#gloaming tethers

[lailoken]

The Gloaming Tethers

The Gloaming tethers are a pair of ritual fetishes that hold great significance in my personal tradition.

The first of the two pictured here (from left to right) serves a talismanic link to my Witch-Queen—who I often call Bone Mother—and to the Chthonic Realm of the Underworld that she oversees. It was fashioned from a Black Basalt Hagstone, secured by a cord strung with 13 bone beads, including six beads made from Prehistoric Horse Bone, six beads made from Prehistoric Deer Bone, and one bead made from Antique Whale Bone that I inherited. The end-piece is a token of 6,000 year old Bog Yew, carved with a triskelion, and glazed with a wood varnish made using Storax resin. I utilize this Talisman when working with Ancestral Spirits, or with Chthonic Wights, such as psychopomps.

The second of these serves a talismanic link to my Witch-Father—who I often call Wilding King—and to the Upper Realm of the Elemental World that he oversees. It was fashioned from a White Quartz Hagstone, secured by a cord strung with 13 handmade wood beads of alternating Elder, Hazel, Hawthorn, and Rowan. The end-piece is a token of local Elk shed-horn, carved to resembled a great tree, and glazed with a wood varnish made using Amber resin. I utilize this Talisman when working with Animistic Spirits or Elemental Wights.

Each of these Ritual Tethers are sacred to me. They each rest in places of power, pertinent to their respective magical nature, when not in use.

[tearblossom]

I just finished the novella, Wyn, and feel bad now. Not because I hated the book; I loved it! But because I have to adjust Wyn & Danny's position on the tier list and can't help but feel a little guilty about where that is. 😬

Wyn/Danny obsessers, if you're seeing this, I'm so sorry! I know you must be cringing in pain right now. 😅

In all honesty, I've enjoyed all of the couples so far, even the ones on my bottom tier. But, ultimately, I just feel like that is the correct spot for these two now because of how much my mind drifted while reading.

All of the hot sex scenes and even the pivotal moment of them tethering their lifespans (basically marriage) was interrupted by imaginings of other couples doing all of that. It's like, while so happy for Danny and Wyn, I couldn't fully concentrate on them in their moments because I was distracted, my mind and heart partially elsewhere.

That didn't happen while reading Gloam. 🤷‍♀️

[thefvrious]

@ghostsxagain sent -> 'shivers' for desi's reaction to jude trailing his fingers down desi's spine.

They're in the throes of reshoots, and Desi's really starting to think that there's something here, something that he can't explain away so easily as just falling deep into character. Yeah, maybe they did become Patroclus and Achilles, respectively, but that didn't matter. Not when his heart ached for Jude in the other man's absence.

He's been stuck in his head, he knows, and it's obvious. He can't stop looking at Judy every chance he gets, watching the way the sunset hits his eyes and makes them look like two little algae covered pebbles at the bottom of a clear creek. Desi is weak, obsessed, falling apart, and he doesn't want Jude to see it, doesn't know what he'll do with the rejection or the knowledge that he's responsible for ruining their beautiful, beautiful friendship.

He loves Jude, that much is obvious to him, but to what extent? Is it a friendly sort of love or is he in love, the way he's been convincing himself it's just his character in love with Judy's. The other actor is just that good, right? That has to explain it.

As the sun descends further below the horizon, sitting on the surface of the ocean in the distance like a pat of butter, Desi realizes it's easier to look at the it, to have his retinas burn, than to allow himself to look at Jude, half-clothed beside him and growing more beautiful as the twilight hour descends all around them and paints his perfect face and body in all the fleeting colors of the gloaming. But Judy, in tune as he is with Desi, can't let well-enough alone. Not in their moments of reprieve between shooting. He reaches out, like tethered to Desi, and touches the bare skin of his back, like wiping away grains of sand, but Desi knows, deep down, it's to anchor him, to silently ask him if he's okay, and his heart soars again. He tears his gaze away from the horizon and looks at Jude with that special smile reserved just for the other man — currently blond. "Everything's so beautiful, I'm not sure where to look."

[rojaschilders31]

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[sosaporterfield6]

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[hanayumi]

your beck ‘n call

(yan!scaramouche x reader x yan!childe)

tags: tw yandere, gore-ish, minor character death, unhealthy/obsessive relationships, soft yanderes, established rs, actually kinda fluffy minus the death

word count: 1.4k

a/n: something a lil’ different

“Serves you right.”

He spits venom as potent as the hatred coursing through his veins. A river of carmine runs like chains down his arm—but the blood isn’t his. Lightning flashes. The arctic raindrops meld with the red staining his skin like paint dripping from a canvas. Scaramouche doesn’t consider himself a petty person. Childe is bloodthirsty, callous in a terrible terrible way. He once liked to think of himself as the complete opposite of him. But as the dagger crashes to the ground, stained crimson with sin, Scaramouche feels sheer gratification darting like sparks down his spine.

The man’s body spasms and contorts before sinking into the earth, skin simmering off snow-white bone as bloodied fingertips reach somewhere—nowhere. As he stares and watches the light degrade from this filth’s eyes, Scaramouche can’t help but wonder what his last thought must’ve been. Tearing regret and crippling agony were emotions typically carved into the faces of those who crossed him in the past—an immortalised terror that remains soldered long after their dying moments. He’s seen so many bloody rotten corpses in his lifetime that he can’t find the energy to bat an eye. Yet any semblance of sympathy he could’ve ever felt for this man dissipated the second he was caught setting his sights on you as his next plaything.

No, that man didn’t deserve the luxury to talk to you. He would have to get on his hands and knees, forehead pressed deep into the dirt where he belonged, if he even desired to glance at you, let alone hear your voice.

The memory has red cutting across Scaramouche’s eyes.

He’d watched from afar, sweetheart, from the rack of peonies you’d told him to water for you, as the man so obviously chatted you up, debauched eyes dragging up your body. Eyeing you as if you were some slab of meat. He’d experienced for the first time what it feels like to have his blood boiling, as the man let his fingers run along the length of your arm, grinning wider when you recoiled in shock.

