oppressive breath

In this instant life is so sweet
To soothe the heart the mind repeats:

Oppressors who poisons prepare,
Will not succeed, late nor soon.
What if they have put out the lights
In Love’s alcoves? Let them beware
Can they ever snuff out the moon?

-Faiz Ahmed Faiz

In my dreams the world was ennobled, spiritualized; people whom in the waking state I feared so much appeared there in a shimmering refraction, just as if they were imbued with and enveloped by that vibration of light which in sultry weather inspires the very outlines of objects with life; their voices, their step, the expressions of their eyes and even of their clothes – acquired an exciting significance; to put it more simply, in my dreams the world would come alive, becoming so captivatingly majestic, free and ethereal, that afterwards it would be oppressive to breathe the dust of this painted life.
—  Vladimir Nabokov, from ‘Invitation to a Beheading’
Chained To London

Pairing- Kit Harrington x Reader

Warnings- smut, BDSM, pain play, mild degradation, language.

Summary- Your last night in London turns out better than excepted.

A/N- I do NOT advocate novice whip/flogger use as it can be very dangerous without extensive training. Always be safe!


thank you chica! Thanks for dealing with my drunk writing and all the great feedback! XOXO


this one was for you my love!

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I am not suited for concert giving; the public intimidates me, their looks, only stimulated by curiosity, paralyze me, their strange faces oppress me, their breath stifles me. But you —  you are destined for it. For when you do not gain your public, you have the force to assault, to overwhelm, to control, to compel them.
—  Frédéric Chopin to his friend, Franz Liszt

My Dream
by Christina Rossetti (1830-1894)
Read by Helena Bonham Carter

Hear now a curious dream I dreamed last night,
Each word whereof is weighed and sifted truth.

I stood beside Euphrates while it swelled
Like overflowing Jordan in its youth:
It waxed and coloured sensibly to sight,
Till out of myriad pregnant waves there welled
Young crocodiles, a gaunt blunt-featured crew,
Fresh-hatched perhaps and daubed with birthday dew.
The rest if I should tell, I fear my friend,
My closest friend would deem the facts untrue;
And therefore it were wisely left untold.
Yet if you will, why, hear it to the end.
Each crocodile was girt with massive gold
And polished stones that with their wearers grew:
But one there was who waxed beyond the rest,
Wore kinglier girdle and a kingly crown,
Whilst crowns and orbs and sceptres starred his breast.
All gleamed compact and green with scale on scale,
But special burnishment adorned his mail
And special terror weighed upon his frown;
His punier brethren quaked before his tail,
Broad as a rafter, potent as a flail.
So he grew lord and master of his kin:
But who shall tell the tale of all their woes?
An execrable appetite arose,
He battened on them, crunched, and sucked them in.
He knew no law, he feared no binding law,
But ground them with inexorable jaw:
The luscious fat distilled upon his chin,
Exuded from his nostrils and his eyes,
While still like a hungry death he fed his maw;
Till every minor crocodile being dead
And buried too, himself gorged to the full,
He slept with breath oppressed and unstrung claw.
Oh marvel passing strange which next I saw:
In sleep he dwindled to the common size,
And all the empire faded from his coat.
Then from far off a winged vessel came,
Swift as a swallow, subtle as a flame:
I know not what it bore of freight or host,
But white it was as an avenging ghost.
It levelled strong Euphrates in its course;
Supreme yet weightless as an idle mote
It seemed to tame the waters without force
Till not a murmur swelled or billow beat:
Lo, as the purple shadow swept the sands,
The prudent crocodile rose on his feet
And shed appropriate tears and wrung his hands.

What can it mean? you ask. I answer not
For meaning, but myself must echo, What?
And tell it as I saw it on the spot.

@dr-khalii @fear-and-control

The air in the tunnel was murky and oppressive and felt like breathing through a thick rag soaked with algae, but the band of three pressed on.  And what a band they made–a literature professor and ex-rogue, one of the GCPD’s few competent agents, and the bird companion of the former’s current quarry.  If he had the breath to do so, Alexander would have laughed at the situation’s utter absurdity.  But he found he had to conserve it if he wanted to make it to the end of this mire.

And make it out they did–the tunnel finally gave way to a spot of light, which revealed…


A Warning to the People

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After what happened yesterday, the 9th of November 2016, I felt that I had to write something.

