When I look at the constellations,
I think of you,
and the way our fibers have
intertwined to create a story
worth telling for generations.
The story of two lost souls,
looking for answers to questions
that haven’t been asked yet.
You and I—
we come from the same atom;
when the universe was created,
the very essence of our souls
were torn apart, only for them
to find each other again.
When I look at the constellations,
I see your eyes lighting up when you laugh,
your dimples when you smile.
I see the beginning of the universe,
and every possible thing that could have
prevented our souls from reuniting—
time, distance, just life in general.
Yet here we are,
walking the world together.
I like to think that in every universe,
even the reality where the sun is purple,
people sleep during the day,
and teenage lovers take secret walks
under the sunlight—
you and I still find each other.
When I look at the constellations,
I see a story—
the story of the light,
and the darkness,
finding solace in the way
we fill each other’s
This is all we own. What’s inside this orange bus is it. We don’t have a second residence. No storage unit of stuff. What you see is what there is.
When we hit the road years back, this didn’t really seem glamorous to much of anyone we knew. Including ourselves. Friends who lived in their vans, even the ones who loved their lifestyle, were low key about it. After all, what is any of this but voluntary poverty? Who really thinks it’s glamorous to live out of a vehicle? Family worried about our mental health.
It isn’t really glamorous, not much of it, really, not the cold nights, not the cramped living space, not the unsure days when we’re floating at the whim of the wind about every decision under the sun, including where we’ll sleep that night.
But there’s something to remember. We didn’t begin living this way for glamour. We did it because it allows us to feel, to connect, to touch, because, really, in such a mad world, what the hell else were we going to do?
Home is where we fell in love, it is the promise of strong roots and tough bark, it is water to withstand the drought, it is gold and green and blue. Home is where the sun sleeps and the land ends. Home is where we started, where we might start over, where the future waits to unfold. But we are not ready for home today, our hearts and minds too broken to be still, too freshly burned from the flames of our love. Home must wait for now. For us, for you, or maybe just for me. The future wears many faces, and although ours was the most beautiful I’ve seen, there are still more to see. We are not ready for home today, but it will be there waiting for us, because that is home.
They laughed as they carried her, laughed as she collapsed to her knees on the ground, laughed as she twisted, screamed and begged for anything but this. They wore smiles like the wolves that had flesh in their teeth, and fingers hooked like claws that dug into her hair and lifted her head up to face the darkened woods that they drug her through. One of them would kick her occasionally, as if she were cattle slated for the slaughter–set to move on the path to butcher waiting with a knife. The white gown she had worn to bed that night had long ago been stained with mud and torn from the twigs that littered the ground, her knees split open and bleeding to leave a trail that could guide her back home were she able to turn around. She had gone to bed not knowing she’d be taken from it during the night and forced to leave the only home that she had ever known. She had gone to bed believing in her innocence while the town planned the consequences of her guilty sentence. The broken bleeding lamb in white, waiting to be stained red in the midnight forest.
A priest’s severed cock attached to a dead root. Only a few feet away from where the Crone of Bevis lies sleeping. Sun rising to reveal a nest of old bones: A giant who died before the last epochal shift. Slightly charred from ritual the night before. When the moon is least stricken & emboldened the sky. The foul stench of burning is faded. Murderers hid in their bosoms as the nightmare world unfolds. A pale worm entering his psyche by suggestion. Meanwhile, the crone slumbers in warm darkness. Retching & menstrual plague. Raising a mirror to the bubbling artifice to retract its sense of doom. With shaking & emotional fury she has reduced the world to its foundation. Looking beyond the gaze of a priest into worlds that allude to the presence of false gods.
Energies abound in certain acts of violence. The crone summons wraiths to rape & rend his soul …
Old worlds giving birth to new testimonies. The Crone of Bevis awakens with the taste of blood & soil in her mouth. She looks across a giant’s grave, bleary eyed, at the priest she dragged back here in the night. She recalls others, too, who aided her in this request.
Faded with the night. Larvae borne of a bleeding moon. Stored in giant’s bones …
Oracle of Ascapard. What is proven, even, in their book. Metaphysical oversight concerning the duality of man’s nature in the face of himself. She would have him cut his own throat. Sever his own throbbing meat. When the brew turns. Made special from his own blood. Diluted by aged petals & serpent’s tongue. Black & curled as the smoke in her eyes when she looks at him: Old world rage blanketing her deep sorrow.
Now it’s done. Sun rises to shed light on the gory details. Vomit & shit spread about. Near the curling bones: Tied to a tree for hours. Where the priest spits out blackened utterances. Everything locked inside - Ugly hatred for a race that’d be better off breathing in the pestilence of these times. To enthrone men of true blood while conquering those who remained inferior - Obvious statements coming from him, but all the more revealing hearing them first hand.
- Hold out your tongue,’ she says, forcing a blade to the back of his throat. Deep down retching as the priest tries to keep his guts inside.