His teeth clench.

Scaramouche doesn’t consider himself a petty person, yet the need to protect you is tethered to a hair trigger.

This was necessary.

“Dead already? What a shame, I couldn’t wait to try my hand at torture.”

A lilting voice floats from the mouth of the alley. Another strike of lightning—a flash of white illuminating for a millisecond a looming figure in a fitting entrance. Scaramouche feels disgust coiling in a bitter spat in his stomach. Of course he’s here too.

“You’re late.” He suppresses a vehement sigh, peeling off bloodied gloves to run his fingers through slick, raven tresses. He can’t wait to leave the corpse for the rats, so he can hurry home back to you.

Childe licks his lips upon seeing the mess he’d made, a less-than-appreciated quip no doubt hovering on the tip of his tongue. “If you’re going to say something, at least help to clean up, won’t you?”

He’s met with a dark laugh from the ginger-haired man. “(Name) sent me to get you, actually. Was worried you got caught up at work or somethin’.”

“But.” Childe rubs his thumb over his chin in thought. “Looks like you’re out here doing God’s work.” His finger unfurls. His lips are turned upwards in a Cheshire grin—one that only sees the light when his presence bleeds into the gloaming sludge of darkness, solely to drive ice into the veins of his enemies.

Scaramouche rolls his eyes. At least there’s one thing they can both agree on.

When they get home it’s almost midnight, and his face softens once he sees you frown as you peek out behind the door, mumbling out a, “What took you so long?”

“I’m sorry, dear,” is all he can muster, but you can barely hear him when the rain is throwing such a tantrum outside. You step aside to let them in; they’re drenched from head to toe and you can’t help but fuss over how they’ll catch a cold, or get water all over your darn carpet. Really, is it so hard to use an umbrella?

Childe tells you that they had some extra business on their plate, and that it’s nothing to worry your pretty little head ‘bout, princess. His hands are wet too, and you almost flinch when he ruffles your hair affectionately. For once you don’t cave with a sigh.

“I was worried.” You pout and smother his face in a fluffy towel, nagging at them both to let you know in advance next time. Scaramouche feels a smile tugging at his lips when you turn and wrap a towel ‘round his head like you would a child, hands moving to scrub at his damp hair. Don’t stay out in the rain, okay? Your hat is not a good substitute for an umbrella. He snorts. Your voice is beautiful even when it comes out as a tiny whisper tickling his lips.

This is what he’s protecting.

Childe whines and calls your name as if he were left to die, butting in to press his cold cheek against yours. You squeal. Your hand is warm when you hurriedly grab theirs and tug them insistently towards the dining room. Childe is disgruntled but you can see his face light up instantly when he sees you’ve prepared his favourite dish—and dinner is delectable tonight. You often complain that it’s way too hard to cater to their distinct tastes, and yet all you’ve been doing is spoiling them rotten. Always so willing to make them happy.

Sweet—undeniably so, that’s how you’ve always always been to them; if Scaramouche thought himself a god, you’d be his Achilles heel.

And when you have something so precious to you, it’s only natural to want to protect it to the bitter end, no?

The rain grew softer—raindrops paint wet streaks down the window in tiny, inconsequential taps. Childe is a messy eater, with or without chopsticks. Noodles flop sloppily on the side of his mouth as Scaramouche scrunches up his nose in distaste. On instinct you reach across the table to pile chunks of food onto his plate. He’s not a fan of vegetables but you tell him it’s for his own good.

Complete and utter bliss didn’t grace Scaramouche as much in the past as compared to now, when he’s spending almost every waking second with you. Often times it was prized as the unreachable something; a mere spat that didn’t matter much when you’re apart of the Fatui and happiness is only optional in the bigger picture where you have irrefutable duties to fulfil. Moments like this seem like a fluke, with Scaramouche catching your gaze with a flicker of doubt, wondering when the world will decide so haphazardly to pull you from his fingertips—

Until you smile at him, and the growing unease is snuffed out in an instant.

Childe thinks you look pretty when you smile. Even prettier when pale streaks of moonlight sprinkle stardust in your eyes, accentuating the curve of your jaw when he cups it gently to press a kiss against your lips. (Though the dishes are left to rot in the sink as per his whining.) When he thinks of the scores of people he’s gotten rid of just to come home to you, he thinks it’s all in a day’s work. You’re lying in bed between the two of them, a soft yawn escaping from your lips as muscle memory leads your arm around his waist. He watches you struggle to stay awake, chuckling and telling you to go to sleep already.

The days used to blur into one another when he was still wandering without a home, awaking to congealed blood caking his skin—remnants of the meaningless slaughter that took place the night before. Before he met you he was supposedly well on his way to a premature death. Back then, he didn’t need an incentive to start fights with little care.

But now he’s finally found a reason to grow even stronger.

When his eyes meet Scaramouche’s over your dozing form, he sees a darkness glimmering in the latter’s eyes in a silent resolve to uphold their promise. Childe hates him, truly he does, hates the way he steals your attention always and prances around with that self-satisfied smirk of his. But there’s no one else that he could imagine entrusting your life alongside with.

And what’s another life to add to his growing number of kills?

One by one, he’ll eradicate the stains upon this world. You deserve that much, for someone they’ve decided to give their hearts wholly to.

