#mausoleum records

[thenwothm]

REVIEW: SCAVENGER

Formed in 1984 in Belgium, the first chapter of SCAVENGER starts with their debut album “Battlefields” (1985) released by Mausoleum Records. Standing the test of time, the powerful debut has become a real cult classic of the ’80s underground heavy metal scene. Shortly after its release, Mausoleum ends its activities making it impossible for SCAVENGER to continue but no one expected what was yet…

[themetalyears]

Syar - Death Before Dishonour - 1984

This is one of those rare things - an English band on Mausoleum Records, a label I usually associate with ace, European bands. These guys are from Harrogate in Yorkshire and sound like they would fit right in on Ebony or Neat Records.

[mausoleumva]

strong need to write a dragon sick thorin x bilbo scene... that'll be next up after the merthur script is through

[skooodles]

[leafyeyes417]

Used to it

Danny was quite desensitized to death by the time he finished High school. And he didn’t mean just ghosts. Despite his stellar record of preventing any deaths during his vigilante career, he still managed to see quite a few dead bodies. Though those usually weren’t in Amity but nearby towns.

Ghosts did need help sometimes to get peace and that often meant that he found their remains and anonymously sent in tips to the police. It’s this reason why when he planned to move to Gotham for College, and after checking out rent prices, he decided to do something that would only aid him in saving money.

He took a week during the summer between semesters and traveled to Gotham. After a few days of scouting (and staying in shitty hotels) he found the perfect place. An unused Mausoleum. It just needed a minor bit of renovation (like adding a bathroom) and it would be perfect.

He went to the library and searched to make sure he knew the information of whose building it was and if there were plans to use it soon. His luck was good and it was considered abandoned. He checked the price and winced. It would take a good chuck from his savings but overall it would save him quite a bit.

Deciding to save money after he bought it, he used ghosts with the right obsessions to reconstruct it. When he started living there he was somewhat surprised at how settled he felt. Turns out he somewhat accidentally made himself his own grave, which was good for his ghost half.

He didn’t realize that his coming and going from the graveyard would be noticed by the bats though. He doesn’t really want to have them digging into his life. He knows it will be hard but somehow he knows they will find something.

[heylittleriotact]

Morticians are gossipy bitches (source: me - I am the source). It's not about the quantity of the tea spilled, it's about the quality and the timing of said tea.

My analysis of Emmrich is that when the team goes out drinking he mostly sits watching them gossip while he drinks fancy wine and the others think he'll just sort of sit and quitely relax until, several glasses in, he opens with "May I say something unkind?" and then proceeds to drop tea so scalding it could boil an ocean

[fuckyeahchinesefashion]

How did ancient Chinese tombs set up mechanisms to deter tomb robbers? (This is just a basic demonstration - in reality, it was far more complex. The mausoleums of Qin Shi Huang (259-210 BCE) and Empress Wu Zetian (624-705 CE) remain unexcavated to this day because current technology cannot safely handle them.) Cnetizen say "No excavation needed - mercury level testing suffices. The Records of the Grand Historian documents that the First Emperor's underground palace used mercury to simulate rivers and seas. Being highly volatile, the mercury would have largely dissipated over time - not just since Xiang Yu's era 2,200 years ago, but even if Huang Chao's rebels had breached it 1,000 years later. Yet modern instruments detect severely elevated mercury levels at the site!" This confirms the mausoleum has never been substantially breached. While we cannot rule out that a few tomb raiders ('touching gold captains') may have entered, none could have survived - the instant mercury vapor exposure would have been fatal." Qin Shi Huang is revered as the 'Ancestral Dragon' in China, so people never joke about him - it’s believed to bring bad luck (a superstition tied to disrespecting the 'Dragon Emperor'). This might also explain why no one has dared to open his mausoleum to this day.

[blueiscoool]

Oldest Wine Ever Discovered in Liquid Form Found in Untouched Roman Tomb

A 2,000-year-old Roman funerary urn unearthed in southern Spain has been shown to contain the oldest wine ever found still in liquid form.

Discovered during home renovations at a property in Carmona in 2019, the contents of the urn were analyzed by a team of scientists from the University of Cordoba in a study published Monday.

Study lead author José Rafael Ruiz Arrebola, a professor of organic chemistry at the university, said that the urn was found to contain cremated remains, burned ivory thought to come from a funeral pyre and around 4.5 liters (1.2 gallons) of reddish liquid.

“When the archaeologists opened the urn we almost froze,” he said. “It was very surprising.”

The team then carried out a chemical analysis of the liquid and found that it was wine.

This was a big surprise, because wine normally evaporates quickly and is chemically unstable, Ruiz Arrebola said.

“This means it is almost impossible to find what we have found,” he said, explaining that the wine had been preserved by a hermetic seal that prevented it from evaporating, but it is not clear how the seal formed.

Further chemical analysis allowed the team to identify the liquid as a white wine, as it didn’t contain syringic acid, a substance only present in red wines, Ruiz Arrebola said.

It also has a similar mineral salt composition to the fino wines produced today in the region, he added.

“It’s something unique,” said Ruiz Arrebola. “We have been lucky to find it and analyze it – it’s something you only see once in your life.”

The researchers believe their discovery dethrones the current holder of the record for oldest wine in a liquid state, the Speyer wine bottle, found in Germany, which is thought to be around 1,700 years old. However, the age of the Speyer bottle has not been confirmed by chemical analysis.

The vessel was one of six funerary urns containing remains found in the mausoleum.

The discovery of a gold ring and other valuable artifacts suggest it was built by a family of considerable wealth, Ruiz Arrebola said.

However, little else is known about their lives, because cremation would have destroyed any DNA, he explained, adding that this means it is impossible to say whether the six people were related.

Ruiz Arrebola now plans to try to work out which modern-day local wine it was most similar to, although there are hundreds to work through.

By Jack Guy.

[scealaiscoite]

