hellfire - the hunchback of notre dame (lyrics highlighted in blue )
His brother brought him to Mass on Sunday.
Thorne felt his skin itch beneath the crisp suit he wore, the blazer draped over his shoulders. His tattoos felt like they were writhing, as though they'd been inked into him with sin itself, as he stepped out onto the gravel drive before the cathedral. He had met his brother half-way in Boston, and would drive back to Ashdown afterwards to meet Chris. But even now, the time that would be spent here felt too long, too drawn out, every second like teeth scratching at his skin. He felt closer to the devil here. He felt like he was on fire, burning beneath the eyes of the church, his fathers church. God himself.
The doors closed after them, and the heat that bartered and warred with the crisp cold of autumn outside rushed over Thorne like licking flames, like hungry little whispers. Every grazing eye, every closely whispered word, tugged at one of his loose ends. The air was rancid with incense, with the scent of prayer and tome and confession. It slid right against the small of his back like a lovers hands inverted, sharp and smoldering directly against his skin. Even clothed, Thorne still felt bare, and his brother only breathed sharp words of direction to him as they moved among the pews.
"Calm down," Declan said, cruelly.
Thorne looked at him, too sharp, too bright, too animal. He felt like he'd been locked in, fire somewhere just beyond the doors. He remembered his fathers hand like a vice on his shoulder all those years ago, his brother only a few years his senior, their halting progress as they came to Mass, to Easter Service, to Confession. He remembered, and those memories felt too close and powerful for him to avoid without pressing in the others. Bloody knuckles and broken bones and a mouth filled with metal, prayers going nowhere, prayers coming up from Hell.
The Priest swept into the hall as they stood there, both of them sharp and dark and dressed like ravens against a flock of doves, drawing all attention towards them. Thorne tries not to let the words he speaks scrape too deeply, too close to the rotten core of him. His hands shake, and Declan throws him a warning look, a vipers stare. Outside of this church, they are brothers only, free of their fathers grip. But here they are something else. Here, they are still kids trying desperately to attract the least amount of attention from him. To be good in the eyes of God, their father, the church.
The Act of Penitence began. Thorne tilted his head, bowed it, and let the words wash over him like a wave. Declan beside him mouthed the words with ease. But each hum and hymnal struck his throat like a bell, like the first embers of a spitting, hissing thing. "Confiteor Deo Omnipotenti, Beatae Mariae semper Virgini," Declan murmured beside him, the Latin melodic in his throat, and Thorne did not look at him, did not dare. I confess to God Almighty, to blessed Mary ever virgin.
Thorne picked his head up, stared at the heads around them, the hush and movement and whisper of words of prayer over lips. "Beato Michaeli archangelo, Sanctis apostolis omnibus sanctis," He said, his voice deep and raw and melodic. Eyes flared to him from all directions, from above. He could feel the bell of his heart, heavy and banging its own rhythm. The devil turned it over in its palms, burning with his fathers eyes, laughing from somewhere deep in his veins.To the blessed archangel Michael, to the holy apostles, all the saints -
The beat of the Mass ran like a current through the cathedral, ever-present, all-consuming, omnipresent and full of the eyes of God. Do not look at me, Thorne thought, nails biting the palm of right hand. Do not look. Because he had not been to Confession nor Mass with his brother in so long. Because even when he had, he still pictured his father. Still felt like his hands were coated in kerosene, oil, just waiting on a match drop. A world to end.
Mass took too long. Mass didn't end soon enough. By the time Thorne was out in the crisp, cold Boston air again, his brother was pressing through the crowds to reach him for how fast he had escaped, as though he'd been scorched on the edge of confession. He needed to get home. He needed to drown this memory out in Chris's words, Chris's touch. He fought to remember that he was going to teach him self-defense today, not sermons or prayers.
Declan stopped him as he got into his car.
"You're going to visit us over the holidays, right?" He asked, which was another way of saying are you alright?