[yeoldontknow]

the light keeper’s daughter | jhs (m) ↠ teaser

↝ Pairing: lighthouse keeper!hoseok x goddess of light!reader (oc; female) ↝ Genre: soulmate au; secret relationship au; gods/goddess au; mentions of arranged marriage; heavy angst; smut; romance; pining ↝ Rating: NC-17 | 18+ ↝ Summary: For years, you’ve kept your relationship with Hoseok a secret. As the daughter of the God of Light, you are destined to marry anyone who slays the beast in the Gloaming Isles in your honor. When that day finally comes, you go to Hoseok to tell him your relationship must end and you are set to be married. One last time, Hoseok reminds you no one will love you as eternally, as enduringly, as he. ↝ Warnings: explicit sex; explicit language; pregnancy; unprotected sex; creampie; clit biting; masturbation; pain kink; size kink; overstimulation; some light degradation; dirty talk; cum play; panty sniffing; crying; biting; marking; scratching; brief mentions of blood ↝ Word Count: projected - 14k | teaser - 1.2K    ↝ special thank you to @jamaisjoons​ for this amazing banner!    ↝ full fic coming july 31

‘Hoseok.’ The quiver of your bottom lip disrupts the cadence of his name, besmirching it to little more than a sob.

Sucking air through his teeth, Hoseok leans forward, pressing his forehead against yours as his eyes fall shut. At such close proximity, you study the almost feminine length of his eyelashes, the pores of his skin, and wonder who or what god or demon you could barter with to stay inside him forever.

‘You’re supposed to be mine,’ he whimpers, the sadness welling up in him like a mountain. ‘You are mine, but…I will always be yours. Even when they untie us, I’ll be yours. They can’t thread me with anyone else. I don’t think my soul will allow it.’ 

Unable to sustain it any longer, your desire for him rises to a swell, erupting beside your sorrow - just as fervent, and even more unyielding. His words are a comfort, an echo you will revisit over and over when you have long departed, but your skin has learned how to ache for his touch, learned how to anticipate the way he moves over you like water, and you need it. You need him.

The rest of your pitiful existence looms out before you, days and months and centuries passing without Hoseok to hold you and keep you, and you despise the very notion of it. You rebuke it, refusing to let yourself continue on without knowing how it feels to have him. Tonight, you do not want him as your lover.

Tonight, you want him as your husband.

‘Kiss me,’ you announce, guiding his forehead away from yours, skin prickling with the lack of his warmth. ‘Kiss me like it’s our wedding. I -’ The tightness of your voice steals your breath, words hot and heavy in your mouth as you say them. ‘I want to know what a marriage bed truly feels like. I want to know what our marriage bed would be like.’

Mad with an unbearable passion, no longer contained, Hoseok heeds your words and lets his tongue wander over the seam of your lips. You cling to him, clutching what you can of his shape, his body, and you sigh in woeful euphoria, granting him unspoken entry to the recesses of your mouth - but he does not enter. Your lover has always been disobedient, reckless in the evening when your skin and your lips and your heart are presented to him, and tonight he is no different.

Tonight, he scorns the hour, taking his time as he traces over your cupid’s bow with his tongue, rendering the turn of the earth meaningless. The heat of his breath tickles your skin, a cascade in which you luxuriate, and your eyes, blurred by the urgency of your desire, lose all sense of your surroundings until there is only Hoseok.

Hoseok - on you, around you, all over you, the rain and the wind all at once.

Only when he has had his fill of your lips does he press the whole of his mouth against yours, sucking languidly at your bottom lip. Skin growing tight, you keen into his kiss, consumed by greed. Slowly, he moves his hands down and down, letting his fingers trace indeterminate lines over your cheeks, your jaw, your bones until they rest at your neck. With his palm over your pulse, he holds you still, his touch a fever, his touch the sun, radiating deep into the caverns of your heart. 

Filled with him, you think. Absolutely alive with him, Hoseok lets his palm cradle the tether of your life until you are certain he is the oxygen made to sustain your mortal form. You, living and breathing, are little more than remnants of departed touches, composed entirely of his affections, his affirmations, his adoration.

So, too, do you kiss at him, battling against him for any semblance of permanence, demanding that you be remembered. Feeling you writhe against him, insistent in your need for closeness, he hums in pleasure, a musical sound that traverses your synapses with unhurried ease. Gooseflesh raises on your arms, either by a passing breeze or the way Hoseok leans in, harder, rougher, all manner of dominance in the way he so desperately seeks to have you, and you shiver, delighted by the peak in your senses; delighted, fundamentally, that you will commit every moment of this last evening to bodily memory.

Willing to be devoured, you surrender to him, feeling arousal leak from between your folds as though his savagery has given it permission to spill over. It soaks into your underwear where you briefly mourn the fact that it will not coat your thighs, not yet, and that Hoseok must wait to see how easily you could paint yourself in your wanting. Like always, he anticipates you and ardent your longing; perceptive and always acutely aware of the way you have grown wanton. depraved by the strength of his kisses alone. 

Hoseok eases his hand to the back of your neck, determination apparent in his grip, and guides you forward to rest in his lap. Letting your legs settle on either side of his thighs, you straddle him, unwilling to break any contact he has with you, your skin, you, your hands on him. You come together like a cataclysm, the burgeoning tip of his erection firm and stubborn where it presses against your core, assertive and tantalizing even beneath the fabric of his trousers. 

It’s lewd the way you crave him so deep inside you, jaw dropping as your mouth opens wide to gasp in delight. Hoseok wastes no time in letting his tongue glide against yours, explorative and eager, utterly deliberate in his stroking. Slowly, the tips of his fingers move from your neck to your hairline, ever deeper and ever more intrusive. A low chuckle rumbles in his throat as he runs his tongue over yours, grazing the roof of your mouth before he forms a fist in your hair and tilts your head back, swift and aggressive. 

All at once he pulls away, face hovering just centimeters above yours and gaze hooded as he explores your lustful expression. A flush creeps into your cheeks, the control he has over the flow of your blood is always surprising even if it is to be expected. Hoseok seems pleased, evident in the familiar way his eyes have become blackened by the force of his yearning and the smile that has worked its way into the corner of his lips, a secret for only you to discover. He takes a pause, disregarding his haste, to regard you: your parted lips, your heated cheeks - a fire that has spread itself over your chests and breasts.

‘You are a vision of sin,’ he murmurs, cocking his head to the side and tightening his grip in your hair. ‘What would all the gods say?’

