Open Prompt Sent By @starfrckled( Edward Teach) I Just Want Myself Back .

🪐 —open prompt  sent by  @starfrckled​​  ( edward teach )                    ❛   i  just  want  myself  back .  ❜

          A SOUL IN TURMOIL  bringing themselves to tia dalma’s door searching for help or healing was no rare sight. the humans never changed; always distraught over some slight, always concerned only with easing their own pain. self-centered to a fault. but then, she could understand the need to do seek any means necessary to ease ache of a broken heart.  &  no matter how he tried to hide his wound, the truth was obvious to one familiar with the signs. especially when he asked her of davy jones,  &  the part of the legend where he had plunged a knife into his own chest to stop the pain.                        ❝ well then, you will have to know who it is that you are. ❞  her eyes catch him in their gaze  &  holds him there. &  the goddess leans forward in her seat, elbows on the table  &  hands clasped together tightly. the candles around her hut all flicker at once, sending shadows dancing ominously across her face. there is no trace of a warmth or humor in her tone when she speaks. ❝ so, are you the kind of man who would rather be without a heart at all, edward teach ? ❞  the syllables of his name are drawn out, exaggerated, ending in a flash of dirty teeth that is closer to bared fangs than anything resembling a smile.

🪐 — kang sae-beyok ;

fingers close around the offered glass,   gesture more automatic than genuine.  she fights off the urge to wrinkle her nose as she scent of alcohol brushes against her nostrils,  but makes herself take a small sip anyway.  she might get away with tuning out half of katiana’s words  —  especially when they involve dinners with wealthy sons and such  —  but she doubts the girl is entirely stupid and sae-byeok needs to be careful.   

❛  no,  thanks.  ❜   she declines the invite,  clipping the vowels as she heard people around her do so many times already,  then finally settling down on a nearby armchair lest someone mistakes her for a waitress,  standing there with her spine straight and a blank expression to booth.  sae-byeok relaxes her stance as much as she can,  elbows on the armrests and champagne glass on the table,  while her gaze slips towards the little box of macarons  —  pastries she has never tasted from a country she has never been to.  and a bite of curiosity has the better of her,  sudden and striking,  guilt following fast on its heels. she shouldn’t want more than she has, and yet.   ❛  what do they taste like?  ❜

       IT’S ALMOST A DISAPPOINTMENT  when she says no. without a friend  — if sae-byeok could be considered such  —  there to talk to, katiana would probably end up actually having to listen to the investment banker for most of the night.  &  people who worked in finance certainly had a flash factor that she enjoyed  ( nice cars, fancy restaurants, the best champagne )  they were honestly pretty boring when it came right down to it. but she shrugs, it off, popping another perfect macaroon into her mouth.                                     but then sae-byeok asks an entirely unbelievable question,  &  katiana almost chokes on the pastry she’s still chewing. ❝ you mean you’ve never tried them ? ❞  a hand flies up to cover her full mouth, the shame of bad manners so deeply ingrained that it comes as instinct,  &  she forces herself to chew  &  swallow before she speaks again.  ❝ well here !  you have to have one !  ❞  katiana leans forward in her seat, the half-empty box extended out in one hand toward sae-byeok in offering.  &  she shakes the box a bit for emphasis, clearly refusing to take no for an answer.  ❝ come on, i insist. i definitely don’t need the whole box to myself. there’s plenty  —  &  they’re so good, like little sweet little sugar puffs !  you’ll love them. ❞

“(..) psychologists say that shame ruins your capacity for reverie by making cracks in the mind where it is dangerous for thought to wander.”

— Anne Carson, Float; “Shame stack”

RACHEL MCADAMS AS SIGRIT ERICKSDOTTIR Eurovision Song Contest: The Story of Fire Saga (2020)

🪐 — jon snow​ ;

once  upon  a  time,  he  believed  fate  was  his  to  seize  and  to  steer.  just  like  daeron  the  young  dragon,  who  conquered  dorne  at  fourteen,  so  too  would  jon  conquer  his  fears  and  lead  men.  but  now,  he  starts  to  wonder  if  the  red  woman  isn’t  right.  had  it  always  been  his  fate  to  wind  up  at  the  wall,  just  as  it  had  it  been  robb’s  fate  to  die  ?  could  a  man  truly  steer  his  own  course,  or  was  he  simply  a  pawn  in  the  gods’  games  ?    he  inhales  deeply,  eyes  falling  closed.  such  questions  are  beyond  him;  despite  his  glimpse  beyond  this  world.   ❝  my  lady,    ❞    he  begins  carefully,  index  finger  tapping  on  the  wood  of  the  table.      ❝  if  .  .  .  it  was  the  will  of  your  lord  that  i  return,  surely  you  can  tell  me  what  need  he  has  of  me.    ❞    grey  eyes  bore  into  her.    from  this  distance  he  can  smell  her  heat,  as  red-hot  as  the  iron  from  mikken’s  forge.    part  of  him  suspects  that  r’hllor’s  will  shall  line  up  with  melisandre’s  in  a  .  .  .  suspiciously  convenient  way    (  as  often  kings  and  lords  and  priests  appeal  to  the  power  of  their  gods,  when  it  is,  in  fact,  their  own  own  human  power  they  wish  to  wield  ).     ❝  i  should  hope  it  involves  war,  because  i  still  mean  to  ride.  ❞

         SHE KNOWS WHAT HE WILL ASK  before he speaks, though this particular prediction required no blessed vision from the flames. they all wanted to know the path ahead. melisandre herself was no exception; it was that longing to see the way forward that kept her awake night after night staring into her hearth for a glimpse of her god’s will.                                                             but it is the determination in his voice that does surprise her, red lips curling into a smile as he speaks his intentions. it pleases her to hear. jon snow is r’hllor’s chosen; that much cannot be in question any longer.  &  her god required a warrior’s heart of his champion.

