in church basements

Church Boys Moan Louder

THIS WAS A PROMPT BUT I FUCKED UP AND ACCIDENTALLY POSTED IT EARLY SO NOW ITS GONE FOREVER IM SORRY ANON BUT I STILL WANTED TO FINISH IT SO YE the prompt was basically innocent religious dan and phil like pines after him ; ending in sex in church bathroom and yes, you are going to hell

it’s also really long oops


Phil was fucking screwed. Never had he wanted someone so bad as he wanted Dan Howell. That boy fucked with his head and his body and his life. And he wasn’t even TRYING.

If he was trying, he was doing a damn good job at hiding it. Dan seemed completely oblivious to Phil’s attempts to win him over. The light blush on his cheeks said otherwise, but Dan ignored it completely. Dan was the goddamn priests son, but Phil liked a challenge. And this definitely was one.

Phil took another sip of the dumb nonalcoholic punch they were serving, scowling at the plastic cup. He shouldn’t be here, at this dumb church party, he didn’t have to be. It was optional, unlike the weekly services he was required to attend due to his parents getting pissed that he had defiled the school with graffiti yet again. It wasn’t that bad, he got to see Dan at least. But the only reason he was here was for him.

“Hey,” a girl spoke, interrupting Phil’s thoughts. He turned to look at her, scanning her blonde hair and plaid school uniform. Who wears a uniform to a party? Church kids, Phil figured.

“Uh, hey,” Phil responded, sounding completely uninterested, but she didn’t take a hint.

“Fun party, huh?”

Phil raised his eyebrows at her, chuckling, pulling a flask out of his leather jacket pocket and tipping the clear liquid into the cup.

“No, not particularly.”

She seemed a bit put off by that, but bounced back quickly.

“So, do you know anyone here?” She asked, her voice light and Phil swore he heard a hint of flirtiness in her tone

Phil chuckled, his eyes glinting.

“Look, sorry honey, but if you’re trying to get in my pants you might as well give up now. I like cock, dunno if your tiny brain can wrap itself around that, but the only reason I’m here is that I want to fuck Dan Howell.” He casually picked at a black nail, flashing her a tight lipped smile. “So, if you still want to bother me after that, feel free. But I’m gay as hell. Just saying.”

The girl stared at him, her eyes wide and her jaw practically hitting the ground. Phil chuckled. He loved doing that.

She let out a small squeak, whirling on her heel and rushing off. Phil shook his head.

Phil cursed under his breath as he watched her beeline straight to Dan and his group of friends at the other side of the room. Phil couldn’t hear what she was saying, but she pointed at him less than subtly. A blush appeared immediately on Dan’s face, a hand going to cover his mouth automatically. He said something, and glanced over at Phil. Phil winked, waving. Might as well commit.

Dan blushed harder, looking away immediately and pressing his hands to his clearly heated cheeks. Phil smirked. He loved how much of an affect this had on him. He was so responsive.

Phil would just have to wait until he was alone.


It was about half an hour of boredom and wanting to leave later when Dan’s friends started to leave one by one, and Phil watched them almost hungrily until the only one left was the girl who had talked to him.

Phil moved along the wall a little closer, straining to hear their conversation. He couldn’t hear her but he heard Dan say “Silvia, I’m fine, I’m just gonna help clean up. I can take care of myself.”

“Are you sure you’re okay with walking home alone?”

“Of course. It’s just a few blocks over.” He offered her a soft smile, touching her shoulder, and Phil’s heart swelled. Damn it. “It’ll be fine. I’ll see you at school, alright?”

“Alright…” she agreed hesitantly, going on her toes to give him a kiss on the cheek, rushing out of the room.

And then it was only them.

Dan cleared his throat, his cheeks beginning to redden again. “So, um, do you want to help clean up, or…”

Phil recognized the opportunity he was offering, and took it. “Yeah, sure. I’d say you’ll probably need a hand.”

Phil helped Dan fold chairs, watching him the whole time while Dan avoided his eyes.

“You look nice,” Dan commented, just being polite, but Phil snorted.

“Are you kidding? I’m wearing rags compared to you. Seriously, who wears a tie to a party in a church basement?”

Dan blushed even harder, glancing down at the black tie fastened neatly around his neck.

“Me, I guess,” he muttered, laughing awkwardly.

“Was that your girlfriend?” Phil blurted.

Dan looked at him then, eyes wide. “Who, Silvia?”

Phil nodded, and Dan laughed. Like, really laughed.

“No!” He exclaimed, shaking his head. “She’s my cousin!”

Now Phil laughed too, pushing his hair back until it sat in a quiff above his forehead.

“Oh Jesus,” he muttered. “Well, thank god.”

He expected Dan to just brush off his comment like he always did, change the subject, look away, something. He didn’t.

“Why’s that?” He asked softly, pressing his lips together and searching Phil’s face. “Why are you relieved?”

Phil shrugged, tossing a plastic cup at the trash and making it. “Because if you were with anyone else, I’d be upset.”

He glanced at Dan, smirking at the way his eyes had widened and his mouth had fallen open just slightly.

“W-Why?” Dan asked again, biting his lip and turning back to the plates he was stacking.

“Because I like you.” He shrugged, casual. “I wanna make you mine, and if people are interfering, that’s a problem, isn’t it baby boy?”

A small gasp escaped Dan’s mouth at the nickname, and Phil smirked.

“Silvia… Silvia said you…” he trailed off, chewing on his lip, his eyebrows furrowed. Phil took this opportunity to step closer.

“That I want to fuck you?” Phil asked, finishing the sentence, and Dan tensed up.

“Yeah…” he muttered, practically a whisper.

“Well, it’s not a lie.” Phil glanced at him, searching his face before turning back to the chair he was folding up. “I’ve been hitting on you for the last month, you didn’t notice?”

Dan shook his head, avoiding his gaze, and they were quiet for a moment.

“You ever kissed a boy?”

“What?!” Dan spluttered, his cheeks redder than Phil had thought possible. “N-No, of course not, I… I couldn’t.”

Phil turned to look at him, frowning, turning his whole body this time so he was facing him.

“Why not?”

Dan faced him too, at a loss for words, his mouth opening and closing.

“I mean, I s-suppose I could but… I CAN’T. That… that’s…” he trailed off, and Phil stepped forward so he was only inches away. Dan froze, but didn’t move away.

He trailed a finger up Dan’s jaw slowly and Dan swallowed, shivering, watching its progress. “You never know if you like something until you try it, right?”

“Well I suppose, but…” Dan gasped as Phil grabbed his tie, wrapping it around his hand and pulling Dan closer.


“But…” Dan looked like his mind was going fuzzy, glancing down at the tie that Phil was holding him by and back up at Phil’s eyes, and then his lips. “I’m not gay,” he practically squeaked, his voice small.

“You never know if you like something unless you try it,” Phil repeated, slowly touching Dan’s waist with the hand that wasn’t gripping his tie. Dan didn’t move an inch as Phil leaned over, pressing his lips against Dan’s.