Your own nails scratch tenderly into his scalp, gripping his hair to mirror his hold on you. Futile, you know. The strength in Hoseok is silent, a gift that makes him appear merely pretty until the seat of his power is fully revealed, a fortitude you could never mimic.

You swallow, preparing to speak, and watch the way Hoseok studies the movement of your throat. ‘They would call me a harlot.’ 

His gaze returns to yours, an otherwise thoughtful look turned menacing by the terror of his passion. ‘And are you?’

Tongue heavy in your mouth, you struggle with the few words you can manage. ‘They will make me out to be,’ you affirm slowly, poignantly, ‘and it will be your fault. You’ve made me a slut.’

[pentecostwaite]

The Death and Resurrection of Pentecost Waite

The Afterlife of an Unrepentant Sinner, a somewhat fictional Account.

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

It is night, and Pentecost Waite waits. It’s something he’s grown accustomed to in the 300-odd years since his death. 

Living men have no idea how haunted they are, how myriad the phantoms that swirl about them. This surprised Pentecost when he became a phantom himself. Looking back, it would have been most useful if Reverend Fiske had but once mentioned this from his creaking pulpit, instead of droning ever on about witches. In near three centuries, Pentecost has not encountered a single witch, but he has seen ghosts galore. The truth is, the dead are everywhere.

When he considers it, he cannot help but think bitterly of his own death as the farcical end of a life barely begun. Twenty-five years of unspeakable longing. A single passionate but deeply unwise encounter in the Wenham Common Wood. And in the end, his handsome dalliance, Flee-Fornication Waldron, belatedly lived up to his name and, guilt-ridden, whispered of their sin to another. How swiftly a whisper travels in a community of the godly! Three days later, as his sister answered the door to the dark visages of the Deacon and Constable, Pentecost slipped out the back ell and began to run. 

He didn’t stop until he reached York, on the northern frontier of the Massachusetts Bay Colony. There, he wagered, his sins could not follow. But in the greatest irony of all, just as he tasted freedom from the stifling press of his former community, a chance to live out his days undisturbed, if not entirely fulfilled, Death came for him--as it so often does when man is least prepared.

The tavern where Pentecost had planned to spend his first night in York was full to bursting at an hour past sundown, as was his bladder on account of the plentiful cheap ale. He’d packed his clay pipe with borrowed tobacco, drew a rushlight from the fire and headed outside to heed nature’s insistence. In the gloaming, as Pentecost lit his pipe, the traitorous ale weakened his knees and he lost his footing. He hadn’t noticed the embankment there, and fell backwards down the slope, striking his head on a large stone. Blinding pain, and then nothing.

After death, lucky souls are immediately ascendant, or so Pentecost assumes. The unlucky linger on the earth. And the unluckiest, by force or circumstance become trapped, attached to some meaningless object: a kid-skin glove, an oak aumbry, a cocked beaver hat, or in Pentecost’s case, the stem of his clay smoking pipe. The best he can discern, he must have bitten it into pieces when his head struck the rock, and his soul rushed in. He is tethered to this clay piece like a ship to an anchor. He is not alone. More tethered souls dot the landscape around him, just out of reach. A garden of ghosts.

In death, the monotony is pervasive. Through the decades, Pentecost has watched the tavern become a home, watched children grow and die. Clothing and speech change, but people remain the same. He expected to go on like this, a silent shipwrecked observer, as the pipe stem crumbled to dust. 

That is, until HE came.

People tour the former tavern now in eager groups. They cluster in the back on the spot where the drunken taverners once pissed and speak loftily of The History Of The Place. Sometimes, one of the group hangs back when the rest have moved on. They gaze at the building, peruse the ground, pocket a sherd of broken pottery. And that is how Pentecost came to be found.

How the young man spotted the artifact in the shadow of the embankment, Pentecost will never know. In a moment, the pipe stem was plucked from the ground by nimble, curious fingers, and Pentecost with it. Gently pushed into a darkened pocket, he was free.

How to describe the whirlwind journey to the young man’s home later that day? Impossibly fast, a hurricane of color and speed in one of the horseless carriages Pentecost had observed for years with curiosity and trepidation. The young man’s rooms were small, simple, bright with windows. He emptied his pockets on a table by his bedstead, and examined the pipe stem again. Pentecost stood awkwardly in the corner, a guest without an invitation.

The young man, brown of hair and eye, was disarmingly handsome in a boyish way, polite and soft-spoken as he greeted his neighbors earlier on the doorstep. And he smelled divine. Something stirred within Pentecost.

That night, when the young man retired to bed, and with nothing preventing him, Pentecost slid beneath the covers. He lay awake all night, intoxicated by their proximity, memorizing every crease and curve of the young man’s face, the sound of his breath, the slow beat of his heart. That such exquisite intimacy unavailable in life could be so easily come by in death was both an amazement and a grief in turns.

In the morning, the young man arose and left the house. By night he returned. And so Pentecost slipped into a new and wondrous routine: nights spent pressed close beside the young man, and days spent exploring his rooms. 

The young man was an avid reader, Pentecost quickly discovered, and half-opened books lay on nearly every surface. Through experimentation Pentecost learned to turn the pages, and once he did, he read everything in sight. At last, he felt like he could face eternity. 

It is night, and Pentecost Waite waits. 

The young man is late this evening. When he arrives home, he looks weary from work. He has a quiet supper. He washes the dishes and spends a long while looking out the kitchen window towards the rising moon. When he makes his way to the bedroom, Pentecost follows.

The young man empties his pockets on the bedside table, as he does every night. Tonight he picks up the pipe stem there and turns it over and over between his fingers. Time seems to slow.

“I know you’re here,” he says at last. He raises his head to look around the room. 

Pentecost freezes.

“You’re the one who’s been reading all my books, aren’t you? I see the shape of your head on the pillow every morning.”

The young man holds up the pipe stem, eyes still searching the room. 

“You came in on this, and now you’re here with me.” It’s more of a statement than a question.

