#i hate him. i yearn for him in ways unimaginable. i want him to suffer terrible things. i want everything he has stripped from him

[shizunitis]

sometimes, i think of bingge. this is detrimental to my mental health and sense of self

[aphroditelovesu]

Yandere Rhysand Headcanons (General)

"You're mine, but if you don't agree, maybe I should convince you to accept it." — Rhysand.

❝ ⭐ — lady l: I've been thinking about him a lot lately, so take a few hcs of him 😇. I hope you like it and forgive me for any mistakes! 💜

❝tw: obsessive and possessive behavior, manipulation, loss of mortality (?), mention of kidnapping and death.

❝⭐pairing: yandere!rhysand x gender neutral!reader.

Rhysand has lost a lot during his life and has experienced and witnessed unimaginable horrors. These experiences, these memories, made him who he is. Having lived a large part of his life witnessing cruelties and committing some of them, he never thought he could become so passionate, so obsessed with someone.

But you attracted him in a way no one ever had before. Maybe you might be his mate or someone he really grew to adore, but you were his. You became his the moment your eyes met his.

Your touch, your presence, everything about him yearned for you. He wondered how someone like you could love someone like him, marked by darkness and pain. But it didn't matter, because he was determined to protect you, to love you in a way he never thought he was capable of.

You became his light, his reason to fight the shadows that haunted him. And despite all the suffering he carried, he found comfort in your arms, knowing that, with you, he had finally found something he could love for his entire immortal life.

Rhysand tries his best to contain his obsession to himself, his darkest thoughts and feelings towards you because he knows they're not right. He's fully aware that this is wrong, that the way he feels isn't normal, but... He can't control it. He can't control what he feels.

You make him doubt his own morals, make him question how he should really think and feel. Everything he believes becomes wrong when you enter his life. Rhys knows it's wrong to force someone to be with him but then why does it feel so right to you? Why does the way your fingers intertwine with his feel so right?

Rhysand isn't the type to kidnap you on sight, no, he'll only do it if he really has no choice. He may try to manipulate you, offer you to live with him in Velaris, or offer you a job and a place in the Inner Circle. He will subtly try to make you get used to him and the people in his life.

Rhys is a master at manipulation and lies, and although he doesn't like manipulating you, he will if you are defiant. With his daemati powers, he can easily invade your mind and force you to do things you don't want to do. Even if you have strong mental walls, he can still break through your defenses. It's not something he wants to do, but he's not against it either.

He is a High Lord and he wants to have control over everything. About his Court and about you. Rhysand is controlling by nature and the idea of ​​not being able to keep you under his control leaves him distraught. Like a thorn in his skin, he will be uncomfortable with this. You need to be his, even if it's not of your own free will.

To say Rhysand is possessive is an understatement, he is completely possessive and jealous over you. Just the idea of ​​you being close to someone other than him makes him furious. Fae males are known for being possessive and he's no different. He will have no qualms about killing anyone who gets too close to you. You are his, let that be clearly marked in your head.

If you're human, he'll probably find a way to turn you into a fae. Maybe using the Cauldron's powers or combining those of the other High Lords, but you won't die. He will make sure of it.

Because he is a complete manipulator, Rhys can use his mental powers to drive people away from you. He can easily slip through their minds and make them hate you, and despise you. Your friends and family have become repulsed by you, all thanks to him. And when you finally go into his arms for comfort, Rhysand will be satisfied. He is the only one for you.

You will be intensely pampered. Rhys loves giving you gifts, from expensive and rare jewelry to anything. You will be spoiled and adored by him. Massages, food, anything you want will be yours. Just ask and he will give it to you. Everything to make you happy. Speaking of which, Rhys would probably love to take care of your wardrobe. He would choose your clothes and they would always match his.

Once Rhysand became obsessed with you, your life would take an unexpected turn. As much as he wants you to be with him willingly, he will have no problem forcing you to do so. Maybe he feels bad, but seeing you next to him makes him forget it quickly. There is no way to escape him, Rhysand is the most powerful High Lord in history and has very competent means of bringing you back. You're stuck with him for the rest of your immortality.

He would destroy the world behind you and anyone who tries to help you will also be destroyed. But if you play your cards right, you could end up becoming his consort and without any kind of freedom or privacy.

[chunhua-s]

WITH OUR FATES TANGLED TOGETHER  ➽ ATSUMU MIYA X READER

requested by: @tsumue​

➪ hi davi! so, as you know i fell deeply in love with your soulmate fics (a while ago and so did some of my friends!!) your writing is really beautiful and i couldn't stop myself from intruding your inbox🥺 if it's not too stupid or uninspiring could i mayhaps ask for a soulmate scenario angst to fluff (only if you feel up for it!) with atsumu? thank you!🤍

genre: angst to fluff

soulmate au: soulmates are bound together by a red string

warnings: angst — my ability to write this genre isn’t necessarily the best :v but i tried my best with it, and i did enjoy the experience! hopefully with time i’ll be able to write more and get better at it! 

you meet your soulmate at age sixteen.

the fear that grips at your heart is mind numbing. it sinks cold fingers into your neck and bruises it with a cruel hand that cuts off all air from your lungs, and leaves you empty so that the only other thing you can feel is hot, hot anger.

the anger isn’t yours — the red chord that’s gotten all tangled up between your fingers tells you as much. instead, it belongs to him.

the him who stands before you with hard brown eyes and lips pressed into a thin line. the him who you’d always wanted to meet ever since that red chord tangled itself between your fingers at the age of seven. the him whose name you’d dreamed of without ever knowing it, had fantasized about how it would feel to let it roll from your tongue. he’s here — you’ve finally met your soulmate, but why does the red chord that connects you two together feel so heavy all of a sudden?

miya atsumu sighs, lifting a hand to run through his sweat-matted blond hair: your eyes follow the motion. it was easier to watch that red string and think about the way it wrapped around his fingers than to meet brown eyes that burned under a muted fury. “look, i—“ the voice that you always imagined would cause your heart to take flight on butterfly wings reaches your ears on a cold, flat tone that locks your body down to a barren winter land. “i know this isn’t what you expected for when you meet your soulmate.” by the time you finally pull your eyes to look at his face, they’re burning with tears and blur the image of him until he’s a blend of colours you can’t tell apart. his lips move behind a sheet of haze, like a spell cast over your vision that should protect you from breaking.

“but i don’t think i can be together with someone else right now.”

that spell can do nothing for your heart that rips apart underneath the blunt end of his blade.

when he looks at you, there’s something behind the light of anger and hatred — hatred for you, why does he hate you, you don’t understand... did you do something wrong? what you see behind flames of brown sugar and autumn leaves is a chasm: wide and glaring and so consumingly empty. it spits on the bedtime stories of warmth and unimaginable joy and fulfillment that a soulmate should bring — it chews on those fairytales and coughs them out on a plate of cold indifference, hate, contempt. and it hurts.

“o-oh,” you choke. there’s no way you can meet his eyes like this; your voice is cracking under the weight of your pain and your tears threaten to paint your skin with the colour of blood red agony. “i... I understand.” you don’t. this isn’t what your friends told you would happen. nothing prepared you for your own soulmate to reject you. “that’s fine, i—” breathing becomes hard, your very lungs reject the air that you so desperately drag between your trembling lips. when you look up at him, what hope that you feel is quickly smothered when you catch his eyes. he looks at you as if the sight of you here, on the verge of tears, disgusts him. “i can wait for you... i don’t mind.”

he scoffs: the sound of it is like the grating of metal against your ears. “sure, whatever.” and that’s how he leaves you. broken hearted and crying for the ache that cripples your body as the red chord tightens around your fingers.

now, the picture of him standing before you is so jarringly different that it causes your world to spin so violently that you feel as if your legs might collapse in on themselves. your reality turns itself on its side so that your cup spills out from between your hands and leaves your heart vulnerable to the cold water that floods through your body.

atsumu miya’s eyes are searching as he stands beneath the winter night’s sky, the brown colour in them filled up with a warmth that you know for a fact wasn’t there on that day you met him. there’s pain on his expression, regret so tangible that it tastes sour on your tongue, and when he says your name on trembling lips, you feel the last of your will crumble into dust.

“y/n...” he’s pleading. his eyes are wet with the same tears that had touched your cheeks throughout the two years he’d left you waiting. they tell the story of unmistakable suffering and agony — the familiarity of it tears your heart into pieces and leaves you gasping for air. “please.”

and oh, by the gods above, you want so desperately to welcome him into your arms, want nothing more than to hold him so that you can feel whole for the first time since meeting him. but the pain that still echoes inside your chest is loud and demanding, rumbling through your ribs like a thunderstorm that pushes words you don’t want to say out from between your lips. when they fall, they reach atsumu’s skin like the little snowflakes that fall from the winter sky. they melt into his tears and dig their way into his heart until he’s left breathless because he knows just how he hurt you.

“you made me wait for so long, atsumu.”

he can’t begin to tell you how much he regrets it.

“i’m sorry...” his apology falls from him like a whimper. it dances on his tongue so that he can taste the salt of his own tears. he discovers that it’s awfully bitter. “I shouldn’t have done that to you.”

the emptiness, the helpless acceptance in your voice echoes inside his mind. “i was so close to giving up, you know? i thought you’d be happier if you weren’t tied down to me...”

he knows. god, he knows. every minute of pain and hurt had trickled down to him through the red string that connects the both of you, and the knowledge that you suffered so much because of him, it tears him apart as he stands before you.

“no, please— i can’t live without you...”

he really can’t. he tried to forget about you. he threw himself out into a reckless life and ate the hearts of others who sought for his affection, hoping that they could somehow erase the wretched piece of cloth that tied him down. he submerged himself underwater hoping to breathe, and found himself drowning without you.

“you hurt me.”

“and i was selfish, i know...” he reaches out for you on a single, hesitant step that crumbles the snow beneath his shoes. when you don’t step away, he takes another, pushes himself forward until you’re standing directly in front of him, tear-stained eyes tilting upwards to stare into his. they’re burning, you notice: the fire that consumes the brown in them this time, though, is different. it’s changed.

he reaches for your hand, holds it between the both of his and cups it close to his chest, and his eyes never leave yours. they reveal to you the secrets that his lips won’t tell to you, they bare every ounce of yearning that his spirit screams out silently, and it’s as if every cell in his body is desperate to feel you against him when you can feel the heat of him through your gloves. “but let me make it up to you...” his whisper falls underneath the soft winds, it caresses your skin just as gently and, as you’re looking up at him, your soulmate, you can’t help the tears that sting behind your eyes. you realize that, just like back then, his image is blurred by the curtains of water, but now he glows like the sun itself. everything about him manages to warm your heart on a cold winter night, and god knows you’ll never forgive the pain that he’s caused you — all those years filled with doubt and insecurity and despair — but you think to yourself as you lift one of his hands to hold against your cheek that, at the very least, you want to take a chance with him.

his eyes shine like the stars when you show him a watery smile. “yes...” you whisper back to him. he thinks the sound of it is sweet, and he imagines that your voice may be what it means to dance among sunflowers.

“i want to take a chance with you, atsumu.”

haikyuu!! soulmate au taglist: @nishiya-is-baby

general taglist: @aiiishiiiteru @tsumue @bootylikepeachy

send an ask to be added!

so this is admittedly one of my shorter works and i did struggle a little with transitioning from angst to fluff :( i originally had two ideas, this one which is mostly angst, and another that’s mostly fluff, but in the end i decided to go with this one since i know runa likes angst a lot :0 bb i hope it was okay!

for atsumu’s character in this i wanted to push across that he didn’t want to be tied down with a soulmate when he had his volleyball aspirations to follow through with. although i don’t recall it being specifically stated in canon, i get the feeling that his dedication towards volleyball is nearly on the same level as kageyama’s and oikawa’s, where they wouldn’t be able to give themselves into a relationship when they had their dreams to seek after. so at the point in time when he meets the reader, he’d already decided to disregard any attachment for his soulmate, and so his attitude towards them is a result of that decision he made. however, time spent intentionally trying to separate yourself from your soulmate causes suffering and i wanted to show in the end that it was that pain and longing that finally drove him back to the reader. i feel like if i’d shown from atsumu’s perspective, i could have portrayed that pain and suffering that he’d have gone through without her, but i really wanted to show that through the reader instead. did it work well?

this is part of a series, so please send me an ask or dm if you’d like to be apart of a taglist! i’m currently taking request for haikyuu characters and soulmate au’s, so please come and leave your requests for those as well! thank you for reading!  ♡ 

previous: hajime iwaizumi | next stop: requests are open!

