#brought on by the bone weary loneliness for people Here

[void-tiger]

I don’t know how to not either mold myself into a shape that makes it easier for others to stay, or let myself slip through a drain discarded instead.

[tuliptired]

Hey! If you don’t have much stuff to write I just had a fun scenario I would like to see.

I’ve had the idea of all the Ghostbusters interacting with an almost friendly ghost.

Like, the reader, is a ghost who haunts the old fire department and, for some reason, the busters can’t get rid of them.

But they aren’t a bad ghost. Do they cause a little mayhem? Yeah, but they don’t harm people.

Maybe everyone is a little weary because, let’s face it, they’ve all been through some stuff and expect a possible negative outcome.

… that’s all! Thanks lovely!

You Don't Hear what I'm Saying (Do You?)

Pairing: Ghostbusters & Ghost!Reader

Warnings: Mentions of death

90% sure this gif is from frozen empire but haiiii

Better formatting on Ao3!!

Your last moments were, funnily enough, the foggiest in your memory. You always remember the parade running through the streets for a new mayor, generally just a reason to be jovial for a while. You can remember the rain falling from the sky, sending everyone inside for a minute, and you can remember the firehouse you took refuge in. What you can never recall is why exactly you woke up, presumably weeks later, with a splitting headache and no tangible body.

When you got over the shock over your new form, it was hard to come to terms with dying, to know that you inadvertently left everything behind without ever meaning to. Death always seemed so far away to you, as the thrill of the Progressive Era lingered in the air. It was even harder, to know that you’d never be able to leave the confines of the building you passed in. True, you had all the time in the world to explore, or test out your new abilities as a spirit, but it just made you even sadder, to disturb these hardworking men and be reminded of their livelihoods as they served the city. So you slept, invisible to the world and for as long as you wanted to escape thoughts of hopelessness. 

Ghost-sleep wasn’t the same, though, not nearly as satisfying as sleep when you were flesh and blood. It was more like suspending yourself in a different state of matter for a while- something you would have never understood until you actually felt it. You didn’t want anything to do with anyone anymore, tucking yourself into the farthest and darkest corners and letting yourself stay dormant for years upon years. After a while, you’d be brought back to consciousness by a dull and throbbing pain in your head, forcing you back “awake”. Time had managed to slip your grasp, the firehouse eventually defunct and destitute in only a matter of time, its rundown interior only giving you more motivation to hide away from it all. In the simplest of words: you were in a neverending state of loneliness.

“I’ll be one minute!” Ray called over his shoulder. He went up the steps of the firehouse, until he was at the seldom used third floor. This place needed a good sweep, maybe a dusting, but that could wait. He had something much cooler in mind.

Ray moved a creaky shelf, looking around for a quick second before he did. “Are you here? You can come out now,” he stage-whispered.

You materialized behind him instead, smiling shyly as you peeked out from the shelving. He was so, so lucky. A ghost! Living in his attic! Technically, the attic of his ghost extermination service, but the little details didn’t matter much. 

Not long ago, he was up here to stuff some of Peter’s junk in the tiny bit of storage they had. A chill ran up his spine after dumping it, hair standing up on end. There was no way, right?  He scanned the room silently, not daring to breathe or move too hard or too fast. His hopes rose.

Ray swallowed. “Any ghosts up here, come out so I can see you.” No answer. “...we can play a game.”

Still nothing but the sounds of the air conditioning. His posture dropped in defeat- it was wishful thinking, anyway. Ray turned to leave, before he was willed to spin around. Another chill, one that ran down to his bones, racked him, eyes bulging wide as the figure of an early 20th century spirit appeared before him at will.

You didn’t attack him, or wreck the room. You just stood there, blinking occasionally, looking just as freaked out as he was. You were a ghostbuster, Ray! You’ve seen ghosts!

He snapped out of his stupor. “Oh yeah! The game!” He stared at you for a few more seconds, before scouring the room for something. To be fair, he didn’t really have a plan. Ray just thought it’d be pretty cool to have a ghost friend around- who wasn’t Slimer. And now he’s got one! Maybe. He emerged with a little ball, wondering why the hell four grown men owned one. He set himself up for catch, watching as you hesitantly raised your hands.

It fell right through you. Obviously. 

Since then, through trial and error, you both compiled information about yourself. For one, you couldn’t talk- at least not much. He’d have to look into that, but it could be something you’d just have to relearn. Secondly, your control over physical objects seemed touch and go. You could interact with some things, but not others- and he suspected that it had something to do with the material’s age relative to your own. You could travel freely, fortunate for you and troublesome for him. Ray had a new experiment this time, one he thinks you’d like. 

“You’re from 1902? 1904?” Ray asked, zipping open up a cloth bag that hung around his neck. You put your shoulders up- understandable, you’d been dead for a long time and out of commission for a while. “Well, have you ever had your picture taken?”

He watched as you eyed the Fujifilm in his hands curiously. You shook your head, gazing down at it like it was an object of a folktale. You nearly reached out to touch it, amazement making you forget your current predicament. 

He smiled at your wonder. “Do you want one?”

Ray laughed as you nodded wildly, adjusting the phantom clothes that died along with you. You picked a spot that was freer from clutter- near the lab and sitting area, and tried to channel the portraits of dignitaries and upper class families that you only ever dreamed of being a part of.

With a few quick snaps, the best one printed, and it was only a matter of waiting until it would develop. You were impatient- surprised at how quick it took to manifest but annoyed at the dark square that became clearer at only a snail's pace. 

“You gotta be patient,” he teased you, protecting the delicate film. “You’re just like Egon.” Your expression dropped, and Ray let up slightly. He felt bad, accidently bringing up his friends like this. The friends that you weren’t allowed to meet, otherwise they’d trap you almost immediately. “They’ll come around. Just give me some time,” Ray promised with a small smile.

You nodded, seeming to understand. Ray’s short gasp tore you from your melancholy, showing you the now developed photo between two fingers. “Look at that,” he said softly, grinning as you inspected it. If he was right, it had to have been decades since you had seen your own face.

“Ray!” a voice called from far below, impatient. He clicked his tongue, carefully leaving you with the photo where you could see it without having to move anything. As he reached for the doorknob, the room was shroud in darkness before illuminating again. You stood proudly, if not a bit coy, flicking the electricity on and off with pure physic energy a few more times.

Ray beamed. “Hey! You learned lights!”

Another quiet day. You counted the front door opening and closing twice from your spot upstairs- Winston lets the door drag, you learned, and Ray lets it slam. That left Janine, the woman you always hear at the very front desk, and Egon, the man you’ve seldom heard any noise from. According to Ray, he’s been spending more time in the lab than anything. Peter, the one with short footsteps, typically sleeps during these drags in the day, especially after a long night like the kind they had prior. It felt oddly comfortable, to familiarize yourself with their routines, though you had no idea what they looked like. How much could you learn about someone, when you observe them without eyes?

You could tell how sunny it was outside, growing jealous that they could soak up the warmth of the world while you were stuck at the top floor with very little natural lighting. Ray would understand, right? One quick trip couldn’t hurt. Everyone was too preoccupied with their midday activities, and if they did happen to see you, you’d scramble back to safety and just deny. 

The sliver of light streaming in from the large window in the hallway felt lovely. You feel things differently, when you’re only a soul. There was almost a hypnotic property in the way you were able to bask in the wake of dancing dust, floating along the beam, and you swore your vapors were growing more and more vivid. Thank goodness someone left the drapes open- they’d simply passed through your fingers. Your senses, however, heighten when you’re a ghost. You could tell someone was watching you, and when you turned, it was a resident of the firehouse, disheveled from sleep and pointing one of those vacuum-wand-gun things Ray had tried explaining to you.

Instincts carry you to the safest point of escape. You could hear the man shouting into the vent, probably on the edge of his toes, the presumed image amusing you. 

“You’re in the walls?” He hollered incredulously, voice bouncing off the metal. “Not fair.” When you never answered, he stormed off, short footsteps growing further and further away, before pittering back. “Stay off the second floor. Egon’ll see you.”

Winston had the hood of their vehicle propped open, doubled over into it and covered in dark oil. Ray was in bed, sleeping just like Peter was that one day after loud alarms and wailing sirens called them out to a job late that night. You had paid his snoring form a quick visit, but now you just watched Winston, no meddlesome plan in mind as the large white car intimidated you a tad. He shivered, dirty hands running across the length of goosebumped arms before he went back to work.

“I know you’re there.”

You blinked, slowly becoming visibly as he continued to crank a wrench around the soiled engine. “Ray’s terrible at keeping secrets. And it’s 5 degrees colder in here.”

So much for subtly. You were at least a little disappointed, before he spoke again. “Are you gonna possess me?” You shook your head. “Slime me?” No. “Chase me around?” Probably not.

His defenses dropped as he eyed you up and down, looking as stereotypical as a ghost could in your turn-of-the-century outfit and mystic state. “You’re lucky he has no survival instinct,” he pointed the wrench at you, “it’s like second death in that containment chamber-”

Winston saw you frown, softening. Not very nice, you thought. 

“I’m sorry. Not cool, talking about death with a ghost, right?” You nodded. He wiped his hands on a spare towel. “And you’re stuck downstairs all day?” shaking your head, you pointed upstairs. All the way upstairs.

You started away from the car. What a gaudy thing to drive around in, you thought. You trusted Ray’s judgment, but not on this. Winston must’ve noticed, asking in disbelief, “you’ve never been in a car?”

You rolled your eyes defensively, and he just chuckled at you. Of course you’d been in a car! Just- not giant white hearses with junky gear strapped to it. Winston only laughed harder, holding the door open for you. “Wanna see this one?”

You swallowed- or, you would, if you still produced saliva. Careful to not fall through and onto the ground, you hesitantly lowered yourself into the seat, jumping slightly as he suddenly turned on the engine. “How is it?” You didn’t answer as he took his spot on the driver's side, and when he looked over, you held out the molecules of your hand, bouncing with the vibrations of the car. Forget how it looked- being in a car was fun. The things you appreciate more when you’re a ghost.

“What else can you do? As a ghost?” You thought about it, before leading him upstairs and pointing to the closed blinds by the large window. He didn’t hesitate to open them, watching as you glowed brighter under the light. 

“Sun-basking,” Winston smirked. Just then, the phone started to wail throughout the firehouse, and Ray joined his friend, rushing down the steps, as Winston couldn’t stop snickering.

“What?” Ray questioned, startled awake.

“Nothing, nothing.”

It wasn’t until after their hour long job that Ray realized he had pen all over his face. And, that you were starting to get restless.

You knew Ray would be at least a little anxious that you were out and about, but you just couldn’t help it. You had friends- or at least, people who had no choice but to be around you. Peter tried to trap you a few more times, to “keep you on your toes,” but you always found new ways to escape. Janine had nearly spilt coffee all over herself when she first saw you, trying to figure out her desktop radio, but you were forgiven after demonstrating your best laundering tips from when you were alive. Now, she lets you listen whenever you want, as long as it was an agreeable station. You’d even met Dana, awed at how much she resembled early 1900’s aristocracy. Louis was so easy to mess with that you’d lost track of what you’d done. And it was fun, to stay out of sight and follow Ray around, keeping your laughter to yourself as he shuddered and continuously checked the thermostat. 

Peter loved to step on your metaphysical toes, especially in the comfort of night. “What-” he flipped on the lights, watching as you sat in the middle of dozens of lit candles, trying to conduct your own personal seance.

“This is where all my red candles went?” he gestured around you. Whoever you would have contacted has definitely flown away by now.

“If you wanted a nice ghost friend, we would’ve introduced you to Slimer.” And who knew, fellow specters could get slimed? He was a clingy friend at first, but he quickly came to terms with the fact that you had no interest in eating.

Your little antics got bolder and bolder as your new friends started to drop their defenses. Switching around their boots, long john’s or pajamas was always fun whenever you got bored- though it got Winston taken off of laundry duty. He could’ve snitched on you, but he never did, and you silently thanked him with your best attempt at brewing coffee. The mug of water you planned to pour into the pot ended up slipping out of your phantasmic grasp, so that was the end of you trying to do favors.

Back to observing. You had been invisibly watching Slimer finish what was left of breakfast, before Peter came in and chased him out. He must’ve been forced to take care of the piling dishes in the sink, because he worked so hastily that a ceramic plate nearly flew out of his slippery hand. You caught it, not wanting the nice glassware to shatter, bashfully revealing yourself.

Peter stared at you, before turning back to the sink like it was the normalest thing in the world. “Oh. It’s you. Listen, Spooky-” he dried a dish, “I heard you learned ‘lights’. That’s awfully cute, but Egon would have my head if he knew I let a ghost run around. My job is to catch you, and you don’t want that. So, scram.”

Peter was officially off your list of friends. What’d Dana see in him? You irritably stalked off, disappearing from sight again.

“It’s still freezing, I know you’re still here.”

Maybe Slimer was better company. Before you could depart, Peter sighed, leaning against the edge of the sink as if he was surveying the amount of dishes he had left to clear. Reluctantly, he turned to you, starting your ascent to the ceiling.

He holds out a dripping cup. “If you help me dry these, I can open the blinds for you.”

Egon walked in then, and you were back to being as clear as air. “Who’re you talking to?” he glanced up from a notepad. Peter’s under eye twitched, and your whole body quaked as the scientist unknowingly passed through the space you occupied. He didn’t say anything, stilling as his shoulders tensed slightly. 

“No one. Say, Egon, how’s a little pool? I’ll let you win.” Peter dried his hands off. Egon didn’t say anything, instead pulling his lab coat closer to himself.

“It’s cold in here,” he stated, pulling up the hefty window. What’s better than sunlight through glass? Sunlight from the source. You settled in euphorically on the sill, ready to sleep for a while. Thank you, Egon- no chores and a great nap. You could continue to dislike Peter, but you did overhear him encouraging Egon to keep the windows open whenever he thought you weren’t around.

Ray sighed, shutting the door to the attic solemnly. It had been a few days, and you hadn’t shown up in some time. Not a sock misplaced, car keys never once being clipped to the back of belt loops rather than the front. Winston had no ill intent, even bringing up your absence a day or two ago. Peter had promised not to try and trap you anymore after he slipped up and attempted it while Ray was turning the corner. Janine wouldn’t, Louis couldn’t…where’d you go?

Egon. It had to be. One surprise, one unsuspecting door being opened…he couldn’t even begin to imagine what could be happening to you in the containment grid. Ray flushed with worry, hurrying down the stairs and bounding into the lab as quickly as possible. “Spengs! Let ‘em go!”

The bespectacled man sat in the dark laboratory, hands wrapped around a cup of what must’ve been tea. There were roots, windchimes, and other trinkets that Ray recognized as objects for attracting the otherworldly placed around the room.

Egon calmly took a sip of his tea. “What’s wrong?” Ray blinked, catching his breath. There you were, not stuck in the mechanics of the containment unit but in your approximation of sitting in a chair, not drinking your tea but enjoying the steam billowing into you.

“But- I thought- you-'' Ray stuttered. 

Egon flipped through a few notes. “I’m not that dense, Ray. And they’ve been a interesting topic of research,” he held up what looked like a much more intensely detailed account of your past life. Ray squinted, skimming past dates, addresses, family names.

“I thought you couldn’t talk!” Ray put his hands on his hips, reeling from all this new information.

You simply shrugged, smiling guiltily.

“You’d be surprised. Did you know they learned lights?”

[eventiderookery]

trajectory - out of order destcember day 7

Part of Zana hopes that no one’s home. That the door will stay shut and locked. That she’ll be left to go sleep another restless night on her ship. Her hand hovers above the midnight blue door, hesitation stalling her movements. 

She takes a deep breath in, then out, and knocks on the door. Three short raps that seem to echo in the dead silence of the Tower halls. 

For a single, silent moment she thinks maybe the door won’t open and the choice will be made for her. 

Then footsteps, and the door opens to a bleary-eyed Aunor. There are pillow wrinkles on her cheek, and the sight is familiar, achingly so, even as her face flashes through half a dozen different emotions before settling back into tired resignation. 

Aunor wipes a hand over her face and the moment is broken when she asks, “Why are you here?”

Why indeed. 

Because Zana’s tired of the blue-purple smudges under her eyes from not being able to sleep. Tired of the loneliness she’s found herself drowning in without Teben and Braga and the rest of them just an arms length away. Tired of the way her ears ring in the silence of her ship when she has nothing to keep her mind from wandering. Tired of marathoning Crucible matches because she doesn’t have ways to vent her emotions that aren’t violence.

Or maybe it’s some long forgotten trajectory that’s brought her back here. The orbit of a comet or a planet on the very edges of a star system, so long and elliptical you don’t notice the cycle until you’re back where you began. Maybe it was only a matter of time before she came back, nothing really ends after all.

“I didn’t know where else to go,” she says, the words barely having space to form on her lips. She’s so tired, even her bones are heavy.

