embracing emptiness

For Meg

Meg was stirring in a whimsical dream
Meandering through a solitary hiatus.
She promptly took a detour underneath sunbeams that sprinkled fortitude. A blue jay dropped an intricate invitation that echoed, “Patience will anchor your storms.”

Meg embraced the empty static while drenching her aches with lavender oil. As she looked up a blossom intertwined with a fiddle and the metronome of life stood still.
A kitty walked by saying, “ ‘off to the dentist.’ If anything happens who will cry when I die?”

Hilarious thoughts filled Meg’s mind as she awoke thinking the nonsensical dream gave her serenity and strength. She was ‘going to be mostly off tumblr for a few days’ but knew all the writers wished her well & to take time to heal.

Collab with Tony from @ajttk and
I don’t give a….ooops @idgafredux
-thank you for the use of your words in the singular quote marks.

@just-4-thought likes the idea of borrowed words to create a new piece, I borrowed a word from each of you:
@rhymesalot @undertheheart @mycrumplednotebook @wordrummager @teaberrybee @towardsnihility @sonador-reveur @soulreserve @suzyhazelwood @cherokeeghostwriter @ceeslife @barbaranestor @street-heart-posts @nosorryforyou @madeofsaltwater @writteninjoy2 @hangingoninquietdesparation @fakesurprise @mariposamorena69 @dreamcatcher-777 @teacup13 @madworlddiary @quietdissidentlyricist @desayunogratis

Overcoming the nihilism to realize there doesn’t need to be a higher purpose is easier said than done.

It’s all romanticized. You’ve probably come across this. The apathy, the constant questioning and self doubt, the casual jokes about how the world is beautifully unkind.

You laugh in the face of the void because you know there’s really nothing else to do.

It sounds great when it’s a movie script.

It can be cathartic, i guess.

Everyone loves the idea of being troubled when it’s on a screen, close enough to where you feel the echo, but no closer. Any closer would be real.

Truth is….all of that hollowness actually eats away at whatever’s left. When it’s real, it feels like you’re rotting away. Embracing the emptiness means you choose to keep throwing pieces of yourself into it. The apathy becomes your friend You always give of yourself to your friends, right? you decide that nothing exists except as a random flicker in the dark. Just a meaningless little blip. You turn that thought into your lover.

Why care about things if they’re just all inconsequential bullshit?

sometimes it’s just so easy….

But think about this….

fill up that hole with love. No one needs a grand purpose.

Just enjoy what you’ve been given. All the colours, sights, smells, people, and experiences that you only have this one chance to savour.

Who cares if it’s all jus chance. If anything, that makes it even better.

There’s no reason for any of those beautiful moments. So they’re even more precious. Because there’s no script saying they have to be there. You were just lucky enough to witness it. They just are, and have been, and always will be.

And the bad times, they’re just as fleeting. Nothing more than another part of everything else

This too shall pass.

There’s a strange symmetry to it all

It’s a blessing and a curse

But more a blessing…..

Because even if there’s no cosmic purpose, does that make being here for it all it all any less beautiful?

But, like i said at the beginning…. Easier Said Than Done
My Greatest Fear || Fire Emblem Heroes Yandere!Alfonse x Kiran (Reader)

A/N: For some reason, I’ve become obsessed with the concept of it, so now I’m writing this. Shout out to @randomnerdyfan for getting this concept in my head.

In the few moments, I have to myself, I wonder how it ended this way, what I did to trigger it, and how do I fix it? Did I create a monster or did I call out to a beast that was already inside?

I realized what was happening the moment he pulled me close the day he confessed to me. There was something about his touch that was off. I could sense a new, more obsessive, maybe even possessive side to him. At first, I wrote it off as paranoia and maybe I’ve read too many questionable works of fanfiction in the past, but then it just started to get weird.

Keep reading

“You’re serial killers,” I said.

“We’re freedom,” he said. “Freedom can be good or bad. There can be terrible freedom.” He grinned. His teeth were faintly green. “We are the terrible freedom.”

“You’re murderers,” I said.

“America,” he said. “A country defined as much by distance as culture. America embraces its distances. Empty spaces and road trips, but there is always a price. We are that price. We are creatures of the road. We feed on distance, on road trips, on emptiness, bodies by the side of the highway.”

—  Part 1, Chapter 10: Thistle
“Ya Nasty”

A revolutionary new fanfiction of the untold Vesellac’h lovestory. Written by extremely talented newly crowned stars of the century, @vaporeox and @ilonavic

“The first of its kind.” - New York Times.

“Absolutely glorious” - Daily Express.

Chapter 1: 50 shades of gay grey.

The day was anticipating and sunny, Yennefer was pacing anxiously awaiting Ciri’s arrival. At last, Vesemir began to feel a sudden shift in the air, something was coming. Out of the sudden, Ciri and Geralt appeared in the courtyard, where a moment ago, was completely empty. Ciri embraced Vesemir in a warm hug as they laughed and cheered in their rejoice. 

“I’ve missed you!” Ciri laughed. “Where is Avallac’h?”

“Resting in the tower.” he said. 

A glimpse of lust and tenderness appeared in his eyes.

“I’ll go see to him at once, you four just… idk hug or something.” 

Vesemir quickly disappeared up through the tower.

 Chapter 2: A naughty Elf.

Vesemir saw the weary elf lay still in the bed. His hands were joined by his chest, looking up towards Vesemir, with a grim expression.

“You’re awake.” Vesemir began.

“Ya nasty.” Avallac’h replied.

Vesemir chuckled and remained silent for a moment. 