And Thorne responded, "Why? Because you would like to run me through Mass again and make sure that a few years on my own didn't completely turn me to blasphemy?"
Declan laughed, a sour-rich sound that turned heads.
"Am I wrong to worry?" "Beata Maria," Thorne purred or snarled in response, "You know I am a righteous man."
He drove away without saying another word, and Declan let him go.
The long drive back to Ashdown didn't help Thorne at all. Even as he went, the hissing whisper of the priest still burned in his ears, in the shadow of his bones, the warmth of his veins. Et tibit Pater, Quia peccavi nimis.
Thorne pressed harder on the gas. "Of my virtue, I am justly proud," his father would have said, would have had them repeat out loud. A mantra that promised a threat. In it, there was another hiss and crackle of promise, of corrupted truth. Beata Maria, you know I'm so much purer than the common, vulgar, weak, licentious crowd.
And to you, Father, that I have sinned...
By the time he was parked outside of Coalsmoke, he was nearly clawing his way out of his blazer. He jimmied open the door and stepped inside, a sharp breath of relief stealing from his throat that didn't release the pressure in his chest, his stomach, everywhere he couldn't reach, couldn't claw open.
He was quick to dress in joggers and a tank top that hung low, low, low, slicing open his sides to show the dark muscle of them, lean and kept in shape by hours and hours in the gym at night. Hours and hours running nowhere, nowhere.
"Chris," he said, as he stepped out into the open space that had been cleared before he'd left for a later session in self defense. Neither of them had even wondered at the idea of trying to go somewhere else to do it - after all, Coalsmoke had the space they needed, the privacy they desired. So why not? So why not? Thorne scrubbed one hand hard over his forearm, as though he could pull the remembrance of Mass from his body, from his throat, his lungs. As though he could wipe away the bitter aftertaste of his father and the devil and God himself with his hands alone.
"Chris," he said again, and looked up at the other, a grin splintering across his face that did not match the restless edge of his hands, the trembling fault line inside of him every time he remembered that kiss, that kiss, that kiss. "Are you ready for me to teach you something about how not to lose a fight?"
( word count: 4180 1260/1176/920/438/142/127/117)
PeanutButterPiesss
Posted: Sun Oct 02, 2016 8:22 pm
song challenge
I'll make a man out of you - mulan (lyrics underlined)
Chris knew that Thorne was going to mass.
He had told Chris the night beforehand, when they were curled up on the couch together. The nights were getting colder and Chris was demanding to cuddle, clinging to the warmth of someone else under a layer of blankets. He had grown up too warm and he had adjusted to Ashdown after all these years, but summer was still the season he thrived in the most and he was coming down from that high. Coming down from those warm nights and the walks on the beach and the season that made him shed layers and actually show his arms.
Regardless, Thorne had told Chris, had said quite simply, "My brother's making me go to mass." Chris had paused for a second, hummed, and then shifted so he could trace patterns on Thorne's arms. "Okay," He had replied, just as simple, and let Thorne rant on for the rest of the night. It was a comfortable moment, a comfortable thing. He didn't think to question Thorne about it, or bother him more. Religion had never been a thing Chris had been too entirely entwined in, or rather, he had none at all. He had been raised with certain values, piecemeal things from different parts from both his mother and father, but nothing that was wholly one religion. Nothing that was rooted in one place, had a word that could be ascribed to it. It was slightly alien to Chris but it wasn't his thing to question, although he could tell Thorne had a rather complicated relationship with it.
So when Chris woke to Thorne leaving the bed, Thorne getting up to get dressed, he didn't question it. He certainly tried to keep Thorne to stay, clinging to him in warmth for a second, but it didn't work and he rolled over. Went back to sleep with the cats, curled up in the warm spot Thorne left. He woke a couple hours later, alarm blaring obnoxiously, and he only rolled over to turn it off and mourn the emptiness of the warehouse.