I’m going to tell you a story. No, I will tell you about a situation, about a historic period that is not so different than the moment we’re living in.

To let you undestand this story, we have to came back at the end of the 19th century and the beginning of the 20th century. First of all we have to remember what happened in the last years of the 19th century.

The 19th was a cetury of riots and fights. Many nations fought for indipendency and unity. Italy and Germany are the best examples of what happened in those years.

In the 18th of Jenuary 1871, Germany was unified. For the entire century, philosophers, writers, artist, celebrated the German spirit and nationalist ideals were spreading. This situation is the basis to understand the following events.

So, as I’ve said I was going to tell a story. This story began at the end of the First Wolrd War, in 1919. Officially the war ended with the Treaty of Versailles. It ended thw war against Germany. Infact that Treaty was hard and humiliating for the defeated nation. Germany was forced to disarm, make territorial concessions, and pay high reparations. Germans reacted agaist these conditions as a insult to the nation’s honour. Anyway, they had to pay high reparations. This contributed to impoverish the already damaged economy. The country was devasteted by hunger, uneployment. In addiction inflation  reached appalling  levels so as to reduce the mark to a mere waste paper. The riots,  were the order of the day and the government appeared too weak to stem the protests. The specter of a pro-Bolshevik revolution was always more concrete. In political landscape emerged the figure of Adolf Hitler.  He thought that Jews and Communists were responsible for Germany’s defeat. He was nominated leader of the National Socialist German Workers’ Party. His party had a military organization through the SA that were used during the Munich putsch, a failed coup attempt in 1923 . Hitler was arrested  and in prison he wrote the Mein Kampf, where he explained his ideas. From 1925 to 1928 Hitler and his party began to have more and more consent. Nevertheless the Nazi Party lost the elections in 1932. But thanks to  the line opponent divisions, to clever political moves and delicate alliance mechanisms, Adolf Hitler nominated  on the 30th of Jenuary 1933, Chancellor of the Reich. At this point we have to understand why a nationalist party had such an increasing success. The answer arrives from America: the Great Depression. In the 1929 there was the Wall Street Crash, the most devastating economic depression of the 20th century. It affected worldwide. The Great Depression hit Germany hard. With the Wall Street Crash America was no longer able to finance the loans to help rebuild the German economy.The unemployment rate reached nearly 30% in 1932, reinforcing support for the Nazi and Communist  parties, causing the collapse of Social Democratic party. Hitler ran for the Presidency in 1932, and even if he lost to the  Hindenberg in the election, it marked a point during which both Nazi Party and the Communist parties rose in the following years. Hitler’s success is based of the support of the middle class that was hardly hit by the economic crisis. Farmers and veterans, instead, were attracted by ideals of folk, the mith of purity of blood and and land. On the 30th Jenuary 1933 Hitler gained power.  Using  the pretext of the Reichstag fire , Hitler issued the Reichstag Fire Decree on the 28th February 1933. The decree suppressed much of the civil rights guaranteed by the Constitution of 1919 of the Weimar Republic in the name of national security and the  opponents of the regime, where jailed. At the same time the SA launched a wave of violence against trade union movements, Jews and other “enemies”.(Seems familiar?). He gained his power legally, and was always popular until the end of the regime. He was an incredible speaker, and  with all the media under the control of his propaganda chief, Joseph Goebbels, he  was able to persuade Germans that he was their savior from the depression, the communists,  the Treaty of Versailles and the Jews.He wanted to make Germany great again! (It reminds me something). Once he became Führer, his campaing against Jews. In 1935 were promulgate the Laws of Norimberga. According to these laws Jews lost their status of German citizens and were expelled from government employment, professional bodies, and from its economic activities. They were attacked by the propaganda. These restrictions were further exacerbated, especially after the anti-Jewish action of the night between 9 and 10 November 1938, known as the “crystal night”. Since 1941 the Jews were forced to wear a yellow Star of David in public. Well at this point we all know what happend to Jews, gays,opponents, gypsies, disabled people.

I wrote this because nowadays, in the 2016 we’re living in a very similar situation. I felt that we need to remind where fear, desperation and anger could brought us.

