#loveless lifeless place on the whole

[bilaudad]

idk if this is weird or if it will resonate with anyone else, but sometimes I feel kinda robbed having been raised protestant. like if I was going to have all this residual guilt and shame and end up atheist anyway could I at least have had beauty. stained glass or old-ass choral music or just anything at all to give a sense of majesty about Creation

[ur-local-anti-hero]

Speak now

James Potter x Malfoy!Reader

Summary: If the marauders are against something, its agaisnt pureblood families ideologies. Sometimes that implies to wreak havoc on a white veil occasion.

Genre: Hurt/comfort, Fluff and a tiny bit of Angst. Arranged Marriage

CW: Forced Marriage, Familiar problems, talks about blood purity and blood traitors. Breaking into a weddig idk.

Word count: 2.2K

This is part of my Speak Now (Marauders’ version) collection 

“So don't say yes, run away now. I'll meet you when you're out of the church at the back door.

Don't wait, or say a single vow. You need to hear me out”

When you were younger you saw a fair amount of weddings. They were always presented to you as big emotional events in which two people promised eternal love to each other. 

Even when you didn't know anything about love as a kid, it was no wonder that you yearned to have your own wedding once you grew up. It was a dream to have your own white dress, a beautifully decorated venue and a partner you loved so deeply you’d be willing to spend your whole life with them. 

Looking back maybe you should’ve known better. The first sign should’ve been your surname. A Malfoy has expectations they have to meet, keeping the bloodline pure, for starters. 

The second one should’ve been your parents’ loveless marriage, when you were younger you used to wonder why they’d married at all, now it was quite obvious. 

The third and most evident should’ve been when Andromeda Black was disowned. At that time you didn’t truly understand what that entailed, and why it was such a hassle that she wanted to get married. Now you understood that the problem was not the wedding, if not the groom. 

All your fantasies about the commonly named ‘Big day’ were completely shattered when your 18th birthday came, and with it a letter from your parents which contained the name of your soon to be husband. You tried to fight it, which only made your parents move the date of the wedding forward and get you out of Hogwarts, your education didn’t matter anymore to them now that your future as a housewife was inevitable. And being away from Hogwarts also meant being away from the ‘bad influences’ in your life. 

Now the corset of your white dress was suffocating, you felt trapped. Looking at the mirror was like looking at someone else. The girl with lifeless eyes and heavy make-up that couldn’t hide her eyebags was supposed to be you, yet it felt like a perfectly modelated version of yourself, made to impress the high class families attending the wedding. 

Narcissa’s gentle hands were bradding your hair, finishing your look before the wedding. Usually her presence was able to calm you down. Ever since she married your older brother, Lucius, her presence was regular in family gatherings and you’ve always felt some kind of kinship with her, seeking shelter on her whenever the phony and pompous encounters became too overwhelming.

You could attribute your shifted feelings towards her to the fact that she was unknowingly preparing you for eternal misery, or maybe because she was replacing the ones who you would’ve chosen as bridesmaids - there was no place for muggleborns in an event celebrating the union of two pureblood heirs -. Or even because it was her little cousin the one you were to wed. 

“You look beautiful” said Narcissa once she was done with your hair. 

You nodded and gave her a small thank you. However, you disagreed completely, the girl she was looking at was not you, it was your parent’s perfect daughter. 

“You do look lovely, father and mother are going to be delighted” your brother’s voice came from the door, where he was leaning on. “I brought you some company” he gestured behind him. 

Pandora and Dorcas stormed into the room, the former embracing you into a tight hug when they spotted you. Lucius and Narcissa left the room. 

“How are you holding up?” Pandora asked as soon as the door closed behind Lucius and Narcissa. Her arms were still holding you tightly, Dorcas standing behind her. 

You shrugged at her, not being able to talk due the knot in your throat and the tears threatening to fall from your eyes. You kept your eyes glued to the mirror. 

Pandora stepped out of the hug and stood next to Dorcas, who had yet to speak. 

“Evan and Barty are with Regulus, I swear I never thought I would see him in a tux” said Dorcas, trying to make conversation. The thought of Regulus being in the same situation as you didn’t make you feel better, the knot in your throat was getting tighther by the second. You promised to yourself you wouldn’t cry anymore, to be honest you thought you had run out of tears days ago. 

“Sirius is here too” Pandora was trying to distract you from the wedding. If she was being honest with herself there was nothing they could do to make you feel better. But maybe knowing that your best friend was out there could help a little. 

That made you finally look away from the mirror, a small wave of hope cursing through you. If Sirius was here it meant that James could be too. In the eyes of your family his family’s name was not good enough for yours, but maybe it was enough for him to be a guest. 

Maybe it was selfish to wish for him to be there when you knew how much it would hurt him, but you needed to talk to him, he was the only one who could actually comfort you right now, the only presence that would make everything feel normal again. You yearned to feel his touch against your skin and his lips against yours, even if it was for one last time, as a farewell. 

“Is he… Is James here?” you spoke for the first time. 

The answer was clear in the pitiful look they gave you even before Pandora replied with a soft ‘no’. 

You don’t know what did it, if the look in the faces of your friends or the fact that you would never see James again, but tears started rolling down your face. In seconds you were being embraced by Pandora again, and Dorcas’ hand was wiping away your tears. 

“It’s okay, you are going to be okay” Pandora didn’t believe her own words, but there was little she could do to calm you down and you both knew it. 

There was a knock on the door and your dad’s voice came from the other side “Y/N, it’s time” 

Pandora gave you a squeeze before letting you go from the hug. They both left the room, not without giving you a forced smile. 

“Oh, merlin” you said to yourself as soon as you were left alone, going back to the mirror, you wiped the few tears that were left on your face, and tried to fix the smudged make-up around your eyes with your fingers. You didn’t want to give your parents the satisfaction of seeing how much this affected you. 

Once you looked mildly presentable again you exited the room. Your father was waiting for you and he offered you his arm to lead you towards the venue. 

You could see the whole venue from the end of the aisle. The green and black motives contrasted beatifully with the white flowers decorating the aisle and the top of the altar. The guests were placed in black chairs at both ends of the aisle. 

You weren’t brave enough to lift your glaze from the ground, knowning that you wouldn’t see the love of your life waiting for you as you had dreamt since you were a kid. The heavy veil of your dress made your steps slow and lethargic. 

It was not until you were halfway down the aisle that you gathered enough courage to finally look at the man in front of you. Instead of the boy with unruly curly brown hair and eyes filled with love, there standing was Regulus, his black hair slicked back and eyes drowned by the same defeated look you wore. 

Once you reached his side everything went in a blur, all you remember is him taking your hands into his and the officiant talking. 

“If anyone has any objection, speak now or forever hold your peace” 

You were really going insane because you swore you saw James standing at the end of the aisle, wearing a tuxedo and with his hand up in the air. 

“I oppose!” His voice was loud and clear, your eyes widened. 

All the guests' eyes went to his figure and several surprised gasps were heard. Maybe you were not hallucinating. 

───✥───

If Fleamont Potter ever found out how James was using his inherited cloak of invisivility he’d be horrified, or maybe oddly proud of his son. 

Not even James thought he would ever sneak into a highly patrolled wedding on a common Tuesday, but honestly if someone had told him a year ago he’d be doing this he wouldn’t be surprised. 

Sneaking in a wedding filled with pureblood families and slytherin students was the perfect setup for a Marauders prank. However, what would have surprised him would’ve been the reason for interrupting a white veil occasion. Dating a Malfoy was something he hadn’t expected to ever do, but you had gotten past all his defenses with your kind and bright personality that proved to be so different from your family’s pretentious ways. 

Therefore, he was now standing on the aisle you had walked minutes ago. He had a perfect view of you and Regulus from his stance, your white dress was gorgeous, and your hair was neatly done. If it weren’t for your puffy and bloodshot eyes, and the obvious defeated look in your face, a look that had no place in a wedding, he could almost believe this was a normal marriage ceremony. 

When you had received the letter from your parents you had been inconsolable, and rightfully so. James had tried everything to stop the wedding, he even went as far as asking your parents for their blessing and to be the one you'd wed instead of the Black heir. Turned out to be useless as his family had been marked as blood traitors for eternity. 

But James isn't known for giving up easily, and the Marauders were not going to let an opportunity to cause havoc pass by. 

With the promise of being on his best behavior, Sirius had convinced his parents to attend the wedding as a guest, acting as a mole for his friends' plans. Remus and Lily were outside the venue with their ride home -a couple of broomsticks they borrowed from Hogwarts' supply closet. 

And the last part of the plan, and its success rested on James' shoulders. 

The preacher spoke 'Speak now or forever hold your peace' James smirked, that was his cue. It was on. 

James took off his invisibility cloak and without a single trace of shame or shyness in his voice James stated loudly "I oppose!"

James would've loved to stop for a moment to memorize the looks of complete horror in the faces of the guests, but he had to be fast and make total use of the element of surprise. 

Without hesitation James sprinted towards the altar. He could see the way your brother had stood up and pointed his wand at him, his spell being intercepted by Sirius' expelliarmus spell. 

As soon as James made it to the altar chaos erupted from everyone in the venue, he could make out the shouts of your parents and some spells that were being intercepted by yours and James' friends. 

At the sight of James Regulus let your hands go, he raised his arms in defeat and left the altar without much hassle. 

"Gentleman" James greeted Regulus' groomsmen, Barty and Evan who were just as stunned as everyone, all they could do was nod in acknowledgement to James, not even trying to interfere. 

"Hi, love" he was finally looking at you, your eyes were wide with surprise and tears were gathered in your waterline. James took your hands in one of his and the other was raised to stroke your cheek. 

“James what- how-” you were completely astonished, and unable to formulate a single phrase. You knew your boyfriend loved you, and the lengths he would go to prove it, but you would have never guessed he’d be willing to break into your wedding ceremony. He was always proving you wrong. 

“Hey Peter, mate, it’s your moment to shine” Following james’ words a rat came out of his pants’ pocket. 

And suddenly Peter was standing in front of you. He pushed the appalled officiant slightly to the side and took his place. 

Peter cleared his throat before speaking “Do you, James Fleamont Potter, take Y/N Malfoy as your wife?” 

“I do” 

“Do you, Y/N Malfoy, take James Fleamont Potter as your husband?” 

You could hardly mutter a low “I do” before Peter spoke again 

“I declare you husband and wife. You might kiss the bride” 

James didn’t hesitate for a moment. To add dramatism he spun you around and dipped you, holding your weight with his arm. And without waiting for another second he kissed you, sweet and slow, conveying all his love for you with that gesture. 

When you became breathless you broke the kiss and looked at James straight into his beautiful eyes, which only show deep adoration. “I love you” you mouthed to him, which made his eyes sparkle with joy and a wide grin to break into face. 

He took you in his arms bridal style and walked down the aisle. You coudln’t even care about the chaos and spells that were aimed your way, all you could look at was James. 

And as he muttered “I love you too, Miss Potter” you knew he’d do anything to prove his love for you. 

