ALL IN RED.

This is what they didn’t tell Icarus: You are allowed to swallow the sun. Mother, I know you’re scared of the burning in my belly and some days I am too; there are mornings I spit out ashes in the back of the alley and pray for broken wings. But I’d rather feel embers glowing in my chest than the heavy dark that claims so many hearts: I was not born into a grave. Mother, sometimes that ocean seems closer than the sky and I almost forget which I’m reaching for. But I’d rather die with two eyes open and two hands searching, always searching, than live with both feet on the ground.

[hangedboy]

➝ isaak.

isaak: you're hilarious. you should do stand-up.

isaak: you're going to laugh

ronan: well i mean thats probably a given

ronan: but you should tell me anyway

ronan: or else im just going to imagine reasons of my own and those will probably be worse

[hangedboy]

jerichoheart:

☽⋆ RONAN

Luce is in huge fucking trouble. Panicking, she ducks behind the nearest person taller than her, hoping that will hide her long enough to put her issues back in the box she’s quite happy locking them in for the foreseeable future. Unfortunately, that person stops walking at exactly the same time, and her face smushes in-between their shoulder-blades. ❝ Oh, stars, ❞ she breathes, moving a fraction back. She doesn’t want to lose her hiding place, not even to save herself the embarrassment. ❝ Can I just – sorry, just, can I stand here, for a moment. I am so sorry. ❞ Her whispered words hopefully filter through the crowd in the hall, but either way, the danger is almost over. Hopefully.

   ── A mulling crowd had long ago been discovered to be a suitable place for Ronan to melt back into invisibility, and it was a trick he’d come to use often, adopting the crowds of Arcana between classes as a quick-fix way to blend out of focus. If he kept his gaze and posture pulled down towards the ground he wasn’t noticeable out of the rest of the masses, and that anonymity was one of the simpler ways to keep himself out of trouble. He may have had some frustrating propensity to clash with those around him, but it was an instinct that was easier to contain when no one paid him any mind.

To have someone slam into him and abruptly tear him out of his own thoughts, then, through him off guard for a moment. Ronan turned in a confusion, some hotly irritated reaction immediately ready and waiting to be thrown their way, but upon catching the expression on his interrupter’s face, he held back. Her tone was hushed and nervous and he furrowed his brow in response, glancing up behind her in search of whatever it was she hoped to avoid.

“You--- uh, what?” Out of her choices for a temporarily safe place to land, Ronan seemed like he shouldn’t fall high on her list of options. But her whole demeanor spoke of desperation, and he couldn’t help but be curious, so he paused instead of shrugging her off. “Why?”

[hangedboy]

➝ isaak.

Isaak: i have a bruise the size of a park bench on my neck

Isaak: [photo]

Isaak: any idea if a healer can fix this or will i have to just tough it out?

ronan: youre in luck bc i happen to know a very helpful charm called 'suck it up'

ronan: what did you even do anyway

[hangedboy]

shadowisaak:

time: late evening location: special access rooms, the basement of the st methodius building status: hungry, tired, and with @hangedboy

Isaak had thought that the Chinese takeaway would help. It was piled in a corner of one of the room on a table that was empty before he and his sometimes-assistant, sometimes-annoyance had entered the room to being a preliminary study that morning. The sun had barely crested the towering buildings that dotted the crowded London skyline when Isaak had pressed his hand to the wall, his blood leeching into the stones, and a door appeared. He didn’t like the special access rooms– hell, he didn’t like the St Methodius building at all. It was supposed to have been the main teaching building, but the energy was off. Something dark had lived there before Arcana had wound its fingers around the skeleton of the city. Either that or Arcana had brought the darkness with them, which was equally as probable.

And now Gregory Morris sat on the examination table between them, covered the shroud of light and darkness that swirled and cascaded before their very eyes, rock music blared from a speaker suspended in the corner, and Isaak had sauce from his five-alarm teriyaki on his white lab coat. 

“Fuck,” he exclaimed as his recent attempt to pierce the shroud backfired and he frantically stamped out the embers crawling over him like lightning bugs. He ran his hands through his hair and rubbed his temples. “I fucking hate this guy. It’s not enough that he was a fucking murderer, but now he’s annoying even beyond the grave.”