As in 1929 we are experiencing a severe economic crisis that has brought poverty everywhere. All citizens are oppressed and want to breath. In addition the recent terrorist attacks, increased immigration have led  increased xenophobia, the fear of foreigners. In the past were the Jews today are the Muslims. Right-wing governments are pressing on these factors to fuel hatred and violence. Not only fear of foreigners but also fear of difference. The members of the LGBT community continue to be discriminated hated, killed, persecuted. Look around, listen to the newspapers, pay attention to your workplace, school, cities. Hatred, bullying, violence are commonplace. The right-wing governments have more and more success.
An economic crisis, poverty, labor crisis, fear, violence, racism, misogyny, sexism. With Trump in power this is what we have, with Trump to power the right-wig of countries are stronger. I do not know what the future holds but analyzing the facts I know what could happen. Please, study the past, do not forget,  not let it happen again. I know it’s hard, I’m afraid too, I found myself being intolerant sometimes, but we are humans. we need to listen to our rationality and remember that we are all equal. 

“let’s get weird”

my mortal sin was existing in your reality

that even some nights, unrecorded, i am losing sleep for illogical, self-loathing reasons.

my cynical self looks through the sunken place, as a knock-off ‘fate’ guides poor Lenny into mortal oblivion. in the woods, i am another brother who has fallen to sociopathic tendencies. i am a label with no signatures. i am but one male blessed with the DNA arrangements equivalent to, at its peak, mediocrity.

i will be sorted to a crowd that will breathe in oppression for as long as there are words able to hurt, words able to relinquish one’s will. a will forged from combatting years of “too weak”, decades of “you’re not trying hard enough”: a fallacy from society’s strict parenting. 

i am afraid of my mind’s own image, after all. 

i am deathly afraid, sometimes, to look at old memoirs. i cannot take back happier times. i cannot exchange my feelings of failure for an obligation to a “better” me. there is no final draft.

but when thoughts of film or outdoor cinema-esque utopias come to mind, these memories are re-enacted in our interactions. scary, undeserving déjà vu. i feel clichéd that these imaginary, pixelated wings have fluttered into my own gut and that this nausea, as WebMD suggests, means that i am in love, or perhaps depressed, or maybe just constipated.

while i come here to spew Kanyeism, i convinced myself of seeing beautiful colors in the souls of my companions. i digest their hues, carving them with trivial pursuit. through my lens i can admire the neons, the pastels. in this moment of time, i have discovered an iridescence from a particular body, albeit rather late. a stain–no–a birth mark that i misjudged as “weird”.

“god loes loves ugly”

“I Am God”

i know i have so much time, really. to do anything. but why does it feel like i only have these last few years to depend on?

It was unlike her to complain about the summer here, but she had noted twice recently that we had not remained in our special places where the season is celebrated. We found ourselves instead where suffering was commonplace, if only because the humidity lived and breathed and oppressed us, as though that element of the region had manifested as a playground bully. The insects didn’t hum; they shrieked, egging on that bully.

“October will be here when we wake up in the morning,” I said.

“But this is August,” she said, not quite arguing the case, but leaning in to me as she always did to indicate some great curiosity.

I was too tired to pretend along with her. 

“Don’t put on that you’ve forgotten how this works,” I replied.
“If October is coming to rescue us, then we might just as well be languishing in June. October is tomorrow, because it has always been tomorrow. Just as we have always walked in that early mist, tomorrow, and as we have always lied on the grass under a cloudless sky, that same afternoon. Fall is always with us, and it will be with us again, yesterday. The colors are here now, tomorrow. I know you can hear them rustling.”

“You’re sweet to spell it all out for me again,” she said. Or would have said, if she had been there.

from I Am This House   Green Vincentine

“They Say Romance is Dead”

Summary: Lucy Heartifilia’s first kiss isn’t exactly what she expected it to be.

For maureen-hime; thank you for listening to my crap headcanons, you’re stellar.

Lucy Heartfilia would consider herself a romantic.

She grew up buried in stories, wearing them like armor. Her father’s mansion was huge and opulent, but it was also empty, drenched and dripping in silence.

It’s difficult to describe the weight of true, honest silence to somebody who’s never experienced it. There is a taste to it, a cloying kind of sweetness, that hangs in the air, clings to skin and hair, wraps clammy fingers around your throat and doesn’t let go.

Fairy tales, epic sagas of love and sacrifice, were the only things that kept Lucy sane. When it got too oppressive, when her breathing echoed too loudly around her overlarge bedroom, the rustling of pages put her to sleep.