“So…” he quietly mumbled. “How you doin’?”

Avallac’h grimaced.

“Ya nasty.”

“I see.” 

Vesemir was too nervous to make a move. 

Chapter 3: Ya nasty, Vesemir.  

Time had passed, the two were alone at Kaer Morhen whilst Geralt and Ciri was out having a silly snowball fight, Avallac’h had gotten sick of Ciri’s shit long ago.

“How you doin, Avallac’h?” Vesemir asked.

“Ya nasty.”

“So… do you wanna bang?”

“Ya nasty.”

“Is that a yes?”

“Ya nasty.”

“Imma take that as a yes.”

And so, they banged.

Chapter 4: A glorious day for BDSM. 

Avallac’h lead Vesemir into a dark room.

“So…” he began, nervously. “This is my playroom.”

“Like your xbox and stuff?” Vesemir asked.

Avallac’h turned to him, rolled his eyes and grimaced being superior.

“Ya nasty.” he said.

“You have 64 whips? Wow.” Vesemir said. “And what is this? This looks harmful. When do you plan to use all this?”

“( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)”

“Alrighty then.” 

And so, they banged yet again.

Chapter 5: An unexpected turn of events. 

Vesemir came running to Avallac’h with a bright smile on his face.


Avallac’h grimaced.


Avallac’h looked down on his belly and realized Vesemir was right, he was 9 months pregnant. 

“We’re going to be parents! Come on, let’s go give birth.”

Avallac’h later gave birth to a son.

“He’s beautiful…” Vesemir whispered. “What shall we name him?”

“Ya nasty.”

“I agree. Nasty Arnold aep Crevan Espane.”


famous end quote by fran: 

How do I describe the summer night drive experience
where everything feels so beautifully painful
but for an unmeasurable molecule of time
the pain feels at home, like the mess you’ve been meaning to take out,
just those five steps,
that’s almost become a part
of the kitchen landscape.

The softest-spoken Laurie talks to me about my senses
through the speakers
before she plays some more liquid noise, telling me to close my eyes
(unless I’m driving, which I am,
but I still want to).

What if I pull this parking brake right now?
What if I get home and he’s at the front door waiting to finally kiss me?
What if I never replied to another message?
What if I had cheated instead?

Oh, God, what an elegant way to put it,
like it was a spelling test
instead of a whole life.

Like it would have taken your grade
down to a B
instead of infect my mind
for the next undisclosed number of years.

I had other plans for this, but for now,
at least, it always comes back to you.
How trying to explain a trip home from Calgary
drives me back to your empty embrace.

How my heart still aches from the hurricane
of words you tossed at me:
(I Love/where are/how are/fuck) you.

How I hate showering in the morning because drying my hair
is such a time commitment,
but I was ready to spend the rest of my life
with you.

How I can never decide
how to end a poem about you
because I’m not good with endings,
—  22/05/17

This might be a reach, but I’ve been thinking about the way (well, the little we know about it) Bay and Creek works and it’s so interesting how they’re secretive and unknown, blending in and infiltrating. Their hideway in the last episode seemed specially so. 

It reminded me of the Thistle’s Man dialogue with Keisha in the season 1 finale.

“America,” he said. “A country defined as much by distance as culture. America embraces its distances. Empty spaces and road trips, but there is always a price. We are that price. We are creatures of the road. We feed on distance, on road trips, on emptiness, bodies by the side of the highway.”

Bay and Creek seems to try to infiltrate that distance, those empty spaces. It’s a trucking company, which seemed a very strange way to work to fight an evil organization (or whatever Thistle and what comes with them is), but that allows them to understand the distance, to get close their enemies.

Their hideway in the abandoned house reflets that too. They occupy the empty spaces and subtly take ahold of them. Not only that, being in contrast with the Thistle Men, but in opposition to the Police Instigator too, it seems. Putting order and accuracy there. Watching and undertanding, eliminating confusion. 

i think that if you’re like me and you’re non-religious and don’t believe in some kind of a higher purpose, coming to accept the fact that there doesn’t need to be a higher purpose is so much easier said than done. we as a generation, especially with the world in the messy messy state it’s in today, tend to romanticize apathy and constant questioning and self-doubt, we joke about how cruel life is because a lot of times it feels like there’s no other way to respond to all of it. and everyone loves the idea of being troubled when it’s on a screen or on the pages of a book, close enough to where you can feel the echo, but no closer – any closer than that would make it real. 

the truth is, that hollowness ends up eating away at whatever’s still there. when it’s real, it feels like you’re rotting away. coming to accept and fully embrace the emptiness that comes from that sense of not having any grand purpose means choosing to give pieces of yourself to that emptiness. you decide reality as you know it exists only as a tiny blip in the dark and you give yourself to that thought. 

and fill up that hollowness with love. we dont need a Grand Purpose™; rather, just take in what’s been given – all the colors, the sights, smells, sounds, people, the joy, the laughter, experiences that you have just this one chance to take in. if it’s just all chance, who cares, really? if anything, that makes it better. there’s no real reason for any of those amazing moments – that makes them even more special. you were just lucky enough to be there, to witness it. they just are and have been and always will be. lack of an ultimate purpose doesn’t make the fact of existence alone any less wonderful

fated | nygmobblepot

It takes ten steps to reach the opposite end of the room Oswald Cobblepot is being held captive in.

He’s paced that distance several times now. The handcuffs binding his wrists jangle with each lurching step, the joints encased in those manacles beginning to ache. It’s overkill, really, having him bound and locked in a room with bars on the windows, but that’s Fish Mooney for you; she clearly isn’t taking any chances.