Author's note: This one is of my faves of the collection ngl, James is my soft spot Thank you for reading! Likes, comments and reblogs are welcomed and very appreciated. I'd love to hear what you thought about it so don't be shy!! To be part of the taglist Dm me or send me an ask <3 Taglist @feral-posts @izuoyarmin @aremuslupinsim @yourfavgay @imobsessedwitholiviarodrigo 

[prurientpuddlejumper]

A Deep and Rapid River, Ch. 10

<- Chapter 9 | Chapter 10 ->

Summary: It’s your wedding day. Things are... great. 

Thank you @sexy-opium-ravioli​ for helping beta! This is an important chapter, so I hope it scans! 

Everything feels numb. There is a veil draped between you and the world, even before someone—your mother, perhaps—drapes a veil of gossamer over your face. It’s fitting. You sit behind it and pretend you are not there as the world moves you.

Someone fusses with your hair. Someone dresses you in a gown. Someone takes your arm and you are inside a church. Someone puts a plate in front of you, a rich meal of savory meat that tickles your nostrils—the kind of meal you should expect with a wealthy husband (as wealthy as this small village can offer). But you don’t eat.

It’s funny. You had worried about starving if you ran away with your monster, but now you have food and can’t eat anything.

Where was he at this moment? Far away, you suppose. You broke his heart and betrayed him. You’re marrying a man you despise because you were too afraid to go with him. He always did try to push you away whenever his feelings were too raw—to claim you were better off without him—so you know exactly what he did. He left without you, thinking it was what you wanted.

Or maybe he is close—he loves you too fiercely to just leave, doesn’t he? He might be watching the proceedings from some secret hiding place, weeping and raging, unable to do anything to stop it. It’s not as though he could claim you as his rightful wife. He can never show his face to the world without putting himself in danger; he can’t protect you from the realities of life. He can’t undo your choices.

Then again, he had also told you he was afraid of the evil he was capable of in the absence of love. You spurned him, and threw him back into a loveless world, where all he will ever know is rejection and isolation. Seeing you, who had promised yourself to him, start a family with another could be enough to push him over the edge. You had seen flashes of his anger before, his fits of passion. If Ferdinand had gone though such lengths to reclaim you after you left him, and he is a mere mortal, what is the daemon capable of?

He would never hurt you, you’re sure of that. Or you were sure. You never betrayed him before. What if he hates you, and that hate turns into vengeance? If he burns Ferdinand’s house down with you inside, that might be the most satisfactory ending left to you now. It would be favorable to living as Ferdinand’s wife for the next twenty years, unless you could manage to die in childbirth sooner.

Your mind drifts to that deep and rapid river, flooded with icy spring snow-melt, and you wonder how much trouble everyone would have been spared if the creature had never pulled you from its deathly current. At the bottom of that black stream, you imagine the sheer layers of your gown floating gently above your head, surrounded by bubbles, and the veil pulling off your crown and washing away into the turbid dark. A kind of peace settles over you. You think of nothing else for a long time.

 **********

 The organ plays a funeral march as your father drags you down the aisle, and you find yourself, through no will of your own, standing before an altar with vows being read to you and practically no memory of how you came to be there.

You feel sick.

Perhaps if you throw up on your husband’s shoes it will be some small rebellious victory. You feel your face want to smirk at that, instinctively. It’s what your cheeks would normally do. Yet your facial muscles remain slack and lifeless.

A sea of uncaring faces watch with curiosity from the long wooden pews, with a faded red carpet dividing them in two. Neighbors turn to whisper in each other’s ears with a frown or a smirk half-hidden behind a hand. They all came to watch. None of them had spoken to you in years, but they came for the show.

As the priest makes his pronouncements, your mind swirls with a torrent of self-reproaches. Why didn’t you fight while there was still a chance? You could have screamed and struggled until your parents had no choice but to let you go. Until Ferdinand realized you weren’t worth the trouble. You could have tied your sheets together and sneaked out the window before dawn—the storm had stopped by then.

It’s too late, you gutless fool. You can’t make a scene in front of all these people.

“If anyone knows a reason why this couple should not be joined in holy matrimony, let him speak now or forever hold his peace.”

Someone save me, you silently pray, but the large wooden cross looming above the altar seems to be on their side. Your eyes dart across the indifferent faces of the guests, desperately hoping for a savior, but they were only spectators. They know you’re being forced into this, and they’re complicit. Not that you had fought it either.

Not that you had fought it. The realization breaks upon you like an avalanche in spring. How could you expect someone else to save you when you would do nothing to save yourself from this fate? When you turned down your own best chance of escape because you were afraid? Now it was too late. There was no way out anymore.

Your stomach turns, and a sob breaks through the numbness that had swallowed you. Even through the veil, there was no hiding your tears, or your wail of abject sorrow.

The crowd gasps in unison, but not at you. At that same moment, the heavy double doors of the chapel burst open, banging against the walls in an explosion of splinters and a shattering roar: “I object!”

Standing beside you with a clear view down the center of the aisle, your mother makes a sign of the cross over her chest and points into the doorway, now filled by a massive silhouette. “The demon!”

A wave of reaction spreads through the crowd like the churning of a river around a large rock as the witnesses scream and push each other trying to get away from the enraged monster, flooding toward the back of the church and pressing themselves against the far walls.

He stands glowering in the doorway, eight feet tall and filling the entire entrance that he has to stoop to get inside. His arms spread wide from throwing open the doors make him appear even larger—inescapable. Silhouetted in the light streaming behind him from outside, his face is a vicious mask of cruelty and stark shadows.

Your heart stops beating, or races so quickly that you can’t distinguish one beat from the next, and you feel the blood running from your face. He—he came. He’s here. How can he be here? He can’t be here! Not like this. There was a chance you could have introduced him little by little to people you trusted, like Bess, if she hadn’t walked in with such poor timing. She might have understood. But this? He is poisoning himself to them forever. Why? Has he come to rescue you… or to take revenge?

“It is I—the Serpent,” he snarls in a voice that booms and resonates through the arched ceiling. You haven’t heard this voice since the day you encountered him in the forest and he tried to scare you away. “He who reigns among of the Legions of Pandemonium, sprung from the Deep, through the gates of Hell lays claim upon this woman. All the Seraphim of heaven shall not keep me from my prize!” He raises himself to his full height, scattering guests left and right with his sheer enormity and the terror of his presence. Your mouth goes dry as you suddenly become aware of how much he hunches over when he’s with you to make himself less intimidating. You’ve never seen him like his—his teeth bared and his long black hair whipping around him. The gentle creature who milked your cows and waited patiently for you in the dusty hayloft was gone. A cold shiver runs down your spine.

The demon snaps his huge white jaws at the crowd like a feral beast, lashing out at one side of the aisle and the other as he stalks up the faded strip of carpet. Each crashing footfall shakes the whole floor under your feet and sends dust streaming down from the rafters. With each threatening lunge, fresh screams of panic erupt from the congregants still frozen in their seats, and those fleeing toward the rear of the church now creep along the walls toward the front as he moves away from the broken doors. A trickle of congregants risk sneaking out the doors behind him, and when the first brave group manages to run to freedom without the monster whipping about and killing them, more flood out the doors in a turbulent stream of pushing and screaming.

What is he doing? You spent so much time and care hiding him, and now he’s in the middle of the village, exposed in full view, deliberately calling attention to himself. It’s as if everything you strived for together doesn’t even matter. Is he trying to get himself killed? Does he not even care anymore?

“Your God cannot help you now,” he thunders as he approaches the small wedding party at the altar. “I am the Prince of Darkness, the Morning Star, and a curse be upon any soul who stands in my way!” Your mother takes a quick step backward, then drops to the ground with a thud. Your father turns and runs, abandoning her.

No one is trying to stop him. They’re too terrified. You rip off your gossamer veil and look around the church—those who are not mobbing the exits are fainted or quivering in shock.

Everything you strived for doesn’t matter. All that hiding and pretending didn’t work—if you stay on that road, it leads to you marrying Ferdinand and living the rest of your life in a cold fog waiting to die. It’s time to try something different.

This.

All cards on the table. Winner takes all.

He towers over the trembling priest, and pronounces with a warning glare, “I claim this woman for my wife! No mortal shall touch her; no contract under God may bind her—her soul belongs to me!”

His eyes flit down to you and he stutters in his fierce tirade. Your wedding dress is new—a modestly expensive modern gown purchased by the groom to show off his assets. A taffeta robe the color of summer is pulled back to reveal a bright white petticoat underneath, and a neckline plunging almost scandalously low shows off more of your cleavage than he is used to seeing. His pale cheeks redden at your beauty, and for a moment he looks so much like an infatuated school boy it nearly gives away his act. To you it does, at least. At that moment, you’re certain what his intentions are, and the relief at those loving eyes you thought you would never see again makes your vision swim with tears.

He drops to one knee, sweeping his cloak out behind him, and holds a hand out to you. “Take my hand, and be my bride,” he commands in a booming voice, then adds, softly, earnestly, locking his eyes with yours, “If you will have me.”

You smile and cover your mouth, a warm feeling fluttering through your stomach.

You take his hand.

“I knew it,” growls a voice behind you. “I knew I did not imagine you, fiend! And you,” he shoves aside the preacher, still a trembling mass of robes, so he can grab the hand raised to your mouth roughly by the wrist and pull you back toward him. “I knew you were a whore! I’ll teach you to know your place!”

“Let me go!” you scream and try to twist away toward the creature, but Ferdinand holds on with bruising force. You cry out in pain.

The creature roars in outrage and snatches Ferdinand’s wrist just below where it grips yours. There is a sound of snapping bone as his hand goes limp and releases you, and the giant being of immense strength pulls the smaller man’s arm upward until he hangs off the ground like a limp rag doll. You pivot and join the creature at his side, interlacing your fingers with his.

“Her place is where she chooses. No one shall force her hand so long as I will live,” the creature snarls in the boy’s face, gnashing his dripping teeth. “You should have begged to be worthy for her to choose you.”

A slow, unhinged laugh shakes Ferdinand’s dangling form. “Choice?” he cackles, “She would choose to leave me? For this thing?! Then it is fortunate you have no choice, you filthy sow!” He lashes out with his feet, but the creature whips him away, a symphony of popping joints and screams following, until he hangs limp and defeated again.

“Yes, I do,” you growl. “I always have; you just didn’t want me to see it. But I see it now, and you can never have me.”

“Would you like me to rend him limb from limb?”

“No,” you reply coldly. “He isn’t worth the mess.”

“Disgusting wench!” Ferdinand coughs, wriggling impotently like a marionette on the end of a string. He’s at least learned not to kick. “Your defile yourself in the eyes of God!”

“If God wants me to be with the likes of you, then consider me happily defiled,” you sneer. You’re feeling downright brazen now at seeing your oppressors so weak and helpless—how pathetic they really are. You have every right to be with the one you love, with the one who makes you happy. “There is nothing wrong or immoral about what we have.”