Silence hangs thick as a curtain. After a moment, the young man opens a drawer in the bedside table and slides the pipe stem in gently, reverently, as if it were Pentecost’s immortal soul itself.

“So you don’t get lost ever again,” the young man murmurs. 

Pentecost realizes he is quivering.

Slowly, slowly, the young man raises his arms, pulls his shirt off over his head. He’s beautiful in the half-light, achingly so. They face each other in the deep stillness that follows. Then the young man holds out his hand.

“Come to bed,” he says, and smiles.

Pentecost doesn’t wait, not one single minute more.

(Apocrypha)

[hoopdiddies]

I'm Not Over You //Ben Hardy x Reader (Part 3)

Summary: You had always loved Ben ever since you two met in university and became the best of friends. That feeling went out like a candle flame when the two of you parted ways until he re-entered your life...but this time with someone who has already occupied his heart.

A/N: I forgot to add that the reader desires to take up a career in medicine outside the country (say Spain ) while working to save up for tuition fees and loans. But better late than never, right? (I'm such an idiot for nearly leaving this out urrrrgh-) I honestly feel like a horrible writer 😂

Word count: 2947

Warnings: Fluff and angst. And one mention of drinking...again.

Tags: @queen-turtle-boiii

Let me know if you wanna be tagged too, I'll go on vacation for a bit :)

Instead of the waking up to the blinding glare of the sun peeping through the curtains, your eyes shoot open as the sound of a notification from your inbox pops up. You didn't exactly fall asleep in an easy position, thus making you sensitive to the slightest touch or sound.

You sit up immediately, yawning as you turn to the bedside table where you've left your laptop running all night. Cracking your knuckles as you shift towards the edge, you shake your head slightly and squint at the screen to open your inbox.

It's a response email from the medical school you took an entrance exam for.

"This early?!" It came out as raspy squeak than anything. You had taken the exam weeks prior and in the lowest of hopes, thought that you wouldn't make the list. Yet with a sliver of hope, you click on it, feeling your heart beat in an irregular pattern. The email loads open and you go through the first lines, your fingers tangling themselves roughly in your hair in anticipation.

Just seconds into the email, you feel like pelting yourself off of the bed from the relief and happiness caused by your acceptance into the school. A little skeptical, you give it a second look and gape at the line of your acceptance just to reassure yourself of the truth.

You actually did it.

Without tethering anything back, you collapse back onto the sheets and give out a whopping "woo-hoo", pumping your fists and kicking your feet in the air knowing that your hard work finally paid off.

You're going to study medicine outside of the country!

You still can't catch your high and so you grab a pillow to shriek into, feeling like a school girl who just got her crush to ask her out. After doing so, you calm down with an ear-splitting grin lingering on your face, touched and giddy with the news. You can't wait to tell everyone.

And of course, you want to take it easy in giving the news away, just one person at a time. You roll off the bed and get ready for work with a congratulatory smile, still maintaining your balance on cloud nine.

(Time skip to the moment of your dismissal)

It had started to rain heavily the moment you left work and luckily, you happen to be prepared. Standing under a canopy of a coffee shop, you open your umbrella and take cover as you begin treading down the street home.

About your acceptance, you've called your parents about it and they couldn't be any more prouder than they already are. You got to Joe next and though he was in the middle of having brunch back in California, he was close to spitting out his tea on purpose for the sake of exaggerating, but of course he was proud of you too.

You roll up the sleeves of your coat as you make your way through the narrow sidewalk, avoiding splashes caused by the passing vehicles. You stand before the pedestrian lane and wait for the traffic lights to flicker red so that you can cross. In the middle of waiting, you hear the faint shrill of your phone ringing from the inner pocket of your coat. You smirk as you fish it out, your breath falling at the name of Ben spelled out as the caller.

Hmm, what does he want?

You waste no time in answering him, putting up the phone to your ear. "Hey!"

He seems to answer your gush but all you hear in the line is unintelligible mumbling. The patter of the rain masked the volume of his voice and so you ask for him to repeat what he said.

"I said hey! Are you free right now?!" He yells through the line, the volume of his voice penetrating through the sound of the rain. You wipe your cheek and respond in the same volume. "Yeah, I just got off work! Why?"

"I got news for you! You wanna meet up?"

That's great, since you plan on telling him about your acceptance. Under a gloomy overcast, the smile on your face could alter the weather as you think about it. "Definitely cause I got something to tell you too!"

He laughs heartily through the line. "Great! My place sounds good? I could whip up something warm, you sound like you're in the streets."

"I am. I'll see you?"

You swear you could sense his lips curl into a soft curve upwards and the image spurs a blush on your face. "Definitely. See you here, Y/N." He says calmly and you hang up, hailing a cab straightaway in the eagerness to tell him the good news.

You climb in quickly and close your umbrella, giving the driver Ben's address as you slam the door close. You're certain of him being happy for you. He always did support you in your dreams, and ambitions, and this is one he'd hold you high up for.

As the cab comes to a halt across the street, you hand the driver your payment and step out of the vehicle, opening your umbrella in the process. You close the door and breathe in as you cross the street to Ben's place with great caution. By the minute you reach his door, you close your umbrella and flick water droplets away from your forehead, knocking on the door thrice.

You hear light, padded footsteps shuffle from inside and the door swings open, revealing a fresh-faced Ben reclining against the frame. The guy's huggable factor just went up with his striped hoodie on.

"Damn, you okay? It's really cold out." He takes you by the shoulders in concern as he notices you shiver and you chuckle, patting his arm lightly in reassurance. "I'm fine. A little chilly but fine."

He presses his mouth together and like a worried mother, shakes his head at the sight of you cold and quite damp. You don't really feel either with how you're overdressed, you left for work aware of the forecast. Ben leads you in and closes the door behind you. You set your bag down on the couch and he offers to help you out of your coat.

You nod and let him. He hangs your coat on the rack, sighing softly with his hands rested on his hips. "I made hot chocolate by the way." He reminds you, cocking his head to one side.

