god-flow

sterek.

I want an all-human AU where Stiles’s parents are divorced and his mom (not Claudia, some other meaner woman) sends him off to boarding school in Georgia or something, where he meets Scott as his roommate. The fic starts out with Stiles being miserable at this no-nonsense behavior school, and the other kids are assholes who decide to make him and asthmatic Scott their punching bag, so Stiles makes a plan to escape and find his dad in New York. Scott wants to join but knows he’d slow Stiles down with his condition, so he gives Stiles his small stash of savings and tells him to “make me proud and break out of here, dude. Pay me back when you find your dad.”

So BAM Stiles manages to escape via awesome cunning plan and he’s dashing down the wintery streets to the train station (he was sent to boarding school for a reason so he’s super badass and mischievous and uses this to his advantage to travel distance) BUT THEN after obstacles (being forced to jump train, wander on foot, eventually jumped and robbed by a gang) he runs out of money in Vermont.

So he’s stumbling down the street all tired and dirty and he uses his last five dollars to order a burger at some 24-hour diner at three in the morning. He savors it, tries to ignore the way that hot-but-creepy waiter guy is eyeing him distastefully (he hasn’t showered since like, that gym in North Carolina), and eventually decides that he’s going to steal from the register on his way out (and then just pay the diner back someday. Probably).

And so…

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the world will end in stardust.

it’s the only way for us to go –
a civilization built on constellations,
our hands always reaching, grasping
for the next star, the brightest star.

look at the greeks, their stories
etched in pinpricks of gold.
look at us now, our pictures
of galaxies a million miles away.

we are children of lost gods.
nothing kills them quite as well
as being forgotten.

and so the world will end
with bleeding gods.

ichor flows as gold as stars.

—  forget fire and ice | m.j.

anonymous asked:

Moana lol you mean #longhairproblems

my hair is almost exactly like Moana’s and don’t get me started. Long curly hair does not flow majestically in the wind and come out perfect EVer

6

“I don’t think you’re a monster. So don’t think that of yourself, either.”

A god to a god draws blood.


Ares is looking for a war he wants to fight. It’s not in the streets painted crimson by a master. He holds his guns close to his chest and smokes his cigarettes. He thinks the only real stakes involve god to god and the flow of ichor on the ground.


Apollo lives in the night, hiding behind streetlamps. Art on the sidewalk and songs blasting in his ears. He wishes he could learn how to sleep. All he gets now are visions he doesn’t want to see and futures he doesn’t want to tell.


Hermes has walked the curves of the earth more times than he cares to remember. Still, he pushes his feet forward. Still, he is not content.The mantra echoes in his head. ‘One day, Hermes, there isn’t going to be a corner on earth that you can hide in.’


Atlas rolls his shoulder, uneasy at the lightness on his back. His face in the light, and he looks like a boy.  He closes his eyes, and he remembers the heavens, and before that a battle between brothers. He wonders what Zeus would have done had the Fates written them in reverse; fight for family or swallow betrayal in gulps of burning fire?


Athena cut her hair to her ears. She thinks if anything can be born again it must have immortal flesh. Her books burn in front of her eyes. They never granted her comfort. They never granted her warmth in the hours that turned from the night to the day. Chaos laughs in her ear, and she throws her caution to the wind.


Thanatos wants to learn about life. He memorizes heartbeats and the rise and fall of the chest. Iron and dust become silk between his fingers. He takes to breathing. In. Out. Up. Down. Air, ephemeral air in his tar dipped lungs. It’s as close to ambrosia that mortality can offer.

Artemis hates the stars. Everything she ever loved, foolishly, hopelessly, is written in their cold light. There’s hunger in her that won’t quiet. The moon would taste divine rolling down her throat, lodging itself in her chest. Maybe then, she wouldn’t feel quite so empty.

—   Tonight the gods might as well be dead // L.H.Z