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experi-sketches · 1 year

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Beyond the Endless Day

Part Two

Part One I Part Three

Been a while, but here's Part Two! Thank you so much for the feedback/reblogs/likes on Part One! To recap:

Beyond the Endless Day is a whumpy slave-fic in a modern setting. AIBT is still my primary project, so updates to this story come as they will! I have no rigid update schedule for this story at this time.

This story will be NSFW and will contain explicit dubcon/noncon, so be warned! TWs will be listed for each chapter as they're posted.

If you'd like to be added to a tag list for this story, let me know!

Word Count: 5,327

TWs: slavery, mentions/discussion of sexual slavery, mentions/hints of past trauma (psychological, physical, sexual), on-screen anxiety, mentions of food restriction

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Part Two

Tap. Tap. Tap.

It started as it always did: bright sunlight and the sound of crashing waves. Then sand, hot, coating his throat, burning his eyes. It stung him and made the air taste like dust.

His body ached. His gums tasted like copper. The skin was raw on his knees and elbows, and the bruises on his wrists pulsed to the beat of his heart. There was blood between his thighs.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Then came high, screeching laughter, and with it came the familiar thrall of relief and terror, and the desperate need to please. To show respect, and to show that he understood just how very, very lucky he was. He needed it. He hated that laughter, and yet he needed it. Bulhar’s Keep, he wouldn’t survive without it. He was a good boy. He needed to prove that he was a good boy.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

The world was shifting now, changing. Everything was changing. His head throbbed. The sand in his eyes grew sticky. He was aware of the heaviness of his limbs, the dryness in his mouth, the bright, harsh light bleeding through his eyelids—

Kiran awoke to a vicious headache. His temples hammered and his tongue was bone dry, sour from long hours asleep. He dared to open his eyes a crack and immediately shut them again, catching only a brief glimpse of piercing light.

He remembered, dizzily, that Horvath had fed him those awful drugs again, right after he’d told Kiran that it was his day to go to show—

Kiran went utterly still.

It’d been his turn to go to show.

He took a hasty inventory of his body. He felt fine, no telltale aches or pains except the hangover from the drugs. His throat was dry and his eyes had too much sleep-sand in them, and there was the headache, but it seemed he’d escaped unmolested. The good news ended there, though, as he began to pay closer attention to his surroundings.

He was laying in a bed. A real bed, not one of the Complex’s flimsy regulation cots. The mattress was soft, the sheets clean, the pillow cool and firm.

And there was the light. The room was filled with light, and not the cold florescence of the windowless dormitories at the Complex. Even through his eyelids he knew it was the warm, unyielding daylight that claimed habitual dominion over Aswein.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Kiran held his breath. He wasn’t alone. The sound came from somewhere off to his right. He laid still, eyes closed, and listened. The tapping came again, followed by a soft sound of frustration. Male. The voice was deep and unmistakably masculine. Kiran’s heart quickened.

Purchased. He must have been purchased at show yesterday. His head reeled, groping through a hazy wash of drug-addled memories: a tall, dim figure through plastiglass, the claustrophobic, smooth white walls of one of the Complex’s private booths, Horvath’s wry laughter, a pair of sharp brown eyes looking down at him from impossibly far above—

That was all he could remember. Kiran had been purchased by a man. A tall, dark man with eyes like two piercing daggers. He shuddered.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Kiran dared to open his eyes.

The light was miserable against his throbbing head, but the hangover was familiar and manageable. It was a moment for the room to come into focus, and when it did, Kiran’s mouth fell open. He laid amidst cream colored sheets in a vast bed, surrounded by an enormous bedroom, the walls tastefully neutral and the ceiling high above his head. It was sparsely decorated with a few pieces of stately furniture. There was a door which led to an ensuite bathroom to his right, and to his left, blinding and terrible, was a wall of floor-to-ceiling windows, curtains drawn back to allow in the daylight. Before the windows, nearly obscured by the assault of light, were two upholstered chairs arranged on either side of a small table to form a small reading nook, and, sitting on one of those chairs, was the largest man Kiran had ever seen.

His skin was dark—far darker than the deep olive or light brown of Aswein skin, and Kiran knew he must be Chuasi. Only people from the day-scorched deserts of Chuasal ran that deep. His hair was short and black, and his clothes…Kiran’s heart leapt into his throat.

Blood red. He wore a crimson uniform from head to toe, tailored trousers and sleek, high-necked tunic. Kiran recognized that uniform. It was a much finer version of one he’d seen many times before. One he feared greatly.

This man was a sentinel. A slave, like Kiran, but one who had spent his life training to do one thing, and one thing alone: kill. Kiran hadn’t seen a sentinel since his days on the shores of Meles. Preath would sometimes take him along on trips to the red camps, and the brutality Kiran had witnessed there still haunted him. It was entirely different to the savagery in the white camps. In the red camps, it wasn’t just the handlers who delighted in violence. It was encourage among the slaves. Rewarded, even.

Kiran slid further down into the sheets.

The sentinel lazed in one of the chairs. There was something in his hand—a tablet. He poked at the screen rhythmically, eyes narrowed in concentration.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

His finger jabbed the screen and he let out another frustrated sigh, dropping the device into his lap. He muttered something that might have been a curse, and then, without warning, looked toward the bed.

Kiran wasn’t expecting it. He drew in a sharp breath as their eyes locked, temples throbbing in time with his racing heartbeat.

“Oh.” The sentinel’s dark eyes rounded. “Oh—you’re awake! Since when are you awake?” He shot from the chair.

Kiran huddled deeper into the sheets, if that were possible. The man was tall—extremely tall—and had the streamlined, sinewy, wide-shouldered frame of someone who used their body for a living. He crossed the room with catlike grace, dark eyes bright with interest as he came to the bedside. The tablet was clutched in his hand; on its screen was a game of some kind, gaudy colors and flashing text that Kiran couldn’t read. Technology somewhat mystified Kiran. He’d never had much opportunity to use it.