"You're like a mother today, are you alright?" You comment playfully, taking small, leisurely steps along the spiffy living area. A huge contrast to how the place looked like last night from the party.

He rubs the base of his neck, evidently stifling a smile. "Oh I'm more than alright, Y/N."

"Didn't get a hangover or anything from last night?" You ask jokingly.

"Don't worry, I was perfectly sober," he looks down and shrugs, "semi-sober."

You shake your head, bemused and not surprised by it. "I'd love a cup though."

"Great. Come on." You swear, he looks real elated at the moment. It's not new but it's the most giddy you've seen him. Even more so compared to the moment you gave him his gift.

You don't know what's causing it yet you have to admit it's infectious. You follow him to the dining area and he pulls out a seat for you. You go around and decide to poke him on what he wanted to tell you, because you couldn't contain your own news any longer.

Ben returns from the kitchen with two,steaming cups of hot chocolate in hand. You save him the possibility of tripping on his own foot and stand up to take your cup from him, "I'll take that, thanks." A light chuckle slips past his lips as you both settle down on your seats in unison. No matter how strong the rain is outside, it just compliments the lovely space between you and Ben.

You miss this, your small meet-ups and talks that somehow always unmistakably lead to bigger plans. However irrelevant to what's currently running in your head, Ben's radiance under the gloaming mood is mesmerizing. He's a walking carnival price; one you badly want to tackle down and cuddle close.

Sadly, that would never be the case.

"Eager now, are we?" Ben's gentle voice coaxes you out of your trance and you collect yourself.

You wave your hand vaguely in mid air, giving the drink a quick blow before tipping it to your lips to drink. "You sounded excited about your news, and I feel the same about mine."

He brings his cup to his mouth and sips a little. "I can't contain myself so I suggest you do the talking first."

"No, you do it."

"Please, by all means, ladies first."

"Quit with the formality and talk." A chuckle could no longer be contained between the pair of you.

He rubs his hands together and brings them close to his lips, clasping them and apparently giving in. "Alright. It's only fair," he purses his lips amusingly, "since I'm the one that called you in."

You cross your arms in triumph and he pauses to form the words in his head correctly. "Remember what we talked about last night?"

As if on cue, a bit of that memory flashes in your mind and you nod. "Yeah, what about it?"

He inhales and looks at his fingers standing up and taking small steps towards you, his action confusing you. You knit your brows together as he suddenly gets down on one knee, and as if programmed to work during a moment as this, your blood rushes rapidly through your veins and you become aware of how fast your heart is beating.

Ben had asked you about your thoughts on him being a husband and you had the impression that he'd propose to Rosy but whatever he's doing now, you're certain it isn't what you had in mind.

You finally gain the gut to speak up, in a breathy voice. "B-Ben?"

He looks deep into your eyes and takes your hand gently in his, and in doing so, you mentally shut down.

Is he doing what you think he's doing?

You're not sure but your subconscious wishes otherwise. His pupils seem to dilate to the point of overshadowing his green irises as he begins to talk.

"I did it." He says softly, the sincere smile on his face still present.

You snap out, quizzical. "Did what?"

"I proposed...to her."

His words have registered into your mind but it takes you a couple of seconds to react. You feel your shoulders slacken and chest tighten on their own. "You have?" Your voice couldn't be any more smaller than it already is.

He nods gleefully. "Yes! Can you believe it," he springs up from crouching and runs his hands through his disheveled, blond hair, his expression teeming with genuine happiness, "I thought I couldn't push through but I did! And she said yes!"

Wordless for a few moments, you rise up with your head still hung low, in a brief battle to fight back the burn. The sick, petty burn you feel everytime you hear something progress between Ben and Rosy. You keep it at bay for the meantime and finally look up to meet his green eyes.

"When did you do it?" You try to sound interested.

He hums, still elated. "Last night. After the party."

You dreadfully bring yourself to smile at him, hoisting the facade that you're truly happy that he's finally going to be a hundred steps farther. And to think you nearly thought he was going to propose to you.

Now that was a priceless assumption.

What if you hadn't left so early?

You swear internally at yourself, overcome with guilt that you're somehow acting like a bitch towards this. Ben is happy, he's finally happy, and you would never wish unfortune upon him and Rosy. He's always been supportive of everything you do and he's always displayed it genuinely. They're both happy, you want to live it with it...but you couldn't. You can't. You don't want to.

But you have to.

"I'm," you know you couldn't bear the thought of a life without him close by. This is really it. This is where you draw the line. And it's only going to take you five, simple words– four, now that you've weakly said the first, "happy for you."

You swear you felt your heart knock over your rib cage as you said that.

Reluctantly, you put your shaking hand on his shoulder, gathering the last of your strength to look him straight in the eye without faltering. "Know that I am."

The gleam in Ben's eyes brightens even more as his chest relaxes from the small tension he's just had from telling you about his engagement. The grin on his face widens and he pulls you into his arms, as a sign of thank you.

"You're the one that made this all happen you know. I couldn't have done it without you," he hums over your shoulder, "I really don't know what I'd do without you."

You swallow hard, trying to fight back the tears that are threatening to fall. It was you who encouraged him to go on with his proposal to Rosy when he felt like gelatin from all the worrying. You've made him really happy but it cost you your happiness. What if you had left him to think about it?

Thanks to you, you've lost your best friend to someone else.

You bring your arms around him and take advantage of the embrace to really feel him close, as if it's the last you'll ever get. "...anytime, Ben. Anything for my... best friend."

Anything. Anything.

He sighs deeply and pulls apart slowly, his gesture acting symbolically as the end of it all for you. "So now we've got my news out, what did you want to tell me?"

You stare blankly at him for a while before shaking your head, dismissing it. You've lost your appetite for it. "Eh...it's nothing compared to yours."

