Azula Always Lies. 

Por favor no le digas a mi padre

Por favor no le digas a mi padre.

No le digas que he visto un cadáver,

no le digas que fui a admirarlo,

no le digas que quise tocarlo.

Por favor no le digas que me vi

en sus ojos reflejada,

no le digas que fui su mano a tocarla

y que fría aún no estaba.

Por favor no le digas

que no llamé a la policía

que solo me quede admirando

mientras la noche aún seguía.

Por favor no le digas que me fui

mientras este ahora sonreía

ya que por fin

se ponía a enfriar.

What if Sir Arthur Conan Doyle had written about John Watson? Everything is the same, except that we are reading Sherlock Holmes’s observations about his new flatmate Doctor Watson.

Things start out impersonal, intellectual, but fall right off that cold, craggy cliff before the first page is done with. The detective deduces the doctor from top to toes but by the second paragraph he’s forced to admit having a blush surprised out of him by Watson’s unlooked-for wonder and admiration. For accuracy’s sake and perhaps with a pinch of pride, he details everything that Watson had said in his praise, and ends up confessing to the pages how very agreeable it was to be met with applause instead of derision and doubt for once.

Holmes is later pleased to be written about in turn, but disgusted with the overly romantic tone Watson’s tale-telling takes. In a pique, he begins a paper on the man’s latest conquest, intending to show his flatmate how the wrong tone can ruin a story by using a cold, scientific tone to describe a passionate scene. Alas, the great brain meets a puzzle it cannot solve. Try as he will, his prose will not stay unmoved by its subject. Watson’s looks, Watson’s manners, Watson’s honesty and humor and curious mixture of humility and hubris; they poison Sherlock’s pen with admiration, and he throws the papers into the fire in the end, and tells himself it is proximity to the flames that heat his cheeks.

Doctor Watson has regular hours, but illness and injury do not. Holmes watches his flatmate dash away at all hours and in all manner of weather, leather satchel in hand and shoulders set for battle. He amuses himself by deducing the difficulties the doctor has ahead of him and predicting the hour he will return. If he foresees a particularly trying case for his friend, he ensures that Mrs. Hudson will send refreshments up at the proper time, and that he himself will be in the middle of playing one of Watson’s favorite airs to welcome him home. Between cases, Holmes assists by deducing diagnoses from symptoms related to him, and sometimes even accompanies Watson when he admits that an additional set of hands will not be unwelcome.

Their vocations even overlap now and again. Both Watson’s books and Holmes’s notes will at times mention the same names and places, with the doctor stitching up a man’s leg while the detective interrogates the other end of him. Their lives, their work, their stories grow more deeply intertwined as time passes, and what began as a scientific observation ends up as what can only be called a love letter.

im obsessed with the implications this has for phil actually. like, is he from the IRL too? is he from fucking utah??

bleach au where the human teens are millennials

ulquiorra: if this eye cannot see a thing, then it does not exist orihime: my dude just for got about gravity smh

aizen: i am perfectly capable of reaching your heart at any moment ichigo: pics or it didn’t happen

mayuri: killing you now will be as easy as strangling a baby ishida: op strangles babies but go off i guess

ichigo: i will yeet you into the fucking sun hollow ichigo: i’m a bad bitch you can’t kill me! zangetsu, sobbing: what the fuck is going on

yoruichi, urahara, gin, and shinji are the only ones who understand what the fuck any of them are saying

"If the world is really dying, would you kiss one more time?"

"Only if you promise me that it won't be the last"

Midnight rambling

I love her like i love the salt in my food

(Yes this is a reference to a little story)

I love her like I love the music that plays in my house in the middle of the night

(It’s usually Queen or Coldplay)

I miss her like I miss my grandfather

(He is someone I’ve never met)

I miss her like that book I never found again

(It was a story about a little fox)

I hate her like I hate the taste of fish

(I sometimes throw it into the trash can when my parents aren’t looking)

I hate her like I hate social gatherings

(I always suffer panic attacks)

I miss the version of myself that exists when I’m around her but i hate it too.

the best part of experiencing november 5th 2020 was watching tumblr attempt to describe what it was like to experience november 5th 2020

tw // blood

    There is a quiet, fleeting, moment, when the blade sinks itself into his ribcage and just below his heart, where the world whites out at the edges. He feels his lungs rattle in his chest, feels the metallic taste of blood well up from the back of his throat. He feels Phil’s shaking hands, tremors running down the metal and into his spine and his throat and the lips he so lightly twists into a smile. 

    “Hey, Phil.” Wilbur says, feeling his father slip further down, head bowed in grief. “It’s cold.”

    Phil keens low and quiet into his chest, singed wings draping over Wilbur, trying their best to block out the cold he knows comes from somewhere within him. He appreciates the gesture nonetheless. 

    He hears fireworks in the distance, and sees blue and red through the feathers. L’manburg colors. He silently thanks his brother for the last reminder of his symphony, his unfinished verse. He wonders if his death will be a finishing bar, or perhaps a catalyst for a new measure. He wonders if Tommy knows that the mantle has been passed, and that he’s sorry for the weight that ties a noose around his younger brother’s neck. It wasn’t supposed to be like this, he wants to plead, you’re not supposed to carry the weight of my failures on your shoulders. He hopes Tommy runs away, that he leaves this unfinished song and go write for himself a new one, a happier one. 