Distantly she sees the way Aunor is taking note of everything that's changed about her. The burns. The scars. The weariness that only comes from seeing the worst people have to offer, and then sometimes having to be that person. The way it comes without the judgment she expects.

“Tell me to go and I’ll go,” she starts, “I shouldn’t have–” 

“No.” Aunor bites her cheek like she didn’t mean to let that slip out. She sighs again before adding, softer, “Come inside.”

Zana hopes that it’s still Aunor speak for, I don’t want you to leave. If it isn’t, well, Zana doesn’t know how much heart she still has left to break. “Are you sure…”

“Zana, if you didn’t want me to let you in, why did you knock on my door?”

“I– I don’t know. I don’t know why I’m here.” She’s much too close to tears as she tugs on her hair in frustration. It’s the culmination of everything she’s been swallowing down and ignoring since the disbanding rising back up within her. “I’m not the same person I was. I don’t even know what I’m doing anymore.”

Aunor takes her wrist with careful fingers, pulling it away from her head. “Stop.” Forceful but not demanding. “Have whatever breakdown this is after some tea and a decent night of sleep.”

Zana just lets herself be drawn into the apartment. She wants to melt back into the familiarity of it all as her gaze skates over the cluttered desk, the still half finished weapons rack, the open door to the bedroom. Even the smell of it is comforting. She aches for the way she once fit right alongside all of it so strongly her ears ring with the wanting. 

She must zone out on the barstool because before she can think Aunor is pressing a warm mug into her limp hands, the scent of spice and warmth wafting up into her face. She barely manages a weak, “Thanks," before taking a long drink. It just barely scalds her mouth.

Aunor stares her down over the rim of her own mug, dark eyes hooded in the low light. She sighs again, deep and tired. “What happened to you, Zana?”

Death, unmaking, a long game that took a toll greater than we could have ever known. Knowledge that makes my ears bleed when I'm alone. Friendships founded amongst vipers and scorpions, that mean more than I expected and then I lost them. 

“I think you’re smart enough to know the answer.” It’s a cop out, they both know it, but she won’t be able to face herself if she has to put into words the tangled mess of the past dozen years. Everything she's done and witnessed. “Please don't make me say it.”

Aunor is quiet for a long while. “I thought they killed you, and that was why you never came back.” 

“In a way I did die. The person I was when I left, I had to kill her for what was to come next. I remade myself into something stronger, wiser, bearing a new name.” Crawling rot slithers through her head, taunting. She shuts her eyes against it, wondering just briefly if her thoughts will ever be truly her own again. “But I’m not that, not anymore. I don’t–” she falters, claws catching in her throat, “I don’t know who I am. I have nothing left Aunor.”

“What did I say about the existential breakdown?” Aunor asks plainly. A reminder that this particular problem of hers is back-burnered until at least the morning. 

“I know, I know.”  Zana wishes beyond measure that there was something stronger than tea in her cup for what she knows has to come next as she schools her thoughts back where she needs them. “I’m sorry, for everything. I shouldn’t have left the way I did, you deserved at least a scrap of explanation. And I’m sorry I can’t even give you one now that’s better than saying ‘I did what I had to.’ I understand if you–” 

“I know,” Aunor cuts in, face set in a worrying neutrality. “I know you wouldn’t have left if you didn’t have to, even if it hurt more than I ever thought it would.” 

Just a few simple words, like a striker punch to the chest, and everything Zana thought she would say, the countless apologies she had lined up on her tongue disappear like ash in the wind. “I never once stopped thinking about you, even when it cost me.” She trails an absent minded hand across the burn at her throat. “I wanted so badly to come back, but I had to stay. I had to see it through, if not for me, then for you.”

“You did what you had to do,” Aunor echoes, the lines of her mouth softening a fraction. “I understand the dedication, even if I don’t understand the reason.”

“So you’re not going to arrest me?” Zana tries for light-hearted but falls somewhere closer to breathless surprise. The mug heats up a few degrees in her grip.

Aunor levels her with a look the betrays nothing, “As far as I’m concerned you are still a Praxic Warlock who went missing while on a mission.”

An old analog clock ticks away quietly on the wall.

“Thank you.” For everything. “Traveler knows I don’t deserve it.”

Aunor places her mug down gently after a sip of tea, “Everyone deserves another chance, it all depends on whether or not they take it.”

Zana takes a breath. The words held between her teeth will either make or break this tentative thread between them. “What about us, can we try again?”

Aunor walks around the counter and takes her hand. Brown on blue. Fingers interlaced.

“I’m willing to try.” 

Zana pulls her into a hug with enough force that it almost tips them both over onto the floor, but if it had Zana doesn’t think she would even have it in her to care. Not with the way Aunor clings just as tightly, face buried in her shoulder. Not with the way her heart finally feels settled after months of upheaval. 

They stand there for an infinity of moments, a pair of stars aligned in orbit once again.

[k-writer1998]

Who Said Love Was Easy? (2/12)

      There are many different kinds of people who come and go from your life. Some will stay constant and sturdy like a river, growing alongside you, others will come like a whirlwind who wreaks havoc and leaves just as quickly, then there is everything in between. In this twisted maze of connections, that is where our story begins. A steadfast boy, a girl with a past, a little bit of alcohol, mistakes, and some love. Where can you go wrong with that?

angsty fluff

w.c: 1.7k

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

      I’ve been spending more and more time at the pub, partly because I was still trying to coax the weary Jeongin into friendship but also Jaehyung has been inviting me to come over more, his nosy-neighbor-senses kicking in. I’ve nearly broken Jeongin though cause he’s warmed up sufficiently since running into him. Gahyeon on the other hand seems to be cautious around me but as the saying goes “keep your friends close and your enemies closer.” It wasn’t like she was any bad, if anything I could see why Jeongin was so infatuated with her. She gives off girl-next-door vibes minus the naivety. Like Jeongin, she brought in a lot of customers with that personality but as the only female server a lot of guys come through in hopes to be served by her. That meant Jeongin’s eyes were constantly on her, ready to step in at any given moment.

“It’ll be faster if you just start barking at people. Then everyone would think you’re crazy and people won’t pay attention to her. Are you trying to burn holes into her skull?”

“Can you not for one day y/n?” he rolled his eyes.

“I’ll stop if you stop first,” I wink before adding, “If anyone so much as looked at her the wrong way Chan, Younghyun, and Jaehyung would be there in seconds you know.”

“There’s just been a lot more creeps lately and it’s been really packed.”

“It can’t be helped. It’s summer vacation for college students so everyone’s going out to de-stress from exams. Why so overprotective anyways?”

“She got bullied in high school. She’s the type to say what she wants so a lot of the girls didn’t like her and a lot of the guys bad mouthed her because she rejected them bluntly.”

“Oh? she looks so pleasant I would’ve taken her as a pushover.”

“Wait why am I even telling you this?” He blinked a few times at the realization.

“Because we’re good friends obviously,” I leaned forward with a smile.

“Whatever, I’m telling the hyungs you dropped the honorifics.”

“No you aren’t.”

      There was a call from the kitchen and he briskly walked away. I shrugged it off since he was still working after all but as I watched his figure disappear into the kitchen, the next thing I knew Jaehyung bursted from the door and stormed over. My mouth fell agape at Jeongin who was watching me from the kitchen door snickering to himself. Snitch.

“l/n y/n!”

“Jaehyung-oppa listen-”

      Safe to say I was thoroughly lectured but it was worth it to know I made him smile… albeit because of my sorrow but minor details. Jaehyung asked to go home together again so I sat quietly in my corner seat as they had a store meeting. Watching them interact, now and throughout my time here, their dynamic was really something. Jaehyung and Younghyun act like they hate each other and are at each other’s throats yet they match each other’s energy to work perfectly together, Chan is like the middle child who acts like the youngest but will step up when needed, Jimin always butts heads with everyone but she still makes sure everyone is cared for, and lastly there are the two newest members Jeongin and Gahyeon… long term friends from school with the same sunshine type energy that every one of the older employees love to dote on like some dysfunctional… family… 

      Allowing my mind to fill itself with thoughts of Jeongin recently, I nearly forgot what time of year it was. Almost. My thoughts betrayed me and not wanting to make Jaehyung’s worrying/nagging worse I stepped out into the summer night. First it was just the loneliness setting in but it's different now with certain annoyances making an appearance last year. It’s like they’re watching and waiting… haunting me to make sure I can’t be happy for the rest of my life. All because of something I had no control over. As I tried to collect myself before I went down the family trauma rabbit hole, I received a text notification and rolled my eyes at the message. A strong urge to throw my phone came over me as my vision blurred red for a second and felt my arm raise for a moment, phone in hand, before a voice brought me back to my senses.

“Regardless of whatever you saw on there, I would advise you not to break your phone unless you can afford a new one.”

      Of all the people, he was not the one I pegged as someone who would’ve followed me out here. My brain was racing to pull itself together, still spiralling from the earlier train of thought, that my response exposed how confused I was.

“Jeongin? What are you doing out here? Aren’t you guys having a meeting?” 

“Yeah but hyung keeps looking to make sure you don’t leave so I decided to take one for the team and tell you to come back in so he can focus.”

“And here I thought you came out for me,” I joke as my arm falls back to my side, my snarky smartass persona finally loading up again.

“Whatever makes you happy,” he rolls his eyes before asking, “Is something going on though? You almost threw your phone and hyung usually isn’t this antsy with you.”

      He noticed? I couldn’t help the small surge of happiness that shot through me but of all the things why did he have to notice this? As tense as I was at his observation, I threw on my usual smile and did what I did best.

“Awww so we really are friends, you care,” I tease and he glared back at me. “Everything’s fine, really. Jaehyung-oppa thinks I get kinda weird around this time of year cause something happened last year. He’ll be back to normal by next week.”

“... okay. Are you gonna stay out here? We’re basically done anyways,” he responded as he glanced at the group inside before eyeing me suspiciously.

“Yeah, let him know please. Also let him know to stop being a worrywart.”

“Tell him that yourself.”

      With a huff he walked back in and I was finally able to relax. Leaning against the window with a sigh, I wished it was winter so I could watch the smoke curl from my lips into the air. It’s oddly calming to watch it disappear and to feel the chill set in my bones. Instead I’m left with the stifling heat of summer and the slightly unsettling thought that Jeongin possibly saw through the act… I’m such a mess. I want him to pay attention to me and now that he has I’m getting antsy. Well this is the only exception I guess, Jaehyung only knows cause he saw it happen. If I had it my way no one would know. Once in the safety of my four walls, I fell into my bed with a groan. Today kinda sucked but I knew it would only get worse until that day comes. Looking at my desk in the corner of the living room with unfinished work strewn across its surface, I let out a sigh. Might as well work to get my mind off it.

      Ding. Ding. Ding. Drowsily raising my head from my desk, I rubbed my eyes in annoyance. The sun was up and Jaehyung knew my door code so who is being so irritating this early? Looking at the intercom monitor, I should’ve known it would be one of those vermin. With a groan I went to “greet” my half-sister, clad in her expensive private school uniform, as I glared and leaned against the door frame.

“To what do I owe the honor of a visit from the princess herself?”

“You weren’t answering mom’s messages and she wanted to make sure you’d be coming home for dinner this weekend.”

“Let me guess. Grandma is invited so I have to show up to make you people look good? Not interested so leave.”

“Don’t act so high and mighty. If you didn’t want to be a part of this family you shouldn’t have-”

“Get it right,” I sneered. “Your mother kicked me out for being a reminder of her husband’s infidelity and was forced to sign away my rights to the family and shares left to me in dad’s will just so I could get the money he left me for college. I’m sorry I actually care to visit dad besides his death anniversary and happen to run into grandma, nothing changes the fact that I’m the illegitimate child right? So run along before you’re late.”

      She stamped her foot and huffed at my indifferent face and challenging tone before turning on her heel and stomping to the elevator. I tiredly rubbed my face before running a frustrated hand through my hair. I did not need this first thing in the morning. Back inside my apartment, I grabbed my phone and called my best friend.

“To what do I owe the pleasure of this early morning wakeup call?” He groaned in annoyance. We both weren’t morning people.

“How early can we hang out?”

“Depends. On a scale of “I miss you” to “I want to pull my hair out,” how bad is it?”

“Younghee blew up my doorbell at seven in the morning to tell me to have dinner with them.”

“Oof. I’m shadowing my dad today but tomorrow night for sure, okay? I promise we’ll have fun and you can forget about them. ”

“Our handsome Changbinie is so great~ This is why you’re my best friend.”

“Shut up, I’m still two years older and I’m your only friend y/n.”

“No, I have Jaehyung-oppa and the others from the pub!”

“How can you be friends with someone who doesn’t like your best friend? I didn’t even do anything to Jaehyung-hyung to be hated like this.”

“I don’t like you and you are my best friend.”

“I- Nope, you love me by default because I’m the only one who knows all your secrets,” he countered.

“Who said you’re the only one?”

“Lover boy doesn’t count. He was drunk and probably doesn’t remember plus it’s not like you’ll see him again.”

“Wrong. I can since I have~”

“Young master, President Seo says you must get ready.”

“That’s me,” he groans, “you better catch me up! Maybe your life won’t be a revenge drama afterall," he gasped teasingly. "Is it a romantic comedy?”

“Shut up, does that make you the second lead dearest best friend?” He faked a gag and I chuckled, “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

[writefinch]

The Prince’s Offering, Pt.4

Between the strong wine, the strange tea, and the determined girls, he could not even mount a token resistance. He closed his eyes and allowed the sensations to overwhelm him, hoping that the playing of the miniature harp would mask his not-wholly-masculine gasps of appreciation. After rising a second time, Mido's technique changed from allowing him to luxuriate in her throat to something more rhythmic, bobbing her head up and down, her hand wrapping around his shaft wherever her mouth left it, lavishing attention on the tip, and mashing her lips against his pubic bone at the bottom of each stroke.

Davai felt something wet on his chin. He touched his hand to the spot and realized that he'd let a line of drool spill from his lips, and felt mortified. He looked up and hoped that nobody else had noticed it, and saw that both of the other men present were quite well distracted themselves.

Thom the Brigand had the wine girl sitting on his lap. For a moment it appeared as if her cock had burst free of its gilded cage, but Davai saw that it was actually Thom's cock sticking up through her thighs. It was monstrously, unpleasantly thick, thick enough that Davai would struggle to wrap his hand around it, and from the way it jutted up out of Ehsan's legs it was at least eight inches in length. The girl had coated her thighs in olive oil and was crossing her ankles to create a tight fit, and from below Thom thrust up and into it, treating the gap as he would a cunt. He was nuzzling her hair from the back, and she stroked the tip of his knob with her fingertips as he fucked her.

Karim was indulging in a pleasure far simpler; Tabitha had mounted him and rolled her hips up and down as he fucked her. She moaned wantonly and without shame as his cock pumped in and out of her sex, caressing his face and lavishing him with kisses. His eyes were squeezed shut and his face was a mask of concentration, only slowing his thrusts to return a particularly passionate kiss.

"Close your eyes," Bahar whispered.

He obeyed. The two girls shifted ever so slightly without stopping their attentions, and something subtly changed. While they certainly hadn't been fighting against each other before, now it felt as if they were working as one mind, each stroke of his chest and lick of his shaft working in harmony, and their actions were now building to a crescendo. His hips flicked up almost of their own accord, and he knew he could not hold out much longer.

Bahar turned his head to the side and kissed him forcefully, slipping her tongue between his lips. He had been kissed like this once before in his life as a young man whose voice had barely broken, at a noble gathering a hundred miles west of his own lands with a knight's maiden daughter. Apart from the kiss they had done little more than paw at each other in a darkened hallway of the estate, but he still thought of that girl in his lonelier moments, and the lust-induced guilt brought on by it had driven him to confession more times than he cared to count.

There certainly hadn't been a second girl giving suck to him at the same time, back then.

He threw himself into the kiss, ripping off Bahar's veil, grabbing her hair, and pushing his tongue into her mouth in return. It spurred her on and seemed to spur Mido on, but he could go no further. He broke the kiss, biting his bottom lip as he came, filling Mido's mouth with his seed. Bahar pushed his face into her bosom as he rode out his climax.

Some time later, he felt the girl's lips leave his cock. Bahar disentangled herself, replaced her veil, and began to straighten Davai's effects—starting by tucking his half-hard and rather sensitive cock back into his stockings. Davai looked around in a daze. Thom and Karim had apparently finished already and were now half-dozing on their pillows with their lovers curled up next to them. He saw Mido holding a wooden cup, her cheeks bulging out—embarrassment and a strange pride mixed within him as he saw how thoroughly he had filled her mouth—before turning away from him to spit his seed into the cup.

With nothing else apparent to do, he joined the others and rested in Bahar's arms for a short while. He did not fall asleep, and after a few minutes all three men had composed themselves somewhat. Tabitha looked at Davai, looked at Karim with a devilish grin, and whispered something into Karim's ear.

