starrynightarchive
an ode to sleep
vi | they/them
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"If you're coming back just because you're attracted to the shine of my neediness, I'd be okay with that."
you PATHETIC gay old man
pretty sure this has been said before but house is THE definition of "my girl is mad at me i hope i die." what a loser
#i mean like#every episode i ask myself#how much more pathetic and gay can he get#this must be the limit#and it never is#house md#hatecrimes md#dr gregory house#james wilson
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fun fact: grief is a wonderful hallucinogen
i first hallucinated when i was 14. i think. it's all a bit blurry. it's syrupy sweet and comes with a sharp sting behind my throat. honey, but not quite. i pick up a slice of mango and eat it with my bare hands. the juice drips down my forearms, the back of my elbows. i lick my fingers clean and wash my hands. scrub, scrub, scrub, scratch, tear, ruin-
the water is steaming hot. i've been in the bathroom for an hour. my sister looks at me with wide eyes. we haven't bought a mango in the last 10 months.
death does that. makes a film out of your worst moments and stores it in the back of your mind. innocent, stealthy. harmless. deadly. you close your eyes and watch the soap opera unfold. you are laughing! oh, look! it was all a bad dream, after all! you wake up and tell your mom you're going to visit your uncle. he has been dead for 10 months and 10 days. you are laughing! you are laughing!
there is a man in the corner of your room and he watches you with slitted eyes. you used to be afraid of him, when you were younger. then, you started seeing nothing but shadows of coat hangers and chairs dancing under the glow of your night lamp. but you are 14 and you look at him and he brushes the hair out of your face. you don't breathe. he doesn't have a mouth, but he is screaming. you would too, but you don't have a mouth either. he has a million hands and he is holding you down. no, he's not. he is holding you with all of them. in front of you is everything you've ever loved. you can't scream. the hands around you are cold. the kingdom falls and you watch.
you wake up. the hands are still holding you back and the kingdom fell 10 months and 10 days and 10 minutes ago. you are laughing! are you laughing?
-for @nosebleedclub 's prompt- hallucinogen
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the bastard fic hit 1k!!!!
read navarasam here. the tragic gays call for you
#the next update would be pretty late (after may 10? maybe?) because it's a whopping 10k#starring: chuuran besties and (surprise surprise) more tragic skk! but this one has fluff I promise#bsd#dazai osamu#nakahara chuuya#fic rec#bungou stray dogs#skk#navarasam#vi talks
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pretty sure this has been said before but house is THE definition of "my girl is mad at me i hope i die." what a loser
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but you still do nothing to wake him up, Kunikida
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are we still doing this because i have a late submission
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He’s probably just trying to think of ways to bone Wilson
Full ver + close up
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taylor swift fans are so scary it's like i'm in the truman show. watching taylor swift fans talk about how she soo gets neurospicy mental illness grippy sock vacation is exactly how truman felt when his wife started advertising coffee or something to nobody in particular
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the ghost of a little girl talking to her future
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the ghost of a little girl talking to her future
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sorry to ask for souheki again but. souheki + "why are you looking at me like that?"
"Why are you looking at me like that?"
Ranpo smiles. It's always weird, to be under Ranpo's stare. He doesn't tend to look just for the sake of it, he doesn't simply observes without wanting to take something out of it.
"Like what?" they ask, leaning their head against their hand.
Dazai shrugs. He's been fighting against his tie for the last three minutes, so maybe it has something to do with that.
There's a reason he hates formal events. That, and maybe he doesn't really feel like there's something to celebrate. He doesn't want to ruin the mood, though, so he's still going.
"You'd look better without the tie," Ranpo says, and they're still watching him, and Dazai lowkey wants to scream.
"You think so?"
"Mhm. You look good, by the way. Almost handsome."
Dazai chuckles. "Almost?"
"Yeah. Throw that tie away." While Dazai is doing exactly that, Ranpo adds, "You'd look better without the suit, too, but that's only between you and me."