‧₊˚ 🏞️ ✩ 200 setting prompts

¹⁾ an er waiting room 

²⁾ a funeral home car park 

³⁾ a dimly lit alleyway 

⁴⁾ a cramped holding cell

⁵⁾ an empty museum exhibit

⁶⁾ a dusty wine cellar 

⁷⁾ an ex’s spare room 

⁸⁾ a disused garden shed 

⁹⁾ a seedy, cheap motel room

¹⁰⁾ a 24/7 diner

¹¹⁾ a strip club dressing room

¹²⁾ a half-flooded basement 

¹³⁾ a dark classroom

¹⁴⁾ a sparsely-stocked walk-in fridge 

¹⁵⁾ a crumbling mausoleum 

¹⁶⁾ an aquarium’s shark habitat 

¹⁷⁾ a draughty bus stop 

¹⁸⁾ a posh hotel lobby 

¹⁹⁾ a quiet bakery 

²⁰⁾ a department store dressing room 

²¹⁾ a sold-out stadium 

²²⁾ a lofty airplane hangar 

²³⁾ a murky riverbank

²⁴⁾ a mostly-empty cinema 

²⁵⁾ a clearing amidst a dense forest 

²⁶⁾ a bar’s service well 

²⁷⁾ a mechanic’s office 

²⁸⁾ a 31st birthday party

²⁹⁾ a ship’s brig 

³⁰⁾ a sacristy 

³¹⁾ an amusement park 

³²⁾ a garish costume shop 

³³⁾ a mens’ bathroom 

³⁴⁾ a restaurant kitchen right before service 

³⁵⁾ an f1 marshal’s outpost 

³⁶⁾ a yacht’s bow 

³⁷⁾ a drive-thru chapel 

³⁸⁾ a stranger’s hotel room 

³⁹⁾ a dark evidence archibe 

⁴⁰⁾ a loud hair salon 

⁴¹⁾ a failing coffee shop 

⁴²⁾ a retirement home’s staff lounge 

⁴³⁾ an office building’s 12th floor 

⁴⁴⁾ a dying retail chain’s last store 

⁴⁵⁾ an upscale casino 

⁴⁶⁾ a ranch’s bunkhouse 

⁴⁷⁾ the deck of a dilapidated fishing trawler 

⁴⁸⁾ an away team’s dressing room 

⁴⁹⁾ a mortuary waiting room 

⁵⁰⁾ a long-disused storage locker 

⁵¹⁾ a phlebotomy lab 

⁵²⁾ a run-down stash house 

⁵³⁾ a tense conference room 

⁵⁴⁾ a humid greenhouse 

⁵⁵⁾ a jazz club 

⁵⁶⁾ a well-stocked storm cellar 

⁵⁷⁾ a decommissioned sanitorium 

⁵⁸⁾ an embassy under attack

⁵⁹⁾ a marathon aid station 

⁶⁰⁾ a luxury car dealership 

⁶¹⁾ a coastal holiday home 

⁶²⁾ the underside of a bridge 

⁶³⁾ a two-person tent

⁶⁴⁾ a draughty coal shed 

⁶⁵⁾ a labyrinthine warehouse 

⁶⁶⁾ a half-rotted apricot grove 

⁶⁷⁾ an off-the-books laboratory

⁶⁸⁾ a disturbing shrine 

⁶⁹⁾ a circus tent 

⁷⁰⁾ a freezing cold lake 

⁷¹⁾ an actor’s dressing room 

⁷²⁾ a news studio 

⁷³⁾ a broken-down elevator 

⁷⁴⁾ an office’s copier room 

⁷⁵⁾ a library archive 

⁷⁶⁾ a bustling betting shop 

⁷⁷⁾ a peruvian food truck 

⁷⁸⁾ a city bus depot 

⁷⁹⁾ a preschool play room 

⁸⁰⁾ a marina’s creaking dock 

⁸¹⁾ an army recruiter’s office

⁸²⁾ a butcher’s cold storage 

⁸³⁾ an abandoned storage mill 

⁸⁴⁾ a perfumer’s store 

⁸⁵⁾ a high-security prison perimeter tower 

⁸⁶⁾ a cordoned-off crime scene

⁸⁷⁾ a fire station simmering with tension  

⁸⁸⁾ a creepy furniture outlet 

⁸⁹⁾ a boudoir photographer’s set 

⁹⁰⁾ a maternity ward 

⁹¹⁾ a muddy farmyard at dawn 

⁹²⁾ a ballet company’s rehearsal space

⁹³⁾ a dusty record shop

⁹⁴⁾ an isolated, rural cabin

⁹⁵⁾ a detectives’ breakroom

⁹⁶⁾ a bridal boutique dressing room 

⁹⁷⁾ the back row of seats in a cinema

⁹⁸⁾ a bustling dockyard

⁹⁹⁾ a cheap massage parlour

¹⁰⁰⁾ an empty dormitory

¹⁰¹⁾ a stiflingly tense courtroom

¹⁰²⁾ a conspiracy theorist’s doomsday bunker

¹⁰³⁾ a cobweb-littered attic

¹⁰⁴⁾ a crumbling remote farmhouse

¹⁰⁵⁾ an arcade at close

¹⁰⁶⁾ a snowy chalet 

¹⁰⁷⁾ an out-of-use abbatoir

¹⁰⁸⁾ a bougie art exhibition

¹⁰⁹⁾ a neighbourhood paletería

¹¹⁰⁾ a headmaster’s office

¹¹¹⁾ a liquor store at midday

¹¹²⁾ a gold-for-cash outlet 

¹¹³⁾ a train station restroom

¹¹⁴⁾ a country club tennis court

¹¹⁵⁾ an acupuncturist’s office

¹¹⁶⁾ a mansion’s guest bathroom

¹¹⁷⁾ an overwhelmed military outpost

¹¹⁸⁾ a disused santa’s grotto

¹¹⁹⁾ an ambulance bay

¹²⁰⁾ a whiskey distillery

¹²¹⁾ a submarine command center 

¹²²⁾ a lesbian bar 

¹²³⁾ the boot of a parked car 

¹²⁴⁾ a bachelorette party 

¹²⁵⁾ an oncologist’s office 

¹²⁶⁾ a penthouse apartment 

¹²⁷⁾ a coastal cave at low tide 

¹²⁸⁾ the passenger seat of a humvee

¹²⁹⁾ a private plane at 40,000 feet

¹³⁰⁾ a murder-mystery party 

¹³¹⁾ an outdoor beach shower 

¹³²⁾ a sushi restaurant 

¹³³⁾ a trashed pawn shop

¹³⁴⁾ a divorce lawyer’s office 

¹³⁵⁾ an opium den 

¹³⁶⁾ a kids’ ball pit 

¹³⁷⁾ a silversmith’s workshop

¹³⁸⁾ an unassuming safehouse  

¹³⁹⁾ a turkish embassy 

¹⁴⁰⁾ a grimy sewer

¹⁴¹⁾ a federal evidence storehouse 

¹⁴²⁾ a loud public park 

¹⁴³⁾ a busy cocktail bar 

¹⁴⁴⁾ an army mess hall 

¹⁴⁵⁾ an empty stable 

¹⁴⁶⁾ a private investigator’s office 

¹⁴⁷⁾ a dog pound 

¹⁴⁸⁾ a hayfield 

¹⁴⁹⁾ a drive-in movie screening 

¹⁵⁰⁾ an apartment’s fire escape 

¹⁵¹⁾ a shipping container 

¹⁵²⁾ a yoga retreat

¹⁵³⁾ a duplex in a state of disarray 

¹⁵⁴⁾ an ice hockey rink 

¹⁵⁵⁾ a shooting range 

¹⁵⁶⁾ a blood drive 

¹⁵⁷⁾ a timber quarry 

¹⁵⁸⁾ a niche publishing house 

¹⁵⁹⁾ a private arts college 

¹⁶⁰⁾ a fairground in the dead of night 

¹⁶¹⁾ a last-chance rehab clinic 

¹⁶²⁾ an advertising agency

¹⁶³⁾ a theater on opening night 

¹⁶⁴⁾ a hectic rave 

¹⁶⁵⁾ a suburban pharmacy 

¹⁶⁶⁾ a green, sprawling valley 

¹⁶⁷⁾ a veterinary clinic 

¹⁶⁸⁾ a retirement community compex  

¹⁶⁹⁾ a hastily-emptied apartment 

¹⁷⁰⁾ a nightclub bathroom 

¹⁷¹⁾ a lush rose garden

¹⁷²⁾ a childhood bedroom

¹⁷³⁾ a military blacksite 

¹⁷⁴⁾ an airport lounge 

¹⁷⁵⁾ a television show set 

¹⁷⁶⁾ the 46th floor of a skyscraper 

¹⁷⁷⁾ a backpackers’ hostel 

¹⁷⁸⁾ an italian deli 

¹⁷⁹⁾ a failing hair salon 

¹⁸⁰⁾ a sensationalised haunted house 

¹⁸¹⁾ an off-grid commune 

¹⁸²⁾ a makeshift soccer pitch 

¹⁸³⁾ a landscaper’s toolshed 

¹⁸⁴⁾ a cruiseship’s engine room 

¹⁸⁵⁾ a photographer’s set 

¹⁸⁶⁾ a brightly-coloured daycare 

¹⁸⁷⁾ a neglected playground

¹⁸⁸⁾ a hardware store 

¹⁸⁹⁾ a nurses’ station

¹⁹⁰⁾ a tobacconist’s 

¹⁹¹⁾ a biker clubhouse 

¹⁹²⁾ a hunting club

¹⁹³⁾ a newsstand 

¹⁹⁴⁾ a sinking speedboat 

¹⁹⁵⁾ a monastery 

¹⁹⁶⁾ a medical examiner’s mortuary 

¹⁹⁷⁾ a grafftied phone booth 

¹⁹⁸⁾ a soup kitchen

¹⁹⁹⁾ a speakeasy hidden beneath a florists

²⁰⁰⁾ a pumpkin patch in july

[themetalyears]

Faithful Breath - Gold'n'Glory - 1984

Teutonic, Viking metal in the NWOBHM vein - riff heavy, like Iron Maiden bred with the Scorpions! Epic stuff on Mausoleum Records.

[mausoleumva]

