#feeling the ache of an unlived life

[letthebookbegin]

on friendship & sisterhood

christopher robin (2018) // anxious people, fredrik backman // coco by zara shahjahan // the orange, wendy cope // pride and prejudice (2005) // vincent van gogh // and the grass where you lay left a bed in your shape, wormbus-art // taylor swift, seven // coco by zara shahjahan // red brocade, naomi shihab nye

[tadpolesonalgae]

Fear of the Cold[***]

Dark!Ghost!Azriel x reader

Synopsis: after tormenting you for a month, slowly driving you closer to insanity, he finally makes his appearance. Eager to claim you after being denied for so long.

warnings: noncon, dark!az, fingering, strong references to past noncon

a/n: I was struggling with some writer’s block, so of course I ended up coming back here

word count: 3,124

-Fear of the Dark-

——————————————————————————————————————————————

The small cardboard box remains tucked in your pockets at all times, boxes of matches stocked in every room, easily available should the night…find you again.

The house—once deceptive with its semblance of warmth—is now barren and cold. Unlived in and alone. No matter how clean, or how messy you make it, you struggle recall which side of the barrier you lie on. After his visit, crossing into your own world where he should have been unable to, you worry he’d somehow been pulling you under.

You’d thought you were above the ice, but maybe you’re already below it, trapped beneath a layer thin enough to see through but not thin enough to break. Slowly drowning, not even an inch from an unbreakable surface.

Every time a stray draft breezes by, you feel a phantom touch on your throat, like the gentle drag of scar-roughened fingers, stroking placatingly against the fur of a pet. As if it will be some kind of reassurance.

He hasn’t appeared since that night—almost a month ago by now—yet you feel no further away from him. Like you’re trying to run up the snow-capped mountains, but the ground beneath you just slips out from under your feet, pulling you back down into his cold, dead embrace. Sometimes you wake drenched in sweat, lungs aching as if hands had been wrapped around them, squeezing the life from them, to hurry you over onto his side. Other times it’s nothing as overt; when once you had been met with confusion upon not being able to locate a familiar object, now you’re met with dark resign, knowing he’s been moving things again. Moving plates right before you, dragging salt shakers across the table, chandeliers swinging slightly when you know there is no breeze in your house.

Though by far the worst was when you’d been on the verge of sleep one night, tiredly making it to your bed to change. You’d pulled back the covers and found a night gown laid out for you, warmed beneath the sheets. Pale and diaphanous, so sheer it was ghostly, lace wound at its hem like cobweb. You don’t possess anything like that. All your clothes conceal skin, keep it warm against the harsh bite of the desolate mountains, hide it from phantom eyes that watch from the dark.

————

The day is coming to its end, though the constant grey of the skies makes that difficult to tell, every shade blending into the next one, keeping you pithing an inescapable loop. Sometimes you wonder if time is passing at all.

Fatigue weighs on your lids as you stand to put away your plate, making to move to the sink when the porcelain in snatched from your fingers and shattered against a wall, pale shards glittering on the floor boards. A breath hisses beside your ear, skin prickling with cold beneath the harsh exhale, and you freeze. Hands shaking as you stare at the shattered plate, replaying what had happened in the blink of an eye with painful scrutiny. There had been no warning, no dancing shadow nor a drop in temperate—just volatile aggression searing up from nowhere.

You swallow heavily, eyes frenetically dancing through the room, searching, searching for some kind of cause, a way you might be able to predict him in the future, but there isn’t so much as a mote of dusk out of place. Not even an awareness ticking at the back of your mind, no feeling of being watched.

“Leave me alone,” you whisper, softer than a breath.

A slam comes from deep with in your house, like a cellar door being whipped shut, able to feel its vibrations through the bare soles of your feet. Reverberating up into your bones. You turn about skittishly, eyes darting to one side of the room then the next in the same second, frantically searching for him so you don’t have to keep guessing, anticipating where he’ll come from next, what more havoc he’ll wreak to subject you to his kind of fear.

A cold breeze kisses up your throat, and it’s the only sign you need to start running, bolting from the room, plate forgotten as you race through the halls. You have no goal in mind, just desperate to flee from him, to escape his hunting grounds, but your heart continues pounding, passing by doors closing as you near them, the heavy metal grating noise as bolts are slid into place on the other sides, curtains hissing shut as your feet hit the floor, drawers shaking as you keep pushing forward, unknowingly corralled, herded in your own home.

You should have known where you’d end up.

It’s the bedroom on the highest floor you reach, frantically running inside as you chase the illusion of safety, slamming the door behind you and locking it with surprising swiftness.

You stumble back into the room, arms shaking, heart pounding, breath misting as it cools in the air, surprisingly cold for indoors—too cold. You turn around to look over the room, to find all the windows either open or smashed. Shards of broken glass line the outskirts of the chamber, ice frosting the windowsills, floorboards slightly snowy. The room looks wrecked.

A force builds at your back, but you don’t even have the time to turn before something is wrapping over your hips, pressing hard against your back, keeping you in place. You don’t need to turn though to know who it is, and as the final dark grey of day melts into the inky black of night, a small part of you crumbles.

“Leave me alone,” you breathe into the darkness, kept incapacitated by his iron hold on your body. Ice kisses against the shell of your ear, and your breath hitches, trembling beneath his touch. The darkness shakes at your back, and you’re certain he’s laughing, ghastly stuttering breaths brushing over the nape of your neck, before frozen lips graze the intimate expanse of skin.

“You can’t do this again,” you whisper, trying to unstick your limbs, but you feel a pressure over your sternum—a hand gliding up slowly between your breasts, fingertips brushing at your throat before gripping lightly.

“So warm,” he breathes, pulling you deeper into his deadened embrace, nosing at your cheek. “So alive.”

“Azriel, stop,” you whisper, shaky palms trying to pry his corporeal touch from your skin—to no avail. He’s stronger than you even after death. Even as a ghost. Phantom. Whatever he is now. A wraith.

“You can’t do this again,” you breathe, pressure building behind your eyes. “I beat you. I won. You can’t come back.”

“I came back for you,” he returns, icy lips curving in a cruel smile against your soft skin. “You can’t escape from me, little thing. You should know that. I’ll always come back for you.”

“I don’t want you to!” You whisper, squeezing your eyes shut, trying to squirm at least enough to reach your pockets. The smallest amount of light will be enough. You have to believe it will be enough. Just one match, struck against cardboard.

It took him down once. It can take him down again.

“So warm,” he murmurs, fingers stroking across your skin, his forearm tightening across your middle, pulling you back into his body, cold enough to be hewn from the same stone these mountains are made of. Jagged, icy, and utterly deadly. Too much for you to ever handle. “You’re so warm,” he repeats, voice shaking with something that sounds almost like reverence. He inhales slowly, breath trembling as his head dips, mouth tracing the elegant curve of your throat, and you manage to shove your hands into your pockets, fingers fumbling with the small box.

“Azriel…” you breathe out softly as his lips graze your neck. “I…missed you…”

He falters at the whispered confession, and you shove away from him, whipping round as you strike the match.

Flame sizzles feebly to life, but it’s more than enough, casting the room in a faint glow as you use your body and hand to shield it from stray breezes that’ll wash in from the shattered windows. You can’t even swallow as you meet his gaze again, cold and unforgiving as it takes you in.

“You don’t belong in this world,” you whisper, fingers trembling but you keep a hold of the match. Even if it burns your skin, you’ll hold on to this small light you have. “Go back to where you came from.”

Shadows swarm over his shoulders, building higher, denser, wreathing his wings and making him into something much larger, impossibly more deadly as he looms, flame casting a shadow on the back wall that does not match his silhouette.

Azriel shakes his head, displeasure lining his features, angered by the trick.

“Did you not learn last time?” He mutters lowly, and you stumble when he steps forward closer to the flame. You retreat, legs shaking as he encroaches further, pushing you back into the room, pushing you further from the door, your only escape back into what feels now like the world of the living.

“Fire can’t hurt me anymore.”

The darkness surges forward, smothering the flame in the blink of an eye. So fast that you barely clock as he crowds your space, palms biting into your shoulders, icy mouth crushing down upon your own, shadows pushing you tighter, squeezing you together until there isn’t even an inch of space to be found between your bodies. The box of matches falls to the floor, useless and discarded, his boot crushing down on them as he swallows you whole in his shadows.

You writhe, trying to pull against him, trying to squeeze your hands between you, to push at him, to claw, scratch and scrape, anything to get him away. You can’t do this again. But he’s entirely dominating, mouth hungrily devouring you, tongue stroking against your own as his hips press flush with yours. His hand tangles in your hair, arm banding around your lower back, palm settling over the curve of your hind, squeezing as he growls against your mouth.

Azriel pulls away for a moment, only to lower his mouth to your throat, teeth sharper than icicles as he nips and bites, pushing marks into your skin that you’ll have to face in the morning. A reminder of his presence. How you’ll never escape him.

You cry out as he tears himself off you, able to hear his deep breathing, hungry for more, tired of waiting, and he shoves you backward. Shadows flit about the mattress as you fall back on it, at once attempting to scramble away but those dark tendrils bind your wrists, lightly tugging, keeping you from escaping too far as he prowls onto the bed. Your heart pounds as his fingers skate up your ankle, brushing over your shins, taking your night gown with them.

“Azriel stop,” you demand shakily, trying to press away, trying to press tighter into the headboard, to press further from his touch. “You can’t—…you can’t do this again.”

“Watch me,” he murmurs softly, palm tipping the fabric over the curve of your knee, so it slides up your thighs, pooling at your hips. “You’ll enjoy it even more than last time. I promise,” he whispers, a faint curve to his hellish mouth. “We can go slow…” He pushes your legs apart, and you shiver beneath him, teeth chattering slightly in the cold, under the iciness of his touch.

“What would—…what would your brothers think?” You manage out, trying desperately to dissuade him. “You know they wouldn’t forgive you.”

If he won’t listen to your words, maybe someone else will have a sway with him. But he chuckles lowly, hand cupping your jaw, thumb stoking over the crest of your cheek and you sink into the pillows in attempts to hide from him. “If they knew the kind of strain you put me under,” he murmurs over your lips, “the kind of pleasure you bring. They would have buckled long before.”

“You’re disgusting,” you breathe, and his eyes gleam in the dark, practically glowing with predatory hunger. “You know you enjoyed it last time,” he taunts quietly, hand vacating your jaw, trailing down your collar bones, fingers grazing your breast, their pads circling your nipple lightly, before continuing down. “Practically soaked me. You can’t lie to me, little thing. I know you too well.”

You flush with humiliation at the reminder, shame tasing foul at the back of your throat, because he’s right. A repulsively large part of you had enjoyed it. He’d taken you over the edge more times than you could count, each orgasm turning your mind numb, making your muscles spasm with liquid pleasure.

“You’re going to hell, Azriel,” you say softly, lower lip wobbling as your heart pounds, his hand settling between your thighs. His cruel mouth curves. “I did,” he replies, “when you tried to send me away from you, I found out what it was like.” His fingers stroke down your centre and breath mists before you as you inhale sharply, exhaling heavily, breath stuttering as he plays with you, prodding at your entrance. “But I survived, didn’t I?” He smiles, tendrils of shadow curling beneath your night gown, pulling it further out of the way, pulling you further down, until you’re entirely trapped beneath him. “I survived, and came back for you,” he breathes, “my love.”

“I’m not your love,” you spit vehemently, eyes gleaming with wetness as tears well, despite your attempts to blink them away. “You’re messed up in the head. Whatever you think love is—it’s repulsive.”

His fingers slide in, and your lips part, hazel glinting as he devours your expression, how your spine arches a little.

“Then what does that make you, hm?” He muses softly, long fingers curling inside of you, “as someone who’s receiving it.” His thumb presses to your clit, and you squirm, tears spilling over as you try to shift away, hips winding as you struggle to move. “Fuck, stop it,” you cry, shadows allowing your hands to slip free, to find placement on his broad shoulders, fists slamming against them repeatedly as he works you with a familiarity even dying couldn’t remove from him.

Even the searing burn of fire couldn’t purge him of his malevolence.

“Stop it?” He hums, as if it amuses him, fingers scissoring inside of you, watching how you gasp at the ministrations, giving reactions that only sing to the pleasure you’re feeling, heat beginning to dawn across your skin, liquefying between your thighs. “I think you’re enjoying it quite a lot.” His fingers pull out, and you pant in the silence, eyes squeezed together as you treasure the reprieve, hoping he’ll leave now. Now that he’s taken something from you again. It should be enough.

