a slender thread

why did I fall in love with you

summary: he’s stuck in a monochrome world, where the colors that should be blooming are not and his entire life is turned upside down when he realizes there is such a thing as being too late.
pairing: katsuki/ochako
word count: 3358
theme: day 2; unrequited love // modern au

a/n: this is a part of @kacchakoangstweek!

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A Slender Thread (part 1)

You stay at your uncle’s ludus in for the summer, where you meet James, your uncle’s champion gladiator.

author: sugardaddytonystark (formerly buckysbackpackbuckle)
pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader
word count: 2132
warnings: gladiator au, smut, violence, character death

x amazing picture by @264jana x

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I Had This Dream, That in Another World, I Was Someone Else, Someone Not Me.

Part of my hospital chaplaincy duties is to write a reflection on how it’s going. Identities may be altered for privacy. All the writings are here.

The patient, Jerome, had a trapezoid-shaped hole in his head, and he told me it was from his son.

Jerome’s son had waited in his father’s home until he came back from work, and then he robbed him. Jerome fought back. In the struggle, his son had picked up one of those bright and shiny geode rocks the size of a torso, lifted it to the sky, and wham, in a sick, slicing arc, brought it down into his father’s head. The son was still at large. The father, after six months in physical therapy, still could not get the blood stain out of the carpet in his house. Jerome had lost his job at the oil rig; his wife had left him; his other son took two jobs to pay off the hospital bills, but one evening after dropping off his dad for PT, had been struck by a sixteen-wheeler and died on impact. 

“Chaplain, I had this dream,” Jerome said, scratching his old wound, “that in another world, I was someone else, I was someone better, that I have two sons who love me, my wife never left, I was still at the rig with the boys … I had a dream that I was someone not me. It was extraordinary. It was wo—”

He fell asleep, which he told me would happen. His brain needed to shut down when it overworked itself. A few seconds later, he woke up and apologized.

“I had this dream, chaplain. Do you ever dream that you are someone in another world, a different you?”

I visited another patient, Donnie, who weighed about 1400 pounds. His legs had been amputated and he was nearly blind. He had a neurological deficiency in which he couldn’t stop eating; he had become diabetic and was recovering from Takotsubo cardiomyopathy, or as it’s also known, broken heart syndrome.

“Chaplain, I just think,” he said, eating his third plate of pasta, “I was meant to do … something, anything. Anything. Not this. Everyone tells you that your life is meant to help people, but how the hell can I do that here? Look at me.”

In our chaplain training, we call this intrapsychic grief, the pain of losing what could’ve been and will never be. It is the loss of future, the theft of invested time. It’s not a tangible, physical loss, but an internal shipwreck, the imperceptible emotional shriek in our chest when the picture of life we had planned for so long simply dies.

Donnie, the blind, obese, bedridden man with no legs, ordered pizza for the whole floor. That was, he felt, the best he could do. I told him it was even better than that.

Another patient, Lorenzo, had been in a car accident a few days before, and he suffered anterograde amnesia. He was having trouble remembering the words he had just spoken. 

“Chap—you the chap, right?” He rocked back and forth in his bed, nearly clapping his hands in frustration. “My girlfriend is real worried about me, man, she real worried. I think I’ll be fine though, but my girlfriend, she real worried about me. I’m not worried, I think I’ll be fine, chap. You the chap, right?”

He repeated himself, perhaps, to find security in the canvas of his own assurances. His brain had resorted to a safe mode, to grip onto the word-balloons which were floating away, by constantly making new ones.

I was astounded and bewildered by how much a mass of gray pulp between our ears can determine the course of a life, and inside the soul-box of our neurology is the possibility of a hundred lifetimes, and I was angry that the tiniest neuron could so effectively demolish an entire world.

What separated me from someone else not me, except by the tiniest shred of a neuron, one misfired synapse, one slender thread of chance? 

Another patient, Tony, was telling me that he had gotten weaker and weaker in his legs until one day, on the way home, he had collapsed at the ATM and there were floating heads around him asking what was wrong, but they looked like demon faces, and he tried to kick them off but he couldn’t move anymore. Tony had some sort of encephalopathy that had caused brain lesions and he was seeing things that weren’t there.

