#{ the purest heart drowned in red || muse }

[mfingenius]

Happy new year 💛✨ Would you please consider Harry and Draco dying and then reincarnated, and every time that happens they look for each other in their new lives to continue the loving relationship they had in their previous ones? Thank you 🙏🏼

The first time Harry walks the earth amongst the mortals, he falls in love. 

He’s a young God, turned after dying a Hero. God of tragic sacrifices; it’s almost ironic. He spent the first few hundred years buried in nymphs and muses alike, each one prettier than the last. He let himself drown in alcohol and the offerings mortals made him, accepting them without listening to their prayers. No one listened to his, after all.

When he meets the boy - eighteen, three years younger than Harry was when he died - he stops breathing. He doesn’t remember why he even visited the mortal realm, doesn’t care why he came, only knows that he has to meet him.

The boy’s name is Draco. He has light, almost white blonde hair, ice blue eyes, and he has the softest, purest-looking skin Harry has seen in his life. Harry has to go up to him.

He’s an orphan, as many are, and his skin is sun-kissed from working as a fisherman. The waters are blue, clean and gorgeous, and the boy teaches him how to sail. Harry never tells him he’s a God.

They sail, and take walks, and sleep under the stars. Harry learns the humans’ legend of him, what they say he did. They’ve some of it wrong; Harry was never as selfless as they paint him to be, he never fell in love. He learns that they call him merciless, that they don’t seem to understand how he’s changed. He asks Draco what he thinks about it, once, when they’re in bed together.

“I think he did enough alive,” Draco says, lifting a shoulder. 

Harry couldn’t agree more.

Draco dies in a storm. Harry hadn’t been there with him, had been looking for a way to make him a God, too, a way to spend forever with him.

The day he dies, Harry feels it, an ache deep in his bones, hurting more than his own death did. He cannot bring mortals back, but he tries. He carries Draco’s body to mount Olympus, tries everything he can think of. When that doesn’t work, he makes sure his love gets a proper burial, in the garden of Harry’s temple, lilies and sunflowers growing tangled with each other where his body is.

Harry vows to find him again.

*

It takes time. Harry doesn’t find him until after Greece has fallen. Hardly anyone believes in him, anymore, but Draco does.

HE finds him again in a city called Pompeii. He’s an artist, now. His name is Junius, and his hair is just as white as it was the first time they met. He has a deep phobia of the sea.

Harry learns all this as they pick flowers by the foot of the Volcano. He’s not as shy, in this lifetime, and he still blushes every time Harry smiles at him.

When Draco dies again - after years together, because of a snake bite - Harry’s wrath makes the Volcano explode. He doesn’t regret it for one second.

*

He’s in Constantinople now. Harry feels him, as he did that first day he wondered down with the mortals, and he frightens people in his rush to find him, running through the streets wherever his heart takes him.

When he sees him, everything stops.

His hair and his skin are both ashen, in this life. A sign from the past, a reminder of what Harry did. He’s also taller, and covered in freckles, but he has the same eyes, and Harry knows those eyes. Harry fell in love with those eyes.

His name is Constans, and Harry has to stop himself from calling him ‘Draco’ every time they’re together. They fall in love and it’s slower, this time. He’s wary, less trusting. Less sweet. Harry doesn’t mind. He has all the time in the world, and he’s willing to spend all of it winning Draco over.

He likes to participate in Chariot races. Harry’s beside him every time, gazing and thinking that he could not possibly love him more.

He dies of sickness, this time. Harry’s by his bedside the entire time, taking care of him as he can. When Draco begs him to put a knife through his ribs - he can’t take it anymore, he says, it hurts so much, please - Harry does, with tears in his eyes.

He wonders how long it’ll be this time, before he finds Draco again.

*

It’s longer, this time. Harry travels the world, answers the rare prayers that he receives, accepts the scarce offerings. When he sees Draco again, he doesn’t want to approach him. He can’t bear to lose him again.

Still, he does, because living without him is somehow less bearable than watching him die again.

This time, he’s reincarnated as a woman. She has long brown hair, face dirty and eyes like molten lava. Harry loves that his eyes never change.

Her name is Anastasie, she says. She speaks French. 

Move, she tells him. Move.

Harry doesn’t understand why things are on fire. There’s so much death around, people yelling. He doesn’t know what’s happening. They’re calling for the death of the monarchs.

Harry doesn’t even get her to fall in love with him, this time. He’s barely had time to look at her before she’s pushing him aside, eyes widening and blood spreading across her stomach.

The man who’s stabbed her with a bayonet doesn’t live to see another second. Harry makes sure of it.

He holds Draco while she dies. 

After it’s done, Harry has no reason to stay.

*

He spends a lot of time debating on whether or not to look for Draco again. He knows where he is - he always does - but it’s too much, losing him every time, each as tragically as the last. It’s his punishment, he’s sure, for being as merciless as he was with mortals.

That he’s now in love with someone who seems to die each life as soon as they’re together. 

So he ignores Draco’s prayers to him.

It’s an odd thing, for someone to still believe in Greek gods, but it seems that Draco, in each life, still does. Harry feels it when he dies of sickness, at forty five. Feels it again when it’s a stab wound, when he’s twenty. Feels it again when he dies only just minutes after he’s born.

After each of those times, Harry’s emotions make a disaster so big thousands of deaths accompany it. The rest of the Gods are furious, but Harry doesn’t care. They made him a hero, and then they made him a God. They didn’t care if Harry wanted it.

So he doesn’t care what they want.

*

“Hi.” It’s been a long, long time, but Harry can’t take it anymore.

Draco looks up at him, and it’s his face again; his eyes, his white blonde hair, his the soft curve of his mouth. He’s sitting on a Cafe using his laptop. He’s studying marine biology, Harry knows. He’s kept a close eye on him, all this time.

“Hi,” Draco turns red. He’s just as sweet and shy as that first life, and whenever Harry thinks he can’t possibly love him more, he does. The hurt grows along with it.

“I - my name is Harry.” Harry says. He looks twenty one. Will eternally look twenty one, unless he masks his appearance, of course, but he could never do that with Draco. “I know this is terribly forward, but I was wondering if I could buy you a cup of coffee.” 

Draco already has a steaming cup of hot chocolate, but he nods quickly.

“I-” the color in his face deepens, and he looks away. “You seem so familiar.”

Harry’s lips lift. “Do I?”

“Yes, I-” You seem like someone I’ve loved before, he thinks. He doesn’t say it, but Harry hears it all the same. It makes his heart pound. “I don’t know.”

Harry has to hide his smile.  

“I never caught your name,” He says, because it’s usually not the same, and he doesn’t want to make a mistake.

“Draco,” Draco says, smiling. “Draco Malfoy.” 

---------------------------------------------

Send me a Request :D

If you enjoyed this, please consider buying me a kofi

Masterlist: [1] [2]

Commissions

[ofwolvesandbutterflies]

notch | iii

Pairing: Jeon Jungkook x Reader

Genre: angst

Tags: unrequited!au, college!au

Warnings: language, mentions of mature content

A/N: i was stuck for a while trying to figure out how to fix a transition... but i think its okay now. i’m working out what i can when i can, thank you for reading!

