soul laid bare

Whump prompts which are close to my heart

“That does not sound healthy.”

“Call it Plan B if you like. Hell, call it Plan Z. But I am packing the good drugs.”

“I don’t need to be able to stand. I just need to be able to shoot.”

“I can sleep when I’m dead.”

“I promise you: your head is the only thing spinning right now.”

“Oh god… is that… <I>blood</I>?”

“I’ll do this if it kills me.”

“Hey, hey, hey. I’ve got you. I’ve got you.”

“[Character]’s fine! You’re the one with the bullet holes!”

“This? This is just a scratch. I’ve had worse from my sister’s kitten. Don’t worry, I’ll get you home safe if it’s the last thing I do.”

“I don’t know… I’ve never seen [character] like this before.”

“[Character], please, I don’t have energy to waste arguing with you.”

“I don’t need your misplaced concern. I need to get the job done. You need me to get the job done.”

“Mercenary isn’t a career that comes with health insurance.”

“I’m gonna regret asking this, but, uh… why are you so good at giving yourself stitches?”

“I will not be the one who slows us down.”

“Uh… didn’t you also donate blood this morning? Because this is really terrible timing.”

“Don’t worry about [character], he’ll be fine. I’ve seen him take out a small army while he had a cracked skull and a broken arm. This is just a bit of a scratch/virus/overexertion.”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa. The fuck are you doing?! Were you raised by wolves? When you are this sick, you do <I>not</I> get out of bed. And you sure as hell do not come into work.”

“You know, normal people listen to medical advice.”

“Tell me this is not the first time someone’s made you soup.”

“When’s the last time you ate? Or even slept?”

“Do you have a headache or something?”

“Pain… is just… a construct of… the mind…”

“What could possibly go wrong?“

“Fuck… this is so above my pay grade.”

“Ok, I need you to hold me still while [character] works. Don’t let go. Not even if I scream. Not even if… not even if I beg.”

“No, don’t. Please… please don’t. Please stop! Please!”

Six Ways to Meet Aphrodite

1. Strip naked and slather yourself with lotion that your skin is as smooth as marble carved into beauty by mortal hands

2. Walk through the wet sand on the edge of the sea and feel it beneath your feet and between your toes and be reborn like the goddess.

3. Fuck someone so well that the phrase “making love” vanishes from the folds of their memory and all they know is heat and the sweet feeling of tongue on tongue and flesh on flesh.

4. Walk the silent halls of a museum and see each aeon’s thought of beauty in marble and paint and plaster kept as icons in new temples for new ages.

5. Let hot water pour down your back and soak into your skin and scour away imperfect sorrow until all that’s left is your soul laid bare.

6. Fall in love like you’re hitting concrete and know why a shattered city is a fair price for the gift of the Lady of Cythera.

afraid of (1500 words)

the bunker is quiet after jack leaves. there’s something in the air, a mix of agitation and resignation – it hurts to breathe, or maybe that’s just dean.

sam turns in almost immediately after the initial shock, after cas hurried to both of them and looked for injuries. turns out he still got the juice because he insists on healing dean’s small scratch for no reason whatsoever.

now it’s just both of them, sitting there awkwardly, dean inspecting the dirt under his fingernails, cas nursing a beer. this, dean muses, would be the perfect opportunity to – well, say something, but he doesn’t know what or rather, how.

nothing he says could ease the pain of losing jack, anyway, and that should be his top priority now. it certainly is cas’, if his crestfallen face is anything to go by. so dean’s lost in his own thoughts, alternating between hating himself for being so hostile to jack and hating himself for being a selfish bastard who’s happy that he’s got cas alone.

it’s curious, how easy it was to fall back into his old patterns with cas – to tease him affectionately, to issue and take orders between them, to, well, stare at him with unabashed amazement. he likes to think it’s because cas is literally back from the dead, but really, it’s just a regular old day in his life.

Keep reading

Ravenclaw x Ravenclaw friendships: They’re whispered words, screaming minds, fingers numb with thoughts too big to be written down. They’re dreams filled with wistful thoughts, tracing impossibility onto tear stained sheets of paper. They’re calling each other in the middle of the night, discussing theories and finding meaning in things that haven’t been discovered yet. They’re changing air into smoke into stars, making the world their own, a hundred miles an hour, overflowing, spilling, inconceivable magic. They’re half finished diagrams, almost made plans, barely there, promises traced onto bare skin. They’re galaxies trapped in minds wild with worry, winding roads that lead wherever you want them to. They’re feeling your heart drumming quietly in your chest, wondering what would happen if everything stopped, if nothing had to end. They’re closing your eyes and seeing more than you ever could with them open, a world made for living, places made for leaving.