He knew Thorne would be back soon - that was not the problem, would never be the problem. Thorne was free to go wherever, for Chris would not keep him, in all honesty could not keep him. He would only follow him if he was allowed, if there was a place for him. No, the problem was just the warehouse felt too big, too roomy. It was perfect for the two of them usually, a home created by their edges bleeding together and making this space. Ink and canvas, paint and paper, soil to put it all together. It was theirs and when Chris woke up to it empty, to it just him and the echo of Thorne's warmth, Thorne's smell, it felt wrong. He sat up in the bed and just stared, eyes finally landing on the cats. Millie and Bergie seemed just as lost it looked, both staring at him with baleful eyes like he was the cause for the loss of Thorne. He snorted and lay in bed for a few more minutes, before finally getting up.
It was a bit of an over reaction, waking up alone like this and feeling so alone, but it was something he couldn't shake. Maybe it was the distance, since he had never felt this when Thorne was on runs, when Chris woke up and he was still in the town. Maybe it was just the religious aspect tacked on, something Chris couldn't figure out and wouldn't ever, a thought lost on him since he had nothing to compare to and wouldn't ever compare to. It was a thought that chased him as he went through his routine, as he stood in front of their shared closet and tried to pick out an outfit. They were learning self-defense today and Chris needed to be dressed the part, so that way when Thorne slammed him around Chris wouldn't ruin anything he cared too much about.
He finally settled on something of an old tank top, sides cut low (but not as low as some of Thorne's ridiculous tops) and a pair of running pants he had lying around. He lean, but where Thorne's was from fitness Chris' was mostly genetics, with a run a couple times a week to attempt to keep himself in shape and able to escape from anything just in case. Other Ashdown had instilled a mild paranoia about it, although it was a good habit to start anyways so Chris didn't mind it too much. The running also allowed him to clear his head, think of nothing but his lungs burning as he kept himself going through sheer will. He always preferred it alone, although the rain lately had been making it impossible to go running.
With that decided he padded his way out to the kitchen, running a hand through his hair lazily and carefully avoiding the buds that hid under his hair. It was down today, too lazy and unwilling to style it when it would be ruined by sweat and the only person who would see it would be Thorne. He appeared to enjoy tugging on it anyways from what Chris could tell, something that should have bothered him but instead he was somewhat fond of. Tea was definitely in order before he was getting his a** kicked by Thorne and maybe he'd have something light to eat. Eggs or toast, or maybe both. Chris wasn't a huge breakfast person but it'd probably be better to eat something, at least to just give him energy.
Cooking also made the warehouse feel less lonely, made him feel like it was just a normal day. Maybe his outfit was a bit different, but he could ignore that as he filled the kettle and put it on the stove, turned it on and looked through the fridge. Considered summoning Heddy before deciding against it - he'd want his strength and keeping Heddy out took more energy than he was willing to spend. He had learned that the harsh way, with cuts and a freaked out Thorne and apologies on his lips. Even if the warehouse felt empty, he'd rather handle it than scare Thorne again. He deserved better.
He had just decided on toast, a cup of tea sitting on the counter brewing when Thorne walked in from mass. Chris looked at him appreciatively, the suit a lovely thing on him and one he didn't see often, but let him go. It was clear he wanted out of it and Chris wasn't going to stop him, besides he had tea to finish and some toast to quickly make and devour. If he didn't get it done now, Thorne would probably steal it. Or maybe Chris should let him steal it - he wasn't entirely sure if Thorne had eaten yet himself.
By the time Thorne was back and changed Chris had a plate of toast going and half of a piece in his mouth, his hands around his mug. He shoves the half in his mouth and washes it out with tea, only giving a muffled "Mm" in return at the first call of his name. By the second time he's finished, dumping his mug in the sink and padding out to the cleared space they had made.
"I suppose so," He drawls, mirth in his eyes but a definitely nervous undertone to everything. He had never been taught how to fight before, not really, and he was kind of worried. "Let's get down to business."
To defeat the huns, his mind unhelpfully supplied next. Did they send me daughters, when I asked for sons?