She hears it even now. In the stillness of morning. In her mind.
Vomiting herself, the Crone of Bevis claws her way down to the giant’s bones. Sobbing against its massive skull. Thinking she hears voices nearby as if the people of the town had come looking for her. Surely they’d burn her alive …
Night arrives. She rises from the pit & perches next him. Black tunic spread with bits of bone & guts. Animals coming to feast. Packs of wolves. Venomous serpents. Other things not of this world. Born when the moon is pregnant & no longer able to hold it in …
Pissing herself over some faded thoughts. The drug, wearing off, she begins thinking of it as a dream. Not the dead priest or long night that’s passed, but visions of guilt or hatred that have dominated.
She sobs while feeling herself beat against it. The earth, turning too fast. She becomes dizzy, but tries to stand. Picking herself up against the priest’s sagging shoulder. Looking back at her companion in the ground.
No other way but to abandon this place of ritual. Where creatures arrived for endless nights to join in the revelry of life: When all else was dead, stars burned …
Cloaked in the wild skin she was born with. Creatures of the wood, unusually heated, take turns with her. Even though she’s dwelt here long, they choose to take her now: Basking in the afterglow of blood & semen. Too cut up to stand she crawls to the edge of the forest.
Poisonous wisdom she’ll carry beyond into a world teeming with with too much pride. Hybrid creature stirring in her womb: Antithesis of how they measured life. Borne out of the primordial. Modified for her to withstand its burden for great distances.
Gaining strength in travel. Across deserts or seas - Strange tribes rearing up …
Hid behind stars. Her womb gives birth to planets. Fire sweeping through to destroy whatever inhabits the surface of this old one. Even as she’s on her knees begging for the pain to stop. No way at all to stop the veil from slipping. For all the years she’s felt alienated it has been for a reason. Never once did she believe they’d get to her. Even now, when engulfed in flame, there is a hollow feeling she gets when her guts empty.
An example to test their faith. Burning wisdom of its own accord. Tired from travel, she drops to the ground. No children to pick her up as they’ve all gone astray. Burrowed into earth like larvae until the next full moon. Shadows recede as fire burns out …
She again hears something approaching through the trees. Wretched sorrows of men anticipating an impossible severance. Never able to envision what it’s like to be alone. She crawls down to the bones & waits for them.
Never meaning to return: Haunted places of this world she goes seeking hospitality.
Deserts of gloom. Blood Citadels. Ancient graveyard where the world began. Hills of bone. Dead lore. Sun bleeds out & dies. Cold, sharp mountains reach up toward sagging stars. Negating the reality she is born to. Absorbed by old energies she ritualized so devoutly. Sacrificed to gods of logic & disorder. Meanwhile, standing against them.
seashells glisten under the sand and beckon her curious hands
to dig deep into the moist sand.
dusk’s slow arival to the throne contours her soft skin:
she is the queen of the sky, the queen of life.
I can see it in her sparkling eyes
as the water pets our feet.
is my first step into an ocean
that I’ve gazed at from afar,
never wishing to conquer it out of respect,
out of fear,
but with you, tiny fingers and beautiful smile,
the vast ocean seems welcoming
and the blue tides are tempting.
we must travel together to the other side
so we may see a different world:
one where the sun lays its head to sleep,
one where the trees whisper stories.
one were I can hold your hand
forever until the end,
and not be afraid of myself anymore.
Title: Sleeping Arrangements Word Count: 690 Pairing: Jyn x Cassian x Bodhi (3otp, polyamory) A/N: Just a drabble that I wrote for @piratekingfoxx for our drabble-off since we can’t bring ourselves to roleplay. Canon divergence in which the painful end of Rogue One never happened.
It only takes a
few weeks before they settle into a nighttime rhythm.
Bodhi is always
the first to bed. He sleeps in the center, curled into a ball where he
sometimes murmurs in his sleep to demons that aren’t there. His hair is usually
pulled back, but by the time Jyn comes in it’s scattered across the pillow in a
mess of inky black. He sleeps with his fists tight, tugging onto the sheets
like a lifeline.
Jyn takes over
the right half of the bed where the sun hits first. She sleeps on her back,
pressed to Bodhi’s side where his hair tickles her arms. She’s the lightest
sleeper, sometimes sitting up in the night at a noise no one else hears. She’ll
stay that way, blinking out into the darkness until Bodhi wiggles, a silent
plea to burrow close again, lest the nightmares take hold. She always obliges.
last, always weary from a full day of training exercises and meetings. He flops
onto the bed, sometimes with his shoes and clothes still on. He sleeps with his
head shoved into the pillows, a hand stretched out so that he can trace circles
into Jyn’s shoulder. He doesn’t know if it’s more for his sake or hers, but it
soothes him and his busy mind. Eventually he will get hot and slip out of his
jacket and shirt. As soon as he does Bodhi will throw an arm across his exposed
back, pulling him closer until he is thoroughly sandwiched between the two.