Your eyes crack open when you hear those wet noises, soft and saturated as he licks your flavour from his fingers, humiliation unfurling in your abdomen, and you turn your head to the side, again closing your eyes in attempts to block him out. Digging your nails into his shoulders.

“You taste wonderful,” he chuckles lowly, before cold palms are pushing your thighs apart again, and you brace for the intrusion of his fingers, but instead—

“Azriel!” You almost scream, voice too hoarse to reach that volume, tears becoming heavier as his mouth seals over your cunt, the ice of his tongue contrasting with the heat that’s gathered between your legs. “Azriel, stop!” You cry frantically, hands moving to try and push him off, to grab at his soft hair and pull him away, but he groans when your nails drag over his skin, grinding his hips into the mattress, and you stop almost instantly.

His tongue swirls over your clit, suckling gently, teeth occasionally scraping, just to keep you on edge, his shadows wrapped over your waist, flooding across your chest, seemingly eager to play with your breasts. How they pinch and rub at your nipples, giving light tugs as if in reprimand for attempting to banish him.

“Azriel, please,” you beg, though you can hear the slight breathlessness to your voice, horror coiling in your gut. It can’t happen again. He can’t make it feel right again. His pleasure is disgusting, a cruel manipulation of what it should be, contorting into something it’s not.

His rough palm wrap over the top of your thigh, forcing you wider so he can slide his fingers back in, and a moan has spilled out before you can stop it.

You want to slap your hand over your mouth, but the shadows pin your wrists to the bed, more pleasured noises gasping from your throat as he rubs against those spots inside of you, fingers gently stimulating parts that make you tremble. Arousal fills the room, and you can feel the weight of his attention of you as he pushes you further, delighting in the slow climax he’s bringing you to, dragging it out as long as he can bear, after being denied of you for so long.

Heat swells beneath his touch, and your back bows from the mattress as he curls his fingers, as if beckoning you forward to tip over that edge. His tongue swipes over your clit, swirling with more pressure, and the pleasure breaks, crashing down as you squirm beneath his touch, toes curling as you try to scramble away. “Az—Azriel! Stop! I can’t…!”

He pays you no mind, eager to taste your high, licking up every drop of arousal as it fills his mouth, starved away for too long for him to allow you the mercy of a reprieve.

Overstimulation hits you hard, back curving as you gasp heavily, clawing at him in a way you know he finds pleasurable, but do out of instinct, trying to escape the high he’s forcing you through.

Azriel only pulls away once you’ve stopped scrambling, taking in the hot flush of your body, the arousal that’s slicking your thighs, that’s sitting on his tongue. He could continue for the entire night, but he doesn’t want to spoil anything for you. He has his own events planned out, and he needs you to digest this night first, before he can progress. He knows if he moves too quickly you might simply fall apart in his hands, and then he would be left with nothing.

But if he takes his time, gently stretching you out, delicately putting his pleasure into your body—then you will bend and buckle to his shape. Then he will be able to have you as he pleases.

At last feel your warmth encompass him entirely.

——————————————————————————————————————————————

general taglist: @myheartfollower @tcris2020 @mali22 @slut4acotar @sfhsgrad-blog @needylilgal022 @hannzoaks @hnyclover @skyesayshi @nyotamalfoy @decomposing-writer @soph1644 @lilah-asteria

az taglist: @azrielshadows1nger @jurdanpotter @positivewitch @nightcourt-daydreaming @assassinsblade @marvelouslovely-barnes @v3lv3tf0x @kalulakunundrum @vellichor01 @throneofsmut @vickykazuya

dark!az taglist: @honeyandhalfmoons

[mamayan]

I would love to see your thoughts on Kurapika 👀 what kind of yandere would he be? I personally think he’s the protective type that wants his darling to be happy despite kidnapping her

Good question Nonnie~

tw: NSFW • Yandere Themes • Toxic Mindset • Manipulation • Isolation • Paranoia • Mentions of Sex

Kurapika is a delusional and paranoid type yandere.

With his strong sense of justice, Kurapika feels wholly disgusted when his feelings of love take a darker turn into obsession and infatuation. So much so that he in fact, simply denies it is happening at all. He will justify every action he makes even if confronted about it.

Leorio or Gon may be the ones who try to talk sense into him, but he truly can’t see anything wrong with his actions. He wasn’t stalking you, he was walking you home… without your knowledge. He never hurt those guys who picked on you, he gave them a stern talking to… after drowning them in their own blood. He believes each and every action is for your benefit, whether you see it or not.

He also views you as incompetent, incapable of caring for yourself properly and therefore in need of him. Kurapika seeks purpose and use, so he finds a darling who can fulfill that or creates a situation in which they do. It’s not hard for a Pro-Hunter to make a regular little civilian’s life miserable and unlivable. He truly doesn’t have to do anything to make your job go up in smoke, your home, your friends and family. He sees it at his right to do so as well, he’s your protector and provider in his mind.

That being said, if his darling is cooperative and responsive, he’s likely the most reasonable type of yandere there is. To reciprocate his love and buy into his strange paranoia, his darling will be given almost as normal as a life as they can hope. Kurapika isn’t jealous of others, he’s worried they’ll harm you. He’s worried he’ll lose you most of all, so if you willingly stick close, reassure him, then he’s as close to a normal lover as you can get with a yandere.

The opposite remains true too though, because if his darling doesn’t give in, if they fight back at every turn? He becomes almost manic with stress and is likely to have a mental break. If your constant pushing throws him over the edge, he’s likely to snap and just imprison you. Take you into a basement and lock you up until you break. It’s easier if you’re compliant, and it will make his heart ache, but he’s a stubborn man and is willing to make that sacrifice for your safety.

Kurapika does draw the line at physically harming you. He’s a gentle lover through and through, and even sex with him is as such. He’s a service top at best, a switch leaning most of the time. If he trusts you, he’ll give up control for you if you’re being intimate. He likes you on top, riding him, because it feels like you want him all to yourself like that. He also enjoys sitting up with you in his lap too, the intimacy so much deeper for him and his cock inside of you. He’s also a hand holder, whether it’s with him on top or while you ride him and he offers his hand as a stabilizer for you to bounce easier. Either way, he likes holding your hand.

As a yandere, I’d say Kurapika falls under a 3/10 in the danger level. He does love you, but he doesn’t trust you either.

Post dividers/@cafekitsune

[ofstoriesandstardust]

no one's ever had me, not like you (j.c.m.)

a/n: this is a small something something that is unofficially part of my unpublished midnight rain series. i owe a lot of this to @cottagecori for hearing "zoo date with javy to see the pandas" and absolutely running with it

summary: You and Javy go on a date to the San Diego Zoo together. It makes you feel like you’re finally getting the romance you had always wanted in high school. 

fully inspired by taylor swift's "so high school"

warnings: minimal editing, one or two swear words, kylie wrote FLUFF, they just love each other so much your honor

word count: 1.8k

“you knew what you wanted and, boy, you got her”

“Did you know penguins aren’t actually monogamous?” 

Your head jerks up from looking at the map, to look at your boyfriend who had just come back from the bathroom. “Wh- What?” 

“Penguins aren’t actually monogamous. Most species are but,” He sighs, sitting down on the bench next to you. Your eyes flicker over the way his shirt tightens as he leans back. “Not all are. Can’t be making blanket statements.” 

“Okay.” You say slowly, eyebrows furrowing. “Did you like, read that on a sign somewhere?” 

He taps his temple. “I just know.” 

You blink at him. “You’re so weird.” 

You look back down at the map, eyes flickering over the neighboring enclosures. “Okay, baby, I’m thinking we should go to the elephants next but I-” 

“Can I tell you a secret?” He’s leaned in close, chin propped up on your shoulder. 

“Sure.” 

“If I was a penguin, I’d only want to spend my fifteen to twenty years of life with you.” 

Your cheeks flame up in a way that has nothing to do with the San Diego sun beating down on you. “Javy.” You groan, nudging his shoulder. “Stop.” 

He gives you a lopsided grin, pressing a quick kiss to your cheek. “Elephants are just fine my love. Can we stop and get my free refill first though?” He asks, holding up the bright pink flamingo souvenir cup that only a rich tourist could justify. “I’m hankering for a crisp Diet Coke.” 

-

You wrap your arms around Javy’s left as he sits next to you in the Sky Tram. He’s thumbing through photos of the day as you look out at the sky night. The city lights of Balboa and beyond are twinkling back at you, a sight that for once in your life doesn’t make your chest ache. 

It makes your eyes sting in a way that has nothing to do with the wind, as you think back on all the nights you’d spent up here, feeling so hopeless and lost, feeling like the weight of who you were would never be enough. Like your love of the city lights of San Diego would be the rock that buried you into a life that felt unlivable. 

“I love you.” You murmur and he squeezes your thigh. 

“I love you too, baby.” 

You sigh, tucking your head into your shoulder as his thumb starts rubbing soft circles on your bare skin as he tucks his phone back into his pocket. 

“Have I ever told you that being with you is like-” You falter, before humming. “I don’t know, it’s healing in a way.” 

“What do you mean?” 

You shrug. “I don’t know, you make me feel like- like a little kid. Not- not in a bad way, but good. Safe, carefree, giddy. Like being with you is feeling that childhood excitement I had at my future, but every day. And I- you do all these things with me, like go on a date to the zoo, and you encourage me to do all the things I never got to do, like go in the photo booth and buy fun souvenirs and overpay for mediocre park food. Like, you just make me excited.” 

You think telling him that being with him heals your hurt inner child and angry inner teenager may be too raw of a confession for this moment right here, so you let the ocean breeze from not too far away roll over you as Javy shifts in his seat, moving to pull you into his lap as best he can. 

It’s dark, but even here and now, you can see the emotion on his face. “I love you so much.” 

You nod. “I know.” You say softly. 

“I want to keep doing these things with you for the rest of my life. Like, I just always want to be with you, I always want my adventures to be with you. I want to be partners and best friends every day.” 

You aren’t sure you have the words to convey the emotion, the love, you have for him, so instead you find his hand and intertwine your fingers. 

It’s quiet for a moment, both of you soaking up the night. 

“Can we come back for their Christmas stuff? I know you came a lot growing up, but I’ve never been, so I’d kinda like to see it.” 

“Mm, I guess for you I can tolerate it. But I’m not sitting on Santa’s lap.” 

“Even if I was Santa?” You’re turned away from him, so you can’t be sure, you can almost picture the glimmer in his eyes. 

You roll your eyes, even as you feel faint heat in your cheeks. “Funny, you’re a real comedian.” 

“Yeah, but you love me.” 

“For some reason…” 

“What was that?” 

“Nothing!” 

-

“My feet hurt so fucking bad.” You moan, falling into Javy’s bed alongside him. You prop your head up, looking over at him to see him frowning at your phone. “What?” 

“Does this have to be your lock screen?” He twists the phone to show you, but you already know what it’s a picture of. 

You’d changed it while waiting in line to see the pandas, the photo of Javy sticking his head out of the ice enclosure definitely meant for children by the seals. He’s grinning, truly from ear to ear, and you had been waiting for him to pop out to snap the photo. 

“It’s cute.” 

He grumbles, handing your phone back to you. “I don’t think so.” 

“You were excited, it’s endearing.” You say, clicking the phone off before sliding it on to the nightstand beside the bed. Your phone is barely set down before he’s wrapping his arms around you, bringing you close to his chest. 

“Thank you for coming with me today.” He says softly.

“‘Course. I haven’t enjoyed the zoo like that since I was a kid.”

“I know sometimes I get, I don’t know- overly excited, I guess. It means a lot to me that you came with me and put up with all that. I’m sorry if it was like a lot to put up with, I just- I’ve been looking forward to it for a long time and it meant a lot to me that you shared the day with me.” 

You frown, twisting the best you can to look at him with how tightly he’s holding you. “Firstly, you’re talking to the girl who has never met a topic of conversation she doesn’t have an opinion about.” He snorts into your shoulder and you feel a small smile on his lips. “Secondly, don’t you dare feel bad for a second. It’s not putting up with you and it’s never too much. I love you, and that means loving all of you, including the part of you that gets so excited about seeing pandas for the first time that you tell me weird facts about them, like that they have opposable thumbs.” 

His grip loosens on you a hair and you take advantage of it, shifting so your back is no longer faced away from him.

“I could never be annoyed with you, not when you let me ramble about niche historical facts for twenty minutes on end.”

“Among many other things.”

You pinch his cheek. “Watch it, mister.” You sigh, scooting closer to him as you tangle your legs together. “I love getting to see you happy, that’s all I’ve ever wanted. And I’m so lucky you feel safe around me to show me this side of you, even if it means I have to hear about how some species of penguins are non-monogamous.”