As she got older, she began to read less and write more. Lucy knew she was no literary genius, no poetic mastermind, but she also knew that she was honest, that she poured herself into every line of script she put onto a page. And each story she wrote was, at its core, bound with romance, with sunsets and kisses and dramatic declarations of true love.

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…in my dreams the world would come alive, becoming so captivatingly majestic, free and ethereal, that afterwards it would be oppressive to breathe the dust of this painted life.
—  Vladimir Nabokov, Invitation to a Beheading

The bunker is so quiet, sound of Sam’s bare feet on the concrete almost impossibly loud in the silence.

He shivers a little as he pushes Dean’s door open, goosebumps pebbling the skin on his arms as he stands in the doorway. It’s cold, living underground. Chill in the air that’s hard to shake, no matter how much they run the heat.

It’s pitch black in Dean’s room and Sam hadn’t bothered to turn on the light in the hall, but he doesn’t need to see to know that Dean’s awake, can feel his eyes on him in the dark like it’s a physical thing, hear his ragged breaths in oppressive quiet.

He hesitates, and Dean hesitates, and they hang there for a second, suspended, and then Sam hears the rustling of fabric, sees Dean’s vague outline move on the bed, shifting the covers back.

Sam lets out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding and shuffles over, slides under the covers and curls up on his side, not touching, but close. The bed is body-warm under him and he lets himself feel comforted, just for a minute.

“I don’t want the rocking chair to be empty, Dean.” He feels so old, usually, but tonight the terrified kid at the center of him is pushing at his insides, making his chest tight and his stomach heavy and his heart all achy under his ribs. He wants his brother, misses him so bad that his throat clogs up and his eyes prickle. It reminds him of being 14, Dean out on a hunt with Dad while Sam sat at home and hoped desperately that they came back alive, totally powerless to contain the terrible fear at the possibility of living the rest of his life without his brother and he hates it, hates how needy, vulnerable it makes him feel.

Sam hears Dean’s breath catch, throat working as he swallows it down. “I know. I don’t. Tell me what to do, Sammy. Tell me what you need.”

Sam’s hand slides across the sheets, closes the distance between them until his fingers just brush the bare skin of Dean’s hip and Dean sucks in a breath. It’s the first time they’ve touched for no reason in a long time. “You fucked up. I need you to understand how.”

Dean shifts onto his side, faces Sam in the dark. “I won’t apologize for saving you. I’m not sorry that you’re alive.”

Sam shakes his head. “That’s not what got us here, Dean.”


“You can’t decide for me. You can’t lie to me. You can’t-” Sam swallows. “You just can’t. Please, Dean. I can’t prove to you that you can trust me. I’ve been trying for years. I can’t force you to treat me like an equal, like a person. I know you want to protect me, but the things you do… they aren’t protecting me, Dean. They’re killing me. I can’t force you, but if you don’t-” He closes his eyes, breathes in slow. “I don’t want the rocking chair to be empty.”

Sam opens his eyes when he feels Dean’s fingers bump against his.

“I’m sorry.” Dean says, voice rough and wavering.

Sam brushes his thumb over Dean’s knuckles. “You fucked up, Dean. You fucked me up. Us up.”

“I know.” Dean’s voice grates on itself, bends and cracks and makes Sam’s chest hurt. “I’m sorry. I’m really. God, Sam. I never wanted this.”

Dean doesn’t make excuses. He doesn’t try to justify it or explain himself - Sam knows the reasons, and for the first time Dean seems sincere. Like he’s beginning to get it.

It’s a start.

Sam shifts closer, hooks their fingers together between them. “I’ll let you prove it.”

Dean breathes out, ragged. “Okay.”

It’s the best he can do. Things are broken between them, and no amount of duct tape and safety pins is gonna fix it. It’s going to take time, and it’s going to hurt, but maybe this time they’ll get it right.

“Okay.” Sam says, and when Dean ducks forward to press a kiss to his forehead, Sam lets him.


“I’m just…worried, Sam.” Cas shook his head imperceptibly, looking out into the still, uneasy quiet of the night.  The motel sign reflected off of the rain-soaked parking lot in the darkness, and the air smelled of wet roads.

Sam nodded, shifting. “Yeah. Me too. It’s…getting bad. But I mean, there’s…” He breathed the damp air. “There’s gotta be a way, there always has been, y’know? The, the book, there must be something…we just need to keep trying.”