[saranghanuuu]

PERKS OF DATING A YOUNGER GUY I LEARNED AFTER WATCHING CHINESE DRAMA FIND YOURSELF + REVIEW!

1. He has less baggage

This means that he has more time to attend to your needs and wants unlike an older guy with a demanding schedule and lots of responsibilities at hand.

2. He's more open-minded and adventurous

They are open to having new experiences and won't judge you for veering off the path you should stay on.

3. He's infectiously energetic *ehem*

Need I say more? A younger guy's youthful sense will surely find unimaginable ways to impress you!

4. He puts you on a pedestal

A younger man will appreciate your maturity and experiences and will admire you for it. They're also most likely take advice from you without letting it bruise their ego.

5. He'll make you feel young

Be prepared to relive the fun parts of your younger years with him.

It's not so wrong to say that the May-December relationship is taboo, especially among Asians. Most people I know had this inkling that when a younger guy hooks up with a woman way older than him, it could prolly mean one of two things — the guy's a paramour or she's a sugar momma. I'm honestly not a fan of it either on the premise that women mature faster than men. Let's be real, an immature relationship is a disaster. But now that I'm in my late 20s, and a hopeless romantic single at that, I kinda pondered over this. It suddenly occurred to me, what if one day I’m caught up in the position of being pursued by a younger man? Will I let the stigma affect me emotionally? Or will I take the risk ‘coz all is fair in love? I still don’t have a definite answer to this question. However, watching Find Yourself served as an eye-opener for me to look at things from a different perspective.

Find Yourself is a 2020 Chinese drama starring Song Wei Long and Victoria Song. It tells the story of a 32-year old Executive Director who never *even once* experienced dating. Given her age and career stability, she receives constant pressure from the people around her to find someone to marry and has since frequented blind dates arranged by her family, friends, or colleagues. But this girl is just someone who swears by the "spark" - no spark, then no point to the relationship. She may be old for fantasizing over first love and such, but she still yearns that it'll naturally come to find her someday. Until her thirst for real romance is quenched by a 22-year-old guy who started working as an intern in her company at his brother’s request.

Although hesitant at first due to their huge age difference and the societal views, she went out with him on the condition that they'll keep it a secret for the first 3 months. If everything went well, she agrees to publicize her relationship with him.

Let’s start off with the good things...

I just can't with this drama...! This so beautiful, cute, relatable - especially for a woman in late 20s like me. 

Plot-wise, it was well-imparted and makes perfect sense, touching a looooooot of relationship aspects in 41 episodes. Not only did I enjoy the happenings between our main couple, but our side couples' stories are very interesting too.

This drama pretty much straightened out my prejudice about age-gap relationships.

Light-hearted, just the way I like it! Every episode will make you smile and/or laugh hard.

Sexual tensions overload and superb kissing scenes! Let those hormones rush in. Not awkward to watch 'coz They. Did. Not. Hold. Back. Ack! If you're single, be prepared to feel MORE SINGLE watching this drama.

Well-written lines that will make you feel real emotions. The words will shoot you straight to the heart.

Acting-wise, the casts, from the mains down to the sides, did a super fine job in conveying the sentiments of their characters. My highest admiration goes to male lead Yuan Song, not (only) because he’s young, hot, and handsome, but because his youthful vibe made me reminisce the paradox of my early 20s awww. Anyways, in the beginning, I am sort of confused why (of all girls) he fell head over heels with our female lead He Fanxing who's obviously out of his league. I even suspected him of taking advantage of her naivety in matters of the heart. But as the drama went along, our dude proved himself genuine... That he's sincerely just a guy who's deeply in love with a woman... That indeed, true love can exist in this kind of relationship. Both Yuan Song and Fanxing emotionally benefited from each other and it's so lovely seeing that.

⚠️ AND SORRY BUT THIS IS A SPOILER ALERT⚠️

Halfway through the drama, our main couple called it quits. I'm somewhat grateful that it happened. Their break-up scene is just so powerful I had to rewind it many times. Not because I liked seeing them suffer from the consequences of their incompatibility. Rather, I loved it 'coz it became the turning point of their relationship.

Their love is premature, to begin with — trust isn't mutual, commitment is one-way, only showing each other's good sides in fear of the relationship turning sour, one is willing to compromise while the other wants to avoid responsibility, filled with doubts and insecurities. During this break-up phase, we were shown the difference between how kids and adults behave and decide in a dilemma. I suddenly remembered this one line delivered in the drama which I agree with — "Only kids would choose one or the other. Adults find solutions". The break-up also served as our main couple's period of contemplation about who and what they want in life. It taught them how to fully embrace their offbeat romance against the norms. Fortunately, things wrapped up into a sweet end.

And of course the bad...

Hmmm... Maybe I'm just not used to it but am I the only one who thinks that this drama is quite lengthy? Yes, I enjoyed it but it's not a good one to binge-watch. It took me almost a month to finish this I nearly drowned haha. Honestly, there were parts they could've just compressed instead of dragging it for too long. One example is Ye Luming and He Fanxing's relationship trial. Ooohhh I hate this part it brought shivers down my spine ugh. Well truth be told, Luming and Fanxing are compatible and better off as friends. They jive so well, and I give it to them that they're both adults who can only understand adult things.

But when Luming all of a sudden became a sneaky character to an intolerable point... Ah, I don't know anymore! Seeing how compelled Fanxing is to being Luming's girlfriend got under my skin. Although these ugly parts eventually became a good contributory factor to Fanxing's realization of her true feelings towards Yuan Song, but still...! I also hated Fanxing at one point for being so gullible in love. But yeah, I had to swallow it because that's her character setup in the first place. It should be expected of her to be hasty and dubious about it.

On the other hand, I wished they've been generous in showing us more about how Yuan Song and Fanxing's relationship is going after the public reveal. I've been waiting for this the entire time (they could've done so much more in 41 episodes' length!) so I'm quite disappointed.

After watching the second season of Well-Intended Love, I admit I lost interest in Chinese dramas. So watching this restored my faith in them. I even have a list of C-dramas lined up now! But I have to move on from this one first before I start another. It's not as easy as I thought ㅠㅠ

What do you think about this drama? Are we on the same frequency? ❤️

If you haven't watched this yet, watch it now. As in 지금부터 RIGHT NOW. Highly-recommended!

[fuckblizzardbearlover]

Why ppl who think the writers dont know exactly what they are doing with Sylvannas are dead, completely and utterly wrong: a Thread

from the official overview

“ The Broken Machine The machine of death is broken, and players entering the Shadowlands will find the realm of the dead in disarray. In the natural order of things, souls are sorted and sent on to an afterlife realm appropriate to the lives they lived, but now, but over the past few years, all souls who have perished—including the innocents slain at Teldrassil—are being funneled directly into the Maw. The Shadowlands are starving for anima even as the Maw continues to grow from the glut of fresh souls. Sylvanas has been seemingly perpetrating acts to bring about great amounts of death and destruction. In partnership with the Jailer, they have been working toward a common end for some time. “

so, i’m sure this will be one of the first things we learn in Bastion. or whereever.

emphasis mine.

past few years...BFA...Legion....ok thats a pair... So what if it is not exactly a few (3 ). Draenor sylvannas didnt have anything to do, But in MoP she didnt balk at causing death at Siege of Ogrimmar or Theramore and, in the Cataclysm she wiped out 3 cities. Catacylsm is the expasnion after wrath. After she died

From Sylvannas Windrunner: Edge of Night

“What did it matter if another corpse filled his vacant throne? Sylvanas Windrunner had her vengeance. The vision that had driven her and her people for years had finally been realized. And not a single fiber of her desiccated, animate corpse cared where the world went from here.It was over now. A part of her was surprised she was even still around, without his lingering presence always tugging at the back of her mind. She backed away from the throne and slowly turned to survey the cold gray world all around her. Her thoughts returned to that place of bliss, her half-remembered glimpse of what lay beyond. Home. It was time.

.............

She longed for it. A return to peace. The work she had begun in the forests of Silvermoon was finally complete with the death of Arthas. ,,,,,,,,,,,

...........

She could feel no cold, only a dull ache. She would feel nothing soon. She already felt her spirit reaching a place of calm for the first time in almost a decade. Her weight shifted toward the edge of the drop. She closed her eyes.

.......................

"There are so many!" he barked, falling silent as she raised a finger. "We have only two dozen rangers up there," he said, his voice now a whisper. "They cannot survive that!" Sylvanas didn't turn her gaze away from the dark mass of shambling corpses crushing its way closer to the river ford. It was the height of the Third War, and hours away from Silvermoon's fall at the hands of Arthas's army.

"They merely need to delay them as we fortify the Sunwell's defense," she answered, her tone measured.

"They will die!"

"They are arrows in the quiver," Sylvanas said. "They must be spent if we are to win this."

She was brash. Empty? No—a fighter. She had a warrior's heart.................

Before her waited a grotesque, quivering mass of corpses, their armor piecemeal, their bodies broken, the stench unimaginable. Their plaintive, desperate gazes reminded her suddenly of children. They disgusted her. But their need empowered her. "The Lich King falters. Your will is your own. Are you to be outcasts now in your own land? Or do we embrace the cruel cards fate has dealt us and retake our place in this world?"

.........

These poor people: peasants, farmers, priests, warriors, lords and nobles… they hadn't yet come to grips with what had happened to them. But for somebody—anybody—to assure them that they belongedsomewhere was electrifying. 

--------------------------

Already he'd come to embrace his situation, referring to humans as if they were a separate race; she made a mental note to make use of him.

.........

"The humans will serve their purpose," she answered, her mind already calculating. "They believe they are liberating the city. Let them fight on our behalf and spend themselves for our gain. They are"—she stumbled upon an analogy she'd used before—"arrows in our quiver."

The heaving mass of undead clapped and coughed and hacked gleefully in assent. Sylvanas regarded the whole mob coldly. And so are you, she thought to herself. Arrows I will aim at Arthas's heart.

................................

No more would she be the vengeful leader of a mongrel race of rotted corpses. Her work was done, and her long-denied reward awaited her

...............

“"Your people will perish!" said the dark-haired Val'kyr.

.Sylvanas thought about her people. They had come far from their decimated origins, the yearning, confused mob of fresh corpses huddled about the ruins of Lordaeron's wrecked capital. The Forsaken were truly a nation now: a fetid, gore-caked, hideous mass of lifeless husks, skilled in combat, devastating with the arcane arts, and unhindered by fetters of morality. They had been honed into the perfect weapon. Her weapon. And they had struck the killing blow for which she had built them. She cared nothing for their fate."Let them perish!" Sylvanas cried. "I am finished with them!"“

........................

She saw only darkness.

And then she felt—truly felt, for the first time in a long while. She recoiled. In agony.

Here she was, her spirit once again feeling whole, only to feel it suffer. To feel once more, only to feel abject pain. Cold. Hopelessness.

Fear.

...................

There were others in the darkness. Things she didn't recognize, because nothing so terrible could exist in the world of the living. Claws tore at her, but she had no mouth with which to scream. Eyes looked at her, but she couldn't look back.

Regret.

She sensed a familiar presence. Recognized it. The taunting voice that had once held her in its grasp. Arthas? Arthas Menethil? Here? His essence rushed to her, desperate, then shrank away in horrified recognition. The boy who would be Lich King. Just a scared little blond child, reaping the aftermath of a lifetime of mistakes. If any part of Sylvanas's soul were not at that moment torn and tormented, she might have even felt—for the first time—the slightest glimmer of pity for him.