the bad nights, Bodhi will jolt awake out of a dead sleep, wheezing, mid panic
attack. On these nights Cassian will take him into his strong arms and slowly
rock back and forth until he is able to catch his breath again. Jyn leans over
to press gentle kisses along his forehead and shoulders, mushing a hand through
his hair and rubbing therapeutic circles. He eventually sleeps, clutching onto
Jyn like she’s his lifeline, Cassian at his back to chase away all the
the bad nights, Jyn’s shoulders will shake with silent sobs until her cheeks
are sticky. On these nights Cassian will come around to her side of the bed and
hug her until the sobs stop, her tears rolling down his back and arms and into
his hair. He kisses her cheeks, her lips, her eyes, everywhere. Bodhi wraps his
arms around her midsection and holds dear, murmuring sweet words into her skin.
They will sit like this until her breath evens out and she lays back, exhausted
from the emotional turmoil. Cassian reclaims his place on the other side of
Bodhi, but he leans over the man in the middle to rub soft patterns into Jyn’s
arm and back while she drifts off. Bodhi reaches out and intertwines his
fingers with hers, letting her know she is not alone.
the bad nights, Cassian will sit on the edge of the bed fully clothed staring
into nothing, eyes haunted. Jyn moves first, coming over and carefully removing
his shoes, unclasping his belt. Bodhi works the jacket off his shoulders before
tugging his linen shirt over his head. Then he wraps his arms around him, chest
to his back so that their hearts beat together. Jyn holds his head in her hands
and kisses him, softly calling his name until he finally drags his eyes to her
face. On these nights, when Cassian can barely move, the two help to lay him
down in the center of the bed where he lays prone. Bodhi holds tight, warm
chest pressed as close to Cassian’s side as he could manage. He slips under the
larger man’s arm so that he is nestled in the crook. Jyn lays on the other
side, Cassian’s head against her chest so that she can run her fingers through
his hair. In this position he can feel their heartbeats and it reassures him
that sometimes he can save people.
This is how the
three sleep to fight off their demons because even in their deepest nightmares,
they can cling onto one another.
I will be here, always, below the blue and the grey. I live where the shadow starts, the haunted place between treetop and cloud. If you should need me, if the ache should arise, glance to the dark spot below where the sun sleeps, squint tight your eyes, and find me.
Two naga brothers were resting in their cave, Mike sleeping where the sun was hitting and the younger one was currently restocking on herbs and spices. Everything was nice and peaceful right now, birds singing and chirping during the day and small animals moving around. .
Aili is the itty-bitty halfling witch girl that lives on the outskirts of the tribe.
The Elders tell Kai and her clutchmates to ignore Aili when it’s possible. They’re honor-bound to defend her and to feed her, but they don’t have to associate with her otherwise. Many of the adults would like to exile her entirely, but Aili’s sire was a member of the tribe, so they can’t.
Kai’s clutchmates are alright with this. They go about their lives, and only visit Aili when they’re ill or hurt like they’re supposed to. It all bothers Kai, though. The other little ones are never far from their sires and dames, and Kai can’t help but think that Aili shouldn’t be alone as much as she is, either.
Kai’s dame says that dragons weren’t made to be alone, after all.
She takes to leaving little trinkets on Aili’s doorstep and watching her from behind boulders. Aili always looks around for a moment before retreating back into her house, and Kai watches her put the trinket into a box and lock it. When Kai’s dame asks her what she’s done with all of her little rocks and feathers and scolds her for not amassing a proper hoard, she lies and promises that she’ll try harder.
And when Aili makes herself earrings out of some of the feathers, Kai doesn’t know why it makes her as happy as it does.
Alright, don’t judge me I’m feeling rusty. Send me a prompt if you want other poor quality drabbles.
She fights her way through the crowded, sweat-soaked room to reach the back door.
She regrets coming to this dumb party, but Madge is far too good at giving Chinese Burns and fuck, it’s nice to feel like a teenager sometimes.
When she manages to force some slobbering couple out of the way and finds herself standing on the back porch, she breathes in a sigh and relishes the smell of rain falling hard across the brown, sunburnt grass.
And you will have them growing inside of your smile, but it won’t always be a happy one. There’s a place we live in, among the sleep and under the baggy eyes. There’s a place we go to think, to run and hide. There’s someone we used to love, we all know their names. And you will have them growing inside of your eyes, a milky string of tears slipping from your sockets promising it’ll get better. There’s a place where we die in, sleeping with the ocean, but asking the sun for a burning kiss. There’s a place we all called, but no one picks up. And you will have them growing inside of your head, your heart still deciphering their unique coding.
It wasn’t meant to be.
It wasn’t meant to be.
You’ll whisper to yourself;
quietly. No one is home.