The prisoner is just about to slump back onto the thin mattress shoved into the corner when he hears it: the sound of metal grinding against metal, the rusting material groaning as it’s forced away from its anchor.

What on earth…

The last thing Gotham’s former mayor expects to see is the face of Edward Nygma peering in through the window at him.

Oswald blinks, wondering if perhaps he’s dreaming. He shuffles to the panes of glass after recovering from his initial surprise and shoves awkwardly with bound hands at the latch, struggling with the wooden structure that’s been neglected for many seasons, the damp weather warping the frame. He manages the task after a little more effort, his visitor aiding from the exterior to provide the additional counterbalance needed.

“What are you doing here?”

“You’re welcome,” Edward replies, scowling distractedly at a new tear in the leather of his gloves.

“How did you find me?”

“Fish is about as subtle as a hurricane. It wasn’t difficult to track a woman with red hair, two different eyes, and an armed entourage.” His former chief advisor scans the sparsely furnished room behind him. “Not exactly the standard of living you’re used to, is it?”

Oswald shrugs. “A temporary arrangement.” He watches Edward grasp the ledge and hoist himself upward, perching on the sill. He’s dressed in the green silk suit and bowler hat that appears to be his new signature attire. “You look ridiculous in that hat. And that outfit doesn’t suit you.”

“It’s your hat. And I despise puns,” Edward grumbles.

Oswald isn’t sure how he feels about the other man wearing his clothing. “Well I’m not exactly fond of your riddles but that’s never prohibited you from pestering me with them.”

Edward takes a breath and then pauses, as if reconsidering what he’d been about to say. “We’re wasting time. Let’s get going. It’s not far down. You should be able to manage.”

“You’re really rescuing me?” Oswald murmurs doubtfully, eyes narrowed.

“Well I’m not here to discuss the weather.”


Edward smiles, and the gesture makes Oswald’s heart ache with the memory of their former friendship. “No one gets to kill you except me, remember? Let’s go, before the guards notice your absence. We’ve got about two hours until dawn.”

Oswald shoves a chair beneath the window and allows Edward to assist his climb onto the seat, then transfer to the ledge. The combination of his injured leg and bound wrists makes his egress less than graceful. His upper arm scrapes a piece of rusting metal, the remains of the bracket that had secured the bars to the window, gouging a hole in the sleeve of the blazer and cleaving both dress shirt and the flesh beneath. Oswald curses and lands on top of his rescuer, the pair crashing onto the lawn with a thud.

“Sorry, I…” Oswald halts mid apology, assessing the situation, temporarily oblivious to the wound he’s just sustained. It’s the closest he’s been to his old friend since their last embrace. He’s missed this feeling: Edward’s body heat, the comforting press of his lean frame. His cuffed hands are threaded around the taller man’s neck, fingers grazing the thatch of hair that’s now free from its wool covering, the hat dislodged somewhere during the fall. Their mouths are somewhat level with one another; he can feel Edward’s breath skimming over his lips, and he shivers.

He’s made no gesture to move; Edward doesn’t seem in any particular hurry to shift positions either. They continue lying there, waiting, cradled in the soft light from the window nearby, illuminated by the sliver of moon above.

“We should go. The guards,” Edward repeats, but the hands settled at Oswald’s waist still linger.

The evening air is brisk as it strikes Oswald’s lungs with each inhalation. “Yes,” he agrees, still frozen in place.

“You’re bleeding.”

Only now does the pain register, verifying Edward’s observation. “I’ll probably get Tetanus now thanks to your incompetentence.”

“Maybe that was my plan all along.”

Oswald’s rueful smirk turns into a grimace. The laceration really does hurt, and his wrists are throbbing from their prolonged confinement. Edward, sensing his discomfort, promises to pick the lock at his earliest convenience–which certainly isn’t now. The pair untangle themselves and manage to maneuver back into an upright position, footing regained. One hand still hovers just shy of Oswald’s elbow, the offer for assistance obvious.

“I’m fine,” Oswald says, chin lifting with a slight note of defiance. “Where are we going?”

“This way,” Edward beckons, guiding the rescued captive into the stand of trees bordering the property. “It’s fortunate the sky is clear,” he adds, deftly threading his way through the forest. The spackled constellations wink in and out through the breaches in the foliage, teasing a bit of light here and there, but much of the impromptu path is shrouded in shadows, indiscernible and menacing.

“I can barely see. How do you know where you’re going?” Oswald is following his guide more by sound than by sight, listening to his crunch through the previous autumn’s leaves, occasionally interrupted by the cry of some wild animal. He’s not afraid of the dark, but this trek through foreign woods is unnerving, to say the least.

“I know precisely where we’re going. The oldest map in the world is right there. Look up,” the other man urges gently.

Oswald nearly trips and stumbles over something at his feet, cursing silently. “You’ll forgive me if I’m not in the mood for stargazing.”

“It’s steered sailors safely home for centuries.”

“I’m not in the mood for a history lesson either.”

“What are you in the mood for?”

“Nothing, I just want to get out of here–”

Oswald collides into Edward as the man stops unexpectedly. His fingers brush satin and that familiar ache to hold and be held fills his arms. Instead he embraces empty air as the taller man turns away, resuming his expedition through the forest.

The temperature has dropped considerably, and Oswald is feeling that cold, a dull ache resonating deep in his bones. He knows the pace Edward is setting is reasonable, all things considered, but it’s becoming increasingly difficult to keep up with him.