“Yes…I know.” Cas sighed. He worried his lip for a moment, looking up at the clearing sky. A few stars dared shine as the air settled around them, heavy, but not from the rain.  Sam glanced at the doorway behind them, and quietly broke the silence.

“Do you…love Dean, Cas?” Sam asked.

“Of course.” Cas answered, with zero hesitation, as if it were an obvious fact of nature.

“I mean…do you, are you,…” Sam gestured, trying to find the words. He let his hands fall in defeat.

“What do you…..” Cas began. His face softened as he breathed out. “Oh.” He dropped his eyes to the blacktop beneath his shoes, hands in the pockets of his trenchcoat.

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have-“

“No, Sam. It’s alright.” He knew this question would come up eventually. “I…”

Another few stars began to peek from behind the dissipating cloud cover.  A lone Ford pickup passed by, kicking up water from a puddle.  The sound punctuated the silence as Cas struggled to find his words.  That, or maybe just to find the bravery to say anything at all.  He swallowed whatever inhibiting emotion he had.

“…I do. I um…” He huffed out a breath of air, even smiling just a little.  Thinking of Dean always brought him a feeling of….warmth. Happiness. “…I am.”

Sam smiled.

“But I…I know that Dean would…react poorly to this, so I…please don’t tell him.” Cas pleaded, leveling his gaze with Sam’s.

Sam’s smile fell. “Cas, of course I wouldn’t just…but you should know that he…Dean,” Cas’ expression turned confused. “He won’t ever say it outright, that’s just him being the stubborn ass he is, but he… he loves you, Cas. I think he’s…in love with you.”

Cas’ breath hitched. Suddenly the air became more than heavy. It was oppressive, hard to breathe. His head began to spin, heart began to jump, eyes widened.  “What makes you think that?”

“I can see it. The way he looks at you, it’s affection.  The way he practically sulks when you’re not around.  How he beams like a damn stadium floodlight when you are.”  Sam explained, smiling again.

Cas was still in disbelief. “We’re friends, and he…values our friendship.” He tried.

“Cas, it’s …more than that. You’re his family.  You’re my family, too, but with him, you’re…” He stopped. “He needs you, Cas. He… loves you.” Sam shrugged, looking to Cas for a reaction.

Those words hit home. Cas would have buried his feelings deep, kept them far from Dean.  He would have suffered in silence, just so he wouldn’t scare Dean away.  Having Dean in his life, however painful, was better than the alternative.  But to hear that he may return those feelings – his heart was burning.

“I just wanted you to know. He’s stubborn as a rock, but it’s there.” Sam offered, but Cas remained pensive.  “You ok?”

“…Yeah, I, I think I am.” Cas answered at last. “You should rest, Sam.  I, uh, I’ll be in in a minute.”

“Yeah, ok Cas.  Night.”  Sam responded with a note of compassion.  He went inside, leaving Cas to think.

Castiel didn’t need to sleep as often as the Winchesters, but he still needed the rest from time to time. Even with grace in his veins again, he wasn’t the angel he was before.  His wings were tattered, his trueform bruised.  Sleep was occasionally a welcome time to heal, even if he was assigned the motel room couch.

Cas entered the room quietly, smiling upon seeing Dean fast asleep.  He was sprawled awkwardly beneath the covers, jaw hanging to the side a bit against his pillow.  It was likely he was also drooling some. The thought of that nearly made Cas laugh as he closed the front door.  The latch snapped closed, despite his efforts to remain nearly silent.  Dean’s eyes opened blearily.

“Cas?” He slurred, half asleep.

“Go back to sleep, Dean.” He answered, stepping further into the room.  He placed his pillow on the couch and removed his shoes. “I’ll still be here in the morning.” He assured.

“Good.” Dean garbled. “You better be.” He readjusted against his pillow, making sleepy noises as he did so. Cas could barely see him by the small nightlight in the room, but sleepy Dean reaffirmed that warm feeling in his chest. If Sam had only heard that one, he probably would have laughed.  He had to stop himself from doing just that.

Cas settled onto the couch, watching Dean sleep as he drifted off himself.  A hopeful, gentle smile stayed with him through the night as he slept.  And, as promised, he was still there in the morning.  And, as always, Dean shone brighter than the sunrise.  But now, Cas knew he shined for him.