be mine or you will burn

Worn

I know you can’t hear me.

I saw your grace flash,

saw your wings burnt

across the ground. But there’s

no one else listening, Cas.

It’s always been you.


I’m so tired, Cas.

Worn.

When I wake up I’m already

fighting just to breathe.

Can this ever be

over? Can we ever

really win? It never

stops. I’m so

tired.


I see you everywhere.

Not like after Purgatory.

I know it’s not really you.

Still I stare, reach out.

I don’t tell Sam. He

doesn’t see you.

You are mine alone.


We burned your body.

It felt like burning

my own soul.


Castiel,

Angel of Thursday.

Cas,

our brother,

our friend.


Cas,

mine.


I know

you can’t hear me.

But

no one else

is listening.

It’s always been

you. Only

you. So you

have to hear me.


Can you hear me?


I don’t know

how long I can

hold on. 


I’m so tired, Cas.

So tired.

Can I rest?


Let me see redemption win

Let me know the struggle ends

That you can mend a heart that’s frail and torn

I want to know a song can rise

From the ashes of a broken life

And all that’s dead inside can be reborn

Cause I’m worn


-from Worn

Tenth Avenue North



So…this just sort of…happened. I listened to this song a few times, and thought, wow, that’s Dean. So even though I’m deep into three other fics right now, I took some time out to write a poem.

city lights, part 1
mc (shay delacour)/hana lee.

shay delacour is just out of college, holding down a job, and she can’t get a girl off of her mind. is it really so crazy to think that you might know someone better than they know themselves?

“Did you catch her name?”

Daniel shakes his head. He casts a look over at the girl, who’s playing with her straw as she takes it between cherry-pink lips. Her nails tap gently against the glass and come away shiny with condensation. She hasn’t noticed Shay staring—not yet. “The reservation might’ve been for Lee, or somethin’ like that. But I didn’t hear much.”

Shay groans. A long-forgotten tray sits next to her, stacked with empty glasses and mostly empty plates. “Oh my God, Danny. Do you see how beautiful she is? It’s not just me, right? She’s gorgeous.”

“Gorgeous,” Daniel agrees flatly.

She nudges him. “Hands off. She’s in my section.”

“Actually,” he points out, “she’s in Em’s section.”

“Well, somebody better tell Em she can head home early.”

Arnie appears just then, carrying an armful of dishes. He shoots them a suspicious glance as he passes. “Y’all don’t get paid to stand around, y’know.”

“It’s important business,” Daniel assures him. He turns back as Shay flips her hair over her shoulder and straightens her wrinkled shirt. “Okay,” she says, with a determined glint in her eye. “I’m going in.”

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ᴆᴇᴎɪᴀʟ

Genre: Slight Angst
Info: College AU, Namjoon, feat. Hoseok
Rating: 19+ (for language and themes)
Warnings: Mentions of drugs, heavy drinking
Word Ct: 3.672
Drabble Prompt: “You’ve only heard his/her side of the story. You never asked for mine.” + “Oh my God! You’re in love with him/her!” + “I’ve never felt this way before….and it scares the shit out of me.”
A/N: Again, not a drabble, lol sue me

Have you ever done something that you regret with every piece of your existence? Like that split second where the weight of your decisions just comes crashing down around you. That exact moment when you can feel relationships end, bridges burn, and when trust is completely shattered? No? Well, I have.

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Lux Aurora, Lucifer
Angel of Sol

They say you have fallen,
but do they know not that the great star rises again each day at dawn?
If only they would awaken with you.

They say you have turned dark,
but do they know not of the light that shines from the sky above?
If only they would lift their heads and see.

They say you have burned out,
but do they know not that the Sun has burned so strongly for thousands of years?
If only they were not so ignorant.

They say you are cold,
but do they know not of the warmth and fire you ignite within the heart?
If only they would break the comfort and step outside.

They say that you are sin and downfall,
but do they know not of the life and uplifting joy that the illuminator has given us?
If only they would remove their hands from their eyes.