Ferdinand’s eyes spark with rage. “So you admit it, then. All along you’ve made a cuckold of me. You were mine! Corrupting devil,” he spits, “She was the perfect woman when I chose her for my own—meek and biddable—there was no competition for her hand due to her social defects, but I could have tamed those peculiarities in short order. Instead you made her stubborn and willful. I will not forgive you for making her your whore, beast!” His free hand reaches into the lining of his waistcoat, and he pulls out a dueling pistol. “This time my aim will be straight for your heart—die, vile adversary!”

You see him raise the gun to the creature’s chest, and you don’t think. You slam your full body weight against his arm, pushing it out to the side as he pulls the trigger. A shower of sparks erupts from the muzzle with a loud bang, and a lead round embeds itself in the chapel wall. Burning black powder makes you cough. The creature grabs the gun from Ferdinand’s hand and crushes the barrel with a single squeeze, then tosses it and Ferdinand away like so much garbage.

Ferdinand crashes into the altar, candles toppling down over him in a heap.

“Bitch! You bitch!” Ferdinand shouts disparaging swears from his position on the floor. It’s more than the impotent rage of defeat. He pulls the second dueling pistol of the set from the other side of his waistcoat—he was paranoid enough to be wed with two loaded weapons strapped to him—more shrewd than paranoid, considering the outcome. He takes aim at you this time.

He had struck the creature while both were sprinting through the undergrowth of the forest—he was a good shot. At only a few meters distance, he is unlikely to miss. The blood freezes in your veins and time seems to stand still as you watch his finger slowly depress the trigger, millimeter by millimeter. This is what you had been terrified of for the past months, why you had so feared discovery. You squeeze the creature’s fingers, still locked in yours, and you smile. You smile like it’s the last time you will ever get the chance to, because you’re afraid to die.

The flint snaps down onto the flashpan and tiny golden sparks spray out from the top of the pistol. The spark reaches the barrel, but carelessly loaded and ill-maintained, the ball does not fire, but the barrel explodes in his hand, sending shrapnel whizzing past your head and setting the cloth of the altar ablaze. He shrieks in agony, dropping the wreckage of the gun from his mangled and bleeding hand.

The creature pulls you to him in a protective embrace as time starts moving again.

“Goodbye, Ferdinand,” you say through your teeth. “If you ever come near me again, I’ll kill you.” Eyes wide with terror and pain, Ferdinand scrambles away from the spreading flames.

You leap into the creature’s arms, a grin spreading from ear to ear as he holds you in a bridal carry. He smiles back triumphantly, chest heaving from adrenaline. You don’t know how this happened, how everything turned upside down so suddenly, but you’re ready now. You already felt the cold jaws of a living death closing around you, and as the fire begins to spread out from the altar, you feel alive again—truly alive, for perhaps the first time in your life.

The growing fire spurs a rapid call to activity—swooning parishioners startle awake at the smell of smoke, and shake their stunned companions out of their trances. The priest, to his credit, kneels beside your mother and lifts her to her feet. She gives one last bleary-eyed look of confusion at you with your bright wedding gown streaming down from the dark-haired monster’s arms before the priest guides her out a side door.

You clasp your arms around the back of the creature’s neck. His smile has faded to a faraway sort of sadness. “I never meant to hurt you, I just… panicked,” you explain quietly. “I was so afraid of dying with you, but I realized just now, there are worse things. When I resigned to marrying him, I kept thinking of the merciful ways my life might be cut short so I wouldn’t have to grow old in his house. I was afraid of living. You make me afraid to die.” He carefully wipes a tear from the corner of your eye with a calloused thumb. “Can you forgive me for being such a coward?”

“Of course I do. I only wanted to give you a choice. You could have renounced me, and then all would know you were innocent. That none of it was your fault. So disrupted, the ceremony would at least be postponed, and if you cast out the demon, perhaps they would not force you into marriage.”

“That… that was really your plan?” You hadn’t considered for a moment the possibility of turning against him.

“I was hoping you would choose me,” he shrugs sheepishly. “What is your choice, my angel? Do you wish to leave with me?” His question is uncertain and soft and familiar now that you’re alone. You lift a hand to his cheek, and he turns his face to nuzzle into your palm.

“I do!”

Your sweet daemon leans his head down and kisses you before the burning altar. As the church begins to fill with the dry smoke of ancient timber, the creature hefts you in his arms, hugging you closer, and carries you down the aisle.

[sumsmasterpiece]

Sneak Peek of an Iwaoi Fanfic I’m Writting: Grand King Affair

One of the last chapters

Hajime was inconsolable. Three years, he had lost contact with his lover, his mate. For three years, he wallowed in agony of losing him, of feeling his trembling arms pushing him away. Seeing his face stained with tears and eyes filled with anger and sorrow and a hint of regret.  

The alpha should have stopped everything when his mate told him to stop his advances. No, not mate. Though Hajime searched and scoured the world looking for the person he saw in his dreams, but they were not mated. Though Hajime wanted that more than anything.

His dreams filled of a young boy playing in a garden, eyes gleaming with joy and youth. He’d roll around in the grass and make flower crowns with an older female, who looked similar to him. The boy glowed more at night, when his eyes looked to the heavens. Every spec of light twinkled into those chocolate eyes, filled with longing and hope. 

Hajime would always wake in a sweat and panting, those dreams so vivid and clear. His whole body prang with alertness and power. He knew, the moment those dreams began when he was a young boy, that his mate was waiting for him.

When he turned fifteen, he asked his father to join the training camp of the armies he commanded, and the elder alpha agreed. But Hajime wasn’t doing it to make his father proud, he did it because he knew it was the easiest way to wander the world in search for his mate, the boy with the chocolate, longing eyes. Waiting for him. 

But he knew he went too far when their affair became public, when it brought shame to his lover. When he was banned to ever see his son, the only thing that he cherished and loved in this entire world, in his loveless marriage. He poured everything into his son, willing to give up his dream of finding true love to raise him. 

But then Hajime pushed him, pushed him into letting what they had bloom, to give it a chance. Tooru did not hate their meetings in the slightest, but Hajime should have seen that his son was more important to Tooru than his own life. But when a sickness came and claimed Tooru’s son, that was the final straw.

Tooru lost everything, his family ties, his marriage, his honor and status, and now he had lost his son, his reason for living his lie of a life he was forced into. 

“Leave.” Tooru had said while he clung to the lifeless body that was once his son, cupping the deceased boy's face to his chest, tears streaming. “Get out! I hate you. I HATE YOU!?” He screamed at Hajime, and it tore him to ribbons.

“I’m not leaving,” he had said to his lover. “I love you too much to leave you like this. I love you, Tooru.”

“No, you don’t,” he had murmured, laying what once was his son’s body back onto the bed and he had turned toward the alpha.

He walked his way, head down and stopped a foot in front of him. He then pushed the alpha’s chest, hard, making him stumble back. “Go away, Iwaizumi,” his voice was as cold as ice.

Hajime had stood his ground and looked at the omega’s form. His whole body shook. “I already told you, I’m not leaving. Not unless you come with me.”

Tooru laughed bitterly and Hajime flinched. “Come with you? You think I’d go with you after everything you did. You’ve taken everything from me,” His head lifted, eyes blazing with hatred and rage. “You want to know something? I never loved you, not once.”

Those final words striked Iwaizumi to his very core, his very being. It stung but he couldn’t show it. Not now. He knew that Tooru was just hurt, that he didn’t mean these words. 

Hajime knew we was losing him. He was slipping away and he had to grasp at reins and pull him back in.

“Toor--”

“LEAVE!” The demand echoed through the tiny room. So the alpha obeyed, he turned solemnly, head down, and walked out of Tooru’s life. He had failed. 

---

When he walked to the front doors of the building, he couldn’t believe what he was doing. His head lifted to look at the sign hanging above the front entrance, a mental hospital. Hajime’s body shook but he opened the doors anyway.

Kyoutani gave him information of where Tooru was, and after three years, he just had to see if he could fix their problem. Fix them. But more than anything, he wanted to see Tooru again. See if there was even a speck of the love they had shared, still burning alive in his lover’s soul. 

His friend had given Hajime caution about seeing Tooru again, “He is very...different then what you remember.” He had warned, hugging his newly bonded mate to his side.

It was common for new mates to stay by each other’s side, for the alpha to be very protective and wary of other alphas. Hajime wouldn’t have been surprised if his friend's eyes pierced holes straight through him. 

His mate, Shigeru, turned toward his alpha, “Ken, my love, it’s alright,” The light haired man tried to sooth Kentarou and try to persuade him to not mall Hajime and rip his throat out. 

In the short amount of time Iwaizumi knew Kyoutani, he never saw how loving his piercing eyes could turn, soften at the edges and filled with love and admiration. 

“I will take into consideration what you have told me,” The elder alpha turned to leave but then looked to the omega. “Thank you,” he nodded his head and left.

So here he was, in front of a elderly woman in a plain white dress and a small hat with a red cross on it. When he told the elder woman the name of the person he was seeking, her face blanched. 

“I should warn you sir, that Mr. Oikawa is very...distant,” she swallowed but walked straight into the facility. 

“So I have heard,” Hajime nodded and followed the woman with white hair. 

They stopped at a large wooden door, she turned to him and Hajime saw that her eyes crinkled at the edges. Pity and sadness, that’s what was in her expression. The alpha’s stomach churned. He did not want pity, and it made his rage begin at a slow simmer.

She knocked on the door with her knuckles in a rhythmic motion. There was no answer inside so she just opened the door slowly and peered inside. 

The room was large, filled with furniture and plants and large glass windows that brought in the rays of light. Sitting at the far right corner of the windows, sat Tooru, sitting in a wooden desk chair in the middle of a spotlight of sun rays. 

As Hajime took in his lover’s presence, his heart sputtered. Both from excited from seeing him and the utter horror of seeing his form. He was deathly thin and pale, a far cry from the beautifully sun-kissed man who was lean but healthy. What happened to his beloved Tooru? And when his heart stopped stuttering, it dropped dead, like a canary in a cage. 

Hajime was utterly frozen in place, he couldn’t move, couldn’t speak. He wasn’t prepared for this. For seeing his Tooru in such a ghost-like state. He really should have taken Kyoutani’s and his mate’s warnings to heart.

“I’ll give you some privacy,” the elderly woman bowed and left and closed the door behind her. 

Tooru didn’t move. Didn’t even lift up his head to see who or what came in. Hajime wanted to crawl on his knees to his lover and beg for mercy and forgiveness and beg for his Tooru, his moon and stars, to return to him. 

“T-Tooru?” Silence. Utter, deathening silence answered Hajime as he finally got feeling in his legs again as he stumbled toward his one true love. “Tooru,” he repeated.

He came up to Tooru’s left and saw his lifeless eyes, blinking every now and again, staring into a void. Those stars that danced in his eyes seemed to have happened a lifetime ago. Because this omega in front of him, did not look like his omega. One was full of life, this one was full of despair. 

Hajime dropped to his knees, crawled to Tooru’s front and cupped the pale cheeks in his large hands. The alpha couldn’t think of anything to say, so he said the first things that came to mind. “I found you, my darling. It took some time, but I found you,” Tears bring his eyes, he blinked them away and stared into those cloud filled eyes. 