“But you know, chap,” he said, breaking into tears, “I got this long-lost brother up in Boston, he’s my half-brother but he loves me like a full one, Mikey, this guy’s made of money and he offered me a room at his place, his house is on this fifty acre property, it’s a mansion. Can you believe it?”

I spoke with Tony’s sister, who told me that no such brother existed, and there was no room, no mansion, no fifty acres. It was a story that Tony had been telling himself for months now, when his legs began failing him. It’s all he wanted to talk about, this promised land. 

Oliver Sacks, in his book The Man Who Mistook His Wife for a Hat, writes about disturbed patients who “confabulate,” who spin tales all day long in a constant stream of chatter. They cannot help but conjure completely made-up yarns about meeting celebrities or devising inventions or discovering something remarkable, as if the widening chasms in their brain need a desperate momentum to thrive. Or, worse, such activity drowns out the long fall of personality into the abyss, into the unrecoverable ether. One story after another tumbles over the cliff; I may be the last one to hear them. 

It is my role to honor the burial of what can never be done. It is my role to remember what will never become. It’s not just my role; you and I need this more than we think. At every turn, every choice, we die a million deaths each day. How can we stand such a thing, except to tell those stories that never had a shot?

I had this dream … 

Suddenly, Jerome, the man with the trapezoid hole in his head, nodded off again, but his eyes fluttered, like someone was still home.

… that in another world …

He spoke, but a voice that sounded thicker, more weight, more verve. He sat up taller, his eyes closed but working. I took a small step back.

… I was someone else …

Jerome’s eyes quivered and he said, “I am the man from the other world.” He smiled, just for a second. “I am a hundred lifetimes, I am one of many. I am not who I could be.”

… someone not me.

“I am a life never had. I am the man in the dream. The dream wishes he could be the man in the other. We all wish to be awake in someone else. There is no perfect dre—”

And he woke up. Jerome blinked, saw me, and he apologized for sleeping again. I wasn’t sure if I should tell him about the other voice. 

He said to me, “Chaplain, thank you.” He held my hands, his eyes alive and fiery, wet and fierce. “Thank you for listening. I have to believe my son didn’t mean it. He did the best he could with who he was. I still love my son, in this world or the next.”

I left the room shaking. I questioned if I had really seen what I thought I saw. I repeated his words in my head, I replayed the eerie twitch of his eyes, the way his body slipped into another skin, another dimension.

I wondered if I had glimpsed, even for a second, a keyhole into other possibilities, like dipping a toe into the stream of the infinite, where a son did not ruin his father, where a man missed a car by inches, where a promised land of endless acres was waiting at the other end.

I thought about how we’re always dreaming of being someone else, and the others are dreaming of each other, wishing for a world they couldn’t have.

We survive the nightmare, I think, by dreaming. To dream is to cope. It is the brain’s essential defense against itself. We create new dreams all the time, a new canvas of assurances, to wake against the intolerable. It feels like a lie: but what is hope, really, except a story we tell ourselves in the dark to light the way? If it works, who is to say otherwise? The world continues to be cruel and unfair, but we do the best we can with who we are, to dream amidst the wreckage of what no longer is, to bend with the merciless wind. To even share pizza with the whole floor.


Hot Chocolate - Mark

Requested: Can I have a Mark fluff please??
Requested: Ermm how about a kiss/make out (not too much u know) one with mark?

A/N: This is Mark Lee not Mark Tuan- but enjoy^^
Very first Mark scenario^^

Word Count: 388

Frantically, Mark brought your hands to his lips.

“You’re too cold” he fretted, his warm breath making your frozen fingertips tingle.

You giggled childishly, poking his nose gently.
He wore a frown, pressing his lips to the smooth plane of your hand.

“I told you to bring gloves” he began, scolding you softly.

You ignored him, withdrawing your hands. You trembled as you made your way to the exit of the rink. A holler sounding before Mark tugged you aside, making way for the eccentric skater. Clumsily, you stumbled into Mark, gripping his soft coat ineptly. He smiled gently, glancing down at you.

“Let’s get hot chocolate” he suggested, intertwining his fingers with your own.

“My feet hurt” you whined.

He sat down in the booth, sliding a steaming cup of hot chocolate before you. He quickly removed the lid of his own before snatching the other, instead pushing the one with small marshmallows before you. You smiled at his thoughtfulness, scooting closer.