   ── The tone of the room wasn’t one that Ronan knew how to read. The seriousness of the body on the table and the deep leach of magic that drenched the space continuously held steady to sober him, but there was some absurdity to it all too. Isaak had established the setup in an indefinable sort of way, with music and takeout and a stain on his shirt that all carried on simultaneously as he attempted another genuine break of the shroud. Ronan wasn’t sure if he was meant to take the whole thing as an imitation of some laid-back college study session, but he badly wanted to take it seriously anyway. Wanted to keep himself level and logical and approach the complications with some semblance of patience and rationale. Wanted to present himself as someone who could handle the tasks, not some fiery idiot first-year who only hoped to shatter the magic by slamming a baseball bat full-force against Gregory Morris’ chest. Wanted to regard the dead man on the table for what he was, instead of a mere frustration that was making the familiar irritation start to light bitter in Ronan’s throat.

It was a situation had started to feel like some long-building joke, with Ronan just sitting and waiting for the punchline to inevitably hit--- the deaths that had seemingly chased him to campus were enough to screw with his head, and the fact that he’d willingly joined the effort to understand them was a decision he still questioned. But he needed to know, to figure out what it was that was that was hunting people down, because Ronan had never had the luxury of good luck before, and he didn’t think it’d start now by sparing him from getting caught in it all somehow. Either he could sit around and watch the curse of it uncurl all around him, just let it happen to him, or he could throw himself in on his own terms. Neither option settled well with him, but the second was one he could at least handle.

“Thought you weren’t supposed to speak ill of the dead.” Ronan’s exasperation must have been blatant but he at least attempted to make the words sound teasing, watching as Isaak flinched back from the latest failed attempt. “Don’t see why you have to be so gentle about everything, there. Not like you’re gonna kill him again.”

[wnq-writers]

this rage/never asks for much/but sometimes it takes/all of me.

Lana Rafaela (via wnq-writers)

[overthink]

Beatrice Leidi

[setheverman]

why r u so angry.... why do u always look so angry...?

it’s the anger

[hangedboy]

siixofswords:

Georgia stared at Ronan for what was probably a few seconds too long, silent. She’d been caught up in her own thoughts, cutting her way out of Sandy’s and across campus to her own flat. It seemed winter still had its ugly claws stuck deep in London. Despite her several layers of sweater, coat, and scarf, the frost still nipped at Georgia’s exposed skin. Her nose and cheeks were pink with cold, and her thoughts miles away to the banks of the Thames. A copy of The Daily Reading sat tucked beneath her arm.

“Uh,” finally, a noise, and a pathetic one at that. “No, sorry, I don’t smoke.” Georgia did her best to keep the judgement out of her voice. She’d always thought smokers had a bit of a death wish. “This might help, though,” she extended her hand, palm open, and stared intently until a small spark flew from her fingers. It went out as quickly as it had come. Georgia had never been very skilled at fire magic. She dropped her hand. “Maybe not, then. Sorry about that. I’m usually better, but it’s so bloody cold.” She shoved her hands back in her pockets in an effort to keep them warm.

 ── With the pause that followed, Ronan thought perhaps he was about to be left with a passing stare and his question ignored, and the oddity of the moment did little to help soothe over his unease. Her hesitation did seem as though it was merely born from distraction, though, and so he tied back his reflexive agitation and instead pulled the cigarette from his mouth, rolling it restlessly between his fingers while she found her voice. The response came with an air of distaste but he supposed that, under the circumstances, it was easy to forgive her for--- it was rare for a choice of his to feel like a favorable one, and sitting there in the cold, itching for a smoke with tremors in his hands, certianly didn’t break that pattern.

A light sputtered but choked itself back out before Ronan had a chance to react, and he sighed as she tucked her hands away again. “’S alright, I’ll just--- shouldn’t have asked.” The disappointment of the still-unlit cigarette fell briefly by the wayside when his attention was caught by the newspaper under her arm, title hidden by her jacket. “Um, they find out anything? About the---” He gestured to the paper and cleared his throat to hold his voice even; he hadn’t dared to open any articles yet, his acidic-burning worry winning out over his curiosity, though he couldn’t help but ask in the spur of the moment. His uncertainty must have been blatantly obvious but he did his best to make a front of indifference, shrugging as he continued. “---The body, or whatever. Haven’t gotten a chance to read that.”

[jungjnsoul]

DESPONDENT  de·spond·ent  –  feeling or showing profound hopelessness, dejection, discouragement, or gloom. request more here, please don’t remove caption !