Hajime couldn’t count how much time passed, ticking with silence between them. He then looked at the omega’s stomach, the last time he saw his lover, he was pregnant with their child. He didn’t know why he thought he’d still be round and plump but it didn’t register until now, when he needed a distraction from the silence.

“I forgot how beautiful you are. Tell me, what does our child look like? Do they resemble more of you or me?” Hajime could have sworn he saw something flicker into those eyes. He swallowed. “I know you probably still hate me and I know I can’t erase what happened,” his hands trailed down Tooru’s cheeks, his neck, and then he took his still hands. Placing both of the omega’s hands between his and bringing them to his lips, a whisper of soft lips on knuckles, “But I am bearing my heart and soul to you now and I vow to try and make you happy again.”

His hazel-green eyes blared with honesty. He took Tooru’s hands and placed them onto his chest, right over his beating heart, “To this, I swear and vow my love to you and only you.”

Tooru blinked, again, then again, and again. As if he was blinking the clouds from his eyes, his head moved to look at his hands then up the arms to those eyes, “Iwa-chan?” His voice was hoarse and scratchy and uncertain. Like he couldn’t assess if the alpha in front of him was a ghost of his imagination or not. 

A flush of relief flooded through Hajime’s veins, hearing that ridiculous nickname Tooru gave him. It was as if God was giving him a gift, letting his lover return to him. “I’m here,” tears trailed down his face as he embraced the love of his life, cementing that this was real, this was no dream or fantasy or ecstasy release. Tooru was real, flesh and blood. “I love you so much.” He sobbed.

Tooru weakly squeezed back and then sobbed with his alpha. The two lovers, finally together with nothing holding them back from showing their affection openly. 

Tooru was the one to pull away first, wiping away Hajime’s tears with his thumb and trailing it down to those lips. Hajime parroted the movement. 

But then, just when Hajime thought everything was alright, Tooru’s face fell and more tears poured out. “I’m so sorry. I lost her. It was my fault. My fault.” Hajime was so lost. Who did he lose?

“Tooru, darling, what are you talking about? Who did you lose?” Hajime wiped the never ending tears.

Tooru hiccupped and sobbed harder, his head falling into the crook of Hajime’s neck, smelling the alpha’s scent for comfort. “Aiko,” he breathed. 

Hajime never heard of this name, and his head couldn’t wrap around anything or connect the dots. “Who is Aiko, Tooru?” He didn’t want to push Tooru but he wanted to get an understanding of why Tooru was blaming himself.

The words that Tooru uttered next shattered Hajime’s world, “Our daughter, Hajime. She’s dead.” 

[hearteyes-candyskies]

bitter blooms (yandere aizawa x reader)

a/n; retelling of hades and persephone

1.8k words

-------

The sun glints in your hair the first time he sees you, casting a halo of light on your otherworldly face. It blinds him. 

You’re playing in the field with your attendants, nymphs that could never hope to be as lovely as you. Flowers bloom beneath your feet- literally, white rosebuds and zinnias and little daisies that stand proud.

He watches for hours, until the whole field is covered in fragrant blooms and the sun has started its slow descent down. He didn’t think you could get anymore beautiful, but as you stop to watch the blood-red sky, ruby light illuminating youthful features, his heart stops. 

He decides that he cannot live without you.

On the other side of the field, unaware of your secret admirer, you decide you cannot live without the sun.

In both of your fierce desires; one selfish, one innocent, the ground in which your love will bloom is salted, condemned to death.

-------

He watches you for six moons, watches as the warm spring sun brings pure joy to your face and leaves sweetpeas in your footsteps, views the soft white of Eucharis lilies trail after as you revel in the never-ending heat of summer. 

Below, the world of the dead slow to a halt as their king spends his days yearning after a goddess with a warmth so unlike his own, wondering if they might be able to bring warmth to his cold, dead realm. 

Hades decides he has to find out. 

------

The bright yellow blooms of Narcissi are the bringer of your doom. You cannot help but reach for them- so lovely and unlike any other flower in your arms, but with the first brush of velvet petals against soft skin, the earth rumbles and a chasm forms. 

An abyss of darkness chases after your nimble feet, but even graceful leaps are unable to save you, soft soles unused to running, unused to danger. As you fall into the never-ending void, you wonder if this will be your end. 

Gods can’t die, you know that much, but to endure an eternal descent in pitch-black would be close enough. 

Your lids flutter closed, assured that the soft rain of bright petals above you will be the last thing you ever see. There is a warmth to this darkness, almost like the brush of robes- 

Strong arms catch you, and the darkness takes the form of a man, solemn and somber with eyes like Chaos itself. The antithesis to your world of light, and yet you cannot help but think that he is more beautiful than any flower the sun could give you.

That does not mean you stop loving its warmth.

-------

You cling to your light robes for a week, until they are tattered and worn, gossamer fabric dirty with your own sorrow and fear. The marble palace is not cold, per se, and yet you find yourself shivering every time its lord leaves you. 

The hatred you feel at the warmth he gives you is only eclipsed by the cold fury of being separated from your home. Picked flowers die, stems growing soft, petals withering; you know that much intimately and from experience. 

He has not dug you carefully out of the ground, roots intact, and transferred you to another home; no, he has snapped your stem in blind ignorance, caging you in glass for his own admiration, both knowing and unknowing of your slow demise. 

Petals fall, colours fade, and yet he still cannot see that it is he who kills you. 

‘Shouta’, is all he has said when you had gotten to your knees and begged the lord of the Underworld to set you free. 

‘For you, my name will never be Hades, only Shouta.’ He holds you as he says this, salty tears seeping into the cool black fabric of his robes. Your skin burns where he touches you, but it is not like the anger of the sun. When mortals die of cold, they begin to feel feverish, overheat, and in their final moments all they can do is strip to escape the oppressive, imagined heat before the ice takes over.

You are in your final moments, stripping away parts of yourself as the incandescence of Shouta’s love burns you alive and freezes your heart. Orange lilies turn to candy tufts, and the world above has a taste of its first winter. 

-------

When you tire of locking yourself away in cold marble rooms, you begin to wander your new home. Sometimes you sit on the small black throne next to Hades himself, listening as souls petition the cold king for mercy, for another chance, another life.

You want to shout at them to go, to stop wasting their never-ending breath and eternal time, because you know better. Shouta will never let you go, not until the end of your long, immortal life. He has tried his best to give you a poor approximation of one, but it means nothing when he has stripped your former life away himself. 

Still, time goes on, and it becomes tiresome to carry such rage. It grows weary, when there is no sun to measure the days and years mean nothing to a god. Sometimes, you sit on his lap, wrap your arms around him and tuck your face into his neck. 

Flowers are beautiful, and you are grateful for your ability to create them, but they do not lend themselves easily to power. Hades makes you feel unstoppable.

‘Shouta’, you whisper into his ear, eyes half lidded and body languid against his. ‘My lord.’ The shudder that runs through the god of the Underworld at your words is as sweet and heady as any ambrosia, and brings a warmth so different than that of the sun.

Petunias bloom in your wake, strange and lifeless in this cold, unfeeling world. Your anger and anguish at being torn from youthful innocence is a raw wound, and though it is Hades who caused it, it is Shouta who soothes like a cool balm against fevered skin. 

Your imagined heat drives you mad with thirst, and Shouta is cool water, a fresh stream trickling through the snow. 

-------

His flesh is cool against yours the first time you let him into your bed. Warm hands trail up the hard plains of muscles carved from marble, and when your touch lingers for too long, it is as if he steals your warmth for his own. Selfish even in his most basic of functions.

It’s been who knows how long, and though you are not mortal, you fall prey to human cravings. Pleasure can be found in the most undesirable of places, and as soft praise spills from hated lips, your heart wrenches. 

Hades, no, Shouta, is your jailer. He is your lord, your king, your husband by decree of Zeus and he is the one that holds the keys to your prison, who lets you rage and sob and bury your face in his robes all the while looking with eyes of immeasurable sadness.

He kisses sweet apologies up the flesh of your thighs, devours you like Tantalus seeing food, drinks you in like you are nectar from Ganymede’s cup. Surely someone who brings you to such heights of pleasure cannot be as bad as you think?

You think of Hera, condemned to a loveless marriage to an unfaithful husband, love turning rancid to hatred like sweet wine to vinegar. At least your husband will never leave you; has sworn on the river Styx that his love for you will never run dry, that he will never let you go and your snare of his heart will never end.

That is more than most can ask for, you know. Love does not come easy to ever-living beings, when hundreds of years pass in the blink of an eye and personalities remain unchanged. No room for growth, no roots for love to bloom. 

The earth of your love has been salted, but it is earth nonetheless. Hades’ soft, mournful love nurtures the delicate petals, and you do not forget your love of the light.

You cannot live without the sun, but Shouta is your sun now. 

Shouta cannot live without you, so you will never leave.

-------

When the spirits that crowd into the throne room become more and more skeletal, eyes gaunt not just from lack of life, you know something is wrong. Your mother’s name falls from restless lips, angry and resentful, and you know. 

The land above you is dead, as barren as your mother’s heart without you. Shouta cannot live without you, you cannot live without the sun, and your mother cannot live without her daughter. 

She is playing her last, desperate card; an eternal winter as cold as Zeus’ refusal, as empty as his mind when he promised a child to his brother. Soon, the dead outnumber the living, gods starving as sacrifices stop while Demeter roams barren fields lamenting the loss of her love. 

Unbalance is rife within the world, and Hades is no fool. On the fifth year anniversary of your disappearance, Shouta takes you by the hand, guilt written clear across his face, eyes filled with such bleak despair that your heart aches for the man who kidnapped you. Your heart aches for your husband.

When you reach the destination, tears well in your eyes, tears of joy and tears of sorrow. You know not to eat the food of the Underworld; lest you bind yourself eternally to the land of the dead. Yet, perfect and whole, a small pomegranate tree stands proud, flesh as red as the rubies which litter your husband’s kingdom. 

‘I- I am sorry. A choice, for when you had none.’ You’ve heard the whispers; Hermes will come on behalf of Zeus to negotiate for your freedom, for the survival of the gods. Your freedom is on the tip of your tongue, close enough to taste, and yet all you can dream of are the tart burst of blood red arils. 

With shaking hands, you split the crimson fruit, taking six perfect seeds in the palm of your hand. Your choice- six months in the sun, reveling in the memory of lost innocence and childhood, and six months here, ruling the dark land of the dead at the right hand of your husband. 

You look into the eyes of the man who stole you from your life, who gave you power when you had none, who looks at you like you are more precious than all the gold and gems the Underworld has to offer, who offers you the keys to your prison five years too late. 

There is sweetness to be found in sour moments, you think. You strip away the final piece of clothing, expose yourself to the cold, core burning bright, and embrace the cool kiss of death. 

Shouta’s lips are warm against yours, and you wonder when you began to steal the warmth back from him. It does not matter- your white rosebuds are long gone, petals dried and dead, and there are only tulips now, yellow as the flower that first pulled you in. 