Ravenclaw x Gryffindor friendships: They’re light, soft and pale, pressed glass on your cheek, waking up anywhere but your bed. They’re sleeves rolled up, hair piled on top of your head, pens tucked behind your ear, inspiration resting on the tip of your tongue. They’re stories of far away battles and hidden caves filled with precious jewels, adventure painted across an outstretched map. They’re piles of books with mugs balanced on the top, scattered paper, journalling with pressed flowers and love letters and old ticket stubs from places you’ve already been. They’re eyes caught in the sun, mountains below them, only ever going onwards, upwards, outwards, towards, towards, towards. They’re laughter caught in a breathless whirl, spinning with their hands held tight in your own, never letting go, loyal to the end. They’re tipping your head back at the stars and seeing a home the ground could never give you.

Ravenclaw x Hufflepuff friendships: they’re constellations made by far away stars, places you haven’t visited yet. They’re hiding in empty swimming pools, night spilled fracture lines, light reflected through a broken mirror. They’re staying up too late and waking up too early, weary yawns into knuckles and kisses pressed onto palms. They’re smiles like spun sugar at breakfast, seeing the universe reflected in each other’s eyes, reading poetry from lips shaded pink. They’re gasping breaths when no one else can hear, hiding hurt no one else can see. They’re talking pain into silk, weaving misery into tapestries stained with desperate last words: I love you, I need you, why wasn’t I enough? They’re picking up pieces of each other and examining them, studying them, dusting them off and putting them together again. They’re arm in arm, skipping, dancing a rhythm you can’t hear yet. They’re reaching, reaching, stretching across the void, pulling back, pulling in, safe in each other’s arms.

Ravenclaw x Slytherin friendships: They’re the night, hushed whispers in hues of blue, possibility itching in your fingertips. They’re raging, driving in the pouring rain, colours running past your window. They’re a hand held out behind you, barely touching, barely feeling, almost, almost entwined. They’re open spaces, open minds, hearts alive inside steel cages, towers too high to reach. They’re vulnerability wrapped in a thundering sky, love dripped across pages, letters stained with ink. They’re the sky after rain, a fresh start, make them proud, make them hear, make them see, make them feel. They’re stories woven between just parted lips, faces pressed into pillows, smiles in your eyes, courage in your heart. They’re watching the horizon rushing forward, wondering if you could go through it. They’re souls laid bare on a canvas, a work of art, unforgettable, endless, rushing joy. They’re skin painted with the sky, memories of where you wish you belonged.  


Godtier aesthetic improvements

Upon becoming godtier there are 2-3 bonus levels. If you climb up higher you should get aesthetic improvements to actually look godly. The outfits should get increasingly intricate and other bonuses are rewarded

Basically you can go from Caliborn’s outfit to Lord English’s

Here are some things me, sone followers , and some friends made up

Get a summonable cloak connected to their aspect
Space- can summon anything in space
Time- rainbow colored, tears in accordance to tears in time
Void- infinitely deep, can store whatever the Lord wishes
Rage- ominous and foreboding, changes to look more aggressive and intimidating to match the Lord’s temperament Breath- it is the sky with varying shades and clouds. It can turn into a mighty thunderstorm that propels the Lord forward while turning the actual sky into that very storm
Blood- the thick fibers of the robe correspond to the chain of relationships the Lord has amassed. The patterns become more intricate with their complexity of their chain of command

Aspect materializations form around them. If they max out they will gain the traits of their mentor (Jade’s dog ears, Handmaid’s clockwork majyyk eyes)
Space- miniature planets or meteors
Hope- St. Elmo’s fire burns around them
Heart- wisps float around them
Life- butterflies, birds, and flower petals float around them

They gain a jeweled crown. They also gain cracks, fissures, and scars in their aspect’s colors when they rend/rend with their aspect.
If they max out their presence cancels their aspect.
Space- made from black goldstone, has a miniature green sun as an inlayed jewel.
Time- made from iron with ticking gears integrated into it.
Void- their crown is dark black with navy blue pearls embedded into it. It is naturally brighter around them
Heart- A crown that has many changing forms. Your soul is laid bare. No tricks, no games, no lies, no facades.
Mind- electricity dances from it. They are like a speech jammer, people find it hard to think in their presence
Rage- made from jagged purple crystals. Everything calms down around them or sparks up violently.
Life- gain a flower crown with harmless thorns. Animals fear them and plants turn from their touch
Doom- an eastern crown with 12 black spikes.
Blood- gain an iron crown tinged with blood. Their veins become deep and dark

Gain more pockets with each additional tier. They glow brighter the more aspect related items and trinkets they are wearing or are in their pockets. If they max out they have special summoning gloves that can summon aspect items.
Light- glow golden the more gold they have on them and any Light related objects
Void- glow dark blue the more silver they have on them and any Void related objects