01 | 02 | 03

Synopsis: early morning calls. picking him up from some stranger’s house after a few bad decisions. the torment of loving someone who was incapable of loving you back. those two small words create such a large chasm between the two of you. but hey, what were best friends for?

I woke up with that weird feeling in my chest again. It was… sad, but not painful. Kind of sorrowful… Kind of melancholy. The amber sun’s rays fell from the broken slats of my 20 year old blinds directly onto Jungkook’s slumbering face. I reached forwards to tangle my fingers through his long, unruly hair. His eyebrows furrowed at my ministrations, nose scrunching, lips pursing as the graze of my fingernails against his scalp tugged a sober expression from his sleeping body. 

A smile pulled at my lips, contrasting the emptiness I felt, the loneliness I felt despite my best friend sleeping right beside me. The shadow of his thick eyelashes stood out against his skin and pulled me further into my thoughts. I studied the way every silken strand of hair slipped through my fingers. His messy hair framed his face in the softest way possible. When was it… I mused to myself, that I realized something was wrong? With the way I felt? With the way I prioritized our friendship, our time, him, and his feelings over my own happiness? 

Overwhelmed by emotions I thought I could control, my arms seemed to move on their own and I watched as they pulled him closer to my chest. His sleeping body moved in synchronization to mine as if the motions we went through were muscle memory to him. Jungkook’s arms tightened, retracting to pull me flush against his chest. A breathy sigh fell from his lips while he nuzzled my clothed breasts. Warmth blossomed in the pit of my stomach the more I gazed at the sleeping figure wrapped in my blankets. When was it that I realized it and still did nothing? 

Somewhere over the course of our friendship, he had become more important than my own well being. It wasn’t healthy, I bemused, fingers subconsciously braiding strands of his hair together. I knew that. Any relationship that was built on an unstable foundation was bound to collapse eventually. But that was just how I had been taught. Put others before yourself. Be selfless. Serve. That had become my way of life; serve though you may not receive anything in return. Love - though ninety-nine times out of a hundred - you will not receive any love in return. My eyes fell once again over his cherubic features and I marveled at the way a single one of his smiles - even those that appeared in his sleep - could blur my boundaries of hurt and love. 

“Mmm…” A quiet groan rumbled in his chest, disrupting the peace I had felt mere moments before. His eyelids fluttered a couple times and some distant worry creased his eyebrows. Chuckling softly, I brought a hand down to massage the distaste from his sleeping expression. 

I glanced at the digital clock sitting atop my bedside table. 13:22. The time should have surprised me more than it did. Indeed, I thought to myself. When was it that I began to disregard the things that should have been the most important? Exhaling slowly, I brought my attention back to the keeper of a large piece of my heart.

The golden afternoon sunlight glanced off the strands of his deep brown hair and framed his face with an otherworldly glow. Pink bubblegum lips were parted slightly, breath coming out in slow cycles of inhaling… and exhaling. As if my hand had a mind of its own, I found myself reaching up to brush the hair from his eyes. Though unpleasantly oily - undoubtedly from the night before - his hair remained pliable and my plaything. Through and through my fingers traveled in his hair, newly manicured nails grazing over his scalp, unaware of the arousal my ministrations were causing him.  

“Mmm… Y/N, keep doing that,” Jungkook’s voice came out throaty, demanding, husky, low, hot, and bothered and quite literally everything I had not been expecting. I froze, fingers pausing at the nape of his neck while I glanced down to check if he was awake. Sure enough, a pair of dark, hooded eyes dredged in a mixture of tired lust stared back at me. 

“..Jungkook? Wh-what… What are you saying?” My breath hitched in my throat at the intensity of his gaze. One of his arms tightened around my waist, pulling me flush against his bare stomach. His eyes searched mine, scanning my body language for any signs of hesitation. 

“I’m saying I want you to keep up that horrid teasing, princess.” His eyes screamed at me to continue, the low whine escaping his throat in an effort to edge me on. 

The breath caught in my throat and my eyes widened at the pet name falling from his panting lips. Thoughts breezed through my mind at a thousand miles an hour. Everything about him had the butterflies fluttering unceremoniously at the bottom of my stomach… the way his eyes searched mine and the intensity in which he gazed at me through glazed eyes and thick lashes… the tantalizing path his tongue made along his swollen bottom lip…  the sun-kissed tint of his torso… the damning fact his lips were so, so fucking close to mine… 

My heartbeat pounded against the walls of my chest and I prayed desperately he couldn't feel it. His hot breath mingled with mine and the mere proximity between us sent my mind past previously unthinkable borders. What if I continued to run my fingers through his hair? What if… I let myself drown in the sweet sounds of his breathy whines? What if… I closed all the space between us and pressed my lips up against his? What if… what if he felt more than just the platonic love thought to be shared between us?

He shifted his body about in discomfort, eyes still placed heavily on mine.  A delicious moan ripped itself from his lips when he rolled his hips up against mine, pressing something unbelievably hard against my stomach. A gasp fell from my lips and the red of my cheeks burned brighter. In that moment of sudden clarity, I came back to myself. 

"J-jungkook… stop." I tore my gaze away from his startled one. I was here, I was in love, and I was his best friend. He was just hot and bothered, looking for an escape and I was conveniently here for him to use. Though the yearning in my heart begged me to stay wrapped up in his arms, the minuscule part of my brain that functioned the way the rest of me should have tore the rose colored lenses from my eyes. He wanted sex, the purest form of love one could give and receive… But at what cost? I frowned, fighting to turn around in his grasp. “Jungkook.”

“Y/N,” Jungkook’s voice sounded strained. “What’s wron- what are you doing?” Craning my neck to peer suspiciously at my best friend, I gazed desperately into his eyes, hoping - praying - to see something other than lust and want and insatiable thirst. In any other situation with this man, this man that I loved, this man I was willing to give my entire heart to, I would have given in to his animalistic sexual drive. But deep down inside, a part of me knew he didn’t return the love I felt. I searched, craving something other than the shallow, carnal yearning, but all I could find in his eyes was the unmistakable desire for sex.

I tore his arms from around my waist and pushed myself out of bed, stumbling over my legs. Confusion clouded his lust-filled gaze and Jungkook pushed himself up, the comforter falling dramatically to reveal his heaving chest. I stumbled over to my closed door, knees still weak from the intensity and weight of his eyes undressing my scantily clad figure. After all, I was only wearing one of his shirts and a pair of panties.

“I’m going to start breakfast... or lunch or… whatever,” I mumbled, turning my back on him. Heat painted my cheeks and shameful tears threatened to spill from my eyes. “Come out when you’ve taken care of -” I paused to gesture to the unfortunate tent in his boxers. “- that.” 

series m.list

<< | >>

[stainandscribble]

Beyond Words (I)

A Not So Beautiful Goodbye

Pairing: Jongdae (EXO Chen)  x Reader

Genre: Jongdae Poet AU, angst, quartet? 

Summary: A poet reminiscences about his old lover and their relationship in his new anthology, reminding himself of the importance of sincerity, and that love words are just as important spoken aloud as they are printed on paper. 