“You should have said something!” The sentinel grinned. “How long have you been laying there? Bah, no matter. Your head must be killing you. Been years since I’ve had to take those drugs, but it’s not something you forget. Here.” He lifted a small tray from the bedside table and held it out to Kiran; it contained two white pills and a glass of water, and looked absurdly tiny in his large hand. “This is for you. Adam Sir said he wanted you to take it the moment you woke up.”

Kiran said nothing, eyes jumping between the tray and the sentinel. The water looked extremely enticing, but the slave holding it less so.

The grin faded. “What’s wrong? Can’t you speak?”

Kiran’s throat felt tight. Did he want Kiran to speak? What was he supposed to say? This place was entirely new to Kiran—he had no idea what was expected of him.

A wrinkle appeared between the sentinel’s dark eyebrows. “Whoa. Hey.” He put the tray down. “Don’t—what’s wrong? Don’t go all pale and shaky. Talk to me.”

Kiran knew better than to disobey a direct order. “I…” his voice was little more than a croak. What was he supposed to say? “I’m sorry, Sir.”

“Sir? Whoa, no, there’s no Sirs here. I’m a slave, like you. You can call me by my name. I’m Zavian.” His smile returned, but it looked more careful than before. “Zaiv, if you like.”

“I, yes, I’m sorry, S—” Kiran stopped himself. Licked dry lips. “I’m sorry.”

“Nothing to be sorry for. How about you? Do you have a name?”

It was a long time since anyone asked Kiran that question. He almost didn’t know how to answer. “Kiran,” he said quietly.

“That’s a nice name. Well, Kiran, the Sir wants you to take these, so I’m afraid I’ll have to insist.” He offered the tray again. “They should help with the headache. Go on.”

Moving slowly, limbs still heavy, Kiran carefully sat up and accepted the pills and water. The bed’s large, sturdy headrest was cool against this back; he was still wearing the standard-issue white tunic from the Complex. The pills stuck in his throat, but the water was bliss, cool and soothing, and he longed for a second glass.

Zavian took the glass when he was finished, setting it onto the table. “So I suppose an explanation is in order. I don’t imagine you remember much—you were out cold when those Complex goons delivered you—but I’m sure you’ve figured it out. You’ve been purchased. Do you have any idea where you are? Or who your new master is?”

Kiran shook his head, feeling ill. There were many things Kiran hated about his life, many things he feared, but perhaps one of the things he hated most was change. He hated new places, new owners, and new routines. Routine was comfort; routine was safe. When life was a series of predictable patterns Kiran knew how to behave, and how to protect himself. Without that, he was lost.

“You’re still in Medrein. I’m not sure how familiar you are with the city, but you’re in the Glass Quarter. Posh stuff.” Zavian tipped a lopsided grin at Kiran. “You were bought by High Counselor Adamire Sonn. Have you heard of him? He works in the Department of Foreign Treatise. A lawyer, and an ambassador of sorts. He’s a very important man.” Kiran thought he detected a hint of pride in Zavian’s voice. “I’m his sentinel. Usually I’d go with him to the office, but he had business at Capital Tower today. They don’t allow private security in there. State-provided detail only. So here I am.” He shrugged one shoulder.

Kiran didn’t know who High Counselor Adamire Sonn was, but he was relieved to hear that he was at least still in the capital city of Medrein. He was aware of the Glass Quarter, having heard tales of the city’s wealthiest district. One apparently needed special identification to even enter this part of Medrein. It was one of the few bits of information he’d learned of the outside world during his time locked away in the Complex’s stark, windowless corridors. Otherwise he’d only ever been told of the types of men or women who might purchase him while given a litany of drugs and trained, relentlessly and exhaustively, by an unending series of faceless, grey-suited Complex handlers. Horvath in particular had taken a special interest. Kiran shivered and pushed the memories away.

Since he hadn’t been asked a question or given a direct order, he remained quiet. The thick glass windows blocked any sound from the city outside, and silence hung like a low fog, the only sound the low, subliminal hum of the home’s cooling system. Zavian watched him, the steadiness of his dark gaze making Kiran itch.

At last Zavian sighed and shook his head. “Maker, you are pretty. I see why Adam Sir bought you. You’re just what he likes.” A look crossed this face, the wrinkle returning. “I wonder how Derin…” His deep voice trailed off, and then he smoothed the expression away with a shake his head. “No—doesn’t matter. None of my business. How are you feeling? Are you hungry? I know you haven’t even since yesterday.”

Kiran wasn’t sure what had just happened. “Yes, Sir.”

“Zaiv, remember?”

Kiran’s heart thumped in his chest. Bulhar’s Keep, he needed to be making a good impression, and here he was already mucking it up. “I’m sorry—”

“I’m not reprimanding you,” Zavian said quickly. “Just reminding you, is all. We’re equals. No harm done.” His smile seemed more forced, now. He pointed to the door off to Kiran’s right and changed the subject. “That’s the bathroom. Adam Sir said you should bathe. There’s clean clothes laid out for you, he had some things delivered earlier today. Did you know it’s almost two in the afternoon? You’ve been sleeping for hours.”

Kiran didn’t know how to respond, so he did the safe thing and said nothing.

Zavian cleared his throat. “Right then. Everything you need is in there. When you’re done I’ll introduce you to Miss Shani and she’ll fix you something to eat. She’s dying to meet you, of course.” He smiled again.

Kiran swallowed. He was hungry, but he was so sick with worry he didn’t know if he’d be able to stomach anything.