He gives you a shy smile and his eyes look glassy in the dim light of the bedroom. “What did I do right in a past life to deserve you?” He whispers. 

You shake your head. “You didn’t have to do anything to deserve it. Being you is just enough.” You study him for a moment, debating on voicing the thoughts you’d been having since this morning. “Can I tell you a secret?” 

He nods.

“When I was in high school — I mean, I guess I’ve always felt like this, but especially in high school — I so badly wanted to be with someone like you. Like I wanted to be with someone who wanted to go to the zoo with me and laugh with me at the most inappropriate of times. I wanted to be with the person who felt like my best friend, that made everyday life a little bit easier. And I guess, I guess maybe I had kind of given up on that for myself. But you- you make me feel like I’m finally getting the easy high school romance I had always wanted. You always make me blush and it makes me feel so-” You swallow. “I don’t know. I don’t know if that made any sense. You make me happy in the best ways. I’ve never been with someone like you.”

Javy starts crying as he shifts, letting you go so he can sit up. Your heart sinks, clearly realizing the words had been too much for the moment. You move with him as he reaches up to wipe at his eyes. 

“Oh fuck, baby, I- I didn’t mean to make you cry.” Your heart clenches at the sight, wishing you could undo the last two minutes, but he’s quick to shake his head.

“No, no, I just- I just get overwhelmed sometimes. With how much- how much you love me.” You open your mouth, feeling the apology sitting on your tongue but he shakes his head. “No, no, don’t apologize. Don’t take it back, please.”

You nod, finding his hand. “Okay. Okay, I won’t.” 

“I just-” He clears his throat, squeezing your hand. “I just get a little overwhelmed. With how much you mean to me and how openly you love me. It’s just a lot. It’s not that I ever want you to change or want anything about what we have to change, but I just never thought that I’d get to have what we have. I wrote it off.” He sniffs. “I love you - so much. More than you’ll ever know. More than I’ll ever be able to articulate. But I’m glad I did something so right that- that whoever up there decided I get to spend my life with you.” 

You smile, pressing a soft kiss to his lips before squeezing his cheek. “I’ll spend every day with you, even if it means hearing weird facts about penguins for the rest of my life. In fact, I would like to hear weird facts about penguins every day for the rest of my life. Like a one a day calendar.” 

He snorts, a genuine grin growing on his face. “Aye aye, captain. I’m on it.”

[raina-at]

Breaking Dawn

It’s just breaking dawn. London awakens, slowly. Buses increase their frequency, traffic starts to flow into the city. Shutters go up, lights go on in bakeries and supermarkets. As the streetlights go out, the city slowly blinks awake, one window, one street, one person at a time.

Sherlock hasn’t slept, so he doesn’t have to blink himself awake. His eyes have stayed wide open for the entire night, but he’s not tired. Sleep, an unstable companion for most of his life at the best of times, has eluded him even more than usual lately.

A few days ago, he was still “dead”. Now he’s back, and the relentless pulse of the city makes it difficult for him to sleep. He has a hard time readjusting to his life, his clothes, the fact that nobody wants to kill him anymore. Nothing seems to quite fit anymore, from his too-loose shirts to the odd silent unlived-in feeling of their - his - flat.

He thought he’d just slip right back into it. Into his clothes, his bed, his flat, his life. John’s life.

And then he came back and found out that nothing is quite the way it was before.

And he has nobody to blame for this but himself. 

Honestly, his own stupidity surprises him sometimes. Did he honestly think he could make John watch him commit suicide and and then walk back into his life as if nothing happened?

He’ll never forget the look on John’s face when he realised that Sherlock was really there, was really back, had really betrayed him this deeply, this profoundly.

The bruise on Sherlock’s cheek still aches. His nose is still not quite healed. 

But yesterday, over a bomb, Sherlock apologised sincerely for maybe the first time in his entire life. 

And John forgave him. 

Sort of.

Now it’s dawning over the city, and Sherlock sits on the fire escape outside of John’s old room, smoking a cigarette and missing John like a severed limb. 

He’s holding his phone and he’s staring at the open text window, and he wonders. Is John already awake? Is he having breakfast with Mary? Is he already on his way to work?

If he texts John now, will he answer? Or will he ignore Sherlock and go back to his day, his job, his future wife?

Does he have the courage to find out? 

He swallows, stubs out his cigarette and types. Mrs Hudson didn’t do the shopping, I’m out of everything. Does the bakery at Montague St. still have the chocolate thingies? - SH

He pockets his phone to stop himself from staring at it. 

He nearly falls off the fire escape when it vibrates with an answer almost immediately. 

Closed a year ago. But the one round the corner of my surgery has them.

Sherlock’s breath catches. Is this… an invitation? Or just an information? Why does it mean so much, every word out of John’s mouth a small treasure, to be hoarded and held close and examined again and again?

His phone vibrates with another text. I often have breakfast there. 

Sherlock smiles. An invitation then, couched in the careful language of plausible deniability. A tentative olive branch. A toe placed on thin ice. 

With shaking hands, Sherlock texts back. I might drop by later. - SH

As the morning sunlight bathes his city in warmth, Sherlock feels the first stirrings of hope in his chest. Maybe, just maybe, all is not lost. 

It can’t be like it was before, he knows that now. But it can be something. And that’s going to have to be enough.

For the prompt "morning light" by @notjustamumj

Tagging @keirgreeneyes @mydogwatson @meetinginsamarra and whoever else wants to play!

[lytters]

jealousy, jealousy || b. katsuki

chapter nine

masterlist

part of you is concerned what, or who, you’ll find at your door when you arrive home. nothing and no one is there. relief has never tasted more like the bitterness of disappointment, and it bites deep into your already aching heart. you unlock your door, and shuffle in, dropping your bag with a heavy thud.

you’ve been holed up at hitoshi’s for almost a week, leaving only for classes. and yet your apartment does not hold that stale scent that hints at being unlived in. in fact, the pile of jackets you had left piled on the sofa are gone, the dishes in the sink washed and stacked above the sink, and you’re pretty sure the floor has been swept and cleaned. hitoshi must have cleaned it all up the time he was here. your heart warms, and you thank whatever entity above that loves you enough to at least let you have hitoshi in your life.

(you wish it loves you more though, to let you keep katsuki selfishly close to you, to let his heart belong to you.)

taking a step towards the kitchen, you hear footsteps coming from behind the main door. your heart jerks; dreading, hopeful. you creep towards the door, peering out the peephole. it gives another traitorous thump at the sight, and you’re not quite sure how to feel.

katsuki stands there, fist raised as if to knock on the door. he looks unsure, a foreign expression on his usually so self-assured demeanor. his hand wavers, and he makes to turn. you watch as he repeats the actions several times, wavering, until his face hardens. as if he comes to a resolution, katsuki turns back to face your door and suddenly your breathing sounds too loud, too harsh. you hold it, terrified he knows you’re there.

he raps on the door sharply, once, twice, thrice. you bite your tongue, nails digging into your sweaty palms. should you open the door? are you ready to face him? your ears ring from the deafening silence, but it does not last long, broken when katsuki calls your name. you freeze.

“i don't know if you’re home, or if you’ve even been home since… since that night.” katsuki’s voice is raspier than usual. he doesn’t know you’re there… your shoulders slump in relief. you can't help from pressing against the door a little closer to hear him better. “if you’re there, i just… i just want a chance to talk to you, to explain everything. i-” katsuki cuts himself off, running a hand through his hair and tugs on the ends, hard.

“it wasn’t meant to go like that, fuck-” he scowls at the ground. your chest tightens at his twisting face, like he can’t decide if he wants to cry or punch something. the wood of the door is rough against your forehead, nails leaving crescents in the flesh of your palm. it still hurts less than hearing his voice, than hearing him sound so… upset.

you’re at fault for this. for ruining your friendship. katsuki treasures his friendships fiercely, for all the resistance he gave in the beginning. and here you are, destroying something so precious to him, all because you couldn’t swallow down your stupid feelings.

katsuki sighs your name, and it pulls at your heartstrings. “i love you.”

your heart stops and your world goes tilting out from under you.

“i love you, and not in the friendly way. i love you in that stupid, mushy, romantic, want to scream your stupid name from the rooftops way. i’m sorry i fucked things up before i could even get the chance to tell you. i’m… i’m sorry.” katsuki’s shoulders slump, head dropping, and it kills something in you to see him so defeated. he begins to walk away, and you can feel him slipping away from you once more, like sand through your fingers. the door swings open and you’re staring at him, no longer through the peephole, but open and vulnerable in the doorway.

“what did you say?” your heart beats wildly in your ear, blood rushing to flood your face.

katsuki spins around, eyes wide.

“did you mean that?” you ask urgently, desperately.

“you heard all of that?” katsuki’s expression wars between horror and something you can’t quite put your finger on.

“do you mean it?” you repeat breathlessly. it takes a long moment, a few shaky breaths that feel like an eternity before katsuki responds; unflinching, cautious, searching.

“every last bit of it.”

your knees wobble, and katsuki rushes forward with a sound of alarm. he catches you, shifting just enough to have both of you half-kneeling on the ground. you feel faint, and yet so utterly aware of katsuki’s arms wrapped around your torso, the way his fingers grip onto your firmly, how his eyes are trained on you, and only you.

“are you okay?” he asks, reaching a hand up to your forehead. “are you feeling unwell? do you need-”

“i’m fine,” you shake your head, trying to dissipate the hazy shock. “i’m more than okay.” your fists tighten from where they’ve twisted into his shirt, crumpling the soft fabric. “you love me.”

katsuki face flushes red, and damn if it wasn’t the best sight you’ve seen in ages. it’s becoming of him, you think. but then again, maybe you were a little biased. he loves you. he loves you. the giggle that bubbles out of you is partly out of disbelief, and partly pure happiness that your feelings were reciprocated. katsuki loves you. then the thought strikes and your stomach drops.

“what about- what about harada?” your stomach heaves itself back up into your throat, lodging itself there as you wait for the other shoe to drop.

“she’s nothing, it was nothing.” he shakes his head brusquely. “it’s you i love. it has only ever been you.”

your heart spills over in tears, threatening to drown you in years worth of pining and hidden affection. but katsuki is here now, keeping you afloat with steady hands. you curl yourself tighter into him, pressing your face into his shoulder. he holds you tight, and you relish the slight hitch in his breathing that comes from being held like he never wants to let you go.

“katsuki,” you pull back slightly. you want to see his face as you say it. “i love you. i love you too. i have loved you since we were stupid teenagers, from the time you got me in detention with aizawa-sensei, to the time we got stuck climbing that stupid tree. i love you.”

a quiet, half-broken noise slips out from him, and he closes his eyes.

“call hado-san now.” he says softly.

“what?” you’re utterly baffled by his request. here you are, confessing your love to him, and he wants you to call nejire? for what?

“call her,” he grits out. “and break up with her so i can kiss you and not have either one of us be branded as a cheater.”

you laugh. you can’t help it. you laugh right into his face and watch it twist in irritation, crimson eyes narrowing at you.

“what’s so funny?” he demands, shaking you a little.

“oh-oh katsuki,” you’re breathless with laughter, pressing your forehead against his. “nejire-senpai and i were never together, we were just fake-dating.”

“fake-dating?” his tone is incredulous and it pulls you back to earth a little, embarrassment seeping in.

“to make you jealous,” you admit, unable to meet his eyes. “it was stupid, i know. and i don’t think it really worked-”

“fake-dating.” katsuki says flatly. “this is the stupidest fucking shit that’s ever existed.”

you bristle in indignance, ready to snap at him-

“harada and i were fake dating too. and it definitely worked to make me jealous.”

you pause, wide eyes shooting to meet his. he and harada- huh?

“you mean- we were both- what?” you have never felt more like an idiot right now. “katsuki… why were you fake-dating harada?”

katsuki rolls his eyes even as his blush deepens. “isn’t it obvious? to make you jealous, stupid.”

“we could have been together this whole time? and instead we were torturing ourselves by fake-dating other people to make each other jealous?” your voice ups a pitch, bordering on hysterical.

“it sounds fucking dumb when you put it like that.” he scowls, and wow, you really love this man.

“because it is.” you grin, and before katsuki has a chance to retort, you’re surging forward, pressing your lips against his. he stills under you for a second, enough for self-doubt to creep in. you begin to pull away, and that’s when katsuki kicks into action, wrapping one arm around your waist, pulling you closer, the other hand coming to cup your neck.

you savor this, all sweetness and relief, of longing melting into appreciating. he kisses you with much more gentleness than you’d have expected. all you know is katsuki, the heady scent of his cologne filling your senses, the warmth of him wrapped around you. if it wasn’t for the cursed need to breathe, you would never have parted from him.