Karim chided her gently. "Tabitha, you broody vixen, do not talk of our guest as if he is not in front of us!"

Davai looked at him intending to say something, but his mind was utterly blank. Karim only chuckled in return.

"Tabitha and I wish to know what you think of our hospitality, so far," he said, a look of sheepish amusement on his face.

"Unusual." Davai blinked. "Invigorating, pleasurable, perhaps a little... confusing to my provincial mind, but thoroughly delightful. As exciting as anything I have experienced without a sword in my hand in a score of years, and I do not know if anything from my own lands will surpass it in another score."

Karim beamed, and seemed genuinely happy at his words. "It warms my heart to hear it. My people's peculiar forms of hospitality have not always been to the taste of Western peoples, or certain peoples in the Near East for that matter, though the Mughals always did appreciate them."

Davai chuckled softly. "If I am honest—and I pray that I do not stray into impertinence—I am surprised to be found worthy of the impressions. I am here to give gifts and tribute after all, not to receive them, and I have a far greater need to impress well upon you than the Great Empire does to impress well upon me."

Thom did a half-snicker-snort that Davai found irritating, but Karim listened and nodded, and for a moment he seemed contemplative. "If I am truly honest I had not considered such a view," he said, "but I can see how such a view would arise."

"It is of no real consequence, I think," said Davai.

Karim shook his head. "No, I think it is worth consideration, truly, and if you wish I could provide some perspective you may find enlightening."

"Certainly, I would be grateful."

"In this case I do not aim to provide my own perspective, or even the perspective of my people, but here I wish to outline the world in the way that the Great Empire—through its generals, its administrators, and perhaps even the Great Emperor himself��seems to view it." He paused. “Hmm. Pray tell, do you know how many men were slain in the Great Emperor's first conquest?"

"I confess I do not. Four thousand, perhaps?"

"A few men fewer than that," said Karim with a smile. "Just under a dozen."

"Truly?" Davai's eyebrows shot up. "Was it a hamlet he conquered?"

"That is not far from the truth. The Great Emperor's first conquest was that of a band of the Yurchid, a rival tribe of nomads on the endless steppes. When a fifth of their fighting men had fallen, they surrendered. Do you know what happened to the women and children of the Yurchid after their surrender?"

"Nothing pleasant, I'd wager," he answered, recalling the tales of the serving girls.

"You would lose that wager, Lord Davai. The surviving Yurchid men were married off to Mughal women, the Yurchid women were married off to Mughal men, every child was given a place in the combined tribe, and a portion of loot from every raid was set aside for provision of the widows and orphans."

Davai blinked. "That does... not match the tales I have heard of Imperial conquest, if I am honest."

"No, no it does not. There are reasons for this." Karim looked pensive, even weary. "The Great Emperor was not a title our ruler inherited, and if he was born into it in the theological sense it was not a title anyone acknowledged until many years into his life. The Brilliant Horde and the Mughal Nation did not exist as recently as when I still knew the taste of mother's milk. They were scores upon scores of nomadic bands drawn from the eight tribes of the steppe, the larger ones numbering a dozen grosses, the smaller ones little more than moveable hamlets.

"The Great Emperor conquered that first Yurchid band not out of avarice or bloodlust, but because their raids and thefts threatened to drive his own people to privation. He had himself been raised by a widow and cruelly driven out of a conquered tribe as a child, and he had seen how the miserly treatment of all but the leader's most trusted men weakened a tribe as a crack weakens an anvil. It kindled within him a determination to never let such things come to his own people, and in doing this his people grew strong.

"The combined band caught the eye and ire of greater tribes on the steppes, and so his second, third and fourth conquests were necessary to prevent a more vicious attack from his rivals. As the Mughal tribe grew, their needs could no longer be satisfied through the mere raiding of caravans and redistribution of conquered wealth, and so they attacked the border towns of the Old Eastern Kingdoms. Where the old steppes tribes could chance a raid to steal some unguarded livestock and ungleaned crops before being turned away by well-armed militias, the Great Emperor's attacks took towns wholesale, looted everything in sight, and drove away refugees with nothing more than what they could carry in their arms.

"When the kings of those places caught word of this, they tried to bribe his rival nomads to destroy the Great Emperor, but their attempts were too late, and he soon had all of the tribes of the steppe united under one banner. That is when the conquest of the Old Eastern Kingdoms began." He paused to sip his tea. "Did you know of this tale?"

"I knew the Great Empire came from the steppes, but little else."

Karim nodded. "They learned much as they conquered the Old Eastern Kingdoms. Their enemies had only experienced Mughal tactics as robberies, never as a battle to the death, and on the open field none could resist the Brilliant Horde. Walled cities stymied them but for a brief time; they used the great administrative wonders of the kingdoms to their advantage and kidnapped engineers and architects with every raid. Cities found themselves withering under siege engines designed by the kingdom's own minds and built by the forced labour of fleeing refugees.

"Distance became a challenge. Though the Brilliant Horde had no vast supply trains and could live off the land almost indefinitely, it took longer and longer to return their loot to the felt tent cities of the Mughal steppes. It had become an inconvenience and a liability to leave razed and abandoned cities in their wake. What they required were obedient cities, not of the Mughal tribe, but loyal to their conquerors. The Great Emperor's most faithful general even suggested the manner of the cautious caravans who would preemptively give gifts to the tribes of the steppes to avert more determined raids.

"They surrounded a great and ancient city of the Old Eastern Kingdoms and told them to send forth their most eminent scholar, Sudong Po. In their fear the city's rulers rushed him out of the gates, where he was brought to the Great Emperor's tent. The Great Emperor explained his proposal to Sudong Po, and asked how he could make such a thing come to pass. Sudong Po replied that the Old Eastern Kingdoms knew the tribes of the steppes to be unlettered horsemen who squabbled over goats and barely venerated their ancestors, and would therefore never obey the spoken word of a Mughal chieftain.

"The Great Emperor was not satisfied with this answer, and so Sudong Po was rolled up in a rug and beaten with sticks until he could provide a better one. Chastened, Sudong Po told the Great Emperor that although many of the rulers of the kingdoms were weak and depraved, the strength of their rule derived from the administrative system of scribes and magistrates, and from respect for the written word of law.

"This answer was most satisfactory to the Great Emperor, who had Sudong Po concoct and write out the Mughal Law. From thereon out, any city which immediately surrendered to the Brilliant Horde was peaceably brought under Mughal Law and given the protection of empire in return for tithe. Any city which resisted was brought into the empire only after its rulers had been slain and replaced. This arrangement went well, for a time."

Davai nodded, listening intently. "The Brilliant Horde traveled to the Near East after that, I take it?"

"Yes, yes. The Near East presented a new problem. Like the Old Eastern Kingdoms, they knew of the nomads of the steppes and saw them as incapable of conquest—a notion they were soon disabused of—and as incapable of rule. This second notion proved harder to dispel. The Caliphs of the Near East did not derive law merely from the written word, but from true holy law as laid out by the Prophet, peace be upon him, and debated by clerics. You could replace a conquered ruler but you could not place in a new system of laws and have it wholly accepted; at best it would be seen as a supplement to holy law and at worst there were many wretched emirs and caliphs who paid no attention to their own laws let alone those of a foreign empire.

Karim opened his mouth and closed it. There seemed to be a touch of sorrow in his eyes. "There was... much was lost. Cities would surrender to the Great Empire only to withdraw tribute and attack imperial forces from the rear. Worse, some conquered cities whose rulers had been replaced saw their new rulers turn on the empire. Every city that did this was razed to the ground and had its people driven out with nothing. A city I had once visited on the Tigris had a grand library which was said to contain one million texts. One million! The Great Empire conquered the city once and were forced to conquer it a second time, and on the second occasion they cast every book in that library into the Tigris until it ran black with ink.

"Such rebellion ceased after the death of the Great Emperor's grandson at the hands of a traitor city. Not only was this city razed, but every living being within it was slain. For one hundred days the smell of burning corpses hung over the whole of the Near East, and the uprisings ended. The Near Eastern mind does not work solely on reverence and ceremony but on logic and true faith. Once consequences of their actions became apparent, their actions changed."

Karim paused again to sip his tea, then turned to one of the serving girls. "My dear, would you fetch another tray of sweetmeats."

"Of course, Master," the girl replied.

"Go and rouse the dog handlers also, it is almost time for their daily training," he added as she left. He turned back to Davai. "Now where was I... Ah, next they came to the West, and I must say, Lord Davai, that your people were an interesting puzzle for the Great Empire."

"In what manner?" Davai asked.

"In one sense, you are not a nomadic people who can be inducted into a conquering horde, you have no system of law that could match the thousands upon thousands of bureaucrats and scholars of the Far East, and your own internecine conflicts are as bloody as anything the Mughals did to the great cities of Persia and Arabia. What's more, you are not a land of ancient wonders or vast riches, and so each horseman of the Great Empire who falls in battle is a dearer loss."

"It hardly seems worth the effort, if I am honest."

Karim nodded. "Some in the Great Empire have argued that very point, yes. But there is another difference: apart from the farthest-flung borderlands of Rus, your people never knew the Mughals as anything other than an unstoppable force with fulminating powders and bizarre siege engines, whose emissaries travel on palanquins dressed in the wealth of a hundred nations, and who seem fated to conquer not only the known world but to discover and conquer the rest of the world too.

"You are a hard people to frighten and a hard people to persuade, but you are not a hard people to impress. The Great Empire's power does not appear cruel or mercurial—as many of your own rulers do—but it can be resisted little more than the will of Allah, and though its tithes seem dear, it provides a gateway to great riches should peace be made. This is why the Great Empire has placed such emphasis not on the unspeakable cruelties of a Catholic torturer or the reasoning of the ancient scholars in its domination of the West, but on submission: rulers who oppose us must be torn out at the root and have their bloodline rendered utterly inconsequential, and rulers who bow to us must demonstrate that the Great Emperor is feared and venerated more than any oath, king, or pope. The Great Empire does not aim to simply conquer the West, Davai. It seeks to awe you." Karim sat back on his cushion, smiling softly, with a strange look in his eye. The serving girl returned and placed a new tray of brightly-coloured candied squares on the table.

Davai thought for a moment. "I appreciate you telling me this, Sir Karim," he said, "though I wonder why you would explain these mysteries so comprehensively before impressing upon me the value of uncomprehending awe."

Before Karim could reply, Thom the Brigand burst out laughing. It was a hoarse, rough, ugly laugh that grated on Davai's ears. "But you haven't comprehended it, Young Lord!" Thom brayed. "You've yet to understand any of it."

Davai turned to him with genuine anger. "Explain it to me then, or keep your slobber-slicked lips shut," he snapped.

Thom's grin nauseated him. "I will explain later, lord, do not worry your pretty little head about it."

Before Davai could respond, they were interrupted by the entry of eight men into the room. They were Mughal soldiers, short and stocky with shaved heads, wide smiles and bow-legged gaits of a lifelong horse rider, but they carried no arms and wore no armor. They did not even wear the heavy fur deels that every Mughal dressed in, and were instead clad in thin linen gowns. Davai felt cold panic grip his innards, but the men did not approach him or even seem to notice him, instead making their way to the dais at the back of the room.

"Lord Davai, I honestly do not know of what your companion speaks," said Karim, catching his attention, "but I do have an example of what I spoke of before. You see, in my old life I held two jobs. I ran a brothel, a task I mostly enjoyed, and I worked as a torturer, a task I mostly did not. In my new life I combine these roles, providing lavish hospitality for those who appreciate it, and providing discipline for those who require it."

The Mughal men lit two standing torches at the back of the dais, bathing it in orange light. The throne and dog statues were clearly illuminated now, and it truly seemed as if the statues were twitching. Pasha stopped playing the harp, the low moaning of the wind returning, still audible over the bustle of the men. One of the Mughals crouched down next to a hound statue, took hold of its cast iron face, and removed it.

Davai blinked for a moment, frozen in place, unable to understand why the metal statue had a human face, flesh and blood under a metal mask. In quick succession the other seven men unmasked the other seven faces.

There were eight faces, human faces, with pale, clammy skin and pink cheeks. Their eyes were hidden under kidskin blindfolds, a thick metal hook attached to twine pulled their nostrils up into a porcine grimace, and their mouths were forced open with a metal ring wrapped in leather. Their chins were slick with their own spit, which dribbled out from their open mouths to form puddles on the floor below. The noise of the wind changed, and Davai realized with horror that it was never the wind at all, but instead the moans of these poor souls muffled through iron masks.

"What in God's name is this?" snapped Davai, his stomach twisting in disgust and fear.

"Oh, the daughter of a knight, a squire, one of the Old Duke's bastards, perhaps two but I can't recall, a merchant's heiress, some or other maiden..." Karim said offhandedly. He saw the expression on Davai's face and rolled his eyes. "Calm yourself, Lord Davai, I assure you that not one of these miscreants came to this keep willingly, and none even approach your station."

"A knight's daughter is still a noble, and a squire is not far off," Davai said through gritted teeth.

Karim shook his head. "You misunderstand, it is not your status as a lord I refer to now, but your role as an emissary. The harshest sanctions of Mughal law are reserved for those who harm the messenger or the diplomat; cities have been razed for less."

Davai settled down, but not by much. His gaze was fixed on the men, and though their backs were turned to him, it seemed as if they were removing metal plates from the rear of the hound-bound captives. "What is the purpose of this?" he asked, not even looking at Karim, all pretense of protocol and politesse forgotten.

"It is as I said, Lord Davai: the purpose is discipline. Each prisoner you see is being punished for crimes against the Great Empire, or are receiving punishment on behalf of another who has committed such crimes." Karim stroked his chin. "This particular selection is weighted heavily towards the latter. Perhaps their house tried to oppose the Great Empire, or their company swindled its merchants, or their uncle swore oaths unwisely. In the Near East they would have to be slain quickly and mercifully as a message to all others, and in the Far East their family would be murdered one generation above and one generation below to uphold respect for written law, but in this Western land a display of awe and submission is enough. Your people believe in the forgiveness of Christ, and in a similar manner your trespasses against the Great Empire may be forgiven as long as you are willing to roll over and show your belly.

Karim laughed to himself. "Not that these ones can roll over; they are restrained in a manner most strict, their arms and legs folded over and bound in silk bandages, resting on their knees and elbows, held quite still by the cast iron shell around them. They are let out to exercise often enough to stop cankers and bedsores—though they seem little more fond of their exercise than they do of their rest—and they otherwise remain bound and ready to serve. Right now they are about to be... well, 'fed' doesn't do it justice, truly. I implore you to watch."

Davai watched silently as the eight men parted their gowns. They wore nothing underneath and their rampant cocks jutted forth for all to see. Their cocks were not long, perhaps even Davai had a longer member than the shorter among the group, but they were imposingly thick, with plum-sized heads peeking out from their foreskins. All eight men knelt before their captives, and the captives moaned—even though they could not see them, they could surely smell the weapons raised an inch from their mouths.

As one the Mughal men thrust their dicks between their victims' ring-gagged lips, silencing their moans. The men pushed forward inch by inch with no mercy or regard for the prisoners' suffering until each one was hilted inside, balls flush against chins, noses pressed into pubic hair. The only audible noises were muffled retching and a clinking rattle—Davai deduced from the twitching of the closest prisoner that this noise was one of them struggling madly against their bonds to no avail.

The men held themselves in place for a time, and without realizing it Davai had held his breath in a mixture of sympathy and anticipation. He took a deep, dizzy breath once he realized he was holding it, and it was several moments later that all the Mughal men pulled out, resting the tips of their cocks on the edges of their prisoners' ring gags. All of the victims gasped for breath but one retched with startling loudness and spewed a mouthful of clear bile over the tip of their rapist's cock. A cheer went up across the Mughals for this, the perpetrator raising his hands in triumph as the two men nearest to him slapped his back in congratulation.

"To be truthful, the reason I say that 'fed' does not do this task justice," said Karim, devilishly, "is that our hounds tend to lose more food than they swallow."

Before Davai could say a word the men fell upon the hounds and fucked their throats, battering their tonsils with hard, sharp thrusts, leaning over their backs to grope and finger their now-exposed backsides. The prisoners were not silent about their treatment. Some sobbed, some whimpered, one seemed to scream with rage at their predicament, but they all made the *gyack-gyack-gyack* sound of a goose swallowing a too-large piece of bread. The puddles of slop beneath their chins were quickly turning to pools, and the stink of sweat and musk cut through the incense and heady wine that hung about the room.

Davai did not realise that his fists were clenched, though he would not have cared even if he had known. "This is senseless."

