#thequeenwillruletheboard

[bipercabeth]

came bc puck it i think (or maybe another one idr) but whichever it is, i know if you wrote it i’m gonna like it. stayed bc of good vibes 😌

[baebychase]

we are as forbidden as prayer

written for Katie ( @rizahawkaye​ ) for @inusecretsanta​ 2018!!

I hope you like it!

find it on ao3 here

i. beautiful

The only thing that keeps Sango from believing she is a walking corpse is the anger. It crackles in the pit of her stomach, like a fire in a hearth, and it’s all she can do to pull herself together and cage it within her bones.

She cannot be angry at Kagome, who is bright and kind. Kagome, who forgives so easily. Too easily. Standing next to her, Sango imagines herself the antithesis of the girl – comprised of shadows, crafted of sorrows. Sango stands beside her, fists silently clenched, jaw wired shut. She will not forgive, not ever. She is too empty.

It is too easy to be angry at Inuyasha, such that he makes being inflammatory his mission, but it holds no interest for Sango. She’s never preyed on an easy target: without any risk, there is no pleasure, and arguing with Inuyasha doesn’t incite any danger. His attitude is a defense mechanism – a shell – and she can sense his gruff remarks are more habitual than heartfelt.

But him. The monk. He always catches her when her guard slips, when she glares at the ground hoping it will snap its jaw around her and take her life, and he gives her a slight smile as if to say me too. He’s the sweetest of their group, the gentlest, and it sizzles in her joints when she looks at him. Every second of every day, she has to bite her tongue and avert her eyes and keep to herself, pretending she is anywhere near beautiful. Kagome rescued her, and Inuyasha forgave her, and she fell apart into a blubbering mess. She became sweet, grieving Sango. That’s who they forgave, but that girl has long since expired. All that remains anymore is the anger.

But every time she looks at that man, that effortlessly beautiful man, she can’t contain herself. She’s heard his stories, heard the implications behind the melancholy phrases that fall from his lips even when everyone is paying attention. It isn’t fair, she thinks. How can he be murkier on the inside, more hollow than me, and still find this all so easy?

Images flash through her mind of all the small things she knows he does just for her: the way he meets her eyes and gives her a peek of a smile when he pours her tea, the way his fingers will brush against hers as he walks past her, or the way he just watches her far more closely than anyone else. He infuriates her, and the more she thinks about it, the more it aches. The second their eyes meet, she wants to rip him to pieces. Every single time.

She wakes up from a nightmare, and crawls as quietly as she can to find refuge in the trees. When she gets far away enough from the campsite to take a ragged breath and choke on a sob, she collapses on her front and curls in on herself. The cool dirt pressing against her face is a comfort. It’s calling to her: Come back, Sango. You are supposed to be dead. You were supposed to stay with me. She can’t help but to agree with it.

Footsteps follow gently behind her, and she knows without a doubt who is kneeling behind her.

“Sango…” he whispers. Not a question, but a statement of fact. He doesn’t need to know what’s wrong; he already knows it’s inevitable that something is.

“What are you doing here,” she says flatly, bits of earth finding their way into her mouth.

“I couldn’t sleep,” he says. “And I thought I should come see you.”

She sits up now, glaring at him. “You shouldn’t have.”

He sighs and nods. “Perhaps.”

“I hate you,” she says, voice trembling.

“I know,” he whispers. “Me too.”

She curls her hands tightly around the earth and unbidden, the tears start again. “I wish I were dead,” she confesses, a whisper carried by the breeze.

He takes her hand in his, the rosary beads pressed into her palm, and he wraps his other arm around her, clutching her tightly to him. “Me too,” he says again, lips pressed to her hair. She is covered in dirt and tears and sweat but he doesn’t care and neither does she. For the moment, they are two corpses wound around each other, and Sango feels for the first time in her life that she is beautiful. She is beautiful, just like him. “Me too,” he whispers over and over again, into her mouth, like prayer.

ii. promised

She doesn’t know where the anger stops and the reverence begins, really. It’s their own special game, one half combat and one half promenade, and she delights in it: it simultaneously keeps her dead and alive.

They’ve lost count of how many times she asked him to kill her, asked him to reach for her in the final, most peril moments of his life.

She loves the curse in his hand, loves the way he was born knowing that death walked toe to toe behind him, loves the way it kept him searching for someone who empathized with the feeling, who had a reaper over their shoulder too. Whenever they’re alone, rare moments of stealing away to far corners of villages or wandering to streams in the woods under moonlight, she tugs his hand away from him and presses it to her chest. The feel of the void nestled up against her heart amplifies the sound, and she never feels more connected to him, more alive.

The first time she’d done it, he yelped and snatched his hand away, whispering an incredulous, “What are you doing, Sango?”

“I’m not afraid,” she said, pulling it back toward her, easing his palm open over her breast.

“You should be.” Not a warning, just the truth.

“I know.” She smiled at him, big and wide. “But I want it to take me, too. When it pulls you in with it, I want to go too.”

“Sango…”

“Do you love me?” she whispered, holding his eyes steady in hers.

“I –” he gaped for a second, his face contorting into anger. “Angry” was her favorite incarnation of him, and she loved to draw it out. His mouth settled into a hard line and he admitted, “Of course. Always, more than anything.”