free use but it's my voice. I'll say whatever you want, make whatever noises, sound however you like—whatever gets you off. does audio bring you pleasure? well, then I'm just another toy, aren't I? make use of me, love

[rainrot4me]

On Unholy Terms

Summary: You’re an exorcist sent by the church to investigate a graveyard deemed to be unholy. After stumbling upon a ‘demon’, your determination quickly falters.

Characters: Eyeless Jack x Exorcist! Female Reader

SMUT WARNING MINORS DNI

TW: Probably definitely blasphemous, cunnilingus, big size difference, jack fucks you on a tombstone, vaginal, shaming, forceful entry, slight humiliation, biting, some blood, choking, degradation

Words: 3.6k

A/N: There’s slight symbolism of Christianity/Catholicism, please take it lightheartedly. I don’t mean to be rude :’)

This was stupid and you knew it.

You trudged through the overgrown grass, your skirt constantly getting caught on thorns and twigs littering the ground. The rosary you clutched close to your chest was cold, giving you some stability as your fear grew the deeper you went into the woods.

The church had sent you to investigate a series of murders near an old, abandoned chapel that had been left dormant after funding ran scarce. Several years ago, you had visited the church on different occasions, but as you entered the clearing, it looked anything but familiar.

Dense fog surrounded the area, the evening sky casting a dark orange glow through the forest. The rusty flashlight in your opposite hand did little to aid your vision as you stepped closer to the overgrown building. Vines and debris had overtaken the small church, and the beautiful stained glass windows shattered or faded from the lack of upkeep. It felt depressing, the ground looking anything but holy now.

You shuffled around the side of the building, the dark oak doors boarded together, police caution tape decorating the step’s railings. You sighed, shining your flashlight onto the rest of the building, but finding nothing worth interest. You thought the church was idiotic, this was a job for investigators, police or something, not some young exorcist who barely got work as it was. However, the church had deemed this case a holy one considering it was on sacred ground. Nonetheless, if you felt this was out of your pay grade, you would give the cops a call yourself.

You walked around the back of the building, a wide field revealing rows and rows of tombstones and crosses. A cemetery. A small gravel path led to an arched gate, a beautiful design etched onto the iron bars. You signed a cross, kissing your fingers before stepping through the threshold, showing respect to the grounds.

The sun was dipping behind the trees, a dark sky looming as the fog surrounded you making it harder to see. You stepped carefully through the assorted headstones, each reading off a different name you felt too busy to acknowledge. A crow called somewhere in the distance, startling you slightly as you shone your flashlight around frantically. Your nerves were getting to you, the stale air making it harder to breathe. So far, nothing had stood out to you, no signs of life or commotion, let alone dead bodies that were so frequently reported. You felt restless wanting to leave so quickly, but you had to report something back or you would be penalized.

Trudging the gravel path, you stumbled upon a rather large mausoleum. The beautifully designed pillars lead to its gated entrance. You shone your flashlight at the doors, goosebumps running up your arms as you decided to go inside. You stepped onto the marble steps, the rusted gate creaking loudly as you swung it open. You clutched your rosary tightly, sweat running across your forehead as you silently cursed yourself. The tomb was dark and stuffy, with plaques of the deceased marking where they lay in the marble coffins. You angled your flashlight, eyeing the old but stunning design of the interior. You stepped further into the tomb, several dark doorways gained your curiosity. You stepped toward one, shining your flashlight in but seeing nothing except bookshelves lined with what you presumed to be death records and documents of the deceased outside. You gulped, stepping to another one.

Your breath caught in your throat. Your flashlight landed on an assortment of blankets and pillows nestled into a corner, several water bottles and books askew across the floor nearby. Your heartbeat became uneasy, fear creeping into you as you took a step back, the rosary pinching your hand as you clutched it tighter. Maybe it was nothing, maybe some squatter had used the building to camp out for the night. You tried to calm yourself, wiping the sweat from your face with the back of your sleeve. A cool breeze wafted into the tomb, fluttering your skirt around your ankles as you continued searching the rooms. Suddenly, a loud screech filled your ears, sending your blood cold and you stumbling back onto your backside. You screamed as you threw your flashlight up quickly, frantically searching for the noise, panting heavily. Shining a flashlight on a crow desperately flapping his wings to escape the building, screeching again as he flew out and into the night.

You closed your eyes, taking deep breaths in you steadied yourself, blaming your imagination on your jumpiness. It seemed there was nothing but annoying birds and dusty graves, but no sign of any ghostly killer. You hoisted yourself up, reaching down to dust off your skirt before collecting yourself and shining your flashlight up again. That’s when you saw it, a tall figure resting his weight against the door frame of a darkened room. You held your breath, begging your body not to move as you could feel the tears well in your ears. The figure's ragged breaths echoed off the marble walls, his head angled to the side as if he was gawking at you. Your eyes flickered quickly, scanning his moves and praying he by some miracle moved on and let you leave. You prayed you would leave with no story to tell, but now you feared you wouldn’t leave at all.