Great. It appeared Mulan was going to be the soundtrack of his day.
elkbones
[wc: 1294]
grayseasons
Tiny Trickster
Offline
moonjavas
Offline
Posted: Mon Oct 03, 2016 11:23 pm
Thorne glances at Chris, rumbling at him as he gestures for the other to follow. Self defense was something he'd ingrained in himself early on, after he'd gotten tired of the bruises and broken bones and bloody knuckles. It wasn't a pretty sight (and neither was the sight of someone else's blood), but he'd made his choice as a wild teenager with few other options.
"Don't worry," He retorts with a smile as Chris follows him across the room to the kicked apart space they'd set aside for rolling on, "I promise I'll be gentle enough. You don't have to hold yourself to any such standard. Hit me as hard as you want."
There was a sort of n** in the words. Some promise that it wasn't something he didn't know how to handle. That he almost expected it, expected a world of fists and bursting vessels, blood on the first four knuckles and a vision popping with stars. At first it had started on the grassy field beyond the elementary school that he'd attended, some private academy with children of wealthy businessmen and their lovely housewives, where uniforms were expected just as surely as the color of their skin to be white, to be pearly and translucent.
It had started with boys that didn't know anything but how to put others down. That had learned from their parents how to draw lines in the sand. Us, they wrote on one side of the line, them. They had been strapping boys in their uniforms, blond and brunette and laughing and sneering in equal measure. Come on fight back, they liked to shout, kicking him and pulling him down so that the grass caught and stained on his own dress shirt. But his dad would yell already for the mess that his mother had to clean. He would yell and do worse if there was blood there too. Because Thorne knew, had known, all of the whispers at his back, the knives scratching lines down his powerful shoulders, the width of his spine. How he had married an immigrant, how her broken English was laughable, how her sons were too dark to fit in, to be like the others.
Because Thorne had once watched his father on his knees in his office, trying to recant or defend himself. To distill blame. As though loving her had ever been a sin. Then tell me, Maria, why I see her dancing there, he had said, hissed, sputtered,why her smoldering eyes still scorch my soul.
Thorne rounds on Chris, sudden and lupine, graceful and fluid as he reaches out and traps Chris's wrist in his. His other hand slides up the length of Chris's forearms to his elbow, and pulls it to him to show him the first motion. "The throat is one of our weakest points," he explains idly, tilting his head down against the contact. "So you should probably aim there first, given that you have yourself in a good position to. We can go through how to get out of choke holds later, if you want." Thorne presses Chris's arm closer to him, closer. "Don't be afraid," he says.
He leads Chris's hand down to his solar plexus, the divot of his chest where it connects to his lean stomach.
"Here, next," he says, soft, one hand moving back down to cover Chris's own. "Force them away from you. Don't let them stay close. Cogitatione. Verbo et opere. In thought, in word and deed. Mean it." Every point of contact between them now burns Thorne like fire, hellfire, spat back from the depths where Lucifer wore his crown and ruled his kingdom, and carried men like him down to the depths. I shall make Hell my Heaven, he had said, and Heaven my Hell.
He pauses and looks at Chris. He pushes his hand back down, into a resting position, and then draws Chris slowly through the pattern of blows again, easy as a dance, with no weight between them. He is careful with his hands, gentle even. He doesn't think about how the contact sets him on fire. How he wants to kiss those knuckles and not have them know violence instead, not have to know a world where he might have to defend himself against others. Thorne had been born in that world, that Hell, hadn't made it his Heaven but had certainly grown fangs and claws to fight those that would fight him. He didn't want Chris to know that though, that world or that person.