Phil waited a second to make sure Dan wasn’t going to pull away before reaching up to touch Dan’s chin, really kissing him. He dragged his tongue along Dan’s bottom lip, asking for entrance, rather surprised when he actually opened his mouth.

He could feel Dan’s hands shaking as they moved up Phil’s chest, sliding over his shoulders and wrapping around his neck. Phil gripped his waist, pulling him as close as possible. With one hand he tangled his fingers in Dan’s hair, kissing him deeper. He tasted like awful punch and fruit gum, and Phil was sure he tasted like cigarettes, but Dan didn’t seem to mind.

Phil backed him against the wall, kissing him hotly and letting his hands roam Dan’s body. He moved his mouth to Dan’s jaw, kissing down to his neck and nipping at the pale skin. Dan whimpered, moaning softly and tangling his fingers in Phil’s hair.

“Ah-” Dan gasped, letting his head fall back against the wall. “Phil…”

Phil pulled back, pressing his forehead against Dan’s and breathing heavily.

“Is there somewhere we could go?” Phil breathed, and he promised himself if Dan said no, or didn’t get the hint, he would give up. Dan’s brown eyes blinked at him.

“Just one…”

They ended up in the boy’s bathroom, Phil roughly shoving him against the wall and kissing him possessively. Dan whined into the kiss, wrapping his arms around Phil’s neck and clinging to him desperately.

Phil grabbed Dan’s thigh, hooking his leg around his waist and Dan took the hint, hopping up and wrapping his legs around Phil’s waist. Phil went back to his neck, trailing sloppy kisses down to his collarbone.

He unbuttoned Dan’s shirt, loosening and removing his tie before kissing him again. He let Dan push off his leather jacket and tug his shirt over his head, tossing it aside.

Phil’s hands explored Dan’s chest, pinching one of his nipples, and Dan gasped.

“Phil…” he moaned, an indirect beg for more. Phil palmed at his bulge, feeling Dan grind against his hand desperately.

Phil picked him up, spinning them around and setting him down on the counter, tugging at the button of Dan’s black jeans. Once he got them off he flipped Dan over after pressing a kiss to his jaw, bending him over the counter.

“I’m guessing you’ve never done this with a guy before,” Phil muttered, smoothing his hand over the curve of Dan’s ass and squeezing roughly. Dan jumped.


Phil kissed the nape of his neck, pressing himself against Dan’s body. “Are you sure you want to?”

Dan let out an almost desperate gasp, his voice breaking. “Yes, yesyesyes, god just please… p-please fuck me, Phil, want you.”

Phil grunted, slapping Dan’s thigh sharply. “Jesus, you have no idea how long I’ve waited to hear you say that.”

Phil took no time removing his jeans, tugging down Dan’s boxers as well, grinding his still clothed bulge against Dan’s ass. Dan moaned, reaching back and grabbing Phil’s hips, pulling him closer.

Phil’s boxers were off in a second as well, skin rubbing against skin. Dan pushed his ass back; he was a needy bottom and Phil fucking loved it.

Phil held two fingers to Dan’s mouth, motioning for him to open. Dan sucked on the fingers obediently, slicking them up with spit.

“This might hurt a little,” Phil muttered, rubbing Dan’s entrance with one finger. “Tell me to stop if you need to, alright?”

“Mhm,” Dan agreed, pushing his ass back again. Phil slapped it and Dan yelped, pulling forward again.

“Don’t be a needy bitch, Dan,” Phil growled, pushing the first finger into Dan slowly. Dan moaned.

“S-Sorry, sir-” he gasped.

Phil took his time stretching him; considering it was his first time he didn’t want it to hurt too bad. Dan flinched away at first but soon he was whining and grinding back on Phil’s digits. Phil moaned just at the sight, he never thought he’d have him like this.

Finally he pulled out, holding his hand up to Dan’s face again and instructing him to spit. Dan did as he said, and Phil slicked himself up with that as well as precum that was already forming on the head of his swollen cock.

“Ready?” He breathed, pressing his whole body against Dan’s and leaning over him to kiss his neck. Dan whined.

“Yes, yes sir, please, I’m ready, I need you.”

Phil hummed in approval; he loved how quickly Dan had changed from a good little church boy to a desperate slut with just a little kissing.

Phil pushed in slowly, taking his time in edging into Dan, which took an incredible amount of self control on his part. Finally he bottomed out, kneading Dan’s ass in his hands. Dan was a mess beneath him, whining and whimpering at every movement, conflicted between pushing back and pulling away.

Phil reached up, tangling his fingers in Dan’s hair, giving it a soft tug and driving a whimper out of Dan’s pretty mouth.

He began to thrust, pulling almost all the way out and pushing back in slowly, Dan gasping every time he did so. Phil snapped his hips roughly without warning, thrusting hard, and Dan cried out.

“Fuck!” He practically shrieked, a loud feminine moan falling from his mouth.

“You’re a loud little slut, aren’t you?” Phil panted, groaning as he thrust roughly again. Dan let out a high pitched whine.

“Fuckfuckfuck p-please, fuck, harder…”

Phil obliged, driving his cock deeper into the whimpering boy, skin slapping on skin echoing through the room. Phil tugged on Dan’s hair again, watching his face through the mirror, and fuck he could cum just from that.

Dan’s lips were swollen, his cheeks red and flushed, his hair messy and his eyes glazed over with need. Phil groaned, snapping his hips.

Phil knew he had hit Dan’s prostate when he screamed, a loud “FUCK, PHIL” bouncing off the walls. Phil smirked, angling his thrusts to hit that spot.

“This is a sin, you know,” Phil growled, reaching up to cover Dan’s mouth with his hand as he fucked into him harder. “Such a filthy fucking sinner for me, princess, ruined on my cock.”

Dan’s desperate muffled moans against his hand were pushing him to the edge, that and his tight heat encasing Phil’s cock. Phil smirked.

“Such a pretty fucking sinner too, isn’t that right? All for me. Your tight ass is all mine, yeah?”

Dan didn’t answer, continuous moaning falling from his mouth, muffled by Phil’s hand. He just nodded frantically, his moans sounding close to sobs.

Dan came after a few more thrusts all over his stomach, white streaking the counter under him and he whimpered, now sensitive to Phil’s cock pounding into his prostate every thrust.

Phil pulled out, quickly tugging Dan to his knees in front of him, guiding his cock to his lips. Dan took it obediently, lowering himself on Phil’s length. Phil groaned, tangling his fingers in Dan’s hair and fucking his throat as gently as he could. Dan gagged, digging his fingernails into Phil’s hips, and that was all it took. Phil came down his throat, keeping his cock still until he was sure Dan had swallowed all of it.

He helped Dan to his feet, holding him steady because it was clear he was close to falling over.

Dan just stared at him, stunned, watching as Phil casually got dressed. After he was clothed he cleaned Dan’s stomach and the counter with a paper towel, tossing it in the trash.

He grinned, kissing Dan’s cheek and backing towards the door, winking.