PART 1  PART 2  PART 3

AUTHOR’S NOTE: since Jongdae’s Barista AU has been doing so well, I decided to switch the roles, so that Jongdae is now the poet. Also, April and a Flower is art in its purest form. So excited for Dear My Dear

Word Count: 4169

Jongdae walked out of his publisher’s office, his brand new book clutched by his side. His knuckles turning white with the force of his grip on the hardback copy - the very first printed one.

His fingers felt the rough green material cover, focusing on its imperfections. The book felt heavier than it was; rougher. He could feel the effort with which he bled ink into paper, and he could hear the clicking of the computer keys like a ghost of an echo in his ears. This was the heaviest book he had written. Not because physical weight, nor the number of pages that had ended up in the final print. No, it was a different type of weight. The weight of a heavy heart; crushing his chest, beating despite the damage. It was the weight of emotional baggage he had spilled- the printing ink might as well have been made out of his tears

I spilled all my love for you

As ink on paper

How could I forget

To fill you up first.

Yes, this anthology was born of pain, and regret; and somewhat bitterly, he thought it was best one he had ever written. It was heavy, and so damn hard to write he had spent many a sleepless night staring at the lined paper of his notepad, locked away in his office. Alone. 

It had been a long time since Jongdae had been this hollow, a cavern carved out of his chest, the inflamed tissue now a home for despair rather than a heart. 

He had only himself to blame. Jongdae did not shy away from admitting his wrongs. The least he could do was admit them and leave behind any self-pity festering in his broken heart like an infection. 

Instead he did what he knew how to do best; he spilled all his sorrows and apologies as ink onto paper. 

Ironically, that ability, this dysfunctional coping mechanism, was the very reason he was in the predicament in the first place.

Your love for me was like an inkwell; never drying

And I, 

I was like a pen,

Which drew from you forever.

I did not notice,

How you dried up in silence,

Blinded by the illusion of your infinity.

Sometimes the best things in your life; the best people, leave. Sometimes you leave them. It is all a vicious cycle of life. A part of life he had recently became intimate with. Nothing lasts forever. All is finite. All good things must come to an end. 

Still Jongdae’s biggest regret of all, was the fact you didn’t have to be finite. 

If only he had paid more attention to you, instead of drowning in ink and pretty words, he could have continued on. With you by his side.

He had left the building of his publishing company, glancing up at the sky. The heavens were heavy this morning, overcast with clouds so dark and looming day had taken on the look of night. There was no rain yet, but Jongdae was sure that at some point the clouds would be unable to hold their weight, and the rain would come in a violent storm. Like any other summer.

The inkwell is empty and when the pen immerses

It comes back dry,

Leaving the words I wanted to write,

To remain a whim.

The ride back to his apartment was quiet, the sky still ominous, but Jongdae knew that the calmness, and the stillness were bad omens. The calm before the storm. The only question that bugged him was when the sky would open, pouring its tears onto the ground from the sky in a hail of bullets. 

He wondered how loud the heavens would roar as it happened. Would it feel as if the windows were shaking? Would he be able to feel it in his bones, despite tucking himself away in his apartment? 

Would it shake him the same way you leaving him did?

He doubted that- nature didn’t have the same kind of power. A storm was not a woman; although it was eerily similar in its magnitude.

He flicked through the anthology, finally taking the time to appreciate the work and effort put into its creation. The cream coloured pages stared at him with hundreds of ink eyes.  Their looks were accusing, and among the black letters, he saw you. Your eyes, clear and sparkling in the way they looked at you, your smile bright. He reminisced the adoration with which he looked at you those the last few years, eyes wide and sparkling at everything you did. The corners of his lips quirked upwards in a cat-like smile at the happy memories.

Finally, after the present settled over him again, pulling him out of the happy daydream, his smile fell, and the light feeling in his chest, and the way his heart beat a little faster at the memory of your soft lips against his left him too. It left him cold and aching despite being hidden away safely within his home, His heart nestled safely in in his chest, protected by the cage of his ribs.

Light brown eyes moved to look out the window, the world outside brightened by flashes of lightning. On the table before him, the vase of red tulips was wilting, the petals falling gracelessly against the windowsill, no longer their vibrant red, but rather a burgundy colour fading into brown.

Like flowers on the windowsill,

I forgot that unlike the ones growing wild in meadows,

The rain shall not come water you,

And that dew shall not condense on you like the pearls, 

Which I never gave you.

You sat in your old room, surveying its blank walls. When you moved out, your parents took down all the posters, and drawings you stuck on the pastel green paint. It was the decision you made at thirteen, and the decision you cursed all your Uni years. A decision you had accepted over time. Now you found the colour soothing and familiar, and in a world where you were always moving, you were glad for the little comfort it brought you. It was still your room. 

Now, with the turn of events, you moved back, and you were ready to reclaim your space; the tubes and frames at your feet were the beginning. 

One photo was staring at you, of you, a little younger, smiling along with the man beside you. You were in a meadow filled with wild flowers you had frequented with you mother when you were little. You remembered the raspberry bushes you used to pick fruit from, and you remember making flower crowns from the chamomile growing there. 

You had taken that man there. Showed him all your favourite things; the meadow, the raspberry bushes, the sketchbook filled with gouache paintings. He showed you the ink splattered notebooks and the small coffee shop at the end of the street. 

But the sunny days were over. The storm raged outside, thunder clashing in the darkness. And the raspberry bushes were gone too, and concrete blocks had taken their place. 

And the man no longer showed you the world with ink stained fingers either.

But he had not showed you anything for a long time now, even before you left your shared apartment. So you left him. It had felt like he had left you a long time before you did. 

Your mother’s voice broke you from your musings, and you left your room surprised to see her standing in the corridor with a brown package. She handed it to you wordlessly and disappeared into the kitchen. The look she gave you was piercing, and there was a certain amount of concern floating behind her soft eyes. You tightened the grip on the flimsy paper that wrapped around the object, and you could already feel that it was book.

For a moment you didn’t understand why it came; you certainly didn’t order one, but the look in your mothers eyes was enough to tell you who it was from.

“So he did finish.” You murmured, hands tearing at the paper in desperation, giving way to the soft green of the cover.

 Flowers in April

The golden lettering was delicate and beautiful, and you wondered why he mailed it to you. You were no longer together. You walked out months ago. You were moving on.

Opening the book, your attention was caught by the handwritten note on the front page, the black pen standing in stark contrast against the off-white paper.

 “To my muse.

I thought it would only be fair to give this to you, after all you had suffered because of it. You should at least know why you were suffering.

I’m sorry for all my shortcomings.

-      Jongdae”

 Your eyes followed the trail of the pen, his handwriting familiar from the little notes he used to leave for you, and the shopping lists that were stuck to your fridge.

The ache of your heart was familiar too, familiar from all the nights he ignored you, and every time you sat at the dinner table alone with only the tv to keep you company. The heart in your chest ached for your loneliness, but it also ached for the home that was long gone, the home you did not wish to return to and the man who occupied it now. This time, he was the one eating dinner at the empty table, sleeping in bed alone and you had no pity for him left.

But you are not a flower, 

You were a woman.

You are a woman.

And I, 

was not a pen,

But a man.