Now the others had her. Surrounded her. Gleeful, tormenting, tearing at her consciousness, delighting in her suffering.

Horror.

This was to be her eternity: the endless void, the dark, unknown realm of anguish.

....

"Sylvanas Windrunner, Dark Lady, queen of the Forsaken… you may walk with the living again through the sisterhood of the Val'kyr. As long as they live, so too shall you. Freedom, life… and power over death. This is our pact. Do you accept our gift?"

.....................

This was her only way out. But she didn't want to give her assent out of fear. She waited until she felt something more. A fellowship. A sisterhood. Sisters. Separate, they were all trapped. But together, they were free… and with them, she could postpone her fate.

.............................

"I was once like you, Garrosh," she answered, her voice quiet and steady, loud enough only for the warchief to hear. "Those who served me were tools. Arrows in my quiver.

......................

What he saw was a great black void, an infinite darkness. There was fear in those eyes, but also something else. Something that terrified even the great warchief.

"Garrosh Hellscream. I've walked the realms of the dead. I have seen the infinite dark. Nothing you say. Or do. Could possibly frighten me."

The army of undead that surrounded and protected the Dark Lady was still hers, body and soul. But they were no longer arrows in her quiver, not anymore. They were a bulwark against the infinite. They were to be used wisely, and no fool orc would squander them while she still walked the world of the living.

------------------------------------------------------

Now, look at the description for the Maw

“ This horrific prison houses the most vile and irredeemable souls in existence—ones deemed by the Arbiter to represent a threat to the Shadowlands if left free. Ruled by the enigmatic Jailer who none have ever seen—at least none have seen and lived to tell—the Maw inspires nightmares and legends even among the denizens of the Shadowlands. No one has ever escaped this vile place, and any foolish enough to venture there are never heard from again. “

-------------------------------------------------------

So This short story was written before cataclysm launched in 2010. NINE years ago.

So yes “dur Blizz are bad writers that made sylvannas do a 180 and become evil for no reason”

NO. This was the biggest piece of characerization Sylvannas ever got outside of warcraft 3 The Frozen Throne. it establishes that she was a cold person more than willing to treat living people as objects to satisfy the needs of their military and their people. It emphasised MULTIPLE times that i highlighted that she HATED and was disgusted by the forsaken. ANd i emphasised at least twice that She has been using patriotism and their need for someone to care about them as a way to MANIPULATE them. And that was how she was. SHe didnt care about any of them They were just a tool to be used to kill Arthas. and with him gone she was ready to die.

The problem was she was ready to die because she HAD ALREADY DIED. we learn with the SHadowlands that good souls go where they are treated well, and even strong souls are treated well. but Where to evil souls go? either the maw or to the vampire place. She had died and started to enter the good place, Bastion no doubt. as a good protector of the innocent. but Arthas pulled her out and made her a monster

BUT SINCE THEN she became even more of a monster. She let her people embrace hatred. she allowed slavery and torture of prisoners for the sake of destroying life. she thought of nothing but how to USE and ABUSE people in order to get vengence so SHE could get her REWARD.

She became a “most vile and irredeemable soul”. So when she died her soul went to the Maw where it suffered with dark evil souls like Arthas’

and did getting rescued by the valkyre fix her outlook? No . she still saw her people as nothing. but she knew the horrors she’d face if she died, and so she viewed her people as a BULWARK against that.

But whats REALLY interesting is that I think Ion wasnt being completely honest . The lore says that “No one has EVer escaped the Maw of Souls”... however we know that we will do so. And we know that No one has been there. so how can anyone KNOW that no one has escaped. What if they just kept it a secret.

What if the Jailer started to, for whatever reason, decide to take over the afterlife. whether it was personal ambition or seeing the rest as redundant. And he saw this elf soul ESCAPE him. the only one to ever do so. By that Valkyre taking her place. The Valkyre are allegedly created by the souls of hte denezins of bastion, the angel people. So between having a connection to the lich king, guardian of the connection to the Shadowlands, and the fact that they are denezins of the shadowlands.. or were... it makes sense they might have had the power to rescue a soul from the Maw.....with the added help of the soul taking her place.

I emphasised other parts to because i think its important. the Valkyre USED to be denizens of the shadowlands. but supposedly Changed by the lich king. The valkyre emphasised it WASNT just a bond of sisterhood but a bond of hte Valkyre. I think in order to save her from the maw they basically had to enchant sylvannas to magically register as a Valkyre, and thats how they ‘made the switch”. so to speak.

Now remember what happened in Legion? She got a special lantern from Helya, the original Valkyr, who is a master of Death, trapping souls and creating dimensions And who has reason to hate Odyn  who has his own form of afterlife?

So it seems to me that Sylvannas gained the attention of the Jailer when she was the first one to escape. and the fact that she escaped by utilizing Valkyre magic, but she wasnt bound to the ethos of most of the denizens of bastion. I think shortly after her original death she was contacted by him, possibly through the valkyre and they started their pact. 

Ion said that Sylvannas does not have a master, she’s doing things for herself. However that doesnt mean that, just cus the Jailer isnt controlling her doesnt mean he might not be manipulating her.

Jailer starts to usurp the souls. Sylvannas, afraid of going to the maw. begins rampant death,  in order to kill enemies and create a massive army of forsaken to use against any force that would come for her. This rampant death gains the attention of those in the afterlife, including the Jailer who gets more souls do to it. somewhere between Cata and the start of legion he contacts her. When vol’jin is dying he uses his influence to get Vol’jin to name Sylvannas warchief.

She uses her new power to go wherever she wants, which she uses to find Helya, another god of death who has a unique power. Realm magic. using the Lantern, Sylvannas uses the valkyre to send it to the jailer who cuts off the other parts of the afterlife, making it so ALL souls go to the maw. then now that the world threat is over, and she doesnt have to worry about dying herself, she uses her position of power to sew as much death as possible to feed her ally. with the ultimate plan of  them destroying the natural order of life and death.  She gets to be free of him and lets those she deems worthy live free. all others get to be the Jailer’s victims. no more souls wasted on the ‘good’ after lives or regeneration. no more foolish living to ruin a perfect, deathless world.

its all coming together.

[strawberrymarshmallowstories]

Cycle of Time

Title: Cycle of Time

Pairing: Jimin/OC

Word Count: 3k

Rating: SFW guys, it’s all safe!

Summary:  But there was still something that held you back and you couldn't let it go. No matter how hard you tried, your fingers stayed grasped around the material, your eyes flickering between his back and the soft knit in your hands.

Inspired by Serendipity

BTS Oneshot Collection: Gods & Goddesses AU

 Never seen such fear in sky-blue eyes,

Shall I keep your nightmares at bay?

It’d be easy, my breath against your lips,

My hand against your cheek,

And no words left unsaid.

 ~

 You first met him on a crisp Autumn morning, where the previous hot summer days sported tinted leaves and bone-chilling winds. Lowering degrees called for thicker coats and jackets, alongside with boots to hold out an unexpected shower or two.

But the sky had yet to lose its magical touch. The early morning glow still graced with its cool rays, albeit ones rarer with each passing. Autumn had always carried the essence of endings, like a late-summer sunset in its breathtaking beauty. 

But even such beauty couldn’t soothe the mournful twists, of a loss of something. A ticking bomb of the sorts, one without a timer but close, so close...

You blamed Fate, that old obnoxious bastard, for meddling where it didn’t belong. A pair of damned olive green gloves had been a bait.

Any other god would've ignored it, passed it off as irrelevant.

But not you.

One day it'd take you to your immortal grave, but until then it was your battle to fight. Diversity of human emotions - what a weakness to have. Addicting but oh-so-sweet. Ones so fickle, while the other of the strongest Ancient steels. 

 You drank in the warmth, fingers clenched around the knit as your eyes lingered on his turned back. You’d never tasted anything like this, like sugar on the tip of your tongue.

You’d never been drawn to sugar. Hated the toxicity of it.

 And before you realised, your feet moved on its own. An invisible pull, of a moth to a flame.

He'd piqued your interest, with a muted fog a shade over his truest colours. But while humans barely felt it, you could see it. A mask built through pain, from one life to another. Although now he’d forgotten, the lurking demons had never left.

All humans had their own. Ones silently waiting, until an opportunity arose to claim its throne.

 But this boy had the spirit of a fighter hidden behind kind eyes and rosy cheeks. Even subconsciously he tried to block your careful probing, to block an unfamiliar entity it had never met before.

You would’ve been wary had it been any other immortal, but he didn’t taste of the cold metal that could slice to bones. Instead he held warmth in his soul. A human touch.

But almost too stable for a human, when his inner strength more matched those of your kind. That's why for a second he'd confused you, with his well-formed shields, strong and resistant.

Your steps slowed.

A stability forged through necessity perhaps, you thought. Of perseverance and pressured practice. That’s how one leashed their demons. But one could never be rid of them. And so his own waited like ravenous carnivores, with their teeth a hot breath against his neck.

You clenched your fists. For eons Earth had vibrated in 3D. This world could never appreciate such a bright soul. 

He didn’t fit in either. Like you, in a way.

A smile, you realised. That’s what belonged on his lips. 

 And so you ran to meet dark caramel eyes of mesmerising shades. Soft and kind but with a depth of an electrifying touch.

Blush sparked your cheeks before you even realised. Did they have a name for this?

You wanted him closer, a realisation that had you stepping back. You wanted to touch his thoughts, glimpse at his memories.

Absurd and way out of any reason. 

But by then you no longer cared. You shouldn't have, had no reason to reach out to what humans considered private.

But you did. 

The unreasonable need was a warning number one.

Snippets of good deeds flashed before your eyes. With greed you drank it. Gorged on it. Many, oh so many memories that evoked something you couldn't explain. How he’d chased after a balloon, how he’d bought tea for a homeless man on the coldest days of winter.

Just because.

Humans didn’t do just because.

But he did. And the joy from his memories eased your twisting pain. Perhaps that's how he got to you, having his ease and bliss soothe your own pains.

 Most humans you’d met had been perfect examples of the 3D vibration. He only wanted to fit in, and so his dark blue haze acted like a mask. 

Because otherwise he'd shine too bright. 

And the brightest stars burned out the quickest.

But you could tell his energy sought something closer to match his. It wanted to be seen, appreciated for its light, although dimmed by physicality. And while the human world still resonated with 3D, his soul energy tried to push itself upwards. Unusual for a human, once again.

'I believe- is it yours?' You held out your palm. Only now your fingers unclenched around the soft knit, to reveal the rich forest green.

For a moment he looked at you, his eyes as if piercing through to your soul. And when  realisation sparked in those mesmerising browns, you watched the brightest of smiles form right in front of you.

How beautiful. And strange.

You’d seen many smiles, most with a touch of Arctic immortality. Just one glance and it could freeze human hearts into a million shards. None of those smiles had ever held even a flicker of warmth as did this man’s you'd never met.

For a moment you forgot how to breathe, as if Fate itself had clenched its fist around your throat. Suffocating as if no breath was quite enough.

But there was no fear. Because in a state of joy, fear didn’t exist.

On 3D Earth, to be without fear was unseen.

 Even in a world which lacked support for these lighted souls, in their finite bounds they needed to laugh the most. It all marked the start of a transformation phase, which they would one day lead. 

When there was enough of them.

For now many broke under societal pressures, only because they knew no other way. With anguished cries no one heard.

But you did. You always did, on nights with the blackest skies and thickest fogs that hid their desperate and inward directed pleads. Dark night of the soul, you'd call it.

You’d seen many of them. Bringers of light, is what you called them. Changing Earth one person at a time, one fragile lifetime at a time. Only led by inner calling. Only guided by an inner yearning.

But you felt the faint touch of his eternity. Of his distinct colour and of his scent. That could never be taken away, even from a human.

 With an awkward smile your hands fell back to your sides. And when he said his greetings, even though hoarse and rough, the melody never faltered.

 Your energy touched his in a welcome. And when the light flickered in the broken cracks of his dark hazed mask, you knew you not only wished, but wanted to see more.