Gain armor pieces related to their aspect. If they max out they get a full set.
Time- changes age and shine depending on their mood. Instantly repairs itself
Light- shiny armor with golden edges. When cracked, the cracks glow a blinding light.
Heart- armor changes colors and styles depending on mood.
Rage- sleek and very dark purple. Creates spikes when the Knight is angry or afraid
Doom- cracked, has green glowing fissures. It gives poison effects when struck.
Blood- made stronger by each ally the Knight has. Drips if trying to look intimidating

Their aspect crops up around them
Light- leaves embers and fireflies as they walk
Void- their shadow is larger and darker than it should be. At night it becomes infinitely black and appears to be a swirling abyss
Life- small plants spring up at their feet Doom- items and the ground slightly crack and repair them self after the Maid touches them
Blood- blood drips from their fingertips

Get summonable spell tomes and scrolls with aspect knowledge in them. They radiate aspect energy.
Time- an old work book that contains the history of everything, from start to end.
Light- the pages dimly glow. Contains the information of 12,000 grand libraries
Void- the books leak infinitely black liquid. Contains thousands of secrets.
Heart- summons wisps when read. Contains the names, nicknames, true names, and character bios of all things with a soul.
Mind- people are shocked by electricity if they disturb the Mage’s reading. The book is a personal journal of inner thoughts for every sentient creature.
Hope- shimmers a faint gold that draws the eyes
Rage- creates gentle haunting music

Their eyes change to match their aspect. If they max our they are given a special eye ability. Space- you can see a galaxy in their eyes. They can show a projection of any area, as if they are projecting a video camera
Light- their pupils turn yellow and their sclera are pure white.
Void- eyes turn completely black. They appear to be swirling pools of infinity. You can learn many secrets by gazing into them
Heart- iris and pupil turn pale pink, almost like a ghost’s. People can view ghosts if the Seer is close.
Hope- their eyes appear to burn and radiate holy light. To see them is to stand before the all seeing eyes of a god
Rage- their eyes are a fierce, striking purple. To stare into their eyes is to gaze into the eyes of madness
Blood- veins in eyes become more pronounced and a red ring appears around their pupil. When they cry, they cry blood that makes anyone empathetic to them

Gain bengals and arm bands that reflect their aspect. If they max out they gain a special ability. Space- small gems orbit them
Light- glistening bands. Their radiance brings even the most hidden things to light.
Heart- the bracelets have a pink-ish tint. When maxed out they can make any ghosts nearby material.
Life- armbands and bengals made of wrapping vines. They grow flowers. If maxed out, the flowers can drop pollen and seeds that make plants spring up everywhere.
Doom- jet black crystal bands crystal. They
Breath- light blue bands with swirling patterns on them. Air swirls around them. If maxed out thick bands of wind cover them. The winds purify anything they touch.
Blood- dark ruby bands. They can duplicate the bands up to 12 times, creating rings, armbands, and other things. When worn they create an empathic connection and will never, ever feel alone.

They have an aspect colored aura making anything around it shift aesthetics slightly.
If they max out, they will gain a special armor piece related to their aspect.
Light- a visor that blocks all dust, dirt, and debris. It also prevents the Page from ever being stunned or anything impeding their vision
Void- a shoulder cape that absorbs any blow
Rage- spiked gauntlets
Breath- winged roman sandals, like Hermes. Clouds form at their feet when they run in the air
Blood- crimson chainmail armor.

Their hands glow their aspect, leaving glowing handprints of their aspect.
If they max out they get a magic satchel that summons and de-summons aspect related items. The satchel can be anything from a book bag to purse.
Space- holds a miniature universe. Can pull out mini versions of stars, planets, etc.
Heart- holds the keys to any heart, each key has a different pattern
Mind- holds glowing teal vials with names on them. Opening them voices the thoughts of that person
Breath- a bag of winds, just like in Greek myth
Blood- blessed friendship bracelets that create unbreakable bonds


Gain aspect related tattoos. If they max out they will have a special effect
Time- gears and cogs ticking like clockwork. There are also clocks and watches that tell the time, the relative time for the Heir, and the time for any time duplicates
Void- moving horrerterror tentacles. Secrets can be read, but they are in a language only the Heir can understand
Heart- reflects their splinters, spirit animals, and emotions
Mind- electrical circuits.
Hope- religious iconography and angel wings on their back
Rage- jagged lightning patterns and war paint. They crackle with energy when feeling strong emotions
Life- tattoos of plants and animals grow and change
Doom- complicated seals and sigils that glow a dim green
Breath- wind/water tattoos that move and breath
Blood- murals of the people and things they hold closest. They can shift to show stories of those people.