His mother had once told him the same thing though. She had run his knuckles beneath lukewarm water and sung to him in the language that was her own, not happy, but not quite sad either. She was beautiful. Lovely, even. And then she was gone, and the funeral was swift and swept beneath the rug, a tombstone for her set and forgotten until Thorne had come of age and Declan had come back from university and together they had done given her a proper place of remembrance. Thorne was too far away now to tend to it physically apart from the three times during the year he usually went home. But Declan tended it monthly. Changed the flowers, cleaned the headstone. I see her, he would say sometimes, even though he'd run from the house as soon as he'd become old enough to know he could run without being caught,I feel her.
And Thorne wondered what Declan saw when he looked into the mist and dew of the cemetery. Did he see the sun caught in her raven hair? The laughter on her lips as she went walking in the rain?
Thorne knows as he drops Chris's hands, lets him return to himself, that she would not have wanted this half-life for him. She would have told him to be brave, be strong, to love and love and love. He stretches his fingers as he pulls them back to himself, looks at Chris, his eyes wild, his heart in atrophy. This, he thinks, is blazing me out of control. Like fire. Hellfire. The devil laughing at his back. This fire in my skin.
He says, his voice rough and raw, low and wanting, "Now try it without me to guide you. Try to overcome me, if you dare." This burning desire is turning me to sin,his father had said in desperate prayer once, because he hated and loved his wife and he could not stand it. Because his children were something caught in the in between as well, but at least they could be molded, be unmade and remade.It's not my fault.
Thorne remembers thinking that he would never pray to a God for redemption if he fell so hard in love that it burned him like this. And now, standing here, looking at Chris, he knows that those thoughts still hold true.
No amount of prayer can save him from this.
And oh - how he does not want to be saved.
PeanutButterPies
Confiteor Deo Omnipotenti (I confess to God almighty) Beatae Mariae semper Virgini (To blessed Mary ever Virgin) Beato Michaeli archangelo (To the blessed archangel Michael) Sanctis apostolis omnibus sanctis (To the holy apostles to all the saints)
Beata Maria You know I am a righteous man Of my virtue I am justly proud
Et tibit Pater (And to you, Father)
Beata Maria You know I'm so much purer than The common, vulgar, weak, licentious crowd
Quia peccavi nimis (That I have sinned)
Then tell me, Maria Why I see her dancing there Why her smoldering eyes still scorch my soul
Cogitatione (In thought)
I feel her, I see her The sun caught in her raven hair Is blazing in me out of all control
Verbo et opere (In word and deed)
Like fire Hellfire This fire in my skin This burning Desire Is turning me to sin It's not my fault
Mea culpa (Through my fault)
I'm not to blame
Mea culpa (Through my fault)
It is the gypsy girl The witch who sent this flame
Mea maxima culpa (Through my most griveous fault)
It's not my fault
Mea culpa (Through my fault)
If in God's plan
Mea culpa (Through my fault)
He made the devil so much Stronger than a man
Mea maxima culpa (Through my most griveous fault)
Protect me, Maria Don't let this siren cast her spell Don't let her fire sear my flesh and bone Destroy Esmeralda And let her taste the fires of hell Or else let her be mine and mine alone Hellfire Dark fire Now gypsy, it's your turn Choose me or Your pyre Be mine or you will burn
Kyrie Eleison (Lord have mercy)
God have mercy on her
Kyrie Eleison (Lord have mercy)
God have mercy on me
Kyrie Eleison (Lord have mercy)
But she will be mine Or she will burn!
Posted: Sun Oct 09, 2016 4:38 pm
Chris rolled his eyes, something of a small smile on his face at Thorne's words. "I suppose I should take that as a compliment, but it sure doesn't feel like one," He jokes, but he feels nervous all the same. This was just practice, just teaching, but he wanted to make sure he could do this. That he could actually defend himself if it was needed.
There was something in Thorne's words that Chris couldn't really grasp, something that he wanted to take but couldn't find it in him to figure out. He wonders what Thorne has seen, has done, to actually have the ability to teach Chris like this. What the scars under his tattoos actually entail, what stories they have to teach. Chris wasn't unfamiliar to playground bullying, wasn't unused to words being hurled his way and Hyejin's, and someone else's. Well, you're the saddest bunch I've ever met, aren't you, echos through his mind, a jeer that had been thrown his way long ago. He shakes it off quietly, focuses on Thorne. This wasn't the time to think of it, wasn't the time to mule on questions new and old.