                       ❝ i cannot tell you how this will end for you. r’hllor only shows me what i need to see in order to to serve him. ❞  melisandre weighs each word cautiously, sensing he will be disappointed with her answer, yet unable to give a better one.  ❝ but please understand, his light is a gift as much as it is a duty. ❞  her body turns away from the table, eyes drawn to a torch alight on the wall. it seems to pulse under her gaze, a fourth heart alive  &  beating in perfect synchronization with the three of flesh  &  blood that were present in the room.

                                    melisandre had been so certain that the wall was the place the darkness would descend, but then, she’d been certain of stannis, too. she may not see the path, but she would never doubt her god’s will again. &  with her resolve steeled, the priestess straightens her spine  &  turns back toward jon in a graceful sweep of crimson silks. ❝ you cannot escape it, but nor will you be held prisoner by it. if it is your will to ride south, then go  —  as soon as your wounds allow  —  &  the light will follow you. ❞

🪐 — edward teach​ ;

@musecraft  (   as izzy  ) sent #52 to:  take a knife meant for edward.

under the spike of adrenaline still running through his veins there's something worse to be found.   it sets his heart racing,  a wild pulse beating in his ears  —  dread.  white hot,  stomach twisting and coiled tight around his chest in a grip that doesn't seem to be fading anytime soon.  he tastes blood in his mouth and his right shoulder hurts where it hit against a table earlier,  but edward minds nothing of it,  too busy wrenching the bathroom cabinet open to reach for the first aid kit.  the wound is not deep,  he tells himself again and again,  but his thoughts keep spilling all over,  warring with the memory of a knife suddenly glinting towards him and coming away wet with blood. not his own. there seemed to be so much of it to him, dripping on the floor between them (   some people bring knives to a fist fight indeed,  figures   ). 

the sole of his boot against broken glass makes an awful crunching sound,  but edward leaves the messed up pub behind him without a second thought to spare for it,  headed for the smaller private room in the back.  and to be completely fair,  izzy is alright.  sure,  there's a wound on his arm that hasn't quite stopped bleeding yet,  but he is awake and alive.  his mind just hasn't fully come to terms with it yet.   ❛  didn't have to do that,  y'know.  would've been fine.  knife wasn't even that big anyway—  ❜   he is talking too much,  too fast.  edward breathes in,  out,  and looks up from where he has knelt in front of him by the couch.  the same one he had told him not to move from a few minutes prior. it's honestly stupid how it makes him feel all giddy and warm, as if edward doesn't already know that izzy is good at doing what he tells him.   ❛  let me wrap that up,  yeah?  ❜   softer,  but also steadier,  that awful knot of fear easing away with every breath.  aid kit momentarily abandoned on the floor next to his feet,  edward wraps a hand around the back of izzy's neck,  needing to feel him solid and warm under his fingertips.

      THERE’S AN INEXPLICABLE SENSE OF CLARITY  that settles over izzy as soon as the threat is neutralized,  the pain of an open wound snapping the world into focus around him. the dingy bar seems to almost glitter at the edges of his vision, crystalline shards of broken glass scattered over the floor, the entire world gone sharp  &  shiny. his breath comes quick  &  shallow, pulse racing in his ears as the adrenaline takes over his nervous system. he can feel the blood running down his arm, hot  &  wet as it leaks from the gash the fucker’s blade had opened up on his muscle, but it doesn’t seem important. better him than edward. he knew that ed was safe,  &  that was all that mattered. he’d even helped get izzy to the small private room in the back after the fight was over  &  told him stay here. so there he sat, perfectly still as blood drips onto the already grimy sofa.                                                                        edward’s not gone long though, returning only a mere moment later with a little plastic box in hand, a red cross emblazoned on the front. he’s jittery, anxious, a stark contract to izzy’s own sense of lucid calm. it’s like edward is actually worried about him,  &  the thought brings a fiercely hot glow to rise in his chest. ❝ ‘course i did; that’s my job, ❞ he responds, a breathy laugh punctuating his words. izzy knows he’ll be fine regardless, but the idea of edward tenderly wrapping his wound makes his stomach flip. so he nods in agreement, but before the strong hands he loves so dearly move to tend the fresh gash on his arm, one instead curls around the back of his neck, holding him by the nape with a firm but gentle grip.  &  izzy gasps aloud at the touch, his lips falling open  &  eyes blown wide. edward is so close that he can count his every eyelash, can feel the heat that exudes from his skin.  &  something else cuts clean through the pain  —  something that izzy is far less familiar with  —  something that leaves his skin buzzing all over  &  his heart stuttering from its breakneck pace. ❝ edward, ❞ he murmurs, voice barely more than a breath as his uninjured arm reaches up, a hand coming to curl gently around the other man’s forearm.  ❝ it’s ok. i’m alright. ❞