“Ed,” he says, his entire body halting with that one syllable.

“Are you okay?” A soft touch lands on Oswald’s forearm.

“Leg. Arm. Everything,” he grunts breathlessly.

“You’re strong. You’ll make it. You’ve made it through worse.”

“Like being shot and thrown off the docks?” Oswald shakes off Edward’s grasp, ignoring his body’s silent protest at the break in contact.

A sharp intake of breath echoes in the stillness. “Yes. Like that. I never got around to asking you just how you made it back.”

“Does it matter?”

“It matters.”

Oswald wonders at that, lets the words sit there between them for a few moments before speaking again. “Where are we headed, anyway? Don’t you have a getaway car handy? I don’t relish Fish’s wrath when she finds out I’ve escaped.” He still isn’t sure what her plans for him might involve, but he has no doubt that whatever they are won’t be working in his favor.

“Afraid not. This place is quite secluded. I walked a great distance to get here.” Edward shifts the balance of his weight. Oswald can discern his features now, the chiseled angles of his cheeks and jaw splashed with wan gray light. The morning is coming, slowly but surely. “I believe there is a shack close to us. Appears to be an old hunting cabin. I noticed it on the way. We should be nearing it soon. We can see if there’s anything useful inside, rest for a bit.”

Moments later the promised structure is rediscovered–a dark shape hulking in a small clearing.

Edward withdraws something from his jacket pocket, inserting it into the lock. There’s a satisfying click and the door swings inward, admitting the burglar. A soft light blossoms in the shadowed interior.

“Come on in. Have seat,” Edward waves vaguely toward a chair, rummaging through a pair of wall mounted cabinets while Oswald settles into the offered furniture. “Ah! First aid kit. Perfect. You’ll need to get undressed so I can have a look at that wound.”

“Um, handcuffs?” Oswald raises his bound wrists to emphasize his point.

“Ah. Right. I forgot about those. Hang on.” Another deft motion with the lockpick and Oswald is finally free. He massages the sore joints while Edward begins withdrawing supplies from the kit. “Okay, I’m ready.”

Oswald’s fingers are stiff, awkward on the buttons of his plum colored vest. He feels Edward’s eyes on him and it makes his movements even clumsier.

“Let me help you.” The removal of his jacket is another obstacle made more difficult by the injury, but the task is managed. Now the tie and the tiny buttons of the dress shirt follow. Edward has helped Oswald don his clothing many times; undress, only once. He struggles to relax his racing heart, still the quivering of his limbs. There’s nothing sensual about this moment; nothing at all, he sternly admonishes himself, grinding fingernails into his palms.

Edward adjusts the light of the lantern seated on the rough hewn table nearby so he can better visualize the laceration, soaking a piece of gauze in saline before cleansing the worst of the dried blood and grime from the area, then pats it dry and secures a dressing. His touch is gentle, soothing, and the tension gradually eases from Oswald’s shoulders. “It’s not terribly deep. I don’t think you’ll need stitches. I am worried about it getting infected, though. You should have it looked at by a professional.”

“Ivy will have something. If she can patch up a gunshot wound, this will be child’s play for her.”

“Hmm.” Edward hums a little note of…what? Jealousy? Disapproval? He can’t distinguish between them. “You should rest up a bit. We’ll leave at daybreak.”

Oswald allows his rescuer to aid in refastening his vestments, shrugging away the offer to restore the tie to its crisp knot. He fiddles with the silken loose ends draped around his neck, eyeing the dusty pile of blankets on the narrow mattress dubiously before flinging them aside and sitting down. He debates removing his shoes and decides it’s not worth the effort; it’s probably more useful to have them on in case they have to make a hasty exit.

Settling beneath the covers, back propped up against the single pillow the cabin’s owner has provided, Oswald watches Edward. He sits beside the window, peering through the slats of the shutters every now and again. There’s a smudge of dirt on one cheek that makes his fingers itch, eager to smooth that blemish away.

“No signs of pursuit.” Edward sighs and leans back, stretching out his long limbs. His glasses are placed beside the lantern, the bridge of his nose pinched between thumb and forefinger in a gentle massage.

“You must be cold,” Oswald observes.

“I’m alright.”

“You can share a blanket. Or relax over here, if you need to.”

Edward’s throat bobs as he swallows, mulling over that invitation. “We’ve got about a half hour. I suppose…”

The mattress creaks with the additional weight. It’s a cheaply made thing, not really intended for prolonged use or two people.

But Oswald isn’t thinking of those facts right now. He’s inhaling the scent of the man beside him: the faint salted fragrance of perspiration and the earthy tones of the forest and the last hint of cologne splashed on the previous morning. He’s savoring the collective warmth of their body heat, the feel of Ed’s arm pressed against his, the pleasant bump of hips and thighs and calves as he readjusts his position.

“I’m sorry, ” Edward says, “about your arm.”

“My arm?” Oswald can hardly believe what he’s hearing. “That’s what you’re apologizing for?”

“One of the things I regret, yes.” His voice is pure gravel, husky with pent up emotions. “I…missed you.”

Oswald huffs, but the sound is choked. He tries to cover for the slip by busying himself plucking at the blankets, moving the pillow compressed against his spine so that it’s more evenly balanced. “I should have known you’d be the type to hog the covers. Selfish–”

“I’m sorry for hurting you.”

Oswald freezes. This is unexpected. Everything that’s happened that evening has been, but nothing more than this admission.

“I’ve been thinking,” Edward continues, “that perhaps it would be in both of our best interests to maintain our truce a little longer.”