"But you can bet before we're through I'll at least try and land one good punch on you," Chris tacks on, trying to make it lighthearted, trying to make it seem like he wasn't nervous or weak. Thorne knew everything about him, had seen his worst, but Chris wanted to show him something good for once. Mister I'll make a man out of you his mind plays unhelpfully, mulan coming to the forefront once again and Chris tries to push it away as fast as he can. This was not the time.
Thorne's sudden rounding on Chris catches him by surprise, his breath sucked in suddenly as Thorne's hand wraps around his wrist, as he's pulled closer to Thorne. His heart jackrabbits in his chest at the closeness and he wonders if Thorne can feel it, can see into him and knows how he feels. He tries to force himself to calm down, tries to make himself seem like he isn't affected by the touch. He can hear Thorne's words and he nods, unable to trust himself to speak, acting like he's focused on keeping everything to memory.
With that it's easier to keep himself from showing too much as his hand is drawn to Thorne's chest, to the solar plexus, right above his stomach. It's almost too much, this point of contact, but he breathes in carefully, listens to what Thorne is saying. Makes sure to keep this in mind, makes sure to carefully ignore the heat of Thorne's body against his, makes sure to ignore the own fire starting to ignite in his bones. It wasn't the time, it wasn't the time at all. He was tranquil as a forest, but on fire within, making sure to keep Thorne from seeing.
He meets Thorne gaze as he lets his arm falls, as he pulls Chris through it all over again, the touch gaining more heat as time went on. He's careful to make sure Thorne doesn't know, makes sure to keep it all to himself because even Chris didn't want to think about these feelings now and the close proximity was making it worse. He frowns, but keeps himself in the moment, in time.
When he's dropped from Thorne's grasp it suddenly feels cold without his hands, suddenly feels like nothing is there. He looks at Thorne with a question, wondering what was going to happen next. Try to overcome me, if you dare, Thorne says, and Chris only nods. Only takes a deep breath, thinks of when to go.
Once you find your center, he thinks, takes another breath. Act like you are sure to win. After a minute, when feels like he's ready, when he can touch Thorne, he moves. It's graceless, his motions, but he tries to run through what Thorne's taught him, tries to hit where he's been told. Tries to do it right.
elbones
[wc: 687]
grayseasons
Tiny Trickster
Offline
moonjavas
Offline
Posted: Sun Oct 09, 2016 5:44 pm
Thorne's eyes rove over Chris, hungry and lupine as he moves. He is wolfish in his desires, an animal barely contained. He feels on fire from his brothers visit, from Mass, from all of those eyes on him in that place, cloistered and confined. He feels undone here, but still sticky, still watched. As though they had never left, as though they are still there, condemning him with every breath that spills from his lips and every look he lets graze over Chris when the other is not watching him. Mea culpa, they would chant at him, their baleful eyes taking him in in all of his splendor, like a creature made filthy by his thoughts, condoned for his actions, for the things he wants to do with his hands. Through my fault.
Would his father have laughed at him? Thorne remembers the way he'd looked when he'd been in his study, alone, head turned up to something invisible, unseen. I'm not to blame, he'd shouted later, at his wife, at Thorne's mother, hands splayed wide, his face, so charming and elegant in public turned to rage. Turned to wrath. Sin. He hadn't hit her, not that night, not ever, not really, but he'd raged like a beast in a cage, prowling around, desperate to get out. He knew the stares he faced, but Thorne hadn't ever pitied him. Thorne could never sympathize with him, because he had felt them on him as well, like ghosting claws, like the lash of a whip growing stronger with every blow. Because he'd been condemned on more than one front, until he had stood up and looked them in the eyes with their bloody hands and ragged breath.I'm not to blame, he'd thought, viciously, and had built his walls up higher, had let the scars turn him stronger instead of weak.Mea culpa. Through my fault - but this is not my fault.