Jongdae listened to the thunder raging outside, shaking his windows, turning his day into night with anger. 

That was one of the ways You and the storm were different. You did not shout, you were not like the storm, shaking the windows in their frames and destroying things in the wake of your rage. You had left quietly, given back the keys to your shared home, and before he could protest, make an excuse for his absence, you had left without a word, leaving no trace behind but the cracks in his heart. 

7 months ago

You came back from work, ready to order takeaway and watch films with your boyfriend. The weariness in your bones weighed you down as you made your way up the stairs, wanting nothing more than to climb under a blanket in the living room, wrapped in Jongdae’s arms. 

The door opened, and you caught the sight of him at the kitchen counter, his phone in hand, calling someone. 

“Jongdae, do you want pizza?” You asked, looking up at the leaflet you had stuck on the fridge. You turned to face him, weariness leaving your bones at the hope of spending the evening in peace. The lightness does not last long, and he crushes it in his hands, unknowingly, without a thought.

“I’m busy.” The words leave you heavy. You know them too well now it seems. Jongdae had been like this for a while, more preoccupied with phone calls and writing than sparing you a moment. Just like you, he seems tired, but for a different reason. One you do not know, and one is not willing to share. 

“What about watching a film later?” You try again, hoping. Being foolish. Deep down you know the answer already, feel the rejection before it comes. Your heart has been breaking recently. The cracks started growing deeper, and you don’t know how to mend them.

“I don’t know.” He tells you, his soft voice cold and indifferent, eyes not looking at you when he speaks, and with another crack, you realise he hadn’t looked at you since you arrived.

PRESENT 

You had walked out of your office, your hands now empty as you left your portfolio and necessary documents with the client. You had finalised the designs this week and everything was ready for editing. 

You were given the task of illustrating a reprint of a popular book series recently, and you had been very proud of your work. So far it was one of the biggest projects you have done. It seemed you were riding the lucky wave. Your boss had given you a slight raise as you moved to a better position at the company. This project had been a success, and the company was contracted for another project, and the clients had requested you. 

It was time to celebrate. 

You had invited your friends out for a few drinks later that night. 

The bar had a chic vibe to it. Everything was made of sleek wood and toned down colours, coupled with the dim lighting and pretty chandeliers, it was a perfect place for you to unwind and gloat your success. You didn’t get to do it every day. 

You were sipping on you third cocktail, your three friends laughing at some work gossip. It had been a pleasant night so far. That is, until you caught the eyes of Jongdae’s publisher. The woman had averted her eyes when she saw you looking, but you could still make out the displeased look on her face, and the sour curl of her red lips. 

The black dress she was wearing was fancy. Fancier than what you wore, but it did not bother you. not until your eyes found the one person you hoped not to see that night. 

It was not that you hated him. It was not that you loathed him. It was that you resented him. For how he had treated you; spent the last months of your relationship ignoring you. As if you didn’t live right there with him. As if you didn’t share his bed. As if you were not irrevocably in love with him. 

Your heart broke all over again, seeing him here, with the beautiful woman opposite him, when he had said he was too busy to come here with you. 

His eyes caught yours. Their soft brown drawing you in with their warmth. He was still familiar, he still looked too much like home to you. And in your slightly intoxicated state, you saw the regret and remorse bubbling behind the kaleidoscope of browns in his irises. Or maybe you just wished to see it. 

You didn’t want to find out. 

“He’s here.” You turned to your friends, and the moment they realised who you were talking about, they had made their way to the bar.

“Can we get a tequila?” Your friend asked, bringing over a whole bottle of the alcohol, along with four shot glasses.

“What’s that for?” You asked, surveying the glass wearily.

“For the fun of it.” She told you, the cheeky smile that formed on her lips matched the flame in her eyes.

“You are beautiful. Never forget that.” She told you as you took your first shot.

Only when I had lost you, I realised 

That you, like an inkwell

Needed to be filled.

And like a flower,

Needed to be watered;

With words of love,

Looks of awe,

With warmth.

6 months ago

“I’m eating with the editors.” Jongdae told you as he fixed his tie in the hallway mirror, barely sparing you a glance into the kitchen. You had spent the last hour making his favourite, hoping against hope he would stay for dinner. Turned out you were trying in vain.

“I thought we could eat together.” You told him, your voice small, barely above a whisper as the hope fuelled elation left your body.

“Not today.” Jongdae said, his voice softer, sounding resigned as his shoulders hunched a little. He had been feeling tired lately, bored. For now, he wanted to leave. Get out of the familiar four walls, breathe in some fresh air.

Dinner with the editors was a good reason to leave. Besides, he was in the process of writing his third anthology, and it was an important meeting he had to attend. Jongdae needed everything to go smoothly.

His hands fell to his sides when he stopped fixing his tie, and you barely heard the quiet goodbye that left his lips. Or maybe you just imagined he said it. Lately, you couldn’t figure out which it was.

Tears burned the back of your eyes, but you didn’t let any spill. Outside, Jongdae had put his head in his hands breathing deeply, before getting in the car and driving away.

You felt him climb into bed late in the night, but he never moved closer. He used to brush your hair back and kiss your forehead before falling asleep, but now he stayed far away, and you had been colder in your bed with him than you would feel with a stranger. 

And your heart broke.

PRESENT

Jongdae found your form in between the tables, eyes glued to the side of your face, feeling more like a spectre than a man. His heart roared in his chest, beating against his ribs the way an animal beat at the bars of their cage. The way it had not done in months. For a moment, the moment that lasted a split second when your eyes met, he felt more alive than the last few months. 

His anthology had been a success, and he had come in to celebrate that. Still, the biggest celebration, better than wine and better than gin, was the sight of you. 

His publisher had seen it, the way his eyes fell on you, again and again. Jongdae, for the life of him, could not understand the way her lips curled when she caught your eyes. He was too preoccupied with stealing glances your way to pay attention to her. 

Everything about you called to him, reminding him of his love for you. Reviving the passion you had shared, setting his whole body aflame. The sight of you flowed over him like water, cold and refreshing. He was awake. For the first time in forever he felt lucid. 

“Well done Jongdae. Your anthology had just become a bestseller.” His publisher told him, reaching over the table to hold his hand. He brought it back instantly as if it burned. 

Over the course of the last months he had figured out what he done wrong. He had admitted his shortcomings. And he had promised himself to be better, for you. He was not going to ruin it tonight. 

Sitting among your friends, you were glowing. Dressed in your best dress, eyes sparkling as laughter bubbled from your chest. It was a warming sight, like watching flowers unravelling in the spring. And his heart wretched when he realised, he wasn’t the reason for your joy any longer.

Now, you, like a wildflower,

Are experiencing spring again,

After a harsh winter.

You are spreading your petals,

And green leaves.

And I, like a fool,

Stare at the empty windowsill,

Not seeing you.

I cannot water you anymore,

And pearls, like dew

I cannot give you.

He watched you stand up and make your way to the exit, and without a moment of hesitation, he was out of his chair too, making a bee line to you, heart pounding at the idea of you. 

He caught you by the elbow as you turned away from the bar.