“See you next Sunday, Danny.”

His Prince Will Come

Pain. Pain. Pound. Pound.

The last week has been pure pain for Sherlock Holmes. He has never felt such a complex mix of emotions at once: empty loneliness, burning anger, and, most of all, awful, frantic worrying. Every night has been sleepless; his brain is tired, overworked, for the first time in his life. The puzzle they gave him had been brutal, and it did not help that he had to solve it on his own. 

They took John

This was all a cruel game, a way to get Sherlock out of their hair for awhile, so they could enjoy themselves by going on more killing sprees. This was a team of England’s most wanted; he’s been tracking them for awhile now at the request of the government. They kill for no purpose except to get joy out of it, and they’ve found his weakness. He thought he’d got them, but now they have his weakness.

I’m coming for you, John.

He’d ignored five new murders during the past week, just to keep working, he had to keep working. He’d traveled across the country to remote locations, where the smallest hints were hidden, teasing him, telling him he’d never succeed. Yet he did, just in time. He drove at ninety miles per hour the whole way, breathing hard. He has five minutes left to get to him. He’s going to make it. He’s got to, or he’ll never forgive himself.

Keep running. Keep running. The stone hallway seems never-ending, but he can make out a doorway ahead. Almost there. It was genius, this plan. An old tunnel, entrance hidden inside the basement of a tiny church in a town people barely know exists. At the dead of night, I make my move. The clues left for him to figure out the location were, minuscule the likes of which he’d never seen: a strangely shaped nick in a wooden wall, a compartment inside the metal leg of a chair… yet somehow he managed to figure it out. And now, he must get to John. There are so many things he needs to tell him. He has to get to him. He has to find him.

Pound, pound, goes his heart, the heart he never knew he had until just a few years ago. Pain, whispers his brain; all his muscles are aching yet he doesn’t care. I’m coming, John. I’m coming. I’m-

He’s almost to the lit doorway. Almost to John. John, John, I -

The light dims, almost to black.


A shot. The thud of a body. 



Please don’t be you.

Can’t be you. No. I won’t allow it.



Please. John.

“Too late, Holmes.”

Who is it? The leader of the pack? A forgotten enemy? He can’t register the voice. He can’t even think.

“You tried your best, I suppose, and failed to save five people in the process. Oh, wait– six.”

N o .

N  o  .

J -

J   o  h n

His legs fall out from under him. His head hits the freezing stone floor and he doesn’t bother to try and stand again.

There’s no point.

A cold feeling on the back of his head. The click of a loaded gun.

“And now, it’s your turn. You cannot stop us, Sherlock Holmes. You failed. You couldn’t save your beloved friend, you couldn’t save five innocent people, and you can’t save yourself. 

“The game is over, Holmes. Goodbye, and good riddance.”

Time slows. Everything freezes.

He closes his eyes. It’s over. He can’t try anymore, not without John. And he knows it’s John, lying there motionless. He can tell from the silhouette, the familiar aura of homeliness and warmth and pleasure and… love? always radiating from his faithful army doctor, the one who he can’t live without. He’s finished. He’s never felt so hopeless, so willing to be gone from this world just so he may have a chance of seeing John again somewhere, sometime, even though heaven is not something he’s ever believed in. But then again, John is heaven. 

And… he can’t let heaven go.

No. No.


N O ! !

An inhuman, guttural scream fills the air, and he doesn’t realise for a moment that it is coming from his own throat. Adrenaline rushes through him, and he leaps to his feet, a strange buzzing in his ears seeming to whisper John. John. John. over and over again. Faster than ever thought humanly possible, he ducks, and he can feel the whoosh of the bullet just missing his head by inches. His hand closes around the small knife he’d hidden in his pant leg before he left (always extra protection for his John, always.) and manages to stab his would-be-executioner in the thigh, causing them to drop their gun, which he quickly snatches up. For John. Three masked men burst into the room, and Sherlock quickly locates the source of dim light– a bulb hanging from a string just through the doorway– and, squeezing his eyes shut, shoots at it. 

The sound of glass breaking echoes in the hall, the room goes dark, and he exhales a sigh of relief. But he’s not done yet. He drops to the ground before the men’s eyes adjust to the dark and crawls on hands and knees, smashing into the first man’s legs, knocking him to the floor. One man gets ahold of his gun and shoots; the bullet whizzes past Sherlock’s shoulder and before the man gets another chance to attack, Sherlock head-butts his stomach, causing him to fall into the third man, then takes his gun and smashes each of the men across the face, one, two, three times, until they pass out. Just like hitting those dead bodies with the riding crop at the mortuary, but this time he’s doing it for John. John. John. JOHN. There’s a silencer on one of their guns, and he picks it up and shoots each of the men, without even considering it. John.

He runs to him, kneels down beside him, takes his limp hand. Blood oozes from his stomach, and he isn’t moving. Please…don’t be dead. 

A pulse. Shallow, slow breathing. But he’s alive. Unresponsive, but alive.
Sherlock breathes another sigh of relief, this one not just of relief but of thanks to whatever supernatural being may be existing up there in the night sky. Alive, he’s breathing, let him stay alive. The bullet doesn’t look like it was shot from close range so it couldn’t have gone in too far, if he can get John to a hospital, or a doctor, in time…

A thud sounds not too far away, then the stomping of booted feet. They’ll have noticed by now that something went wrong. He needs to get away, get John somewhere safe. He heaves the body of the one he loves most over his shoulder. John is slightly heavy, but  he can manage. He needs to manage. He begins to run.

“He’s not fuckin’ dead?! Get him then!” comes the cry. The shouts of more men come from behind him, yet Sherlock keeps running, running towards the steps that lead back up to the church basement. He almost trips, but catches himself, keeping one hand over John’s wound all the whole, feeling the blood dripping through his fingers. His heart is thudding inside him, threatening to explode, and a single verse of an old song he once knew floats through his mind as he emerges from the basement…

Daddy, please don’t, it wasn’t his fault,
He means so much to me,
Daddy, please don’t, we’re gonna get married,
Just you wait and see…
Just you wait and see.

Surely they have backup coming, his chance of escaping is slim, growing smaller by the minute. He ducks around a corner, into another room, the weight of John bearing down on him, reminding him that John’s life is his responsibility now, and he’s got to think, think, God, Sherlock, you’ve got to-

The room is a kitchen. There’s a stove. And he can just make out a cloth on the counter. John still slung over his shoulder, he fumbles through the dark room until he finds the dial that turns the stove on, and a small blue flame flickers. 

The men thunder past, thinking he’s going towards the front door; he only has a minute until they realise he’s still in the building. He grabs the cloth with his free hand, puts the edge of it to the flame, and oh, thank the heavens, it catches, and he dashes out of the room and crouches by the corner; the men are arguing with each other in the main room, and the walls and floor are made of polished wood, and the flame is quickly spreading over the cloth and he lifts his aching arm and tosses it–

It hits the floor, and in moments, it catches and starts spreading; the men turn in alarm and yell at each other to call more backup, and this is Sherlock’s chance. He bursts out of his hiding place and dashes for the door, and they see him and grab their guns but they’re too late, he’s out the door and into the night and the fire has enveloped almost a whole wall and part of the floor and blocks their way to the door.