Their aspect warps into their outfit, shrouding them from all sides
Space- made from a pocket dimension that absorbs all that would harm them
Void- a jet black cloak that appears to swirl and churn and rips black liquids. It can unfold into horrerterror tentacles
Hope- 6 seraphim wings that drape over the Muse
Breath- floats freely, gently pushes a breeze around them. When defensive, they become the eye of a hurricane
Blood- veins appear more clearly through skin and has a blood red cloak. Anyone who touches the cloak can not harm the Muse

— — —

I probably won’t finish this post. If you want to add anything, tell me!

Thanks to all of my followers for their help!!!

I’ve talked about the Purity Disk Horse until I’m blue in the face, even knowing it’s futile, and sometimes I question why I care so much or why I put so much effort in or why it bothers me so immensely when someone is Wrong On The Internet, and I think it boils down to this.

Fiction does not exist to sanitize the human condition into digestible chunks of happiness and warm fuzzy feelings. Fiction exists to expose the human condition right down to its marrow, to peel back all the layers of niceity and civilization that we have built for ourselves so we can live comfortably in human company and get to the animal root of our nature. Fiction exists to be a release valve for the necessary repression of our darker instincts, our intrusive thoughts, the fantasies that horrify us or titillate us or sometimes do both at the same time. Fiction exists as the safe environment where the deep, festering parts of our soul are laid bare in a way that is sometimes terrifyingly intimate. Fiction exists to tell stories that are gruesome, disturbing, visceral – the stories that make you question your complacency in a society where these things really happen, to make you engage with your own human condition in a state of self-reflection and examination.

When our children encounter something new and scary that they don’t understand, when they find out about the dark horrors of the world and that the layer of candyfloss we coat things in when they’re younger is fabricated out of a desire not to see them hurt, we have a responsibility to make them engage with it. Avoiding the darkness will only make them fearful and ignorant. You must look the beast in the eye. You must say, “I know you, you live in my heart, I have seen you, and I cannot let you out in my reality, so I will let you out in my fantasy instead.”

The beast lives within all of us. Fiction is the way we tame it, and by taming it we learn how to fight the beasts that are let out into reality, the big ones that seem too massive to take on alone. Without the beast, without seeing it and knowing it and walking into its lair to learn what makes it tick, we never grow beyond the point in our lives when we truly believe that ignoring something horrible will make it go away.

Sometimes fiction can also be the balm that eases our spirit instead of the draught we take to purge the poison. Sometimes fiction can exist to give us hope, or to show us a world that really is coated with candyfloss, to give us a small amount of joy and an uplifting narrative in a place where it seems like the beast is all that rules. Those stories are also important, and are no less necessary to our human condition than the stories where we let the beast out to play. They cannot, however, be the only stories that exist. As long as the beast lives within us, we must let it feed, or it will feed on us instead.

This trace of rain and bedtime and midnight nicotine lingers in endlessly dark strands of you baptizing me with warmth and tenderly held form, breathlessly savoring the flavor of your soul laid bare in a valley of starched sheets and the scarred beats of your past melting away with each shy smile.
—  Justin Blaney

You and I are hidden smiles unannounced
A written language but never pronounced
Yes, we can stroll through the streets freely
But I still don’t know, what we are, really?

You and I are fingers interlaced spontaneously
Smirk buried on my neck, did you do it amiably?
On drunken nights, you swear this is not a game
But why do you still refuse to give this a name?

You and I are nocturnal stories sparkling
Our perpetual souls laid bare for decoding
You read everything, from the first page to last
But you look at me like anytime, you’d run fast

You and I are playing cards unwilling to be laid
I’m sorry, I can’t stay under your indecisive shade
You hold me like a lover but treat me like the moon
I am not the midnight to keep, I think I’ll leave soon

In his mind

Things aren’t always so set in stone. In the mind they hardly ever are.

One second Roman has no face, and then he looks exactly how he ought, and then he’s taller and then he’s a blur of white. Still he goes about his business. An idea. A maker of ideas. He is a mere daydream and he knows it. Merely one ingredient in the chaotic soup of the subconscious.

He makes the others. He makes himself. Imperfect personifications of what they are.

Virgil ranges from a small vaguely human shape to clearly being like the self to being a large ominous… presence. Sometimes human shaped. Sometimes a dark cloud of doom. Always there in one way or the other.

Patton’s presence is sometimes just bright. Sometimes he can’t quite picture the face. Sometimes there is no face. Sometimes it’s someone else’s face. Sometimes he’s not even pictured. He’s just a feeling, existing on a level that can’t quite be explained.

Logan is the most consistent, but even his appearance isn’t completely set in stone. His shape, his face, his height, all changing from one instant to the next. Sometimes just a thought, sometimes almost real. He walks steadily through the changing landscape of the mind, never faltering. It all makes sense even if it doesn’t.

It’s strange, sometimes. During the editing process. During the final watch. Their appearance is portrayed by the real self, so it stays constant one instant to the next. Voices at different volumes, words they could never hope to come up with on the fly. The thing he’s put so much effort into. The work of love. The piece of his soul laid bare. And they love it.