“I’ll give you a massage later then” he grinned.

Gingerly, he took a sip of the scalding drink, immediately hissing.

“It’s too hot, don’t drink it yet” he advised, frowning deeply.

“I love you.”

A light blush dusted his cheeks as his flustered expression morphed into a smile.

“I love you too.”

You leant in, melding your lips with his own, a sudden warmth flowing through your cold figure from the intimate contact. Your mind fluttered as his lips followed your own, a flurry of butterflies unleashed within your throbbing heart.

“No one can see us back here” he mused, glancing over his shoulder.

You suddenly became aware of the Christmas music, the chatter of the employees, the gentle clicks of the espresso machine.

You grew shy, shrinking away.

“Let’s go home” you murmured, tugging on his sleeve gently.

A muffled gasp left you as he leant in, capturing your lips. His agile hands drew you closer, his slender fingers threading through your hair. You whined quietly, unable to resist his spontaneous yet affectionate behavior.
His lips tasted of sweet chocolate, their enticing warmth making you melt.

“I want to watch a movie” he murmured, drawing back.

“At home.”

He smiled to himself, taking a sip of his drink; the thought of snuggling together on the sofa making him eager to head home.


Sending A Message

“So…that’s your shirt,” said Anna, standing in the doorway of Elsa’s dorm room.

Elsa shrugged, tucked a slender thread of stray hair behind her ear, and smiled…Awkwardly? Guiltily? Bashfully? “Yes, I guess it is,” she said softly.

“That's… That’s okay, Els.” Anna was going to that year’s Pride Parade celebration, and Elsa had agreed to come. Quiet, serious Elsa. Anna’s friend since forever, who had supported her through all the big and little traumas of growing up, and through the confusing and painful and wonderful process of Anna discovering and accepting her own sexuality.

Anna had hinted, then cajoled, then everything but ordered Elsa to stand beside her and wear a t-shirt making a statement of her support. Elsa was there for her, like she had always been, even as Elsa was dating boys and Anna was dating girls. That should be enough. Anna would drop it.

After ONE more try. “Elsa, this is your chance to show the world what you believe. To show the world what you really feel.”

“I know, Anna. You’ve said.”

“I mean, I can’t make you do anything.”

“Of course.”

“But I was… I’m glad that you’re standing with me, and I’m grateful, but your message to the world is a Jackson Pollock t-shirt?”

Elsa’s shirt was a random pattern of dots and splatter in every brilliant colour in the rainbow. It was beautiful, but if it was a reference to the rainbow flag, or the coloured flags representing the genders and orientations under the LGBTQ+ umbrella, it was damn subtle.

By contrast, Anna’s shirt read “LOVE IS NEVER WRONG” in bold letters, surrounded by every flag and symbol she could fit on there.

“It’s what I’m ready to show the world right now, Anna. I hope you’ll understand.”

Anna opened her mouth to speak, stopped herself, then resumed. Gently, she touched Elsa’s arm. “I do. And I’m sorry I was so pushy.”

“Pushy? You?” said Elsa, grinning. “Unprecedented.”

“You are okay with coming, right? I’m not pushing you into that?”

“I’ve been looking forward to it for days.” Elsa locked the door behind her, and they stepped out of the building and into the bright sunlight.

Anna put on her dark green sunglasses. “Let’s get…wait, what?!?”

Seeing Elsa’s shirt through her green-tinted vision, lettering appeared. In a secret message meant only for Anna, the shirt read, “Anna, you are dear to me, and I would very much like to try kissing you if that’s okay.”

“Elsa, is this for real? No joking?”

Her hands clasped behind her back, Elsa nodded, smiling nervously.

“But you're…I mean I thought you were…though god knows I used to think I was…” Anna snapped into a different gear. “But I kept saying this was about sending a message to the whole world.”

“Anna, you *are* my whole-”

“I swear to god, Elsa, if you finish that sentence-” Then Anna cut off her own sentence with the first of many kisses.

anonymous asked:

au where stars are watching humans

 observer effect

i. stars get it wrong, of course–they assume too much phosphorus and not enough fear of death, pulsar instead of pulse. They leave out uncertainty, not knowing what it was above the subatomic level; the softer shades of melancholy and the gentler warmths. But they get the shape right, the brighthot of blood. They get that right too.

ii. all their metaphors are for burning, and they ascribe to soft tongues a taste for sulfur, fingers at the ends of spiral arms. They drink liquid helium from a cracked Dewar flask and wonder aloud if humanity is looking up, looking back.