"No!" Karim raised his voice, and it broke through the haze of anger and revulsion that clouded Davai's mind sufficiently to make him look his way. "The third hound from the right is a knight's daughter whose father conspired to warn a foreign prince that his alliance of convenience with the Great Empire was no longer convenient, out of degenerate loyalties and a warped sense of honour. We gave the knight a choice, and he was free to walk down the senseless path—to be put to the sword along with his liege, his company, and his entire family to purge any others who might harbour such treasonous intentions. He instead chose the sensible path, and gave up his only daughter to suffer for his sins.

Karim speared a piece of brandy-soaked pear with a tiny silver fork, ate it in two bites, and continued. "Tonight, when she is allowed out of her prison to stretch her limbs and feast on water and stale bread, she will write her father a letter, as she does every week. The letter will tell of her misery, the terror of being enclosed in a space tighter than any casket, the aches that wrack her limbs, the stench of the soldiers who use her as a pleasure toy, the burning, splitting pain in her throat from having it cruelly ravaged every day and every night, the vile taste of her lovers' creamy seed, her longing to see her family and father once more, and her despair at the fate that has befallen her.

"A messenger takes each letter written in her own hand and stained with her own tears, carries it to her father, and reads every word aloud in a private audience to ensure the father knows the consequences that his crimes have wrought. He is the only one who knows of his daughter's fate—all others believe her dead in a tragic accident. We hold the father to a higher standard of loyalty now, and should he fail to meet it the private audience of each reading would become a public audience, and all who know him would see the extent to which he has become dishonoured.

"Two people suffer for a crime that could warrant the sacking of a town and the murder of hundreds," Karim sniffed. "I see nothing senseless in this at all."

Davai looked upon the depraved scene as he considered his host's words. The man using the knight's daughter had pulled out of her mouth and was stroking her cheek with a knuckle, whispering to her in a foreign language. If it was not clear from the way her face scrunched and shuddered, the damp spots soaking through her blindfold made it obvious that she was sobbing hysterically. Her rapist gave her cheek a gentle slap, and then he looked down, pursed his lips, and hocked a thick wad of spit onto the tip of his cock. He slipped his dick between her lips and spread the load all over her mouth, giving her a taste of his saliva before pushing back into her throat.

"...Is this to remain her fate until she expires?" he asked softly.

"Bismillah, no!" Karim seemed scandalized. "This is not a death sentence, it is a period of training. First, she must be broken, like any beast of burden. Once not even the dullest ember of resistance burns within her, she can be taught—both how to serve men, and how to service them. After she has been taught she will go through proving, and once she proves herself, she will become a full serving girl. We will then offer to sell her back to her father, although such relatives are often reticent to take back our poor graduates and reveal the truth of their fates, and if she is not bought, she will be put to work."

"I see." Davai's fingers played along his stockings, but he barely felt them, or anything in fact. His whole body felt as if it was filled with air. "And how, ah, how long is the period of breaking?"

Karim shrugged. "That one has been pledging her undying servitude and begging to be allowed to learn the ways of a harem girl for a month and a half, now. It is a good start, but I should imagine she shall need another month or so of seasoning before she's truly ready."

A serving girl approached Karim and knelt down beside him. Davai recognised her as the girl by the bookshelves who had taken the scroll of offering from him earlier. "Master, I have finished examining the offer of tribute from the Houses of the Amber Plains."

"Very good, Farah. Is it as expected?"

"Roughly so, Master. There are some small differences between the text in Latin and the text in Mongolian, but they seem to be difficulties in translation of little consequence. Would you like me to give you the translation, Master?"

"That would be delightful, thank you."

In the back of his mind, Davai knew that the conversation taking place between his host and his pet scrivener was of vital importance, that it was in fact the very crux of the task he had traveled here to complete, but he could tear neither his eyes nor his ears from the commotion on the dais. All sixteen creatures upon it had reached a fever pitch—mad, unthinking thrusting from the men and panicked wailing from the hounds below them. The men began to climax.

The man using the knight's daughter finished first, bellowing triumphantly as he blew his load deep in her mouth, hunching over her and pulling her head into his crotch until he was finished. With a muffled retch, a thick trail of sperm burst out from between her lips and his cock to run down her chin. He pulled out and for a moment she seemed unable to breathe before she gave a great shuddering cough and two lines of semen spewed out of her nostrils, streaked red from where his rough thrusts had ruptured something within her nose, as more seed burbled out from her mouth.

The next man along finished immediately after, pulling out of his hound's mouth. With one hand he stroked his cock and with the other he caught the splash of spit and bile that spewed from between his victim's lips and rubbed it in their face. As soon as he moved his hand away the first rope of cum hit the hound's forehead, dripping down in a straight line over his blindfold, down his nose, lips and chin and in his mouth. Nearly a dozen more spurts of seed flew forth, plastering the trapped squire's face in thin, slimy sperm, coating his cheeks and concealing his almost-imperceptible shadow of stubble—he had clearly been shaved today—with much landing directly in his mouth.

When the second man finished the remaining six Mughals climaxed more or less at the same time, splitting Davai's attention between them. He saw a couple of the hounds receive a mask of seed in the same manner as the squire, another forced to drink down their gift from a cock buried in their throat, one Mughal let his cum ooze directly onto his hound's tongue before clamping a hand over their mouth to force them to swallow. With horror he watched how one victim—the one who had struggled terribly within her bonds to no avail when the rape began—had her mouth stuffed with a rag before the man pressed the tip of his cock to her hook-stretched nostrils and spewed his seed directly into her nose. The man used his finger to push his molasses-thick semen back up into her nostrils as it threatened to run down her upper lip, forcing her to inhale and presumably swallow it lest she suffocate.

He heard a soft wailing, not muffled or wet enough to have come from one of the hounds, and he turned to see Justyna the woman-gift in her bonds, craning her neck to look at the perverse scene on the dais, tears streaming down her face as she saw her inevitable and fast-approaching fate. A cold weight settled in his stomach. He had delivered her to this, after all, and if there was truly a God who could survey a world with such horrors in it, he was not sure he would ever find forgiveness for such a callous act.

A cough from beside him brought Davai out of his trance-like observation. "Lord Davai," said Karim, "my scribe and I have perused the formal offer of tithe from the Houses of the Amber Plains, and as a representative of the Great Empire I find it appropriate and respectable."

Davai blinked. "Yes," he said, and swallowed. His palms were slick with sweat that did not wick away or dry no matter how much he fussed them along his stockings. "I see, yes. That is good. Thank you, Sir Karim, it is most appreciated."

"Appreciated, pah, it is a good and profitable deal for the Great Empire and an honourable one for the Houses of the Amber Plains. Such a thing is a cause for celebration!” Karim nodded, smiling broadly. “Ihsan, darling, fetch another jug of wine would you?"

Part 5 here: https://writefinch.tumblr.com/post/649559112232894464/the-princes-offering-pt5-noncon-bondage

[kuroheishi]

@wisteriawishes​ continued from here x

It was moments like this Yuichiro enjoyed the most; those little precious windows of peace that almost made him forget for a split second about the destroyed merciless world they all lived in for so long that everything before that almost became a faint memory. And in all honesty, those memories were better left untouched and forgotten somewhere deep down than brought back to the surface.

Even this broken place was better than what he had before the Apocalypse.

It wasn’t just him and the crashing loneliness anymore. 

He had a family to protect now, people who cared for him, a purpose within him that gave him a reason to keep on pushing his weary bones, survive and live by their side. Everything that was left of him was for them only.

However... Someone like me, am I really worth this small happiness?

“I don’t know if I’m worth all of this.”

His answer was always no. Deep down, he knew there was no happy ending for a horrible demon like him who was unwanted from the universe itself. A walking disgrace that hurt everyone around him. He had known that since the day his little world had crumbled underneath his feet; seeing his own parents who were supposed to take care of him who would rather kill themselves than having him as a child hah... It was a wound that had never healed.

Why would he be worth of any love or happiness if he was such a dreadful monster?

A familiar voice spoke next to him and green weary eyes raised to meet the bright crimson that stained now his family’s hues. He snickered to himself, crap did I say that aloud? and did not move away from that light weight brushing against his own shoulder.

He so wished he could believe in those words himself. 

 “Y’know Mika, there’s still so much I need to do.” he had to avert his eyes once again, afraid that his family would keep picking up more of his torments despite how hard he tried to not make them weigh on anyone who was around him. Mika had always been way too perceptive with him.

“There’s you, Guren, Shinoa and the others. Akane and the children I gotta help out still. We promised we were going to make it out together remember? That I was going to protect everyone and one day we’d all sit at the same table and have Akane’s yummy food, free from everything and everyone. Until I make it right....”

Until then I’m not worth any of it.

If he could not even protect those who saw any good in him, he couldn’t allow himself to rest. No matter of how much exhausted he was, how heavy his body  and heart felt, he had to make it right for them at least.

“You, Guren, Shinoa, Mitsuba, Yoichi and Kimizuki are my family. I’m still not sure if I deserve all of this, but I’m grateful.” his lips curled in a small affectionate smile. “Despite who I am I still got people like you guys on my side who care for me. That’s really more than enough for me.”

His shoulder playfully bumped against Mika’s, green warm flames burning in his eyes that found their way again to look into his family’s. This is what he needed for now, that closeness that reminded him he wasn’t alone, that he had someone precious by his side to bring light to his own demons hovering over his existence.

“Thank you. For everything, y’know.” 

[thirsttrapholland]

What Happens in the On-Call Room

Requested?    Yes  

By: anonymous

Pairing: Doctor!Tom x Doctor!Reader

Anonymous said to thirsttrapholland:

hello love! wondering if doc!tom interested you, like idk he fucks her in the toilet or smthn and he gets paged for surgery idk

Warning(s): Smut, adult language, Dr. Holland making you swoon, I think that’s about it.

Word Count: 2050

A/N: Alright y’all, I don’t know jack about doctors or the inner workings of hospitals except for what I learned from Grey’s, Scrubs and the occasional episodes of General Hospital I used to watch with my grandma after school,lol. So, if I got any details or lingo wrong, please forgive me.

Changed it up just a little bit anon. I hope you like it.   Feedback is always appreciated.

You had promised yourself that you would never fulfill the cliché of overworked, stressed out and sleep deprived doctors that had neither the time nor energy to maintain real relationships and instead took sexual solace in a colleague they might not even like or barely knew just to stave off boredom, loneliness and to feel something at least akin to a real human connection.

And yet, just like something out of a particularly shitty and depraved episode of Grey’s Anatomy, there you were on the lumpy sofa in the on-call room being fucked senseless by Dr. Thomas Holland.

You had been stretched out on the sofa trying to recall from the abnormal psych class you’d taken as an undergrad, just how many hours a person could go without sleep before they started to hallucinate.

You were over halfway through your second 12-hour shift of the week and despite how bone tired and weary you were, sleep seemed to be eluding you.  You had just started to drift off for the first time in you couldn’t remember how long, when the door to the on-call room banged open and you heard someone walk in. You opened your eyes to find the infamous Tom Holland standing over you.

Dr. Holland was known all around the hospital for three things.

Number one, was his impeccable bedside manner.  He really had a way with people.  He was both incredibly charming and had a soothing presence.  He possessed an innate ability to calm even the most terrified patient or family member. He never talked down to his patients but explained exactly what would take place during their surgeries in a way that they could understand and patiently answered all their questions.  Most of the hospital staff was convinced that most of his patients were at least half in love with him by the time they were released.

 Secondly, he was the youngest and most arrogant cardiothoracic surgeon on the staff and that was really saying something.  Most surgeons were at least a little bit arrogant by nature; it was hard not to be when you were responsible for people’s lives.  Probably a little hard not to develop an outsize ego when you literally held other people’s hearts in your hands on a regular basis.

Even you yourself weren’t immune to having your head up your own ass on occasion; so, the fact that his cockiness stood out in a building full of doctors really kind of said it all.  He was very good at what he did and wasn’t about to let anybody forget it.

And finally, it wasn’t just patients who were taken in by his charming bedside manner.  If all the talk around the halls was to be believed, Tom had a cut a swath through the hospital, counting nurses, fellow doctors and maybe even an administrator or two among his conquests.  He never really dated anybody; it was more just random hook ups.

Of course, hospitals were worse than the average high school cafeteria when it came to being a breeding ground for rumors, so who even knew how much of the gossip was true.  Dr. Holland had been the attending on a couple of your intakes and there had been a few moments that if you squinted hard enough, he might have been flirting with you but for the most part he was always professional.

Which is not to say that you were immune to his charms; not at all.   Tom was handsome and that was just a fact.  Big brown eyes, thick wavy dark brown hair, killer cheekbones, a ridiculous jawline and the kind of smile that could literally light up a room.  The kind of soft, gentle voice that could probably talk you into damn near anything if he wanted to. So, if people really were queuing up to be next in line, you got it.

In fact, if you were being honest with yourself, you knew that if he ever made a move on you or if an opportunity presented itself, there was a very high chance that you would say yes.  You just weren’t going to go out of your way to be the latest notch on his bedpost.

You gave up on the notion of getting any sleep as you swung your feet off the sofa to make room for Tom to sit down.  “What are you doing here?”  His casual street attire, a plain black t-shirt and a pair of faded jeans, was a tip off that he was no longer on the clock.  “Didn’t your shift end a couple of hours ago?”    

“It did but the patient I operated on earlier should be coming around sometime soon and I promised her I’d be here when she woke up.”

As many physical assets as Dr. Holland had, you thought that perhaps the most attractive thing about him was just how much he genuinely cared about his patients.  

It wasn’t an uncommon occurrence to pass by a patient’s room and see Tom sitting on the edge of their bed, regaling them with some ridiculous story, sneaking them an extra pudding cup from the cafeteria or simply just holding a hand.  

You could tell from the dark circles under his eyes just how tired he was. He should have been at home in his own bed, but he’d promised a patient that he would be here, so here he was.

“You look dead on your feet.  It’s really nice of you to wait for your patient to wake up.”

“Well, I promised.”  His face lit up with a wicked grin.  “Besides, I’ve got the next two days off.”

“Oh screw you, Holland.”  Time off was a rare and precious commodity and your next day off seemed a lifetime away.  You couldn’t even pretend not to be jealous.

Tom let out a chuckle as he flopped down next to you on the sofa.  “Sorry if I woke you up.”

“Don’t worry about it. The chances of me actually falling asleep were fairly slim anyway.”  You leaned your head against the back of the sofa.  “I’m just gonna rest my eyes for a few minutes though.”

“You don’t mind if I sit here with you, do you?” Tom asked.

“Of course not.”  You stifled a yawn with your hand as your eyes once again slid shut.

You awoke with a start.  You were slightly disoriented as your brain made the transition from sleeping to being fully conscious.  Your surroundings suddenly came into focus and you remembered that you were in the on-call room.  

What you were having more trouble comprehending was why there was an arm around your shoulders and whose warm solid chest your head was resting against.   You slowly sat up and looked up into the face of the person you’d been using as a pillow.

Tom grinned down at you.  “You’re awake.”

“I don’t even remember falling asleep.”

“You were out like a light about two seconds after you claimed you were just ‘resting your eyes’.  Next thing I knew your head had lolled over onto my shoulder.

“This is so embarrassing.”  Of all the people to fall asleep and probably drool on.  “Why didn’t you move me?”

Tom reached out and stroked a stray strand of hair off your forehead.  “I didn’t mind.��  It was such a simple gesture but it stirred something inside of you that you couldn’t explain.

You could blame sleep deprivation.  You could blame the fact that you hadn’t even been on a decent date, let alone had sex in far longer than you wanted to think about.  You could even blame the fact that you kind of, lowkey had a crush on him.

Whatever the reason, a switch had been flipped in your brain and suddenly, having Dr. Thomas Holland on top of you, inside of you seemed like the best idea in the world.  The lusty gaze in his dark eyes let you know that he had reached a similar conclusion.

Tom tore off his own t-shirt before making quick work of your clothes, as he pulled off your underwear and scrub bottoms and tossed them onto the floor.  He fished a condom out of his pocket and handed it to you before hurriedly shoving his jeans and boxer briefs down to his knees.

You licked your hand and pumped his cock a few times with your spit slicked palm before tearing the condom wrapper open with your teeth and rolling it smoothly down over his hardness.

Tom peppered kisses down your neck and across your exposed collarbones as he settled his slender hips between your open thighs and teased your clit with his cock; tapping against the swollen nub and making you squirm beneath him.  You gasped and dug your short blunt fingernails into the firm flesh of his lightly freckled shoulders as he finally slid inside your already slick walls.  He slowly pulled halfway out before thrusting back in and bottoming out.

You pulled his bottom lip between your teeth before sucking his tongue into your mouth, the two of you exchanging wet sloppy kisses as you tangled your fingers in his soft hair and pulled; the way he moaned against your lips let you know how much he liked it.

You wrapped your legs around his waist; your ankles crossed behind his back, locking him in place as he moved deep inside you.  

Tom buried his forehead against the crook of your neck as he took one of your hands in his and held it above your head; your fingers intertwined with his.  