Light of Dawn, Lucifer
Spirit of the whirling Air and flaming Sun
We break our chains
and with you we fly
into the endless starry oceans above.

-inspired by Swami Vivekananda: “It is we who have put our hands before our eyes and cry that it is dark.”

i. meeting you: when I saw you, the world didn’t reroute on a new axis but the stars seemed to glimmer a little more than I remembered them doing the night before. from the moment our hands brushed, something in me shivered, some part of my heart shook, a form of a yes. a yes, you belong in my life, a yes, you are meant to matter. but we clashed in a storm of fire and ice and it took me what looking back seems like a lifetime to realize that you’ve changed me, that a part of me recognized your scars as the same as mine the moment you spoke a part of my name.


ii. understanding you: it took breaking, it took sobbing in the middle of night and realizing that yes I can be alone with you. it’s this moment, where I see you looking at me, not like you can save me, no. but like you recognize the shadows dancing on my skin, the faint bruises and clenched fists and the ache inside my heart. And the world grows quiet, like it’s giving this moment the weight it deserves, and it’s in the darkness that I realize we can change the universe.


iii. trusting you: and our hands grow bloody as our hearts open, spilling part of us on the ground that the other picks up and remakes. forging a sword, a shield, a song out the echoes we let break away from our souls. somehow I realize the voice in the back of my mind, giving me hope, giving me faith, sounds a lot like yours, it sounds like the way you say my name and I say yours the same way. as absolution, as something almost like salvation, as a need that I can’t live without


iv. loving you: and it’s when you’re threatened, it’s when you’re hurt and the rage that raises up inside me contains the bitten scream of “mine”. it’s when you take my hand, you take my burden like I haven’t transformed myself into atlas to save you. It’s when you gaze into my eyes like i’m something worth worshipping, like i’m something worth burning the universe for. and it comes and goes in waves until one day I wake up and my first thought is you, and when I dream the last name I utter is yours


v. losing you: but the stars that stayed silent at our turning point aren’t content to watch us, no they want to test us but they didn’t understand that loving you  stopped being something that scared me the moment I realized it because, darling, I don’t know where you end and where I begin.  so yes, I lost you to space and time, I nearly lost you to fate but we were always fighters and so I know you’ll come back to me, I know you’ll come home to me.  and our devotion outstrips the fairytales because we were never guaranteed a happy ending, with our dirty hands, with our sly smiles, with our cuts and scars but we’ve made the constellations want to chart our names


+


  vi. finding you:  when we crash back together, the world narrows down to the sound of a beating heart, pounding loud enough to be a greek chorus and it’s a welcome change from the way my chest seemed empty. I always knew that in a crowd of thousands I’d be able to meet your eyes, to find you. and with our smiles the universe restarts, with my name dropping from your lips the sun reignites, because we are the center of the story, from the beginning up till now and we’re only just past the first chapter.

—  The 5 Stages of Loving You by Abby S

I live for chilly autumn afternoons. You’ve just walked home, the sky above is gray and there’s a chill in the air. With every step you take, your combat boots that are laced high to your knees, crunch upon leaves of orange, red, and yellow. On your way, you pass bales of hay and pumpkins that grin at your back. A black cat scurries past your feet and you slip inside your house. You put the kettle on and make yourself a cup of pumpkin spice hot chocolate. Your favorite halloween movie is on and you throw on your sweatpants and your favorite flannel. There’s a cinnamon scented candle burning on the coffee table and an untouched plate of apple cider donuts. Buried beneath the covers on the couch, your hands wrapped around a mug, you let out a sigh. This is what you live for. Outside, the wind howls and the moon reveals itself behind thin layers of fog. Just before you nod off, you’re sure you see a witch flying across the sky. Your dreams are full of swirling colors of gold and red and black cats that trail after cackling witches.