Slowly he slipped from the bed and headed for the bathroom, keenly aware of Zavian’s eyes on his back.

~~~

Kiran wasn’t sure how to work the shower—again, technology—and eventually Zavian had to come and turn it on for him, but after that Kiran managed on his own. He still felt lightheaded from the hangover, but the pills had reduced the pounding in his temples to a mild buzz.

In the shower, behind a closed door and separated from anyone else’s eyes, Kiran cried.

It came on quickly, and he was surprised by it. He fell to his knees on the red-sand tiles as the bathroom tipped around him, heaving gasps of humid, soap-scented air, and cried as quietly as he could. Where was he? He knew where he was, technically—Zavian had told him as much—but he didn’t know anything about this place. He didn’t know its rules, or its dangers, or its people. Once again everything was changing, and Kiran was powerless to protect himself. What kind of man was Adamire Sonn? Was he fickle? Was he stern? What did he like, and what would he do if Kiran couldn’t please him? Would he punish Kiran, hurt him? Or perhaps he would make someone else hurt Kiran in his stead. Someone like Zavian, who was trained in all the many ways a body could be hurt; who had, mostly likely, hurt people many times before.

High, screeching laughter echoed in the dark recesses of his mind. Kiran choked on another gasp and sat quivering on the floor, lost in the tangled urge to both hide from that laughter and wrap himself in the cruel comfort it offered him.

He moved through his grief quickly. He couldn’t keep Zavian waiting.

Kiran eventually stood on wobbling legs and washed thoroughly. If Adam Sir had ordered him to bathe, Kiran knew what that meant. Afterwards he dressed in the white tunic that was hanging in the…main room, he supposed? The bathroom was massive, partitioned into sections all made of glass and tile and soft, golden light. The shower and toilet were each in their own separate rooms.

He dressed in front of the mirror above the double sinks, unnerved by his reflection. It wasn’t often Kiran had a chance to see himself. He felt oddly detached from the fine-boned, pallid creature that looked back it him, eyes only slightly red-rimmed from the crying. Kiran hoped Zavian would it assume it was from the drugs. The new tunic was much nicer than the standard-issue Complex one. Its soft fabric hugged his sides, pure white and sleeveless with a scooping neckline to display the pale column of his throat and sharp notches of his collarbones. It was shorter than the old one, ending mid-thigh. Kiran would have preferred something longer, but he was glad to have clothes at all. Preath hadn’t often allowed him the privilege. Most days he’d made Kiran go naked, unless they were leaving the property or going into the camps.

Kiran paused before he left the bathroom, closing his eyes. He need to be calm. He needed to be good. Zavian was likely a well-favored slave and would no doubt report back to their owner. Kiran needed to show that he was a good boy. With one last deep breath, he opened the bathroom door.

Zavian was back in the chair, poking at the tablet’s screen.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

He looked up when Kiran appeared, and his face brightened. “Now look at that!” He stood, setting the tablet aside, and went to Kiran. “Good as new! And it fits like a glove.” His eyes did an appreciative slide up and down. “Figured it would. Your measurements were listed in your papers. Made it easy for Adam Sir to place a quick order.”

Kiran kept quiet, deciding not to risk a pointless thank you. He knew better than to speak out of turn. The back of Horvath’s hand had taught him that lesson.

After a moment, Zavian cleared his throat. “So then. Food? You want to eat?”

“Yes, S—yes, please.” Never wise to turn down a meal.

“Right. Okay then. Let’s go.” Zavian gestured toward the door. “I’ll show you to the kitchen. You can meet Miss Shani.”

Kiran wasn’t prepared for the home that lay beyond the bedroom.

He’d never seen anything like it, not even Preath’s property in Meles. It was wealth like Kiran had never witnessed. High ceilings, tasteful, neutral-toned walls, and stately, expensive furniture. The bedroom’s plush carpet gave way to gleaming hardwood floors. Kiran felt like a minuscule speck among such grandeur, ragtag and messy with his damp hair and knobby knees, out of place among this man’s other fine possessions.

The feeling only worsened as they journeyed across the home. They were in some short of high-rise tower, the windows far above Medrein’s sun-blasted streets, and if the length of their trek was any indication, it seemed the home took up the entire floor. Zavian had said Adam Sir was an important man—a government lawyer of some kind. Kiran shivered.

They arrived at a large, swinging door. “Here we are,” Zavian said with a grin and pushed through, holding it open for Kiran.

Kiran entered an enormous kitchen, all sleek, dark tile and gleaming steal. Along the far was a long stone countertop with a large stove in the center, and before it, turning to greet them, was a middle-aged woman in a long apron. She gave a broad smile, setting down the spoon in her hand.

“Miss Shani!” Zavian boomed. Kiran flinched, blanching. “Look who’s awake!”

She was hurrying over, wiping her hands on her apron. “Hush! Easy, can’t you see you’ve startled him?”

“Sorry.” Zavian sounded sheepish, but he was grinning.

“Sorry indeed.” Miss Shani smiled down at Kiran. “Never you mind him. Zaiv’s all bluster and no bite. Well then, look at you, up and about! I thought you were going to sleep the whole day away. Here, let’s have a good look.” She didn’t touch him, but Kiran obeyed, lifting his face to meet her gaze.

She was free citizen. He could tell that much at a glance; she did not wear the blue uniform of a domestic slave. Her common garments were modest in comparison to the splendor surrounding them, a simple, dark blouse tucked into long trousers, all covered by the apron. She was Aswein—her brown skin crinkled at the corners of her eyes as she smiled down at him, and her dark hair was pulled into a tight bun, slightly greying at the temples. Hired help, most likely. Adam Sir seemed the sort who could afford it.

“Look at that face!” Miss Shani grinned. “I’ve never seen anything like it. But you’re so skinny. Don’t they feed you at the Complex?”

“By precise weight, from what I remember,” Zavian said in his deep voice, saving Kiran from having to answer. “Miss Shani, this is Kiran. Kiran, this is Miss Shani. Adam Sir pays her to help with the cooking and housekeeping. She’s a free citizen. And she’s brilliant.”

“It’s lovely to meet you,” she said.

“Thank you, ma’am.” Kiran bowed. “An honor to meet you, ma’am.”

“Oh, none of that.” She waived her hand. “We’re all on equal footing here, as far as I’m concerned. I’ve never owned a slave in my life and I don’t see much sense in treating you boys like I’m better than you. Now, you must be starving. Here, sit, sit—”

She herded him onto one of the stools at the large island in the center of the kitchen. Kiran perched awkwardly on the seat, the stone countertop cool beneath his palms. Zavian followed, standing to lean easily on the island, looming at Kiran’s side like a tall, crimson shadow. Kiran tried not to lean away, acutely aware of the power coiled in the body beside him. He felt small again. Small and unprotected.

Shani produced a tray from the massive fridge and set it before him, and Kiran went still as he gaped down at it, thinking, for a moment, that there had been some sort of mistake: a bowl of cold soup, a sandwich stuffed full of some variety of thinly sliced, pickled vegetable that he couldn’t identify, and a dish of mysterious, deep purple berries. He had no idea what any of it was. Preath had only ever fed him scraps from his own plate, or the same flavorless gruel served in the camps. The food at the Complex had been similarly bland—processed and colorless, a mere vehicle for calories.

This was food. Kiran almost didn’t know what to do with it.

“I wasn’t sure when you’d be up,” said Miss Shani apologetically, “so I thought something that could keep in the fridge would be best. But I’ll have a warm meal for you tomorrow. I promise.”

Kiran blinked down at the dishes stupidly, suddenly and painfully aware of just how empty his stomach was. Was this really all for him? If felt like a trick, like one of Preath’s games.

But then Miss Shani said, “Go on,” and Kiran saw in their faces that they were expecting him to eat. So he did.

It was delicious. The first taste of the soup—some sort of chilled vegetable concoction that was sweet and bright on his tongue—sent a shiver down his spine. Miss Shani seemed pleased as he fell upon the rest with fervor. She and Zavian left him to it, chatting while Miss Shani tended whatever bubbled on the stove.

They seemed comfortable with one another. Zavian offered no formalities as they laughed and joked, as though they were two free people having an easy conversation. If Kiran weren’t so distracted by the food, he might have been scandalized. Etiquette and respect where important lessons. Their edicts had been drilled into Kiran relentlessly: he was not a free citizen, he was beneath them in every sense, and he needed to show respect. Always, it came down to respect and deference, and pliant submission—to any free person, really, but especially to his master.

His master. His new master. Who he knew nothing about.

Kiran set down his spoon, swallowing a mouthful of cold soup. He’d suddenly lost his appetite.

“All done?” Miss Shani asked at a lull in their conversation.

Kiran nodded, then remembered himself. “Yes, ma’am. Thank you, ma’am.”

She looked as though she was about to say something, then let it go with a smile and cleared away the dishes.

She and Zavian chatted a bit more while Kiran numbly sipped some water Miss Shani placed before him. His nerves were a mess, but the food had at least driven away the last of his hangover.

Then Zavian’s hands thudded down onto the island’s countertop and startled Kiran again. “Well then! I think it’s about time for a proper tour, don’t you?” His eyes gleamed as he grinned down at Kiran.

Was that a real question? Was he supposed to answer? Kiran felt his heart crawling up his throat, pulse quickening in his ears.

“Ah—Adam Sir wanted me to show you around, once you were on your feet,” Zavian quickly went on, saving Kiran a second time.

“Don’t you run him ragged,” Miss Shani warned. “Not everyone has your energy, you know.”

“Oh, it won’t be that bad. I’ll just give him the two-minute tour.” He looked back to Kiran and nudged his head toward the door. “Come on. It’ll be nice and quick, I promise. Sir’s orders.”