‘You're welcome,' you blurted out. To your surprise he only smiled wider, his eyes half crescents that must've taken many hostage.

Warning number two.

You fidgeted with your scarf, the reminder crystal clear. One that could no longer be ignored. You were not of this world. You were not to leave a trace.

You stepped away, with heavy feet and sunken heart.

And you ran. Although you saw his hand rise in a try to stop you.

 You hadn’t been thinking, of course you hadn’t. Not when the sparks lighted the ashy embers in your heart. Something so simple as a smile, but a power that could change the worlds.

And he was only human. A mere human that held no powers.

Or perhaps he did.

 You turned the corner, heart galloping in your chest, damning Fate and its cruel game of trickery. Or perhaps was meant for you, written in stone despite your immortality? To be ruined, and to suffer with others as weak as you.

As if Fate had been baiting them.

 You'd only read about whatever this was, from human books that not always made sense. Some said it made people steal, cheat and lie. Some said it was a blessing of life, healing the most severe of illnesses.

Biased? Definitely.

So perhaps your fellow immortals had been right, when they said you had stayed for too long. Because you were one of them and they knew the best, right?

And you weren't stupid. Not usually. You knew it could never be.

 Because their fleeting life would never match yours.

 *** *** ***

  The second twist of fate found you months later, when an ill-omened rainstorm gave way to bright sky blues. The early Sun still lingered close to the horizon, longing for its travel across the sky. Only the damp heaviness spoke of the past storm, one that had come and left without a warning.

 You sent out a warm welcome at the touch of warmth on your eyelids. But even the bright rays couldn’t wash away the previous night, when the air had been electrified and your energy restless in its bounds. 

Things were shifting on Earth. Quicker, by each day and each year with Gaia's growing impatience. She moved through the Universe at an unimaginable speed, towards a new age it sought. Even with opposition at every taken inch.

But where you’d expected chaos, you only got an ominous sign in the darkest skies. Whatever it was, it kept its distance. Waiting for an opportunity perhaps. Not yet ready, but gathering strength to fight back..

With a sigh you turned around, eyes landing on a small hilltop you frequented on promising mornings. Its picturesque platform had retained its beauty through many decades, its wilderness groomed by human hands. 

But today your stomach hollowed.

A couple had settled in on a wooden bench you often occupied, cuddled side-by-side as the morning chill pinched their cheeks. Sipping coffee with its steam as enticing as its scent. 

Embraced by the colour of budding love, softest of champagne pinks. Barely there, faintest of the blushes. Fragile as roses of ice, with one touch you'd have it bleeding your hands.

 That’s why you’d distanced yourself from humans, because among your immortal stillness pulsed a yearning heart for what would be a tragedy. A fatal weakness that could cost your eternal life.

A gift and a curse.

A tap on your shoulder jolted you out of your thoughts. You snapped around, knowing you shouldn’t have.

Another warning ignored, in your stupid and selfish desires, as you met this boy with caramel blonde hair to match his eyes. With a beautiful crystal soul you’d only met twice. Never, not even once, in a human.

 'Hi,' he started, a radiant grin on his lips. 'It's you, isn't it?'

 His smile got your own lips tugging upwards, even his voice a tempting siren call. Another warning bell, sound and clear. 

Why did you keep ignoring it?

Your eyes fell to his extended palm, to the bright coloured gloves he presented with pride. The second later you touched your backpack. Gone. 

You couldn't help but laugh. Fate had its own strange games, ones you’d never understand. 

Coincidences? More like webbed traps that sought its next victim.

 'Well, this is embarrassing,’ you admitted as you reached for what was yours. His own green knits peeked out from his pocket.

 You ignored that as well. 

Another smile that got your knees close to buckling, and he introduced himself as Jimin. A name that tasted like sugar on the tip of your tongue. Nothing had ever been so velvet soft.

No other immortal would’ve laughed at the clumsy joke that followed. But somehow he did it, and you couldn’t resist.

 But perhaps it wasn’t for the joke itself, as it could’ve been the laughter bubbling from his soul. An enticing sound that for the first time ever, made you want to keep it. To play it again,  to carry it with you.

To the next decade, and perhaps even to the next.

A selfish something to cheer you up on your path of solitude.

 Was this what humans felt? Was this the experience you’d yearned to have? To have his energy field interact with yours, your celadon-tinged hue welcoming his unfamiliar humanity. Both trying to feel each other, to understand each other. 

He wasn't at fault. How could’ve he known?

But you did. And that made the difference. You'd allowed it. Even though the caress was one of strange intimacies, far beyond polite interaction you'd allow from an immortal. Two different worlds. Two different beings. 

Who was this kid?

 And why did he pique your interest this much?

As he shifted with an invite lingering on his lips, you could tell he waited for the perfect moment. But it wasn’t about you, it was his humanity, its fragility. 

And you weren't supposed to befriend humans.

So before the perfect moment reached the present, you cut him off with an excuse. 

Saying that you had to go, even though it faded the bright stars in his eyes.

As if the words that you were running very very late were words of a rejection.

Which they were.

For his own good.

 So you held strong, even when his warmth and the energy of life sunk its claws into your heart. He'd gotten too close, somehow, amidst your protective shields and barriers you had honed to perfection. Who knew a heart could feel so close with only a word and a smile.

And it was then, after the rejection that wasn't one, when his shadows raised its head again to step forward. To stand next to him and seep its dark haze all over his crystal blue. 

And there was nothing you could do.

 For this brief moment you hated the whole world. But most of all you hated yourself for what you were. Because you’d given way to his demons.

 And what you had intended as a kind deed had caught up with its consequences after all.

  *** *** ***

  The third time was a test, a miraged choice presented in the most innocent of ways. 

His human steps light and a haunted tune on his lips, he stopped at the traffic lights. His energy had already recognised yours, a welcome brushing against your outer perimeter.

Your brows knitted together in a frown. The touch gentle and barely there. Was this really possible? For a human?

His eyes found yours, as if he’d too felt it. You could tell, by the way his face lit up with a smile that could save the worlds. No hesitation, not even an ounce. And you knew it would never be simple, never as clear as black and white.

Too many greys. Too many shades and too many angles.

A warning jolted through your spine. You glanced at the road, as if someone had called your name. Your true name. And you knew why, as you saw a car approaching at an impossible speed. 

 The traffic light binged green for crossing.

No.

 You weren't to get involved, you weren’t allowed to.

But you'd never forgive yourself.

Not when this beautiful soul would have to leave. Not when his only crime was crossing roads with you.

 And something inside of you snapped. Eyes widening, you watched your fingertips tingle with familiar silver threads reaching out, to disappear into dimensional space. First time ever your energy acted before your command. 

It had acted on its own.

Time slowed to a crawl of a snail, until it stopped. A leaf lingered mid-air, its path stopped and stilled by your interference.

Even Jimin stood there, with everyone else in a world drained of colour. Muted tones, too many greys.

You hated yourself. But it was done.

As if your body was no longer yours, you made your way through the stilled crowd. Of laughs midway through, of clothes stilled in movement, of a toddler with a crocodile tear on her cheek. Of many more people, in mid-step, waiting, expecting, chatting.

How silly. Everyone else was safe.

Only Jimin had been moving too quick. Because of you. Because he’d seen you.

And now it was too late. Perhaps Fate had assigned you to suffer, to face the consequences of no willpower. Perhaps you were too different, even for your own world. Perhaps being different was a sin, even in a world filled with so many beings, entities, of energies.

‘I’m sorry,’ you whispered, your fingertips brushing against his cheek. Even though the stilled world held too many greys, the spark remained in his caramel-chocolate browns. Even his cute little nose had crinkled up, a sign of a forming grin.

Your eyes fell on his lips. What would it feel like?

 Just once?

 Was it really that bad of a crime? This human, who'd given warmth to your cold body, blood moving with fervor - heat you’d never felt before. And for the first time in centuries, your hands felt warm. 

And your body buzzed with life you’d never felt before.

 But he’s just a human.

 You pulled at his hand, leading him back to the sidewalk. In this moment he would live. The choice had been made, and this bright soul would live.

Your free hand balled into a fist - you'd saved him, even if it was the last thing you did. If you went down, if the Ancient Council called you out, it’d be for a reason.

You'd lived long enough anyway.

 What was the use of being a goddess if you had to obey rules. Ones no one really remembered, created eons ago, only vaguely referenced. Only the Source itself could act as a judge. And perhaps Fate.

 You came to a halt with a bitter smile. This gentle soul had given you what you’d asked for, even if he’d never know. 

You pulled off your mittens, the bright orange ones that would forever remind you of Jimin. You took his hand in yours, whispering your last blessings in an Ancient language not many remembered.

A charm of sorts you rarely used, for good luck one never had enough of. But also something of yours, no matter how stupid it might've been.

Closing the charm with a quick peck on his cheek, you stepped away. One out of indulgence rather than necessity. One last side-step you allowed.

Be gone, you whispered, and the energy rose in a whirlwind.

And then you left for the last time.

   ~

BTS Oneshot Collection: Gods & Goddesses AU

[ttylbabezzz]