The man pushed himself off the doorway, shoving his hands into his hoodie pocket and leaning in to meet your gaze. He towered over you, a good bit too. You wanted to run, to turn around and sprint out the doorway and never look back, but he interrupted your thoughts. “You’re a pest,” he grunted, looking you up and down as he slid the hood of his hoodie off of his head. He seemed to be wearing some creepy mask, the dark eyes sending your heart pounding in your chest. But his voice was calm, soothing almost, if it wasn’t handing you an insult. You gulped, standing up straight and letting go of the rosary hanging from your neck as you gripped your flashlight tighter.

“Why are you here? Who are you?” You croaked, voice catching in your throat from fear. You didn’t know why you were interrogating him, but this newfound bravery was short-lived as he stepped closer to you abruptly. You gasped, clenching the flashlight closer to you as he towered over you, head cocked and pressed too close for comfort. You whined, tears emerging again as his ragged breaths filled your ears. The rotten stench coming from him was consuming the whole room and your senses alike, making you close your eyes before tears threatened to spill. 

“I think a better question,” he snarled, sending a shiver through you. “Is why are you here?”

You peeled your eyes open, bringing your hand up to grip your rosary again. “I was sent… sent by the church.” You squirmed, knees slowly buckling under you as his presence pressed down on you. “Oh..” He groaned, standing straight again, running a hand through his spikey brown hair. “A holy little thing, huh? Come to catch some ghosts?” You could hear the grin in his voice, his hand leaving his pocket to rub the back of his neck until he caught sight of your rosary. He reached out sharply, taking the cross from your hands and pulling it to him, straining your neck to come towards him. You squealed, throwing your hands out and placing them against his chest as he examined the charm, trying your damnest to keep distance between the two of you. He chuckled, following the necklace up and squeezing the ends together, choking your neck slightly from the tension. “I’m afraid God won’t help you here, little thing.”

He tugged your necklace tighter, pulling you flush against him as his hands landed on either side of your face. He forced you to look up at him, tears pricking your eyes again and again. “Such a pretty thing, though. What a shame some old church sent you away to your death.” He lifted his hand to slide his mask up over his nose, revealing the jagged smile hiding behind. He separated his teeth, a long grotesque tongue slinking out and falling below his chin. It was inhumanly long, your eyes blowing wide at the horror as you began to tremble under his grasp. “Oh, God…”

He leaned closer, passing your face and finding the crook of your neck, sliding his long tongue against the bare skin with a growl. You tensed, a slight moan leaving your mouth at the chill running down your spine from the sensation. The man stopped, retracting his tongue from your neck and leaning back slowly, bringing his face to meet yours. His unsure face turned to a manic grin, his jagged teeth shining in the night light as his hands slid down from your face to wrap around your neck and slowly grip. He squeezed every so gently, applying just the right amount of pressure to make your breath hitch. “How unholy…” He chuckles, sliding his hands down further to sit at each side of your waist. You freeze, embarrassment hitting you as his gaze looks all over you now. “Now that I look at you, you ain’t half bad. Your little church get-up is… rather tempting for someone so ordained.” He purrs. You flush red, your mouth running dry at his lustful comments towards you as you squirm under his grasp. He leans down, mouth inches from yours as he stares directly into your eyes. “You’re not as godly as you let on, are you?” He whispers, tucking the tip of his tongue between his teeth as he taunts you.

Your face blows red, eyes refusing to look at his face and deciding his hoodie is much more interesting. He laughs, standing up straight and sliding his arms under your legs, hoisting you up over his shoulder with your butt sitting high in the air. You squeal, gripping the back of his sweatshirt and pulling desperately as he walks out into the night air, a cool breeze blowing your hair into your face. “I’ve decided to treat myself tonight,” He boasts loudly to you, walking you over to a rather large headstone and setting you on top softly. “Thank you, Lord, for this meal.” He taunts, sliding down to his knees in front of you and sliding his hands up and down your thighs. You begin to panic, gripping the cold concrete under your hands as you try to balance yourself and focus on the man’s movements at the same time. 

“W-Wait! Please!” You beg, bringing your knees to your chest as he tries to slide your skirt up your legs. “I don’t even know your name…” You croak, eyes wide as he stares into your fearful face. He grins, gripping your ankles and bringing them back down to dangle in front of him. “Jack. It’s Jack. And I promise, you won’t forget it by the end of tonight.” He chuckles, gripping the bottom of your skirt and sliding it up your legs, scrunching it up at your waist so he gets a full view of your lacy panties. You shove your thighs together, blocking his view as you shudder a breath. Jack slides his cold hands between your locked thighs, prying them open as he places each leg on his shoulders. He hooks his fingers under the hem of your panties, sliding them down and hooking them on your ankle as he slides closer, his face moving in closer to the apex of your thighs. You hold your breath, your core aching as you feel his hot breath pant against your soaked lips. “Hallelujah.”

Jack grips your thighs tightly as he licks a thick stripe between your folds, a ragged gasp shooting from your mouth as you slam your eyes shut. His tongue circles your entrance, flicking lightly against your clit as you arch your back against the feeling. He groans at the taste, pressing his tongue into you slowly, relishing in every flavor of your pussy he can taste. You moan out, his tongue lapping at the juices leaking out of you as your arousal grinds your hips against his face. Jack chuckles against you, sucking on your lips as he curls his tongue inside of you, making you whine. He grips your thighs tighter, your legs dangling off of his shoulders as his fingers hold onto you so tightly you’re sure they’ll leave bruises. “Ahh- Jack…” You groan, sliding your hand into his hair and gripping tightly to stabilize yourself. You feel the white heat coming over you as you groan against him, hips bucking as his tongue continues to curl and throb inside of you. Your release comes quickly, an unfamiliar ecstasy overtaking you as you come on his tongue. 

Jack groans against you, continuing to slide his tongue in and out of you as his nose brushes against your clit. He’s not stopping, if anything he’s speeding up his movements and driving his tongue deeper into your cunt. You whimper loudly, the sensitivity overriding you as you begin to squirm away from his touch. He only grips tighter, pulling your hips up and off of the tombstone as he presses his face deeper into your folds. Your thighs spasm, gripping tightly around his head while he laps at your pleasure. You begin to sob, gripping his hair tighter and pulling forcefully as you try to pull his head from your core. “Please! Please, it hurts… God- Jack!” You grip your hands in his hair, accidentally knocking his mask back and off of his head as you stutter your hips against his tongue. All of a sudden his movements stop, his tongue slowly sliding out of you as you stop in horror. His face, rather, his eyes. The lack of them makes your stomach drop. His eye sockets are nothing but pools of black tar, dripping down his face and staining his gray-ish skin. It’s like you can’t move, your pulsing cunt still sitting inches away from his face as he glares, or seems to be glaring, into your eyes.