You could feel him twitching inside of you and knew he was close.  You brought your free hand down between the two of you and started to rub your clit.  Tom’s strokes came harder and faster until all the tension that had been building in your body exploded; the fluttering and clenching of your wet inner walls spurring him right behind you into his own release.

The spasms in your body had barely subsided when you were brought out of your post coital bliss by the hospital’s blaring PA system.

“Dr. Holland, please report to 445-C.  Dr. Holland, you’re needed in 445-C.”

The loud announcement was like a splash of cold water to the face, bringing you back to your senses as your stomach dropped with the realization of what you had just done.

You’d just had sex with a colleague that in all honesty, you barely even knew.

You’d just had sex with a colleague that you barely even knew while you were at work and on duty.

You’d just had sex with a colleague that you barely even knew, while you were at work and on duty in a room with an unlocked door that anyone could have walked into at any time.

One quick glance at Tom’s face let you know that he was coming to the same realization.  He stood up and dropped the cum filled condom into the trash can before he hastily pulled up his boxers and jeans.  “That should be my patient, I need to go.”  He grabbed your scrubs and underwear off the floor and handed them to you.

Overcome with a sudden wave of modesty, you waited until he turned his back to put his shirt back on before you shimmied into your underwear.  You couldn’t help it  as you thought to yourself, ‘Is that it? Wham, bam and not even a thank you, ma’am?’

You were just about to step into your scrub bottoms when Tom turned back to you.  “What time are you off?”

You regarded him with a slightly suspicious expression on your face before answering.  “Two a.m. Why?”

“I was just wondering if you might like to grab a cup of coffee with me.”  When you didn’t answer right away, Tom raked his hand through his hair and shook his head. “Okay, that was really stupid. Last thing you probably want at two o’clock in the morning is a cup of coffee.”

You had never known Dr. Tom Holland to be anything less than confident so to see him like this, nervously asking you out for a cup of coffee, it was kind of endearing.

“Yes.”

He looked up, a grin growing across his face.  “Yes?”

“Yes, I’d love to get a cup of coffee with you.”

“Okay then.  Meet you back here in a few hours?”

“Sure, it’s a date.”  You instantly regretted the words as soon as they were out of your mouth. You didn’t want him to think you were trying to make this more than what it was.  You were wishing you could take the words back into your mouth when Tom flashed his beautiful smile at you.

“Yeah.  It’s a date.”

[haloud]

the moon points to the sun

ao3

Michael probably ought to be flattered that he’s the last stop on the Max Evans Resurrection Greatest Hits Tour, but mostly he just doesn’t know what to expect when Max calls him out to his house near midnight about a week after he came back to the land of the living. Regardless, he answers the call because all his memories of Max right now are distant and shimmering and clouded behind the barrier of him floating lifeless in a pod. So he meets Max at his house, a twenty-minute drive through the clear, thoughtless night; he meets him right outside the shiny new French doors he put in after he, y’know, shattered the last set.

Max opens with “I’m sorry,” and it rocks Michael back on his heels.

“Apology…accepted?” He says, and he only restrains himself from shooting off finger guns by the sheer kinetic force of the awkwardness already prickling at his nerves. They don’t do apologies, Max and Michael. If they started, they’d never stop.

“No. You have to listen; you can’t…” Max swallows, and it looks painful, forced. Michael shoves his hands in his pockets, shoulders hunching ‘cause he learned a while back that Max is the kind of guy who doesn’t take comforting well. So while Michael might want to reach out and smooth everything over, it wouldn’t actually do Max any good.

“Alright,” Michael says, kind of helplessly, “Go on.”

“I’m sorry that I let Isobel think you were a killer.”

The air knocks right out of Michael’s lungs, and the breath that rushes back in is too hot and too cold all at once. With a bone-heavy weariness, Michael does not want to have this conversation, not now that it’s all over and done. But he can also tell in the tension in Max’s every muscle that this is something Max needs to say.

“I let you carry that weight for ten years. And I—I tore into you because I couldn’t look at myself in the mirror, and I left you with nobody—”

“Max.”

“Nobody, and taking care of you was every bit as much as my responsibility as Iz was, but I failed and god I am so fucking sorry, Michael—”

“Max!”

See, Max has always done this thing where he firms up his lips in a thin, hard line because if he doesn’t his bottom lip’ll start trembling and once that happens he can’t stop himself from crying. Maybe Michael just knows him; maybe to somebody else, Max might come off all strong and stoic with that straight-backed charisma that got him deputized two years after graduation. All Michael sees is that floppy-haired kid sticking a flashlight under his chin and making ghost noises when Michael had real shit going bump in the night. That kid—he couldn’t have ever understood the stuff that lurked in Michael’s nightmares. But that didn’t stop him from staying up every damn night and making the effort.

Michael snaps out his brother’s name to cut off the words, the confession, the prayer spilling out ugly and rotten between them. Max blinks wet eyes and dips his chin in some aborted half-nod. He holds himself like he’s bracing for a punch, and Michael is so goddamn tired of bruised knuckles.

“You gotta stop, man,” Michael says. “You gotta stop looking for original sin. Giving Iz somewhere else to look other than in those big dark places in her head? That was my choice. Not yours. I put that loneliness on my own back, and I put that guilt on yours, you hear me?”

Max starts shaking his head; he takes a step forward with his mouth gone even thinner and whiter, but Michael just barrels on.

“And yeah, you gave me your anger while you were passing down your own damn prison sentence, but you can’t keep living like this—hell, literally, because don’t think I couldn’t work out that you brought Rosa back and damned the consequences because you didn’t think you deserved Liz until you could fix every single thing that’s ever gone wrong in her life. Newsflash, hotshot—that’s not how people work! Life sucks sometimes, that’s how people work. And when life sucks, we’re supposed to get back up and push through. Don’t you think it’s time the two of us did that? Instead of looking for forgiveness in the mirror? ‘Cause I’m so tired of not having my brother, man. I don’t know what to do about my own mistakes, but I’m pretty sure I can forgive that kid. If he’ll let me.”

Michael ends his speech with his arms spread wide, as open as he can go. Talking to Max isn’t easy; he’s so good at acting like he’s got every little thing figured out that it feels like a crime to walk into his life and get dirt all over the rugs. Even as Michael opens up, Max shuts down. But right now…Michael can’t remember a time where Max ever looked small, but here it is. He stares at Michael for a long moment, losing the battle with tears, then he collapses into one of his deck chairs and drops his face into his hands.

“It can’t—It’s not that easy. It can’t be. You can’t just—”

“Why not? Why’s it gotta be hard?” His defensive heart curls in tight, still wanting his brother to have all the answers, but Max just shakes his head. Michael can’t help himself and steps forward, to grab his shoulder, to shake him a little bit, to make him respond; and Max must feel him getting closer because his head snaps up and the air goes a little static charged.

“Because every time I look at you I see that little kid!” He barks.

On instinct, Michael flinches back, and Max flinches with him, face twisting like he’s in agony.

“God,” he sobs, takes a deep breath, and continues, “When we first crawled out of those pods, you were the very first thing I saw. Do you remember that? I could feel Isobel, of course I could feel her, but I saw you. That’s the only thing I remember from that night. That’s my very first memory. You.”

Shakily, Michael drops into the dust next to Max’s chair. He doesn’t try to make it over to the other chair on the other side of the table, not when they spent fifty years just three feet away from each other. Those early memories are—hazy. Mostly Michael just remembers seeing that symbol every time he blinked. But…yeah. Buried deep, all the way back? A tiny hand reaches out to take his own and pull him out of the cave and into the world.

“I remember,” Michael breathes, and Max makes a wrenching sound halfway between a laugh and a sob.

“And then everything went so fast. I can’t remember any of it, just that suddenly there was Isobel and me and you were gone, and every night we’d sit on the windowsill and look outside and wait for you, but you never came and we—we didn’t have the words to ask why or how or even cry and—” Max clutches his stomach like he might be sick. “Four years later and I still couldn’t feel you, not like Isobel, and I felt so broken—I had to ask your name. You want to talk about original sin? That’s it, right there. Fuck, Michael, that’s why it can’t just be easy, because I don’t deserve—”

“Shut up about deserving shit, man. Didn’t I just tell you that’s now how the world works?”

Michael doesn’t know what else to say; hell, his mouth feels numb and he can barely tell what words he’s saying at all. They’ve never managed to have this conversation without twisting knives, and all he wants is to not fuck it up this time. Max has already been dead once; what if next time it sticks?

Michael says, “The past isn’t going to change, man. You’re not gonna stop feeling guilty; I’m never gonna stop feeling angry. At some point, you have to accept that kind of shit about yourself.”

Max nods, but Michael doesn’t let him speak and carries on:

“But if we don’t stop letting that be all we are to each other, nothing’s ever going to change.” He pauses, his gaze caught on their boots side-by-side in the dirt. Max knows the value of good shoes and keeping them in good shape; his job’s an active one, so he shells out for the right kind of footwear. Michael makes do with what he’s got, and sometimes that means eating light for a too-long while and boots that break down in a year or two.

Their lives don’t line up too well. But that’s an excuse that’s long since worn out its welcome.

“Why did you call me out here?” Michael finally asks, exhaustion creeping up inside his chest. “What did you think was going to happen? You don’t want me to forgive you, so then what?”

“I honestly don’t know,” Max replies heavily. He gestures out into the wide dark desert and laughs a single dead laugh. “Giving you permission to go, I guess? Go find something better, man. You’ve suffered too much already to stay tied to this place. You’re too much, too good, too smart to keep paying for my mistakes.”

Rage punches hot and sudden through the weariness, making Michael clench his teeth against the rising urge to explode, to shake the earth around them. “You have not listened to a single goddamn word I’ve said, have you?” He snaps, and his tone finally makes Max meet his gaze, eyes red-rimmed and shocked.

“I—”

“Seriously. You called me out here past midnight just so you could make yourself a martyr? You think I want that from you? God damn it!”

“Michael—”

“Just listen to me for one time in your life!”

Michael climbs back to his feet, towering over Max’s hunched body. Even at his angriest, his loneliness, his most bitter, he never wanted to see Max broken. And it hurts as bad as losing him again watching him breaking himself.

So he says the only thing he can, even if he can’t make Max hear it.

“If you don’t want my forgiveness, I can’t make you accept it. And hell, maybe you don’t deserve it. Does that feel better, hearing that? Maybe I do deserve a better home than Roswell; maybe I do deserve a better life. But even after everything Roswell did to me, after all the ashes blew away and I was left with the truth that there was nothing more out there worth running to? I made a choice. I chose this place, chose the trailer, chose the—the summers where the street signs fucking warp, the town that’s never going to see me as anything but a fuckup. And I don’t regret that choice, not when that choice gave me love, not when that choice let me finally feel like I had a home. The only thing that went missing was you, but now you’re here, and whether you like it or not I’m going to choose you too.”

The words die in his throat after that. Max still hasn’t moved; he’s not even shaking, even though the fine, honest tremors started up in Michael the second he opened his mouth. But Michael swallows down the hurt and confusion and want for everything to be okay, because not everyone believes with their whole body.

Say something, he thinks, eleven years old and scared nobody’s going to want him.

Frantic to fill the ringing silence, he says, “So that’s me.” His tongue trips and he starts again, “I’ll go if you want me to go. But I ain’t closing the door. I know a little bit about not liking yourself, so if you’re gonna need some time…I miss you, but like, I’m missing what we had at seventeen, and you don’t have to be ready—”

God, the words just won’t stop. His brain’s moving too fast, trying to come up with ten years worth of words now that the dam’s been breached. He presses his lips together to stem the flow; presses them all tight and thin. Just like Max.

Max, who just…loses the battle.

He pitches forward, hands on his knees, great heaving sobs rattling his whole huge frame. Michael staggers forward to catch him, stops himself, then chooses to keep going forward all the same. He thumps his brother on the back like he’s choking, not sure Max would accept anything else. Michael still hasn’t gotten the hang of healing with his hands.

How long do they sit like that? How long does Max spend shedding all that grief and guilt and hating into the dirt? Long enough that Michael’s back starts aching from the way he’s standing bent over; long enough for the high, bright moon to change angles in the sky. When he finally goes quiet, he ends it on a cough, on a shuddery inhale that fills out his chest. And it’s quiet again, only this time Michael used up all his words already, so he just stands there, helpless.

“Can we…try?” Max says, voice strained and dying. “’Cause I. I’ve been missing you for a long fucking time too, man. And maybe I don’t—” He almost smiles, and it’s a tiny goddamn miracle. “Gonna start just calling it the d-word like a middle schooler. After this one. Maybe I don’t deserve another chance, but maybe,” he does smile now, a real quirk of his lips, and Michael almost-smiles too. “Maybe…and you’re gonna like this one…maybe I need to stop thinking I’m the only person who gets to decide what’s deserved, huh?”

Michael has to laugh at that, throwing his head back like he could howl at the moon. Instead, he lets out a whoop of triumph, throwing his arms out wide and shouting into the night, “Hallelujah praise the lord—”

“Man, shut the hell up!” Max shouts back, and it’s still snuffly, he hiccups on the laugh that fights its way out of his throat, but goddamn if it’s not some progress.

“You gotta give me something or else I’m going to tell everyone,” Michael says, still loud and exuberant like he’s so happy, so hopeful he wants the stars to hear him.

“I’ll give you my guest room and pancakes in the morning,” Max says with a flicker of desperate light behind his eyes. Like he thinks Michael might still say no.

No way. Michael just grins, a little kid again.

“You’ve got yourself a deal. But those pancakes better have blueberries in them, or I might make you re-negotiate, lawman.”

“Oooh, that’s a hard bargain there, outlaw. I don’t know if I’m willing to negotiate with the likes’a you.”

“Maybe I let ya off easy this time outta respect,” Michael drawls, clapping Max on the back as he strolls past and consciously does not hesitate on the threshold of Max’s home. The chair scrapes the concrete patio behind him, and Michael swipes his hat off his head and hangs it on the peg by the door.

A year ago, he would’ve said he was too old, too bitter for cops and robbers and scary stories told by flashlight. But now, for all he’s not getting any younger, he’s gonna start treating that kid that’s still inside him, that’s inside Max and Isobel too, with a little more respect and a little more love. He’s making that choice.

And this time, it’s going to stick.

[lucille-goosille]

Suicides - Guy de Maupassant

To Georges Legrand.

Hardly a day goes by without our reading a news item like the following in some newspaper:

"On Wednesday night the people living in No. 40 Rue de——-, were awakened by two successive shots. The explosions seemed to come from the apartment occupied by M. X——. The door was broken in and the man was found bathed in his blood, still holding in one hand the revolver with which he had taken his life.

"M. X——was fifty-seven years of age, enjoying a comfortable income, and had everything necessary to make him happy. No cause can be found for his action."

What terrible grief, what unknown suffering, hidden despair, secret wounds drive these presumably happy persons to suicide? We search, we imagine tragedies of love, we suspect financial troubles, and, as we never find anything definite, we apply to these deaths the word "mystery."

A letter found on the desk of one of these "suicides without cause," and written during his last night, beside his loaded revolver, has come into our hands. We deem it rather interesting. It reveals none of those great catastrophes which we always expect to find behind these acts of despair; but it shows us the slow succession of the little vexations of life, the disintegration of a lonely existence, whose dreams have disappeared; it gives the reason for these tragic ends, which only nervous and high-strung people can understand.

Here it is:

"It is midnight. When I have finished this letter I shall kill myself. Why? I shall attempt to give the reasons, not for those who may read these lines, but for myself, to kindle my waning courage, to impress upon myself the fatal necessity of this act which can, at best, be only deferred.

"I was brought up by simple-minded parents who were unquestioning believers. And I believed as they did.

"My dream lasted a long time. The last veil has just been torn from my eyes.

"During the last few years a strange change has been taking place within me. All the events of Life, which formerly had to me the glow of a beautiful sunset, are now fading away. The true meaning of things has appeared to me in its brutal reality; and the true reason for love has bred in me disgust even for this poetic sentiment: 'We are the eternal toys of foolish and charming illusions, which are always being renewed.'

"On growing older, I had become partly reconciled to the awful mystery of life, to the uselessness of effort; when the emptiness of everything appeared to me in a new light, this evening, after dinner.

"Formerly, I was happy! Everything pleased me: the passing women, the appearance of the streets, the place where I lived; and I even took an interest in the cut of my clothes. But the repetition of the same sights has had the result of filling my heart with weariness and disgust, just as one would feel were one to go every night to the same theatre.

"For the last thirty years I have been rising at the same hour; and, at the same restaurant, for thirty years, I have been eating at the same hours the same dishes brought me by different waiters.

"I have tried travel. The loneliness which one feels in strange places terrified me. I felt so alone, so small on the earth that I quickly started on my homeward journey.

"But here the unchanging expression of my furniture, which has stood for thirty years in the same place, the smell of my apartments (for, with time, each dwelling takes on a particular odor) each night, these and other things disgust me and make me sick of living thus.