He runs like he’s never run before, clenching John’s shirt and trying to keep the blood in; he’s lost a lot and there’s not much time.

Just you wait and see…
Run, Joey, run, Joey, run, Joey, RUN!

The dirt road is long, but he keeps running, even though he can’t feel his legs and his chest is aching and his vision is blurred, and he can hear his own blood pounding in his ears, and all he can think is John, John, John, John, I need you, I love you, John, and I’ve never told you, I need to tell you–

There’s a car, turning into a lone driveway yards ahead of him. He runs even faster, screaming hoarsely, “My friend is hurt! Please! Help us, help him–”

Sherlock Holmes has never asked for help, let alone yelled for it. 

“Help us, please! Sir!” The man is getting out of the car, he’s in his fifties by the looks of it and not very wealthy (his house is tiny and falling apart), he turns with surprise and sees Sherlock coming towards him, John’s blood dripping from his hands, and he immediately runs to their aid–

“There’s a woman who’s a nurse a few streets away from here, get him in the car!” 

And they arrive at the house and the woman frets over John and carries him to a bed upstairs and the man tries to comfort Sherlock but he’s in shock and he’s crying, sobbing, tears falling from his blue eyes like gems, rare gems that no one ever sees unless they’re especially close to Sherlock, and he can’t stop murmuring, “John. John. John. John. John.”

He’s lost so much blood, they tell him, that they’re going to bring him to a hospital right away, he’s in critical condition. And he sobs harder, and he rides in the car with John’s head in his lap, cradling the doctor and smoothing his hair and adjusting the bandage over his wound and covering him in a blanket so wherever his mind is during all of this, he won’t be cold. He cries harder than ever as they take him from the car and whisk him away, leaving this man who could be broken forever if they don’t do their job, leaving him behind in the waiting room, head in hands, shaking all over.


★ ★ ★ ★ ★

Suddenly, John’s thoughts return.

And his first thought is, Sherlock. They shot him, didn’t they. They shot me. Where am I where is Sherlock oh god oh-

“Mr. Watson, it’s alright. You’re safe. You’re okay.”

The IV tube in his arm aches. His chest aches. He tries to move, but gentle hands push him back into the bed. His vision’s adjusting, and there are doctors, dressed in white, and there’s one not dressed in white, but wait, that’s…


Tears fill both sets of eyes, and Sherlock smiles, and John’s heart, weak as it feels, leaps in his chest, and he grins back.

“How long… how long have I been…”

“In a coma? Nine days, eight hours, and twenty-six minutes, but who’s counting?” Sherlock cannot suppress his smile. He’s so thankful that John is okay. He’s been here the entirety of those nine days and eight hours, sleeping next to John in a chair, tucking him in when he looks cold and adjusting his pillows just right, lifting him into the bed after the blood transfusion and the surgery to remove the bullet, helping to clean the bullet wound when needed, never letting go of his hand, no matter what. And he’s still holding it now, only now, John is able tighten his grip on the detective’s hand in return.

“What happened?”

“I’ll tell you what happened,” says the main doctor, a strict but kind woman named Muriel, bringing a cup of water to John’s lips and helping him drink. “This man,” she continues, gesturing to Sherlock, “set a church on fire, escaped a horde of gun-toting killers, finally rid the world of two of Scotland Yard’s most wanted, and got you here to this hospital, carrying you all the way. He hasn’t left this room since you got here, and I had to force him to eat and drink something every day. He won’t talk to me about his relationship with you, but it’s quite obvious he cares about you more than he cares about himself, and you’re very lucky to have him.” 

It takes John a minute to register this information. He remembers getting kidnapped, having to sit in a dark, cold room while people taunted and sometimes hurt him, having to eat and drink nothing but hard bread and soiled milk, and then… he’d been shot, and there was pain, and then nothing. But Sherlock. Coming to rescue him when he thought his situation was hopeless. Setting a building on fire for him, killing for him, risking his life for him. Oh, Sherlock. He’s always loved his detective, but now he loves him more than ever.

“H…how can I thank you, Sherlock?” His eyes fill with tears. Happy ones.

Sherlock squeezes John’s hand. “You can’t. Don’t bother.”

John squeezes back, weakly, and smiles. “You know that song from Snow White, the one where she’s singing about how someday her prince will come and-”

“Yes,” Sherlock interrupts, smirking. “And please don’t ask about my secret enthusiasm for Disney movies. ‘Someday My Prince Will Come,’ is it?”

“Mhmm,” John replies. “I won’t ask. But, Sherlock… my prince. Uhm. He’s… he’s come.”

Sherlock stares at John, and a tear slips down his cheek, his grin returning, bigger than ever. “And my prince is holding my hand, and I believe it’s the best thing I’ve ever felt.”

The nurse returns to the room with a blanket. “He needs some rest, and as soon as we can, we’re going to start him on physical therapy.” She hands Sherlock the blanket, and he gently covers John with it. “Are you going to stay here, Mr. Holmes?”

“Of course,” Sherlock answers, and gripping John’s hand tighter, leans down and kisses him softly on the forehead. As his lips brush John’s skin, he whispers so that only John can hear:

“I love you.”

And before John falls into a peaceful sleep, he smiles, closes his eyes, and murmurs, “I love you, too.”

★ ★ ★ ★ ★


John adjusts his coat on the back of his chair and picks up the menu, only to put it back down when he feels Sherlock’s eyes on him.

“I know I’m a wonderful sight, but do you have to stare like that? People are going to-”

“Oh, shut up.” Sherlock leans across the table and gives him a gentle kiss, to which John doesn’t complain. “Everyone’s guessed it from the start. Does it really matter anymore?”

John snickers. “I suppose not,” he replies, and then folds his hands neatly on the table and stares back at Sherlock. They both smile and continue to look into each other’s eyes.

“Ah, my favourite couple! Glad to see you’re doing better, Johnny boy. Up and walking again! What can I get you tonight? On the house, as always… oh, and an extra dessert for you two as well!” Angelo gives Sherlock a wink, which confuses John, but Sherlock grins secretively and winks back. They order their food, and converse as they eat. This is Sherlock’s most favourite thing; to look into John’s eyes when he speaks and see the pure emotion in them, the happiness and affection that he now knows how to show. After they finish (and enjoy their free dessert, slices of five-layer chocolate fudge cake), Angelo returns to the table with a small pink candle in the shape of a heart.

“Angelo, we’re about to leave,” John says, a puzzled look on his face as he stands up. “Why are you-”

“John, sit down,” Sherlock says in a serious tone, and Angelo smirks and whizzes away into the kitchen. John, with no idea what is going on, hesitates, then sits back down.