Salted land still bears fruit.

[kingdomcomerp]

Lucy Quinn Fabray came from a world of privilege and power; a world of debutante balls, country clubs, and inauthenticity. The Fabrays were old money and there was expectation. Quinn learned very early on that who you were didn’t actually matter, what truly mattered was who you could make others believe you were. And the character she created was the epitome of perfection. It was a downright exhausting existence. Carrying the Fabray name was a weight that Quinn had begun to buckle under. She was swiping bottles from her mother’s drink cart more often, but since her mother drank enough to require regular reorders, that had gone unnoticed, just as the merry-go-round of ‘suitable’ young men had. ‘Life was as good as it was ever going to get’, words continuously spoken by her always intoxicated mother, words she took to heart. Quinn was sure what her future held was a loveless marriage to an asshole who enjoyed sleeping with the flavor of the month secretary more than being with his family, namely a man exactly like her father. Quinn was pretty and her parents told her so as often as humanly possible, but it always left a nasty taste in her mouth. “You’re very pretty Quinny, put it to use.” “You’re so beautiful, Lucy Quinn, I know the boys can barely contain themselves. But you’re still daddy’s little girl.” The wink that always followed that second, always made her want to vomit.

Quinn was known for her cold demeanor. She barely gave anyone the time of day, which strangely, made people want to be closer to her that much more. Many years later her therapist would explain that was a protection mechanism to keep people at arm’s length so that she wasn’t hurt or disappointed, at the time Quinn just chalked it up to her extreme dislike of most people. She was lonely, even when surrounded by others because it was always just so superficial. It was painful in a way she didn’t have the language to explain, and she took that pain out on the nearest warm body every time and being a Cheerio aided in that.. Being a cheerleader was a status symbol, and for as long as Quinn could remember life was about status symbols, and a way to flex her pointless high school power, but the glee club was something different. Though her original reasons for joining was completely nefarious, her reason for staying was even more genuine. She’d found a family, And even if it was a constant internal struggle to trust it, she held onto it… until it fell apart in the worst way possible

If the Glee Club was a family, Will Schuester was the father, and for Quinn, initially that meant someone to keep your guard up with even more than the others. But, eventually he’d shown himself to be someone they could count on, come to when they were in trouble, so when  Quinn snuck off with a bottle of vodka from her parent’s liquor cabinet, because she couldn’t take the screaming and fighting in her home one more second, the drunken call she made was actually to Mr Schue. That night changed everything. It came back in flashes over the next few days, what he had done to her. She’d never felt so disgusting, such shame, and such rage.

The day they put Will Schuester in the ground, Quinn stared at his lifeless body and thanked God, this would be the last time she’d ever have to see his face again.

They’d decided to end a life together and there was no coming back from that, was there? Not only had Will Schuester taken something unexplainable from her that night, when they all decided he needed to pay for his sins, he took away the only real family she’d ever know. At least that’s how Quinn saw it. She was just going to have to find a way to move forward… somehow.

Books had always been a safe place for Quinn. Ever since she was a little girl, she would escape in some made up world in the pages of a story she’d fallen in love with. Cheerios, school work, boys she genuinely had no interest in, and books. That’s what her life reverted to. She never dealt with any of her trauma, unless you count the times she sought solace at the bottom of a bottle. When Quinn was accepted to Yale University everyone was surprised except her. Though the nagging voice of her mother telling her she would never be more than the beautiful arm candy of some wealthy man, niggled in the back of her mind, she knew what her grades looked like, as well as her extra curricula, and she could write an award worthy essay in her sleep. So even as she secretly doubted herself, it just made sense.

Yale, at first, brought out more of the same old cold, bitchy Quinn Fabray. She was lonely and intimidated by those who clearly belonged there far more than she did. Imposter syndrome was rearing its ugly head, on top of a lifetime of pain, disappointment and trauma… but who was keeping score. All of that meant a wall of ice to surround and protect her from feeling anything too real. It was a literature professor that came in and opened Quinn’s eyes to the possibility of even the slightest bit of joy in her life.

Professor Evelyn Carter saw something in Quinn Fabray, something broken, but tragically beautiful in a way that didn’t quite reach the surface. Quinn’s writing blew her away, and she encouraged her young student to put her pain on the page, she also recommended an on campus therapist.

Quinn didn’t take Evelyn seriously, initially, but as time went on and they spent more time together Quinn couldn’t help to let her guard down just a tad, just enough to fall in love for the first time. It caught her completely by surprise, and of course her first reaction was to run, to freeze Evie out, but that only lasted long enough for Quinn to realize she had no one else. It was an inappropriate relationship, professor and student, but Evie was good for her, for the most part. She encouraged Quinn’s writing, nagged her into a couple of sessions with a therapist, and made sure she ate more than the occasional protein smoothie. It was a bit of a whirlwind and the tragic ending only led to Quinn being that much more difficult to get close to, but in the end, she knew that she could love and be loved, and that alone gave her a bit of hope.

Therapy was an on again/off again journey throughout her last 3 yrs of university. She was very careful about what not to bring up, and the truth of the matter was she didn’t feel guilty that Will was dead. What he had done to her, and the others, what he would have done to so many other girls in the future… she and her friends had saved them. But everything else, all the things she needed to unpack and dissect, a lifetime worth of trauma required a lifetime worth of therapy. And though Quinn knew this and knew that it did, in fact, help her and give her some of the language to understand herself and why she did the things she did, she could only be bothered to go a couple times a year. Enough to inspire her, or remove whatever writing block she had at the time, and it always worked.

Quinn graduated and began working at a publishing company while she shopped around her manuscript, and she loved every minute. She loved being around all of those books, reading works of up and coming artists, and improving her own work along the way, plus being far too busy to think too much about anything else. Quinn adored being too exhausted to dream. She’d done what Evelyn said and finally put her pain on the page, in the way of a fictional heroine, using her trauma to fight injustice in the world through the legal system; and editors and publishing houses loved it. It also turned out so did audiences. Quinn Fabray became a New York Times best selling author twice over. By the age of 28, the sequel surpassing its predecessor in sales. Her professional life had taken off so much so that Quinn could easily pretend that the fact that she basically had no personal life meant very little to her.

Being an out though not flag waving lesbian Quinn had no problem dating women once she’d had many conversations with God about it, but there was still the whole not really being able to let people in thing. That also didn’t help much with making friends, but her work and money would just have to keep her warm at night and comfort her in the morning.

It’s been two years since Quinn’s last book and her editor has been getting anxious about the fact that she hasn’t even pitched any ideas yet. It turns out that Quinn has more to worry about than getting the  first chapter of her third book complete. When the news broke about Schuester’s bones being discovered, and in a place they didn’t bury them, Quinn’s own anxiety swelled and her teeny drinking problem began to show up again. What’s a couple of cocktails when you’re returning to a life you tried your best to leave behind, because attached to it is a heinous crime you committed that could destroy you?… Who wouldn’t have 6 martinis daily?

[meditativeyoga]

Man vs stone

It is very easy to be a carver due to the fact that you are collaborating with lifeless things. You can produce attractive statues but those sculptures are dead. You could not connect with them, you are active. There is no discussion feasible between life and death.

You can appreciate, you could delight in, it is your creation. You could really feel met-- whatever you wanted, you was successful in doing it. Keep in mind one point: on the various other side, there is no one. You are alone.

Because of this situation, there are individuals that can enjoy their pet dogs, that could enjoy their yards, that can enjoy their cars, who could enjoy anything in the world, except man.

Because male suggests you are not alone, the various other exists. It is a discussion. With a sculpture, it is a monologue. The statuary is not going to say anything, is not mosting likely to criticise you, [it] is not going to have you. You possess the statuary, you can offer it out there. That you can not do with a human being. That is the problem.

When you begin connecting with humans, you need to think about that they are not points, they are awareness. You could not dominate them ... although nearly everyone is attempting to do that, and ruining their whole life. The moment you attempt to control a human, you are creating an opponent, since that human additionally wishes to control. You might call it love, you could call it relationship, but behind the curtain of friendship and also love and league, there is a deep will to power. You intend to control, you do not intend to be dominated.

With humans, you will certainly remain in consistent conflict. The closer you are, the extra the dispute will harm you. There are thousands of individuals who have been so wounded by human partnership that they have actually quit of all human love, friendship. They have turned in the direction of things. It is easier: the various other celebration is constantly ready, whatsoever you wish to do.

You are a musician, you sculpt. Have you ever before thought regarding just what you are doing? You are reducing chunks of the marble-- that you could refrain to a human being, but individuals are doing that to people as well. Moms and dads are cutting their youngsters's wings, their flexibility, their individuality. Enthusiasts are cutting each other continuously.

To be in love with a human being is not a very easy affair. The romance is the most hard event in the world for the easy reason that 2 consciousnesses, two active beings, could not endure any type of slavery.

To love a human is among one of the most tough points in the globe due to the fact that the moment you start showing your love, the various other beginnings taking place a power journey. He knows you depend on him or on her. You can be oppressed emotionally and emotionally and also no one wishes to be a slave. However all your human relationships become slavery.

No statuary will certainly make you a slave. As a matter of fact, the statue makes you a master artisan, it makes you a creator, a musician. There is no conflict. The real examination for love is with human beings.

A man is truly intelligent if he could make a human relationship job efficiently. It needs fantastic understanding. Producing a sculpture or making a beautiful painting is something-- those paints will not say, "I do not wish to be placed on this corner of the canvas, I simply decline!" Wherever you desire it, the paint is available. It is not so easy with human beings.

Every human being has a birthright not to be controlled by any individual-- but also a birth responsibility not to attempt to control any individual. And only then, friendship could flower.

Love requires clearness of vision. Love needs a cleansing of all kinds of ugly things, which remain in your mind: envy, temper, the wish to dominate.

Love is a brand-new sensation that has developed with human awareness. You will need to discover it.

Creating stunning paints, verses, sculpture, songs, dancings-- is done in your hands. Yet when you enter into contact with a human being, you have to comprehend that beyond coincides type of awareness. You need to offer respect as well as dignity to the individual you love. This is the reason that you could not connect with human beings.

Forget concerning humans and also love-- you simply practice meditation. That will certainly launch in you the insight, the vision, the clearness, and also the energy to share.

Love is another name of sharing your abundant power. You have way too much, you are strained with it. You wish to share it with individuals you like. Your love-- just what you call love-- is not a sharing, it is a snatching.

You will need to transform the significance of love. It is not something that you are aiming to receive from the other. And this has been the whole history of love-- everybody is aiming to obtain it from the various other, as much as possible. Both are aiming to obtain, as well as normally, no one is getting anything. Love is not something to obtain. Love is something to give. You can give only when you have it. Do you have love in you? Have you ever asked this concern? Resting quietly, have you ever before observed? Do you have any love energy to give?

You don't have, neither has any person else. You get captured in a love connection. Both are pretenders, making believe that they are mosting likely to offer you the really paradise. Both are aiming to encourage each various other that, "When you get wed to me, a thousand Arabian evenings will certainly be forgotten-- our nights, our days will certainly all be gold."