(how cold they must be, the stars’ carbon cousins–wet and cold, and can humanity do arithmetic in parallax, do you think, counting parsecs between two stars in inexorable collision?

it’s called a kiss, cygnus X-1 says quietly. they call it a kiss.)

iii. they say when you feel your child’s protoplanetary disc first differentiate, you will cry tears of methane.

iv. it’s called the Kindling, when the faint sheen of protostellar mass catches alight, and burns with all the brightness of adulthood. Protostars of thirteen stand around bathroom mirrors, examining their helium layer for bright spots, looking for stray molecular clouds in their nail beds. All of them are in love with the astrophysics teacher, whose stellar wind sends flickers of light across the meteor fields.

late at night (but what is night to a star?) they trace the spiral arms of their evolving galaxies, and dream dry dreams of neutron star collisions hotter than blue hypergiants.

v. we are made of starstuff, says a man, craning his thread-slender neck, looking up into the abyss of wind and fire of the universe.

oh, breathes a star, squinting down at the infinitesimal speck of rock, turning and turning in the vastness of space. oh. 

we didn’t have a name for us, before.

emotional-context  asked:

122 for the Drabble Challenge, please? 😊

Been a while since I did any uni!lock, so this seemed a fun direction to go. Thought of a nice tie in to the show’s canon too! Here goes my last drabble sentence prompt!! :D

122. “I’m worried about losing my job!”

Sherlock stopped in his tracks as he spotted Molly sitting on her favorite bench by the water. He veered off course and went to join her, glad that he’d get a chance to tell her all about his latest brilliance during a chemistry class. The moment he got nearer though, his agenda was forgotten.

“Molly?” Sherlock questioned, taking a seat next to her. “What’s going on? What’s wrong?”

She sniffled and wiped her face with the sleeve of her jumper. “It’s stupid. I know it’s stupid, and I shouldn’t be so upset but…” She turned to him with pleading eyes. “Do I make terrible coffee?”

Sherlock stared back at her, pausing in thought for a moment…which was a moment too long.

“Oh God, I do, don’t I?!” Molly groaned, covering her face before speaking again. “I’ve had complaints at the cafe, and I think my boss is getting tired of putting up with a second rate barista.”

He nodded. “Ah, I see.”

Molly’s chin quivered a little again as she looked at him. “I’m worried about losing my job!”

Sherlock huffed a little but put an arm around her shoulder. “Molly, it’s just a part time job at a cafe. You’ll be a doctor in a couple of years and then what will your latte making skills matter?”

“You don’t understand,” she said, cheek now resting against his shoulder. “This helps me pay for my room! I hate to ask my dad for that money when he’s already paying for most of my education. And he hasn’t been feeling all that well lately and…and what if I can’t afford to stay here and then I have to commute every day? And then I would barely have time for another part time job and- and-”

“Molly, relax, it wouldn’t come to that!”

“You don’t know that!”

Something deep inside bubbled up in Sherlock’s chest; a fiercely protective instinct which motivated him to reassure and comfort this small woman who had been his loyal friend for so long now.

“I do know that, because if nothing else…you could stay with me.”

She chuckled softly against him. “Sherlock, be serious.”

“I am deadly serious! Why not? Why shouldn’t you stay with me? We trust each other, work nicely together, and get on well. Nothing to lose!”

Molly straightened up and peered at him, clearly noting his serious expression. “Well it…it might not come to that but just the same, it’s really lovely that you’d offer, Sherlock.”

He shrugged. “You’ve done many favors for me.”

“Yeah but this is a big sort of favor!”

“Well…” He smiled slyly. “Perhaps you can make it up to me when you’re a successful doctor.”

Molly grinned. “Oh I certainly would!” She looked into the distance dreamily. “I’ll have a lovely little flat in London one day…with a fireplace and a pretty kitchen! It’ll be nice and cozy and all my own, just the way I’d like things set up. And when I do have my perfect little place, I promise you can crash there anytime!”