“W- What in hell’s name…” You croak, Jack slowly releasing your thighs and sliding his hands up your legs, pressing against them to stand himself up. He chuckles. “Hell exactly, little thing.” Your eyes hold wide, your fear unallowing you to move. “D- Demon…” You whimper, your legs dropping back down and dangling off the end of the tombstone. He smiles, reaching to unbutton his pants slowly, your eyes shooting between them and his terrifying face. “A demon who just made you cum,” He slides his zipper down, pulling his cock out and slowly stroking it as he looks down at you, the red angry head pulsing as he slowly chews his lip in between his teeth.

“What would God say…? Hm? His holy little thing lusting after a demon spawn?” Jack grins, stepping forward and hooking his hands under your knees, bringing them around his waist. He pushes your skirt back up, exposing your dripping cunt to his large cock as it twitches between your legs. He’s very large, actually, fear striking you as you wonder if something like that would even fit inside of you. Jack notices you eyeing him, sliding his hands around your back and gripping you tightly as he positions himself at your entrance. Jack leans forward, placing a soft kiss against your forehead while he reaches his thumb to slowly circle your clit, a breathy moan escaping your lips. 

You watch carefully as he pushes into you, his tip stretching your entrance open and stopping when you begin to whine, gripping the shoulder of his sweatshirt tightly. Jack presses kisses against your forehead, breathing deeply as he works your clit trying to get you to relax on his length. He’s barely even in yet and you’re already so tight.

Large tears threaten to spill as Jack slowly nudges his dick inside of you. He’s so big, the girth of him catching on your entrance as he’s forced to press deeper and deeper inside. You whine and squirm, his hold on your hips not allowing you to back away from the stretch and sensitivity. Jack’s thumb rubs your clit quicker, his breath becoming labored as he slowly begins to thrust into you. It won’t slide easily, so he becomes contempt with tugging and shallowly nudging his cock-head into your warm core. Tears spill from your eyes, your mouth hanging open as you try to babble your pleas. “S’bigmm.. Shit-” You hiss, whining as you sob through the stretch of your cunt. Jack presses kisses against your forehead, licking your tears up as they fall. He whispers to you, cooing his praise into your ear as he grunts and curses. “You can take it…” He mouths your neck, licking against your skin as his eyes begin to slowly roll. “We’ll make it fit.” He grunts, nudging your thighs open with his legs as he grabs your back. 

Jack shoves his cock inside of you, your cunt pulling him in and throbbing against the stretch and pain of it all. He can’t hold back, your cunt so warm and wet that he moans into your neck, lapping at it before he bites down on the skin, sinking his jagged teeth in and making you scream. He latches on, the taste of warm blood coating his mouth and sending him into a frenzy. He pulls his length out all the way to the tip before slamming in and reaching so deeply inside of you that it makes your breath catch in your throat. You moan loudly, tears streaming down your cheeks as your head lulls back, Jack’s thrusts sharp and deep as you grip his sweatshirt for stability. 

Jack retracts his teeth from your neck, lapping at the blood trickling down as he thrusts into you like an animal. He holds you tightly against him, his fingers gripping into your back as he groans his pleasure into the crook of your neck. “Ssgood.. Mm- fuck! You’re suckin’ me so good..” You grip his hair, hips stuttering against his thrusts and matching his pace. You hook your legs tighter around his waist, pulling him in as deeply as possible. The stretch of his cock feels so glorious with each press against your g-spot. 

He kisses against your neck, moving up to your cheek and then meeting your lips, pressing them roughly against yours as he makes out with you. You groan into his mouth, his tongue sliding in and muffling your sounds of pleasure. He slides his hands out, hooking them under your legs and hoisting you up. He holds you against him in the air, fucking up into you like his personal fleshlight. You moan loudly into his mouth, his tongue exploring every crevice of your mouth as you roll your eyes. He slides his hand out from under your leg, gripping the rosary around your neck and pulling it tightly, cutting off your airway. He smiles against your mouth, hearing your labored breathing gasping as he pulls the necklace tighter. “You just love this don'tcha? Little thing milking me so good.” He groans, his hips stuttering faster inside of you, his cock jabbing deeply inside of you.

“Mmcomin- Jack-” You moan, air escaping you as you feel your cunt squeezing tightly around Jack’s length. He grunts, mouth hanging open as he stares into your flushed face, his cock twitching inside of you. He presses his lips against yours again, breathing in your moans as he feels you constrict against him. You moan out, pleasure washing over you as you cum on his cock, squeezing tightly around him. Jack grunts, unable to thrust anymore, he ruts up into your cunt, groaning loudly into your mouth as he spills into you. His thrusts eventually stop, bottoming out into you as he releases your necklace, you gasp, catching your breath again. 

Jack holds you tightly against him, breathing deeply into your neck as you catch your own. He slowly pulls out of you, and you wince from the pull. His seed spills down your legs, a groan escaping your lips at the lack of fullness you regrettably loved. Jack sets you on your feet, reaching to swipe his finger between your folds and sending a jolt through your body. He brings his fingers to his mouth, lapping up his and your juices and sighing at the wonderful taste. He pulls your skirt down, pressing a kiss against your forehead before zipping his jeans back up himself.

You shift on your feet, relishing in the kisses he places on your skin. “Uhm- Tha-” Jack places his hand over your mouth, leaning down to look you in your eyes. “Run along, little thing. Get back to your stuffy old church.” He leans down, picking up his mask and sliding it back over his face, bringing his hood up to completely cover himself again. You clutch your rosary softly, the cool night air blowing your hair slowly as Jack waves you off. “Will I ever get to… see you again?” You cringe at the desperation in your voice, shuffling on your feet. Jack crooks his neck again, shoving his hands into his pockets. “If I ever see you again, I’m afraid I’ll be eating a whole lot more than just that little pussy of yours,” he chuckles. 

You smile at him, turning to walk back down the gravel path as you see Jack make his way back towards the mausoleum. As you pass under the gated archway, you smile to yourself, holding your rosary closely.

What the hell were you going to tell the church now?

Thanks for reading!

Comments and reblogs are appreciated! 𐚁₊⊹

[colouredbyd]

Hi I’m LOVING your hunger games AU with reg! I have a request if that’s okay!! Could you do a angsty fic from sirius’ POV inspired by the song Silver Spoon by Erin LeCount! Cannot wait for more of the Hunger Games Fic!

Silver Spoons And Butter Knives inspired by the song Silver Spoon by Erin LeCount

Sirius Black x fem!reader

summary: Sirius Black carries his last name like a curse, watching warmth from the outside like a starving ghost. Jealous of the love he was never given, and too haunted to accept the love that tries to reach him.

warnings: deep family trauma, fighting, angst, hatred and anger, resentment, jealousy, hurt with some tiny teeny bits of comfort

word count: 2.4k

authors note: the way i RAN to google docs after seeing this request, this is so sirius coded i cant, also I'm so glad u liked my hunger games fic :( ill be posting a new chapter everyday!

masterlist

Sirius Black sat in the garden of a house that wasn’t his, knees drawn up, cigarette burning low between his fingers, the scent of rosemary clinging to his sleeves like something that wanted to stay. The breeze was too gentle, too forgiving. Somewhere inside, a record crackled, jazz slipping through the windows like spilled wine. Someone was laughing—your father, maybe—and someone was humming, and someone was living a life he could only ever press his face up against the glass to see.