But you do not know that you do not have anything to provide. All these points you are saying just to obtain. As well as the other is doing the very same. Once you are wed, after that there is going to be trouble due to the fact that both will certainly be awaiting a thousand Arabian nights as well as not even an Indian night is happening! Then there is a rage, a rage which gradually, slowly comes to be poisonous.

Love transformeding into hate is a very easy phenomenon, since every person feels betrayed. You reveal one face at the coastline, in the movie hall, on the dance floor. It is flawlessly okay for half a hr or one hour remaining on the beach, holding each other's hands, fantasizing concerning the beautiful life that leads you. But as soon as you are wed, all that you have actually been expecting, fantasizing, will certainly begin evaporating.

Meditate. Become an increasing number of quiet, silent, calm. Allow a peacefulness occur in you. That will certainly aid you in a thousand and one means ... not just in love, it will certainly likewise assist you to produce better sculpture. Because a man who can not like people-- exactly how can he produce? What can he develop? A loveless heart can not be authentically imaginative. He can copy, but he can not create. All creation runs out love, understanding, silence.

[yellowmechanicalcat]

fic: true in time and place

Happy Wednesday, have some fix-it fic for Shiro and Kuron with a heavy side of angst, because I like trying to make canon make sense. Takes place between Seasons 5-7. Read it on AO3 or below the cut.

True in Time and Place (part 1 of 4)

Summary: When Lance sacrificed himself for Allura, he saw someone familiar before she brought him back to life.

"You see there may be stories, apparently not consistent with each other, yet all of them true in their time and place, and so far as each actor is concerned." - Joshua Chamberlain

-

“This is all my fault,” Lance sobs over Shiro’s lifeless body, slamming his fist into the ground. It’s not a side of Lance any of them have seen before. He’s always been one to hide his deeper feelings, using jokes and sarcasm to deflect away from what’s really bothering him. It took over a year for him to trust his team enough to show even a hint of a tear at the mention of his family, even though they all knew he was homesick, because how could you not be?

It’s heartbreaking to watch Lance break down like this, but at least Shiro isn’t around to hear him. Because if he was, he’d probably feel kind of bad.

Because– well. The thing is, Lance isn’t exactly wrong.

-

Lance sacrifices himself on a mission to repair a Galra labor colony’s heat shield, throwing the Red Lion in front of a blast that would have taken out two of his (okay, fine, Red! their) favorite ladies, Blue and Princess Allura alike, and that’s the moment two realities diverge:

In one reality, he dies. This is the end of the Tale of Lance, the brave Earthborn paladin who gave himself wholeheartedly to the cause. The people will build statues that never get his nose or chin quite right. Some will tell tales of Lance the Lover while others warble ballads of Lance the Loveless, but either way he lives on as one of the most remembered martyrs of a long, long war.

In another reality, Lance closes his eyes against the bright light of an explosion and opens them to the vast, empty darkness of Space. Instead of seeing metal lion debris and oxygen leaking from a broken helmet in a cinematic disaster movie scenario kind of way, which is sort of what he’d expected, he feels something like gravity holding his feet to the ground. When he turns around, he finds the Red Lion is behind him.

“Red! Are you okay?” Lance asks.

No response, but also no particle barrier, which is good. Maybe. Red is seated with its head held high and mouth closed, its eyes dark and empty. As far as he can tell, the Lion’s offline. Getting back into the cockpit won’t be easy, but that’s a problem for Future Lance to deal with. Present Lance just has to find a way up there.

He tries his jetpacks but they’re unresponsive, so he figures he must have taken a hit. What’s weird is that the rest of his armor looks fine. Actually, as far as he can tell, there’s not a scratch on him.

He taps his helmet to activate the comms and doesn’t even get static on the line. It’s just–

Quiet.

“Guys?” Lance calls, and his voice echoes strangely through the comms, coming back to him in waves. He does his best to squash his rising panic and ends up cramming it all into a hacky sack-sized lump in the pit of his stomach. “Can you read me? Is anyone there?”

No one is there.

He breathes: in, out, repeat. It’s just him and the Red Lion, alone in this strange space with whole galaxies wheeling above his head and a pale light coming from somewhere that makes his armor glow faintly and gives him familiar vibes (quintessence? his mind whispers) and his thoughts drift to Allura’s magic; finding the Blue Lion; connecting with the others and calling for Shiro to join them, watching his silhouette flicker into view and straining to hear him saying—

“Lance?” “Shiro,” Lance murmurs, lost in memory. A beat. Then: “What are you doing here?” Lance’s breath catches. That’s not how it went. Jeez, he’s only been lost in space for, what, five minutes? and he’s already losing his mind.

He jerks his head up and is startled to see Shiro himself standing right in front of him in full armor, except that he’s missing his helmet. Shiro looks just as startled and kind of pale in the weird glowing light, although maybe startled isn’t the right word because it’s more like someone’s just walked over Shiro’s grave.

“What am I doing here? What are you doing here?!” Lance demands shrilly. “I thought you were with Pidge!”

Shiro doesn’t respond. Instead, he turns to face the Red Lion, reaching up to put his left hand on its metal paw. The Lions are big enough that it should be like watching a tourist pose with the Sphinx but instead it’s kind of like he’s petting a cat. A really, really big cat. There’s something else about him that’s just seems kind of off, but Lance can’t place it.

Eventually, Shiro says, “No, I’ve been here.”

Something about the way he says it makes it sound almost like an apology, but that doesn’t make any sense, either. Impatiently, Lance waits for him to explain, but all Shiro does is ask more questions, still focusing on the Red Lion.

“What happened, Lance? How did you get here?” “I don’t know!” Lance snaps. “Last thing I remember was knocking Allura out of the way when the shield blew. But we’ve gotta get out of here, Shiro! Too many people are counting on us, we can’t just go and disappear on them now.”

Shiro finally looks over at him.

“I’m not going to let you disappear, Lance. I’ll get you back, I promise.”

Is there something wrong with his ears? “Me?” Lance says incredulously. “Why are you saying that like we aren’t both getting out of here? I’m not just gonna leave you here. That’s not how we roll, you know that!”

Shiro doesn’t say anything. He just looks weirdly sad, and Lance can’t shake the feeling that there’s something incredibly wrong about this whole situation.

That’s when he realizes why Shiro doesn’t look right. His hair’s different. It’s styled the way it used to be, with the shaved undercut and the narrow fringe over his forehead. When did Shiro have time to cut his hair? Lance wonders, as his stomach kicks up the hacky sack of panic again. And where is his helmet?

His gut tells him he needs some answers, so Lance asks, “Hey, Shiro? When was the last time you saw me?”

Part of him expects Shiro to make a short-tempered comment about having no time for stupid questions, Lance, you know this is a serious situation, because that’s the kind of thing Shiro does these days, but that isn’t what happens.

“The last time I saw all of you,” Shiro says easily. Lance relaxes a hair because at least that makes sense, but Shiro’s not done yet. “Voltron was trapped, and you were all working to free him. You hung around longer than the others and I tried calling to you, but…”

Lance nods and does his best to ignore the fact that his stomach’s playing hacky sack for real. “And, uh, before that?”

“… a while ago,” Shiro says.

I thought you were with Pidge!

No, I’ve been here.

“After we fought Zarkon, the Black Lion tried to save me by bringing me to the astral plane, but my body… well, it didn’t make it. So I’m still connected to Black, but that’s about it,” Shiro says.

I’ve been here.

“I don’t know how long it’s been. This place can really mess with your head, and time passes differently here,” Shiro says.

I’ve been–

“But I’m pretty sure I’m dead,” Shiro says.

He gives Lance a small smile, then pats Red with a quick double tap, and pulls his hand away as the Lion’s eyes abruptly light up a brilliant gold.

Lance gapes at them both.

“You, on the other hand, aren’t dead yet,” Shiro says just a little too cheerfully. “Neither is your Lion, looks like. Just needed a little energy boost is all, and that much I can do for you.”

That’s when the not-quite ground below their feet rumbles and Red roars deafeningly. Behind Shiro, there’s a light on the horizon that’s slowly getting brighter, and he feels the familiar rush of quintessence coming towards him. Lance! calls Allura’s voice, and she sounds– afraid? Worried? Something must be going wrong back there for her to sound like that. It’d be the easiest thing in the world to run to her now and he can feel Red urging him on.

Lance digs in his heels and stays put.

“But we found you,” he insists. “It took a while, sure, but you’ve been back for months. You’ve been flying the Black Lion. Why would you– This is crazy, I mean, I just saw you! You can’t be��”

He chokes on the word. Dead. It’s so– permanent.

Shiro tightens his jaw, and Lance can’t help noticing he looks even paler than he did before. “We look the same, but he isn’t me. That’s what I was trying to tell you last time. I think Haggar’s using him for something, but I don’t know what. I can only see him when he’s in the Black Lion, and it takes a lot out of me.”

The light’s getting brighter. Lance can barely even see Shiro anymore, just an outline of broad shoulders, the faint glow of Paladin armor. He can hear Allura calling his name again as Red growls insistently, already lumbering to its feet, and vaguely registers that Shiro’s still trying to tell him something with increasing urgency.

“–go now! Don’t– don’t worry about all that stuff I said. Just look after the team. Keep them safe. Will you do that for me?”

“But you’re part of the team too,” Lance tries to say, but he can feel himself slipping away and he’s not sure the words make it out. It’s hard to resist the familiar pull of Allura’s magic, warm and bright, just like her, but all he needs is just a little more time as he tries to draw in another breath–

“Hang on, Shiro!” Lance shouts into the void. “I’ll talk to Allura, there’s gotta be something she can do. I’ll fix this, I promise, and you won’t be alone here anymore–” and he’s babbling but he can’t help it, he doesn’t even know if Shiro can hear him, “I’ll bring you home! You’ve gotta believe me–”

-

That’s the moment another two realities diverge:

In one reality, Lance wakes up and immediately tells Allura about what happened on the astral plane, how she and Shiro saved him, how they need to get him back. It takes some time, but they manage to rescue Shiro’s soul and free the clone from Haggar’s control, setting into motion a chain of events where everything turns out fine.

But in this reality, Lance forgets. When he opens his eyes, he’s so overwhelmed by the way Allura is looking at him that he ends up saying something very obvious (and, he later laments, not smooth at all): “You saved me.” There’s something else he wants to say and it’s right on the tip of his tongue, but he’s still kind of fuzzy-headed from almost dying, so he decides that whatever it is can probably wait. It’ll be fine.

-

“I believe you, Lance,” Shiro says.