Sherlock’s brow shot up in interest. “That is quite an offer as well, Dr. Hooper! You may end up regretting it.”

“Maybe,” she agreed with a little laugh and a friendly elbow to his side. “But the offer still stands. If you’re willing to give me a place to stay then I promise I’ll always be willing to do the same for you. That’s what friends do, right?”

She reached down and threaded her slender with his, giving his hand a gently squeeze as she laid her head back on his shoulder.

Sherlock breath caught in his throat and he felt his heart beat at double speed with the affectionate contact. He couldn’t help being a bit concerned about what it would do to him to truly share a living space with Molly Hooper. Though, in a way, he couldn’t wait to find out.

“Yes,” he agreed softly. “That’s what friends do.”

prettyinpetunias  asked:

Ok how about this one for either Negan or Daryl. You both go on separate runs the morning after an unresolved fight.

A/N: I had fun writing this, although I wasn’t quite sure how to end it.

This is my last reader prompt so feel free to send in more. 

Word count: 1420

Warnings: Negan language (obviously), angst?, fluff

“You belong to me!” Negan snarled, getting up close and personal in your face. 

You simply scoffed, fuck him and his fucking intimidation. 

“Like hell I do,” you hissed back, baring your teeth at your ruthless leader and part time lover.

“Whether or not we carry on with this little escapade,” he growled gesturing with a leather clad hand between the two of you. “I’m still your goddamn boss and I still own your fuckin’ ass.” 

“Yeah well rest a-fucking-ssured this won’t be continuing,” you said mirroring the same hand gesture. 

“Watch your fuckin’ tone,” Negan barked, gripping your wrist in his strong hand. 

“I’m so done with you Negan, so fucking done,” you muttered shaking your head in disbelief. “Look it was fun while it lasted but it’s too personal now, I want out.” 

“Then out you’ll fuckin’ have doll.” Negan’s eyes were dark and dangerous. “I’ll even make it real fuckin’ easy for you, tomorrow morning, you’ll go with Simon on his pickup instead of mine.”

“Good,” you spat out, your heart clenching painfully though at his words. 

Slamming the door forcefully behind yourself you retired to your room, trying to hold back the tears that threatened to fall.

Things had never been easy between you and Negan, you had a natural chemistry but both being hot headed meant you clashed a lot…in the end resulting in your first tryst with your boss. 

 It was always hot and heavy between you two, both parties agreeing it would be easier that way, attachment wasn’t something either of you wanted. 

Besides Negan had a harem of wives if he wanted affection, to each other you were just an outlet, something to fill a sexual hunger. There were no soft kisses or gentle caresses. It was rough and animalistic and a means to an end. 

But somewhere along the lines for you had started to become blurred. Jealous would hit you if you saw Negan embracing one of his wives, showering them with ‘love’, or as much love as Negan was able to spread between five wives. You found yourself trying to draw out your fucking with him, holding out for as long as possible, knowing he’d never leave you unspent. 

It was your fault this argument had even happened, jealousy rearing its ugly head. You’d snapped at him for trying it on with you when you were trying to go over plans for the run tomorrow, and now here you were. 

Crying like a love struck fool on the floor of your bedroom, asking yourself how you got into this mess. Negan never cared for you, never did and never would, that was something you were trying to remind yourself of. Something you’d have to keep reminding yourself of.


“Rise ‘n’ shine!” Simon’s voice came bellowing through your door. “Up and atta’em sweetheart.”

You wrenched the door open scowling at your fellow saviour, “how many times have I told you not to call me that.” 

“What happened?” Simon asked quickly moving on the conversation, he was the only one who knew about you and Negan.

“Doesn’t matter,” you grumbled heading downstairs to grab some breakfast. 

“Lover’s spat?” he asked with a smirk and a raised brow earning him a hit to the chest. 

“Shut your mouth,” you hissed, sitting down with a bowl of stodgy looking oatmeal.

Simon raised his hands in surrender, “alright alright, touchy subject clearly.” 

You shot him one more warning look before scarfing down your food, gearing up for the day ahead.

By the time you got outside to the trucks Negan was already there, looking devilishly handsome, bat hanging from his shoulder. 