It was your childhood home. Unremarkable at first glance, nothing like the cold, echoing halls he grew up in, but it breathed like a living thing, full of warmth and noise and life, ivy climbing the bricks like it had been invited to stay, flower pots chipped with memory, and curtains catching the light in that soft, golden way that made it all feel almost holy. He hated how easily he could imagine you growing up here. A garden with scraped knees and hands in the soil. A kitchen where arguments were loud and always ended in laughter. A hallway lined with photographs, none of them cursed, none of them sneering. A front door that had never once been locked against you.

He had never had that. Not once. Not ever.

Grimmauld Place had never been a home, it had always been a mausoleum. Silence crept through the halls like fog, thick and inescapable. The portraits sneered and spat, the walls listened too closely, and his mother’s voice could split skin like glass. His father never raised his voice, only his expectations, sharp and suffocating. And Regulus—soft-hearted, sharp-eyed Regulus—who used to curl beside him under the dining table during thunderstorms, clinging to his hand like it was the only safe thing in the world. Regulus, who had whispered secrets to him in the dark, who had once trusted him with everything.

Who later looked at him not with hatred, but with something worse: heartbreak. Who kept writing, even after everything, his letters brittle with fear and grief, like he didn’t know how to ask for help without sounding like an apology. Regulus hadn’t turned away because he stopped loving—he turned away because he didn’t know how to keep surviving in a house that only rewarded silence. He was still good. Just tired, trying to stay whole in a place that punished softness.And now here he was, choking on the sweetness of your world.

He had thought he wanted this. Normalcy. Warmth. He’d thought if he pressed himself into your life hard enough, he might finally be able to forget the cold. But it wasn’t warmth that met him—it was exposure.

Every corner of your house revealed what he wasn’t. What he had never been. What he had been denied. It lit up the hollow parts of him, the places where love should’ve lived, the places where he’d built anger instead.

He couldn’t even sit still in your living room without feeling like a liar. Couldn’t eat your mother’s roast without resenting the softness it came with. Couldn’t listen to your father’s stories without hearing everything his own father never said. He felt like a thief in a church, like the air here was too good for him.

You didn’t even know you were showing it off—your joy, your ease, your wholeness.

It just leaked from you like sunlight. In the way you laughed without flinching. The way you looked people in the eye and weren’t afraid of what they might find there. The way you didn’t need to prove yourself in every room you entered because you had never been made to feel like you didn’t belong.

You had been loved the right way. L oudly. Messily. Unconditionally. And now, you didn’t even realize what a miracle that was.

And your family. He wanted to scream every time your mother asked if he was eating well, every time your brother grinned up at him like he was someone worth knowing, every time your dad clapped him on the back like he was already part of something.

He wanted to scream because it felt good. Because it felt like a lie. Because he didn’t know how to accept it without wanting to burn it down just to see if it would still reach for him when it was ash.

It was a sickness, this thing curling in his stomach, this grief he hadn’t known how to name until now. He had been raised starving, raised to believe love was earned and only given when you bled the right way for it, and now here he was in a house where love came without warning, without conditions, without punishment, and he couldn’t stand it.

Couldn’t bear the weight of it. Couldn’t stand the way it softened him. Made him feel like a child again. Like a boy who still wanted his mother to say she was proud. Like someone who still believed he might be forgiven.

He had changed his clothes three times before coming. Brushed his hair back too carefully. Bought flowers that didn’t match, didn’t suit the season, crushed slightly in his grip, and you had kissed his cheek anyway. Told him they were beautiful. And he had smiled, because he didn’t know what else to do, and because he was afraid that if he told the truth—that he felt like he was splintering from the inside out—you would look at him differently.

Now, long after dinner, after seconds and thirds and sweet pie and the warmth of a fire that didn’t try to burn him, Sirius sat in the garden, staring at the windows like they might turn on him. Your shadow passed through them. He watched you laugh. Watched you take plates from your brother’s hands and press a kiss to your mum’s cheek, and something inside him cracked, deep and small and quiet.

He wanted it. He wanted it all. And he hated himself for wanting it, for thinking he might deserve it, for not knowing how to hold it without trembling.

Because boys like him weren’t made for peace. They were made in rooms where love was a weapon and silence was safety, and even now, even here, surrounded by everything he’d never had, all he could think about was running. Or ruining it before it ruined him.

His fingers dug into the stone beneath him, grounding himself in the solidness of something, anything, because the air, the garden, the house—it was all suffocating him.

Why did you have to be so… perfect?

He hated it. The softness of your world was a slap to his face, a constant reminder of everything he’d never been allowed to have. A family who did things together. Parents who loved without fear of it being torn away.

It wasn’t just jealousy. It wasn’t that simple. It was resentment. Desperation. The kind that churned in his stomach, clawed at his insides like he might throw up his own heart.

Sirius had fled from the suffocating halls of their home when he was barely a teenager, escaping into a world that hadn’t wanted him, but he couldn’t have gone far enough to outrun the shame. The shame of being cast out, the shame of being unwanted, the shame of knowing his family only reached out with letters full of threats, letters that burned like acid every time they arrived.

What would they think of me now?

He hated himself for thinking about them. Hated that their poison still seeped into everything good. Even this, even you, your family’s love—he couldn’t touch it without feeling that burn.

He heard the soft creak of the door opening behind him, and without turning, he knew it was you. He didn’t need to look. You moved like sunlight, like something gentle, and he could already feel the weight of it pressing into him.

“Sirius?” Your voice was soft, uncertain. You didn’t have to ask—you already knew he was out here, the same way you always knew. How could you not?

Mum said to come inside. It’s getting late.

You didn’t say it like you were inviting him. You said it like you were trying to save him. But the truth was, you weren’t going to save him. Not from this. Not from himself.

“I’m not coming,” he said, the words slipping out sharper than he meant. He didn’t want to be inside—not tonight. Not surrounded by laughter that felt like static, by comfort that pressed against his ribs until he couldn’t breathe. But even as the words landed, they burned. He hated the way they sounded. Hated how they hurt you.

Your steps faltered, just a moment, but it was enough. He could hear it in your breathing, that small, painful hesitation that made his gut twist. You wanted to fix it, didn’t you? You wanted to heal what was broken in him, but he wouldn’t let you.

“Okay,” you said softly, and his heart shattered. “But you should wear a coat, its really cold out here.”

Why do you keep trying?

You couldn’t understand. Not in the way he wanted you to. You couldn’t see the way his soul had been carved into jagged edges, torn by a family that had never seen him as a person, only as an extension of their own power. You couldn’t feel the poison running through his veins, turning every kind gesture into something bitter.

He was going to ruin this. He was going to ruin you.

“Your family’s too perfect,” he muttered, eyes flicking away. “It’s fake.”