“You’ve been thinking,” Oswald repeats. “You’ve been thinking about it for how long?”

“I don’t know. Last night. Longer.”

“So we’ll agree not to kill each other for a few more…what? Hours? Days? Weeks?”

“We could agree to that. Or…we could break those vows completely.” Edward stares at his companion, waiting. There’s a tendril of chocolate hair kissing one cheek that Oswald finds fascinating. He hasn’t seen the other man this disheveled in ages; not since his days as a disgraced ex-employee of the GCPD.

“And then what?”

“And then…we go on. Together, maybe.”

“Together?” Oswald hates the word; despises the hopeful promise it implies, that the two of them would be not just reunited but bound together as surely as his wrists had been earlier: entwined, entangled, fated. And yet…

“If you still want to. If you still feel…” Edward fumbles for the correct phrase, gaze shifting to the brightening bands of light filtering through the cracks in the shutters.

“Yes,” Oswald says, his entire body sighing into Edward’s embrace. At last.

Dawn has come at last.

To fully embrace our true, Empty Self, we must first check all of our false, limited form-identities (masks) at the final door of liberation – our socioeconomic status, nationalities, religious groups, tribal identities, man-made traditions, cultural biases and social codes.  ~Anon I mus (Spiritual Nobody)

His arms and his heart

His embrace was empty, he held,
Only the air, the heart, it held,
Nothing was not always the case,
His heart was as wood, natural,
Each love, was handed heart and knife,
“Leave your sign” he cooed, each time,
With each whittler, growing smaller,
Only natural,
Something losing pieces as it changes,
So many times, so much taken,
He could not lie,
With mistakes, it’s shape, it’s etchings,
Left him satisfied,
Even with parts unfinished;

She was different, it was felt deep within,
Different, Knowing not how, not why,
“Do what you will, it’s yours” he told her,
He could not imagine it changing hands,
She denied the knife, settling for claws,
Raking talons across,
Erasing each before her,
Caresses, tender tracing she said,
Tired of looking at her work, tired of holding it,
Her hands best when empty,
Falling to the dirt, pushed deep,
By each secret lover’s feet;

Left alone, far from the sun,
Her feet had not touched,
The ground in aeons,
His hands sank below, salvaging,
His only possession,
Marveling at the strange thing,
Stone, cold, sharp and scarred,
Taking it in his arms,
Putting it in it’s cage,
No room for change,
Some things,
Best left,

My heart trembles holding this tasbih with the thought that it has simply traveled through halls and lands of those who are living proofs of Your Greatness: from Najaf al-Ashraf, to Kufa, Karbala, Kadhimain, Samarra, Mashhad, and Qom (visiting the resting places of Ali ibn Abi Talib, Amir Mukhtar, Hani ibn Urwah, Husayn ibn Ali, Abbas ibn Ali, Habib ibn Muzahir, Ganj-e-Shuhada, Hazrat Hurr, Musa al-Kadhim, Muhammad al-Jawad, Ali al-Ridha, jaddati Ali al-Hadi, Hasan al-Askari, Lady Narjis, Lady Hakeema, Lady Fatima Masooma, Tilla-e-Zaynabiyya, and the place where the present, living Imam Muhammad al-Mahdi was last said to be seen). This tasbih has traveled, has seen, has witnessed Your greatness, and has gathered the aroma of your Love…

the aroma of Your Love lingers in my dreams…

dreams - wandering in the boundless fields of Your Love, wrapped in the warmth of Your caress - renewed by Your gentle embrace - an ocean of emptiness, me reaching, You receiving - silent corridors with only echoes of my footsteps and a voice that whispers “come to me, I will find you…”

[make us among the ones who see nothing but your Love, those who will be near You and near those whom with each inhale and exhale emanate Truth, and beauty which numbs all senses and leaves souls in awe of You and only You…]

Part 1, Chapter 10: Thistle

Near the Nevada border, I pulled the truck to the side of the road, cut the engine left the AC on. It is so hot here! Opening the window feels like opening an oven to see if it’s ready for bread – how it feels like you’ve been slapped in the face? Like that. You know, Alice.

I’m staring at my hands. They’re just my hands, like I’ve always had, but…also there is something of Heaven to them, because not that long ago they were touching your hands. How could they be ordinary hands and also hold that memory at the same time? Doesn’t make sense.

I can’t drive while I tell this. Too much to say. I’m going to tell it all Alice. Even the parts you know. I’m going to describe the shape of the monster that is devouring me.

And then I’m going to start this engine, and leave that monster behind.

Keep reading

Darling be aware


A/N: Okay so step into the darkness. This is the first poem im going to attempt to… Put out? I think this is one of the worse ones personally but in saying that i dont think id say any of them are… Good. But. Enjoy. Please.