    “Are you proud of me?” Wilbur finds himself whispering, half hoping Phil doesn’t hear, and finding himself feeling too tired to care. He supposes death did that to a person. Leaves them tired and cold and strangely light. Phil’s hands don’t stop shaking, and red paints his palms and fingers and the hem of his cloak. Wilbur huffs a laugh at his father’s silence.

    “You don’t have to answer that, I think I know what you’re gonna say anyway.” Wilbur says, swallowing back a lungful of blood and air, bringing a hand up to card through the man’s blond hair. Phil shudders. “I wouldn’t be proud of me either.”

    Phil lets out a broken sound at this, and somewhere in Wil’s bleeding chest, he feels a twinge of shame. 

    “Forget about me, Phil.” Wilbur says into the air, feeling sweat and blood and tears drip down his chin. It stains the tips of Phil’s hair. “It’ll be easier that way, I think.”

    Phil brings a hand up to clutch at Wilbur’s arm, head still burrowed in his fast reddening shirt, and Wilbur stifles a gasp at where the movement jars his wound. The elder’s breathing is shallow, he opens and closes his mouth, words caught in his throat, like he’s choking on them.

    “Don’t cry, Phil.” Wilbur hums, voice thready and thin in the ash filled air, “I don’t want that to be the last thing I hear.”

    Phil sobs, and his back shakes with the weight of his grief and his loss. It must be agonizing, Wilbur thinks, to mourn your son while he still speaks. Then again, that won’t last for much longer.

    Wilbur strokes his father’s head, though his fading strength only allows him to curl his fingers, helpless as it falls wayside to the ground. 

    “You’ll be fine, dad.” Wilbur whispers, “You did the right thing. You got rid of the big bad, like the hero in the stories you used to tell.”

    Phil wails harder, and Wilbur thinks that maybe being a hero isn’t as appealing when it causes good men to cry. 

    “I’m tired.” He sighs, feeling his eyes slip shut, “I’ve been awake too long.”

    Phil reaches out with trembling fingers, bloodstained palms cradling his cheek.

    “I l-love yo u.” He chokes, the words broken and jilted, like a song through a broken speaker. 

    Wilbur feels his smile slip a bit, and bites back a strangled laugh, because Phil doesn’t deserve this, doesn’t deserve to have to paint the floor red with his own son’s blood. Another tally on his faults, he thinks, another red name for his ledger of wrongdoings. Even on his dying breath, he hurts the people he loves. 

    “I love you too.” He says, instead, because he refuses to leave without letting his father know that he loves him. That whatever happens, whatever consequences he’s left blazing at his wake, Wilbur soot does not hate his father.  That this isn’t some sort of cruel punishment or last hurrah. He thinks that maybe he just wants to be held, and that sleep comes so much easier when he’s safe in the arms of his childhood hero and protector. “I love you so much.”

     The static in his head grow louder, and he feels his heart give a shudder, and a beat, and the dark encroaches quickly, and through the gauze he hears a broken scream. Then, nothing.

Wilbur doesn't know why he knows the steps. It feels like a dance you remember only in a hazy state. Walking beside a small kid, careful not to trip into her stride feels right. He feels like something overtakes him to speak in a gentler voice of reassurance. To sing her a song goodnight is instinct, not just as a musician but as something else. It feels so strange all of a sudden that he of all people is so careful with a child he's never met until that day. When he heard he was possibly a dad, he simply dismissed it like minor news. Akin to hearing you have a spider in your home or it's raining in 4 days, he'll get to it but it's nothing really.

But now he cares so much, he'd wreak havoc if anything happened to Tallulah. It feels like deja vu, like looking through a mirror to another world. A world where he has a special place surrounded by redwood trees and by the riverside. That other guy he's looking at, he's building everything up just for his own kid, with the same face of care and concerns as his own. He's singing some lullabies as him, matching the cadences and lyrics even if hushed and mumbled. He's teaching how to shoot a bow and arrow to his kid just like him, explaining the steps the same as him. He's leaving the kid soon just like the other, but at least he's trusting someone else to take care in his stead.

There's another kid, he realises. And that kid looks sad, in spite of the beautiful scenery. That kid is looking at walls, just like Tallulah. He's not living in much comfort or glamour, just like Tallulah. He's learning how to fend for himself with a bow and arrow, Tallulah will be like that soon. He's seen the dance, the rhythm of a deadbeat. And now its up to him to change the paces.

Will doesn't know why he pauses in faint recollection when a memory doesn't exist. It's merely a dream from a bygone night, but what's a memory but not a dream you've seen before. Yet when remembers walking through the forest and a flash of red fur snickering, he doesn't understand why a pang of burrowing feelings hits him.

And that feeling turns to drive, a desire to be at least the best dad he can be for now. For Tallulah and for that lonely kid he doesn't remember.