"Everything repeats itself endlessly. The way in which I put my key in the lock, the place where I always find my matches, the first object which meets my eye when I enter the room, make me feel like jumping out of the window and putting an end to those monotonous events from which we can never escape.

"Each day, when I shave, I feel an inordinate desire to cut my throat; and my face, which I see in the little mirror, always the same, with soap on my cheeks, has several times made me weak from sadness.

"Now I even hate to be with people whom I used to meet with pleasure; I know them so well, I can tell just what they are going to say and what I am going to answer. Each brain is like a circus, where the same horse keeps circling around eternally. We must circle round always, around the same ideas, the same joys, the same pleasures, the same habits, the same beliefs, the same sensations of disgust.

"The fog was terrible this evening. It enfolded the boulevard, where the street lights were dimmed and looked like smoking candles. A heavier weight than usual oppressed me. Perhaps my digestion was bad.

"For good digestion is everything in life. It gives the inspiration to the artist, amorous desires to young people, clear ideas to thinkers, the joy of life to everybody, and it also allows one to eat heartily (which is one of the greatest pleasures). A sick stomach induces scepticism unbelief, nightmares and the desire for death. I have often noticed this fact. Perhaps I would not kill myself, if my digestion had been good this evening.

"When I sat down in the arm-chair where I have been sitting every day for thirty years, I glanced around me, and just then I was seized by such a terrible distress that I thought I must go mad.

"I tried to think of what I could do to run away from myself. Every occupation struck me as being worse even than inaction. Then I bethought me of putting my papers in order.

"For a long time I have been thinking of clearing out my drawers; for, for the last thirty years, I have been throwing my letters and bills pell-mell into the same desk, and this confusion has often caused me considerable trouble. But I feel such moral and physical laziness at the sole idea of putting anything in order that I have never had the courage to begin this tedious business.

"I therefore opened my desk, intending to choose among my old papers and destroy the majority of them.

"At first I was bewildered by this array of documents, yellowed by age, then I chose one.

"Oh! if you cherish life, never disturb the burial place of old letters!

"And if, perchance, you should, take the contents by the handful, close your eyes that you may not read a word, so that you may not recognize some forgotten handwriting which may plunge you suddenly into a sea of memories; carry these papers to the fire; and when they are in ashes, crush them to an invisible powder, or otherwise you are lost—just as I have been lost for an hour.

"The first letters which I read did not interest me greatly. They were recent, and came from living men whom I still meet quite often, and whose presence does not move me to any great extent. But all at once one envelope made me start. My name was traced on it in a large, bold handwriting; and suddenly tears came to my eyes. That letter was from my dearest friend, the companion of my youth, the confidant of my hopes; and he appeared before me so clearly, with his pleasant smile and his hand outstretched, that a cold shiver ran down my back. Yes, yes, the dead come back, for I saw him! Our memory is a more perfect world than the universe: it gives back life to those who no longer exist.

"With trembling hand and dimmed eyes I reread everything that he told me, and in my poor sobbing heart I felt a wound so painful that I began to groan as a man whose bones are slowly being crushed.

"Then I travelled over my whole life, just as one travels along a river. I recognized people, so long forgotten that I no longer knew their names. Their faces alone lived in me. In my mother's letters I saw again the old servants, the shape of our house and the little insignificant odds and ends which cling to our minds.

"Yes, I suddenly saw again all my mother's old gowns, the different styles which she adopted and the several ways in which she dressed her hair. She haunted me especially in a silk dress, trimmed with old lace; and I remembered something she said one day when she was wearing this dress. She said: 'Robert, my child, if you do not stand up straight you will be round-shouldered all your life.'

"Then, opening another drawer, I found myself face to face with memories of tender passions: a dancing-pump, a torn handkerchief, even a garter, locks of hair and dried flowers. Then the sweet romances of my life, whose living heroines are now white-haired, plunged me into the deep melancholy of things. Oh, the young brows where blond locks curl, the caress of the hands, the glance which speaks, the hearts which beat, that smile which promises the lips, those lips which promise the embrace! And the first kiss-that endless kiss which makes you close your eyes, which drowns all thought in the immeasurable joy of approaching possession!

"Taking these old pledges of former love in both my hands, I covered them with furious caresses, and in my soul, torn by these memories, I saw them each again at the hour of surrender; and I suffered a torture more cruel than all the tortures invented in all the fables about hell.

"One last letter remained. It was written by me and dictated fifty years ago by my writing teacher. Here it is:

  "'MY DEAR LITTLE MAMMA:

  "'I am seven years old to-day. It is the age of reason. I take   advantage of it to thank you for having brought me into this world.

  "'Your little son, who loves you

                   "'ROBERT.'

"It is all over. I had gone back to the beginning, and suddenly I turned my glance on what remained to me of life. I saw hideous and lonely old age, and approaching infirmities, and everything over and gone. And nobody near me!

"My revolver is here, on the table. I am loading it.... Never reread your old letters!"

And that is how many men come to kill themselves; and we search in vain to discover some great sorrow in their lives.

[stayminho]

MAMA

part 1

recommended song: 2! 3! by BTS 방탄소년단

Love comes and grows in many ways. We watch it like plants, such as a flower or a tree. The first sprout of green would always be taken by chance, bursting through the shell of its seed and slowly inching, seeping through the ground to rise to the surface. It’s the first spark of a firework, working its way up the dark black night sky and past the dissolvable wisps of clouds covering the far-away constellations of diamond-like stars.

But a flower wilts eventually and a firework disperses into nothing in a matter of seconds.

Barely we see a love wounded to the bone, burned from a fire so red and hot to the skin, but risen from the ashes left behind.

That is when we know, love can be ever so incredibly real.

They say Korea is the “land of the morning calm”, in which the sun rises in the east and sets in the west with a warm smile, but it is also the land of happiness and hardships. Here, you feel the thrills of a nightclub, playing upbeat popular songs from the Western industry or the Kpop industry. The neon colors dancing off the walls in the darkened room makes you wonder if they got high or drunk, in tune to the boosted base. You can listen to the endless laughter that echoes ever so deep into the smallest crevices and corners of the Earth. They say home is the true hearth of rawness, but it is harbored within the hearts of people no matter where you go. For example, the variety shows broadcasted daily on the same TV channels. An amusement park filled to the brim with excitement. Movie night on the couch with popcorn.

At the same time however, you can watch the days blend together into a monochrome canvas weighted heavily with negative emotions as well.

Like in the country’s midst, a simple ghost town that used to thrive, now deep underground left in the heart of a city. Quite ironic though, because it seemed that every passing season of rain and gray skies had chosen the seemingly abandoned district as its canvas, making sure the shades of color never strayed from their favorites. The only thing they could never decide was how their masterpieces were left ruined by the imprint of human beings.

No one ever comes to these parts anymore, for everywhere seems like open space, exposing the unspoken secrets of merely nothing. To them, maybe even just the thoughts of “nothing” must’ve been more than just “nothing”. Broken memories that tore even the thickest of materials. An uncomfortable loneliness left to salivate every inch of the body to an endless hunger. Or possibly a dark horror that forcedly dragged them down to a cold, oceanic abyss. This kind of feeling pulls up defenses in various distraught ways.

Yet, for her, not only was it alarming, but also comforting.

The deafening silence masked and kept hidden away even the evilest of fears in an invisible small box made of glass mirrors on all sides that night. It made a reflection that could never be touched, both sides parallel in relation, similar to a wall of two rooms. It is likely that some would have determined otherwise, that the Earth was holding its breath, but instead, both sides only seemed to hold a staring contest at the moment, chaos not ensuing for once. The only thing that seemed to be heard was her breath, her chest distinctively rising and falling in attempts to calm the overused, lasting adrenaline in her veins and the desperately needed oxygen.

Her legs had grown weak, no longer able to withstand the loss of strength, soon collapsing herself into the room. The past long nights had turned into endless running to the void of nowhere, her instincts forgetting the meaning of sleep, and instead, taking over the directional path she took. Her destination eventually became a room in an abandoned apartment building, presumably, because she only caught glimpses in her rush to where she now found herself. Exhaust had finally taken over, letting a few tears roll down her cheeks in the process. Not long after, it became a beautiful cascading waterfall, painted by its glassy delicacy and touch of heart, but her emotional cries of pain had scared what was left of the hours of night.

Soon enough, dawn rose above the horizon in splurging colors of golden yellow, pure white, blush pink, and hints of maple leaf orange. Streaks of light  settled through the open window, dancing and giving hope across the ruined gray cement walls. This new revival kissed the young woman, enlightening the dark chocolate brown strands of her tangled hair and the tone of her skin that riddled with specks and dashes of dirt. It also utterly struck her with so much awe, she had forgotten how persistently tight she was to her own being, never letting go, but only now loosening the embrace of the bundle she had held very close in her arms in that moment.

The bundle only holds the beloved memories of a past godforsaken home and time whisked to dust, but when big round shining eyes looked back at her, it didn’t matter.

Finally, this one sunrise was when she could feel herself genuinely smile and let it reach her eyes. She was filled with joy. And that joy, caused by this lovely bundle, was all hers. It was finally over.

“Ma-ma.” He smiled grinning back at her in the best way that he could.

“Yes, Mama’s here. And she loves you very much.” She rubbed her against his, earning multiple entertained claps and sounds from him. Taking his small hands and fingers, she rocked him slowly and gently, cooing at his existence and having relief take over once more.

The years of the past seemed only to be in the span of yesterday, and that today would even be the breaker, but tomorrow is the future, the one thing that can be truly made yours.

She just has to take it before someone else did.

And matter-of-fact, it was laid out right in front of her.

“Mama...”

“What is it baby?” She let her gaze fall away from the pretty skies, that brought her infinite thoughts, with gentle care.

“Mm...ng...”

Her eyes widened, a little frantic. “No, no, no, no, no, don’t cry, love. Are you tired from all the running? Do you want to nap?” She swayed with a little more movement, and at the same time, she looked at him, taking in his sweet and soft features, noticing that his breathing slowed in weariness. She didn’t know what it was, but there was just something about him that made her want to believe it was going to be okay. No matter what.

“Don’t worry, you’ll get to sleep soon,” She carefully brushed the growing hair on his head too. “I know, we both are, we’re both worn out, but listen to mommy, okay? I need you to watch me with those big brown eyes of yours so I know you’re with me while I’m talking.”

With him in her arms, she just knew she couldn’t let seconds go by just yet.

At least, not before promising something.

She first offered him a smile. A smile that could never be forgotten. Ever. “My sweet, look at you. You’re so precious and pure for this world. I couldn’t have asked for anything more.” She would’ve started tearing up, but all of them had dried up already.

“The lives we live in this world are too bittersweet for our tastes, especially for your father. He loved you so much, but he fell out of it too soon to envision the future for us. He may never be the same as before, so I cannot, no, I won’t let you  live a life like his, but one day, maybe he’ll realize and come to his senses.”

The little stayed quiet, as if urging his beloved resilient queen to continue.

“Although, as of right now, we’re not the most fortunate, huh? I don’t have much to give you. For you to stand up on your own feet and smile with pride. But that’s what dreams are for, right?”

“But as of now, you’re my dream. Complete family or not, you’ll always be my dream, okay? My most beautiful moments in life. My wings that will take me places. My love that will reach for the stars. My airplane that could never leave me behind.” Her legs had begun to feel color again, so she let them out from under her so they could start to regain vigor. She even let a few moments pass just so that it could sink in for a little contemplation until the finishing touches would be made.

“And yes, trust me, I know that’s a lot to take on, to keep a hold of. But I feel that you’re a strong one, probably even stronger, and greater, than me. Because, in this lifetime, and eventually, hopefully, not just me, but you’re all I need, you’re my everything, and that’s all that matters.”

She kissed him on the forehead, pouring not only her heart, but also her soul, and sealing the oath that would never once be unkept.

“Jung Hoseok, you are my hope.”

masterlist

[ivars-snowflake]

The little Witch of Kattegat - Part VIII

Eyes on Fire

Part One, Part Two, Part Three, Part Four, Part Five, Part Six, Part Seven, Part Eight

Pairing: Ivar & OC Ase

Wordcount: 1610

Warnings: Violence, blood (mentions of blood eagle), death

The chant I found here. I adapted it a little :)

Feedback is always welcome and highly appreciated! :)

tags: @red608, @onjacks-blog @romanchronicles, @oddsnendsfanfics, @kenzieam, @didiintheblog

 The ground was on fire. The battle cries were reaching the campsite, followed by the sound of metal hitting metal. She stood on the peak, watching over the battle, silently chanting. She has already charged an amulet for protection and put it around Ivar’s neck, not paying attention to his protesting words. Now, her hands were pressed firmly around the smooth wood of her staff. Her eyes on fire.

„Protect them by your might

O gracious Goddess,

day and night

Thrice around the circles bound,

Enemy sink into the ground.“

 It was an easy win against king Aelle. Silly man, what kind of foolish king underestimates the enemy like this? It would be sad to watch, if only it wasn’t so much fun.

Her smile appeared wicked and satisfied, when Ivar’s chariot stood next to her, dragging Aelle’s body through the mud. She climbed up, admiring the mad look in the eyes of her lover, eyes laden with darkness, the look of them filling her with anticipation. She knew what follows, and she was joining the fun gladly.

For the first time in her life, Ase welcomed her darkness. It was always there, deep within, skillfully suppressed and controlled by her mother first, and then by Ase herself after. But she grew sick of suppressing what she was, grew sick of putting the limits on herself. In moments like these, she felt the urge to let it all out, allow herself to be consumed by the dark part of her soul, so that she could remain sane in the moments of peace.

 She sat on the log nearby, while the brothers and Floki did the butchering. Her eyes shone madly, but her stomach clenched and twisted as Aelle’s screams were ripping through the air. She twitched at the sound of axe ripping through the flesh on its way to break some bones. Blood splattering everywhere.

In Bjorn’s eyes she saw terror, mockery in Ubbe’s, Hvitserk was having fun, while Sigurd’s face showed disgust. Then her gaze fell on Ivar crawling closer to Aelle, his eyes screamed in awe, they were on fire, a look of satisfaction and enjoyment, hunger settled but eyes keen for more.

  The vengeance was far from over, though. King Eckbert’s clock was ticking now.

Prince Aethelwulf's forces were beaten easily, as a result of Ivar finally being listened to, and his plan being taken into consideration and performed. It was such a lovely game of cat and mouse.

Getting to king Eckbert after the victory was easier than Ase would have thought, and it felt like a flip of a finger, and she found herself sitting at the table next to Ivar. They didn't lack reasons to celebrate. 

Everyone was in a good mood when she left the table, pressing a gentle kiss to Ivar's lips, and went for a walk. Although it was an easy victory, they suffered a big loss, a loss that broke the heart of Ase's dearest person, beside Ivar. Helga died by the hand of Tanaruz, the girl she brought back from one of the raids. All Helga wanted was to ease the pain of losing her child, by being the mother to a girl that lost her family. But the girl was scared and lost, in a world she didn’t understand, and Helga's big heart eventually caused her death. After she started to get close with Ivar, Ase spent a lot of time with Floki and Helga, and became really fond of them both. She knew how much that old fool loved his wife, and it broke his heart to let her go. It was a very troublesome thing for Ase, to watch people that were close to her suffer in any way, with her being in possesion of the possibility to bend fates, and lacking the knowlenge to do so. She had only a few of those people, and she was ready to do anything to protect them. It’s why she restlessly practiced magic, and kept trying and looking for new ways to improve her sight, to make her dreams talk to her a little more. The anger she felt towards her mother grew bigger as Ase grew stronger, releasing her inner breaks. There was so much strength hidden inside, but also so much darkness, anger. So much loneliness. Being around Ivar, whose anger towards the world was even bigger then hers for her mother, made her embrace her inner demons. He loved her, in spite of the demons, so she no longer felt the neeed to fight them, allowing herself to grow stronger with each step she took. But sometimes, it would become too much.

On the hill outside of the city, she found Floki sitting in silence, and she sat next to him, her silence matching his. Without a word, she grabbed his hand and gave it a gentle squeeze. She knew Floki would need no words to know how sorry she was. A hint of a smile appeared on her lips as Floki started to laugh, the way only Floki could. 

-Do not be sad, little Ase. We'll meet Helga in Valhalla. 

Ase leaned her head on his shoulder, and sighed contently.

-She will wait for you there, Floki. With horns of mead and a feast as glorious as only a crazy marvelous fool like you would deserve.

He smiled at Ase, messing her hair up with both his hands.

-Go, little one! There's a feast going on, go take care of that grumpy crippled bastard! I'll be there soon.

Ase nodded, getting up, and giving Floki one more hug before she turned and went back towards the town.