“Listen the fuck up,” Negan’s voice demanded, “I am not in a goddamn merciful mood today so we’ll be taking more then fuckin’ half of our suppliers shit. They kick up a fuss you know what the fuck to do.” 

Negan avoided your gaze as he address the group, all of you splitting off into separate trucks when he shouted to fall out.

As you reached the passenger side of your truck Negan reached the driver side of his, your eyes meeting for just a moment, his eyes void of any emotion. 

You wanted to cry all over again, but you wouldn’t, never in front of him. 

Even once you pulled away your head wouldn’t let you forget him, you needed to focus, although you knew that would be easier said than done…


“Move the fuck out of my way!” 

The voice registered to you, but barely. There was a god awful pain in your body but you couldn’t pin point where, everything hurt, you didn’t want to open your eyes.



You forced your eyes open, you wanted to see him, know that it wasn’t just in your imagination. 

“Negan,” you croaked as your eyes focused in the dimly lit room.

“Shh,” he soothed, a large hand cupping your face softly. 

This had to be a dream, Negan had never-

“I’m sorry, fuckin’ goddammit I’m sorry baby girl.” 

Baby girl? Good lord you must have been delusional.

“What- what happened?” you asked, attempting to sit up, yelping as a searing pain ripped through your side.

“Don’t move!” he cautioned, his hands so gentle against your frail body. 

“Where am I?” you questioned, eyes taking in your surroundings.

“Infirmary. It all went south at Hilltop, someone took a shot at you, went straight through your side,” Negan was speaking in a hushed voice, his hands enveloping yours. 

As he spoke the words things came back to you in bits and pieces. Someone wasn’t very happy about you taking more than your share, blindly took a shot to make his point, you ending up taking the brunt.

God it hurt like all hell, you felt like absolute shit but even now you couldn’t focus on that. All you could focus on was the man so tenderly stroking the back of your hand with his thumb. 

“Should’ve never let you go with Simon, should’ve kept you close,” Negan’s eyes were absent as he continued talking. “There was so much blood, fuckin’ never seen so much blood, doc told me you might not make it, I just- shit Y/N it scared the fuck out of me.”

He raised your hand to his lips then, pressing light kisses to each of your knuckles. 

“Negan I don’t understand…” you trailed off, because really you didn’t understand what the fuck he was doing or why.

“The thought of losing you,” he murmured, his serious gaze locking on yours, “it was like a slap to the face, tryin’ to pretend I don’t care about you Y/N, I can’t do it anymore.”

Your breathing picked up, you wanted to smile or cry or both. Negan didn’t vocalise feelings, not even with his wives.

“I know you care about me too,” he spoke quietly, “knew a long fucking time ago, should’ve stopped it then but I couldn’t, I wanted you in anyway I could have you, knew you’d never agree to become a wife.”

“Well you were right there,” you responded softly, “I couldn’t share you with that many women, that’s why what we had worked…until it didn’t.”

“Can I kiss you?” he asked suddenly.

You hesitated, it was a boundary that had never been crossed between the two of you, too up close and personal.

You nodded, you couldn’t live with the not knowing.

Standing up from where he was sat, Negan perched himself on your bed, letting his palm slide across your cheek, anchoring you to him as he leant forward. Your lips barely skimmed but it was enough to make you intake a sharp breath, snaking your hand around his neck, bringing forward until his lips were fully against yours.

Your heart was fluttering as you moved against one another, tilting your head left to get better access, a soft moan escaping you when he pushed his tongue into your mouth. Your tongues danced against one another, every movement unhurried and thought out. He sucked your lower lip into his mouth, swiping at it with his skilled tongue, biting it lightly before releasing it again. He pulled back gradually, not want to exert you when you weren’t well, kissing you quickly twice more.

He kept his face close to yours, your slender fingers still threaded through his hair, his thumb grazing across your cheekbone.

“I think we’re gonna be alright baby,” Negan murmured softly, pressing a kiss to your forehead before leaving, allowing you to rest. 