“i love you.” you whisper, eyes still closed as your forehead leans against his. his nose brushes against yours, and he repeats it back to you. your world rebuilds into something new in a singular moment, with a simple, three-worded phrase.

“i love you too.”

[taintedsoul-if]

idk if you posted those prompts for people to ask or not lol buuuut if you did.....c-can i get "You are too beautiful for me. *starts crying for Cadmus (like said by mc to him) if thats ok owo

Cadmus × MC

One stupid argument, and the weight of regret settled upon you. The words you spoke, the emotions you unleashed, lingered like a haunting melody. You knew, that this outburst was a cry of old wounds, a fear of being left behind. In the past, love had been a scarce haven, and now, to be embraced without condition, without needing to hide or pretend, stirred a discomfort within.

Your thumb twirled in restless rhythm as you gazed back at the study, the crime scene of your recent emotional storm. Ten minutes had passed since you fled, yet the memory of Cadmus's patient eyes still haunted you. His calm demeanor had only amplified your own sense of turmoil, making you feel like a wild, untamed creature, ranting without reason.

The more you argued, the more you felt like a ship lost at sea, helpless and adrift. And now, as you stood there, unsure of what had sparked your ire, a single thought echoed through your mind.

Why do you love me so? How could someone as flawed as I be worthy of your unwavering devotion? Just then, strong arms enveloped you, and your body surrendered to their warmth, melting into the embrace like a flower yielding to the sun.

Your heart ached to hide in the sanctuary of his chest, to escape the turmoil that had taken hold. But the words you'd spoken couldn't be unsaid, and the weight of your own doubts and fears had already condemned this love to ruin. You were a tangled web of emotions, a mess of contradictions, and it seemed the only way to untangle the knot was to sever the threads that bound you together.

Yet, as you opened your mouth to repeat the words that would drive him away, "Say one more thing about breaking up, I dare you," Cadmus's whispered challenge caressed your ear, his warm breath sending shivers down your spine. The gentle menace in his voice was a spark that reignited the flame of your desire.

"Without you, my existence is a hollow shell, a mere whisper of a life unlived," Cadmus's said, his words a gentle caress to your soul. He turned you to face him, and took your hand, pressing it against his chest. "Can you feel our bond?" he murmured, his voice soft and husky. "A connection forged in the depths of our souls, a union that has spanned lifetimes, not just mere years?" The warmth of his touch seeped into yours.

As his words pierced the veil of your soul, you finally found the courage to meet his gaze. Cadmus's vermilion eyes, like two burning embers, blazed with a depth of longing, remorse, and love that left you breathless. The raw emotions that danced in their depths were a siren's call, drawing you in with an otherworldly allure.

Your hands trembled as you reached out to cradle his face, as if tracing the contours of a divine sculpture. "You are too beautiful for me," you whispered, the words tumbling out like a confession, a truth you'd long kept hidden. The beauty that shone from within him, a radiance that illuminated every dark corner of your heart, had captivated you, body and soul.

[otrtbs]

CONVERSATIONS FROM THE COFFEE SHOP

SUMMARY: Scenes from Art Heist, Baby! Sirius post Copenhagen (do not read this if you haven't read ahb! and wanna avoid spoilers!!)

WORD COUNT: 3.2k "Your absence has gone through me Like thread through a needle. Everything I do is stitched with its colour."  - Separation, W.S. Merwin

(okay, this is based off of an ask by @signofthereads except I toned down the sadness factor by a lot and I wrote it in a day, so it's staying on tumblr. but i wrote it to give ahb! sirius a little more room grieve bc i felt like he needed that.)

One.

Sirius comes to on the aeroplane- if you can call it that. His mouth is dry and his throat is sore when he attempts to swallow, and he aches like someone reached in and ripped out his heart from his chest cavity. He’s struggling to keep his eyes open and his head feels muddied and murky. Any coherent thought keeps slipping just out of his grasp, in between his fingertips and back into the muddied waters of his subconscious. As best he can, he glances down and sees that his clothes are covered in blood and he feels Remus gripping his arm next to him as if his life depends on it. Even when Sirius can’t catch his thoughts, even when his bones feel weighed down like his marrow is made of cement, even when he can barely keep his eyes open, he would know Remus anywhere. Still, he tries his best to lean over and look at Remus anyway. His head rolls a bit on his neck, too heavy to hold up, so he’s met with the bottom of Remus’ shirt. Tiny splatters of drying, browning blood littered the bottom of it. Sirius’ chest aches, and he’s trying to catch his thoughts, and he’s trying to speak but his words keep getting stuck in his sandpaper throat. 

Shot, he thinks nonsensically and his eyes widen in fear as his breathing comes out more rapid and shallow. That explains the blood and the burning in his chest and why he feels so disoriented. His thoughts all rush forward with a brief surge of clarity. He’s been shot. 

Oh God, he’s been shot. 

He tries his best to look around for Regulus but his thoughts are getting slippery again and his eyelids feel much too heavy to keep open. 

“Regulus left me again,” he tries to tell Remus but his voice comes out distorted, warped and too slow. This must be why it hurts so much. “They shot me.” 

“What?” Remus asks, still gripping Sirius’ arm tightly. He’s holding on, but Sirius has no intention of going anywhere.

He lets his eyes close. It’s easier this way. 

He tries to repeat what he said but he only makes it halfway through the sentence.  

“Peter gave you something,” Remus’ voice swirls in his mind. “A sedative, I think, to get you to stop screaming. We can–” 

But Sirius doesn’t hear the rest as he fades back into his murky subconscious. 

Two.

People were buzzing around him all in a flurry, all like flies, and they were moving much too fast for Sirius’ brain to comprehend but he was back in his flat. The lights were too bright and the air was stuffy and the entire place that he had called home and yearned for had been unlived in for so long that it felt unlivable. Everything felt unlivable.  

Remus had set him down in the tub, clothes and all, and turned on the water so hot that steam started to rise from it. 

Shows what he knows, Sirius thought to himself as he waded through his convoluted thoughts. You’re supposed to burn the clothes after a crime like this takes place. Barty and Evan are going to be furious.  

Then, Remus starts scrubbing. He scrubs and scrubs and scrubs and Sirius watches the blood smear off his skin and swirl into the water in crimson splotches, like pastels bleeding from a canvas.  

As he watches all his blood swirl down the drain Sirius thinks this must be what being baptised feels like. Being made clean. Rebirth. He hopes Remus scrubs his skin until it’s raw, he hopes Remus can wash the last 24 or so hours off of him. He wants to be something new again. He wants to be something light. Sirius would do the scrubbing himself except his bones are still much too heavy to be of any use and his head is still too murky to feign coherency. 

It wasn’t until Remus began unbuttoning his shirt with shaky fingers and Sirius looked down to inspect the bullet wound in his chest that he realised the blood wasn’t his own. Pale skin, inky black tattoos, but no wound. No bullet hole. Which of course made sense. Because if he was shot then he’d be at a hospital or with Peter or somewhere other than a bathtub being scrubbed clean. How had he gone all this time thinking that he had been injured? That the blood was his?   

No.  

No, this wasn’t his blood at all. He had been confused before, but now he wasn’t. His thoughts came crashing in and shattered against his skull, leaving their splintered jagged edges embedded in his mind. 

It was his brother’s blood. It was Regulus’ blood. 

Oh God, he’s been shot. 

Remus was staring back at Sirius with a tear-stained face. He looked as panicked as Sirius felt and his mouth was moving but Sirius couldn’t hear any words. Why couldn’t he hear what Remus was saying? When had Remus stopped scrubbing him clean? 

Instead, strong thumbs were wiping under Sirius’ eyes, collecting all his tears. Steam curling up towards the ceiling in foggy wisps. Water tinged slightly pink with his blood. No, with his brother’s blood. The ache in his chest. Their blood. A calloused hand over his mouth. Remus’ panicked gaze, gravelly voice, and a ringing in his ears. 

It was only then that Sirius realised he had been screaming.

That night, he sleeps in Remus’ arms. He smells like soap but he doesn’t feel clean. 

Peter’s medicine doesn’t stop the dreams, though they’re just as muddled as his waking thoughts were.  

He dreams about being little again. Regulus is high up in a tree with his feet dangling from a branch. He’s a little too high for comfort. He’s a little too little to know he’s in danger. But Sirius knows. Sirius knows it’s his job to watch him, and it’s his job to keep him safe. He calls out to Regulus from the ground, but Regulus can’t hear him. No matter how loud Sirius yells, Regulus can’t hear him. He just keeps swinging his legs and laughing as the wind blows through his hair, and Sirius gets a sickly feeling in his stomach. He knows without knowing that Regulus is about to fall– he can feel it in the air, but he’s powerless to stop it from his spot on the ground. Sirius can feel the sharp sting of panic, but the dream ends before anything happens. 

He dreams about an ugly lamp from a wretched cousin and the laughs it inspired, he dreams about Paris in chalky washed-out tones, he dreams about sliding down the stairs with his brother in their parent's house on rugs that cost more money than a year’s salary, and he dreams about his mother which hasn’t happened in almost half a decade. In all of these dreams, Regulus is there. In all of these dreams, he’s still a small child. But the recurring dream that plagued his subconscious that night was free of Regulus entirely.

It was a hazy, panicked, and anxious dream where Sirius was all grown up, all alone, stumbling around his flat. He was late. He was so late, but he couldn’t find his keys. As time continued to pass he became increasingly distressed. For some reason, he knew that this was his last chance. He had to be on time. He knew that he had to meet Regulus for coffee but as he wandered hurriedly throughout his place, tearing apart pillows and rummaging through drawers and closets looking for his keys, he couldn’t shake the feeling that Regulus was already gone– that he wouldn’t be at the coffee shop at all, that Sirius had failed somehow and let him down, and that he missed his last chance. 

Three.

The thing about Regulus is that he was always so self-assured in Sirius’ mind. He remembers when they were younger and Walburga made them clean out all the cupboards in the kitchen. They had to take out every jar and box and can so they could dust and scrub the cupboards spotless. 

Halfway through the process, Sirius began feeling overwhelmed looking at the mess from the cupboards that was now sprawled out on the counters and the tables and the tiled floor. 

“We’ve worked so hard and it just looks like we made everything worse. It’s a bigger mess than when we started,” he sighed, already imagining how furious Walburga would be with the both of them when she returned home to see her kitchen in utter disarray. 

He watched as Regulus scrambled down from the counters to stand beside him and observe the scene. 

“Sometimes,” Regulus began with a shrug of youthful indifference. “Sometimes things have to get worse in order to make them better. They’re not good right now, but we’re almost ready to put all the things back and they’ll get better again.” 

Regulus always spoke that way– with absolute certainty. If he was going to do something, he did it, without fail. If he was going to say something, he meant it. If he was going to promise something, he kept it.

“This is the last heist Sirius, this is the one.”

Four.

The thing about Sirius is that he never could remember what life was like without Regulus. There was a time, however brief, when there had only been Sirius. But he had no memory of that time. As far back as he could go to pinpoint his earliest memory, Regulus was always there.

He remembers the surge of pride he felt when Andromeda said Regulus looked just like him. How people could see, just by looking at them, that they were from the same place, that they were connected. There was a time when Sirius was just Sirius, but then Regulus was born, and they had the same nose and the same laugh and the same funny way of quirking their eyebrows when something confused them. That’s all Sirius could remember, that connectedness, and it was that connectedness that shaped the way Sirius thought. 

His inner monologue began reflecting his outer monologue in that didactic way that all older siblings seemed to be born with. It was never ‘here’s what I’m going to do’ but always ‘here’s what we’re going to do.’ and ‘here’s why we have to do it.’ When he spoke to Walburga or Orion it was always ‘why we feel’ and ‘why we did it.’ 

Even after Sirius left, even when he hadn’t seen Regulus in months, even when he felt like he was entirely alone, it was always ‘we.’ 

Sometimes he would feel foolish, and he’d forget who the other person was in his head that he was referring to. But it never took him long to remember it was Regulus.

The fact that Regulus was out there was enough. They were still connected, even when Sirius wished they weren’t, even when he tried to forget that they were. 

In the aftermath of Regulus’ death, there was no more ‘we.’ Sirius tried to tell himself that it was just like all the other days when he and Regulus weren’t together, when they weren’t talking. That he could pretend.

But he couldn’t. 