For a second it’s almost as if they’re seperate. Like the video makes them seem. The blurry edges almost come into focus. But then they’re back and the ambiguous nature of the human mind takes over, blurring the lines and warping the imagined appearance of the four of them. The one of him. The imagined self.

The Hurt Sherlocker.

This Molly slapping Sherlock thing. Ooooh, everyone’s so delighted it happened!  Molly’s finally gotten strong!  She’s standing up to Sherlock!  I even read one comment that said something to the effect of - I don’t truly understand why she did it but it’s wonderful that she did, I really enjoyed it.  It’s about time. 

About time for what?  About time that Sherlock was punished for being unpleasant?  Or about time that Molly demonstrates what seems to be the new trend of “strength” in women - the ability to commit violence, just like men.  If a woman can slap someone, brutally, three times, in the face, she’s “badass."  If she were a man, she’d be abusive, but I guess that’s kind of the point.  Men have abused women for so long that if a woman can abuse a man right back, that makes her strong.  Wait, what?

Just like Mary being a killer for hire makes her UBER-badass, sexy, a strong woman, complex and compelling.  Listen, as someone who has lost a loved one to a murderer, I can tell you with authority that all it makes her is beneath contempt.  Lower than shit.  But again, a woman’s capacity to wreak violence is suddenly a beautiful thing.  It’s Trending on Tumblr.  Weird.

Well, Sherlock DESERVED IT you say, throwing away the beautiful gifts he was born with.  But does anyone else have the right to tell us what we should do with our beautiful gifts?  SHOULD they have the right?  Sherlock has spent his whole life agonizing with those "beautiful” gifts.  They’ve brought him a lot of grief.  He struggled to find a way to use those gifts in a way that would allow him to live with them, but nobody helped him do that.  Should he be beholden to anyone else as to how he uses them? 

Ok then, he deserved it for “betraying the love” of his friends.  Well, it seems to me that the love of his friends is pretty thin on the ground for Sherlock this season.  John wants excitement, but he’s not willing to turn to Sherlock for it now.  Before, John would have just gone on a case with Sherlock, but John himself says, after the wedding. “I’ve not seen him in ages."  And, remember, Sherlock gave Molly a go at replacing John, but she didn’t want the gig.  So he’s alone again, back where he was before John, doing The Work by himself. 

See, everyone else seems to think that Sherlock just accepts the abuse because he knows he’s in the wrong, but I have a totally different read on it.  I think he just stands there and takes it because he’s back where he was before, trying to do The Work by himself. He’s doing it according to his own rules.  Is he high?  Yes.  But he’s pretty controlled about it.  I don’t think he’s using recreationally, he’s using FOR EFFECT.  And he’s a chemist, he knows how to do that.  But of course, everyone around is yarping on about politically correct claptrap, and he’s just standing there and letting them get on with it until they let him go so he can get back to what he was doing.  They won’t actually help him do The Work, but they’re always whining on about HOW he should be doing it.  Stupid and boring. 

And there’s a little bit of something else in there too.  Molly helped Sherlock with The Fall, so she has some proprietary interest in him.  Fair enough, she gets one slap.  One.  But three?  Seems to me that’s overkill.  There’s a little edge of hysteria creeping in there.  Molly is obviously frustrated with Sherlock, but I feel it’s less to do with his wasting his beautiful gifts and more about Molly’s inability to get over him, no matter how hard she tries.  I think Sherlock feels that too, because she tells him to say he’s sorry, but what he DOES say, wryly, is, "I’m sorry you’re not engaged any more.”

Maybe he feels, like I do, that by slapping him, Molly is displaying her weakness, not her strength.  She’ll never be her own person until she gets over Sherlock.  Maybe SHE’S the one who should be slapped a bit.  Knock some sense into her.

Bet John would like to slap to Mary, too.  If he attacked Sherlock THREE TIMES for lying to him, you’d think he’d at least like one go at Mary.  But he can’t, of course, because she’s a woman.  Oh, but wait!!!  Mary has a long history of cold-blooded, ruthless violence!  That makes her John’s equal!  She’s a strong character!  She should be able to engage in a full-blown knock-down drag-out fight, let alone be slapped a bit.  Oh, but she’s pregnant …

Sorry, then, as you were.  Back to beating up on Sherlock.  But why??  Is it because we both love and hate beautiful people?  We love them in that we idolize them, and advantage them.  But we hate them, too, don’t we, we want to drag them down and punish them for the beautiful gifts they were born with.  Especially if, like Sherlock, they’re doubly-blessed with both brains AND beauty.  (Not to mention that voice!) 