“Jongdae.” You warned him, voice low as you stared right into his eyes. Jongdae’s eyes were soft when he looked at you, and you could make out their glassy sheen of tears in the darkness.

“I know what I did wrong.” He told you, sincerity lacing his voice, thick with remorse and deeper than usual. You could feel the desperation rolling off of him like waves.

He was wearing a nice suit today. A deep grey with a bluish tinge, and a white button up underneath. His fringe was parted, exposing his forehead and the straight brows that furrowed as he looked into your eyes, searching for something. Whatever it was; forgiveness or hate, he didn’t find it.

“I’m sorry.” He whispered.

“That is how I find out?” You spat. He knew you were talking about the anthology. 

“You didn’t call.” You accuse him, poking a finger against his chest, and he lets you.

“I wrote it.” He tells you, silently begging for you to understand. But you won’t. Not this time. You had told him already; tell me what happened, tell me why you didn’t talk to me. 

Instead, he wrote an anthology, spilling all of it on paper. Just like he always did. Just like you suspected he always would. And you had grown tired of that. He spilled all his emotions onto paper, dressed hem up in pretty words and rhymes. Devoted his time into doing so. By doing that he left you alone, and as he spilled all the love he had for you somewhere else, you were left to give him your love. Over the last months of yoir relationship, all the little acts of love had ceased to exist. There was no notes left on the fridge, there was no flowers on the vase on the table.

“You did.” You tell him, disappointment rolling off your tongue, leaving a bitter taste in your mouth. 

The whole world now knew you broke his heart. The whole world knew you left him without a word. But did the world know how he had left you, months before you left him? How you had sat at dinner alone and slept alone. Did they know that? Did Jongdae tell them that? Did he write about his faults? 

You didn’t know, and you didn’t know if you wanted to find out.

“Y/N.” He starts, but there is nothing that comes out of his mouth, and you shake your head. Desperately wanting him to understand. Because despite everything, you still love him, but you cannot live like this, like a stranger that shares his bed at night.

“I don’t think you figured it out quite yet.” You tell him when he stays silent, not knowing what to say. You find it amusing. A poet lost for words.

“I didn’t pay attention.” He confesses, looking defeated.

“I locked myself away and tried to run from you.” He tells you, walking closer, his wide eyes looking straight into your own.

“I was too proud to say something was wrong. Too proud to admit that I was doing something wrong.” He admitted, hands balled into fists. For a moment he averts his gaze, looking everywhere but you, before bringing it back to you, eyes red with unshed tears, shoulders shaking with frustration.

“I wasn’t sincere. I should have told you then, that I love you, instead of keeping it to myself. I thought you knew, but no one can read minds.”

“I’m sorry.” He tells you, and you know he is apologising for his actions. All but the writing. You could see the ink stains on his fingers even now. You had accepted him writing, locking himself up for a week and coming out a dying man. You have accepted that. But you have not accepted the way he treated you then, and you were not going to accept ever again.

“I’m not ready to accept your apology.” You tell him, voice even, and you seem calm as he looks at you with the hopeful spark fading from his eyes.

“Why didn’t you just,” You begin, searching for the right words, “Why didn’t you tell me then?” You finally ask, referring to the poems in the anthology. Love poems- all directed at you, written from the very beginning of your relationship.

“I didn’t know how.” He admits, wrapping his arms around you, burying his nose in your hair.

“You should have done this earlier.” You tell him, hugging him back, feeling like you have come back home for the first time in months.

“I know.” He whispers, caressing your hair, bringing you closer by the shoulders, until he envelops you.

“I know.” He mumbles again, and you listen to his heart beating out of his chest.

You move away, letting him go, before giving him one last look.

“I’m glad you know. Goodbye Jongdae.” You tell him, your voice soft, without any hint of malice. You seem content. You feel content. This was you leaving on your own terms. You loved him. of course you loved him. Sometimes though, you think, love is not enough. It does not keep you warm at night, or less lonely. Sometimes love is not given equally as it should. So you leave, walk away without turning back, knowing now where it was that he had spilled all his love- into words. You thought, that maybe, just maybe- Jongdae loved his words more than he loved you.

Jongdae followed your retreating figure walking back to your friends, glowing like the sun. As he was left in the dark night outside the bar, alone.

I’ve lost my privilege to love you

I can only apologize to you,

For being winter,

When I should have been endless spring;

How you were, 

My infinite happiness.

- The Beautiful goodbye I could not give you.

[dunebat]

Vader

Presenting a brief fanfic penned today for May the Fourth. Happy Star Wars Day, everyone!

The sun burned furiously in the evening skies over PT-187, heat waves shimmering over the bright beachfront as frothy, wind-tossed waves crashed against the sand… but he could feel no sun warming him and no gentle sea wind caressing his pale flesh. The sea salted the air around him, but the artificial olfactory receptors built into his helmet filtered out most of the ocean air, and his nostrils registered only the merest hint of the sensation.

Darth Vader, Dark Lord of the Sith and commander of the military might of the Galactic Empire, would never feel the sun or the wind again. He would never smell anything again, not the way most people detected scent, nor would he hear or see the way others heard and saw.

The armored life support suit he wore saw to that.

Instead, Vader felt only bunchy, padded fabric cushioning and sealing off his still-highly sensitive epidermis from the worlds around him, the suit's climate control functions keeping him forever cool. Never cold like the blessed chilly nights of arid, dune-washed Tatooine after both the planet's suns had set, never warm like the lakeside shores of placid, picturesque Naboo at summertime, merely cool enough for some meager measure of comfort amidst all the other lesser torments the suit inflicted upon him. He sometimes had to remind himself that these minor chivvies were a small sacrifice, as this suit saved his life.

He never heard the sounds of the worlds he visited — never heard the trill of the native birds, the rustling of dead leaves, the crackling of ice beneath his feet, or the bustle of each planet's sentient inhabitants as they rushed about their business — with the full breadth and scope that each sound carried as they vibrated through the air on their way to his ear. Instead, tiny microphones captured each and every sound with the same stale mechanical efficiency that they picked up any other sound and transmitted these sounds to his scabbed and scarred eardrums via tinny, scratchy speakers based on technology now a decade old. Each sound trilled in his ears at either too high or too low a register, causing his ears no end of pain no matter how often he adjusted the pitch, bass, treble, or volume. He gave up trying to find a comfortable, almost-natural volume years ago; he simply set his helmet's speakers to a volume that caused his ears the least pain and left the settings there. His technicians assured him that upgrades would be coming as soon as the technology was ready and he had enough downtime for his technicians to install the new audio sensors.

Vader would not hold his breath waiting. The galaxy roiled and trembled in chaos, and he had been tasked with ordering it by force.

Not that he could hold his breath if he wanted to. If his hellish existence had any constant, it was the deep, rumbling sound of his own mechanically aided respiration. An administrative underling had told him once, long ago, that the sound produced by his suit's built-in respirators was terrifying, and though Vader would never admit it to anyone, he understood exactly what that underling meant.