Death had settled in and cut all the invisible strings tying them together, leaving Sirius in a perpetual state of freefall. Because Regulus was no longer out there, in Paris with Orion or travelling to some far-off museum. Sirius knew exactly where he was, he was buried in the Earth, under six feet of soil, and it wasn’t enough. 

There was a time when Sirius was just Sirius, but when Regulus was born there was an unspoken promise that the universe had made with him that Sirius would never be just Sirius again. That a little brother meant the promise of a ‘we.’ Whether they were speaking or not, whether they lived close to each other or far away, they were from the same place, they grew up the same way, and there would always be a ‘we.’ But then the universe went back on its promise. Who was he if he wasn’t constantly worrying about Regulus? Who was he if he was no longer in charge of keeping Regulus safe? Who was he if he was no longer an older brother? The unfathomable had happened, and now Sirius was just Sirius and somehow less himself than he had ever been.

Five.

Sirius runs his finger over the grey headstone again and again in some masochistic ritual he can’t quit. 

He feels the word take form underneath his finger.

Brother. 

He’s done this so many times that he’s already worried he’ll wear the stone down so that word will be smooth and illegible in less than five years. 

In the early days, that’s all he does. He traces the word brother over and over again and he weeps.  

Sometimes he weeps because Regulus will never get any older than he is now. In Sirius’ memory, he can still picture him, baby-faced with a missing tooth, and he can see him as a stoic teenager with eyes like flint and unruly morning hair, and he can see him as he was on that night before everything went wrong. But he can never imagine him any older than that moment. That’s all he gets. Sometimes it makes him weep and sometimes it makes him so angry that he makes himself sick. 

He traces over the word brother and thinks about how it went so wrong. All the little moments he can pinpoint that led them here. In time, he imagines he’ll be able to trace over the word and think of all the times they got it right too. He wonders if he’ll ever stop feeling like half of him is buried in this soil that he sits on.  

On Regulus’ next birthday, Sirius bakes a cake. It’s warm and it smells like cinnamon and it’s a little lopsided, but Sirius is sure Regulus would appreciate the effort. He goes by himself in the afternoon just before the sun starts to set. It’s freezing cold and Remus offers countless times to go with him, but Sirius declines. 

He takes himself to the cemetery, and he sits with his lopsided cake and his black coffee and his brother. He smiles at the freshly cut and placed purple flowers by the grave and he traces over the word brother a few times for good measure.   

Six.

Sirius and Regulus share the same nose. They have the same laugh and the same funny way of quirking their eyebrows when they’re confused. When they were younger, Sirius loved it. Parts of himself in his brother and vice versa. When they were both young Sirius could see Regulus in himself through the crinkles by his eyes when he smiled too wide and he could hear Regulus in his own laugh. As they got older and started growing up and apart, he began recognizing Regulus in himself differently. Sirius saw the same downturned frown or the same darkened stare when he looked in the mirror. They still had the same nose and they still had the same laugh, though neither of them did much laughing then. By the time Sirius had left, he could only see Regulus in the rings around his eyes, in the quiet and solemn looks of cold regard and contemplation he gave himself in the mirror, and in the clenched jaw of his anger.  

In the New Hampshire house, Sirius remembers Regulus teaching a class. He had his back turned and was writing something on the board and for a moment, even though Sirius had made it his mission to be as surly as possible that day, he found himself smiling.

They both wrote the same way. Their q’s and a’s were identical and the way the words slanted ever-so-slightly across the board, as if gravity was trying to pull them down. This was something Sirius hadn’t taught him. This was just something they both did. Sirius thought about all the times he had written the letter ‘a’ over the days and weeks and months he and Regulus weren’t speaking. How connected they were without even knowing it. How they came from the same place. 

Then Regulus turned to roll his eyes at something James had said and the flicker of Sirius’ smile grew a little bit wider. He would know that expression anywhere. It was the same one he would use to feign annoyance and mask affection. 

The house in New Hampshire was when Sirius started seeing himself in the happier parts of Regulus again. No longer in the sleeplessness of bloodshot eyes and downturned scowls but in affectionate eye rolls and smiles from spontaneous countertop dance parties.

Sirius heard Regulus’ voice in the back of his mind, echoing from somewhere in the past.  

“Sometimes things have to get worse in order to make them better.”

Sirius remembers thinking to himself that maybe this was it. Maybe they had gone through all the worst parts. All the boxes had been pulled from the cupboard and now Sirius could see himself in happier parts of Regulus again. Maybe now is when things started to get better. 

That was in New Hampshire. In the earliest days after Regulus was gone, Sirius struggled with mirrors. Sometimes, in the bathroom, he would catch a glimpse of himself, same nose, same rings around the eyes, same creased brow, and he’d see Regulus staring back at him. In the beginning, there were times he looked too much like Regulus, which maybe made him nonsensical and maybe it wasn’t any more true than it had been when Regulus was alive, but on those days Sirius wouldn’t leave the dark of his room in fear that he’d catch sight of his brother through some reflective surface and sob in the street, or in the car, or in the cinema. 

It wasn’t all bad though, slowly, slowly things started to get better. He could tell, the first time he laughed in front of James after Regulus had died. James had turned to him with eyes wide and hopeful and a bittersweet smile and Sirius knew that James was thinking the same thing he was. 

It was Regulus’ laugh. And it was his. 

Maybe when death had crept in and cut all of the strings tying Sirius and Regulus together, he had missed a few. Maybe they could still be connected after all. 

Sirius looked that way today. He could tell from his reflection in the shiny lacquered table top of the café that today was a day where he could see Regulus in his own reflection a little more prominently. But now it isn’t so bad. Now, enough time had passed that he felt a certain comfort in seeing Regulus in himself. Lucky even that he was still here, even when he wasn’t. 

The waitress brings him his coffee and he takes a deep breath as the bitter taste fills his mouth. He’s certain other people think he’s a bit off as he sits making faces at the empty seat across from him, but he doesn’t mind.   

‘I’m thinking about calling this conversations from the coffee shop,’ Sirius thinks. ‘I’ve been coming here enough times now. This little ritual should have a proper name. What do you think, Regulus? That way there’s still a ‘we.’ That wouldn’t be so bad, would it?’  

His breath trembles a little on his next inhale. 

‘We’re meeting at the coffee shop,’ Sirius thinks with a smile. ‘We have things to talk about.’ He likes that. 

He thinks Regulus would too. 

[tetsukuroos]

k.t | Take A Chance

PART 1. Welcome to Nekoma High School

I never doubted that volleyball had been a part of my life since I was born. If I knew anything about my dad, he probably asked my mum’s midwife if he could swap the hospital swaddle with a Nekoma-themed blanket.

My whole life had been a cycle of sleeping, eating, and training. The gym was my second home, and my team was a second family. There was a certain serenity that welcomed me every time I held the ball, and a specific kind of love that embraced me as I welcomed the pain in the palm of my hands as I struck the ball down to the other side of the court.

I was nine when I landed my first successful spike.

“Izumi-chan!” My dad sang my name, drawing my attention to the multi-coloured volleyball flying in the air. Like a dance, my feet acted before my mind did and my body flung itself forward and up towards the ball.

He laughed and clapped his hands as my arms swung in a movement that had been so deeply etched in my brain it became a habit to do it at everything that flung towards me. I heard it hit the ground before I felt the vibrations on my arm, the feeling of my hand slamming against the ball. When gravity pulled me downwards, the ground shook and static buzzed in my brain. It sounded like a crowd roaring my name or maybe like a million trophies clanging together.

“Did you see that?” I asked my dad, and the only thing he could do was smile and nod.

“That was amazing,” He laughed, clapping his hands together once. “You are going to be one of the best volleyball players to grace Japan!”

I knew he was being overzealous. Any dad would say that to their child. But I couldn’t help but believe him. I was going to be one of the best volleyball players to grace Japan. I had to be. It was the only thing I could have ever wanted.

My dad’s house had never looked this daunting before. The windows to his life were concealed by curtains, the lights turned off from the inside. After several months of avoiding his messages or telling him that I was too swamped with assignments to come over, I never thought that the house would be as changed as our relationship was. The grey walls darkened, the garden overgrown. Rust covered the hinges of the gates, now needing an extra push to swing open. Even then, the gate creaked and screeched as it eased forward. For the first time, I felt like the house no longer welcomed me home.

“Dad?” I called out, inching forward through the tall grass, cringing at the shrubbery that tickled my ankles. “I got your message, what did you need to talk about?” 

A series of throaty coughs alerted Izumi to the man standing at the side of the house, picking leaves off of the remains of a children’s volleyball net. “I’m over here,” He called back after clearing his throat. 

“What are you doing outside? You need to be inside, away from all this mess.”  I scoffed, rushing to his side. My hands came down on his shoulders, helping him away from the deconstruction of my old plastic toy, now a withering, distant memory. “I thought you were bedridden.” 

“I need to keep moving,” He sighed. “It’s too depressing to stay still like that.”

I nodded and hummed, guiding him back inside. The interior of the house was no different from the outside. Grayscale and dark. It looked like the pictures taken for leased houses, unlived and impersonal. I felt my chest ache a little, eyes roaming across bare walls as I led my father down onto a chair in the living room. Once upon a time, pictures of my achievements used to scatter the walls. Several trophies lined the now empty bookshelves. I had them taken down when I moved out. I was going to bring them with me, hide them away in a box never to be found again, but no doubt my dad had them stored somewhere secret. He couldn’t give away those memories, and refused to have them taken from him. 

“How have you been?” I asked, realising that my throat had run dry. I massaged the bottom of my neck and cleared my throat. My eyes remained on my dad, took in the dark undereyes and hidden smile lines. 

“As good as an old man like me can be,” He chuckled and I tried to laugh along with him. An awkward silence filled the air as he leaned into the arms of the chair. “I’ve missed you, please visit me more.” 

A sigh caught in the back of my throat and I tore my gaze away. There it was. The I miss you’s and the I love you’s. Of course he did. I never forgot that he did, never doubted it in my head. But I couldn’t bring myself to look at him without seeing what I hated the most about myself. The sadness in his eyes was too much to handle sometimes. The guilt was all-consuming every time I said it back. Instead of evading his pleas, as I usually did, I grabbed both of his hands and smiled. 

“I’ll try,” I said, not a promise but something. 

Another moment of silence invaded the space. Another hair that rose on the back of my neck as I waited for him to talk. There was something he needed to say. I could tell when he fiddled his fingers together, his gaze flying back and forth to everything but me. When he finally opened his mouth to speak, I braced myself for what was coming.

“I need you to fill in for me… just until I get better.” 

“What do you mean?” I asked. Fill in for him? 

“I need you to be Nekoma’s coach,” He sighed, tensing his jaw. 

“Are you joking?” I scoffed, immediately going to shake my head. “There are other coaches.” 

“None that knows the game like I do, none that can lead them as I can,” He defended himself. “You know the game, you’ve played and you’re my daughter.” 

“That doesn’t mean anything,” I laughed incredulously. There were coaches that were waiting their whole lives to lead an upcoming team like Nekoma. While I had abandoned the sport, news still got around about this new team with so much potential, of course led by my very own father. “There are others.”

“Izumi,” He sighed deeply. “You were one of the best players of their generation. Don’t you think it would be good to dip your toe back in? Even if just as a coach.” 

“Stop!” I said, raising my voice. “You will not do this to me again. I told you the last time I saw you, I am not stepping back into that stupid sport.” 

“Alright,” He huffed. “Never mind stepping back in. I taught you how to play. I coached you. These boys would feel comfortable being taught by someone like minded, by someone who is as familiar with the game as I have made them to be.” 

“Get someone else.” 

“Please, Izumi.” 

I flinched at the tone, pleading and desperate. He leaned forward, placing his head into his hands. Never have I seen him like this. So distressed, so dispirited. 

“These boys mean a lot to me… please, just until I get better. Once I’m back, you can leave, you can never look back at volleyball again, just please do this.” 

One second passed. 

Maybe even a few minutes.

I willed myself to say no. Hoped my answer would endure. And then I looked at him again. The desolation living behind his eyes, void of warmth, of comfort. Everything fell apart at that. 

“Fine.” 

My heart pounded as I neared the gym, hearing the familiar sounds of volleyballs smacking against the walls, floors, maybe even the ceilings. Quiet laughs turned to boisterous ones, small chatter turned crowded. It took everything in me not to turn on my heel, get back on that bus and leave. But every time I hesitated, my dad’s face flashed in my eyes. So I persisted. I forced my feet to step forward, to continue marching on. 