Be aware of your surroundings my dear,
It only gets better from here.
Learn not to be bothered by the road you walk alone,
But to embrace all the empty.
Learn to embark on a trip to the stars,
Shoot so far, so high you see mars
You see fear it comes from a place,
From a place within
Its okay to accept it, its okay to be
But remember through thick and thin you still have me
For i know you you dont mind change
But the difference is something scary
And i know you may stray
May try to… Push me away
But darling be aware
Be strong, be you, be brave
Be everything you always wanted
But i wont leave even when your mind has been lost
For you, all struggles i have crossed

~Love in those Stars~ HuedhautXMC

-Sorta a leap for me cause I haven’t done a lot of research (not that there’s a lot of summaries to be found at this point) but I’m gonna try my best. It’s based on someone’s description I found on Tumblr. Hopefully this goes well!-
-Wrote it while listening to Haru Haru by Big Bang. If you can stand K Pop, get it on while you read this-


You were no regular woman. You were a goddess. Your body soft and warm in his arms, radiating a heat that could thaw any heart, a brilliance that could illuminate any soul. He needed you. Your smile, your voice, your gentle, precious presence. Everything about you he needed, he wanted, he couldn’t part with.
Your arms were around his waist, a blissful contact he knew he would not feel again for a time too long to bear. Your cheek pressed against his shoulder.
“I love you.”
Your whisper hangs lightly in the heavy, sombre air. Huedhaut tightens his embrace, trying to hold you to him a moment longer.
“It’s time. I need to go.” Your voice is even quieter now. He didn’t need your words. He could feel you slipping out of his arms. No. Fading. You were fading. He had to breathe harder to find your scent, the wonderful sweetness of your skin. His heart raced painfully. His arms tightened pointlessly.
“Say it again.” He requested, the note of a whimper crawling into his voice. You met his eyes, gazes locking for a moment that seemed all too short. You were so beautiful. Huedhaut tried to memorize the look in your eyes, an expression of longing, of sadness, of absolute devotion and adoration that he knew he would never reciprocate for another.
“I love you.”
Your voice slipped into nothingness, your body into air, and his arms fell away from their empty embrace. You were gone. He took a few steps back, suddenly dazed at the emptiness of the chamber around him. He slumped to the floor and stared down at his hands blankly, the hands that were once holding a most precious goddess.

He didn’t know how long he had been kneeling there before the King, head bowed in pain and shame, begging.
“Let me bring her back.”
“You know that it is not possible.” The ruler sounded exasperated, irritated with his behaviour. “You know better than to do this, Huedhaut.”
“It’s not right!” His head snapped up and glared at his superior with a dark blue storm within his eyes. “We grant wishes of humans who have been generous. Why is a goddess punished for the same reason?”
“You know it was not her gift to give.” The King replied simply, rising from his throne to leave. Huedhaut’s mouth opened, about to speak. “Not another word, Aquarius!”
He stayed silent. There was a moment of a pause before the King sensed anything wrong.
“No. Aquarius!”
He had brought his hand over his eye. He could feel the agony tearing through his head, the trickle down his cheek. The silver liquid dripped down his chin, starry droplets in his other open palm.
He stared cooly up at the King with his uncovered eye.
“Give them to her, let her live. I cannot live without her.”
It was the King’s turn to be speechless.
Huedhaut felt his head pound in torture, red hot pain overtaking him as the last of the silver sparkles landed in his palm.
“To her… please.” He extended his hand. “To her…”
The stars slipped through his fingers, and his body hit the floor.

His body moved slowly, jerkily, over to the reflection pool. He saw his own face. It was a wretched sight. One eye shone with the celestial light of a god, the other blank and dull, blinking back at him with a glazed look that he felt revolted at from the bottom of his stomach. But it was worth it. You were worth it.
Teorus said you had been given the chance to be born into a human family, your goddess form sealed in a dormant state. You were alive, but unable to return to the heavens as who you were, the sacrifice of stars from Huedhaut not being quite enough to restore you in their own strength.
Waving his hand over the pool, he gazed down. A newborn was wrapped in a fluffy pink blanket, passed to her mother by the careful hands of the nurse. Her eyes burst open, and Huedhaut saw the sparkle within them. His stars. His stars within the familiar colour of eyes that once looked up at him with pure love. The newborn froze for a moment as if she saw him, and he quickly waved a hand, making ripples tear apart the image. He couldn’t bear to look anymore.
“I will wait for you.” He promised quietly as he turned away. “Always.”

Huedhaut didn’t know how much more of this he could endure. He had found you. Finally. After those painstaking years of being banished from heaven, missing you at his side, longing to find his way back in time to meet you there…
His goddess. His beautiful, perfect goddess with the gorgeous stars in the eyes that he had lost himself in so many times over. 
He had found you just to have you stripped away from his side immediately.
His goddess had chosen Leon.
He had hoped that it wasn’t real. He denied it. It wasn’t true. His goddess wouldn’t possibly do this. His goddess wouldn’t break the heart and soul that loved her so ardently.
But when he gazed into your eyes as he spoke to you, he saw his stars as they were, distant, blankly beautiful, and dead. Huedhaut watched you carefully, waiting for a flash of recognition that would let you fall into his arms. There was none. His heart leapt when they saw the sparkles of your eyes brighten with love, a shimmering glow that he was familiar with, and his heart shattered as he followed that glowing gaze to find Leon at its receiving end.
You didn’t remember him at all.
You didn’t love him at all.
He couldn’t live like this.
He put on his best cool face for the sake of peace. He would not fight with Leon. It would only lower your opinion of him. The ache in his heart became chronic as he watched you with the other god, his face captivated and dazzled - a look that was once upon Huedhaut’s own - as he spoke to you, as he touched you, as he loved you.
And Huedhaut could only watch.
Only watch as you lavished the other god with your attentions, your heart, your support, your laughter.
Only watch as he kissed you and touched you and teased you before the others.
Only watch as Ichthys and Teorus openly discussed the intimate details of the way you gifted Leon your body.
Huedhaut felt his breath catch suffocatingly in his chest when he heard your screams that night, screams Leon extracted from your body with magic and lust. There was nothing to do but to sit there in the common room with all the rest, forcing the aloof and uncaring look over his face, holding the shards of his heart together with all the strength left in his mind. His heart begged him to cover his ears, to tear out of the room and avoid listening to the pleasure another was giving his goddess. Huedhaut knew better than to do that. He had to be supportive of his friend’s relationship. He had no right to be upset.
The screams faded away to a smug and satisfied Leon entering the common room after putting you to bed, and discussions erupted among the teasing gods. Leon cast a grin in his direction, not quite grasping the intensity of his boiling hatred, and turned back to the others. Huedhaut pressed his fist harder into the cushions to keep it from connecting with Leon’s face. It was too much a tempting option to break something. Huedhaut forced himself through a few minutes of the torture, and then cracked, escaping the room with a quiet: “I have wishes to file.”