When Vader first heard his own mechanical breathing — a thunderous, ever-constant sound in his own beleaguered ears — he was frightened by it. After being sealed up in his black life-support armor for the first time ten years ago, Vader remembered how the sound had chilled him to his core, not solely by the sound of it, but by its consistency. Most sentients take the way their speech or their physical activity distorts their breathing for granted. Vader could speak, he could whisper, he could scream, and his breathing remained at its constant, computer-controlled rate throughout. He could run five kilometers aided solely by his prosthetic legs or leap incredible lengths with the Force granting him wings, he could spar with his combat training droids for days on end or physically exert himself in the most exhausting ways imaginable, and his mechanical breathing would remain as constant as the motions of the stars.

It was maddening. He couldn't sleep for almost a full week after he was first sealed in the suit. Over time, however, his mechanical respiration went from terrifying to irritating to infuriating, until it finally became just another part of his day-to-day existence. The breathing used to drown out all other sounds at times; now, it served as a constant reminder that he was alive — he still alive no matter who or what had tried to kill him over the years, that he had lived through Hell itself and had come out the other side of the most transformative trials any Sith would ever face. He had conquered every foe set before him. Though he had sacrificed so much of who he once was, at each day's end, his breathing reminded him that he had been molded into a new creature, an engine of fierce and terrible order to be imposed upon the wild and unruly Galaxy, and that breathing — once an irritant, now an almost meditative sound at times — and the life that it gave him was part of his reward, as was the power to impose the stability of order and the rule of law to everything he set his eyes upon…

…And all that he saw now was red. If he missed any of his senses, the sense he missed the most was his sight. Not that Vader was blind, of course. His eyesight had been almost fully restored years ago after his painful rebirth at fiery Mustafar years ago, and Vader could see with crystal clarity, though he could only use his natural eyes in specially-designed hyperbaric living chambers that allowed him to remove his life-support mask. Vader was forced to wear his life-support helmet whenever he left his habitations, and the helmet's computerized lenses rendered the worlds he visited in harsh shades of crimson.

Vader had been informed by his technicians that this was a practical choice: red lenses were excellent for computer-enhanced vision in both day and night, and seeing via red light at night preserved his eyes' night vision. Though he missed seeing the beauteous colors of life at times, Vader agreed with his technicians. As beautiful and splendid as the hues and shades of life could be, color and beauty were distractions. They bound the viewer to the forces of life around them, fooling them into accepting the meaningless nonsense of life as it was instead of seeing what life could be. Red lenses, Vader had discovered, were the purest way to view life.

All the passion inherent in existence, the roiling ambitions of the Imperial officers serving alongside him and the blood-bought devotion of stormtroopers serving under him in the 501st Legion, all the petty cruelties and impersonal horrors life had to offer, were revealed in their stark, cataclysmic glory by the color red. When Vader gazed upon the worlds he would visit, he saw through his mask's crimson lenses the blood that united all lifeforms in the sanguine tableau of existence in all its shades, from bright and screaming pink to electric carmine and rusty, slaughterous crimson. He saw no inequity between individuals and the differences between sentient beings expressed in their skin tones no longer held any meaning for him. Everyone, everything, was all the same: the color of lust, rage, life, and death, all things deemed "precious" to the Sith.

When Vader scanned the breathtaking vista before him, he saw neither the glimmering turquoise sea, nor the setting sun's red-orange final furies as it spread its dying light across the sky, nor the golden sands that inspired poets and artisans throughout PT-187's storied history. All Vader saw was the blood-red madness that seeped from the darkest shadows of this world's turbulent heart… and the apocalypse that he would visit upon this planet when his forces razed its capital city to the sands beneath it.

PT-187 — that was the designated assigned to the planet by Imperial administrators — was a virgin world boasting beautiful beaches and plentiful natural resources that had only been discovered two years ago by Corporate Sector scouts traversing yet another new trade route through hyperspace. Its native society was highly industrialized and had only recently colonized their planet's two moons, but they had yet to develop technology more advanced than the basic chemical rocket or metal projectile weapons. Though PT-187 possessed its own planet-wide computer network, the planet's inhabitants were largely ignorant busybodies toiling away at meaningless tasks to support their dreary lives. None of them had any knowledge of the Force, or of the wider Galaxy beyond their world's atmosphere. No centralized government existed yet; a handful of larger political polities bullied smaller states into submission, and wars were frequent. Ambassadors from the nearest Imperial sector had made their overtures to the pitiful beings that the planet's inhabitants deemed their "leaders" only to be rebuffed, then felled, by the unruly inhabitants.

No matter; there would always be uncivilized natives, rioting protestors, greedy backstabbing nobles, overzealous political dissidents, or thugs and gangsters whose criminal ambitions outgrew their social standings, Vader mused. This was simply the ebb and flow of life in the Galaxy. The unruly, undisciplined, and uncivilized refused all vestiges of order when it was presented to them, and they would always, always respond to that halcyon order with brutal, unthinking violence, no matter how much that order could benefit them. That was simply the reality of life in the Empire, just as it was in the days of the corrupt and inept Republic that preceded it. When they did, that was when Imperial naval forces would be dispatched to impose order, whether the barbarous fools wanted it or not.

The Imperial Navy had successfully blockaded PT-187 for six months, but the threat of starvation had only emboldened the more zealous of the planet's savage inhabitants. Vader and the 501st Legion had been dispatched to bring an end to the pointless conflict three days ago, and his troopers had already made tremendous headway, especially after their major military command centers had been obliterated from orbit by his flagship's laser cannons.

Vader and his troops landed during the cannonade and assaulted the planet's major centers of government, and blood was all he had seen since. He and his forces waded through it as his lightsaber — a blade as bright as the life essence it spilled onto PT-187's sands — and his trooper's blasters carved swaths of carefully-constructed order through the disarray of rebellion, bringing the glorious stability of victory forth from the chaos of armed conflict. Within hours, several of PT-187's political entities had surrendered, and the rest had fallen into silence as their warriors fell on the battlefields.

Finally, step by bloody step, Vader stood on the beaches surrounding the capital city of one of the planet's three strongest nation-states. The first of the other strongest nation-states was cowed into submission after Vader had personally strangled their head of state as her citizens watched in horror, and the second had surrendered hours later. This final nation-state, a haven of misguided idealists, zealous militants, greedy corporate moguls, and corrupt politicians, was the only bastion of what passed for organized resistance remaining on this world. It reminded Vader so much of the outdated Republic that he would have vomited in disgust, had his suit's onboard medical computer would have allowed his stomach to do so.

Vader scanned the idyllic beaches through his helmet's blood-red lenses, visualizing the crimson carnage he would wreak upon world after world to birth the Emperor's New Order as his heavily-armored mechanical feet crunched their way across the sands. Even through the cacophonous din of the orbital cannonade ravaging the city's pitiful defenses and the sizzles of blaster-fire that erupted from his troops' weapons, Vader could hear the ever-constant sound of his own breathing — once a reminder of his imprisonment in his imposing black battle armor, now a symbol of every victory he had wrested from the cruel Force since Mustafar.

As the planet's screaming inhabitants fled all around him, he focused on his breath and stretched out with the Force. He drew upon the fear and rage of the fools native to PT-187 as he drew upon their lusts, their ambitions, their hatreds, and all the other passions of this world's inhabitants, and added it to his own as he carved a path further into the battlefield.