Against the odds A Draco Malfoy imagine

We were 11 the first time I saw her as we entered the train off of platform 9 3/4 my parents words hanging in the air to "make us proud". I was a part of a legacy, a legacy of purebloods and death eaters meant to eventually carry on as my parents have and make the dark lord proud. But all it had taken was one look at this girl to change everything. I had never wanted to know someone as much as I had her. She had been sorted into gryffindor, a natural enemy for us slytherins but I still found myself thinking of her over the course of the year trying my hardest to forget - though I could not - and be the person everyone expected me to be around her because of her half blood status. I tried, but I could not bring myself to hurt her. It was in our fourth year at Hogwarts that she had found someone who made her happy, happier then I could have ever seen her. George Weasley, a natural joker and prankster, and a good man. I had never been in as much pain as I had the day before we all left for Christmas when he finally swept her off of her feet and asked her to be his. I longed to be in his position, I longed to call this girl mine, I also knew better then anyone that this wouldn't last long, he was also a natural douche, one who liked to play around. But it still felt wrong to out cast her so I made it a goal to become at least her friend if that was all I could ever be. We have always been on good terms Y/N and I, no matter the hate I had for her friends - the golden trio - and the hate they had for me. She didn't like to judge, she believed me to be a good person under my tough exterior, and that's the person I wanted her to see. I started by sitting with her in class, cracking jokes and smiling everytime I heard her amazing laugh that could brighten up any room. That was how I landed the two of us a detention cleaning Snapes classroom after a fifth year disaster. We laughed through the whole thing, I had even made it clear how I wanted to be her friend. "I knew you were a good person underneath all of that." She stated as she wrapped her arms around me. As detention ended we parted ways with a smile and a wave. It was not long before I heard it, the laughter of another girl and the voice of George as they kissed in a dimly lit part of the hallway. Four months they lasted before he did this, four months of my pain and suffering, stolen glances and yearning. Four months he had so carelessly thrown away. How I wanted to punch him, but instead I snapped a picture, printed it off and spread it all over the school from end to end so all could see just how vile George Weasley is. She came to me that day, tears streaming down her beautiful face. I wiped away all traces before I wrapped her in a tight hug and kissed her hair murmuring soothing words into her hair. The trio found us like that, Ron was pissed "So this is who you turn to after George broke up with you? A snake? How could you be so stupid?!" He shouted furiously earning. Angered gazes from myself, Harry and Hermione. She was quick to walk over and slap him across the face, earning a smirk from me. That was when I decided I wanted her as mine and no one else's. The decision was made long before though, I just had finally plucked up the courage. The next couple of months were spent with the two of us as I helped her heal the heart that had been so viciously broken by the red headed weasel. That was when I had invited her (with permission from my parents as her family was very respected in the wizarding community) to spend the summer at Malfoy manor. Her response was as I expected -as soon as she asked and gained permission from her parents- a yes. As the last day approached I found myself daring as far as to hold the soft and caring hand I had been staring at for months. Things escalated from there as we found ourselves in a happy bubble full of ourselves. The trio was not happy with her decision to spend the summer with my family but she did not care telling them " I make no fuss about anything you three do, he has made me the happiest I think I have ever been, even after George had broken me he has stuck by me, which is more then I can say for you Ron. Just let me be happy." The summer went by fast the two of us spending every waking minute together, my parents approval of her made me even more happy as my father expressed how he would not be upset but happy should the two of us decide to be with each other. It was later that week after returning from diagon ally that I had finally asked her to be mine. The happiness radiated off of her as she spoke " I was beginning to think you'd never ask, you block head." Our happiness was short lived upon the dark lord coming for a visit and requesting me to do something unimaginable. To kill the headmaster. The fear of being killed was too strong for me to say no. I did his bidding that night and became who I had never wanted to be. A death eater. Y/N was not happy about this but knew I had no other choice as I cried to her the next day about the events that had taken place. She wrapped her arms around me and vowed she would not let this come between the two of us because she cared for me too much to let me go. I found no hesitation in kissing her. The next year at hogwarts was full of the two of us together, though I still had a mission from the dark lord to carry out that was going to take place in the next week. She did not leave me though even after the death of the headmaster, instead she found me and comforted me as I cried for what I had just about done but couldn't do. Snape had done it instead, saving me the guilt. It wasn't long after that the war had broke out and I found myself sitting in my room writing to her as she journeyed around with potter and the rest of the trio their intentions unknown. She had picked her side, and I had no choice with the side I found myself on. That was when my father ran to my room " They have captured potter... along with your dearest Y/N I will do all I can to have her spared, I swear it." I felt my world come crashing down around me as I sunk to the floor. It was later the next day I heard her screams of pain. I heard her cries. Anger and fury coursed through my veins as I found myself rushing to the room and crashing in. Bellatrix was torturing her, for nothing more then the joy of hearing someone in pain. "STUPIFY" I shouted racing over "run, get as far away as you can. I love you, I always will." I cried as I helped her run to the doors, then, she apparated away from me once more. My aunt was furious, but not as furious as I had been our shouts echoing through the large house. "IF you ever touch her again dear aunt I will waste no time in killing you." I said my wand against her throat. At least she was safe for now. That was all I could ask. A week had passed and potter had escaped with a few others. It was a while later and few letters that the war had begun. A couple of hours into the fight and I could not sit here and kill the ones I had known for the majority of my life. I found myself turning on my family, on some of my closest friends and changing sides. I fought until the end of the battle beside the one I loved, until everything was won and we could be at peace and not fight anymore. The tears streamed down our faces as we kissed and held each other in a warm embrace. Her parents hugging the two of us "I knew you would fight with us." They said tears in their eyes " You are a good man." That was what feels like a century ago, full of love. I found myself crying, tears of joy as I watched the love of my life walk down the aisle for us to exchange our vows of love for everyone to hear. I found myself laughing with her as we held our new born son scorpius for the first time, and then again as he went off to school with his friends, including Harry's son. We had put our hate behind ourselves and found each other close friends now because of my beautiful wife. Had it not been for Y/N, the world may be different. I may be dead, she could have been dead. Scorpius would not be here, and potter would still be my greatest enemy. But I would not change anything, for the world

[its-love-u-asshole]

Shaking in My Skull [Ch. 9]

Pairing: Fushimi Saruhiko/Yata Misaki

Rating: T

Summary: Stuck on the plane between life and death, Saruhiko makes the decision to risk everything, forced to find faith in himself and the headstrong Yata Misaki as they both face unimaginable demons.

Note: The last update will come tomorrow! Big thanks to @emeraldwaves for reading this over <3

Ao3 Version

8tracks

The first thing Yata had done was cry, in fact sometimes he still did.

Standing there on the bridge, back to life, taking in all the forgotten sounds and smells of the world, he'd cried.

He could feel Saruhiko on his skin, his palm in his hand, but he wasn't there. The warmth, the connection, it had been severed so harshly, and all Yata could do was run from the bridge, barging into his modest apartment and collapsing again at the sight of his unfinished canvases and projects. The tears seemed never ending on the first night.

He felt awful and light all at once, because yes, it's all here, I'm back, but Saruhiko was not. Somewhere else in the city, his friends were getting the news of his passing, were dealing with the grief Yata had barely caught a glimpse of. He knew their pain now. Losing Saruhiko, caring about him so much...

But how would he be able to explain that to them? He couldn't. As far as anyone else knew, he and Saruhiko were strangers. It was like a roundhouse kick to the stomach.

As if the universe was adding salt to his wound, his phone had pinged shortly after he'd arrived home.

Kusanagi: Yata, the dinner tomorrow is cancelled. I can't talk now but, Seri's friend was in an accident. He didn't make it. I'll talk to you and the boys more when I can.

Didn't make it. Yeah, you have no idea. Somehow, hearing someone else tell him made him feel so much more helpless. He couldn't imagine how Saruhiko felt, and wished he could comfort him in any shape or form.

But it wasn't possible. They were separated now, would be for the rest of time. It wasn't fair.

Saruhiko, he'd done so much, tried so hard.

"Fuck that," Yata whispered into the silence of his apartment, hating how dull the colors of his paintings seemed now, how generic the images. They weren't what he felt at all, didn't even come close to capturing true fear, true desperation or longing.

Adoration.

Yata swallowed the bile in his throat, dragging himself to his crappy bed, and refusing to take note of how it was so much better than rocks and dirt. It didn't feel right.

He fell asleep easily, exhausted and fed up, but his sleep was restless, plagued by visions of trials and Saruhiko. He'd holed himself up for three days, staring at the ceiling and deciding what to do next.

That was the only thing he could do, move on. Move forward. It was what he'd promised himself he'd do, at the very beginning of his journey. To back down now would be an insult to everything he and Saruhiko had gone through. He wouldn't let the other down.

So, on the fourth day, he'd picked himself up out of bed, and made way into his living room, tossing out a good portion of his paintings. They didn't feel like him anymore. His fingers itched to dig into his paints, to expel his emotions into true representations of himself, but he had to wait. There were other things he had yet to do before he got lost in his work.

Yata hadn't been ready to face the guys right away, as much as he'd missed them. He needed time to adjust, to reign in his emotions. He turned down their invites to movies and dinners, and no one questioned it much, since everyone was more concerned with Kusanagi's situation. Yata didn't think he'd be able to stomach it, having everyone offering condolences, while Yata knew how hard Saruhiko had tried to come back.

Avoiding Kusanagi himself was fairly easy. He was busy pushing back wedding plans, and comforting his fiancé. Yata almost felt guilty, but in the face of everything else, it was the least of his worries. He was of no use to his friend anyways until he got himself together. Once he did that, he'd offer all the help in the world.

Slowly, he was picking himself up.

At the end of the second week, he finally did what he'd always wanted to, ever since reciting the contract in the afterlife.

He went to see his mom.

--

He heard a muffled 'be right there!' through the door, and the light scurry of footsteps before his mother appeared in front of him, fiery eyes catching in the warm sunlight of the day. Her calm expression quickly morphed into one of confusion, then surprise, before finally settling on immense, blinding joy. It was then that Yata broke, and it all hit him again—just when he thought he could handle this. How had he been away for so long?

He fell into her arms in the entryway of the house, barely managing to sob out an apology as she yelped in shock. She smelled like detergent and fresh spices, evoking the memories of his childhood which he'd neglected for so long. He'd missed her, he'd missed her so much.

"M-Misaki! What are yo--"

"I missed you mom, I'm...so much has...I'm sorry, I," he choked the words out, snuggling further into her, like he'd done as a kid, sure his mom could protect him from all the world's real problems. "I n-needed to come home."

She stiffened for but a moment before her muscles relaxed, her arms coming up without question to cradle him tightly.

In that moment, it had all been worth it. All the struggle and all the nightmares, all for this. All for his mother smoothing her hands over his back, and whispering sweetly until he calmed down.

Yata lost track of how many times he apologized for not visiting more, for not coming back, for not calling, and all the while she listened, silent until he was all talked out and drained from crying.

Of course she'd be upset that he was barely apologizing now, how could she not? He'd been away for so long, seldom reached out to her despite all she'd done for him. He deserved any harsh words she had to offer, and coldness or resentment. He knew it was her right, but he'd make it up to her in whatever way he could, he'd--

She chuckled, kissing his forehead as if nothing had changed, and Yata's breath caught in his throat as she said the words he'd been longing to hear, shattering the last of his guilt. "Oh Misaki, there is nothing to forgive," she whispered, voice giving away her beaming smile. "You can always come home."

And really, if only for that second, he felt invincible again, though his voice was barely a whisper. "I will Mom, I promise."

Though he couldn't do much more other than return her hug in a vice grip, somewhere in the back of his mind, Yata resolved to tell her everything someday, about Saruhiko, about all he'd endured.

But for now he kept her close, and eagerly awaited the sound of footsteps as his siblings emerged from their rooms, welcoming him home for by no means the last time.

--

By the end of the second month, he was picking himself up more and more. It had taken a lot for him to realize it, but of course, though Saruhiko was gone, Yata knew not all was lost.

His gallery showing was moved until a later date, the owners being sympathetic to his explanation of a loved one passing, and it gave him more time to focus on creating new works which satisfied him. There was no rush now, the owners had liked him so much in person, they'd given him the green light to contact him whenever he was ready.

It was nice, not working under a time restriction. The paintings which remained from before his time in the afterlife he'd decided to sell, and they'd gotten him enough to get by for a while, along with money from his part time job.

Yata saw his friends as much as possible, never stopped letting them know how much he appreciated them. They made fun of him now for being too sentimental, but oh well. He helped Kusanagi too, though it was hard, and after so many months, the wedding planning was back on. Meeting Saruhiko's friends...had been devastating, but he'd controlled himself throughout the dinner, allowing himself to cry when he was back home alone.

They seemed to be doing alright, but he could see the notable emptiness in their eyes, because it was the same kind he felt, deep in his soul.

Nevertheless, things moved on, and he never stopped thinking of Saruhiko, with each new endeavor. He was taking it slow, readjusting to life, and for once, it felt amazing. But the empty spot in his life would remain forever, one he couldn't fill, where someone else should've been.

Replacing Saruhiko was impossible too, that much he knew.

Despite the missing piece, Yata was happy. He was doing well, better than ever. His paintings, the ones which he worked on in his free time, hadn't suffered along with his heart. If anything, he was finally pleased with them, no matter how somber some of them turned out. Yata had learned more about himself on the journey than he ever felt possible, and now he could communicate that while doing what he loved. He also found himself painting a lot of night landscapes, abstract shapes with shadows and rich blues, all his secret tributes to Saruhiko.

Sometimes it got to be too much, painting with the other in mind. Yata missed him, wanted to kiss and hold him, and the yearning would tear him apart at times. On a particularly bad night, he'd nearly tossed all shades of blue in the garbage, his heart aching.

But no, Saruhiko was alive in his work, and it was everything to Yata, that last thread which linked them together. So he continued, creating art inspired by his family and friends, as well as the one he'd hold dear until the end of time.

Sometimes, he wondered if Saruhiko would like his pieces, if he'd be able to recognize the overwhelming love behind them. The sketches of the taller, all fine boned and charcoal, he kept hidden in a drawer, only to be seen by his eyes. Nothing beat looking at the original though.

Yes, he'd put himself back together nicely, he was happy with the direction he was going in, knew it would all work out. In a way he was thankful for the Return, without it, he didn't know if he'd appreciate everything as he did now. That being said, he'd never want to do it again, nor would he wish it on someone else. It was simply too cruel, with a near perfect guarantee of failure. He still dreamt of it, woke up drenched in sweat and breathing harshly. How he'd managed to make it out, he didn't know. But he had. He had come through, beaten the odds.

And yet, Yata would've given anything to have Saruhiko back with him.

--

Six months later, and this would be the last time he would be here. Yata stood on the freshly mowed grass, staring at the stone with fresh orchids laid down in front of it.

Sapphire, like his eyes.

He kicked at the dirt, willing his heart to calm down.