His father had always placed blame elsewhere. Had smiled and nodded and proved himself pious in the eyes of his church, ever charismatic. In private though he was something else. Something different. for so long, Thorne had held the desperate belief that his father was tormented. That he was right, even, when he looked at his sons and called them unfortunate. Soft-minded. If they could not stand the weight of the world than why bother building an empire for them? Anything at all? The day Thorne had learned of the will and the trustfunds he couldn't help but laugh and think, was this your way of making amends for everything you did to us? Was this your attempt at redemption? He remembered the long nights of shouting.It is the gypsy girl,he'd said drunkenly one night, hand flung out towards his mother,the witch who set this flame!He remembered his father turning away from Thorne's bruises, Declan's black eye. It had taken years for Thorne to burn down his own self-hate enough to look back on those schoolyard bullies, those baleful eyes that had watched him grow up.Mea culpa.
But they should have been the ones begging for mercy, not him. With their scraped fists and wild eyes and cruel hearts. They should have been the ones chanting,Mea culpa. Through my fault. Mea maxima culpa, through my most grievous fault.
And maybe here, now, Chris was his most grievous fault. Maybe he was the knife that slit Thorne open, that broke down his walls. Had he ever been pure? No. Never. Not in the eyes of his father, the masses, those that would look at him and shirk him for what he was. But he had once prided himself in being a soft monster, the kind that hid, the kind that held its claws close, never letting them loose. Never touching another, for fear of what he could do. But Chris landed a blow to his neck, his solar plexus, to every point he'd taught him and all Thorne wanted to do was lunge in and throw him to the ground, to bare his fangs and ask him, ask him if he was willing, ask him if he could love someone like Thorne, someone like this.
"Alright," Thorne drawls back at Chris, easily knocking away his hands, "It's not my fault if you don't though. I am a good and able teacher. Are you an apt pupil?" There was a dare laden in his voice and he laughed, a wicked and stretching sound. With ease, he knocked Chris in one fluid motion to the ground. He should have put him through the first lesson again and again and again until it was reflexive. But that came later. Thorne settled down on his hands and knees over Chris, one hand placed on the others chest as a trap, a test. Mea culpa,Thorne thought, looking down at the other,Through my fault. If in God's plan - he made the devil so much stronger than the man.
Because perhaps in his past he'd not been the one at fault, but here, now it tasted different. And here now, he knew he would always, always make the wrong choice if it was between the rest of the world and Chris. If it was between fire, hellfire and this. "Mea maxima culpa," He couldn't help sighing out, looking down at Chris, a blazing inferno in his eyes. "Tell me how you think you could escape from this. And I'll teach you how." Through my most grievous fault -
PeanutButterPies
Confiteor Deo Omnipotenti (I confess to God almighty) Beatae Mariae semper Virgini (To blessed Mary ever Virgin) Beato Michaeli archangelo (To the blessed archangel Michael) Sanctis apostolis omnibus sanctis (To the holy apostles to all the saints)
Beata Maria You know I am a righteous man Of my virtue I am justly proud
Et tibit Pater (And to you, Father)
Beata Maria You know I'm so much purer than The common, vulgar, weak, licentious crowd
Quia peccavi nimis (That I have sinned)
Then tell me, Maria Why I see her dancing there Why her smoldering eyes still scorch my soul
Cogitatione (In thought)
I feel her, I see her The sun caught in her raven hair Is blazing in me out of all control
Verbo et opere (In word and deed)
Like fire Hellfire This fire in my skin This burning Desire Is turning me to sin It's not my fault
Mea culpa (Through my fault)
I'm not to blame
Mea culpa (Through my fault)
It is the gypsy girl The witch who sent this flame
Mea maxima culpa (Through my most griveous fault)
It's not my fault
Mea culpa (Through my fault)
If in God's plan
Mea culpa (Through my fault)
He made the devil so much Stronger than a man
Mea maxima culpa (Through my most griveous fault)
Protect me, Maria Don't let this siren cast her spell Don't let her fire sear my flesh and bone Destroy Esmeralda And let her taste the fires of hell Or else let her be mine and mine alone Hellfire Dark fire Now gypsy, it's your turn Choose me or Your pyre Be mine or you will burn
Kyrie Eleison (Lord have mercy)
God have mercy on her
Kyrie Eleison (Lord have mercy)
God have mercy on me
Kyrie Eleison (Lord have mercy)
But she will be mine Or she will burn!