"Lord Vader," his troop's commander squawked over Vader's communicator from further ahead, "we've mopped up resistance at the capitol building and are prepared to make our final assault into their senate chambers."

"Wait for my signal," Vader's booming artificial voice barked, and he smiled as he cut down a few more of PT-187's rebels. Soon, this world would be washed in the blood of renewal that Vader had been baptized with a decade ago, and when he and the 501st were finished, the Imperial administers would christen the world with a new name, as Vader had been so christened that fateful, fiery evening on Mustafar.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Many thanks to George Lucas, Lucasfilm Ltd, and to the Walt Disney Company, and may the Force be with you all.

[pundemic-thinks-he-can-write]

Ground Zero

Short Story, Horror

Despite the clear crisp Autumn afternoon, Albert saw a sky of black and red over the college in the valley below. Uniformed men to his left and right fidgeted and murmured uneasiness to one-another. Zachary nudged him with a water canteen.

"Huh?"

"I said what do you think the rain from a cloud like that looks like?"

"I don't think it's a cloud."

"'Course it's a cloud, what else makes the sky look like that? Must be full of, I don't know, fumes from their science experiments or something. Hey, Command wouldn't send us in there unless they know it's safe to breathe that stuff, right?"

He didn't reply, his attention back on the mass of roiling, blackened hellfire. As he watched new colours billowed out from the centre, bright electric blue and pink. The low voices around him rose to a clamour. Moments later, a much louder one brought a hush down on them.

"We're moving out! On your feet, now! Move, move, move!"

Men scrambled into motion, unsettlingly quiet. They were winning, their enemies beaten back over countless engagements and now cornered in these remote lands. Despite this, none of them had wanted to grant any reality to the idea of venturing down into that valley. It wasn't that they knew what they would find there. It was that, based on the stories from those few who had been there before and returned, no one had any idea.

~ * ~

Gunfire had dulled to a continual staccato thudding in Albert's ears. He sat numb against the trench wall, staring as Zachary gazed past him with an expression of perplexed alarm. Red trickled from an ugly gunshot wound torn through the upper right-hand side of the young man's head. His hair was matted and filthy.    

That's just how it is, some distant part of him mused. You start off and end up that way. It's the part in-between that's the bizarre exception. Why the hell would anyone spend any of that miraculous time doing what he was doing right now?

An explosion shook dirt loose around him, a shockwave blasting over his head and whipping his hair forward. The world came back into focus, in all its dirty, blood-smeared glory. Maybe he could find some worth in it. Maybe, in all this death, he could live. He peeked up over the lip of the trench, relishing the feeling of precipitous peril it gave him and blocking out everything else.  

There, not too far off now, was Wrentham College.

He didn't see many of his fellow combatants. Most of them were either lagging apprehensively behind or charging ahead, and most of the latter had probably ended up like Zachary already. Or worse.

Dirt burst in Albert's face sending him diving back into the trench. But he had seen the shooter, his eye drawn by the resounding crack of a rifle; brown uniform, purple armband. He drowned primal terror with a deep breath, gripped his own rifle, allowed himself to realise that just as that man could shoot, so could he.

Shoulder. Aim. Fire. He sent three rounds across the ravaged battleground, and one found its target. The figure went down.

Before throwing himself back into cover, Albert cast a wild glance behind. A friendly squad advanced, cautiously but steadily. Hope. Salvation. With renewed vigour he turned back to the College just in time to see a ghastly green light flare from the uppermost rooms of the tallest spire, its huge ornate windows unbelievably bright.

And the sound.

It was a tearing, shrieking cacophony, which triggered something far deeper in his woefully simple mind than the panic of combat had, something he couldn't possibly understand. The light in the tower grew brighter, too bright to look at. Albert turned away.

And behind him yawned a void. The very earth had fallen away to absolute nothingness - miles of unfathomable black space where hundreds of men had been moments before. As maddening as that was, what came next was worse.

Things began to rise from the void. Immense, malevolent, impossible things. But only for a moment. With a blink they were gone, leaving empty space growing vaster every second as the ground continued to crumble.  

Albert ran, heedless of the bullets ahead. They didn't scare him anymore. No room remained in his mind for such ordinary fear. He didn't look back again.

~ * ~      

He had been shot twice and thrown shrapnel-torn to the ground by a landmine, but somehow Albert now stood before the old structure, its walls red-brown like dried blood. Nearly a dozen enemy troops lay dead in his wake. Upon seeing them up close he had realised they weren't quite human. They once had been, perhaps, but now their faces and hands looked alien, grotesquely elongated, their tongues dangling like eels from unhinged jaws, their eyes bulging, clouded, and utterly insane.  

And yet Albert had never felt so free. Not as a child climbing the trees and seaside cliffs near his home. Not as a student flaunting exams in favor of music and parties. Not as a newlywed falling blissfully into the arms of his lover. Something had snapped in his mind, and suddenly the possibilities were endless and terrifying and wonderful.

His rifle was empty, magazines all spent, so he absently discarded it and drew his pistol. Flat against the building he crept around towards the main entrance. As he approached a pair of heavy wooden double doors, he saw that the void stopped just short of the grand black iron gates that marked the entrance to Wrentham College grounds. Two of the uniformed not-humans stood guard there. Albert was unnoticed. A barrage of pistol shots swiftly ended them.

The huge doors, barred and impenetrable, still stood between him and whatever waited inside. That was all he could think about now, and he tried not to do much thinking even about that. It didn't matter what he might do about it, what might happen to him, how many more people he might have to kill. All the mattered was that he chose to pit his will and body against this horrific, unknowable force, and that maybe that would be enough to make a difference.

He began to climb. The building's ostentatious pillars, awnings, and ledges proved helpful, and even injured and exhausted Albert made good progress. The less of whatever was inside he had to deal with, the better, so he aimed to get as close as possible to his goal before making an entrance. That goal, of course, was the topmost room from which had shone that unearthly green light. Craning his neck in an attempt to make out his path, he saw the swirling miasma in the sky above in its full glory.

The last stretch of the climb was a sheer tower sprouting up alone from the sweeping rooftops. Albert clung to the meager hand and foot-holds above a several-hundred foot drop. It would have been heart-stopping had he not been so focused, his mind not brimming with mad clarity. Finally he reached the turret chamber. His aching fingers gripped the ledge outside the window, and a too-wide smile spread across his face.

Dangling by one hand he drew his pistol and fired blindly at the window. Shattered glass rained down on him, slashing at his hands and face. He swore as his gun tumbled from his grip; it would be several long moments before it smashed against the ground below. Albert heaved his bloodied body up and into the chamber.    

Directly beneath a gaping hole ripped through the ceiling, a woman stood, arms stretched heavenward. Robed, hooded figures surrounded her, heads bowed, hands clasped. Low chanting reverberated. Albert couldn't see the figures' faces, but their hands were visible at the ends of their baggy, dark purple sleeves. Those hands were not the hands of normal men.

The woman, however, was startlingly human. Gold glasses perched on her hooked nose, and her long grey-streaked hair was bound in simple braids. A great tome lay open on a podium before her. The only things about her to suggest anything unnatural were her eyes. But they were more than enough. They glowed with that same bright green light from somewhere deep inside her, almost as if from far away. Those eyes were fixed on Albert.

