

Az’s smile deepens before he answers, “Feyre.”

Mor looses a short burst of laughter at that. Theory confirmed. Az only widens his eyes quizzically, inviting her to explain her reacting.  

Composing herself enough to answer Mor drums her fingers thoughtfully on the top of the stone wall before she tells Az, through a broad grin, “Our esteemed High Lady asked me to meet her here at this time for something very important.” Her smirk broadens, now edged with wicked glee as she jostles Az playfully with her shoulder. “Seems like you’re ‘very important’, Az.”

As she had hoped this teases a faint flush of pink into his tan cheeks and her grin broadens in answer. Then his brow furrows and he clears  his throat and says, with a very good impression of his usual cool, analytical seriousness that’s only given away to her by how his hazel eyes glitter with merriment, “Looks like she thinks we should be spending some more quality time alone together. “

A soft shiver rustles through her as his gaze meets hers. Heat coils low in her stomach but she ignores it, pushing it down hard. Opting for airy amusement instead she says pointedly, “In a very romantic location.” She gestures around them, to the thin veil of mist enveloping them, adding an additional layer of intimacy to the meeting. The Sirda flows beneath them, gilded by the slowly setting sun, burning like liquid gold with diamonds peppering the smooth water, sparkling like stars.

Velaris is beautiful as it draws near to the night it so enjoys and it’s known, comfortable and familiar to both of them. The location is perfect – a little too perfect – and Feyre’s motives aren’t particularly difficult to guess at. Mor hopes Az never tries to recruit her for any further spying or subterfuge; if this is any indication she won’t get on well with it. Still…

She turns back to Az, her voice dropping, a hint of silk brushing through her words, “I’m not going to argue with her.”

Conversely to her hopeful expectations, Az’s frown only deepens into lines of uncertainty. “Do you think we should tell her?” he asks, his fingers trailing, apparently unconsciously, over the hand she has resting on the bridge.

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Cas cuddling up against Dean’s back as he sleeps, wrapping his arms around his waist and brushing the back of his neck with kisses, peppering them down his shoulders and up into his hairline. Cas breathing in the scent of Dean’s apple-cinnamon shampoo, and whispering ‘breakfast?’ into his dark hair. 

Dean shaking his head no, and pressing back against Cas’s warm body while hugging the blankets closer, murmuring ‘just five more minutes’ without even opening his eyes.

Cas smiling against Dean’s skin, wordlessly saying of course, because he’s held Dean all night while he slept, chased away his nightmares and waited patiently for him to wait up to start their day together. What’s five more minutes? Of course, Cas will wait.

Sometimes it got too much.

The noise, the light, the people.

It felt like a sensory overload suffocating him, drowning him and pulling him down and down and down until all he could do was choke.

On those days Draco would hide away, hide far away from the noise and the people and the pain - hugging his knees and rocking back and forth, counting from one to ten and ten to one and one to -

On those days Draco would cry until he felt like he couldn’t move anymore, his chest heaving and the tears on his cheeks burning.

On those days he often couldn’t even remember what set him off, what pulled him down, all focused on it, on life, being too much.

Lately, though, it had changed.

There was someone holding his hand, breathing with him in the dark. Someone whispering meaningless soft words against his skin, rubbing their nose against his whenever it got too much.

Someone to kiss him with each number when he counted from one to ten and ten to one and one to -

So yeah, sometimes it got too much.

But with Potter next to him, breathing with him, holding him close - he knew he’d be fine. He’ll be alright.