6

you built me palaces out of paragraphs, you built cathedrals by youareiron_andyouarestrong (for @youareiron-andyouarestrong)

or Being a Series of Letters Exchanged between Newton Scamander, Magizoologist and Porpentina Goldstein, MACUSA Auror from 1926 to 1945 [as noted by historians]

love witch self-care tips ❤️

- draw a little heart on your wrist as a reminder to never stop noticing the lovely, tiny things

- write a love letter to anything you want (a favorite character, pet, or person; the earth, yourself)

- surround yourself with rose quartz and ruby

- create an altar dedicated to something you adore

- burn a red candle to encourage more passion within your life

- try and give someone a wonderful compliment each day, even if they are a stranger (spread love all around)

pretty boy ☾ peter parker

summary : you think peter is very pretty, and your duty as his girlfriend is to tell him every chance you get.

wc : 1.4k 

  Peter Parker has freckles. They’re countless in amount and infinitesimal in size, but they’re spread across his sloped nose, his cheeks, and some of them are scattered across his shoulders from the days he spends at Rockaway Beach in the summertime sun not because he likes the beach, but because you do and you drag him there almost every day throughout July. He doesn’t mind. He can’t have you taking the train there alone, and he’d rather spend time with you in the sweltering heat than leave you by yourself. If you’re sitting close enough, the way you are right in this moment, you can count each one of those stars on his cheeks and play connect the dots with a ballpoint pen, if he’d let you. He most likely would. Peter would let you get away with anything. If you were to try to kiss each individual freckle that was settled there on his skin you’d be pressing your lips to his cheeks for hours on end. He’d like to see you try such a thing. 

   Peter Parker also has the sweetest brown eyes you’ve ever had the pleasure of gazing into. They were warm and kind and they felt like home whenever he turned them on you in that loving way he held. You love the way he looks at you, often and bright with happiness. You haven’t stopped looking at him since you started all those months ago, you couldn’t anticipate a time when you would. He doesn’t mind the permanent way his eyes settle on you, but it’s the way you’re always looking at him that makes him blush and turn his face away. He’s not much to look at, in his opinion. 

    He whines a little when he catches your eye again, trained on him like a reflex once again. His face glows a red the color of a ripe strawberry as he spins around in his chair and stares at the peeling cover of his science notebook. “What’s wrong, pretty boy?” You grinned when he flushed a deeper shade of crimson, still evading the smile that crept across your face. 

   “Y/N,” he whines once more, the heat creeping up toward the tips of his ears. He turns toward you, holding his cheek in his hand and keeping his elbow propped up on the swivel chair. “You know I get all,” he squirmed around in his chair, “flustered when you call me that.” The admittance came with a great reluctancy on his part, but it only made you smile more as you walked across the room and cleared away the clutter of his desk, taking a seat there so you could continue your study in Peter Parker. “I’m not pretty.” 

    “Shhh,” you chastised, using your foot to spin him back around. “You’re very pretty, Peter.” He stretches out his hand, waiting for you to grab it and hold it as careful as always. He presses a kiss to your knuckles whenever you hold his hand, he knows you think it’s the sweetest thing ever and that every single time he does it, you swoon like it’s your first date all over again. He’s big on holding hands. It’s intimate without being too much, and the teachers can’t really scold him for holding your hand the way they can for kissing you against the lockers when you both think no one is around. Still, he kisses your hand, and you close your eyes, smiling shyly. Then, you say, “How’d I get the sweetest, prettiest boy in the universe to be mine?” 

   “Oh, god,” he takes his hand out of yours and covers his cheeks with them, feeling the warmth of his skin against his palms and squeezing his eyes shut. He can’t believe what you’ve made him. A blushing mess undone the moment you call him pretty, sweet, yours. “Feel my cheek,” he demanded, grabbing your wrist and pressing your palm to his face. You laugh. 

   “You’re burning up, babe,” you say, patting his cheek. “I can’t help it. I have to compliment you. All the time. Every hour of every day.” You tap a finger against his cute nose. 