"Your lives are unimportant. The ritual must not be interrupted," she said, calmly but with such intensity as Albert had never heard even from his strictest drill sergeants. As she stared at him, Albert saw a shadow move across her face. No, not a shadow. A shape. Something moving beneath her skin. Trying to get out.  

"Wait! No more fighting. We can talk. Explain this to me, I don't understand," he said, voice choked and edged with hysteria. But it was no use.

The nearest robed figure spun about and lunged for him. As they did so the other figures hunched and cringed momentarily, as though taking a painful weight upon their shoulders. But Albert didn't notice. His arms went up to catch his assailant's clawing hands, but the real danger came lashing out from beneath the creature's hood - a long, slender, mottled tongue. It slapped against his face and snaked its way inside one of his nostrils. Crying out, sputtering, recoiling in revulsion, Albert fell beneath the monstrosity.

Somehow he managed to draw his combat knife before his back and head slammed painfully against the ground. He slashed out frantically again and again, feeling the blade bite into rubbery flesh. He sliced off that grotesque tongue, opened up the creature's neck, and pushed the spasming body off him. He stood and groped at his face, hand slick with inhuman blood. The feeling as he yanked the dismembered tongue from his nose sent him into a fit of shuddering.  

Another two hooded figures broke away and advanced. Albert brandished his blade but lost ground fast, backing off until he was pressed against the wall.

The chanting died as the rest of the figures buckled one by one. They collapsed, began to writhe, green light spewing from inside their hoods, screeching horrendously. The two who had broken away abruptly clutched their heads and moaned. The woman in the centre dropped to one knee. She stared at Albert with the purest hatred he had ever known.  

Then she noticed something, as though hearing a faint sound that no one else could. A different kind of gleam appeared in those blazing green eyes. She smiled at Albert, teeth perfect and white.  

"It's done."  

Albert launched himself at her, channeling all the pain and fear and desperation of the last few hours into that single motion. He toppled the podium, shoved the woman hard, sent her sprawling back across the floor. At that moment a tremendous thunderclap, no, a thunderclap's nightmare, rent the air. In its ear-ringing wake Albert could faintly hear the woman screaming in denial.

He was awash in crackling purple light that descended on him through the hole in the roof, from the chromatic sky above. It flooded through him, infusing him, changing his form, pouring immeasurable energy into his very essence. That which defined him, body and mind, began to dissipate. This was death. Or at least something so close to it that there was no meaningful distinction.  

His last thoughts were of his new family waiting for him back home. Of how he didn't regret leaving them, didn't mind that he would never see them again. Of how, secretly, the conscription had been a relief, had freed him. Of how maybe, if what people said was true, death would free him as well. He smiled as the purple light filled his vision completely, overwhelmed all his senses, drowned out his mind. Then Albert was gone.

[joinmeinmylonelymuses]

Entry 2

“ Should I worried that my so called boyfriend is more than pleased to text my best friend instead of me?

 Any rational person would just drop everything and run the other direction because everything about that screamed ‘HEARTBREAK’ but like any love sick girl, I fucking stayed.

Why? oh y’know, the usuals, because I still love him. Your next question would most probably, “ why still love him after he treated you like shit? “ honestly, I don’t even know myself. 

It hurts, it truly does. Don’t get me wrong, I didn’t mind if he was texting my best friend. He was a guy after all and by all means he can text whoever he wants but was I really that invisible? was I some practical joke?

I brought my legs closer to my chest, ducked my head in between, my sobs becoming muffled. I was a mess, hell my room is a disaster. Tissue paper is scattered everywhere. I’m pretty sure that’s the second box of tissue I used this month. I wrapped my blanket tighter around myself hoping to get as much warmth I could possibly get from this cold place I call my room. 

My eyes locked on a picture frame on my night stand next to my bed. It was a picture of my best friend and I. I could feel my eyes gathering tears, threatening to spill once again over my already red and swollen eyes and I was reminded why I was in the position I am now in the first place. 

I love my best friend so much. Even if my so called boyfriend is texting her I couldn’t be angry at her, even when I wish I could because she didn’t do anything wrong. Was I jealous? Of course I am , while she’s getting his undivided attention I was here with nothing but a blue tick. I didn’t want to throw my anger and jealousy at her when it wasn’t her fault in the first place. Call me a bitch for being cold towards her lately, but I really didn’t want to put my anger towards her. 

My best friend is gorgeous, she doesn’t even know it .She’s the purest human being in this freaking planet. She deserves all the love and care that is thrown at her. I wouldn’t be surprised if my so called boyfriend likes her because compared to her I was just average. I know she wouldn’t hurt me like that, I also know she doesn’t have feelings for him, even if she did, I would’ve given her my blessings to date him, even if it hurts the shit out of me.

My phone buzzed next to me, signaling I had a notification. The tiny hope in me was hoping it was from him, but my heart knew it wasn’t. At last, my heart was right, it was a text from my best friend for the umpth time asking if I was alright. She knew something was up and tried to get me to tell her but I couldn’t bring myself to. I was scared I would do or say something I will regret after. Ignoring her text, I locked my screen and curled myself into a fatal position and drown myself in self-pity. 

Doubts have been swirling in my head for the past week and has given me the biggest migraine ever. Does he really love me? Was this some April Fool’s prank he’s pulling on September? Was I someone he can occasionally look for?

A secret love song, that’s what we are. We kept it lowkey and didn’t tell anyone about our relationship ( not sure if you can call it one ) except for my best friend and 2 other close friends of mine. We haven’t seen each other for a than a month even after we “ got together “. We weren’t like other couples, let alone texted like one. Do you understand why I constantly have doubts coming about? Is it bad that I don’t see this a relationship anymore? 

I thought of countless scenarios of what would happen the next time I see him. Even in my pathetic state, I imagined myself being brave, stalked to where he was and slapped him across his face and telling him off but deep down I knew I couldn’t bring myself to. My weak heart would ask me to walk away and try my best to keep big fat tears from rolling down my face. 

Another sob sounded from my lips as another wave of tears begin to escape my eyes. I could taste the saltiness of my tears as it continues its down pour. I wish he knew, that what he was doing was breaking me piece by piece. I wish he knew he’s the reason to my vulnerability and insecurities. I wish he knew what he said was hurtful. I wish he knew I was hurt. I wish he could feel the pain I was going through. But most of all, I wish he felt guilty for what he has done. 

I wasn’t stupid I knew from our dry and lifeless conversations, it was apparent he didn’t seem to care nor did he give two fucks about what was being said. Then I thought, did I even matter to him? Was I even remotely close to an important person in his life? Was he deliberately dragging the conversation and replying me late? 

I want so much to hate him for being a fucking asshole, for making me his play- pretend, for giving me hope. But more so, I hate myself because I can’t. I hate myself that I dug myself a hole too deep in that I can’t climb out. I hate myself for loving him.

Minutes passed, I am exhausted, my eyes are sore. With that final thought, I allowed myself drifted into a soundless sleep. In hopes this madness will be over soon enough. “ 

Lonely Muses out x