[thegayfleet]

Froy Gutierrez by Derrick Freske

[oli-sykes-love3]

[hangedboy]

time : TEN THIRTY PM. location : OUTSIDE, UTP.

   ── Nerves had never settled well with Ronan. Impulse reactions were fast and easy and came with little to worry over, a response and a result falling in rapid succession that only left an aftermath to be dealt with--- and in his experience, palpable outcomes were far easier to stomach than agonizing through possibilities. But there was no immediate answer he could find to the news of the body, nothing he could throw a punch to for a quick-release of relief, and so his disquiet simply boiled in his chest, sending snaps of tension out into shaking hands.

Is it my fault, somehow? All of this? Has something chased me here?

It was past dark and therefore past what felt safe and secure in the light of day, though the obvious jitters of the passing few students felt fitting for the evening. The steps were cold beneath him and acted as a welcome distraction from the stubborn lighter in his hand, sparking and coughing as he struck it but refusing to kick to life. The unlit cigarette between his teeth promised a bit of satiation though now only taunted him with the fact he couldn’t get a flame to catch, god fucking damn it, fuck---

“Hey,” Calling over to the next person to approach, Ronan dragged himself out of his collapsing train of thought, attempting to let his tone sound calm to hide any uncertainty. “Wouldn’t happen to have a light, would you?” 

[hangedboy]

playsthefool:

           In the thrum and the hubbub of an all-night soiree, Jude was rarely seen without laughter on his lips and a can in his hand. Was it Bakhtin, or perhaps Baudelaire who had written so fondly of the carnivalesque? The drunkeness, the nakedness, drugs, lapsed morals – the whole charade seemed to break itself from the mould of expectation, whims given entirely to hedonistic drives. Wide eyed and giddy, he lazed on the roof of the concourse bike shelter, techno leaking like an oil spill from within the campus’ concrete shells. Sweat beaded on Jude’s brow, limbs tired and raggedy from the throws of drunken dancing, a cigarette at his lips, eyes on the arc of the stars. 

          “Huh?” The lad repeated, only half-aware of the situation surrounding him, eyes flickering down to the sight below,before his feet followed suit, bones shuffling to sit, cross-legged, on the edge of the bike shelter. “No idea, mate –but if the fella gave it yer’ for nout, I wouldn’t be complaining. Get it down the hatch, g’warn lad.” His chuckle was infectious, rich and warm as honey on his lips as he took another drag of the cigarette, head spinning from the aftermath of too many beers swigged in quick succession and an eighth of Mandy from a girl at the bar.

          “Hey,” Jude called, after his laughter died down, eyes lingering on the figure beneath the bike shelter. “Hey, man – what constellations do you know?” Hands tapped the space beside him on the shelter roof, a smile cracking his lips. “C’mere, man, what constellations d’you know?”

   ── Sights turned up to the figure perched above, and he furrowed his brow deeper following the encouragement--- the boy’s voice was syrupy and slurred with what Ronan presumed had been an evening of drinking or other such indulgences, and while he could envy his apparently unworried amusement, it was a mood he wasn’t about to easily catch onto. Still, he gave into the urging just enough to tip back a single deep drink, only getting through maybe a third of his glass before he had to come up for a choking breath. Whatever was in the cup burned his throat on the way down, stinging over his tongue and catching fire in his chest, bringing out a a revulsed noise at the taste.

“What?” He coughed his way through the first response, squinting up in the near-dark to try and get a better look at the other’s expression. Clearly he was deeply entertained by the whole situation, but Ronan couldn’t quite tell if he was making fun of him in the process. The boy’s wide-mouthed grin only suggested someone who’d gone along with a few too many gratifications over the past few hours, though, and he was quickly categorized as little threat--- just tipsy, overenthusiastic, and for whatever reason, beckoning for Ronan to stay.

The touch gesturing to the empty roof beside him didn’t go unnoticed, but Ronan chose to ignore the invitation for now, instead stepping in a few paces closer to get a better look at him above. “Not many, I guess? Just really remember the big dipper, and those ones ones with the bears. Why, good night for stargazing, there?”

[melisica]

steven beckly

[luthienne]

It does me no good; violence has changed me. / My body has grown cold like the stripped fields; / now there is only my mind, cautious and wary, / with the sense it is being tested.

Louise Glück, from Averno; “October” (via luthienne)

[haleyincarnate]

[misanthropicmessiah]