"Y/N, minutes ago you were gushing about how excited you were. Come on, whatever it is I'll be proud either way." He assures you sincerely. Now that you think about it, how would he really react to you going away to study for years?

You don't know and don't want to assume but this is one thing you want to keep from him on purpose. He's going to get married anyway, right? So he wouldn't be hanging out with you anymore, your friendship wouldn't be one of his top priorities. And you need to focus anyway, and what's the perfect distraction from heartache than a mind set on fulfilling one's dream?

"It's just...a promotion. I got promoted at work!" You splay your arms out wide with a grin, lying and he beams back. "See? Still a proud bloke for you. They'd be stupid not to promote you."

You feign a hearty chuckle and tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear. "I think so." You suddenly feel like leaving. The atmosphere between you and Ben just feels one-sided unlike how it felt moments ago. It seems pathetic of you to repeat the same thing last night but you just can't stand it.

How can you be satisfied feeling deflated in front of Ben?

"Let's catch up and finish our drinks, shall we?"

"I'm sorry, Ben but I just remembered that I have to do something." His expression falls upon hearing you, "Again? But we barely even-"

"I know. It's always an unfortunate turn of events, but my work gets in the way sometimes." You rub your forehead and walk to the living room to collect your bag. Ben strides slowly towards you, eyes hooded in dismay and lips formed into a hard line, scanning you intently as you rummage through your bag and put on your coat.

He's always knew you were expressive and colorful but the way he's observing you now feeds him something he's unfortunately never noticed.

"You really have to go?" Ben couldn't keep the discouragement out of his tone. You whip your head to him and shrug apologetically, and with that he finally catches the thing he's never noticed.

The sadness in your eyes.

You stand up and sling your bag over your shoulder. "Maybe we can hang out sometime, yeah?"

His brows furrow a little yet he nods, gazing down at you. "Hopefully without any more distractions. From either parties."

You put your hand up to his cheek, squeezing his supple skin gently even with the hurt still coursing through you. "Will etch that on a stone." Withdrawing your hand from his skin, you turn, only to be drawn back to his muscular arms. It stuns you completely and you question him for it, but the only response you get is a slight nuzzle against your forehead.

Ben doesn't know what's causing your downcast but he hopes a hug would suffice. He decides not to ask since he knows you're in a hurry to go.

You want to hug back but...you can't bring yourself to.

"Ben, you can let go of me now." You whisper sadly, feeling the need to push him away just to downgrade the pain. He declines quietly and in doing so, tears begin rolling down your cheeks and staining his hoodie.

You just can't hold it in for long.

"Hey," he mumbles against your head, aware that you've tensed up, "what's wrong?" He clips your chin between his thumb and index finger gently, tipping your head back for you to look up at him.

You'll miss this. Having his green eyes enthrall you effectively as they see through all your pain. All your insecurities. You don't seem to mind him seeing you tear up a little. As long as he doesn't know why.

"I'm just really happy for you. You'll make each other so happy. " I will try to be, Ben.

He stares down at you fondly, feeling his chest rise and fall with moderate breaths against yours. His heart seems to be throbbing too fast and close to yours as well.

"Thank you, Y/N. I love you, always." In retrospect of all the times he's reminded you of that, it now stings differently.

"I...love you too, you idiot." You definitely do, on all levels including romantic. He releases you and you leave, closing the door slowly on your way out. Picking up your umbrella which you've left to dry in the porch, you hold it over head and walk away, finally surrendering to the burn that threatened to break you back there.

And to the disappointment of letting your hot chocolate go cold.

What's going to happen next for you?

Part 4 will be up when I return

[chalabrun]

chilling out (trephacard)

@kittiofdoom requested:

Okay but ' it's cold out so sharing a blanket, alucard get over here and stop brooding '

Warning(s): T, some insinuating content

One would think, after living their whole life in Wallachia, that you would become accustomed to her harsh winters that could freeze the balls off an ox. It was late when Sypha and Trevor had returned from their recent escapade in monster hunting, this time in Hermanstadt in Transylvania that had desperately needed the assistance. For their efforts, they had been rewarded a few thousand Ducats for the widespread relief and the growing reputation of a new Belmont name that was growing on him.

Snowfall was light and contrasted with a darkening sky with squalls of pale white that grew a cool, jewel cobalt as it lay upon the ground. Their steeds tromped through the snow, lifting their forelegs high and puffing motes of steam in their languid efforts. After all, what need was there to rush? The twilight gloam was beautiful and set softly against the jagged peaks of Castle Dracula, for once a familiar sight instead of one mired in so much loss and evil.

From afar, the ruins of the Belmont Estate had been largely cleared of underbrush and invasive forests, a patchwork of wooden struts and platforms ascending newly constructed and restored spires alike, a skeletal structure beginning to take shape. Though the Wallachians were wary working in the shadow of Dracula’s domicile, the vampire had since been rendered dead and now only his kind son remained. 

“Once we get inside, I have every intention of making a fortress of books and neither of you will stop me. I’ll read until my eyes dribble from my head and my fingers freeze that way!” Sypha joked cheerfully as she kept in stride with Trevor’s black charger, her pale white mare almost matching the snow.

“You mean after all that, you really plan on just spending it reading?” Trevor intoned drolly, but the note of teasing was obvious in his voice. He sounded exasperated, but there was clear affection for the blonde present.

“And what do you plan on doing? Spending every Ducat on drinks?” Sypha challenged, smirking triumphantly. Given that Alucard had been granted full supervision and control of the treasury, that likely wasn’t going to happen.

“Not even for one beer? God, Sypha, you’re a fucking buzzkill.”

“If you have complaints, you’re more than welcome to bring them to Alucard’s attention. He’ll be much less sympathetic than I am, that’s for certain.”

“That’s for fucking sure,” Trevor groused under his breath, but the coin pouch tethered on the saddle horn clinked almost in cheeky reply, and he had to admit, a warm swell on pride at the sight of it defeated any disappointment at forced sobriety, real or imagined. Sypha did care, after all. “Anyway, let’s get inside. Any longer in this damn cold and I’ll turn into a bloody popsicle.”