He had done his best to stay out of your relationship with Leon. He never stopped loving you, his heart hollow and longing for you to return to him every time he saw your face. The days dragged on ever so slowly, agonizingly, and he helplessly stood by as your new love flourished. Leon never said anything else, no guilt, no shame in taking his lover. Only pleasure and fondness ever crossed the golden haired god’s features. At least he loved you.
That was the only aspect Huedhaut could bring himself to appreciate.
Leon loved you. You were well cared for, you were happy, and that was the most important part. As long as you were happy, Huedhaut could bear to stand aside and allow himself to suffer. He could bear this goodbye. He could bear the constant pain in his heart.
Just as long as you were happy.

Huedhaut worked hard. He needed his own forgiveness in the heavens. He needed to build you credit to restore your status. He was working for himself, for you, and the overwhelming load of work was almost enough to distract from the blades in his heart, sinking deeper with every kiss you shared with Leon.
If only there was some sort of deed that would be enough to redeem all the sins, and allow you back to heaven. Of all the futures he could read, all those regarded you were shrouded in mystery. Scorpio had said it was due to his excessive emotional involvement with those visions. He loved you too much. There was never a clear picture, and his heart shook in fear of not knowing. The future with his most beloved goddess was a mist, and Huedhaut found himself crashing through it helplessly.

Years passed. Time began to show through in your features, your actions, your words. You grew more mature, more careful and less flustered. Your face was more refined, more elegant, now into the thirties and aged like fine wine. Your eyes never changed.
They blinked with friendly, cordial stars as you looked at him.
They shone with love-touched lustre as Leon entered your field of vision.
It was a heartbreaking disparity.
The magic within you left you unable to bear children, and Huedhaut guiltily felt glad. None of the gods dared reveal this to you, and he felt a slight pang whenever he watched those brilliant eyes dull with disappointment. He didn’t know how he could cope if you had children with Leon. It would be all too tempting to steal them away, to tell desperate miseries in their futures, to hurt them in ways that would shame Huedhaut himself and ravage him with further pain. He wouldn’t hurt anything you loved. He wouldn’t hurt Leon, as much as he wanted to wreck havoc upon the man who had taken away your affections. But he wouldn’t.

Huedhaut had feared that Leon was to leave you once you grew old, yet the other god only proved his devotion by requesting to allow his change of appearance to age at your side. Huedhaut watched you grow old, the slow deepening of crinkles at the edges of the dazzling eyes, the slight fade of mahogany hair to silver. You were slipping away again, and he watched Leon magically shift his appearance to that of an aged man to accompany you in your life. It was a love Huedhaut had to acknowledge.
But in truth, he would rather it be him.
Death itself would even be a gift if it mean you were the one to die for. Growing old was nothing.

And then the day came. He had forced his way past Ichthys, standing frozen as he watched the faintest rise and fall of your chest.
Leon called your name softly, holding your hand. He sat on the edge of the bed, stroking your white hair with his withered fingers.
Your pale lips managed a smile.
“I love you, ____________.” He stated firmly, kissing your forehead. “You know that.”
The stars in your eyes flashed again, and they went out. The familiar stars, once his, flickered out to nothingness and he felt a start of horror.
She was gone.
His goddess was gone from that body.
Huedhaut felt someone pat his shoulder, and realized he had been gripping Teorus’ wrist. The blond god looked at him with a knowing glance, and lightly eased his wrist out of his iron grip. His gaze turned back to the dying old woman, panic raising in his being. Where was his goddess going? The human woman in the bed closed her eyes slowly, her breathing coming to a slow cease. Leon bowed his head over her body, clinging to the cooling hand.

That voice.
That voice.
He whirled around so fast he thought he would topple. But he was rooted to the floor, gazing into the shimmering, loving stars that he had longed to see for decades. And they weren’t his stars. They were yours. Your own. The ones he had fallen in love with him so many millennium ago, the ones that had met his eyes with love and adoration.
Your hair flowing in an unfelt wind, your long robes the exact same as the day you had left him, your soft voice hanging in the heavy air of the room. He didn’t care if there were others in the room. He crossed to you slowly, nervously, heart pounding in the chest that had felt empty for so long.
You smiled at him, your face young and immortal once more. The smile was soft, and it soothed over all the wounds that had marred his soul in your absence.
His throat felt dry and your name slipped from his lips in a rasp. You touched his hand lightly and gave him a look that said simply, “Wait.”
You slid past him to Leon, mourning by the bed, and Huedhaut feels his entire body tense. No. He couldn’t possibly let you leave him again. Not this sort of forever. He would rather death than to see you with Leon for the rest of eternity.
You placed a hand, slender and smooth, upon the shoulder of the old man.
“You have to return to your form now, Leon.”
Your voice was quiet, and Huedhaut found himself shaking, straining to hear if there as the slightest hint of affection in your tone.
“Leon.” You say firmly, and there was a flare of gold as Leon sits up straighter from the formerly bent back, the white hair fully golden again as the god looked up at you. The wrinkles faded from his face, magic restoring the handsome features and the immortal pride that simmered under the sad eyes. You took your hand off his shoulder.
“She loved you.”
You met his heartbroken gaze and nodded slowly.
“You can find solace in that. To her last moments, she loved you with all her heart.”
Leon reached for you and Huedhaut fought the urge to shove the hands away. Reminding himself of Leon’s recent loss, he forced himself to stay still. Huedhaut felt scared like he was never before. He closed his eyes, plunging into the inner state of his mind, seeking answers in the future. He saw nothing but that silvery mist and heard only your voice.
Huedhaut’s eyes opened in fear. He took a step forward to stop anything from possibly happening, and felt Scorpio’s hand grab his arm.
“Let her do this.”
Huedhaut tried to wrench himself away, but Scorpio held tight.
“Let her.”