We’re horrified that Sherlock uses Janine, but when John proves he has no more idea about who his girlfriends are as people than Sherlock does (in Belgravia, when he stands his gf up because he has to babysit Sherlock and says he’ll make it up to her by walking her dog, but wait, sorry, she doesn’t have a dog, it was THE OTHER ONE!!), well, that’s not disgusting, that’s just funny. 

Let’s give Sherlock a bloody break! This season he’s been tortured by the baddies, slapped by Molly, strangled, punched and head-butted by John and shot by Mary.  He’s laid his soul bare in front of a room full of wedding-guests and exposed all the humble feelings of a “ridiculous man”. He’s had no one to dance with, no one to work with and no one to share takeout with.  He’s become human and now has all these emotions  that are eroding the beautiful gifts that he was born with, in exactly the same way that cocaine does, but no one’s worried about THAT.  And all this has availed him is exactly NOTHING.  He’s even more alone than he ever was.

So let’s get off his back, ok?  He’s had way, way more to contend with this season than one person can comfortably handle.  He should be praised, not brutalized. Sherlock deserves some love!

I want you naked, I want to see every scar and story on your skin; I want to see your soul laid bare. I want you at 2am, drunk, clothes scattered across the floor and caution to the wind - that’s when you will take me into your labyrinth and show me your demons, one by one, all the things you’re terrified to talk about in the daylight and civilised society says you must bury deep. I want to know your darkness and your sadness, let me meet your sins and your torments; everything you fear and everything that has ever broken you. I won’t make it better, I can’t. I want to be there for you, I want to listen and hold you and tell you that I have demons too. Your sadness and your sins don’t sit alone. I want to tell you that your body is a work of art, and your soul was crafted by stardust, dinosaur bones and the ocean - things much bigger than you or me, and that makes you infinitely more beautiful and important than you think you are.

lost and found xvi

bughead fanfiction - chapter sixteen - unbeta’d


“I knew I did from that first
moment we met. It was…not
love at first sight exactly, but 
familiarity. Like: oh, hello, it’s 
you. It’s going to be you. 
Game over.”
—Mhairi McFarlane

His father’s asleep on the couch when Jughead arrives home after dropping Veronica off at the airport. He shuts the door quietly and walks over to his dad’s side, grinning slightly at the two dinosaur stickers adorning his cheeks by what he assumes is Tobi’s doing.

He shuts the television off and debates whether to leave his dad as is, or wake him. Grabbing the throw blanket over the couch, Jughead drapes it over his dad’s form and quietly walks down the hall to the room he now shares with Betty.

She’s already in bed, Tobi curled up into her, and Jughead can’t help the feeling of completion he experiences at the sight of them.

The life he’d been living before Betty Cooper dropped back into it was nothing more than routine. He isn’t exactly a creature of socializing, nor is he the type of person to go out clubbing or bar hopping. He was content in staying home, eating takeout and watching whatever film caught his fancy that night. And then he’d sleep, wake up early, go to work, write, and repeat the process. Day in, and day out.

Now, he has something to come home to everyday—someone. Someones. 

Keep reading

5/13/17 recs

1. next to you, i still dream by shamusiel || Rated E, 39.9k

They had said that, like humans, the eyes of a dragon could be a window into the soul. Every emotion laid bare to the world. It was just rare that any man lived long enough to properly look.

After dragons were slaughtered and driven out by humanity, the ones that remain were scarcely seen again.

Yuuri is a dragon, Viktor is a human prince.

  • Comment: I’ve been following this since chapter one, and I really like it! their relationship in the beginning is really nice/pretty organic, and I look forward to how the story continues on. Worldbuilding is also quite nice.

2. #JoinUs by cutthroatpixie || Rated T, 3k

Yuuri did not expect his song to win the Eurovision Song Contest in Sochi. He had written it for the U.K., after all.

  • Comment: In honor of Eurovision happening rn, have this fabulous hilarious fic which Victor is a Eurovision presenter and Yuuri is a composer. Hilarious as hell,  wonderful quick read. I cackled.

3. cubicle gods series by counterheist || Rated T, 9.1k 

An AU about cubicles, and the people who work in them.

  • Comment: cuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuute. Also, hilarious as fuck. I live for updates of this series. Really like how Yuuri and Victor are portrayed in this au lol

4. Leather and Lazy Mornings by kiaronna || Rated T, 3.7k

“Hey,” says Yuri Plisetsky, “you do realize that guy you’re throwing your tack box at doesn’t work here, right?”

“What do you mean?” Viktor questions. “He always grooms Makkachin for me, if Yakov demands I do something else and I don’t have time.”

“Your horses are smarter than both of you put together.”

Where Viktor is the reigning champion of English showmanship, but mostly just has a crush on the cute guy he always sees around the stables.