She wasn't gone for long, it's been an hour, maybe two, and raised voices that were reaching her ears as she was approaching the mass, caused her to sigh, and roll her eyes in annoyance. Even in victory they were unable to unite. 

It wasn't until she came close enough to hear Sigurd spill his venom at Ivar, that she became weary and her steps fastened. She was almost running now. 

 -What’s the matter Ivar? You can’t take it? No, I guess it must be hard for you now that your mommy’s dead, knowing she’s the only one who ever really loved you!

 He was crossing the line once more, and Ase wondered how many more times before he gets what he calls for. She knew that Sigurd was destined to die by the hand of his brother, but she did not know that would happen right about now. This dream came a while ago, and ever since she saw it, she was trying to talk to both of them, trying to change the course of events, and there was nothing she feared more then Sigurd’s mouth, and Ivar’s wrath. Trying to push her way through the crowd to get to the table, a sudden silence and commotion made her way easier, and as she passed next to the big man in the first row, she was encountered with the terror and regret staring her right in the eye. Startled and confused, she looked at him, before his terrified gaze shifted to the floor close to his feet. Ase's eyes followed his, and a whimper escaped her lips at the sight of Sigurd’s lifeless body. Once again, her efforts were useless.

She froze, the blood in her veins has ran cold and it felt as if time itself stopped. People moved, the crowd disappeared, and before she could even force herself to move, Ase was standing in an emptied square, her eyes still locked on Ivar. Another death that she saw coming, but couldn’t do anything about it. She tried, she tried talking to Sigurd about this, but she failed. He only laughed her off, foolish boy. She tried with Ivar too, but it was of no use.

As soon as her legs started to listen again, she rushed to him, wrapping her hands around his neck.

-What have you done, my love? She asked, swallowing her tears, the tears that came not because of Sigurd, but because she failed to stop yet another death from happening, because her dreams were becoming more vivid and they would come on time, but she still didn’t know how to bend fates.  Because she knew how it would affect Ivar. She tightened her grip on him, sitting on his lap, hugging his pain away.

Sigurd was never Ase’s favorite brother, he was a bully, cruel and envious, blaming Ivar for all the mistakes of their mother, torturing him out of pure petty-mindedness and envy. He always acted like a mouthy child whose feelings got hurt, so he decided to blame it all on Ivar. Eventually, it drove Ivar mad, madness raising his axe and making it rip the air between the two. It was Ivar’s hand that threw the awe, but it was Sigurd’s mouth that called it upon himself.

After all the turbulences, Ase found it harder to approach Ivar. It got even worse when Floki left. Ivar felt like everyone he cares for is abandoning him, including his remaining brothers, who appeared to shut him out even more now. As for Ase, regarding Ivar, she was the one being shut out.

She knew he was pushing her away deliberately, wanting her gone. He surrounded himself with walls and bodyguards, and it was always a challenge to get to him. In any other circumstances, she would have wondered where she wronged him, but she knew this was not her fault. Even dead, Sigurd would not leave them alone, and Ase knew that Sigurd would probably never again leave Ivar alone.

[straykids-trash]

You Are A Star Already

Title: You Are A Star Already

Song prompt: Original song can be found here. 

Tags: Angst, Jeongin-centric, Song prompt

Summary:  It’s 3am and Jeongin misses home.

Notes: Dedicated to our dear maknae for Jeongin Week, as we celebrate his birth and all the smiles and laughs he has gifted us. Though this is quite a lot angstier than what I normally write, I wanted to do a study on how much this precious boi had gone through, not only at such a young age, but also at his insecurities and for leaving home in pursuit of his dreams. This was posted at 12am SGT so it might still be the 3rd for you, sorry if this is a bit too early. I hope you guys like it! 

The waves splashing with the wind shakes up all of this loneliness

The seniors always said that there are some times when the pain and stress of being a trainee just catches up with you, and that you power through it and that eventually you will come out on top. Jeongin has always been more of a person who is nostalgic, and now, in the dark at around 3am, he’s missing home.

He misses the sand of the beaches and the cold sea wind when it was winter back in Busan, he misses a city that is a far cry from Seoul. The capital city is colder than the bone cutting winds from back home. His heart sometimes aches for the sound of the waves and the lights of all those bars and seafood restaurants that would light up his childhood. Sure, he had come to Seoul for his dream and his passion, but now, when he’s wishing for the warmth of his mother and father, what is his dream without family? Can he truly make it now?

The sea that embraces the blue sky, it resembles me

As Jeongin makes sure that all the other members are asleep (except for Chan in the other room), he allows himself reprieve from the mask that he wears all the time. He knows that the mask that he wears is a fragile one and it doesn’t fool anyone in the group, but he keeps it up anyway. He smiles in the face of adversaries and hardship in his own mistakes, he powers through tiring dance practices like he isn’t another step away from collapsing. He knows he must go on, and he must go on with a smile.

If he starts worrying the others and dismantling the group dynamic now, how can they truly debut as 9 together? He would just be dead weight. He swallows all of this bitterness into him like poison, and he makes sure that the surface of his sea is just as calm as always, though sometimes choppy, but a constant facade of “I’m okay”.

The wind pushes me, telling me to stop, “Hold on, you shouldn’t be here.”

And he knows it. Jeongin feels like sometimes he is the only one who doesn’t belong in the group, a small teenager with no companion that is the same age as him, while there are 4 others in the maknae line with the same age. He feels desolate as Chan tells him to practice solo in front of all the others and the cameras, even though he knows the leader does it for his own good. He feels like dying every time JYP places his head on the chopping board and hovers his disgusting cleaver of elimination above his neck.

Even during the rare occasion when they are let out of their dorms, or the more frequent occasions of sneaking out, he feels like the city is mocking him. Seoul is sometimes a station in space where everyone else is a bright light that moves forward with purpose, a shooting star granting their own wishes as they strive forward to their goals when his own are unstable and about to be dashed. He feels like an asteroid floating in nothingness as the rest of the universe pulses in motion. It’s cold, even in the summer, when people brush by him and seem to forget that he is a human too.

Will I really be able to do this? Will this ocean know?

Then came the day when JYP managed to praise him, told him that he’s done well and he had conquered himself, that they would be able to debut as nine. Nine or nothing, all their fans had called it, telling him with a staggering 96% that they treasured this semblance of brotherhood as well. And as the 9 of them had settled around him with cheers and brought him into their arms, he still felt the lingering traces of doubt clinging onto his heart.

Questions cloud his mind, asking if they would truly be successful, if the fans would accept someone as inexperienced as he, if he would truly be able to succeed at his dreams. When he closes his eyes, he fears as he sees the sea of fans and supporters turning away, his brothers showing him their cold backs like a feverish nightmare. And it is, as he wakes up in cold sweat, realising that barely an hour passed.

As I look at the night sky I see the light that remains in the darkness

Jeongin decides to get up, quietly stalking his way to the toilet to wash his face. He knows that he won’t be able to fall asleep so quickly after such a dream. It’s not his first time having them, after all. As he passes by the other room to get to the toilet, he sees that the lights are still on at Chan’s room. Peeking in, he sees that Chan had fallen asleep at his desk yet again.

As Jongin approaches him to chide him into going onto the bed so that he won’t contract some God-horrid spine disorder, he notices the scores and all of the leader’s hard work piled onto his desk. He sees Chan’s music and passion laid out like a map, leading him to where he wishes to go. Jeongin looks up to Chan a lot, for various reasons. His ability to dance, sing and rap well, his leadership qualities, his endless smiles that seem so genuine, so much more believable than his own.

But more than that, Jeongin sees in Chan his love for music, his drive for his dream, a definite glow that has been instilled in him and powers him to his core; Chan was the shooting star carrying all of them on his back, but now, Jeongin is afraid that he would break or be permanently damaged, just like how he was destroying his back now if he kept sleeping in his damn chair like that.

Then I pray that I can become a star too

As he shakes Chan’s shoulder and tells him to go sleep on the bed, Chan gives him a weary, tired smile. He pats Jeongin’s head and Jeongin doesn’t have the heart to remind him that he hates it. As Chan settles into rest for the next 3 hours, he mutters at Jeongin to get his own rest too, and that tomorrow would bring another day closer to their debut.

As Jeongin opens the door again back to his room, he sees Jisung sitting on his bed, waiting for him. Everyone knows Jisung is a light sleeper, but Jeongin has never seen the other actually get up and out after one of his nightmares, just grumbling and tossing around. He looks up to Jisung too, for doing everything so much better and faster than he does, for being able to rap so well and still deciding to come to JYP, for creating music in his own style despite how conflicting it seems to be in comparison with both Chan and Changbin’s.

It’s a first as Jisung drags him to bed and tells him to calm down and sleep, and that he’s doing fine, and that all of the other members have the same fears. Jisung finally manages to convince Jeongin that this dream wasn’t a mistake, that he isn’t an asteroid that was trailing behind everyone else. As Jisung slowly, gently takes down the mask that Jeongin has constructed for himself in the darkness of predawn Seoul, he realizes that his home is already here, despite his true one being back in Busan. A family that he could rely on, a band of brothers that he could look up to, but would also stand next to him. He doesn’t know it now, but the galaxy is his to take.

You are a star already. 

[ca-chuoi]

Suicides - Guy de Maupassant

To Georges Legrand.

Hardly a day goes by without our reading a news item like the following in some newspaper:

“On Wednesday night the people living in No. 40 Rue de——-, were awakened by two successive shots. The explosions seemed to come from the apartment occupied by M. X——. The door was broken in and the man was found bathed in his blood, still holding in one hand the revolver with which he had taken his life.

"M. X——was fifty-seven years of age, enjoying a comfortable income, and had everything necessary to make him happy. No cause can be found for his action.”

What terrible grief, what unknown suffering, hidden despair, secret wounds drive these presumably happy persons to suicide? We search, we imagine tragedies of love, we suspect financial troubles, and, as we never find anything definite, we apply to these deaths the word “mystery.”

A letter found on the desk of one of these “suicides without cause,” and written during his last night, beside his loaded revolver, has come into our hands. We deem it rather interesting. It reveals none of those great catastrophes which we always expect to find behind these acts of despair; but it shows us the slow succession of the little vexations of life, the disintegration of a lonely existence, whose dreams have disappeared; it gives the reason for these tragic ends, which only nervous and high-strung people can understand.

Here it is:

“It is midnight. When I have finished this letter I shall kill myself. Why? I shall attempt to give the reasons, not for those who may read these lines, but for myself, to kindle my waning courage, to impress upon myself the fatal necessity of this act which can, at best, be only deferred.

"I was brought up by simple-minded parents who were unquestioning believers. And I believed as they did.

"My dream lasted a long time. The last veil has just been torn from my eyes.

"During the last few years a strange change has been taking place within me. All the events of Life, which formerly had to me the glow of a beautiful sunset, are now fading away. The true meaning of things has appeared to me in its brutal reality; and the true reason for love has bred in me disgust even for this poetic sentiment: ‘We are the eternal toys of foolish and charming illusions, which are always being renewed.’

"On growing older, I had become partly reconciled to the awful mystery of life, to the uselessness of effort; when the emptiness of everything appeared to me in a new light, this evening, after dinner.

"Formerly, I was happy! Everything pleased me: the passing women, the appearance of the streets, the place where I lived; and I even took an interest in the cut of my clothes. But the repetition of the same sights has had the result of filling my heart with weariness and disgust, just as one would feel were one to go every night to the same theatre.

"For the last thirty years I have been rising at the same hour; and, at the same restaurant, for thirty years, I have been eating at the same hours the same dishes brought me by different waiters.

"I have tried travel. The loneliness which one feels in strange places terrified me. I felt so alone, so small on the earth that I quickly started on my homeward journey.

"But here the unchanging expression of my furniture, which has stood for thirty years in the same place, the smell of my apartments (for, with time, each dwelling takes on a particular odor) each night, these and other things disgust me and make me sick of living thus.

"Everything repeats itself endlessly. The way in which I put my key in the lock, the place where I always find my matches, the first object which meets my eye when I enter the room, make me feel like jumping out of the window and putting an end to those monotonous events from which we can never escape.

"Each day, when I shave, I feel an inordinate desire to cut my throat; and my face, which I see in the little mirror, always the same, with soap on my cheeks, has several times made me weak from sadness.

"Now I even hate to be with people whom I used to meet with pleasure; I know them so well, I can tell just what they are going to say and what I am going to answer. Each brain is like a circus, where the same horse keeps circling around eternally. We must circle round always, around the same ideas, the same joys, the same pleasures, the same habits, the same beliefs, the same sensations of disgust.

"The fog was terrible this evening. It enfolded the boulevard, where the street lights were dimmed and looked like smoking candles. A heavier weight than usual oppressed me. Perhaps my digestion was bad.

"For good digestion is everything in life. It gives the inspiration to the artist, amorous desires to young people, clear ideas to thinkers, the joy of life to everybody, and it also allows one to eat heartily (which is one of the greatest pleasures). A sick stomach induces scepticism unbelief, nightmares and the desire for death. I have often noticed this fact. Perhaps I would not kill myself, if my digestion had been good this evening.

"When I sat down in the arm-chair where I have been sitting every day for thirty years, I glanced around me, and just then I was seized by such a terrible distress that I thought I must go mad.

"I tried to think of what I could do to run away from myself. Every occupation struck me as being worse even than inaction. Then I bethought me of putting my papers in order.

"For a long time I have been thinking of clearing out my drawers; for, for the last thirty years, I have been throwing my letters and bills pell-mell into the same desk, and this confusion has often caused me considerable trouble. But I feel such moral and physical laziness at the sole idea of putting anything in order that I have never had the courage to begin this tedious business.

"I therefore opened my desk, intending to choose among my old papers and destroy the majority of them.

"At first I was bewildered by this array of documents, yellowed by age, then I chose one.

"Oh! if you cherish life, never disturb the burial place of old letters!

"And if, perchance, you should, take the contents by the handful, close your eyes that you may not read a word, so that you may not recognize some forgotten handwriting which may plunge you suddenly into a sea of memories; carry these papers to the fire; and when they are in ashes, crush them to an invisible powder, or otherwise you are lost—just as I have been lost for an hour.

"The first letters which I read did not interest me greatly. They were recent, and came from living men whom I still meet quite often, and whose presence does not move me to any great extent. But all at once one envelope made me start. My name was traced on it in a large, bold handwriting; and suddenly tears came to my eyes. That letter was from my dearest friend, the companion of my youth, the confidant of my hopes; and he appeared before me so clearly, with his pleasant smile and his hand outstretched, that a cold shiver ran down my back. Yes, yes, the dead come back, for I saw him! Our memory is a more perfect world than the universe: it gives back life to those who no longer exist.

"With trembling hand and dimmed eyes I reread everything that he told me, and in my poor sobbing heart I felt a wound so painful that I began to groan as a man whose bones are slowly being crushed.

"Then I travelled over my whole life, just as one travels along a river. I recognized people, so long forgotten that I no longer knew their names. Their faces alone lived in me. In my mother’s letters I saw again the old servants, the shape of our house and the little insignificant odds and ends which cling to our minds.

"Yes, I suddenly saw again all my mother’s old gowns, the different styles which she adopted and the several ways in which she dressed her hair. She haunted me especially in a silk dress, trimmed with old lace; and I remembered something she said one day when she was wearing this dress. She said: 'Robert, my child, if you do not stand up straight you will be round-shouldered all your life.’

"Then, opening another drawer, I found myself face to face with memories of tender passions: a dancing-pump, a torn handkerchief, even a garter, locks of hair and dried flowers. Then the sweet romances of my life, whose living heroines are now white-haired, plunged me into the deep melancholy of things. Oh, the young brows where blond locks curl, the caress of the hands, the glance which speaks, the hearts which beat, that smile which promises the lips, those lips which promise the embrace! And the first kiss-that endless kiss which makes you close your eyes, which drowns all thought in the immeasurable joy of approaching possession!

"Taking these old pledges of former love in both my hands, I covered them with furious caresses, and in my soul, torn by these memories, I saw them each again at the hour of surrender; and I suffered a torture more cruel than all the tortures invented in all the fables about hell.

"One last letter remained. It was written by me and dictated fifty years ago by my writing teacher. Here it is:

 ”'MY DEAR LITTLE MAMMA:

 “'I am seven years old to-day. It is the age of reason. I take  advantage of it to thank you for having brought me into this world.

 ”'Your little son, who loves you

                  "'ROBERT.’

“It is all over. I had gone back to the beginning, and suddenly I turned my glance on what remained to me of life. I saw hideous and lonely old age, and approaching infirmities, and everything over and gone. And nobody near me!

"My revolver is here, on the table. I am loading it…. Never reread your old letters!”

And that is how many men come to kill themselves; and we search in vain to discover some great sorrow in their lives.