When I finally reached the open doors, my mouth fell open at the sight. The team was split off into pairs, practicing their receives, arms red and chests rising and falling as they ran back and forth to make it to the ball. A sense of dread washed over me as something uncomfortable hollowed out my stomach. My eyes followed the curve of the ball as gravity guided it through the air and back down again, making me feel even dizzier than before. An ache embraced my head and I had to close my eyes to ground myself again, making sure that my feet were still touching the ground. 

“Hello? Can I help you?” A voice said and my eyes shot open, eyeing up the man standing before me. He held a warm smile and I almost felt envious of the kindness he radiated as he pushed back the bits of his raven hair that covered his forehead. 

“Sorry,” I muttered. “I’m Nekomata Izumi, your new… coach.”

I cringed as his face lit up, his smile brightening and curving even wider than before. It almost made me feel uncomfortable as he nodded for me to follow him, sputtering nonsense about how it was good to meet me and he could barely see the resemblance between me and my father. The words blurred together as I walked, swallowed by the gym. Eyes began turning to me as the raven-haired boy shouted for their attention and then suddenly I was standing in front of all of them. 

“Let’s start with some introductions,” The man said, pointing to himself first with a grin. “I’m Kuroo Tetsurou, nice to meet you.” 

Then he went down the line, “That’s Nobuyuki Kai, our vice captain. Then there’s Morisuke Yaku, Taketora Yamamoto, Kenma Kozume, Shohei Fukunaga, So Inuoka, Tamahiko Teshiro, Lev Haiba and Yuki Shibayama!” 

In unison, they all bowed and welcomed me in. I should have felt glad, maybe happy that they all gave off some sense of warmth, but I had only felt… envious. They all smiled, some little, some wide. They were all receptive and curious. I had only realised that it was my turn to introduce myself when no one said anything afterwards, staring and waiting for a response. 

“I’m Izumi Nekomata, nice to meet you all.” I said bluntly, bowing in response. 

Kuroo chuckled awkwardly and scratched the back of his neck when another moment passed with nothing being said. He cleared his throat and gently patted my shoulder. “Right! So, I’ve already got them started on some practice receives, do you want to tell us a little about you and what position you play?” 

“Yeah, let’s make sure you’re actually Nekomata’s daughter,” The brown haired boy, Inuoka, said with a joking grin. 

I brushed off his joke with a thin smile and shook my head too quickly for my liking, cringing when Kuroo raised a suspicious brow. “No, sorry, let’s just get started with some spikes and I’ll give pointers as we go.” 

Kuroo puffed out his lips and nodded, his tone dulled as he asked everyone to begin lining up by the court. I sighed once more, finding my place beside the pole and regaining my balance as I leaned against it. The door to the gym was just ahead of me. A couple steps to freedom. But I couldn’t go. 

So I stayed, I stayed and I absolutely hated it here.

Masterlist | Part 1 (Bonus) | Next

ˋ°•*⁀➷ Take A Chance Synopsis

After a year in hiding, Izumi Nekomata is tasked with coaching the Nekoma High men's volleyball team after her father falls ill. Izumi reluctantly agrees despite her past with the sport and swallows her pride to fulfill her father's wishes.

Meeting the rowdy team and their charismatic captain, she is taught to love what she once lost and let go of what had been holding her back.

ˋ°•*⁀➷ Pairing

Kuroo Tetsurou x F! Reader

A/N: Hellooo! First part finally uploaded. There is one mistake in the text messages between Kuroo, Lev and Kenma and that is the receiving messages are blue instead of grey. That is... my fault LOL. I hope you guys enjoy!!

I'm happy to do a taglist if anyone is interested by the way. Just let me know x

[nothinglikegod]

I don't have much longer.

I can feel my body breaking down. I don't recover like I used to. These days, I imagine my bones as chalk; dry and brittle, creating pale dust as they rub against one another. The dust settles in my blood and thickens it up, causing me to move slower. My organs feel heavy. Like they're swollen, and the mornings find me stiff. I have to stretch away the stale spell of sleep before I can do anything else. I ache like an old-timer.

But hey, I knew this was gonna happen. It's the price of the serum. I agree to pay up each time I knock a dose back. I promised Death my youth in exchange for a little luck, a little resilience, but damn. I didn't think he'd collect so soon. Shoulda read the fine print, shoulda realized that 'youth' translates to a whole lotta 'time.' My metabolism is shot. I'm a candle that's been burning at both ends, and now, I find myself wondering how much wick I'm left with.

A month? A week? A day?

It's not enough time to tell you how I feel. I'd have to live a thousand years to do that. There's so much I wanna say and so many things I wanna do with you, so many things I wanna do... for you. I long to give you everything, but at this point, what would that amount to? The spare change of a life unlived. The heart of a stunted boy. Love for a limited time. Shit, I can't do that to you. Just like I can't tell you that Goodbye is comin'.

I'm sorry, Spikey.

You'll forgive me, won't you?

[radical-revolution]

THE RELIEF OF BEING BELIEVED: ON SPIRITUAL, MEDICAL AND THERAPEUTIC GASLIGHTING

"Grief is brutally painful. Grief does not only occur when someone dies. When relationships fall apart, you grieve. When opportunities are shattered, you grieve. When dreams die, you grieve. When illnesses wreck you, you grieve. So I’m going to repeat a few words I’ve uttered countless times; words so powerful and honest they tear at the hubris of every jackass who participates in the debasing of the grieving: Some things in life cannot be fixed. They can only be carried."

- Tim Lawrence

(“Everything Doesn’t Happen For A Reason”)

*

I love these wise words from Tim Lawrence, and the beautiful quote from Megan Devine at the end:

"Some things in life cannot be fixed. They can only be carried."

I want to say a little about what it means to be supported through tragedy.

When we are sick, injured, in pain, experiencing a shattering of the old life, we can feel very vulnerable, powerless, and we long for answers, solutions. In our desperation, we can be drawn to confident, self-assured people – doctors, masters, healers, therapists, gurus - who seem like they have the cures, answers, fixes, solutions, remedies and magic potions. It can feel like a matter of life and death for us sometimes, this search for relief, for a way to get through the day… or even for just for a moment’s respite from bodily agony.

In such a weakened, defenceless, groundless, frightened state, we can become easy targets for others trying to push their beliefs, theories and dogmas onto us.

“Gaslighting”, simply put, is when a person, or a cult-like group of people, manipulates you into deeply doubting your own reality, questioning your own first-hand perceptions and experiences and memories and feelings, distrusting the things you know in your very gut.

In the presence of such manipulation, you become confused about your own deepest beliefs, and begin to doubt your own inner compass. You feel dizzy, dazed, groundless, lost and alone. Gaslighters do this – consciously or not - in order to destabilise you and have control over you, and ultimately make you dependent on them. They play the guru to your disciple, the powerful “One Who Knows” to your ignorant child, the Wizard of Oz to your Dorothy.

They do this in order to run from their own pain, fear, shame… and lack of answers.

Family members may not believe us when we tell them that we have pains and aches in the body, or uncomfortable or frightening sensations, or that we are feeling fatigued or unwell. They may try to convince us that we are just lazy, or looking for attention, or being manipulative, or self-centred.

“You're not really in pain, it's all in your head! You're so selfish! Why don’t you think about MY pain for once in your life!”

Spiritual teachers may tell us that we have “created” our own sickness, manifested our own cancer, brought our own heart or lung or kidney condition, infection, sickness into being through our unconsciousness. They may proclaim that our pain or misfortune isn’t real, it’s just our fearful ego looking for validation, it’s just our closed heart and our resistance to life manifesting in the body, it’s just an illusion. And if we can just surrender, if we can just “kill the ego” or “rest as Pure Awareness”, or meditate deeply enough, or let go of the body enough, we will be well again.

“Fully awakened beings never get sick!”

Others – healers, therapists, friends, family, often well-meaning and well-intentioned, although not always - may tell us that we are sick simply because we are emotionally repressed, or that our “illness”, which isn’t really an “illness”, is a good thing, a wonderful thing, destined to happen, and it’s all just a manifestation of our unprocessed trauma or unlived life, and when we get in touch with our buried childhood or pre-childhood feelings, and finally face our core issues, all our symptoms will magically disappear.

“You’re sick because of your unresolved childhood trauma. It’s your toxic relationship with your mother… you need to get in touch with your rage towards her right now!”

“Your sickness is a test from the Universe! Embrace it! It’s a wonderful part of your healing journey!”

Such simplistic ideas are compelling.

And... I don’t doubt that getting in touch with and expressing repressed emotions and finding the meaning in our suffering and softening into our pain can be a huge part of the healing process for some.

Religious people might tell us that our illness is some kind of punishment from God, or that we are experiencing the effects of karma, or that we have sinned in a previous life, and so we “deserve” this tragedy in our lives somehow. Medical doctors, too, might diagnose us with certain diseases, physical or psychological conditions, and give us their prognosis, and tell us that that their view is the objective, unquestionable, unshakeable truth. (And I am not against Western medicine at all).

The point is, what is YOUR truth?

Whose path do YOU follow?

Who has the answers for YOU?

There are so many lenses through which to view the body and its aches and pains and imbalances and limitations. There are so many people offering so many perspectives, especially these days. The mind-body connection is truly mysterious, no doubt. But the truth is… nobody really knows the truth! At least, for you. Nobody really knows your deepest truth. You may see a top doctor in London or New York, and they may diagnose you with a certain “disease”… and they may end up being wrong. You may see a trauma specialist who is utterly convinced that your cancer or fatigue or depression or chronic pain has trauma or repressed emotion as its absolute root cause… but they may end up being misguided, wrong, off the mark, reductive in their certainty. You may see a spiritual teacher who just “knows” that your disease is a wonderful gift from the universe, or a “sign” that your body is ready for the next level of enlightenment or the next stage of spiritual evolution… and that may end up being completely, utterly false.

The point is, everyone you speak to is going to have a different perspective on what’s happening in YOUR body and mind.

The honest ones will own their own perspective, humbly offer what’s been helpful to them, but admit that ultimately they do not know for sure what the right path is for you. They will own their own projections. They will give you your authority and sovereignty and freedom, and acknowledge that you are in a vulnerable state, frightened and seeking answers. They will not take advantage of you in that tender place. They will honour your ache and your path. They will not speak for you. They will listen, deeply, to you. They will hold you in Presence. They will grieve with you, weep with you, rage to the heavens with you. They will not invalidate your yearning. You will feel loved, and believed, and understood, and safe, and your nervous system will sense this safety, it is programmed to do this.

The unconscious ones, unfortunately, will force their perspective on you, will claim to know the absolute truth, and will make you feel bad or wrong or guilty or stupid for not believing, not signing up to their cult, not seeing them as the authority. By denying your reality, contradicting you and even themselves at times, throwing in false and half-true information, and minimising or downright ignoring your feelings and perspectives and memories and “symptoms”, they’ll gradually make you question and doubt your emotional, spiritual and physical reality and truth and even your sanity… until you are utterly reliant on them, under their spell, a disciple to their guru, a powerless “patient”, willing to do and be and believe anything they say, repressing your own grief and rage and truth. In your total innocence, you have given your power away.

Medical doctors can be cult leaders. Spiritual teachers can be cult leaders. Psychotherapists, trauma specialists, healers, life coaches, friends and family members can be cult leaders, without ever realising it.

When it comes to the mysteries of the bodymind, nobody really knows what’s best… for YOU.

As Nietzche said, no matter how “right” we think we are, we are all imperfect, and “human, all too human…”

When you’re being gaslit, you’ll most likely feel like you’re going crazy. You’ll feel unsafe, unstable, groundless, dizzy, like you don’t know what to believe anymore, like your whole life was a lie, like you can’t trust your own deepest intuition or senses anymore. You’ll wonder if anything you saw or felt or heard or thought or perceived was real.

But you aren’t crazy. You’ve just silenced the roar in your guts, the part that knows, and let someone else’s projections become your reality.

(Part of you wants to believe that someone else has the truth. Of course! You want to get better. You want to heal. You want to stay safe. You are so innocent. No blame here. Bless our innocent hearts!)

I’m not telling you to distrust everyone, or suggesting that everyone is out to manipulate you or drive you crazy. I’m not saying that some people don’t have answers for you, or at least, helpful teachings, therapies, medications, treatments, insights, and so on. I’m not saying there is no hope for you, and I’m not telling you not to pursue every modality of healing that you’re called to pursue.

I’m not saying that miracles don’t happen every single day.

I’m not even saying that one day, with time and integration, you won’t begin to find your own deep meaning, and even perspective and purpose, in your current tragedy.