Initially, he'd made a habit of visiting the other's grave site, making sure none of Saruhiko's friends would be there and question him. They didn't know each other after all. What a damn joke.

Yata laughed to himself. It had seemed like a good idea at the start; Yata had hoped it would make him feel closer to the other, in some way, being there where Saruhiko was buried.

But visiting Saruhiko's grave hadn't felt right, seemed heavier and heavier with each occasion. Because he knew it meant nothing, Saruhiko couldn't see him, couldn't hear him. Nothing was below the dirt except the shell of the one who'd risked his life with Yata, who Yata had protected and come to love. 

Standing there, in front of his boring tombstone, was not something Saruhiko would've wanted.

And so, Yata decided to stop. After today, he would never come back.

He would carry Saruhiko with him instead, no matter how painful the ache, and hoped that Saruhiko would think of him too as he sat in hell, alone. Maybe it would help to get him through it, until Yata could see him again. Yata would give up heaven, if it meant being with the other again at the end of his life. Regardless of if he'd suffer, he would forfeit.

Part of him knew Saruhiko wouldn't care for that either, would probably call him impulsive and unthinking, and it made Yata smile more than anything.

The tears stung, but he kept them behind his eyes. It was time to go. No more crying.

However, as all the noble thoughts crossed his mind, he couldn't help but feel something uncertain in the air around him, as if the fading landscape of the cemetery knew something he did not.

--

The swirling wind, no matter how eerie, was somewhat of a comfort now.

Or, perhaps it was to be a sound of mockery, the last thing he heard before...

Saruhiko took one more step, all he could manage, and then he was falling to his knees, his soles worn and muscles giving out. That was to say nothing of the broken bones he was undoubtedly sporting.

This, this was what he had been avoiding. For him to succumb to exhaustion, for him to be lesser. Sand hit his face, and as much as it stung, it kept him awake. For how long, he wasn't sure.

Dammit, he thought weakly, the energy behind any form of frustration having left him long ago.

Long ago...

As if to emphasize the observation, he dug his gnarled fingers into the sand below him, eyes peering around the vastness of the final stretch of the journey. Unless it was all a cruel joke, then he had done it, hadn't he? He nearly whimpered from the possibility that he hadn't. But..from the looks of it...

He was at the end again, the gate was...where was...

Saruhiko's eyes were painful to blink, so dried out and strained, he wondered how much longer he could keep them open. How much longer until he was blind...

The glasses he'd been given, well, they'd fallen off some time ago, in the midst of the second trial...possibly...he couldn't remember. But he remembered screeches of something, blended with the feelings of being buried alive and...and...

He shuddered, the dates and times running through his head. Nagare...

Slowly, he began to crawl forward, the voices still pestering him of the things he wouldn't be allowed to forget. He missed Misaki's arms around him so much in that moment.

It had all been too much, more than the first time, or so it seemed. Maybe it was because he was alone this time. His lungs protested from all the running, from the fumes of smoke and dirt, each breath a wheeze as he struggled to move. The initial trial had been both physical and mental, a maze of iron and mist, each dead end joined with a memory of his life, of a mistake or moment he’d taken for granted. How he’d made it out of that one, he wasn’t sure.

If he thought the whispers were bad the first time, it was nothing compared to that maze, the noises deafening and inflicted twice as painfully, because they were extracted right from his memories, taking advantage of the things he now allowed himself to feel.

The second trial, after he’d wandered aimlessly from the first, made him fucking swim. He had to swim through what appeared to be a never-ending sea, a sword by his side (a pity gift from Munakata once more), facing creatures which made the graveyard beast look tame. But honestly, it wasn’t the most grueling part, no, moving…swimming was hardest. Saruhiko had learned to perform the task some time ago, but he was never proficient at it, more like a child with his weak strokes and poor breathing. Water invaded his lungs more times than he could count during the challenge, the release of death never coming, because he was already lost in the afterlife. When he dared to breach the surface of the water for air, he was dragged back down by the beasts, his respite never fulfilling. It was like that, all the way until he reached the entrance to Nagare’s caves.

He was exhausted.

Maybe if he just sat still for a while, if he could rest for but a second...

He lurched himself forward, muffling his shout as his body protested, the dried blood making the movements stiffer.

No, don't you dare stop.

He bit his lip something fierce, willing himself forward at a snail’s pace, but moving regardless. Don't stop.

That was the trap, wasn't it? He understood it now, why so many had fallen right before reaching the end. It took its toll on the individual, with no one there to motivate them, at least...no one in their right mind. How on earth had he and Misaki managed it? Making it so far, keeping sane while doing it? Having enough energy to walk upright? His mind spun with visions of mockery and whispers which he couldn't distinguish from his imagination or reality, flashes of memories and the surges of doubt which had finally come back to deplete his strength.

Right at the end. Right where it counted most.

Keep going. Don't think about useless things.

Though it was hard not to, wasn't it? A perfectly practical reaction. If he failed here...to do it again a third time...it was unthinkable. Yet, he'd probably do it. He'd been such a fool, taking up the challenge knowing what it entailed, but he didn't find himself regretting it. Though, it was obvious everyone else had done the pitiful thinking for him this time...

Totsuka's face had been solemn, but not surprised. Saruhiko had been greeted amicably, but he didn't have any questions for the other man this time around. He knew what to do, what he needed to do. Totsuka had led him silently, with purpose, and the last thing he'd given Saruhiko was a cryptic smile and a nod of respect, bright eyes sad with something Saruhiko couldn't pinpoint. And then once again, he was gone, and his air of solidarity which Saruhiko didn't know what to do with was the only thing left of him.

Time slipped away after that. He had no way of knowing how long he'd been going, just that it might as well have been eternity.

By the time the caves had opened up to him, after ages of traveling and strife, he hadn't bothered going to see Douhan. He figured there was no point, seeing her green eyes light up in either surprise or skepticism. Perhaps part of him wanted to keep his endeavor private, the guilt of failure sitting heavy on his shoulders. But it hadn't mattered, she'd been waiting for him instead, seated upon a rock with a familiar bird.

No words were spoken, but he more or less appreciated it when she reached up into her hair and untangled her bow, which he finally noted was made of a gray and golden fleece, expensive...

She tied it around his hand, which had a nasty looking gash across it, and made sure it held. Then, a curt bow, and he was being led away, watching her disappear as he followed the soft beat of wings.

It only took him a few moments of remembering her fond stare as she tended to the wound, to realize it was her significant item. And she'd given it away, so easily.

In his head, he made a note to return it to her, sometime far in the future.

By then his mind was fragile enough, the beatings he'd taken were excruciating, and yet he took no relief in knowing the most physical trials were over. There were worse things. And well, when it had finally come to Nagare once more, the theory had proved true.

Nagare's eyes had reflected displeasure along with conflict, but this time, he hadn't been alone.

"Dang, you sure are stupid huh?" The child's pale, messy hair obscured his eyes, unhindered by the two white clips fastened to the side of it. His light green eyes reflected confusion and annoyance, his skin and posture the very essence of youthfulness as he criticized Saruhiko. "Doing this again, you're making it harder for--"

"Gojo, thank you for your help, but I don't think words will have much effect on Fushimi-san at this point," Nagare interrupted fondly, and the boy blinked at him in confusion. "I'm sorry, but would you excuse us? You should calm Yukari down anyways, wherever he is."

The respect and patience Nagare gave the other was mildly astonishing, but by then, Saruhiko was too weak for such observations, who these other people were...he wasn't even upset with the boy's childish quips.

If he lost sight of what he wanted now, even for a moment, it would come crumbling down again. Nagare seemed to realize it too, and while the other boy in the room was disgruntled at not getting an answer out of Saruhiko, he did as asked, and left them, mild worry etched on his face.

The air plummeted quickly after, and Nagare wasted no time in breaching the icy divide. He knew this was Saruhiko's toughest challenge, facing change, risking it. But he had to, had to. Except this time...

Now he--

Saruhiko coughed, bloodied spit mixing into the sand as he fought off a sob at the memory. And yet, he continued to crawl as it played, because he had no choice. He wouldn't forget, no matter how badly he wanted to. It was his test.

He didn't miss the uncharacteristic pity laced in Nagare's eyes, as if he was actually fucking apologetic for what he was about to do. But it was there and gone in a second, and it was back to business.

"Fushimi, you know I can't give you the same question again, you already know the test behind it," Nagare had sighed, shoulders slumping. Saruhiko blinked, nothing more. Tired, so tired. He hadn't expected less anyhow. Of course Nagare's usual test was now futile to him, with his arrogant need to attempt the journey again. Ha, arrogant. Surely though, they had to know it was desperation more than anything else.

"I've been waiting for you, thinking about it, discussing it with my companions, trying to figure out the best way," Nagare explained uselessly, and Saruhiko picked up nothing he cared for in the words. "And--"

"Just do what you have to do." Saruhiko didn't recognize his own voice, it was dull and hoarse, and the tone of impatience was enough to make Nagare frown, face relaxing in reluctant acceptance.

Saruhiko wasn't ready for what would surely be the hardest thing he had to face, since Nagare's trial had proven to be the most difficult in the past, but there was no use putting it on hold.

He needed to do this. Everyone was waiting for him. He wouldn't disappoint again.

Nagare sighed, scanning over Saruhiko's dejected form, before he nodded.

"Very well."

Saruhiko had moved a good distance, on his hands and knees alone, but his muscles were starting to give again. It was only a matter of time before he was forced on his stomach, and yet such fast approaching matters weren't on his mind. Instead they were like a mantra, the dates.

June 13th.

October 4th.

January 2nd.

The years, he refused to acknowledge any of them, even the favorable ones. All the while Nagare's voice was mixed in.

"Your test will be fitting to you, and I'm afraid it’s not a trick. What you are about to know and see is the truth," Nagare went on, sliding up to Saruhiko until the other could see flashes of green sparking around them.

Saruhiko felt his stomach drop at the words, but he wasn't given time to ask his questions before it began. He shook his head, and it was like he'd been transported somewhere else, a nightmare really, and he knew a lot about those. The visions assaulted him full force, some bittersweet or kind, others entirely unfair. He wished he'd seen none of it, but something wouldn't let him look away. It hurt more than the fractures and cuts, more than failure.

Excusing Nagare for this would be close to impossible.

He didn't have to ask what the visions were of, he knew, the tears which had finally been expelled from his eyes showed that he knew, but Nagare decided to inform him anyways, as if things weren't clear enough.

"These are the deaths of those you hold dear, along with when they will occur and the circumstances. It is possible they might change their own outcomes in some way, but these are almost as good as final. Do forgive me," Nagare said, voice remaining level. "Your test is carrying them with you, knowing when and how they happen. You are not allowed to stop them, or to warn your loved ones in any way. Should you do so, I will make it so you are brought back immediately.

Saruhiko was hyperventilating, the sounds and voices, the emotions the scenes evoked...it was all too much.

He knew now, how Seri...the guys...

He was stuck with the knowledge forever, unable to use it, and suddenly he regretted it so much more, failing Nagare's test the first time around.

"Do I make myself clear?" 

It took what was probably equivalent to hours for Saruhiko to pick himself up from that well enough for him to process the words, the implications. To back down here....was out of the question. It didn't change his desire to throw up.

The trial, more like the punishment, might as well have been the straw that broke the camel's back for him, but he had to keep going regardless.

If he wanted to see them, to make the most of the time he had left...

Saruhiko would endure it for all of time, until each date of death passed, and he saw them all again in the afterlife. After all, there was always another way right? He'd yet to succeed with it sure, but knowing there truly was no such thing as goodbye...

Saruhiko dry heaved weakly one last time, straightening his back to finally meet Nagare's stern gaze.

No such thing...

"Crystal."

The gate was there, just ahead. Or at least, a huge block shaped blur was. So close, but too far away. He pushed himself more, the dates jolting his brain along with each lurch forward, the pain from his body blending with the pain in his heart, the longing, and he felt the last of his hope begin to dwindle.

His plan was crumbling, his resolve along with it, just as he'd predicted.

No.