You blinked. “What?”

He shrugged, too cold. “The smiles. The questions. The way they act like they care. People like them don’t mean it. They just want to look good.”

Your breath hitched, quiet and hurt. “Sirius, they do care. They love me.”

“Right,” he said, a bitter laugh twisting out of him. “And I’m supposed to sit there and pretend I know what that looks like?”

You stepped closer, cautious. “This isn’t about them. This is about you.”

“No,” he snapped. “It’s about how you don’t get it. You can’t get it. You grew up with lights on and warm dinners and someone holding your hand when you cried. You don’t know what it’s like to grow up in a house where silence means safety.”

You were quiet for too long.

And when you spoke, it was with the softest ache.

“I don’t want to be your enemy just because I was lucky.”

And that was the wound. That was the cut.

“You don’t get it,” he spat, the words tumbling out before he could stop them. His jaw clenched, his fists tightening at his sides, but it didn’t matter. It was already out. “You don’t know what it’s like to live in a house where every smile is a lie, where love is just a word used to manipulate you. Where your own family tells you you’re nothing.”

The silence between you two stretched, thick and uncomfortable, suffocating him like the weight of his own rage. He didn’t want to see you like this—hurt, confused—but he couldn’t stop it.

You were still standing in front of him, and he could feel your eyes on him, soft but steady, and it made him feel weak.

“I know,” you said, your voice a whisper now, as if you were afraid of the storm in his words. “I know it’s hard. But… you don’t have to pretend with me.”

Sirius closed his eyes, his chest tightening. He didn’t want to do this, didn’t want to feel this. He didn’t want you to see him break, to see how much he needed this love, needed this warmth, even though he couldn’t accept it. It would break him.

“I am pretending,” he bit out, his voice hoarse. “Pretending that it doesn’t matter. Pretending that I’m okay when I can’t even look at you without wanting to tear this all apart.”

He turned his face away, breathing heavily, his anger and sorrow swirling into one tangled mess he couldn’t sort out. He hated himself. He hated how much he wanted this.

Your voice was quiet, but it cut through the chaos inside him. “You don’t have to do this alone, Sirius.”

But he felt like he was already too far gone. Too broken to be fixed, too shattered to be put back together.

“I’m not like you,” he said, his voice cracking, too raw. “I can’t have what you have. I’ll just ruin it. I’ll ruin you.”

You were quiet for a moment, and when you spoke again, your voice was small, almost fragile. “Then let me help you,” you said softly. “I’m here. You don’t have to be alone.”

Sirius’s chest tightened, the words clawing their way into him, unbearable, because he wanted it so badly, wanted you to pull him in and fix the things that had been broken for so long. But he couldn’t let you. He wouldn’t let you.

Instead, he stood up, unable to stay still any longer, the weight of the moment too heavy. “I can’t… I’m not ready. I’m not someone you can fix.”

And maybe if he’d just nodded, maybe if he’d just said yes—none of it would’ve happened.

But Sirius Black had never learned how to receive something without bleeding all over it.

And before you could say anything, he turned and walked away, retreating to the place he knew best—the silence of the garden, where he could wallow in his own despair and let the feeling of being unworthy, of being broken, swallow him whole.

authors note again: requests are open :D

[angelicguy]

all the toons of toonville USA quickly gathered for my funeral. this was the first death that toonville had ever had within its borders, so the processions were brief and crass. many of them did not know what had happened to me, and arrived jovial with gifts and favors to share with one another.

a whole line of red and blue convertibles filled the one lane street that led to my body. since everyone in town knew each other, they engaged in bright lively conversation about all the sweet memories they had of me. my birthday, my bris, my several rushed visits to the toon hospital were all discussed among the townsfolk who shared their popping candies and hot sodas that they had prepared for the celebration.

Cowboy Frito and Juliet Juniper (one of toonvilles hottest couples) brought a boquet of my favorite treats in apparent memory of me. Dr Lollipop and his beau Beauty Bee were especially excited to witness my body, flayed and broken, as they had never seen one before. Fashionista Frida Frizzlemeister was dressed from head to toe in the most dazzling outfit she had, with a black and white photograph of my own head featured as the centerpiece to her famously glitzy bouquet.

gathered in thousands of seats surrounding my thick, red, plastic coffin, the show was finally on the road. despite being delayed a half hour (the felt arms of the pallbearer made it difficult to actually get the dang thing near my ready grave!), the mood was light, as everyone in attendance were best friends. scattered lines of conversation quickly concluded as Pastor Paisley cleared his throat to begin his eulogy- at least he tried! pranks were all the rage in toonville, and who else but Scoots McBuzz would spit a hot wad of greasegum right at him. Paisley, experienced from his many sunday school classes over the years, grabbed his toupee and ducked down-causing the gum to stick right onto my fisher price brand tomb.

a long pause filled the air, followed by bright laughter at such a farce. in fact, all of toonville decided to cover my final resting place in bits of chewed paper, bottlecaps, smile stickers (the lowest form of their complex currency) and all kinds of knick knacks while hollering with laughter. and what could cap off such a good time like a hearty meal? Chef Al LaRonge had prepared a veritable feast for the hungry attendees, who stuffed their mouths with gooey, cheesy pizza, hot pepper patties and classic peanut butter chocolate superbars.

as the sun set, Mayor Megamouth of toonville declared their first funeral a complete success and thanked everyone for being a part of such a touching event. "he knew every one of you, and would have loved to know he caused such a record turnout among the toontopians!" after cheery "hip, hip, hooray!" and a final goodbye towards my flesh, the now urine-soaked coffin was marched straight into the freshly built mausoleum, the only gravesite to be found in the brand new toonville boneyard.

given the limited use of the land, it was eventually folded into the soda treatment plant. over time, my final resting place became stained with the colors and smell of sarsaparilla, caramel, and beetroot. the foundation eventually buckled beneath the sagging heft of the pop-drenched wood that surrounded my now bleached bones on the fourth of july, the sounds of creaking and splintering masked underneath the no-expenses-spared fireworks show. shapes of cakes and pies filled the air as my remains were carried out to the stinking sea.

[spngi]

My tears ricochet | mafia!carlos sainz jr x reader

Part 1

Prologue

summary: Mr. and Mrs. Sainz lived in a dream for many years, now everything is falling apart and they need to deal with their feelings

warnings: Grammar mistakes, citation of violence, Carlos is an idiot, mentions of cheating, angst

There's a warm breeze in the room, crossing through the space from the windows that remained open overnight, the scent of Spanish summer mixing with Carlos' aroma in the room. Carlos' arms surround me in bed, and I can't help but wake up to the kisses he spreads across my back.

"Good morning, darling," I murmur still drowsy to Carlos, turning to face him. He looks handsome in the morning, tousled hair, a silly smile on his face, his voice hoarse from sleep.

"Good morning, cariño," he replies, pulling me closer into his embrace, making me laugh; his hand is gentle as it touches my face in a light caress.

"That smile of yours makes me feel like the luckiest man in the world," Carlos says, and even after all this time together, he still makes me blush with affection.