  • Comment: Honestly pretty much everything by kiaronna is amazing imo. Short cute fluffy fic, very lighthearted a great read if you’re looking for a quick dose of sugar! Also bonus equestrian setting.

5.  My Name On Your Lips by feelslikefire || Rated E, 108k

Yuuri Katsuki has been betrothed to the High King’s son, Victor, since he was just a child; furthermore, as an omega, he’s forbidden from practicing magic in combat. For years, he’s been able to put off the former because the Prince was traveling abroad, and gotten around the latter by practicing with his mentor in secret.

Now Victor Nikiforov has finally returned home, and Yuuri is being summoned to the capital for their wedding. He needs a plan to put off marriage long enough to find a way to break the betrothal, while keeping his practicing from being discovered.

If only the Prince didn’t have other ideas.

  • Comment: !!!!!!!!! It’s completed!!!!! I love!!!! this fic!!!!!!!!! ABO au that’s not centered around the whole secondary genders thing, the author writes a wonderful love story between Victor and Yuuri. Their beginning starts off on rocky ground, but it just develops so wonderfully, and it ends so satisfyingly. 
  • I love it.
  • It’s completed, do read it.
uhhhhhhhhh Shepherd AU WIP?

Shepherd AU WIP.  Thoughts/concerns appreciated. I been fighting with this for a bit. 

“What the fuck do you want then?”

“You do not remember me?” Otabek tries not to take it personally. Perhaps, given the circumstances of their meeting, it was better if Yuri forgot about him completely. Of course, there would be no going back to his clan, no going back to father, and….

He’s given up too much to give up here and now. Otabek unties the sides of his leather armor.

“What’s with you asshole?” Yuri spits

He loosens the straps, and it’s by and large the stupidest thing he’s ever done. He lifts it over his head, just to make sure that Yuri can see it completely. He lifts up his shirt, and reveals to Yuri the white scar across his ribcage. The one that caused him to nearly bleed out in his father’s camp. The one that Yuri himself had inflicted.  “Five years ago, I tried to steal sheep from you. You stabbed me where I stood, but felt remorseful. You nursed me back to health.”

“I made a fucking mistake then.”

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anonymous asked:

23 plz (perhaps Ella's line)?

Hi there anon! Thank you for your request!

Hope you guys enjoy this one! It was so much fun to write.

#23 – “I’m going to walk away and pretend I didn’t see anything”

When Ella opened the door, she gaped at the scene in front of her for half a second before placing her hand over her eyes. Her squeal is what alerts both individuals in the evidence room that they are no longer alone, and no one would have been able to wipe away Ella’s smile.

Chloe is seated on top of the metal table in the room used to examine evidence in the room, her legs spread to make room for Lucifer, who had been kissing her senseless. It had been a heated fight, one in a series of many that had begun to build up ever since his return from the desert and the introduction of Marcus Pierce into the precinct. Lucifer had been acting up, as he was prone to do when he didn’t know how to deal with the emotions bubbling up inside him.

The mix of jealousy and hopelessness and desperation and lack of control he felt in the presence of losing Chloe to Pierce was a heady mixture that bred hostility and chaos. And Chloe had never been one to swallow his bullshit. One of them was bound to snap, to bark a little too loudly or push a little too far. And snap they did.

In the end, however, it seemed to be what they both had been needing all along. Walls crumbled down and souls raw, the laid everything bare, confessed every feeling.

He had kissed her hungrily and she had returned every nip, holding onto him as tightly as he did, afraid to let the other go. And it had been amazing.

Until a happy squeal interrupted them.

Jumping apart, they both turned their heads to see Ella standing by the door, her hand over her eyes and a wide smile on her face.

For the first time in millennia, the Devil fidgeted out of embarrassment at being caught, while Chloe turned the deepest shade of red.

“Oh! My! God! Oh my god oh my god oh my god!” Ella squealed, making Lucifer sigh in frustration. The moment was surely ruined now with the mention of his father.

“Ella! Look, it’s not-we were just-“Chloe struggled to say, but it was a little counterproductive when she was still wrapped around Lucifer with arms and legs.

“No no no! I’m going to walk away and pretend I didn’t see anything!”


“No worries! I gotchu, girl!” Ella exclaimed, much higher pitched than usual, before she turned on her heel and walked right out, the door closing behind her.

The moment the sound of the door closing resonated in the small room, Chloe sighed and dropped her head on Lucifer’s shoulder.

Warm arms wrapped around her gently and snapped her out of her embarrassment, making her look up at him.

“I… apologize,” he said, looking over her head even as he held her close, too bashful to meet her gaze. “If that was a little too… too much, too aggressive.”

That confused her more than when he sat her down and explained about Heaven and Hell.

“What are you talking about?”

He looked even more uncomfortable than when Trixie hugged him, if possible.