“You do remember our first time here?” Sherlock asks, combing a hand through his hair, which he managed to straighten a little earlier tonight. “The first time you tried to subtly ask about my sexuality, and we stared at each other for a total of at least five minutes–”

“Yes, I remember,” John interrupts. “Of course I remember. And it was just about five and a half minutes total, not that I was counting. What are you getting at?” He raises a suspicious eyebrow.

“This is where it all started. This is where my feelings for you really got the better of me,” Sherlock explains, fiddling with his sleeve. “This is where I realised, I’ve never felt this way about someone I’ve just met. This man could be my friend, my flatmate, my partner, but there’s something else about him. He’s different, and he makes me feel…happy. Not alone.” He clears his throat. “This is where our first official date was, after you kissed me that one time in the apartment where I was trying to teach you to play ‘Ode to Joy’ on the violin. This is where we came after that particularly exhausting case in which you had to kill a man, and you broke down and I comforted you. This is where it began, and where it’s going to begin again. I hope.” 

John looks at him curiously. What was Sherlock talking about?

“You asked me, John, how you could thank me for saving your life. There is really only one way you can thank me.” Sherlock reaches into his pocket and produces a small blue velvet box, and stands, walking slowly over to John’s side of the table, not breaking eye contact with him for a moment. “I cannot imagine a life without you. I figured that out when I saw you get shot. I want you here, with me, always. I won’t let you come to any harm, ever again. I love you more than anything in this universe, John Hamish Watson, and it would make me the happiest sociopath to ever exist if you would promise to stay with me forever.” 

John’s eyes widen, and he gasps as Sherlock kneels before him, opening the box to reveal a breathtakingly beautiful ring made of gold, with two sapphires and a diamond set into the metal.

“Will you marry me?”

John Watson has been through a lot, and he has felt love for many people, and been in happy situations many times, despite being an army veteran and seeing the harm humans are capable of causing to their own kind. But he has never felt this extent of absolute joy and pure, blooming love that he feels now, as he sees his prince looking at him expectantly, holding their future in his hands. And so, with tears in his eyes and a genuinely devoted smile on his face, he replies, “Yes.”

And Sherlock sweeps him out of his chair and holds him tightly to his chest, making sure not to touch the wound that is almost healed but still hurts to the touch sometimes, and slips the ring onto John’s finger, and John reaches up and kisses his husband more passionately than ever before, and Angelo grins as he begins to play “How Deep Is Your Love” over the radio, and people at nearby tables clap, and somewhere over on Baker Street Mrs. Hudson feels a change, a good change, and chuckles to herself as she boils tea, and Mycroft Holmes reveals a rare smile as he remembers what his brother told him was going to happen tonight, and high up in the sky, the moon glows a little brighter, and the stars twinkle, showing their happiness for this couple who will love each other forever, no matter what happens, and who are now finally united for the rest of their lives.

How deep is your love, how deep is your love
How deep is your love?
I really mean to learn
‘Cause we’re living in a world of fools
Breaking us down when they all should let us be
We belong to you and me

“I love you, Sherlock.”

“I love you too, John.”

And, yet again, it begins.


Yeah, so I first got the idea for this when I was listening to “Run Joey Run” by David Geddes in the car on the way to the beach, and it turned into this whole long thing, so I figured I’d post it here. I hope you like it! :) I love writing stories about Sherlock and John; it’s a lot of fun. Hopefully I’ll be able to post more writing more often. I loved how this one turned out.

(Shoutout to @currently-in-my-mind-palace ! Her blog is wonderful and she writes excellent fanfics! Give her a follow!)

My dad was a huge drunk, just bottom of the barrel, terrible, one of the worst. He was a disaster of a drinker. It ruined his life. It was bad - he could not hold a job as a bartender. He was a janitor and he couldn’t even do that. The only job he could hold was to clean up the bar from 4 in the morning to 7 in the morning, which is when they would open, if that tells you what kind of bar it was. So he’s just there mopping the floor and drinking for a few hours. Then he’d come home and sleep it off and drink all day. I mean, nothing but boozing. It wrecked his body. It devastated his life.

He left when I was 9 but we got dropped off at his place to see him once a week. He’d be passed out or vomiting or all bruised up from some alcohol seizure. Brutal things you don’t want your kids to see. We’d go for a night, order pizza and have dinner, he’d sleep through it. We’d watch the little black-and-white TV. Pretty rough.

I was going to Alateen meetings in church basements since I was 12, 10 years old. It was nice because no one else was talking about it and it was a way of understanding what was happening at home - that it wasn’t my fault. They would do things, like, kids acting out scenes and roleplay as a way of expressing the things that are happening at home. So you’re there with a bunch of other kids and they’re pretending to be their parent and you’re seeing things that are happening in your house that were scary. You get a sense that you’re not the only one. My mom would drive us over there and drop us off. In New England, it gets dark at three in the afternoon. [laughing] I remember these cold afternoons in the basement of some church - a bunch of kids talking about this crap and it was bleak.

He got sober when I was about 14. He came out to California which may as well have been Mars to me. I didn’t know where it was. He went to a rehab out in Palm Desert, a state-mandated place that has the feel of a prison, and stayed there for 12 years - no kidding! He felt like if he left, he would drink. He had to be there so he got a job working there, after being a resident. He helped guys get their GED. My dad’s really smart and he counselled men there. And then finally he left and he moved to Savannah, Georgia. That was a big deal for him. He’s doing great - still sober. He did it, man! If he can do it, anybody can do it!

How did Ben and I get through it? A little adversity, if you make it through, is okay. It makes you stronger and resilient in some way. Kids are tough. I’d never want to put my kids through what I went through but, if I had to, they’d probably be okay. My kids have no idea what that’s like. If I tell them to turn off the TV, they say they hate me and I’m the worst dad ever. [laughing] I’m like, ‘Let me tell you about the worst dad ever! You wanna hear some stories about how bad a dad can be, I’ll let you know. But in the meantime, turn the TV off and go clean your room.’

So it’s in our genes and I understand it. My grandmother was an alcoholic. My brother spent some time in rehab. I’d go visit my dad when I got older. I drove out here and it’s where I got to know him for the first time, more or less, because he was sober for the first time. I got to hang out there at the ABC Club rehab. And then visiting my brother up at the more posh Malibu rehab - just so many times going to these meetings and sitting in circles and talking about it all. So when it came time, when I realised I had to stop [drinking], I felt I’d already put in all that time so I just kind of white-knuckled it at home and imagined myself in a circle. And it worked. I’m sober for almost three years.

skippinginclouds  asked:

when you have time, would you ever be willing to talk about how you think ronan and renee each view religion? like what it means for them/what they get out of it/why they choose to follow it when so many other people (esp their age) don't seem to?

you betcha babe, I’m gonna give a little of my experience for ref, if that’s okay?

There are only three things that lodge in my mind about the ten years of my life I spent going to church every Sunday:

1. I got to dress up, Sunday best, pinched cheeks as my accessory. If I was lucky they’d let me and one of my brothers carry the candle and bible to the front, and I’d have a staring contest with the flame while we trailed after the choir procession. Everyone watched, endeared by the children symbolically carrying protestantism in their chubby hands. I liked that church was gaudy. I liked that there was a script, and that I got to sing and shake hands with strangers.