"I'm the lucky one to have you, Carlos," I lightly kiss his lips. "I love you."

"I love you too," he responds.

Everything feels empty, the house filled with love and happiness now seems like a mausoleum, the hallways echoing even with people still in them, my head on the verge of collapsing along with my entire body. I feel broken, still alone, a million beautiful memories dancing in my head and wasted by the end.

Divorce. Just thinking of that word makes me nauseous. Five beautiful years shared reduced to a single piece of paper. I couldn't and wouldn't let that happen, no matter what Carlos tried; I wouldn't give that to him. Of all the long list of concessions I made to him, divorce wouldn't be added to it.

I can't go back to my room, I can't stay here without feeling the urge to go back to him, to plead and shake him until he comes to his senses, until he loves me again.

I return to the back of the house where Carlos had set aside a place for me to paint and have a moment of peace; there are many paintings hanging in that room, various phases of my life, our life. That studio was my safe haven. I close my eyes and try to breathe, pour myself a drink and put on an Etta James record.

It's when I finally look at the blank canvas in front of me, waiting to be filled, that I feel the tears rolling down, like a dam that has reached its limit.

"Y/n?" I hear Charles' voice calling me after a long time, catching me off guard. I try to quickly wipe the tears from my face, knowing it will be in vain.

"Hi," I turn to him, my voice trembling, and Charles tries not to stare at my state.

Charles is one of Carlos' right-hand men, helping him with business and also his security.

"Carlos asked me to deliver this to you," he places the same envelope from earlier on the table, and more tears roll down my eyes. He looks at me again, and I hate to seem so fragile in this moment.

"Is everything okay?" he asks, and I can't find the strength to respond; I just nod my head and hope he leaves. Although Leclerc was a great listener and a friend in his spare time, I didn't want to talk, to tell him what was going on. It would make the whole situation too real at this moment, so I just wait for him to leave so I can break down again.

I never opened the envelope; I didn't want to see what was inside, didn't want to know what I was worth in Carlos' eyes, didn't even want to negotiate how much our life together was worth. The papers went straight to the back of my closet, hidden from the world and from my eyes.

Carlos didn't sleep at home that night, even the next, and even the next four days. It was as if he was punishing me with his absence for not accepting the separation, as if leaving me wandering alone around the house would change my mind about it. The big house kept running, with staff and security guards wandering around. But Carlos didn't bother to come back home, or to take care of his own business, sending Charles back and forth all the time to pick up his papers and important things. And it's when I finally tire of this game that I decide to corner Charles.

He looks startled when he enters my husband's office and sees me there, sitting in Carlos' chair, with my Manolo Blahnik heels propped up on the table.

"Oh, Y/n... good morning, didn't expect to see you here," Leclerc sighs, and I give him a slight smile. "I came to get some things for Carlos and I'll leave you alone again."

"Actually, Charles..." I stand up and then firmly place my hands on the stack of documents he came to fetch. "The documents are staying; tell him to come get them personally."

"Y/n... Mrs. Sainz, I've been instructed to do just that," Charles replies. It hurts me to do this with him, the man had nothing to do with our marital problems but it was the only method of passing the message to Carlos.

"Don't think I'm trying to disrupt your life, Charles. Just pass on the message to him; I want him to come back home soon. He can't keep hiding in that tiny apartment forever." I lean on the table and watch his reaction as he realizes what I've said.

"Do you know where he is?" he asks me curiously.

"I found out the moment you left here on the first day," I smile cynically at Charles, "and I wouldn't want to have to go there to pay him a visit. I believe Carlos wouldn't like that either, as it would disturb the peace of the apartment's owner."

Charles still seemed surprised by the information I had. The truth was I couldn't keep dragging myself around the house in eternal sadness, wondering where my husband was. So, I took the opportunity to send my bodyguard after Charles. Lando was still young, but he was efficient and smart; he had been by my side since I moved into this house and Carlos decided it would be good for me to have some protection. As Lando was young, maybe it would be easier for me to get used to him, and it really was; we became good friends over time. Once he found out Carlos' address, it was easy to find out whose apartment it was and who the girl was.

Martina. That name sounded bitter in my head.

"I'll be keeping this for him for now, and it was good to see you, Charles," I smile, dismissing him.

I smile as I watch him leave, feeling at least somewhat victorious today. I look at his office again, pick up the picture frame I found stored earlier in the drawer, and place it on Carlos' desk again. The image makes me smile nostalgically; the photo of our wedding fills me with a bit of hope, the happiness in our eyes, love radiating from the photo. Maybe I could make everything go back to normal.

When I get up the next day, I'm not surprised to see Carlos at the table having coffee. That was good; he had come and was at home after all. He looks at me through his coffee cup, his eyes expressing no emotion, but it's comforting to have him there, sitting in our living room having coffee.

"It's good to see you," I greet him and sit next to him at the table.

"I wish I could say the same," he says, placing the cup on the table, "but you know I hate being pressured."

"I gave you five days, dear. Believe me, I was patient and kind," I fidget nervously with the ring on my finger. "Listen, we need to talk, open up to each other... Being alone in these last few days was horrible; this huge house where..."

Carlos doesn't let me finish speaking. He smiles, that kind of evil smile he gives when he's plotting something, the same evil smile I've seen so many times directed at someone else.

"I'm glad you mentioned that," he interrupts. "You were right about saying that apartment was tiny. And as you yourself said, this house is huge, so I believe you won't mind me bringing one more guest," he speaks naturally, as if he hadn't done something horrible, as if it wasn't enough to have tainted our marriage, he had to taint our home now, as if he wanted me to hate him more each day.

"You wouldn't do that," I reply shocked.

"Why don't you see for yourself?" he asks, pointing to the large door leading to the garden and the pool of the house, the smile never leaving his lips.

[kaalbela]

In the 16th century in Punjab, Shah Hussain, a Sufi poet and mystic met and fell in love with a Hindu boy called named Madho Lal. Though gay marriage was not legal anywhere in the world before this century, Hussain and Madho defied social conventions and lived together for six years till Hussain's death in 1599. Hussain's poetry is significantly inspired by his relationship with Madho, with some poems addressed directly to him. After Hussain's death Madho continued to live close to where he was buried in present day Baghbanpura in Lahore, and was buried next to Hussain after his death. They continue to lie buried side by side in the same enclosure to this day, and the enclosure is named Hazrat Madho Lal Hussain, embodying one soul living in two bodies.

The annual celebration called Mela Chiraghan or Festival of Lights is held in March in Lahore in order to celebrate the love of Madho and Hussain as well as Hussain's poetry. It is unknown how the ritual was established, but it dates as far back as the the 18th century: there are records of Maharaja Ranjit Singh leading a barefooted procession from the Fort to the mausoleum for this celebration. At present, the festival is conducted over three days and attracts large crowds. Cotton-seed oil lamps are lighted in the streets and houses of the city. Devotees sing and dance and read Hussain's poetry in order to commemorate the triumph of tolerance over forces of bigotry.