“Then don’t leave me alone. Take me with you,” she said.

“We’ll see,” he’d said.

“We’ll see,” he always says.

But she knows he spent his whole life searching for her, for someone who matches him, and she knows that he is selfish by nature. He loves her too much to kill her, but he’ll always love her too much to let her go.

She loves the curse in his hand, and loves the way the beads that contain it wrap around both of their throats.

You promise we’ll always be together? she asks them.

Always, they answer. Always, always, always.

iii. irresolvable

They didn’t die that day, when they ought to have. He hung up the beads and she hung up her blade and they settled into a life together. More often than not, she feels empty and calm, not angry. She doesn’t burn anymore, and the urge to bury herself in the earth subsides.

She wishes it felt like relief.

It doesn’t.

Their children grow too fast, and over hurried breakfasts and bath time, she meets his eyes. He gives her a slight smile as if to say, me too. She never thought that they’d make good parents, or that they’d get to be parents, or that they’d even elect to stay alive.

But he pulls their girls into their clothes and she hoists their boy onto her back, and when he kisses her, his breath is warm and his stubble is ticklish. She grins back at him, laughing a little as their daughters exclaim in protest: “Ewww!”

It only surfaces at night, when she lays with him beneath the moonlight. She remembers a night, decades ago it seems, that he pulled her out of the dirt and cried with her under the moon. “I love you,” she says. It’s the only part of her that feels the same as it used to, the only part of her that feels real anymore.

“I love you too,” he whispers, pressing his lips to her temple.

She wraps her arms tightly around him and nestles her face into the crook of his neck. “Do you remember that night? I never thought I’d survive. I never thought I could be happy.”

“I remember.”

She swallows, “Is this what happiness is? Is this … the end?”

He hesitates, stroking her hair as he contemplates his reply. “I … don’t know. Is there ever an end?”

She looks up at him, eyes brimming with a new wave of tears. “Miroku, I’m scared.”

“Me too,” he says, lips pressed to her hair. The desperation returns, the need to remember what they had done so beautifully together burning once again in her chest. “Me too,” he whispers over and over again, into her mouth, like a prayer.

[boomerangst]

yo so like not choosing sides or anything but “the meatball from the song ‘on top of spaghetti’” is a sick burn

THANK YOU EM i’m particularly proud of that one

[baebychase]

Inuvember: Day 30 Two years ago, I met some of the best friends I’ve ever had. My life at the time was full of uncertainty and self-doubt, and if not for this fandom and those people, I would not be who I am today. I took this photo tonight, the night of my undergraduate senior showcase, and reflected on what I’ve been through since I met them. I have fallen apart and reformed over and over again, and I know with certainty I would not have survived without these beautiful friends of mine. Like many of us, life has overwhelmed me and thus prevented me from participating this year, but it’s important to me to mark the permanent effect it had on my life. Trials and tribulations will always find you, but the most important thing is to find people you love and who love you to see you through. I love you all so much, and there are no words strong enough to express the extend of my adoration, gratitude, and affection for each and every one of you. @sankontesu @mirsan @kristicles @narkik @pointyhearts

[baebychase]

last semester, i nearly failed my musical theater workshop midterm because i just wasn’t up to standard. i couldn’t get the job done and i let failure kick me in the ass.

it feels really good that six months later, i very nearly aced it with the same professor and the same standards. failure kicked my ass in a good way and i’m so grateful for it and the improvement that came along with it.

[baebychase]

i am only violent because i am scared

you are violent because you feel powerful, because it gives you leverage.

i am frightened; i am trapped.

my violence is an escape; yours is a shackle.

me, double tequila jones

[baebychase]

tango

For Mirsan Week 2017, Day One: Flirt @mirsan-week

Every day it seems, he watches her flirt with danger. She’s committed her life to it, trained since childhood to skirt it, toe the line with it, but never succumb to it.

Had he known she was so cavalier about death, he would have paid her more casual attention much sooner. Not that the death of her family hadn’t affected her – it had taken quite its toll – but treating her as though it had only worsened its effect.

Now, he knows better. He knows she tangoes with death because she is fascinated, consumed by it; she fell in love with the beast that should have terrified her the most.

So he flirts with her the way she does with fatal danger – he amongst their group is the equivalent of a shinigami, and while she may be afraid that he might love her, she won’t shy away from the ugly truths inside of him: ugly is all she knows.

He tells her she’s beautiful, tells her all the pretty things she can’t stand to hear, and she lashes out at him, pushing him off, prolonging him one moment at a time.

What he’s really saying is, “I am your death and you are mine,” that he can be the beast she loves the most, the way she is his. He is fascinated by her, consumed by her – and he should be terrified of her, more than anything, because he wants to spend a long life with her even though neither of them have one – but he fell in love with her anyway. So, he squares up to dance and whispers 'tango with me' and she takes his hand even as she shoves him away.

[baebychase]

@sankontesu tagged me last selfie was friday when i went to a film festival lock screen is me and my sister the last time i saw her and my second favorite song i'm uh having a hard time so i can't think of anyone to tag but please anyone feel free to do this looking at everyone's beautiful faces brightens my day 💞💞💞