You didn’t take Leon’s hand.
“You know I am not yours.”
Starry eyes blinked down at the sitting Leon with grief and pity.
“She housed my spirit, but not my heart. Her heart was her own, and it was yours.” You say softly in your kind voice. “My heart, Leon, is not.”
Leon said nothing, and turned away, snapping his fingers. The body, the human that lay upon his bed, sprang into golden flame. In the firelight, Huedhaut could swear he saw a tear appear briefly by Leon’s eye and vanish. The flames died away as the woman within them had, and Leon snapped his fingers again, gathering the ashes into a swirling sphere within his hands. He clapped his hands together and slowly parted them to see the tiny diamond that rolled, perfectly cut, on his palm. His fist closed around the diamond.
“I know, _____________.” He choked out.
“I’m very sorry.” You say softly.

You stepped away from his side, and beckoned the others out of the room, allowing him to his mourning. Huedhaut’s eyes fixed on you like a hawk, desperate for your reaction. You said nothing as you walked down the hall, and he tailed you like an attention seeking pet. You strolled into his room, and as Huedhaut brought his courage to speak once more, you cut before him.
He had no idea how to reply, lost in the beautiful pattern of your eyes. They shone up at him with the absolute love he had missed for so long.
“Saving Leon was her duty, her redeeming factor.” You said softly. “And with what you did for me… I’m back now.” You paused and let out a long breath. He saw sorrow cloud your bright eyes and remembered the broken sight of his own. He shook his head and let the navy locks tumble over the dead eye, the one blue like an empty midnight.
“I’m sorry, Huedhaut.”
You step forward and wrap your arms around his waist. A blissful shudder goes down his spine at the sweet contact. His arms locked around your body. His goddess. His love. The sole purpose of his existence. He closed his eyes.
“Don’t look at me.” He said quietly. “I-“
You pull away from him slightly and cup his face in your small hands. Tears well up under his lashes at the touch, and you stroke his face tenderly.
“These are yours.”
You stroke his hair back away from his face, loving the familiar silk of his locks under your fingertips. Your thumb brushes lightly against his eyelid, and he felt a light tingling. It was a pleasant, slight sensation that spoke of joy and lightheartedness. He looked down at you and your face blossoms into a gorgeous smile, proudly gazing back into his stars. His rightful stars, restored in all their radiance, to his eyes.

He knew, seeing your reaction. His arms tighten around your waist, holding you closer to him.
He hesitantly brought his lips to your cheek, and you turned your head slightly to allow him to kiss it. His lips touched lightly, lovingly, on the soft skin, and his heart soars in joy. You were back. Back in his arms. Here. Physically present. In his arms. He kissed you again.
“You’re shaking.” You point out quietly, and look up at him. He said nothing and pulled you closer to him. “Huedhaut?” Your spirit had been dormant, the entire ordeal just a wink of sleep for you, but you could read the desperation and longing in his eyes. You remembered nothing from the years of being human apart from a strong pang of emotion that you understood instantly in seeing Leon’s grief. You could only imagine how he suffered through these years.
Huedhaut looked into your eyes, drowning in their depths. He could do this forever. All eternity.
You blink slowly, waiting for him to continue.
“I missed you.”
With that, his lips came crashing against yours with passion, a familiar touch that you gladly responded to. This was the style of kiss you knew and loved, the only kiss you would ever love. Huedhaut’s kiss.
His hand slid up your back and he ran his fingers through your hair, stroking your face, drinking in the wonder of having you at his side.
“I waited.” He murmured. “I… I was scared that you were never going to come back. But I waited.”
You unwind your arms from his waist and see alarm in the dark eyes. Your hands take his, and press them to your cheeks. “I am yours, heart, spirit and body. I love you, and only you.”
He kissed your forehead, your nose, your lips, and felt a smile finally curve the corner of his mouth. He couldn’t remember the last time he smiled.
“Say it again.” He asked.
You smiled back at him with sheer adoration.
“I love you.”
“I love you, Huedhaut.”
And in that moment, he knew it was all worth it.
“I love you, ___________.”

The stars shone at each other, glowing with pure and timeless love.
The future needs no reading. It only needs experiencing.


Thanks for the read! It was actually so long, how did you read through it? 
For those of you that play SCM, maybe it’s a little hard to follow, cause I changed the story here and there for it all to work.
Sorry for those who were waiting for MFW or KBTBB drafts to be published. Just… indulge me for a bit <3 

This took me forever, but my current obsession with Huedhaut makes it absolutely worth it <3

“All I See” continues the story (vague NSFW): http://jinxedperfection.tumblr.com/post/114582776677/all-i-see-huedhaut-x-mc