You cast out a slender thread

into the dark boiling storm

this single strand to him

lost far out to sea

was a lifeline,


You split apart all the heavy clouds

with a beautifully clear simplicity

knowing the light was waiting

to shatter those shadows

carried long like a cost

he had to pay,


The loneliness of the faith you held alone

looking for the beauty in the chaos

of a world surging and raucous

was so very pure and delicate

fragile in that way peculiar

to those of gentle nature

strong inside the soft,


The brutish impatience of this world to you

one who wanted only to find some truth

not merely words postured as wisdom

woke in him all that he had forgotten

by resigned choice seeking survival

inside a shrinking gray cage of life

where dreams were weakness

a weapon within the arsenal

of enemies with flat eyes,


He dreams again now

beneath the scarlet waves

of clouds set afire by sunset

looking west to beyond the sun

and he is not afraid of the dreaming

nor wherever his hope might find itself

because once on the razor edge of despair

a line and a light found him in his floundering




He believes again

A Slim Sleepover

It had been a few days since Sasha underwent a magical procedure that made his body thinner and taller. He was still ‘testing’ the look out to see whether or not he would keep his new body type. A short while back, he’d allegedly agreed to babysit someone while her father attended to other matters.

While Sasha worked on stuff in the kitchen, a more long-term guest of his was dry-mopping in the living room. Jamie, a teenage Native American girl who fell down Mt. Ebott around the same time as Sasha, was staying with the Kozlovs for the time until she could locate family of her own. She felt helping the family giving her shelter maintain said shelter was the least she could do. And she expected a quiet day…


NESSAROSE !  →  @unelectedofficial.

          ❝ not at all !   you’re quite welcome to show your full range of emotions; pray no one preys on you. ❞

she tilts her head, SYMPATHY on her face.

          ❝ why are you bitter, dear ?   are you feeling rejected ?   a pretty little thing like you shouldn’t be the picture of MISERY. ❞

anonymous asked:

We need more persistent Daryl constantly being in the mood and Carol being talked into it fics. Personal fav 😈

Smut warning - 18 + only.

He was insatiable. 

Carol had never known anything like in it in her life.

Not that she was complaining…but shit did it put them in risky situations.

“Daryl we can’t,” Carol scolded lightly, pushing his hands that were creeping up her shirt back down.

“Why not?” Daryl huffed, kissing the side of her neck from where he was pressed behind her.

“Because…” she sighed softly when he sucked at that one spot just below her ear. “You know you can’t keep using that spot against me.”

“Is it working?” he murmured against her skin, pressing his fingers into her hips, arching her back against him.

“No,” Carol lied unconvincingly, shuddering when he slipped on hand to tease at the hem of her jeans.

“I think yer a bad fuckin’ liar,” he hummed in delight when she rocked back against him. “Take ‘em off.”

Carol shook her head, all too aware of the bustle and muffled voices from the rest of the party as they stood in the small downstairs bathroom. 

Daryl nuzzled his nose against the crook of her neck, fingertips just inching under her waistband.

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Baby Steps

Pairing: Neymar Jr x Reader

Synopsis: You and Neymar speak of his decision to transfer to Paris Saint Germain and what it would mean for the future of your relationship.

P.O.V: Second-Person

Genre: Romance/Fluff, Hurt/Comfort

Rating: T

Word Count: 1,730

Warnings: Just too many feels. And it’s unedited (oops).

A/N: Just something I whipped up to deal with the feelings of Neymar announcing his departure from FC Barcelona and transferring to PSG. I hope you all like it, and although I’m saddened and frustrated with how Neymar chose to deal with the situation and announce that he is leaving for good, I still support him and wish him the best for the future. Good luck in your career Neymar, and I hope you get everything you wish for. Also, I hope this one shot will serve as a bit of closure for all you reading it. Lots of hugs and kisses! 😘❤️ — jas

This is it, right?” You murmur, your voice quivering with emotion. “You’ve made the decision to leave Barcelona and move to Paris.” You exhale a shuddering breath, hot tears pricking the corner of your eyes and blurring your vision as you glance down at your fingers, which are plucking at a loose thread in your skin-tight, ripped jeans.

Sim,” Neymar responds, bracing his elbows on his knees, as he runs his fingers through his thick curls of hair. “It’s the best for me—for us.”

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The soul that is attached to anything however much good there may be in it, will not arrive at the liberty of divine union.  For whether it be a strong wire rope or a slender and delicate thread that holds the bird, it matters not, if it really holds it fast; for, until the cord be broken the bird cannot fly.
—  St. John of the Cross