~~~

It was not quick.

It wasn’t so much Zavian’s fault as it was the sheer mass of the home. Kiran kept quiet as he was guided from one grand, high-ceilinged room to the next, completely overwhelmed.

There were so many places intended simply for existing. There was living room, a sitting room, and a den. A receiving room, an office—several of those, actually, one in each of the home’s vast wings—and a reading room, and a smoking room. A parlor. A solarium, whatever that was. Kiran’s head spun. All of this surely couldn’t belong to one man. Kiran wondered if Adam Sir had a family. He’d seen no one else beside Zavian and Miss Shani, no photos on the walls or mentions of children, husbands, or wives. Zavian had said a name earlier—Derin—and that same name had come up once or twice in his conversation with Miss Shani, but each time they’d quickly moved on as though the subject was better left alone.

In the western wing was a small dormitory with four single beds, only one of which looked slept in. Zavian explained that it was the slave’s quarters. Before Kiran, Zavian had been the only slave in the home. Miss Shani only worked during the daytime and went home in the evening. After preparing diner, she’d travel across the city to her own apartment in one of the more reasonably priced residential quarters, leaving Zavian to serve Adam Sir his meal. Zavian said he didn’t mind. He was Adam’s Sir’s sentinel, not a domestic slave, but it was all just as well to him. He was glad to be of any service to his master that he could.

There was one other room in the western wing that caught Kiran’s attention: the pen. Kiran was well familiar. Most households wealthy enough to own slaves also had a pen. A room used for punishment, most were equipped with the tools needed to manage an insubordinate slave—cuffs, canes, muzzles, whips, and whipping post being the most common. Adam Sir’s was small but well-stocked, and dusty with disuse. Still, it existed. Kiran went a bit green as he peered at the tools hanging on the walls, his lunch sitting like a stone in his belly. Zavian quickly shut the door and hurried them away.