[holographicthrones]

The air was warm and the trees buzzed with cicadas, the way that summer clings to the atmosphere even late into the night. The sun was almost gone, but there were still a few souls wandering the park, hands held by lovers, parents coaxing their children home before the mosquitos began their feast.

the world feels different in moments like these, it’s like the sounds of life start to feel far away and all too close at the same time, and all you can hold onto as reality is the humidity in the air you breathe, and the smell of the grass mingling with the trees.

i was sitting alone with my feet dangling on the edge of a pier overlooking a lake in the park, turned away from the people packing away the adventures of their day. The book I’d brought with me as a safety net in case the loneliness of visiting a park all on my own started to eat me up, resting long forgotten in my lap, the bookmark never having left the first page. I was enraptured by the ripples of life in the lake, lost in my misery and circling thoughts. i often came to this park to get away from the noise and bustle of a busy life, but when the noise became muted, i started coming to escape the silence, escape my mind. But beautiful vistas and the tranquil melodies of nature were never enough to drown out the thoughts that haunted me. No matter how full of life the pastures before me were, it was never enough to distract from the ghosts that lingered in the corners of my eyes.

I couldn’t remember how long I’d been stuck there, a statue watching the days and nights tick by into years. Had it been minutes? Mere moments ago, i was trying to trudge through the paragraphs of my book, lose myself in someone else’s tribulations and life lessons, walk with them on their journey. But if the sun was setting behind my back, then it must’ve been hours ago. It was clearly getting late, but i couldn’t seem to muster the strength to stand and leave, the foggy haze around my mind making it impossible to find the switch to turn me on again. I hadn’t even gotten to know the character in my book very well before i gave up on them, i hadn’t ventured very far in their story before my energy gave through.

Who was i before i became the statue by the lake? Perhaps I’d lived a full life, dripping with mystery and adrenaline, love and heartache. Or maybe there was an adventure yet to be had, patiently awaiting me back home. Some grand scheme concocted by the author spinning me a web of experiences, only for me to be caught and eaten alive by problems too big for me to tackle. But I’d probably come out just fine, stronger and braver than ever, because a main character always learns and grows when they’re handled by a good author. I definitely would not make a good protagonist, perhaps i was a villain without a hero to fight, or a supporting character without anyone to, well, support. But if i were a villain, it didn’t seem like i had any good cause to be making mischief, i didn’t have enough passion in my veins to light so much as a match, much less burn down a city. If i were a puppet in a cosmic play, though, my strings must’ve come undone, because there was no movement in me left, no meaning to the gestures i made.

It occurred to me that maybe i truly was just a statue here, plaster for skin, blood turned to cement, concrete bones, i was just some artists rendition of a sad soul, withering away with the years. Rot boring away the integrity of my design as the weather washed away my details.

In that moment, in the twilight of a nondescript summer night, i had no identity. No history, no future. I had no body to possess, i was a floating consciousness, barely there, just present enough to stay in place against the breeze. The lake carried away a piece of me with each rippling wave, and my vigor went chasing after the receding sunshine. The forest at the edge of the lake seemed to come alive the more i disappeared with the sun, it’s breaths picking up into huffs and puffs, until it all but blew me away. It shuffled through the leaves of my book, curious to discover the happy ending of the hero within, begging me to share the contents of the story. It sent its buzzing minions my way, they bit at my arms but found nothing to sate their hunger.

It felt as though the forest was checking if i was still alive, urging me to awaken and go back to the life I was meant to lead. When i neglected to respond to its beckoning, it gently blew leaves into my lap, as if to ask if i was a part of the woods now too.

I could picture it, this statue of a person i’d become, slowly being buried by the leaves the changing seasons, growing into the forest, right at the edge of this fishing pier. Perhaps I’d decompose and grow into a tree, strong and tall, overtaking the wooden platform that supports me now. One with this park i took as sanctuary and refuge.

The quiet of the now empty park was replaced by the sounds of the night, the song of the crickets and chirps of nocturnal birds almost overwhelming the atmosphere, which felt so fragile in this quiet dark that was strung around the stars being readily revealed. So when i heard the wooden deck creaking under the weight of a new person, it was enough to startle me back to some semblance of life.

At the foot of the pier, resting on one of the beams, was a man no younger than 90, in a gray pinstripe suit ever so slightly too big for his frame, his cane held tightly in a fist, although something about the way he held himself made it seem like he didn’t need the cane at all. He was looking up into the stars twinkling into existence in the dimming sky, a reservedly contented smile playing on his lips. He took a deep breath and nodded subtly, his round glasses glinting in the increasing moonlight.

“It truly is a beautiful night, isn’t it?” He asked, his feeble voice a testament to his age, but the confidence in it, unrelenting.

I couldn’t respond, i didn’t quite know how, i felt I’d forgotten how to speak. But i didn’t have to, as he went on before words could begin to form on my lips.

“They say time is an illusion, and when i look to the stars, i can almost begin to believe them. They never change! They merely float across the sky, always there, despite the ravages of time here on earth, they’re just out of reach of the concept of age. Scientists say they’re millions, if not billions, of years old, and still have many years to go before they sputter out, although perhaps ‘sputtering out’ is no way to describe the spectacle it would be. And I have to wonder, how many more souls will look upon this same night sky, before one of those stars are no longer burning away up there like they were for all of humanity’s time in existence?” He sighed heavily, as though the burden of these thoughts were wearing away at him, and looked down at me, his gaze piercing and uncomfortably familiar, “We’ve been looking at it in awe since the dawn of time, and the mystery of those dancing, twinkling lights has yet to be solved. Truly makes you wonder if there are answers to be found at all, or perhaps we’re just not ready. At the end of the day, will we ever be ready?” Resignation edged into his voice, but i couldn’t help but feel as though he was genuinely asking. As if i had the answers he’s been searching for all his life, as though i could tell him if only he were ready enough.

i broke eye contact first, sweeping my gaze back up to the sky he’s seemingly enamored by. The speckled lights went on forever, but they were different now, an overwhelming order to them. The planets of our solar system were now infinitely close, some sitting comfortably just above the horizon, others just out of reach of each other by the moon. they each had a story to tell now, a life and a history and a death they await.

slowly, as though his bones could give out at any moment, the man walked towards me, and settled down beside me. with a heavy and clumsy hand, he pointed up to the smallest star in the sky that hadn’t yet been obscured by the other celestial bodies.

“she’s the home i seek, but this earth is a good mother for my weary soul. travel washes away the vigor, but ages the heart with wisdom. it’s unfortunate that my years have run away without me, I’m not sure if i’ll ever reach my destination in this life, home is still a far many lifetimes away, but i can try again once this season has reached its peak.

Tell me, you are still young, do you remember yet which home you mean to settle in?”

[kingfallena]

@displlaced || bc you liked this post and i want it

     This is never where he would have imagined himself to be. He is a WARRIOR. Perhaps he is no longer a prince. Maybe he never will be. But nothing can take away the fight in his blood, the defiance in his bones. And there is an ANGER and BITTERNESS he cannot shake. The world has pushed him around and so he pushes it back. Everywhere he looks for an enemy in everything, a possible THREAT. He can’t help it, it is who is now. It is what has kept him alive. But he is so weary. He can’t fight the loneliness and ache for home. 

Perhaps that is why he has come here. Why he decided to seek out the Floukru he has only ever heard of. He needs to lay low. He has been traveling and wandering for so long. And this is where it brought him. To a people which he knows will be completely the OPPOSITE of himself. Against everything he has ever known and been taught. He can’t help the words that slip out when he comes to wakefulness, when he is presented by the first person he sees. “ Where are my weapons? ” he feels uncomfortable. He is EXPOSED and VULNERABLE without them. His eyes shift around as if he expects someone to ATTACK at any moment. 

[idornaseminary]

Chapter One-Hundred Ninety-Eight: Calix and Beatrice

The world always seemed happier when the sun was shining. The warmth of the midday fire over Isle Velum seemed to ignite life in the spring blossom, the promising buds shaking loose the last flakes of winter snow. The Gladur groaned in the light breeze, the leaves whistling ominously. Even though the colour had returned, the forest was a reminder to everyone that monsters lurked in the shadows where the sun and it’s happiness felled to fall.

Sunlight was merely a quick fix.

The students of Idorna, entrapped for what seemed like centuries within the castle walls, cautiously moved across the meadow when Vincent set them free. The announcement brought relief to the Ibinia House, but there was a subdued sense of weary disbelief. No one dare go too far.

Calix, twisting the bracelet of rope around his wrist, the rough fibres making his skin crawl, followed his housemates slowly, keeping close to the others as he walked.

He eyed his classmates around him, his fellow Ibinias drifting further away with every second. He was starting to feel a great deal of loneliness, not just in his house. It was a strange mix of emotion. Loneliness was never something that bothered Calix. As a healer, working late shifts through the lonesome hours of the night was common practice. But, when he was surrounded by people, people he knew a great deal, he hated being isolated.

It certainly was infuriating how little acceptance people had. His friends were supposed to be intelligent, wise and patient. Calix had done nothing wrong. He didn’t yearn for sympathy points nor did he play the victim, but he was paying for Crix’s mistakes and Crix’s wrongdoings. He was being forced to play Crix’s last game, the rules laid out from beyond the grave.

Whether it was part of Crix’s master plan or not, he had made Calix the most alienated person in Idorna.

He didn’t know where the professors had buried the young wizard’s body if it had been at all, but Calix knew that wherever he was, Crix was squirming with pleasure against the wood of his coffin.

If he was afforded a coffin.

He continued down the cobblestone path towards a low wall, about waist-high. He ran his fingers along the capstones as he passed, his mind lost in thought. He wondered where Liara was, wondered if they would ever leave the island if she was not found or did not return; he wondered who was pulling the strings, wondered who had released vampires on their fellow wizards and witches; he wondered if his magic would ever feel normal again, would spells and charms and shields work like they used to, and he wondered what he would do if things got progressively worse. Life seemed like a downward spiral to him.

Eventually, his reverie broke, his fingers tumbling off the edge of the stone, the daydreams fading away as he saw Beatrice. She looked radiant in be sunlight. Breathtakingly radiant. She always looked beautiful, that was undeniable, but the warm rays accentuated her features.

Everything seemed happier in the sunshine.

“Beatrice,” he called, waving his arm in the air.

Beatrice grinned and turned slightly, waving at her boyfriend at the top of the hill from where she sat on a red flannel blanket on the hillside, surrounded by a small patch of grass the warming light had thawed from under the bloodstained ice. “C’mere Cal!” she shouted, gesturing for him to come closer.

From far away he seemed back to his old self: strong, happy, and confident, however, she knew that was just a facade. His familiar pink mist was still missing, replaced by heavy maroon fog, and everybody still seemed to hate him though they were simply hating the memory of Teddy. If she could do anything, it would have been to kill Teddy’s reputation on Idorna, but unfortunately, she’d killed the man, not the myth. It’d be near impossible to pick up every feather spread by his toxic gossip, but she could at least try to ease the burden it left on her man.

“Finally decided to join me out here?” she teased, tugging down Halina’s favorite yellow tulle skirt over her taupe knit tights, her bright red lipstick gleaming in the mellow afternoon light of the early spring.

“Yeah,” Calix smiled, reaching the edge of the blanket. He had planned on staying in the infirmary. There was no drive in him to explore the Isle, no need to ease the cabin fever that bubbled in his blood. He was quite content within the walls of Idorna, content in the silence. There were no whispers when the halls were empty.

Standing by the window, however, watching the others trek outside, had not gone unnoticed. Professor O’Connor, despite having doubled her efforts to prevent students slipping away in the dead of night, had ordered him outside for fresh air. He didn’t dare refuse. She already had reason to kill him.

He leaned down, touching her soft skin and placing a gentle kiss on the top of her head: “How are you, love?”

She beamed up at him and sighed happily, setting her sketchbook aside as she reached up for his hand, pulling him closer to her. “I’m good. Just enjoying the fresh air while I can,” she breathed. “Wish I could do it at night and get a proper look at the stars for once this month, but I’ll take what I can get.” She wet her lips with her tongue and looked up at him, trying to suss out how he was doing, especially with over half the student body turned against him. “How’re you?”

Calix took her hand happily, squeezing it tightly and kissing the knuckles tenderly. Beatrice brought him comfort. She made his heart flutter with joy instead of worry. He didn’t know how he would’ve survived without her. Without any of his unlikely company, despite the growing animosity.

“I know, Bea,” Calix said, tucking her close to his side, flush against his chest, “Can’t you try and get up to the astronomy tower and look at night? I’m sure Levas wouldn’t mind you going up if she’s around? It might take your mind off things.”

He avoided her questioning. His emotions were being bottled, pushed down and suppressed by self-imposed chains. Beatrice didn’t deserve to be handling his worries. There was too much at stake for her to be caught up in his idiocies. He’d rather suffer in silence than see others hurt.

“I mean, I’ve done that before, and Professor Elias even encourages me to do so, but…” she paused and leaned back against him, resting her head on his bony shoulder. “It’s not the same. You know?”

“Of course,” Calix mumbled, his voice muffled in her wild mane of dark curls. “Things are different. So very different.”

He looked across the meadow as he spoke with Beatrice, sharing small talk and chit-chat that passed without attention or meaning, idle sentences to fill their time. He could see people stare, spend seconds to moments watching them before carrying on as the sun tracked across the sky. He didn’t care. Let them watch, he thought. He had Beatrice by his side. The rest of the world didn’t matter.

Except, it did.

“Wanna go for a quick walk, before heading back, babe?” Calix asked, pulling away slightly and stretching his arms out behind him. His muscles had locked, the gaunt, uncomfortable bones beneath jutting through. Beatrice was probably sick of lying in discomfort against them and the walk would do her good.

Although, he really wanted to escape the looks and glances, most from beneath Beatrice’s back. He assumed people were a little freaked out by her too - she had killed Crix in cold blood, no matter how justifiable his death was - but he knew they were fixated on him.

“Of course,” she said, standing up slowly. She shook the yellow grass from her blanket and stood up on her tiptoes to throw it around his shoulders, using it to pull him close for a quick kiss. “You know, you never answered my earlier question,” she pointed out with a small pout.

“What earlier question?” Calix asked innocently, tilting his head to the side as he kissed her on the lips, taking advantage of her closeness to distract her.

“How are you?” Beatrice repeated with a small laugh, batting her eyelashes prettily up at her boyfriend. “I know you don’t want to talk about it, but pele, it’s not good to keep it all bottled up inside,” she said, hoping to reason with him.

He looked up at the sky, sighing lightly through clenched teeth. He realised there wasn’t much chance of escape. She had him trapped, the blanket wrapped around his shoulders like a leash and collar. And, she was batting her eyelashes. She was pulling out all the stops. But, he still didn’t want to tell her.

“I’m fine,” Calix muttered convincingly, “I’ve got you, right?”

Beatrice narrowed her eyes slightly and pursed her lips, smiling softly at him as she wrapped her arm around his waist, pulling him close on the walk around the castle before heading back inside. “Yes. And Sam. And ‘Tasha. And Doctor Evans. We all care about you, and we want to help you get better even if you wanna be stubborn and pretend that nothing’s wrong,” she said, trying to keep her tone light although the subject was dark. “Well, ‘Tasha might not help in the technical definition of ‘help,’ but even she cares about you!”

It was worrying to see him so weak, physically, mentally, and magically, and she wanted to do what she could to help, though that was damn near impossible if he was going to keep denying there was a problem.

Calix sighed again. He stopped outside the castle and pulled Beatrice close to him, burying her in his arms. He rocked slightly from side to side, his lips pressed against her forehead.

He couldn’t lie to her. She saw right through his smoke and mirrors, cut his parlor tricks to ribbons and found the pent-up emotion hidden at the core. She knew him better than most, possibly more than Sam, which was no mere feat. There was no worth in trying to hide from her.

Whether those around him truly wanted to ‘help’ was another question entirely, especially his unlikely company. He was the runt of their unusual litter, the lost soul they saved and no longer needed to watch over. Their healer had returned to them - they’d call him when needed. Simple as that.

“Okay, okay,” he said, “I’m not alright, but I’m gonna be. Eventually. I just don’t want you, or Sam, or Doctor Evans, or Natasha, or Enzo or Mel worrying about me. You’ve had to worry enough, you’ve had to come save my Irish ass and that’s more I should ever have to ask you to do. I’ll sort this myself. I just need time to try and… well, figure it all out.”

She nodded slowly and wrapped her arms around his lean middle, burying her face in his chest, the weak scent of cherry blossoms that usually calmed her only giving her more cause for concern now. “Well, that’s why you have me, right?” she asked, the question muffled in the depths of his chunky jumper. “Let’s figure this all out together.”

You have me, right?

The words were painful, digging deep into Calix’s heart like rose thorns he couldn’t pull out. They were sore. Should he face his anguish alone? Was it better to keep Beatrice safe from his hardship or embrace her and move forward together? Which was better for her? The thorns dug in and Calix was certain Beatrice could hear his heart cry.

“You have me,” Calix whispered, “You have me always.”