The pair of them proceeded to untack their horses in the newly rebuilt stables and stow their saddles and brides and reins in the tack room, ensuring the horses were locked in and secure for the night from any ravenous wolves. Though it was unspoken, the last bit of their itinerary was clear: descend below to the Belmont Archives where they’d made a temporary home out of, concentrating their cleaning efforts there—especially after those battles from months ago.

Unsurprisingly, it was warmer below than it was above, the damage having largely been cleaned up. It became easier the days passed, and the trio of them worked well together. Alucard, especially, seemed to prefer rebuilding things instead of participating in the destruction of his father. The deep, abyssal sadness Sypha had noted months ago seemed to have lightened.

“Home sweet home!” Sypha crowed as they made it the subterranean levels, thirstily taking in the sight of all the books. “Hello, my darlings, did you miss me?” Trevor couldn’t help but laugh at her comedic attempts of personifying the books, but it was amusing. She retorted by sticking out her tongue. “Hm, I’m exhausted. Why don’t we start a fire and read a bit? I found some books on advanced hunting techniques I thought you’d like to see, Trevor.”

“To think, you greet your books with more aplomb than an old friend?”

Trevor turned in unison with Sypha to see Alucard rise from a set of study carrels that didn’t require an expert eye to see was overloaded with books. Though the dhampir appeared tired, it was a content sort from long study and a satisfying day doing it. Sypha knew the feeling quite well. “Alucard!” Sypha greeted enthusiastically as she threw her arms around Alucard’s neck and kissed his cheek, summoning a vibrant blush to his cheeks.

Of course, Trevor wanted nothing more to exacerbate it.

While Alucard was still in a state of happy shock over Sypha’s enthusiasm, an arm of Trevor’s joined in around the dhampir’s waist and planted a slow kiss to the other cheek, only deepening the blush. “Hello, Adrian,” he greeted suavely with a smirk, unaffected while Alucard looked mildly scandalized.

“Belmont—” he began to protest but was stopped short by Sypha dragging him towards an enormous couch situated before a hearth large enough to comfortably house an entire Yule log.

“Not another word from you, Adrian! You look exhausted, and we’re tired ourselves. We’re resting, no buts!” Sypha commanded cheerfully as they plopped in unison upon the couch, Trevor arranging a small configuration of logs that the blonde didn’t hesitate to ignite into a comfortable blaze.

“I take it your hunt fared well?” Alucard ventured after they were situated upon it, Trevor the last to join at Alucard’s side as he brought a large blanket over the three of them, Sypha like a ballast as she and Trevor wrapped it around them all.

“I’d say so. We made quite a good deal of money. Maybe it can go into repairing the south wing of the estate,” Sypha reasoned aloud as she wrapped an arm over Alucard’s middle and nestled into the junction of his neck and shoulder, feeling Alucard warm into the embrace, tepidly circling his own around her petite form.

“We’re making rather good progress. I agree, that wing could stand to face more improvement,” Alucard agreed, sighing in relaxation but tensing up reflexively when Trevor more or less emulated Sypha, the brunet grinning cheekily at him that caused the blond to huff and avert his eyes. “Belmont, if you say a thing about this—”

“What? Is the Lord of Castle Dracula so scandalized by the idea of cozying up to a vampire hunter? Afraid I’ll bite?” Trevor flirted rather blatantly, grazing his teeth on Alucard’s throat that caused the dhampir’s breath to hitch.

“You presume too much about me, Belmont,” Alucard huffed in a strained note, craning to Sypha as if she’d be the voice of reason here.

“Humans can bite quite a good deal, isn’t that right, Trevor?” Sypha chimed in, digits tracing along the line of exposed skin along Alucard’s exposed sternum and collarbone, the dhampir’s nails raking along their backs as he forced himself to relax despite their teasing.

“…You two will be the death of me, I’m sure of it.”

But that wasn’t really a complaint, was it?

[geometren]

Being just a thing one thinks too much and drives it all down there

Under under

Into unseen dust or dirt 

Where lurks a rifle mould?

Or kedgeree spit?

Not sure what it is but there’s always some unknown

We can’t contend with

Good or bad or Godot God enough for

That’s what’s sure about it is that it’s not sure

Claims the science

Claims the figures numbers dates

How many dead now?

It keeps on rising up like the sea

To claim up submerge more and more in deathly details

While above we only see the tip of the iceberg poked up through the

Navy navy navy

But it, so hope, so gleaming - stretch it out -

Gleaming in the gloaming

Gormless gulls above and calling

Me up to fly again and soar

For there is so much more to be seen

When we take flight again

And the skies lift up

The winter snow thaws

My brethren sisters lovers all

Jump at the opportunity to see again

And so far we will fly

To where the tropical breeze wraps around our shoulders

Always shoulders most tender of all parts

For now exposed yet unseen untouched

Unheld

And desperate to be tethered

By the blue beautiful call

Of the great wide open

Limitless in its scope

And we will move

And show in all our colours

What this life is all about

But till then, we keep afloat in the great broad cold beneath

Where who knows what

But we altogether will survive

And keep ourselves at least half dry

And eventually

Rested up to the tops of our eyes

In glaring hibernation

The sun will burst onto our feathers

The blue-lit screens will dissipate

And we

Will soar

Through the air

On our cheeks

And this will all be history.

[soracities]

brief list of favourite words (english)

synapse  ether  visceral  stoic languid gloaming  tethered rue  obsequious luminous 

[polardivision]

beset earth

jaded, mayhaps but the sadist, i know by the drear of spent days in this sentence

of dreadful displeasure and tenuous tether to that which was wrought by my penance

to what vile avail did this frail heart relinquish to perish, impostor alone

the solitude gloaming bequest of conclude viewed through mirrors of a prelude moon shone

whose riddance is cast ‘long the tides of the past rigid shores…

[crosskearns53-blog]

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