2. If there’s a God, I thought he belonged to me. He was the helpline that was always open. Religion was offered up to me like a wish-granting factory. Believing in something is hard work, and it kept me entertained, for a while. If I was in trouble, or if I really, really wanted something, I dialled God’s number. I had private fights with God. I wished on him and hated him and forgot him.

3. My brother and I used to sneak off and explore the church before service started. I vividly remember sneaking through the supply cupboard down what we thought were “secret” stairs. My brother is older, and I would’ve followed him even if he lead me straight past the floorboards of the musty church to hell. We found something new every week. It’s amazing what can feel like an endless gothic castle when you’re seven. Sometimes I think of my brother as he was then, clever and funny and absolutely everything I wanted to be, and I ache to be in the quiet of the church basement, asking him about the dusty props in the corner, spinning in my pretty red dress for the wall to wall mirrors, happily lied to about the secrets and magic and God all around us.

I think Renee sits somewhere around a more dedicated number two, and Ronan is a 1-2-3 — heavy on the three.

Renee wants to keep her hands busy. She tried carving herself a new future and it turned out to be a double-sided knife, slicing her hands in the process. God is more than a second chance for her, he is something to constantly, relentlessly pursue. When Renee says she’s trying very hard to be a good person, she means it. Believing in God is a struggle for her. The world is cruel (or like. the people in it, Neil, okay, same diff), and scrubbing the blood away so she can look God in the face is almost impossible when it keeps welling up (taking her friends, throwing her prayers away).

Renee needs that prayerful helpline on speed-dial. She needs the hard work or she might fade away. Religion is her new talisman, the handle of a new, sturdy weapon, and she keeps it as her defence, something to learn and use and put away when she needs to.

She’s not casually religious, she’s putting all her money on God. Christianity is really and truly all she had before she met the foxes.

It’s gruelling, being a “bad person” and believing in God, trying to understand A) what you are, B) why you’ve been made only to be treated so poorly, C) How you’re supposed to lever your burden up and keep believing, how to make amends

—which is where Ronan comes in. 

please God what am I, tell me what I am

Sometimes I think Renee and Ronan would respect each other too much to be friends.

Ronan is in a self-loathing depression a mile wide when we meet him, and he sees himself as a bad person trying to be a bad person (until the day that he fights some demons, gets some help, digs himself free, and actively tries to be good)

His life is a shitshow of loss and longing, and he’s absolutely ravenous for answers. He doesn’t even doubt God, he just wants to brawl with him for a while there, call the bastard down and piss in his cornflakes, you know

Religion isn’t hard for Ronan. It’s the number 1 I mentioned before, something he can perfect and impress with. I bet he even liked how good he looked in his crisp shirt before everything went down, unbuttoned at the collar like his father’s. He likes an honest, unrepentant performance.

I bet he was determined to believe in God that little bit more than everyone else, memorize the bible verses (he likes learning niall’s languages, and those were largely latin, holy, or slurred and drunk)

He also called passages out like his father did for being “rubbish” whenever things got too close to condemning their magic, their Otherness. He’s a selective Catholic in a lot of ways, hand-picking the good stuff because he knows that religion belongs to him, that it’s exactly what he makes it.

His dad taught him that what was in his head was the only real thing other than God. Ronan negotiates the two. When he’s brave enough, and okay enough, he pins his sexuality to God’s forehead and dares him to have a problem with it.

Renee goes to church to think, and so does Ronan. When everything gets a bit much, and gore fills their heads up, the church is their sanctuary.

Where it’s a puzzle for Renee though, it’s easy for Ronan. Old hat. He walks into the church and he feels the incense and dust fold around him like his mother’s dreamy embrace. He asks questions to the empty pews like he’s talking to his dead father. Renee walks in feeling unworthy, feeling too big for the vaulted ceilings, and she gropes for God’s hand in the dark. (The first time she prays and she feels like she’s being heard, she cries. She goes home to her new mother and cries some more, her past in tatters, her future tasting of sacramental wine.)

More than anything though, Ronan is lost in number 3′s nostalgia

As you may have gathered, Catholicism IS Ronan’s father, wow, nifty,

He goes to church for the comfort and the sting, just like visiting Niall’s grave. His religion is a relic from his childhood, when they were so arrogant about how their lives would play out.

I’ll bet you anything that Ronan walks into church, breathes in, and tastes his first swig of alcohol under his father’s watchful eye, not flinching because he wouldn’t. He sees Declan-Ronan-Matthew, heads bowed over abridged Sunday school bibles, Matthew pleasantly not following along, Declan pointing out the bad illustrations so that Ronan snorts. His mother smiling placidly and combing her hand through his hair until he focuses enough to sing hymns with the rest of the crowd. His father boasted the largest voice in the room. Declan was embarrassed. Matthew and Aurora delighted. Ronan’s mouth curled like dead leaves because his father could make a scene like no one else.

Ronan’s relationship with God can’t be snipped because it was cast in iron, welded in place by Niall Lynch when he burnt his way out of Ronan’s atmosphere. 

Renee’s faith can’t be stomped out because she’s shielding it with absolutely everything she has. (Andrew understands her faith because he gets what it’s like to protect your hope even if parts of you have to die.)

End of the day, foxes or ravens, their friends aren’t religious for a lot of reasons — not raised with it, hurts too much, they need proof, etc, etc

but they all understand the way it sits with Renee/Ronan

they know that religion is a pattern that holds them together, a someone when there’s absolutely no one, a lil flickering reminder of the things they’ve lost & hurt for

I think I lost my religious inclinations because I wasn’t willing to fight for it tbh

but man Ronan and Renee are nothing if not fighters

Eyes Wide Open All the Time Chapter 19: “We Want War”

Chapter Summary:  This could be the very last waking breath he and Rin share, even though Sousuke so angrily knows that they both deserve better than dying under a fucking piano in a firefight with dust and battle-heat festering in their lungs, with sweat spiking their lashes, splinters caught under their skin, and an unfair amount of words left unspoken on their tongues.

Work Summary: "You don’t know what you’re getting yourself into,“ Haru says even as he can see the light at the end of the tunnel.

The light is in Makoto’s eyes. "I know you.”

In which Haru is a former drug addict selling dope, Makoto’s a teacher fresh out of the army, Sousuke’s a cop who makes the mistake of helping a rentboy named Rin, Nagisa and Rei run a support group in a church basement, and Nitori’s just trying to keep up.