In a fit of anguish, he put weight back on the heels of his feet, yelling at the pressure, and kicked forward, towards the mass in the distance.

Don't fall asleep, don't stop.

His mind was a battleground as always though, and with each encouragement came an equal sized surge of doubt.

You can't do this. You'll have to try again. You can barely move, stop being unreasonable. This is useless. Why did you think you could do this?

Why had he?

Because he wanted to be with his friends, with his Misaki, at home, in his bed, staying up too late on his laptop and drinking cheap coffee. He wanted all of it, still did.

Though, perhaps it wasn't going to be enough this time either.

After everything, it was going to fall apart...

Disappointment...guilt...

He raised his fist weakly, slamming it into the sand.

But the gate was right there, almost directly in front of him, or was he imagining things?

If he could just reach...

Try harder. You have to. But how much more? What else did he have left to give? His palms scratched against the floor, finding no purchase in the flimsy sand as they struggled to pull his whole weight forward. The strength to crawl was nearly gone, the last option he'd had after his legs had caved from all the running and beatings, slipping away. He could do nothing about it, as close as he was. And again, he found himself hoping, because that's what Misaki had taught him to do. Hope.

Almost. Always almost. Almost there.

The wind shrieked around him, his vision blanking out rapidly from the force of it, until the marble gate was more and more of a blur. If he didn't know any better, he'd say it was getting farther and farther away, evading him for eternity. Maybe that would be his true hell, so close to what he wanted, but never reaching it. It would be fitting, wouldn't it? No Misaki, none of the life he'd come to desire, just the loneliness of the Return, the journey he could not complete, neither the first nor the second time around.

So why was he still trying to move? Why put himself through it? How did he even know that the end of this, should he make it, would be what he expected?

Misaki's voice answered the question for him, all the way back from the beginning.

"You don't, but, wouldn't you give anything just to see?"

Ah, right.

At the time, he'd found the response, childish, stupid even, blind as he was. Now though, it pushed him forward, and gave him the solution to every question his mind dared to pose in opposition.

Why put himself through this? Simple, he had nothing more to lose, and everything to gain. For instance, his home, despite it being nothing more than a poorly decorated apartment; it didn't matter if it looked empty, because it seldom was. It was usually filled with voices, Seri and the guys, not mourning or crying, but laughing and getting too worked up over board games and movies. Then there was Seri herself, with her over the top wedding planning and support of his endeavors. He had the accomplishment he felt upon completing a difficult project at work, and really, he had his general state of existence, one he'd never thought he could miss. And lastly was Misaki, not alone, but with Saruhiko by his side, being held and kissed by the redhead and seeing the warmth in his eyes...

That's what Saruhiko had to gain, those moments and so many others. So he'd do it, this journey, again and again. Three times or twenty, until he either completely lost his mind or finally stained the marble with his blood soaked palm.

All he had to do was touch the surface...

He reached out, ignoring how distant the barrier appeared. He didn't want to trust his eyes anymore, they hardly worked anyhow, after all the strain. Saruhiko's body trembled violently from the extra movement, elbows giving out completely and leaving him lying in the dirt, hand extended pathetically. It was probably over, his muscles had ceased to listen, weighed down with exhaustion and injury, and his mind wasn't far behind. Even his hand, so determined to make contact, was gnarled from the previous trial.

But still he reached, felt his joints protest, and then reached farther. One of the last things his eyes were able to process was the shining white blur of the gate, and he wondered how close it truly was. His fingers slid against something sleek, maybe a flurry of sand which had been swirled up by the strong gusts of wind, and his hand finally dropped. It was useless, bruised and twitching in front of him. He had nothing left in him.

Saruhiko had failed. Again. Two rounds of trials, of self-doubt and fear, and for what? He'd fallen short once more. The longer he was here, the longer everyone he knew grieved and coped without him. The longer he missed their presence.

To think he'd come to have no issue admitting it, after so many years of denying it at every turn. Yet even with that driving him, it hadn't been enough.

Well, he would just have to try harder the next time, wouldn't he?

When the time came, he'd make sure. He'd be enough, for once.

His body didn't have the strength to sob, but the wind would've drowned it out anyways, howling as dirt whipped at his skin. Saruhiko's eyes were finally failing him, and the final thing he saw was a flash of darkness, and a brief slit of light, before it was all lost, his last thoughts never reaching his lips.

I'm sorry, Misaki.

I'm sorry, everyone.

Then there was silence.

.

.

.

.

"Fushimi Saruhiko. Age twenty, born on November 7th."

 A voice, one he couldn't understand.

 "Returned on the evening of August 14th."

 And then, there was nothing.

[closetofanxiety]

I don’t really know what to think about all the Internet wrestling chitter-chat about “1984″ and all that (I know what I think of Gabe, Gabe is a pube-bearded coil of hardened turds who deserves to be stuck in the middle seat on a long and turbulent flight while suffering from inflammatory bowel syndrome), but here are the respective cases:

The "1984″ Case: Vince McMahon is a monopolist who yearns for a world in which the words “professional wrestling” are interchangeable with “World Wrestling Entertainment.” Vince pursued this dream in the 1980s by raiding other established wrestling companies for talent in the ring and in the office, precipitating a concentration of the business into essentially two large companies: WWF and WCW, which battled for supremacy throughout the 1990s. In 2001, Vince seemingly achieved his goal by purchasing for pennies on the dollar both WCW and ECW, the only entity that had made a serious attempt to create a third national wrestling company after the fall of the territory system. Today, alarmed by the resurgent popularity of pro wrestling in the United Kingdom and by the growing attention paid to independent and non-US wrestling by prestige media outlets and hip bohemian culture spotters alike, Vince is again seeking to bring the entire wrestling world beneath his giant, ugly umbrella. That’s why he signed all those British wrestlers earlier this year, and why he signed all those cruiserweights last year, and why he’ll sign a bunch of women this year. That’s why he explored buying TNA and ROH. That’s why he signed a bunch of stars away from New Japan. That’s why he’s continuing to let Hunter run the money-losing experiment of NXT. That’s why he’s playing footsie with Evolve. Everything he does is pursued with the ultimate aim of making all wrestling content available only on his paid streaming service, becoming the true monopoly not even the old NWA cartel could manage to be.

The “Starbucks” Case: The counterargument to the conspiracy case, voiced by WWE executives like Triple “Paul” H as well as pro-WWE voices in the indies like Gabe “I’m An Unfuckingbelievable Man-Sized Baby Who Fired Su Yung” Sapolsky, goes something like this: WWE is Starbucks. It’s a gigantic provider of a product with a global brand, seemingly bent on making every cup of coffee a Starbucks cup of coffee, putting small coffee shops out of business in order to maximize revenue. In reality, Starbucks has an indifferent-to-appreciative attitude toward these small shops. They realistically pose no business threat to the corporate giant, but at the same time serve as incubators for new products that can be repurposed and sold by Starbucks (the flat white, for instance, was a drink they took from Australian and Kiwi coffee shops; think of it as the Kevin Owens of espresso drinks), essentially constituting free test marketing for Big Mermaid. At the same time, the omnipresence of Starbucks has cultivated an everyday taste for specialty coffee drinks and related products that would have seemed bizarrely exotic not long ago: if you went just about anywhere in America outside a handful of cities and college towns 20 years ago and asked for a latte, people would have no idea what you meant. Now even rednecks drink lattes. Some of those people become coffee snobs, and start seeking out local, artisanal alternatives to Starbucks, things they never would have thought about before: in this way, Starbucks actually helps the small local shops that serve as idea labs for the corporate giant. It’s a symbiotic relationship that benefits both sides: Starbucks (the WWE) gets a steady stream of new ideas from the small shops/indie feds, who in turn get a small but persistent stream of new customers seeking out alternatives to the big company that created their tastes in the first place.

It’s impossible to know what’s really going on without inside knowledge of WWE’s business strategy, but I’ll say a few things here:

* One, as Gabe “Bungling Dipshit Oaf” Sapolsky accurately notes, there is no comparison, in business terms, between the indies of today and the territory system, let alone the WWF/WCW/ECW triad of the 1990s. In the 1980s, Vince was one large territory among several other large territories, and at the beginning of the decade if you were going to bet on which wrestling promotion could go nationwide for real, the smart money would be on the AWA rather than the WWF. In the 1990s, Vince was running a large corporation in a battle with an even larger, better-resourced corporation, albeit one hampered by a total lack of understanding about professional wrestling. Today, Vince is a white elephant and everyone else is a termite. Sabe Gapolsky may be exaggerating when he says Vince could wipe out the indies in 72 hours (no one will EVER vanquish Juggalo Championshit Wrestling), but they could hire the top 150-200 indie workers for money that would seem a hilarious pittance to the guys they signed away from the territories in the 1980s. The “1984″ case is overplaying its hand by comparing today’s wrestling landscape to the last years of the territory system.

* Two, Starbucks is run by people who are basically reasonable - under the insane definition of “reason” imposed on us by capitalism, anyway - whereas WWE is run by Vince McMahon, a repellent lunatic fueled by an unimaginably corrosive self-hatred that projects outward into a hatred of all living men and women. Vince has spent his whole life trying to get out from his father’s shadow, to become something “more” than a wrestling promoter, and has failed every. Single. Time. He tried to be a concert promoter (failure), then had to humiliatingly ask his father to let him book the WWF’s northern Maine territory; he tried to become America’s first millionaire bodybuilding impressario (failure), a misadventure that ended with a federal criminal trial over the distribution of steroids; he tried to challenge the NFL which, unlike, the NWA, is really a giant, unfathomably powerful cartel, by creating a rival “xtreme” football league (failure), and racked up the worst ratings in the history of broadcast television; and he has been trying, for over a decade, to become a Hollywood mogul by running a movie studio arm that drives his company’s major investors into fits of uncomprehending anger. (Failure). The only thing he’s good at - and he’s better at it than anyone else who’s ever done it - is making money as a wrestling promoter, the thing he hates most. He hates wrestling and hates wrestling fans, but he’s trapped with it, and as death steadily creeps up on his steroid-riddled body, he realizes he will never escape this trap. He is already in hell. His mental state is so bleak it makes Samuel Beckett seem like Kathie Lee Gifford. The idea that he would pursue a live-and-let-live business strategy, a la Starbucks, is hard to fathom: Vince is far more likely to want to crush non-WWE wrestling simply because he knows it will make wrestling fans unhappy. 

I don’t know where this leaves us. In some ways, there has never been a better time to be a wrestling fan, but a lot of this feels very fragile, and has a fin de seicle whiff about it. Indie crowds are vanishingly small, and it’s not hard to imagine another economic downturn wiping out a significant portion of the indie network in the US and elsewhere. WWE will continue doing what it does until Vince dies, when all bets are off. If the present seems crystal-bright, the future is a lot murkier.

[101percentindia]

Affluent India’s Bittersweet Love-Hate Relationship With Its Servants

We have gone from class to crass in a very short time.

At seventeen, returning home hungry as a horse after three hours of tennis, the only person who mattered was Sami behen (sister), our transvestite cook who had been with the family even before I was born. Two slices of hot, gooey French toast waited in the kitchen and it didn’t matter how short-tempered Sami was. We loved the food, his long shapeless skirts, orange hair and wild, cross-dressing friends who sang and danced at family weddings. He was like an exotic uncle or aunt and my parents cared for him as they did for any of us. As they did for short and comedic Salimullah, who brought up my mother and later me, who washed my ass, dressed me and polished my shoes and slapped me hard one day for using the Hindi “F” word. Salimullah, who my mother gave ten rupees bonus every Friday so he dressed in crisp white trousers and striped shirt to see the same Bollywood film for five years. And who, as he lay dying in our nursing home, asked for one more glass of tea before he let go of his innocent life. Or sweet old Jabbar, my grandfather’s valet who died in my mother’s arms. Or Prem Nath, the cross-eyed gardener my father reluctantly promoted to mason after making us promise he wouldn’t be allowed to lay a single crooked brick on his grave. Father died and Prem Nath made the grave; we couldn’t stop him. He is still in our charge, now seventy-five years old, drunk and mumbling in our garden every night, blind as a bat, terrorized by his wife in retirement. We couldn’t get rid of him even if we wanted to - our lives are bound together.