I’m just reminding you to stay true to yourself now. Trust your own deepest experience, even if it’s painful. I’m reminding you to listen to your guts, every step of the way, even if you are weak, tired, full of grief and exhausted from the journey. To listen… as if your life depends on it, because it does.

Even if you are made to feel wrong or naïve or crazy for doing so.

Even if they laugh at you and mock you when you follow your own path.

Even if you have to step away from false hopes and promises of Utopia and perfect health, and plunge more deeply into the Dark and Wild Unknown.

Illness is not weakness.

Suffering is not shameful or a sign of failure.

As the great Greek playwrights knew, tragedy and misfortune, sickness and pain, can befall anyone, at any time.

None of us are immune, none of us are protected from “the will of the gods”, and our hubris will be crushed in the end.

The ego has no hope of controlling the chaos of relative existence.

Sometimes there are no easy answers. None.

Sometimes nothing makes sense anymore.

Sometimes we just have to grieve.

And rage at the heavens.

And face the future, bravely, without answers.

Trust your gut, your intuition, your knowing, your deep heart, my friends – these are the Inner Lights that cannot die.

- Jeff Foster

[hologramcowboy]

I’m going to a con in the next few months and I want so badly to write Jared and Jensen short letters of my appreciation for the show and the comfort they have given fans through their panels. I also, so want to express to Jensen, in particular, that he deserves to be happy in his personal life without sounding condescending, or like an over-invested weirdo. It’s not like I think about these guys 24/7 or think I know them. I could never tell either J I love them like so many fans do, because I don’t truly know them and the world means too much for me to throw it around. But, I do care about both guys, and the public pictures I see of Jensen and the stories he tells make me ache for him. Some of his discontent is definitely his own doing, but Jensen looks like a man who is hurting, his eyes look empty and not in a vapid posing way, but a deeply sad way. I have felt that look in my own eyes when I was at my lowest. I wish I could pick the right thing to say to resonate and help him see that his married/cool guy image isn’t as important as his mental health and life. Maybe if enough fans showed they cared about him, and weren’t just drooling over his looks and perceived "perfection," it might strike a chord. He’s certainly not hearing that he deserves to be happy at home if he is walking around like a zombie.

Jared, I would mostly just thank for the kindness he shows to the world, and the way he’s given people support or a lifeline just by sharing his own struggles. I think he looks better than he has in years, though I even notice his eyes look a vpbit sad at times. It’s stressful times in the industry right now, though, so that could be it. I think he seems pretty fulfilled with his life and family.

The problem is, I’m not sure either guy would truly stop and read a letter, or if it could even be received as intended, as something beyond a "delusional fan" fawning. I honestly doubt they read everything they are given, and I don’t even blame them, but that’s what I’d like to do if I thought it might matter to them.

Heartwarming post, Anon. If you feel inspired to do something go for it! Actors feel very rewarded when fans genuinely connect with them. It's why they become actors in the first place, the need to be loved.

Please never put yourself down, nothing you wrote is even remotely delusional, you are coming from a caring place and that in itself is healing to the person on the receiving end even if you might not know the details of what is hurting Jensen right now.

On Jensen being unfulfilled with his life and family, he has given us plenty of signals and made plenty of choices that strongly hint he is unsatisfied on a personal level. Danneel neglects him emotionally, we saw this with the Rust incident and all the stories he tells are about her violating his boundaries, preferences and dignity and most especially his masculinity. A man that cannot step into the leader he was born to be because he is constantly undermined by a deceitful wife cannot be fulfilled. He keeps saying he does not want to stop working and keeps making choices that keep him away from his family despite being away for soooo long with SPN. That proves his family is not his highest value because if it was, he would make choices like what Jared did (moving his show to his hometown so he could always be present for his kids). Jensen could choose to only work in his home market, he aims to be away from his family instead and I suspect it is because he knows that is the only way his marriage can survive. He is like a visitor in his own home and that's because he's learned that Danneel is unlivable with for long periods of time. Not necessarily cause there's something with her, he definitely didn't marry her for love and so it's natural that being truly present and involved is difficult since she is clearly not the one. Their marriage is all staged moments and embellished stories (still curious which pr nut is advising them so badly) that do not resonate with authentic people because people can feel the energy of something. I don't even consider them a couple, they are forced, staged and completely lack chemistry which is endlessly sad as they are actors and actors know how to create chemistry. They can't even bring themselves to do that, why are they even together? They should consider how that blatant lack of love will translate to their children and affect them negatively.

Sorry, got a little off topic. If you feel you have something empowering and loving in your heart to share it's worth making the attempt to do so. You never know how it might impact someone.

{EDIT} changed a phrase in my response after I read this again since I had misread what the anon wrote, sorry my brain is fried today.

[thunder-jolt]

"A Crow to Scare" a Short Horror Story by NobleWing and her many social media accounts...

A disgruntled man roams the pumpkin-lit streets and decorated walls, the moon full and shining upon the littered alleys, he then stops and rests his back against a telephone pole next to a bus stop, before pulling a box of cigarettes and lighting one up, the embers and smoke flowing through the wind of the night,

The man adjusts his black jacket and scratches the black stubble on his chin, before blowing a puff of smoke into the air, forming shapes and odd-looking faces, if you look closely enough,

After a bus passes him, the man then sees a girl, a girl wearing dirty school clothes and dirt-coated white socks, and dirty, black shoes,

The teen girl stares at him across the street, her skin pale and desaturated, her hair tangled and wispy, and more importantly; her eyes are wide and big, ever so staring into the man’s soul, and perhaps his mind, too.

The man gets a strange feeling from the girl staring into him as if he knows her and he shouldn’t have as if he knows her from somewhere and he doesn’t remember when, he had a sense of strong anemoia,

Then as a vehicle passed by, the girl was gone, vanished from thin air, the man sighs with relief from the girl, before being tapped on the shoulder, he turns his head to see the same girl across the street staring at him, this time; he gets a closer look at the girl’s features,

Her hair is black, still tangled and wispy, her skin almost gray and unlively, like a corpse; pale and desaturated, and her eyes, it’s as if she had no color in her eyes, soulless and empty. The man becomes startled by the girl’s appearance before catching his breath,

“Uh… Hi? Is… There something you need?”, “Are you James Takahashi?” the girl asked, her voice sounding gruff and sort of raspy, James almost can get a glimpse of her teeth, yellowed and sickly, “Yes? Do you… Need something?” James asked the girl, “Indeed I do. Follow me.”,

She turned around and walked away, with James following her, down the sidewalks with buildings covered in decorations, and lit by Jack-O-Lanterns, a feeling of tension and dread seeps into James as he follows the girl, the overwhelming mix of unease, and anemoia,

“You seem familiar, who are you anyway?” James asks the girl, “You already know who I am, James.” she responds without elaborating,

“What do you mean by that? I need some clarification on what you meant.” James asks again, now feeling that his gut instinct is in aching pain, “We met in high school and through college, have we not? We share the same classes.”, James was confused,

“What are you talking about?” James asked again, now his gut becoming more intensely painful, “Aw, Jamie, I thought you knew already. No one must ever forget someone important in their life, would they?” she responds,

“Pitiful, I’d say. Pitiful.” she responds again, “Perhaps that’s why your girl decided to go her own way because you forget everything important, did she not?”, James became shocked to hear her mention his girlfriend, who broke up with him because of a reason he didn’t commit or make,

“How did you know I once had a girlfriend?” James asks, “Everyone knows, James. Everyone.” the girl responded, “That can’t be right, it was private. How did everyone know?” James asks the girl.

Yet the girl doesn’t respond, James then asks her again “How did everyone know?”. Then, rather than giving him an answer, she rambles, rambling like some madwoman,

“Every day he watched. He watched the corn grow”. She rambled quietly, which then soon raised in volume, “The bird caw. The children laugh”. The girl’s hands subtlety tremble and shake, whether it’s fear or joy is unknown. James’ gut becomes more tighter and painful.

“He watched them. They never knew he did. But… What else could he do?”, the girl’s subtle pout soon becomes a crooked grin, the teeth more visible in their nastiness and vile, and her wide eyes and small pupils look back at James with a form of twisted glee.

“He heard them. The comments about his missing patches. About his creepy smile. Yes, his smile… The one sewn into his face, the one that made everyone stop and whisper, the one… That sends shivers down their spines…”.

Soon, James felt shivers go down his spine as she said that. His painful gut instinct and the chill down his spine speak to him that there’s something wrong and that he needs to get out of there, but he can’t; he was ordered to follow her, an order he can’t refuse, unfortunately,

The girl continues rambling again, the sound of her bones slightly popping as they both get close to an apartment building, “It was the same thing every year. But he couldn't leave. Who else would watch and listen?”.

As James and the girl go up the metallic stairs, James could feel that he’s being lured into some death trap, his gut is becoming intense, and his spine shivers nonstop, he knows something is very wrong, whatever it is; he’s either going to die or he’s going to get tortured.

“If you find the right day. The right time. Right quiet…”, the girl rambled, this time in a distorted sing-song voice, “If you stop and listen closely, you can hear as well. You can hear his heartbeat. You can hear the faint thud, thud… Thud, thud…”.

Then James felt his heart beating louder than any, the girl continued rambling again as she did minutes or hours ago, “-it's in his chest, beneath the straw. It once belonged to his master's friend.”, individually, up the stair railing; her fingers pop unnervingly,

“The master who would come out, to the middle of the cornfield, and just talk to him and just listen.”, her neck pops loudly as if contorting uncannily, “He felt every emotion his master's friend felt. The anger burned in his straw-filled chest.”,

“But he couldn't move. Couldn't do anything about it.”. As the girl and James get near the door to the girl’s apartment; James could feel a bad taste in the back of his throat, as if he caught a sickness. Could be from his cigarettes, but we’ll see…

“He knows his master never meant to hurt his friend, but the anger coursed, through veins that didn't even exist. The anger pushed through with each heartbeat-”, the sound of their feet walking upon metal and the girl rambling echoes through James’ mind,

James wipes his eyes, seeing shadows where shadows do not belong, and many things. The girl continues rambling, “With each thud, thud… Thud, thud.”, James could feel that he was physically becoming sick.

Whatever the girl is doing is hurting him from the inside-out, oh the pain, oh the excruciating pain. “These emotions were not his. The emotions were thrown into his chest; hidden away in the middle of the night; unseen by the laughing children; unseen by those who talked about the missing patches; hidden under the moonlight.”,

She continued rambling, this time more outright and loud, “He wanted his master to feel the pain he felt; to feel the burning course with each thud, thud.”, then yelling “THUD, THUD!”, before giggling a creepy laugh, like that of some psycho or witch, whichever you prefer,

“Ma’am, I’m not feeling well, when are we going inside?” James asks, “Once I’m finished with the poem, I’ll let you open the door for me.”, James didn’t know what she meant but took it anyways because James is already feeling ill and wants relief sooner or now,

“Anyways, where was I? Ahaha! I remember now…” the girl said with a sharp-toothed grin, a grin somehow creepier than the last, “But he couldn't move, couldn't leave. All he could do was watch; listen; and feel.”, there the white-painted door lies upon their sights,

There, she says the final line of the poem, “Someday he'll show him… If he only had a brain…”, “Is that all meant to reference the Scarecrow from Wizard of Oz?” James asked,

“Wizard of Oz? I don’t know what Wizard of Oz is, you’re probably making all that up, are you, James?” the girl asked James. The two go up in front of the door, the girl urging him to open the door for her, which he did.

But as the door handle turned and the door creaked, he looked inside the dark walls and bright computer screen of the apartment, the smell of something rotten fills the air and his nostril. Before stepping inward, and then seeing a dead body on the ground.