Eventually they ended in the formal dining room. It was a beautiful space, with tall, floor-to-ceiling windows along one wall that offered an unobstructed view of the Glass Quarter’s skyline. Kiran came to an abrupt halt as he was suddenly faced with the sun-drenched reality of the outside world, startling as a slap to the face. The Glass Quarter was a fitful mountain range of glass and steel, a sea of jutting towers against the sky’s fierce yellow, each blazing like a pillar of fire. Luckily the windows were dampened to dull the glare, or else it might have been blinding. The rest of Medrein sprawled off into the distance behind, a living grid-work of buildings and streets, and beyond all of it, far off on the edge of the world, was the ocean. It shimmered like a ghost on the horizon, obscured by wavering heat and city smog.

Speechless, Kiran went to the window. It was his first proper look at the outside world since waking up in the massive bed—his first good look, really, in over a year. There were no windows at the Complex—none that he could see, anyways—and he’d arrived there just before his nineteenth birthday. He was twenty now. This was the first he’d properly seen the city he’d spent more than a year of his life in, and still he was still separated from it by a thick layer of insulated, tone-adjusting glass.

The street below was unnervingly distant, people and vehicles moving about like insects on bleached concrete. An odd sense of vertigo overcame Kiran as he looked down at them, mesmerized. There were so many people—so many free people, all going wherever they pleased. Doing whatever they pleased, whenever they pleased. Saying whatever they pleased. Eating whatever they pleased. Living however they pleased. It was such an alien concept that Kiran almost couldn’t hold it in his mind.

His hand drifted absently to the skin over his left bicep, searching, not for the first time, for some sort of bump or scar, but found nothing; the tracker had been installed flawlessly. There wasn’t even a mark on his skin where they’d put it in. It was one of the first things they’d done after his arrival at the Slave Complex, while he was still reeling from the shock of Preath selling him. A tracker had been inserted in his arm, buried deep beneath the flesh. Kiran knew it must already be programmed with Adam Sir’s information. The Complex would have seen to it before shipping him off to his new master. He couldn’t go anywhere without being traced. He likely couldn’t even leave this building.

No matter where he went, Kiran would always be a slave.

Zavian appeared beside him, hands tucked into the pockets of his red trousers. He scanned the skyline with Kiran, his dark skin burnished by the sun, glowing in it, made to withstand the daylight. “Amazing, isn’t it? All this—the view, the house. It’s like a different world. I’ll never get over the things money can buy.” He looked at Kiran. “We’re lucky to be here, you know. I know it can be frightening, being somewhere new. But you’ll be safe here, Kiran. You’ll have a good home. Adam Sir really isn’t so bad. He’s a nice man. And Derin—well, he’ll come around, I think.”

Something clenched in Kiran’s chest.

They were quiet for a moment, and then Zavian sighed. “That’s pretty much the whole tour. You’ll learn your way around as you settle in.” He hesitated a moment. “There’s just one more thing to show you. It shouldn’t take long. Come on.”

Zavian led them to a large, stately door in the home’s eastern wing. He stood before it, but made no move to open it, leaving it tightly shut.

“Adam Sir wanted me to show this to you, specifically.” There was an odd stiffness to his voice. “We’re not going in. He wanted me to make sure you knew this room is off limits. You can go anywhere else you like. Anywhere. Except here.” He paused. “You are never to enter this room. He said…that the punishment will be very severe, should you do so. He wanted me to say that.”

Zavian must have seen the fear on Kiran’s face, because he quickly went on, “But don’t worry. You’ve no reason to go in. You’ll be fine, Kiran. You never even have to look at this door again. Really, don’t let it bother you.”

Kiran tried to obey those words, but as they headed back toward the kitchen he couldn’t help a brief glance over his shoulder. The door looked just the same as any of the others in the home, and yet Zavian’s warning made it seem larger and more sinister. He quickly tore his eyes away, turning them down to watch his bare feet pad across the hardwood floor, and resigned to never look at that door again.

_____

Tag list: @burntcoffeewhump @generic-whumperz

#Beyond the Endless Day #my writing #my OCs #whump #NSFWwhump #whumpblr #slavefic #this is completely unbeta-ed lol #sorry for all the typos #writblr

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opily-zajic · 2 years

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Dovolte mi naprosto zbytečný pivní příspěvek, který si nikdo nepřál, napsaný naprosto nepivním zajícem, který pivo nesnáší a pil ho jenom párkrát v životě. Přesto se však jako Čech cítím dostatečně klasifikována a edukována v rámci umění obecného pivoznalství, abych zvládla pohovořit o kouzelném bizáru, který je mi prezentován při mé balkánské cestě - a to distribuce “českého” piva v Bulharsku. Aneb nikdo z vás netuší, jaké absolutně zábavné pivní šílenosti probíhají za našimi hranicemi, a já cítím tu nutnost se s vámi o ně podělit.

Kromě toho, že v Sofii má (lidově nazývaná) Starosračka své vlastní specializované prodejny, jejichž existence mě při včerejší procházce městem psychicky poznamenala, tak můžeme v supermarketech najít i další klasiky typu Krušovice, Staropramen, Plzeň a prostě takový ten nejužší výběr nejznámějších českých piv, které většinou zvládnete v pohodě ulovit i v zemích, které nejsou vyloženě slovanské nebo Česku příliš geograficky blízké. Prostě ten typ piv, který i já, člověk pivu neholdující, zvládnu v pořádku vyjmenovat a popsat.

Mezi tuto klasiku se však zvládne zatoulat několik divnopiv, kteří se jako paraziti vplížili pod označení české a pro mě jako Čecha působí jako takový ten zábavný Pokémon, který se snaží vypadat jako Pikachu, ale doopravdy je jenom jeho roztomilou napodobeninou (Zajíc použil Google - jmenuje se to Mimikyu). Jedná se o česká piva, která českými rozhodně nejsou, za česká se však vydávají, a při hlubším studování jejich původu člověku nezbývá nic jiného, než se láskyplně pousmát.