[augelico-blog]

Path I fear that the path I once took is right in front of me. The path I am familiar with; I have walked it once before. Then, I had the power to walk it for I was stronger than I am now. Now, I am powerless; the life has been sucked out of me like a vacuum. It is too long to walk down now but if I was to, I dread the strain on my heart when I do. It pumps too hard, too quickly and engulfs my thoughts. The path is a maze and captures me; every incline of myself disappears into it. The path titled "the end" is dark and loveless as if it has never been touched, kissed, loved like I have. The feeling rubs off on me when I walk it, it suffocates me and takes my life away. I regained it all when you came along. Everything I lost, you searched for and found. You placed your warmth onto my cold, limp heart and reheated me when I was used up. I don't know why you did; it was heroic in my eyes for I had never seen a person so open to handle my heavy plate for free. It was as if you were a god-send, someone who was going to heal me because I lost all of my power down that path. I had no energy, no remedy, no life to place the plasters on my wounds - you did. She was the vacuum. The girl before you. She created the path and instructed me to walk it and although she could see my half-broken heart, she insisted. So I walked. I walked until I forgot the good in me. My legs falling to the floor as if they were made out of clay. My heart crumbling like pastry in a hot oven. My soul drifting off into the wet air. But I carried on walking, like you told me to, so I could revive this because the thought of being lonely in a place like this gave me nightmares. They played on my mind as if it was my only thought being listened to on repeat. I could never allow it to become me, so I walked. The path seemed never ending, as if it was infinite and I was stuck walking. The rain hammered onto my skin as if my thoughts was flooding me. I was drowning along this path but I sunk; I wanted to drown. I was tired of being here and the water lured me in with its beauty. The fantasy of not belonging along this path was a dream I could not put into my reality because I had to swim for my mum, for my dad, for my friends, for you to reach me. But the path was no longer a path now, but a death trap of vigorous floods of flowing water. I gulped for the air and I grasped onto the surface until the comfort of the water on this path became the bed for my life. I was drowning. The sky was grey. Everything so dark and lifeless along this path she made. How could I carry on? You stood at the end, waiting for me to come. Her stood at the start, now chasing me. I could not turn around; none of her screams could be heard when you stood there, none of the pain she inflicted could be felt when you stood there, nothing could stop me from progressing to you when you stood there. So with every strain in my heart, I gave it my all. You held out your hand and pulled me up out of this current as if you had walked this path before. You had so much strength to do this as I was limp and breathless, my whole body in your hands as if I was filled with air. You carried me to a warm place that comforted me and resuscitated me for all that was inside was water. The path I walked no longer existed and she didn't either, it was just me and you in the warmth and she was stuck drowning like she deserved. The path was a distant memory, something that would appear in nightmares I rarely had. My dreams became bright and wonderful; they were creations that you formed in my head when everything was content. You created something new inside of me. It covered the scars she made on my skin and created a new layer of myself that was invincible. Nobody could touch me when I had you because your comfort hugged me tight and protected me. You was a comfort blanket that I never wanted to take off, even if it became too hot to handle, I would never remove it. I didn't care about the heat or the path anymore because you was my new remedy and I didn't have to be afraid of drowning now. But the fear of it still remained. It was still there, scarred into my body as an unwanted guest. Sometimes, it would become too much. The fear daunted me and stopped me from loving you. But when it did, whenever it was close, you dived into me and performed CPR. You were my hope i'm not drowning again. I fear that now, I am there again. The dauntingness of the loveless path and the hopelessness of my survival is all placed at the start. Except, you're not telling me go like she did - you are begging me not to. I can hear the path calling me, begging me to return. It is so inviting, opening the door for me with fake gifts inside of it. I block my ears, I block my thoughts for I do not want to return. That place is not for me anymore, it is not where I belong. I belong in your blanket, covered in the soft scent of your eyes in the sunlight. But it constantly calls in the dark when I am most vulnerable - when your blanket isn't there. It sings me to sleep and screams in the morning for me to return as if it needs me to be there. I feel as though I am drifting towards it, I am being pulled through the current of its water but I am not there - I am somewhere new, far worse than the path. It is like the path grew wild vines around the stream, harder to escape now. The current is much stronger, so much harder to breathe. My effort to swim is weaker, so much harder to survive. It is calling, and I am walking. It is singing. I don't want to go. I want to stay here, in the comfort of your love. I never want to return to the place she made for I am scared you won't be waiting for me at the end.

- augelico

[spending-the-night]

he looks in the mirror at the image of his eyes reflecting back an expression of hurt mouth agape with words unspoken tongue itching with movements of malice fingers sliding over the buttons of his open shirt his nails bitten, almost bleeding. who he was and no longer is, who he desired and chased away. slender figure, formless bones, skin keeping its content in place a face that melts away with longing of past, tears of that slide over burning flesh. a sigh, unwelcomed air exiting his lungs turning into green moldy mist against the silvery frame. a ghost that exists in the back of his mind looks at him from behind his figure taunting, teasing, moving and unmoving, mouthing curses and spells that tighten his throat. the love of his life, now haunting and bitter white and ivory dress ripped, showing tender and burnt flesh, sleeves and seams a scarlet bleedy, dark eyes deep and wide mouth spread in a hating rictus, like she could taste iron inside it. knuckles purple with violent promises of torture and revenge. she, the queen, whom he had killed in a means to stop her beating heart from giving itself to another man, a lord, some prince, even a king. he, a peasant, had laid hands on a noble’s wrist, touching her thigh, her cheeks, her back, thumb upon her trempling lip. hair like a mane against her shoulder, the knife hidden behind her leg the ghost moved and screamed a chilling yell, claiming his heart with a deep thrust of the pointy silver blade. he gasped, he broke and shattered against the lovely oval mirror, which used to be hers when alive she had mouthed the forbidden words to him, a scum, lost under the sheets, on the bed inside her room. as he melted against the floor, lifeless bastard of a loveless whore, she stood proud and closed her eyes, waiting for the light to come. and instead, the darkness faded, sun had broke inside her chamber. rays of warmth upon her face, light has taken her as whole, but the ghost she turned to be was as gone as the man she had killed. with a gasp, the maid turned back, leaving her alone again. rosy cheeks, gentle nose, and the curve of her full lips, there she was, alive again, ripped and bloody as a witch. mouth curled in a smile, she bent and caught the beating heart with her long, delicate fingers. blood oozed, tainting her skin, and the door opened again. lifeless ghost of peasant John smiled and lowered in a courtsy. with a grin, she willed her wrist in an eager, bowing arch - disappearing, there he went, banished  from the girl he loved and killed.  princess K went down the stairs, shoeless, graceless as she ran and on her gray tombstone, gravely she had collapsed, cleaning out her name and death, with the heart and blood she grasped. and beside her there it stood, proud and tall as a homeless old man, scared and fool old peasant John, who had thought he could have lived with the murder of dear her. his utmost sin turned out to be loving greedily and pointlessly, humouring his lustful heart, without falling in love as he was supposed to be. and she grinned, as scary as she truly was, the princess witch, a magic, lovely, neverending halo in the eyes of the bewitched. as they stood, he understood. she, the pure, had fooled a lot but revenge was as sweet as were their scream before the mirror.

lifeless ghost of peasant John.

[svttrashdump-blog]