A body, reminiscent of the girl that led him here to this forbidden place. “Wait, have I been following a ghost this WHOLE TIME?!” James shouts in horror as he saw the corpse slowly rotting on the apartment floorboards…

“Always have been, James.” the girl spoke, pulling out a blade, “Now’s your turn to join her!” she shouted, running towards him and stabbing him in the back, James falls to the ground; his limbs slightly spasming, his face on the floorboards next to the foul-smelling, rotting corpse,

The lifeless white eyes of the corpse installing James a horror that he once never felt before, he looks up at the girl in terror as she smiles sinisterly, “And just to give you a heads up, I bet you don’t remember my name, do you?” she snickered,

“I told you many times about how you and I shared classes back in high school, and how your girl and I were great friends. But those were times long forgotten, have they not? Nothing but worthless, pitiful memories…” she explained, nearing the door to close it behind her,

“Maybe, perhaps I should stop gaslighting you into believing you know me and just tell you my name. Now James, if you can remember just this once, do you know a girl, a crow to scare, known throughout the school as the “Wide-Eyed Weirdo”?” she asked James,

“It sounds familiar…” James replies, the girl’s smile grows even wider, her yellow teeth more visible than ever, “Good. At least you remember that”, she twirls her knife around in her hand as she explains her story,

“The girl that was called that was an individual who just can’t catch a break in life, so she chose to break life itself. That girl was me, and she was named Joanna S. Edith.” she explained, “Or, as I like to call her… “Shade”...”,

There, the door closes behind her and no one knows what happened on the night when James Takahashi disappeared, he is, like most others on Halloween night, a crow to scare…

[patrioticshortbread]

this endless road.

forearms flush with my thighs.

hands at the bottom of the wheel.

i never used to drive like you.

each hill feels like it should be the last.

this is the point where i would cry, if i still could.

i would cry for hours. so hard id be sick with it. my vomit would paint the side of the road. an artist's mark of suffering.

theres trash in my car. she wont take it. the dead animal i cleaned for her is in her bin. she cant handle bodies unliving. ill clean it alone tomorrow.

i seem to be able to do anything for others.

dry laughter. thats all i can manage. this cruelty is somehow funny. my life feels as endless as this pavement. as anti-climactic as each dip and rise, glowing sign, new song playing.

this black road. where does it end? when will i recognize where i am? every song is grating against my ears. i have a headache. silence and noise, i cant decide which one i wish for. i want to be home. i wish to be home. i wish for the silence of my room.

i suppose im angry. i cant tell how i should feel. i feel more alone than anything else. theyve made me feel lonesome when i came for companionship. im so busy being lonely ive forgotten i should be mad.

my car is ripe with it. i wish she had remembered when i asked her to open the window. i wonder if anyone ever hears me. i wonder if anyone even knows me. i wonder who i am, to be known. can you know someone who isnt there? what would you find when you searched my cage of bones?

i cant wait to see you. i already have. when do i ever not see you? youre in my music. my hair. my flannel. youre in my gas station. my road. my mind. always. youre everywhere. i cant wait to see you, but im terribly sick with you already. i cant seem to wait to be your stranger.

its over soon. i feel so alone. i cant be angry when i feel so lonely. my hands keep shifting to the top of the wheel. my car is sticky with sweet syrup. i wish i had asked them to not put it there. my elbows ache. i have to clean my car tomorrow.

ill clean it alone.

[greyves-under-fire]

In the waiting room outside my therapists' office, it's now 36 minutes past when she usually calls me in. 37. I think it happened again, where it didn't show up in her system that I'm here, and she's letting her other client stay late. That's okay. They probably need it.

38. It's been a weird couple weeks. Lost my closest friend of ten years two weeks ago, but we had been lost for at least a year. and we weren't each other's closest friend anyway. we were just the ones that stuck around, and replaced the attention we actually wanted most.

40. I'm tired. The grief is so strange. It's just that twinge when you enter a situation that ends differently than it did before, simply because they're not a part of it. It's been ten years, starting in second grade. We gained consciousness at the same time, but that feels like the only thing that kept us together. I was always kind of a shitty friend. I could be the best, and I could be such a dick. But I was a kid. I was a kid who got fucked up. I can't keep apologizing for that.

42. 43. This is a weird feeling. She's gonna feel so bad when she comes out and realizes that I've actually been sitting here the whole time, and I don't know how to tell her that it's really okay. I've spent the last 34 minutes letting writblr break and heal my heart, and I feel okay. I do. but my chest is starting to ache. I addressed the grief, so I don't know what else I was expecting.

Of course it hurts. every birthday, every Christmas, every Valentine's day after my family stopped sending gifts to my school for me, she made sure I wasn't one of the kids in the class with nothing on their desk and a hopeless look in their eyes. At least not that day.

Her mother called herself my mother, and I did too. She was more of one than mine. But she never reached out. I thought it was unconditional. She looked at me like it was. but it wasn't.

48. She's not the first mom I've had that I've lost. First was mine. Second was her. Third was pretending. Or at least, spiteful enough to scream at me that she had been. She was the first adult to ever choose to use my name and pronouns. She sucked in so many ways, but still made me feel that I was worthy of the respect enough to do so. But that was conditional too.

52. I think I should just leave. But idk if I have the heart to tell my nanny that this happened. She'll be pissed, and I love her for it. But my therapist is so genuinely human in a way that makes us feel so akin. This isn't her fault.

53. I'm gonna leave.

54. In the elevator. 3. 2. 1. This sucks. I am still disappointed. but oh well.

I'm not ready to leave.

I'm pissed that she pretended it wasn't her fault too. (friend*)

25 days. 19 will be my first birthday without her in ten.

I didn't tell nanny. I'm hungry. I hate that. Hunger is cruel, around the corner at every turn, waiting to hurt me. It never stops, it's never over, you can only pause hunger. It's a sick joke, really. I don't want to eat, and I'd go without a little more if it didn't make life feel unlivable. (Again, I was hungry when I wrote this. I'm not the same person)

[beforethesunsetends]

blood on the sheets

word count: 1.7k warnings: blood consumption. they're vampires | finger-sucking/hand-feeding | mentions of sickness, fever, viruses, and death; this is basically a sickfic i guess but is far less dramatic than it sounds | nothing explicit happens but there’s mentions of sex, like a handjob and an orgasm a/n: what else is new? 🤷🏾‍♀️

--

The room is quiet and illuminated by the orange-yellow light of one small bedside lamp. The blackout curtains block any possible sliver of moonlight from the outside and, combined with the room’s stillness, make you feel like you’re cradled in a cocoon. You suppose this room is a cocoon of sorts, considering your situation.

You have always liked it quiet enough to hear a pin drop; it’s peaceful this way. You are disturbed, though, by how sensitive your hearing has become now. If you don’t make any effort to ignore their voices, you can hear the others from rooms away as if they are talking outside your door. 

Even more distressing is how the hypersensitivity of your ears periodically fades out, leaving you with nothing but the normal range of human hearing again, only to return without an announcement in the form of too-loud voices or the rustling of a creature in a tree many yards away—as if this new heightened sense can’t decide whether it should stay or go within all the chaos of your body.

You know there’s no one outside the door, but you glare at it as if you could will it to open with your thoughts alone. Though you appreciate the relative quiet, you’re beginning to grow tired of the loneliness, as you haven’t seen your lover—and scarcely anyone else—since that morning.

You lie in the bed with the comforter and sheet as far away from you as possible, kicked down to the end of the mattress, and your body covered in sweat. It makes you feel sticky and disgusting, but you’re currently too weak to do anything about it. You feel feverish and achy in all of your joints, like in the past when you were young and would get sick and your mother would take care of you. Right now you are alone, though, and the only remedy for this sickness is of the sanguine variety—one that no human would accept. But you are no longer completely human.

You’ve been in this state for a week now as your body’s cells struggle against succumbing to the vampiric virus. It feels like being precariously balanced on a thin string, caught between a new life among the unliving and the type of death you cannot come back from. However, you’re certain the virus is beginning to take; your human immune system will not be able to fend it off for very much longer. You feel your senses changing a little more each day. The blood only strengthens you more, and you need it regularly in order for the transformation to succeed.

Speaking of blood, here is your lover now.

Your heart, still pumping with all the vigor of any other human heart, speeds up when you hear the familiar footsteps down the hall; then the door opens, and your lover appears with his dark hair and dark eyes, his torso covered only by a jacket. Ian didn’t even bother to clean himself up from the hunt before coming to visit you, you realize. His mouth and hands are still smudged red, and the smell of blood fills the room to where it makes your body ache even more, but in a different way.

“You ate without me,” you sigh, lifting your head from the pillow as he walks over to you and leans down, one hand pressed into the mattress near your face. Of course he did, but that won’t stop you from faux-complaining about it.

“I’ve saved plenty for you, darling. You know I always do." His voice is a quiet coo meant to soothe you as he caresses your cheek.

“No, I want it this way.” With what strength you have, you cup his cheeks and pull his face closer to yours. He closes his eyes as you press your lips against each other’s, you kissing him ravenously so that you can taste all of the blood still saturating his mouth. There are a few moments when he chuckles into your mouth at how desperate you are for it, and his laughter only makes you want to consume him more.

You pull away when you have licked him clean and taken all he could possibly give.

“Still, don’t you want the real thing?” he asks casually, as if you didn’t just try to make a meal out of him.

“Yes. Where is it? Feed me, Ian.”

He takes one of your hands and kisses your knuckles. “Will your majesty let me wash up, at least? I’ve been out all night getting dirty, and there’s blood everywhere.” Now that you are really looking at him, you can see that there are smears of blood elsewhere on his torso and even darkening the already black hue of his pants, along with random smudges of dirt.

“Does it matter? I would lick it all off you,” you sigh dreamily, lying back on the pillow again with the thought of doing just that occupying your mind. You‘re still weak but feel somewhat more refreshed now; you still won’t have 100% of your strength back until everything is complete. “But go. Hurry back, or I’ll expire.”

With a smirk and a much less heated kiss to your lips, he goes off to the spacious bathroom to clean himself up, and you are lulled into a sleeplike state by the sound of the shower running, halfway between awareness and unconsciousness.

When you become alert again, it’s because of his weight causing your side of the bed to dip. His long hair is damp against his neck, and droplets of water still drip from the strands every so often. He’s wearing nothing but his sweatpants, holding a wine glass filled with dark red liquid you know is not anything close to wine. The smell of it alone gets you to sit up, propped against the pillows and looking at him expectantly, blinking the remaining traces of sleepiness away.

He’s taken his rings off for this part. Your eyes flit downward and you study the tattoos on his fingers, as you often do. He’d gotten all of his tattoos before he was turned, so the self-healing trait common to vampirism would’ve never been a factor. Sometimes he regretted that he couldn’t get any more, though, and told you as much.

He dips his middle finger and forefinger into the glass, staining his skin red all over again. Then he presses those fingers to your lips and observes with intense eyes as you take them into your mouth. He likes to feed you this way because you both find it comforting; maybe because you have a bit of an oral fixation, too. But you also do it because it’s your preferred form of bonding, which is paramount for establishing a stable connection between newly infected vampires and their sires. A strong connection with one’s sire is often a significant factor in whether a new vampire survives the transformation, though many scholars still debate the validity of this.

You don’t feed this way every time you need to eat, because it’d get annoyingly inconvenient otherwise; only once every night when you spend these hours together.

He dips his fingers in again, slides them past your lips once more. “My goodness. You really are hungry, aren't you?” he murmurs as you grasp his wrist and push his fingers a bit further in, your eyes falling closed. They slide easily over your tongue. It wouldn’t be difficult to say you’re intoxicated by both the rich taste of the blood and the clean taste of his skin right from the shower. You pay no mind to the errant drops that fall and stain your slip and the bedsheets; this type of mess is inevitable during these feedings.

Ian gets hard every time he feeds you like this, with you sucking the blood from his fingers in earnest, but he never acts on his desire nor does he expect you to. It amuses you to know it affects him like this, though. You think about slipping a hand into his pants or tracing your toes along the outline of him that pulls at the fabric; you think about kissing him while making him moan against your lips and drip hotly down the side of your hand, but you never do any of those things. 

By the time you’re done eating, you’re always too tired—but in a comfortable, cozy way—to do anything else but curl up in his arms and drift to sleep, the aching and fever in your body subsiding to a more bearable level for the time being. 

You’re not quite on the same circadian schedule yet, with you sleeping most of the night while he’s usually awake during these hours, though he tries to sleep for your sake. In your current routine, he’ll wake you in the morning and get you to take a shower, clean you of the dried blood and fever sweat; before you get in the shower cabin you’ll complain Why couldn’t I have something to eat first before you roused me up for this? I can barely even stand, and he’ll reply with a grin and an affectionate gaze that makes your face even hotter despite yourself, and he’ll say, That’s why you have me to hold you, lovely.

Presently, when the feeding is done, you whisper: “Thank you for the sustenance.” Before he helps you lie down, he kisses you in that familiar way you’ve caught onto; one half of him wanting to feel your lips again, the other half wanting to taste the excess blood. The two types of hunger are so intertwined, like thin chains of jewelry all tangled together, that you wonder how anyone could ever think of them as separate.

And then you fall asleep as you have done for the past week—and even before then, before you’d been changed—with your cheek pressed to his arm, the cooler temperature of his body countering your own, his other arm around you and his hand gliding down your side and back up again. All the while, that metamorphosis still itches inside you, waiting to form you into something entirely new.