Tady jsou naše hvězdy!

Žatecký H(n)us na vás může svým názvem působit ultračesky, už jen to, že tady páni tvrdí, že se do toho nějakým způsobem zatoulal žatecký chmel, zní jako dostatečný důkaz. Doopravdy to je pivo z Ruska, žatecký chmel je do něj z Česka poskromnu dovážen a název piva je v latince vyloženě jen proto, aby to *vypadalo* víc česky a aby celková vizáž piva *působila* jako nejvíc česká. Prostě boží.

Zlatá Praha se na rozdíl od Žateckého hnusu doopravdy vaří v Čechách, dokonce její pivovar Staropilsen má i označení opravdového piva plzeňského typu, ale jeho příběh je taky k popukání, a to, že si to můžete u nás pomalu koupit jenom ve večerkách, načež tady to mají v každém supermarketu, je taky skvělé. Prostě o něm nikdo neví - a abych si dovolila citovat článek z Lidovek, který na mě vyskočil, když jsem se pokoušela dopídit původu tohoto piva:

Takže víc lokálně to snad ani být nemůže - bohužel však ne ke mně, ale k Bulharsku. Miluju lidskou tvořivost a miluju Emanuila, který se jednoho dne vzbudil a rozhodl se takhle pobavit svět. Pověsti českého piva využívá natolik, že má i další pivo, které se jmenuje Star of Pilsner - což takhle zní naprosto zábavně, ale když jste nebohý Bulhar českého piva neznalý, tak vám může Star of Pilsner od pivovaru Staropilsner připadat jako kompletně totožný název např. se Starobrnem nebo Staropramenem.

To je všechno z mého dnešního Erasmáckého cestovního deníčku. Můžete se těšit na další radosti a strasti života bulharského, které mě v dalších pěti měsících čekají. Kdo ví, třeba tady přijdu na další hezké věci, které tady jako Češi nevědomky przníme. :---))

#zajicbloguje #ano z tohoto Tumblru se asi za okamžik stane travel blog #protože jsem v Bulharsku pět měsíců na Erasmu #a vážně mám potřebu se podělit SE VŠÍM.#čumblr #czech #Štítkují Bulhaři své bulharské příspěvky jako bulgr?#hezky česky #pivo #bulgr

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another-electra-heart · 5 years

Video

youtube

𝟚𝟘𝟙𝟡

#cashanova bulhar #bulhar #labello #rap #czech rap #music

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tuckintotuncans · 3 years

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22/8/21 - Food from around the world - Cyprus

Gluten Free Pilafi Pourgouri (replaced the bulhar wheat with rice)

3/5 ***

Would eat again, nice and light, refreshing but nothing amazing.

https://www.thepurplepumpkinblog.co.uk/pilafi-pourgouri-crushed-wheat-pilaf/

Cypriot Meatballs

3/5 ***

Tasty, went well with the Pourgouri, again nothing amazing. Would cook/bake for longer. https://www.therecipehunters.com/cypriotmeatballs

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burgerboyz · 4 years

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26.11.20 - tamagoči

M.: ”Muckie aka mukosolvan aka mukonasal plus.”

K.: ”Adam raw je profesionální nutrie, jakože nutriční terapeutka.”

V autě nás přepadl klusíř. Ještě že jsme zapli hned šaltr. Doufám, že tu stepdaddy nemá mic!

Škoda ale že ten maradona umřel. Jestli sem to teda dobře pochopil? Díky tomu jsme se ale dozvěděli, že to byl těžkej diego!

Pes je na čtyřce zmrdi, co tady pochodujete?! Zapínáme srandocapslock. Zdrbli jsme taky ty dva co točí o kurvách s Láďou Hruškou, eMko je strašně nemusí. Já je odsoudil až za tu estrádu s Šharlotou. Ne nadarmo má nick ze špatnýho porna a názory 11 leté ryby.

Ten malej pes si myslí, že je ten kůň jak na něm jezdí ten borec s dřevěnou tyčkou proti druhýmu. Ale vy to nevíte! Dyk ona a celej zeman. Vytáhnem toho svýho prcka a nestihnem jedničku!

1. Zastávka doktor kuřecí ryba. Zatím si zavzpomínám jak jsem v brněnce kupoval jeden stroužek česnaku.

Šaltr na Pé a dem se najest! Fronk nás tu nečekal, takže žádný drama, to až po tom co jsme dožrali ty monstrmanč. Dyk on blbeček úplná taška. Ajs ejbí už rapuje i mc magor benjamin feat Bulhar se smekým.

250 tisíc různejch chutí v jeblý kuličce neštěstí. Škoda, že nebyl ten kedlubnovej. Ale vo čem to kurva mluvím? *SLAP* Úplně si umíme představit ty týpky, který tohle oslovuje. My víme, kdo jste, vy víte, že to víme.

Jo a k Vánocům nám posílejte nějaký ty PS pětky z ryselu!

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m-arek · 5 years

Link

8/10

#rap

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jansvancara · 7 years

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Práce

Před patnácti lety jsem konec srpna trávil v Ústí nad Labem. Byl jsem tam odklízet následky povodní. Mezi dobrovolníky byla i jedna zvláštní skupina, kterou nešlo přehlédnout. Vysoký černoch, se kterým jsem si svou ubohou angličtinou nepopovídal, protože on uměl "jen" francouzsky, portugalsky a německy, běloruští manželé, kterým přisluhovači režimu pro výstrahu otrávili psy z jejich chovné stanice nebo bodrý Bulhar, který otevíral konzervy zásadně nožem.

Byli to lidé, kteří v uprchlickém táboře čekali na azyl. Pracovali s až podezřelým nadšením. Běloruska Olga mi vysvětlila proč. Byla to pro ně po měsících i letech čekání první práce, kterou mohli dělat a díky které se mohli cítit užiteční.