Prem Nath, the gardener, a family member

They were all part of the kingdom of childhood, the family and its servants, in an asymmetrical but symbiotic relationship that mostly functioned peaceably. I loved Sami so much I cried in Dubai when I heard he died in his village, too proud even in sickness to ask for more than the pension my mother sent every month. Whether it be flying kites or conspiring with us against our parents in mischievous escapades, our servants gave us some of the best memories of growing up. They were indispensable and we loved and feared them. Their children were our playmates, and even now when we meet, several lifetimes and planets later, we still laugh and hug.

Related: Bombay To Barcelona And Back

But like many other aspects of the new India, the unequal but sacred relationship families traditionally had with their help has taken on an unhealthy and toxic dimension. The massive economic disparity and contrast in the lives of the rich and poor cause humiliation for millions every day. Soul-numbing poverty lives side by side with unimaginable wealth, often in the same house, in a tight claustrophobic embrace. Every time the driver fills a tank of petrol in the gleaming new Honda City he is reminded it is worth more than his monthly salary. The cleaning lady swallows her pride to take home your daughter’s cast-off dresses for her own little girl who may never go to school and will soon start cleaning the toilets of some leering, corrupt politician. Our man Friday sweats all day brushing our handmade velvet sofas, folding our silk pajamas and massaging our feet as we watch a cricket match on TV, sipping whisky and belching like a walrus. He then bicycled an hour in the dark to the outskirts of town to his own hovel, where the corrugated tin roof has been leaking throughout monsoon.

'The Help'. Image source: news.ucsc.edu

In India, and any other country where the odds are stacked impossibly against the poor, the relationship between the wealthy and the oppressed simmers with resentment every day - a million loaded guns with loose triggers. It’s not just the disparity, it’s also the cruel ways in which the poor are exploited and manipulated with daily reminders on TV and films of the joke that is being played on them. Throbbing inside every maid, driver, sweeper or ayah, is the constant sorrow of inequality, the desperate yearning to bridge that scathing difference between us and them. With every sweep of the broom, every toilet cleaned and abuse taken, they are trying to chip away at that burden of unfairness. The new India may be richer, more “modern” and “Western” but its secular values, humanity and traditions are corroding, and its treatment of women, minorities, the “lower castes”, and specially the poor, has plummeted from bad to horrendous. In the recent demonetization disaster it was the poor who suffered most. We have gone from class to crass in a very short time.

There are no codes of conduct any more, no sacred pacts and little trust. Few lovable Sami’s exist, or matriarchs like my mother to treat them compassionately. Yet, ironically, most of the wealthy are impotent without the help. Without someone to clean our shit and polish our cars, nurse our newborn as we attend kitty parties; cook our steaming hot chapattis and serve paneer kebabs to the guests, we are a little bit of nothing at all. Our status and sense of wellbeing is directly dependent on the help.

But the tide is slowly turning as the servant class realise this. And sometimes, the unfathomable loneliness and unspeakable indignities of being a servant in this new India are sweetly avenged when the sweeper takes a wild and extravagant shit in your high-tech Japanese commode, and your man Friday spits into your Blue Label on-the-rocks and the maid feeds your mother-in-law the wrong medication to hasten her journey to heaven (because the rich in India always go to heaven). Small stones thrown at the unfeeling wall of injustice that one day will crumble.

Disclaimer: The views expressed in this article are independent views solely of the author(s) expressed in their private capacity and do not in any way represent or reflect the views of 101India.com.

By Nusrat Durrani Cover photo credit: rediffmail.com

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[emmelineparker308]

Do You Believe In Soulmates? Part 1

Masterlist

A/N: I want to turn this into a series with multiple parts. I’ve usually just stuck to one-shots or two part stories so bare with me. I love all of you who will take time to read this. 

Please reblog and like if you like this story!

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Reader

Fandom: Criminal Minds, Supernatural Crossover

Summary: Reid is getting over Maeve’s death, however, he keeps coming to you a pouring his heart out about how he will never find love again. It hurts you when you hear this but you don’t say anything to him because you are in love with him. An old friend drops by with some reassuring news when you think that you will never find love again. 

Warnings: a broken heart, angst, fluff (but is that really a warning?)

“(Y/N) can you do me a favor?” your co-worker and longtime crush Spencer Reid said over the music in the bar. After a two week long case the team decided it was high time to celebrate their victories, and after some considerable persuasion, even the resident genius agreed to come out. You had been working for the BAU for 3 years now and had grown close to all of the members. Though you were forced to join the FBI by your brothers and best friend, you learned to like your job and nowadays wake up happy to go to work. Even though you were at the BAU and dealt with gruesome cases on a day to day basis, the thing you found the hardest was listening to Spencer pour his heart out about his dead girlfriend.

It had been exactly 5 months and 14 days since Maeve’s death and though he seemed to be getting back to normal Reid could not stop talking about how he loves Maeve. You didn’t realize that you had feelings for him until he had confided in you about his love for the geneticist. It was at that moment you felt your heart yearning for him, for you to be the one he was praising and loving. You started to hate her just a little, but the moment you saw her tied to a chair with a gun pointed to her head, all of that went away. And when she laid on the floor dead, tears streamed from your eyes just as much as they did from Reid’s. Since then you were by his side, and listened to him talk about her day in and day out. At first you thought it was best for him to talk to you about her, letting his feelings out in a healthy manner but soon you started to second guess yourself. He would come over to your apartment late at night and talk to you about how he dreamed of having a family with Maeve, or how he dreamed of her walking down the aisle towards him. He was supposed to get over these feelings, but the more you allowed him to talk you the more tighter he held on to her memories.

“What’s up Reid?” you ask, already knowing what his answer was going to be.

“Could you come with me to Maeve’s grave, I want to spend some time with her but I don’t think I can go alone,” he asked quietly.

“OOOOO… drinks!” Garcia slurred as the second round of drinks arrived providing you with the perfect distraction to avoiding replying to Reid’s offer. You twirled the bourbon round and round thinking of a perfect way to turn Reid down when someone walked into the bar catching your eye. Your breath got caught in your throat as you saw the man in a trench coat take a seat at the opposite corner from where the team and you were. His bright blue eyes shone brighter than the last time you remembered and his focus was completely on you.

“So (Y/N), will you?” Reid asked loudly to be heard over the music, but the music stopped at the same time as he asked the question leading the entire bar to hear him. The team looked at their young coworker baffled by his behavior, Morgan was the first to recover and asked, “Will she what, Reid?”

Spencer grew a brilliant shade of red at the embarrassment and when questioned by his teammate fumbled and said, “I was asking if she could come with me to Maeve’s grave.” Garcia and JJ visibly winced at this, and the rest of the team turned their eyes to you. They all knew about your love for the good doctor and were more than proud at how much of a good friend you were being by putting your feelings aside and helping him get back to normal. However, everyone did agree that it was high time for you to stop being a lifeline for him, because of what it was doing to you. “So (Y/N), will you?” Reid asks again.

“Huh?” you say as your attention was pulled away from the man in the trench coat. Garcia and JJ were throwing daggers at you with their eyes and the men looked like they were telepathically trying to get you to refuse the offer. “Oh yeah, Reid. You pick a date and I’ll be there,” you say and down the bourbon in one gulp. Garcia let out a frustrated sigh while JJ cursed under breath, only loud enough for you to hear. “Now if you’ll excuse me,” you smile and pull away from the table. You tug at your blouse and fix your hair, “Jayge, teeth?” you show off your pearly whites to the mom friend to inspect.

Though confused at your actions at first she smiles and says, “You’re good” and winks while you make your way toward the man who hadn’t taken his eyes off of you.

“Cas,” you smile and sit down across from him.

“Hello (Y/N) how are you?” he asked.

“Like you don’t know,” you playfully poke his arm, “don’t try and lie to me angel, I know you’ve been dropping by every day to make sure I’m okay.” Cas awkwardly shifted at the contact making you smile even bigger. The angel’s awkwardness and social anxiety were one of the things you loved about him. In many ways he reminded you of Reid, both were extremely intelligent about everything but mainstream media and both were incredibly awkward. Noticing his uncomfortableness and the nervous glances he shot above your shoulder, you knew that your friends were, not so subtly, staring and profiling the interaction between you two.

“How about we talk somewhere my friends aren’t shooting daggers at you?” you suggest.

“Bu- but they aren’t throwing knifes at me,” he innocently states. You laugh getting up and reach your hand out to him, which he gladly takes.

“It’s an expression Castiel,” you sing- song. Before leaving the bar you shoot a reassuring smile at your co-workers letting them know you were fine. JJ and Garcia send you winks while Hotch, and Rossi smile and Morgan gives you a thumbs up. You were distracted by the cheer that was being sent your way, you don’t notice Reid’s sullen face, and longing look. Once outside you walk arms looped for about twenty minutes until you come to a quiet park.

“(Y/N), can I ask you something?” Cas asked as you both sit on a bench overlooking the jungle gym.

“You know you can ask me anything Castiel,” you replied looking at him. He stares at you for a moment, as if he was looking into your soul and then continues to speak, “Do you believe in soulmates?”

Your breath hitches in your throat for the second time tonight. Soulmates? Ever since you were little you knew that the monsters in the stories weren’t fictional. Your birth parents were killed by a werewolf which led you to be adopted into the Winchester family. Since then you’ve seen the unimaginable, vampires, ghosts, angels, demons, and leviathans, name it and you’ve probably seen and defeated it. But soulmates? That is a topic that neither your brothers nor you talked about. You never gave the idea a glance, sure there was that time your brothers and you talked to a cupid and he told you all about soulmates. He said that usually heaven didn’t care if Sally and Jack meet but there are some bloodlines that need to be tied in marriage. Hence the ‘Soulmates’ legend was born. However, your experience as a hunter taught you that hunters don’t have happy endings, so you threw the idea of you having a soulmate right out the window. Your brothers and Cas had forced you to join the FBI at first to keep tabs on the Bureaus investigations on your family, but after noticing your enjoyment and how you were moving up the ladder they let you stay. This change in career paths had opened up a sliver of hope in you that you may get that white picket fence that you’ve always dreamed about. “(Y/N),” Cas whispers bringing you back from your thoughts.

“Cas I’ve seen things that most people believe don’t believe exist. I didn’t believe that angels were a thing when I was 22 but here I am 6 years later talking to my amazing best friend who just happens to be an angel of the Lord. I may not go as far as to call it believing in them but I’m open to the possibility that soulmates exist,” you reply. He tenses up a little bit more, which makes you ask, “Why the sudden visit and the questions Cas?”

He stares at the jungle gym for a while before answering, you could see that there was an internal battle happening with your best friend. You knew he was there with something important and he was wondering if it was appropriate to tell you about it or not. You’ve seen him like this once or twice, once when he was working with Crowley and needed to tell you however he chose not to and crushed the trust you had between the two of you. “Cas honey, whatever it is that you want to tell me, you can. I can handle it,” you reassure him.

He looks into your eyes once again and says, “I know who your soulmate is.”

It took you a couple of minutes to process what he said and then finally speak your voice filled with emotions that you didn’t know were possible for you to have. “Why are you telling me all this Cas?”

“Because you are hurting. You are hurting so much. For the past five months, I’ve seen you stick by a man you’re in love with, who was suffering from the loss of someone he thought was the one for him. I’ve seen you be the good friend that I know you are, but I have also watched you cry yourself to sleep every night after listening to him talk to you about how she was the love of his life. But you wake up every morning and put on a smile all the while thinking that you were never going to find someone or be happy,” he looks over to gauge your reaction. Being a successful profiler you perfected your expressionless face, which is the face you were giving Cas at the moment. He however went on, “You’re not going to be alone (Y/N). You have a soulmate, you’ve actually already met him and though it may seem like you won’t end up together you will.”

“Who is this soulmate?” you asked, “Cas please tell me.”

“Dr. Spencer Reid.”