   “I would compliment you but every time I try you swoop in and render my speech incoherent with that little nickname you have for me,” he kept his fist against his cheek as he stared up at you, your legs dangling off his desk as you extend your hands out for him. He takes them, presses them to his cheek. 

   “What nickname?” You question innocently. “Oh, oh, oh, I know which one. Pretty boy.” You held his scrunched up in embarrassment face in your hands, squishing his cheeks. “So pretty.” 

    “I’m gonna spontaneously combust.” The words came out muffled because of the position his face was in, but if he were being honest, he could feel himself light up every time you said he was pretty, as amusing as the word was to him. Even if he doesn’t think he’s much- anything, really- to be fond of, he’s happy, so happy, that you disagree. 

   You call him pretty boy every chance you get. You seize the opportunity with pride, throwing a wink his direction when you can because he has the dopiest little smile on his face for the rest of the day even if he feigns irritation in the moment. 

     You greet him every morning outside his apartment building with a cup of coffee in your outstretched hand and a sweet smile curling at your lips and a, “Morning, my pretty boy,” and Peter starts his school day with a blush, his arm around the shoulders of the girl that he loves. You lean up to kiss the corner of his mouth. He’s invincible. 

    Then, you see him in chemistry class, goggles strapped to your face and a stupid apron around your neck. His heart still stops when he sees you. You slide in the seat between him and Ned, pulling at his goggle strap before it snaps back to his head as gentle as you can manage. “Did you finish the lab conclusion, pretty boy? I’m stuck on the last sent- Ned what happened to him?” You turned to the other boy, eyebrows raised in confusion because Peter is motionless and the redness is spreading all over his neck. 

   “You called him pretty again,” Ned replied, stretching his hand across the table and waving it in front of Peter’s face. “He’s probably just offended that you didn’t greet me with a compliment.” 

   “C’mon, Ned, you know I think you’re gorgeous.” 

   “I’m actually not deaf, guys.” Peter nudged you playfully, rubbing his cheeks with the sleeves of his gray sweater. You ruffle his honey hair. 

  “We know,” you answered. “Ned’s stunning, obviously-” Ned grins at this- “but you’re forever the only pretty boy for me.” Peter scrunches his nose up. Then, he takes off his goggles, placing them next to the looseleaf paper that has his neatly compiled lab report scrawled over the page. He leans forward, scooting his chair close to you so he can remove your goggles, too. He takes your face in his hands and kisses you quick. He’d put more passion into it if the teacher wasn’t standing across the room, looking for any excuse to separate the two of you. Every teacher was the same. He pulls back after a second, his hands lingering on your cheeks when he gazes at you. 

   “I love you, you beautiful and lovely and wonderful girl of mine.” Triumphantly, he removes his hands and places them back down on the desk. He catches it before you turn away toward Ned, and for a brief and fleeting moment, it’s there on your cheeks. “Oh, oh, what’s that I see? Is that a blush?” He jumps around to Ned’s spot, a stupid, prideful grin on his face as he savors the moment for himself, commits the pretty sight to memory. “Pretty girl, are you blushing?” He pressed his hands to against your face, pinching your cheek gently, lovingly. You punched him in the arm, a warning behind your eyes, but Peter didn’t care in the slightest. 

   “Yes, you big idiot,” you mumbled. “Happy now?” 

   “Oh, I’m very happy.” 

   “I hate you.” 

   “Do you really?” Peter raised his eyebrows, resting his palms against your shoulders and rubbing his thumb along the place where your collarbone peeked out of your shirt. 

   “Of course not,” you said, a grumble in your tone. “I love you and your pretty boy face, sweet little freckles and all.” You poked a couple of his freckles and kissed the one by his mouth. Peter sighed, still smiling brightly because no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t pretend to be annoyed at you when you called him that name. He’d wear it with like a badge of honor, grateful for it. He had an effortlessly gorgeous love that thought he was the prettiest thing she had ever laid her eyes on, so what more could he ask for?