Read Chapter 1 | Read Chapter 19

SARIC UPDATE PART 1: I have so much to tell you guys! First let’s start with the memorial service. For those of you who don’t know, my grandpa passed away on October 3rd from an infection caused by his open heart surgery that he had back in July. His memorial service was last Sunday, November 23rd. My grandma wanted to wait to have it until the whole family could be there because most of them live in California and Colorado. Since trips to Michigan are rare for my out of state family, they all decided to make a whole week of it and come to town on the 18th and leave on the 25th. As you may have already figured out, this means Eric was subjected to meeting my entire family on my mom’s side, who are all crazy by the way, and going to many pointless dinners and get togethers throughout the week. He never complained once. He braved all the intrusive questions by my aunts, the intimidating looks from my uncles and the relentless teasing by my male cousins. He was incredibly sweet and polite to everyone and eventually won them all over just like I knew he would. He loved telling everyone how we met every time they asked, and they asked a LOT. My favorite part of him meeting my extended family though was how he interacted with my cousin Willie. Willie is 36 years old and has autism. He doesn’t know how to process emotions so he basically talks to you like a computer, spouting facts and wanting facts from you in return. He also will ask you the same question over and over again. I was sort of worried that Eric would get frustrated with him or annoyed, as many of us sometimes do with him, but he just sat there with him and listened intently to everything he said and really made Willie feel like he was part of the room and the conversation instead of just an observer. He was so patient and kind to him that it made my aunt cry. Seriously. Strangers don’t always understand Willie or treat him with kindness so anytime someone does, my aunt gets very emotional. Fast forward to the memorial service. Not only did Eric come, but so did his family, which meant more to me than they can ever know. His family had never even met my grandpa, but they still came to support me and my family. Eric sat right behind me because I sat in a row with my family. I was able to not cry up until the slideshow of pictures from his whole life and then I just started balling. He rubbed my shoulders from behind and kissed the top of my head to comfort me. After the service, there was a fellowship dinner in the church basement where I did sit with him and his family and I introduced his parents to mine and to my grandma. They were incredibly nice said it was nice to finally meet them even though they wished it was under better circumstances. Eric asked if he could drive me home so he did and when we got to my house we just sorta sat in the car for a few minutes cuz i was still crying a bit and he just held my hand there in silence for like 5 minutes. and then he just suddenly looked at me and said “I love you” for the first time. I of course said it back and then i laughed cuz i remembered that the first time I ever thought the words “I love this guy” was when he came with me to see my grandpa in rehab and was talking to him about baseball. I told him that and he said the first time he thought it was on our second date! Needless to say, it was a very happy ending to an otherwise heartbreaking day. And since that night, we say I love you all the time:)

The Seven Deadly Sins: Lust

“I have a feeling that you can’t resist me.” You state, causing Luke to snort and roll his eyes. You tilt your head to the side and slip your hands from off your thighs and sliding your fingers into Luke’s belt hoops of his denim jeans, only tugging him closer that he bumps into your chest.

“I mean you let me touch you and you came to see me when you didn’t have too, and even now, you didn’t have to come near me and you still did.” You state, your eyes flickering between Luke’s chest and his pure sapphire eyes. “That means I have some control over you… right?” You question, Luke turns his head which causes your gaze to only lock with his define jaw line as you watch him swallow.

Originally posted by pikamikey

Words: 3.7k

Request: No

Rating: R


With every smack of your lips the pink bubblegum chewed up between your teeth made the most obscene sound that filled the space around you. Your eyes gazed over the few small amount of people around your age that came to this stupid function, next to you was a girl who was obviously someone who is mommy’s and daddy’s perfect little girl due to her Michael Kors flats, along with her obvious fashion steal from the pink and innocent side of Tumblr. To the right of you was a boy who had blond hair and angelic features, he could definitely be a panties dropper but because of the glasses in front of his eyes made him look like a downright nerd who keeps old copies of classic comic books.

The other three people on the opposite side of you was a boy with dyed black hair with an eyebrow piercing and pale skin who would wink at you from time to time, while the other boy looked like someone who spent their entire life inside his room while the girl looked like a regular teenage girl who bought clothes at Forever 21 and had a really good social life. Unlike you, who was known around town as the ‘reckless teen’, you always found yourself in trouble and in the principal’s office, and since you were always there or in trouble it leads you to where you are today.

Sitting in the middle of a church basement with a pastor who is preaching about some self worth shit and what would Jesus do, it had you rolling your eyes and continuously flicking your gaze towards the clock above his head. It wasn’t worth the effort though, because you only just got here five minutes ago because of your Christian aunt who sees ‘demons’ in you every single time you go to her house to find food or steal money.

So here you were sitting in a circle with the cross in the middle of it as the pastor stood in the circle walking around and talking about everything that you frankly didn’t care about.

“Would anyone like to explain to me what the seven deadly sins are?” The grey haired man asked while looking at everyone.

You hear the sound of someone clearing their throat, making you turn your gaze towards the boy with dyed black hair and piercing emerald eyes.

“Ah Michael, finally speaking,” The fifty two year old man says while turning towards him. You watch as Michael smiles while shrugging his shoulders.

“Isn’t it like sex, drugs, and stealing?” He questions while leaning deeper into his chair that squeaks in pain from the stretch.

The pastor sighs while shaking his head and turning towards the side that you’re on. “No Michael, that isn’t it.” He grunts, his eyes flickering between the three of us before you feel the boy next to raise his hand and clear his throat.

“I know what it is,” He says, voice deep that it causes you to flick your eyes towards him. You thought he would have a high pitched voice that would crack constantly but instead you are welcomed with a voice just dripping in sex.

Your eyes flick amongst every feature detailed in his defined face; his nose was dangerously straight, hair falling over his forehead until it curled by his eyebrows loosely, lips thin but plump and a light shade of pink, while his jaw line stood out prominently against his skin that made you run your tongue over your bottom lip and straighten your back more to admire his beautiful physique.

“Aren’t the seven deadly sins; gluttony, greed, laziness, wrath, envy, pride, and lust.” The angelic boy says while bringing his thin eyebrows together which causes his skin to fold on his forehead.

“And you are correct Luke!” The pastor exclaims while tossing his hands in the air. You roll your eyes at his excitement and then lean over to the angelic boy named Luke.

“You go to church often?” You question, your tongue pushing the gum to the front of your teeth and beginning to blow a bubble. A smirk tugs on the ends of your lips when you see Luke’s gaze come across the pink bubble before turning to your eyes.

“U-Uh yeah, every Sunday with my parents,” Luke stutters out while his eyes watch you suck the pink candy back into your mouth and smirk at him.

“So you get everything that this guy is saying,” You say, eyes staring at Luke intensely as you bite into your fleshly bottom lip.

“Yeah I understand what this guy is saying,” Luke chuckles while gesturing over to the pastor; you let a small laugh leave your lips as your eyes gaze towards the man in a black suit.

You shrug your shoulders while turning your attention back to Luke, your hand slips off your thigh and on to his muscular sturdy one. The feeling of his rough denim jeans runs through the pads of your fingertips as you run your hand up and down his thigh until you gaze your index finger amongst his growing erection. A devious smile spreads on your lips as you look up at Luke while tilting your head to the side.

“Are you a virgin Luke?” You ask, voice quiet while you lean into his personal space and running your tongue along his jaw line.