Jisoo woke up next to Seungcheol. As usual. Seungcheol had an arm holding him protectively in place, except it felt more like a heavy weight over his chest. His mark was throbbing. He was reminded of last night where his heart had began working before his head, and he'd almost gone and done things he absolutely should not have. He gently removed Seungcheol's arm off him and got up, examining himself in the bathroom mirror. He looked awful. Dark, tired rings around his eyes. They no longer held that childlike sparkle to them from back when he first met Seungcheol. They were dull with grief and a need to escape the reality he was stuck in. He lifted up his shirt and examined his mark. It was slightly red and irritated, but nothing more. Thankfully. Every moment in his life was a guessing game for Jisoo. Which Seungcheol would he see now? An angry, snappy Seungcheol? A violent Seungcheol? A sweet, caring Seungcheol? A pitiful, apologetic Seungcheol? Jisoo sighed, putting his head in his hands. This was all growing to be too much to handle. One of these days, he was going to break. And he felt like it would happen soon. Mingyu groaned. It was too early in the morning for him to be awake. And on a weekend, too. But the birds were practically screaming through his window so he was forced to get up. It was then that last night's events tumbled down into his fogged up brain. Jisoo. Even though Mingyu had made a resolve to help Jisoo, he had no idea how. It's not like he could just destroy the system, right? It was all wishful thinking. He looked to his left to find the framed photo of him and Wonwoo on his bedside table. His mark throbbed again. What was he planning to do last night? Jisoo's face flashed in his mind. His eyes sparkling with tears. His trembling breath. His parted lips. Mingyu stood up, trying to snap out of it. Enough. Since it was the weekend, he had the whole day to himself. He ought to make use of it. So, he took a walk outside. The morning air was slightly chilly as he stepped out and headed down the sidewalk. About a block down the road he spotted someone vaguely familiar. After racking his brain he realized it was Jeonghan, the person Junhui was enamored with. And next to Jeonghan was a man. They were hand in hand, strolling down the street. Mingyu's eyes widened. Surely-no, this couldn't be Jeonghan's partner. Jeonghan was in a relationship with Junhui, the secretary wouldn't have accepted his friend if he was already in a relationship. But then the unnamed stranger took Jeonghan and kissed him right then and there. Jeonghan smiled and wrapped his arms around the man's neck to deepen the kiss. A few people shot them looks for being so public, but otherwise it was left unmentioned. Mingyu gaped at the sight as he watched them turn a corner and disappear. So then...was this person cheating? The consequences were huge and Mingyu felt compelled to let Junhui know. The last thing he wanted was for his friend to fall for a cheater. Though Junhui was still unmarked so he wouldn't get in any trouble if they were caught. But nonetheless. He returned home after his so called walk and texted Junhui, asking if he knew about this. A moment later he received a reply. "Yes." Mingyu nearly dropped his phone in surprise. Another message came through. "But it doesn't matter." "What are you talking about? This is serious!" Mingyu responded urgently. "I'm helping him. He needs someone that really loves him. That guy he's with doesn't." "What do you mean?" "The person he's with only pretends to love him. It was a business marriage. No love." "I saw them kiss." "It's all for show." Mingyu groaned, running his hand through his hair. "That doesn't excuse the fact that it's cheating! If he gets caught, you know what will happen!" "I'll protect him. I'll find a way." Stubborn as always. Mingyu gave up, texting him a quick "good luck" before putting his phone down. Junhui made it seem so easy. The guy had always been pretty nonchalant about things, not really caring about consequences. Mingyu wished he could say the same. Unfortunately, he himself was more of a law abiding do gooder that knew no wrongs. What would it be like if he decided to break the rules for once? Jisoo sighed, sinking into his work chair after finishing his paperwork. Seungcheol sat down next to him, arms crossed. "Done?" Jisoo nodded. "That's my share of the work today." "Then can you leave?" Jisoo shook his head. "My shift ends at 5, I can't leave before then." "Why not?" "U-um, company rules..." Seungcheol stood up, looking more than slightly pissed off. "We'll see about that." He trudged away, heading to the front office where the department head was situated. Jisoo really hoped the head would reject his demands, because the workplace was his only sanctuary, the one place where he felt safeguarded by the public eye. Seungcheol couldn't do anything to him, at least not much, while they were here. He fidgeted in his chair, resisting the urge to get up and go to Mingyu's work space. The last thing he wanted was to elicit an even more vicious Seungcheol. As minute by minute ticked by, Jisoo finally gained the courage to get up and take tentative steps to where Mingyu was. Not too close, just enough so he could spot the head of hair that stood out due to the extreme height of his. Jisoo felt his nerves on end, constantly looking over his shoulder to make sure Seungcheol hadn't returned. Mingyu's back was towards him, his clumsy fingers prying apart a file with difficulty. Jisoo smiled. He was itching to fill that empty chair next to Mingyu and help him out. He took a couple more steps. One more. Another. A bead of sweat broke out on his forehead and he hastily wiped it away. He was close enough that he could see the folds of fabric straining on Mingyu's shirt due to his broad back and arms. Then it was like his intuition kicked in and Jisoo whirled around, backtracking speedily. He made it back to his chair just as Seungcheol appeared, looking even more enraged. "This place is a joke," he spat. "Can't even let a good worker leave early." Jisoo sat there, unsure what to say. Seungcheol gave him a cross look. "Why are you even working here?" Jisoo gulped. "W-well, the pay's good...the workload is pretty standard..and the commute is ideal..." Seungcheol shook his head. "No, we need to find someplace better for you. Not this shitpile." He grabbed Jisoo's arm. "We're leaving." "Wh-what? You can't-" "Yes I can. We're leaving." Jisoo protested weakly before the grip on his arm tightened painfully and he whimpered, giving up. Seungcheol dragged him past Mingyu's desk. At that moment Mingyu looked up and caught Jisoo's eyes. Time seemed to slow down for a moment as he read Jisoo's expression and glanced at the rough way he was being forced along with his parter. It's not even time to clock out yet, why are they both leaving? Jisoo looked scared as well... Mingyu pulled out his phone and texted Jisoo. "Everything ok?" About an hour or so later he received a reply. "Yes. Please don't text me anymore." Mingyu raised his eyebrows. Well that sure as hell didn't make it seem like everything was okay. Despite the latter's message he continued. "Why? Please tell me if something's wrong, we can meet up if necessary." This time the text was returned instantly. "Stay away from me." And then. "I'm sorry." [You have been blocked] Mingyu nearly broke his phone in half with how tightly he gripped it. What the fuck is going on? And now he couldn't message Jisoo either. He slammed his phone against his desk, earning curious looks from his coworkers. Exhaling heavily, he shoved the rest of his paperwork into a folder, not in the mood to finish anymore. "Jun," he said, approaching the male. "Can I ask you something?" Junhui looked up. "Yeah?" "You said Jeonghan was in a loveless marriage or something. How did you find out?" Junhui leaned back in his chair. "Easy. I got to know Jeonghan a bit better. I had to be a bit pushy at first, flirted a lot. Alcohol also helps, people spill a ton of shit when they're drunk off their asses. Anywho, one night we were drinking and he told me. I suggested we go home together and bam." He sighed, closing his eyes. "Why do you ask?" "It's um...about Jisoo. I think his partner's a bit...physically aggressive to him." "So like, abusive?" "I guess..." Junhui glanced at his watch. "Wanna leave early? It's already 4, I bet an hour or so won't make a big deal." "But-" "Sh, come on. It's hard to talk about this shit while I'm surrounded by lifeless drones working." He coerced Mingyu to follow him out the door, promising he wouldn't get fired for doing it just once. He pulled out a pack of cigarettes and handed one to Mingyu. "Do you smoke?" Mingyu shook his head. "Tried it once, tasted like acid." "The good kind, though." Junhui lit the end of his cigar and inhaled, exhaling a long puff of smoke. "So, what're you planning to do with Jisoo?" Mingyu shrugged, looking down at his shoes as they strolled down the block. "His partner is very...assertive. I can't even get near Jisoo anymore." "You have a phone." "He blocked me." "Doesn't that mean he doesn't want you to interfere?" "Or that he's being forced to." Junhui nodded. "Sharp. Well in that case, what more can you do? Let the poor guy deal with his lover. It's out of your control." Mingyu looked up. "Hey, have you ever wondered why this system exists in the first place? Marks and all that?" Junhui snorted. "To make loving someone even harder than it already is, I guess. But, look at it this way. Currently, Korea has the lowest divorce and remarriage rate of any country in the world. It's our shining medal of honor." "And our only medal of honor." "Exactly. We needed to redeem ourselves and put us back into the global picture. How? Well, by exploiting the citizens and doing something as drastic and extreme as this." Mingyu whistled. "You almost sounded smart for a second." Junhui elbowed him. "Brat." The pair kept walking until they reached a detour in the road. "Well, gotta go. See you later, and don't give up," Junhui said, flashing him a thumbs up as he turned left and down the street. Mingyu shoved his hands into his pockets, not really feeling an urge to return to his empty home. He headed to a bar, turning down any people who flirted with him with a simple "I'm marked" as he sat alone at a table with one glass of wine. He hadn't touched it yet, just staring at his phone as he reread his short lived exchange with Jisoo. Mingyu wanted to see him. After a long time, he noticed he'd been at the bar for nearly 3 hours and the bartender was giving him an odd look over the counter. He got up, leaving his untouched drink on the table as he exited the place. As he began heading back, he was struck by an idea. If Jisoo wouldn't come to him, he would just have to go to Jisoo. He whipped out his phone. He still had Jisoo's address saved in his GPS history back when he gave the latter directions. He took a taxi and ended up at Jisoo's tiny house. He headed to the back of the building, unsure what to do. He peered in through the back window, quite aware of how creepy he would look to anyone passing by. It was then that he realized he was looking into a kitchen, and that Jisoo was at the stove, seemingly cooking. Mingyu gulped as he realized Jisoo was only wearing an oversized t-shirt that just reached his upper thighs. Mingyu edged towards the back door of the house and knocked softly, wondering what Jisoo would do when he realized Mingyu had basically stalked him to his house. The back door opened with a tiny creak and Jisoo's eyes widened as he took in Mingyu's sudden appearance. Jisoo looked over his shoulder, then stepped outside, closing the door behind him. "What're you doing here?" Jisoo asked tensely. Mingyu sighed. "You texted me saying to stay away from you and then blocked me. I want an explanation." Jisoo frowned. "I could report you for harassment, you know." "And will you?" Mingyu challenged. Jisoo looked up at him. "Why does what I do bother you, anyway?" "Because it bothers me how you seem to be treated like shit by your partner, that's why." A gust of wind passed by them and Jisoo shivered, dressed as lightly as he was. "Seungcheol's asleep right now so come in. Keep your voice down though." He opened the door and let Mingyu enter. "Have you eaten?" Mingyu realized he was starving, it'd been hours since he'd had lunch. "No, actually. Food sounds good right now." Jisoo looked back at the stovetop. "My cooking skills aren't nearly as good as yours, but I made dinner." He pulled out a plate and handed it to Mingyu. "Help yourself. I'm going to go check on Seungcheol real quick." Mingyu tasted a bit of Jisoo's stir fry and was impressed. It wasn't bad at all. The guy should give himself more credit. He took a large serving and chowed down as Jisoo returned, this time wearing shorts. Which meant he hadn't been wearing anything beneath the shirt earlier. Mingyu tried to fight the stirring feeling in his gut at the thought. "I gave Seungcheol a sleeping pill. He'll be gone for a couple hours," Jisoo mumbled, leaning against the counter. Mingyu put his cleared plate down. "Okay, so can we talk now? I need to understand what's going on between you and him." Jisoo sighed, moving to the living room and sinking onto the couch, turning on the TV. "It's not that big of a deal, okay?" Mingyu followed him onto the couch, his brows furrowed. "Why are you avoiding the subject?" "Because it's not that big of a deal. Sorry if I worried you or something," Jisoo said, eyes trained on the television in front of him. Mingyu ran a hand through his hair in frustration. "You came knocking on the door of my house in the middle of the night and started crying because of him, and now you say it's not a big deal? Make up your mind, will you?" Jisoo looked down at his hands. "Even if I tell you, you can't do anything about it. I want to be free, but I can't. I can't, Mingyu." Mingyu shifted closer so that their legs were now touching as he tried looking Jisoo in the eyes. "You're the one who opened my eyes about how unfair this world is. Don't tell me you're backing out on it now." Jisoo's shoulders slumped halfheartedly. "I just...realized there's no point. At times I wonder if I should just join the countless others in the center of the town square and die for love like they did." He looked at Mingyu, eyes bleak and dour. "Seungcheol...he changed a lot. He hurts me sometimes. He loves me sometimes. He yells, he begs, he cries, he hits, he's demanding and he wants me all for himself. I can't interact with anybody. I can't be myself anymore. I can't live anymore." Mingyu felt his chest tighten at those words. Even moreso when he saw Jisoo's eyes shining like a clear lake on a still evening. "Die for love..." Mingyu repeated. "Are you willing to go that far?" Jisoo smiled weakly. "I don't know, are you?" He reached a hand out and placed it over Mingyu's chest, grazing his shirt with his palm. Mingyu placed his own hand on top of Jisoo's, keeping it firmly over his chest. "Yeah, I am." And maybe it was the way Jisoo's eyes glinted, or the way his lips curved upwards as if beckoning Mingyu to taste them. The kiss burned, it was like ice and fire all at once. Jisoo's lips melted onto Mingyu's, trembling slightly at the feeling. Mingyu's other arm snaked over the small of Jisoo's back and yanked him closer, straddling him on his lap as the distance closed between them. Jisoo moaned against him as Mingyu's hands ran up and down his back, sending shudders down his spine. He held onto Mingyu's shoulder with his free hand. The hand on Mingyu's chest intwined with Mingyu's fingers and their bodies were now pressed together, heartbeats in sync. Jisoo was the one to break it off first, panting as he looked into Mingyu's eyes. Mingyu was breathing trepidously too, still processing what just happened. "Shit...that wasn't supposed to happen..." Jisoo mumbled breathlessly. "Mingyu..." "You wanted it though, didn't you?" Mingyu responded, his mark burning and burning against his chest like it had been lit on fire. Jisoo let out a shaky breath, a small smile on his lips. "That I can't deny." He placed his hand over his heart, where his mark was located. "Ouch." "Yeah, I guess it's warning us..." Mingyu sighed, already yearning for Jisoo's lips again. It was all so dangerous. Everything they were doing was utterly inappropriate. But one look at Jisoo and he felt swept away. The feeling terrified him yet intrigued him at the same time. "You should leave," Jisoo said, clearing his throat as he stood up. "It's...safer this way." Mingyu rose to his feet. "Can I ask you one last question?" Jisoo nodded, fidgeting restlessly. "What are your feelings towards me?" Jisoo stilled, his face growing a shade rosier. "Not something either of us should be proud of." "So I take it you like me then?" "You said one last question, Mingyu." Despite Jisoo's efforts to remain stern, the redness in his face gave everything away. Mingyu grinned. "Alright, alright. See you tomorrow at work then?" Jisoo's face grew troubled for a moment before smoothing down. "Yes, see you tomorrow." However, the next day, Jisoo was nowhere to be found.