#vzpominka

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saxafimedianetwork · 2 years

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The Archaeology Of The Medieval Trade Networks In Western Somaliland

This #paper presents an overview of the international #trade in #Somaliland from the 13-16th centuries, when foreign #traders, #nomad communities & urban #dwellers collaborated to establish a network of exchanges & interactions which spread throughout the #HornOfAfrica.

(more…)

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#Archaeology #Awdal region #Borama #Bulhar #Caravan Station #Fardowsa #Horn of Africa #Jorge de Torres #Medieval Period #Nomad #Red Sea #Sheikh #Siyaara #Somaliland #Sultanate Of Adal #Trade #Zeila

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mypakistan · 11 years

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Bholu Pahalwan

Haji Manzoor Hussain, also known as Bholu Pahalwan, was a Pakistani wrestler and held World Heavyweight Title.

Biography

Bholu came from a Kashmiri family of renowned wrestlers from pre-Partition Amritsar but moved to Pakistan. He lived in Amritsar until he was nine. Then during one of his school holidays Bholu moved to Patiala to visit his father, who was a serious wrestler.

He died on 6 March 1985 in Pakistan. His son Nasir Bholu is also a wrestler.

Career

1930s

Bholu started his wrestling career in Radhanpur under the guidance of Hamida Pahalwan Rehmaniwala, real name Abdul Hamid Al Maroof Rehmani, who was an official wrestler of that state. In 1935, at age 13 Bholu made his first appearance in a wrestling contest at Lahore. He competed with wrestler known as Ahmad Baksh to a draw for a duration of twelve minutes. On Monday 27 March 1939 Bholu wrestles Ahmad Baksh for the 2nd time at in Lahore. The Judges were Sardar Abdus Samad City Magistrate and Inspector Gayani of Naulakha Police Station.

From 1935 till 1940 Bholu succeeded against some of competent Indian Pahalwans like Mangal Singh, Kharak Singh, Bora Singh, Bulhar Pahalwan and Aleem Pahalwan of Baroda. During 1940, Bholu competed in the war fund wrestling competitions staged by the Government in every part of Subcontibent to boost up war funds. Bholu Pahalwan defeated a number of wrestlers, including a local champion Ghousia Pahalwan twice in Lahore and for the 3rd time in Bahawalnagar.

1940s

In 1946 Bholu was scheduled to fight Jeuti Pahalwan in Kolhapur but on the day of the match Jeuti refused to fight and slipped away. Public turned furious and burnt the wrestling arena. The police resorted to firing in order to control the enraged spectators and the alleged wrestling contractor was jailed. But Hamida Pahalwan soon arranged a rematch between both wrestlers to compensate the public money. Bholu agreed to wrestle without payment and defeated Jeuti in this second event in Kolhapur on a final decision. Later in another contest in Kolhapur he defeated the top contender Shiv Govinda within 2 minutes.

During the same year Bholu fought a series of wrestling bouts against the Champion of Kolhapur, Mulla Patarakia of Nipani who had the reputation of previously beating highly talented men like Nizam, Ghulam Mohiuddin, Hussain Baksh Lahori and Allah baksh Pahalwan. Bholu surprisingly overpowered Mulla Patarakia in a wrestling event arranged by the Maharaja in front of a huge crowd. This contest was also witnessed by the Emperors of the neighboring states. Anyhow Patarakia refused to accept his defeat and demanded a rematch with Bholu in his hometown of Nipani. As a result of that a few days later Bholu fought Patarakia in Nipani and defeated him for the second time on a unanimous decision.

During the early days after the Indian partition Bholu fought Gujranwalia at the Minto Park in Lahore and won the match but later there was a rematch in Karachi. In April 1949, Bholu Pahalwan won the Rustam-i-Pakistan title by beating Younus Gujranwalia Pahalwan for the Pakistani wrestling Championship title in a recorded time of 8 minutes [1]. The Governor General of Pakistan Khawaja Nazimuddin was the Chief Guest of this wrestling event. This was the most significant event in the Pakistan’s wrestling history. Bholu Pahalwan was declared the first legitimate Wrestling Champion of Pakistan.

1950s

Bholu had two main Akhara's (Wrestling’s dujo) within the country. The Bilal Gunj Akhara was located in Lahore. In 1948 Bholu formed another Akhara known as Dar-ul-Sehat at Pakistan Chowk in Karachi. The Dar-ul-Sehat also known as Bholu-ka-Akhara trained in Pakistani style wrestling under the supervision of professional wrestlers. It also provided the weight training and bobybuilding facilities to the members. The Bholu’s Akhara trained around 55000 members during the 60’s. Bholu gave special attention to this institution. He personally trained the members that included 60 to 70 serious wrestlers.

In 1953 Bholu challenges the World Champion, Lou Thesz in order to win the world championship. He even asks the Government through Pakistani Prime minister Muhammad Ali Bogra to arrange a match between him and the reigning world champion. Bholu even offered a sum of 0.1 Million to the world champion for a match with him. But the match between Bholu Pahalwan and Lou Thesz never took place for some unknown reason. He later attempted to confront the World Champion Indian wrestler Dara Singh but Singh was to a great extent billed to fight elsewhere in America and could not afford time. During the early 1960s Bholu challenge the wrestlers worldwide through publications in different newspapers. He remained matchless because the average wrestler seemed reluctant to compete against him.

[edit] 1960s

Finally in 1964 the Pakistan Wrestling Association declared him Rustam-e-Zaman, The Pakistani World Champion. They imposed a condition on him that Bholu should wrestle abroad and must win a world title in order to sustain his Pakistani World Title of Rustam-e-Zaman. Since most wrestlers were reluctant to fight him due to unknown reason. Therefore in 1967 Bholu offered a sum of 5000 pounds through promoter Orig Williams of the United Kingdom to anyone who could beat him. And Finally in May 1967, Bholu Pahalwan competed in a world championship event sponsored by the Eastern Promotions Limited in UK and defeated the Anglo-French heavyweight Champion, Henry Perry for the World Heavyweight Title in Empire Pool, Wembley Stadium, London, England.