Keep reading

since the other soundtrack masterlists i’ve seen on here have a lot of broken links, i decided to make my own! under the cut are 200+ different musicals and 300+ different download links all in alphabetical order. if you encounter any problems please message me so i can update the list, but please understand that these are not MY uploads, they are others’ that i’ve found and listed here for you. there are also some notes listed below the cut regarding the download links. please like/reblog! [last updated: 24 december 2015]

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anonymous asked:

i saw you read a lot. mmmh, can you rec all your favorite one-shots? i don't care whether they are angsty or fluffy. just, you know. good. thanks x

you have no idea what you just put yourself into. here this monster :) some are pwp with very good and hot smut, others are short thingies with very poetical wrting, others are the classical +10k stories with wonderful plot, beautiful smut, amazing writing,perfect characterization and all that.


Through the darkness of your days | future!fic | R | 35k

“Harry thinks he might not really know what okay is, but Louis is warm next to him, solid and constant and questioning. He’s all wide eyes and nerves and vulnerability. And this feels alright, this might be some sort of okay, Harry thinks.” Future!fic, roadtrip!fic, OT5 friendship!fic.

All the corners of the world | AU | R | 15k

university!AU in which Harry runs away to New York City with only his camera and a playlist and Louis doesn’t have a good side.

A house built of stones | AU | R | 22k

Louis has a used bookshop and Harry has a habit of claiming things that don’t belong to him

Only several miles from the sun  | AU | R | 12k

It started with a walk and unexpected rain and Babs. It started with a smile and green eyes and a bag of warm apple cinnamon muffins. Actually, it started with the bakery. Bakery AU, because of reasons.

After me comes the flood | AU | not rated | 8k

the one where Louis is anxious about a lot of things, Harry works at a bookshop and wears skinny jeans even though it’s too hot, and they eat french fries in the park.

Orchid eyes and smoky tides AU | no rated | 5k

a bakery-boy with poems embedded in his skin and an artist with a longing soul.

Heroes of the orange skies| AU | not rated | 30k

Louis likes bathroom walls and Sharpies, Harry likes metal, Zayn likes Liam and Liam likes Zayn, Niall is wise, and they all go to the zoo.

► Three day underwater  | AU | R | 10k

AU based on the film Weekend, dir. Andrew Haigh. Harry, a lifeguard, meets Louis, an artist, expecting just another one night stand. Instead, they get something special and resonant, if only for the weekend.

► Tangled up in you  | AU | R | 4k

“Have a good time?” Louis mumbles into his pillow, deadpan, as Harry strips down to his boxers behind him.

“Mmnn,” Harry hums, climbing into the bed and fitting himself around Louis, skin a little tacky where his sweat hasn’t completely dried. He kisses the back of Louis’ neck, soft and lazy. “Won’t be able to walk right for a week.”

► A runaway american dream | AU | R | 15k

AU. they take route 66 with only each other and their secrets.

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Today I shipped something to Geneva MN and it made me smile so hard.  I *love* when little middle-America towns give themselves pretentious old-world names. We used to drive to Alexandria from my college town because they were the closet place with a Walmart and it did not occur to me until I was recounting this to someone in Seattle that–oh hey, Alexandria was also that city in Egypt with the lost library. 

 I like to imagine a bunch of farmers and church basement ladies sitting around in the town hall shouting out all the exotic places they have never been to with sincere, starry-eyed civic pride for their cluster of 12 houses and a gas station.

Dream 5/1/17

One of my friends had just gotten back from a trip of some kind but he looked like Cameron from Ferris Bueller and he was very tall. A bunch of my friends and I went to meet him and when we got there I ran up and gave him a hug and he lifted me up and then also put me on his shoulders (no idea why) and we were all asking him about his trip and he started to tell us about it and then the person I used to date started trying to talk over him to say something to me (while I’m also sitting on his shoulders) and I shushed them and said “he’s talking” and they got really offended and sulked away (tbh I think that’s a pretty good representation of them lmao)

In another part I was at some kind of festival but it was in a very large church basement with many halls that were almost like streets, and it was packed with people. At the beginning everyone was given a card that would allow us to buy stuff at food stands and they made it clear that we could only use the card, no actual money. So I walked up to a stand and asked for a soda and I forgot about the card so I gave the lady a ten dollar bill and she gave me the soda, but I realized I wasn’t allowed to use money so I asked for it back and took out the card. She waved me away and told me to leave while no one was looking and looked around suspiciously.

Signs & Symbols in MF, TP

The petroglyph from Owl’s Cave in Twin Peaks

An ancient Native American petroglyph carved into the stone wall of Owl Cave. As a map, it shows the location of the gateway to the Black and White Lodges. As a calendar, it predicts the time when the gateway will be open with the glyphs of Jupiter and Saturn. The gateway itself only exists at a certain point in space and time, given by the details of the map/calendar.

The cave painting near the waterfall in Mizzurna Falls

Painted by the native American tribes of the region, depicting the “Death Journey Ritual” and the Mizzurna.

The engraving on the wall in the church basement in Mizzurna Falls

A possible reproduction of the original cave painting, which could have been carved by Cougar 40 years before the events of Mizzurna Falls. The engraving depicts the Mizzurna descending into the spirit of one who performs the Death Journey Ritual.

street magic (for anon~)

teenagers charming their doors and sneaking out at night to see witch punk bands at the local community center, a bunch of lonely sad magical kids finding each other through badly tuned guitars and beat up furniture

taking vacations to see where their parents grew up in different realms (mom will i have wings like aunt tessa? maybe, honey, maybe)

students protesting the exclusion of non-human history from the curriculum

tattoo-hiding charms for when your workplace isn’t as cool as you are

grandmothers knitting good luck spells into each of their sweaters and sending them off

support groups in church basements for a new generation of magic types, people with wixen blood but also part fae, half-wolves, people whose magic didn’t manifest until they were older, extremely conflicted vampires

dwarves and elves playing dungeons and dragons and complaining that their traits are so not right (then playing as each other and laughing a lot)

magical bakeries with a charm in every cupcake (so not only do you get delicious pastries, you also get that raise you were trying for and someone you’re fond of gives you a call and hey the bank didn’t charge you for that thing! cool!)

small children befriending the ghosts in their floorboards and having movie nights occasionally (even though the ghosts can’t actually use the blankets and pillows, they appreciate the sentiment)

tea shops that’ll serve your tea and then divine your future (related: certain baristas in certain coffee shops that’ll read your future from your double-tall non-fat no-whip mocha, too)

yeah? yeah. hell yeah. 

"Poetry Punishes You For Your Absence," Julianna Baggot

She’s not an easy lover who simply
tilts her head when you appear on the front stoop.

You hope the porch light will cast heavenly redemption
like a church-basement Christmas pageant.

No, there’s scowling, silence. And when finally
she takes you to the tub to wash away the world’s filth,

you’re always shocked, no matter how many times
you’ve strayed, that she doesn’t gently cup your head,

but dunks it, again and again,
a baptism that just won’t take.