Dazai gracefully chokes. Ranpo seems to find it hilarous.
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the worst trait of me and my family is probably this: we never learned to say the word sorry.
i) my best friend and i, we are no people. knives? maybe. liars? definitely. but people? i’m not so sure.
knives were never forged to be tender (what a shame, what a shame) and we too, fall and slay what we meant to protect. him and i, we go for the throat when we clash. we hurt and bleed and oh, i should be terrified, i should be running for my life, but all i am is tired and a bit lonely and would really like his arms around me.
( “can we please stop fighting now.”
“oh god yes please.”)
because time and time again, this man has held my heart in his hands and cleaned its festering wounds with cotton dipped in alcohol (always the healer, always the lover) and wrapped gauze around them with clinical precision. and i have walked through the maze of his head and tended to his withering garden, have dragged the sun and fresh air and all the oceans to the barren land to make it bloom (always the poet, always the lover).
him and i, we have never needed words because we are knives forged in the same fire and at the end of the day, we both know that he will be the one who wordlessly stitches my broken heart and i will be the one who sings him to sleep.
ii) let me paint you a picture:
blue that fades into red that fades into black that fades into blue that fades into red. loud, clashing and nonsensical. a pit in your stomach that was dug with desperation and blunt fingernails. how do you colour anger that is also pain, grief, hate, love, fear and truth? the smell of the paint is foul and clogs your windpipes. blunt fingernails and blue and black and madness. can you bear to look at what you created without flinching?
that’s what anger looks like on my father. a horror. a mottled bruise. a hellfire.
all his life, my father has been scorned, belittled, beaten, spat on. his mother didn’t love him right because her mother didn’t love her right. my dad loves like he hates. something is fucked in his head and heart and his words fade into black and blue and red and this shitshow always ends with me sobbing, bleeding, dying on the floor. my father watches with his hackles raised and his eyes red and wide and glowing. once wounded, an animal never sheathes its claws. it strikes the ones it loves and walks away with its head held high and hands trembling.
but here’s what happens when the curtains close: he pulls me into his arms and brings me tea. he wipes away my tears with hands that has moved mountains to make me smile. he kisses my forehead and tells me that his mom didn’t love him right. my grief is like anger and indignation and love. i wrap my arms around him and cry all the tears he never had the luxury to. who should say sorry, really? is it him or his mom or his mom’s mom or this stupid fucking world? my father has never said the word sorry. he never needed to. this is what love looks like on us. a horror. a mottled bruise. a hellfire.
iii) despite it all, i am not usually an angry person. i take after my father and my mother, after all. i rage like my mother (quick, loud, fire that burns out almost as quickly as it sparked to life) and fight like my father (aim, shoot, bullseye). my sister does something even mildly upsetting and before i know it, i’m cursing her to be miserable till she dies. not even an hour later i’m draping myself over her shoulder and bugging her till she rolls her eyes and smiles ever so slightly.
(“do you have no shame?”
“yeah no i don’t think so.”)
my family and i, we never learned to say the word sorry. because the word sorry never meant sorry, not to us. because at the end of the day, that’s all it is: a word. and it sticks to the back of my tongue and the dents of my molars and gets tangled in my mouth when i try to spit it out. so i grab it by its throat and thread it into my being. i find it so much easier to hide my pathetic inability to do one thing that doesn’t scream that there's something wrong with me with the truth of another three words:
“i love you”
and they are always echoed back to me, just a few million times more tender, in ways only we can understand.
“yeah, i know.”
“that’s great, but there’s no escaping dishes duty.”
“oh, shut up, you.”
“what’s that for?”
a pause and a hum.
“i love you too.”
#rb because i really really like this one#gah i love. i love so much. i am brimming with love.#always always
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my head hurts... I wish Chuuya was here to give me a massage
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they did not have to zoom in on them both straight after this line...,,,,
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