Later after winning the world championships from abroad, his status as Rustam-e-Zaman, The Pakistani World Champion was officially confirmed in his own country on September 1967 by the Pakistan Wrestling Association in a ceremony held in Karachi and presided by Home Minister, Kazi Fazlullah. [2].

#Sarabjit Singh #Pakistan #Lahore #Kolhapur #Kharak Singh #India #Hamida Pahalwan #Bholu Pahalwan

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risingpakistan · 11 years

Text

Bholu Pahalwan

Haji Manzoor Hussain, also known as Bholu Pahalwan, was a Pakistani wrestler and held World Heavyweight Title.

Biography

He died on 6 March 1985 in Pakistan. His son Nasir Bholu is also a wrestler.

Career

1930s

1940s

1950s

[edit] 1960s

#Sarabjit Singh #Pakistan #Lahore #Kolhapur #Kharak Singh #India #Hamida Pahalwan #Bholu Pahalwan

0 notes

sportsclassic · 11 years

Text

Bholu Pahalwan

Haji Manzoor Hussain, also known as Bholu Pahalwan, was a Pakistani wrestler and held World Heavyweight Title.

Biography

He died on 6 March 1985 in Pakistan. His son Nasir Bholu is also a wrestler.

Career

1930s

1940s

In 1944 Bholu defeated Puran Singh Amritsari in Ajain in a recorded time of 6 minutes. Later the same year he defeated another wrestler with the similar name known as Puran Singh Patialawala, in Ludhiana in 3 minutes. In 1945 Bholu beats a Sikh wrestler known as Darbar Singh in Kasur in shortest duration of 1-minute. In 1946 Bholu was scheduled to fight Jeuti Pahalwan in Kolhapur but on the day of the match Jeuti refused to fight and slipped away. Public turned furious and burnt the wrestling arena. The police resorted to firing in order to control the enraged spectators and the alleged wrestling contractor was jailed. But Hamida Pahalwan soon arranged a rematch between both wrestlers to compensate the public money. Bholu agreed to wrestle without payment and defeated Jeuti in this second event in Kolhapur on a final decision. Later in another contest in Kolhapur he defeated the top contender Shiv Govinda within 2 minutes.

After the Indian Partition Bholu Pahalwan settled down in Pakistan. He formed the 'new age' Gama-Imam Tandem with his brother Aslam. During 1948, before winning the Pakistani Championship, Bholu trained from 02.00 hrs till 10.00 hrs and from 14.00 hrs till 19.00 hrs daily. His training routine consisted of around 5000 squats and 3500 pushup stretches including Santola and Zor on daily basis. For his conventional wrestling workouts Bholu also used Chakki, Lizam and Mugdar twice a week. During the early days after the Indian partition Bholu fought Gujranwalia at the Minto Park in Lahore and won the match but later there was a rematch in Karachi. In April 1949, Bholu Pahalwan won the Rustam-i-Pakistan title by beating Younus Gujranwalia Pahalwan for the Pakistani wrestling Championship title in a recorded time of 8 minutes [1]. The Governor General of Pakistan Khawaja Nazimuddin was the Chief Guest of this wrestling event. This was the most significant event in the Pakistan’s wrestling history. Bholu Pahalwan was declared the first legitimate Wrestling Champion of Pakistan.

1950s

Bholu seldom wrestled within the country after these matches. He compete with foreign wrestlers who were active in India during the early1950’s. In Jalandhar and Bombay Bholu Pahalwan dominated some of the finest men in wrestling Including Emil Koroshenko, George Pencheff, Goldstein, George Zbisko, Zybisko-2 and Harbans Singh. Bholu had two main Akhara's (Wrestling’s dujo) within the country. The Bilal Gunj Akhara was located in Lahore. In 1948 Bholu formed another Akhara known as Dar-ul-Sehat at Pakistan Chowk in Karachi. The Dar-ul-Sehat also known as Bholu-ka-Akhara trained in Pakistani style wrestling under the supervision of professional wrestlers. It also provided the weight training and bobybuilding facilities to the members. The Bholu’s Akhara trained around 55000 members during the 60’s. Bholu gave special attention to this institution. He personally trained the members that included 60 to 70 serious wrestlers.

1960s

Bholu received the 1962 Pride of Performance Award.[1] He was granted a 20-kanal land by the President Ayub Khan in honour of services rendered to the sport of wrestling in Pakistan. Bholu performed Hajj in 1963. Finally in 1964 the Pakistan Wrestling Association declared him Rustam-e-Zaman, The Pakistani World Champion. They imposed a condition on him that Bholu should wrestle abroad and must win a world title in order to sustain his Pakistani World Title of Rustam-e-Zaman. Since most wrestlers were reluctant to fight him due to unknown reason. Therefore in 1967 Bholu offered a sum of 5000 pounds through promoter Orig Williams of the United Kingdom to anyone who could beat him. And Finally in May 1967, Bholu Pahalwan competed in a world championship event sponsored by the Eastern Promotions Limited in UK and defeated the Anglo-French heavyweight Champion, Henry Perry for the World Heavyweight Title in Empire Pool, Wembley Stadium, London, England. Later after winning the world championships from abroad, his status as Rustam-e-Zaman, The Pakistani World Champion was officially confirmed in his own country on September 1967 by the Pakistan Wrestling Association in a ceremony held in Karachi and presided by Home Minister, Kazi Fazlullah. [2].

#Wrestling #Sports #Pakistan #Lahore #Kolhapur #Kharak Singh #Hamida Pahalwan #Bholu Pahalwan

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