“I mean, it’s just-it wasn’t quite what I had in mind when I thought of kissing you again, is all. It was very… not gentle,” he grumbled. And the man had the gall to look apologetic and angry with himself when he had just given her one of the best kisses of her life.

Raising her hand, she gently cupped his cheek, drawing his gaze to hers.

“I didn’t mind,” she said with a soft smile.

“Really?” His smile was so bright, so hopeful and so innocent it made her heart melt for him all over again.

“Yes. Yes, really.”

Chloe pressed her forehead to his, nuzzling her nose against his, and pecked his lips one last time before pushing at his chest slightly. He immediately stepped out of her space and held out his hand to help her hop down from the desk.

“Let’s go. Ella has probably told half the precinct already,” she told him.

The smile on her face told the universe she didn’t mind.


5.2 Torsdag 2.11.17  15.32

(((Ég anda-Sigur Rós)))

“Our Lord. Forgive us our sins and efface our bad deeds and take our souls in the company of the righteous.”

Elias lifted his head up and adjusted himself into a sitting position on the prayer rug.

The silence of the empty apartment hung in the air, the still quiet so pervasive, he could hear his beating heart echo loudly in his chest.

Just breathe

Despite what he’d said to Mikael the other day, Elias couldn’t stop himself from trying desperately to find some sort of guidance through prayer; he couldn’t get Laila out of his mind. Flashes of her appeared before his eyes. Her hair. Her smile. Her laugh. The way she had looked at him, his soul laid bare before him in her dark brown eyes, seconds before she leaned in and kissed him. He couldn’t stop himself from thinking about the possibility of her coming back, seeing her after all this time, no matter how unlikely it was. What would he say to her? Would he be angry at her for leaving without any word? Would he be happy to see her? What would she say to him?

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I adore Thee, Nuit, adore the agonies and trials
I adore the deadly deep desperation,
The uneven sleepless nights, vials
Of Thy eternal loneliness in manifestation.

I adore Thee through all that happens.
I am a quintessence of soul set on fire,
A flaming up of inner aspirations,
Forming a true eidolon of a soul that aspires.

I adore Thee Nuit, I adore Thy sweet traces
Of ineffable love, hidden in unlimited space
And hidden in life’s sorrowful faces.
I adore Thee through life’s race.

O, golden and silver of life’s mystic dawn!
We move as a faint spark of light in vast illumination;
Thus sparking and living know how we spawn
Phenomena and all its illusion.

I adore Thee, Nuit, oh vast expanding One
Of illimitable Space. I in Thy bosom a minute
Vestige of forgotten and unknown atom
Spell yet an end to notions of the finite.

Oh, vast blue Space, O signature of matter,
Oh unfulfilled in eternal grace!
Who yearns for dancing point of light, unshattered
By its law of gravity and place.

Still I adore Thee, adore Thee, adore Thee,
Everlasting management of possibilities.
Adore Thy oneness and interpenetration of me
Adore Thy ineffable harmonies.

Oh, plentiful agency of limitless beauty
I adore Thee far into blue-dimpled night
I bend towards Thee in evanescent duty
As a spark to manifest life, love, liberty and light.

I adore Thee as my true soul steals forth;
I adore Thee in art and inspiration;
I adore Thee in all loves and silent mirth;
I adore Thee in quiet transformation.

I am a virgin earth unto Thy sublime expression,
A virgin Queen, Malkah unrecognized.
I adore Thy traces through me in secret recognition
Of Illumination at last by Thee franchised.

Oh, Nuit, Goddess of all and none
And one again, and whatever may be
On heaven and earth and all between.
I love Thee because I am Thy whole-made Tree.

In Thy dispensation I am seeing through
Thy veils of dance as disguised infinity
As mysterious as eagle that flew
Into thine Empyrean, dissolving his trinity.

A soul laid bare aspires yet again to Thy bosom
Amid all of illusions laid aside and abandoned
Until the least of these lead to love’s fruition
Beyond all experience that may be fathomed.

Oh, Nuit, I in Thy embrace lie serene
And turned into Nothing, only a cenotaph
Marking my existence. Too glorious to bear
Is Nuit who annihilates thus even my path.

This path exists, no more because swallowed
In essential space. I am the butterfly
Destroyed by Light, wings that were malleable
To circumstance are gone in ecstasy of death’s blight.

I adore Thee, Nuit, Thou glorious One unfulfilled
Through every interstice of space.
Today and always this life is spilled
In ecstasy of Thine unwearying embrace.

—  Soror Meral

A wellspring of intelligence, beauty and serenity.
A spirit that has reached me from eternity.
Inside is a stillness, a home, a sanctuary.
A bright luminescent smile, beatific in every sense.
A quiet unyielding strength and patient resilience.
A calming presence that can fill the air.
A shimmering grace that is always there.
Before you my heart, my soul, is laid bare.

- Tauganra