Posted: Sun Oct 09, 2016 7:12 pm
As he goes through this he thinks about being back on Jejudo, back to when he was teased, was made fun of in his neighborhood. The other kids are around, circling him, circling his little group of friends. You're a spineless, pale, pathetic lot, one hisses, sounding just like a Disney villain. The pale in particular, is a jab towards Chris who is the darkest of the lot and has been mercilessly teased about it. As he grows older, he'll learn to brush it off, to not let it string so deep, but it hurts now and he doesn't know what to do. And you haven't got a clue what we're about to do to you another hisses, stepping in particular close to Chris. He's the one defending all of them, not with fists but with his body. He's the tallest of the lot even at this age and he's the one willing to take the blows, to defend them, since it's all he can do. But now, now he's learning to be able to do more. To protect years down the line.
"I am," He replies easily, a smile forming at Thorne's laugh. "Or are you thinking 'Somehow, I'll make a man out of you?'" The last part is a tease, a play of the song going on in his head. The mirth doesn't last long though as Thorne is knocked on his back, as Thorne leans over him
I'm never gonna catch my breath, he thinks as he looks at Thorne, as he looks at the beauty above him. I need to say goodbye to those who knew me. Because no matter how much he doesn't want to think about this budding crush he has, the feelings he's growing for Thorne, they stay and they sit and Chris is unable to leave them behind. He looks at Thorne and he sees such beauty in him and he just - he stops.
He stops and focuses on what's going on, wonders why he was on his back. Boy, was I a fool in school for cutting gym, he thinks because he didn't know how to get out of this, even with Thorne coaxing him, telling him it wasn't going to end without a lesson. He wonders if anyone else has been taught by Thorne, has taken lessons. Probably not, he thinks, This guy's got 'em scared to death , because Thorne looks terrifying right now. Beautiful and terrifying, with a gaze that was on Chris, that was burning right through him. He racks his brain for the answer to a question, desperately thinks Hope he doesn't see right through me . Because even trying to push it away he's drowning in this feeling, a sink or swim reaction and all he can think is Now I really wish that I knew how to swim .
"Headbutt you?" Chris tenatively offers Thorne, hoping it's a good answer, or even just a decent idea. He feels stupid.
elbones
[wc: 520]
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moonjavas
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Posted: Sun Oct 09, 2016 7:29 pm
Thorne laughs. "I mean," he says wickedly, "You could try."
Chris beneath him is a living, breathing portrait of beauty. He wants to reach out and stroke his hand down Chris's neck, along his pulse-line.Protect me, Maria,he thinks foolishly,don't let this siren cast his spell. But Chris already had, and Thorne was being pulled in, not slowly, not gently, but with the force of a typhoon, an undertow that had knocked his feet out from under him.
"Here," he says, or thinks he says, because he is so busy swallowing the fire inside of him, and takes Chris's hands and shows him what to do, how to twist their positions, how to knock him off and get the upper hand. Where to hit to make it hurt. Make it stay hurting.
He presses Chris's fingers to him and it is fire, fire, fire. Don't let his fire sear my flesh and bone.
As though it hadn't already. As though Thorne wasn't already burning from the inside out.
His father would have said it - saidDestroy Chris, and let him taste the fires of hell, or else - because it was a sin, taste not, touch not, because it was one-sided. It was lust. No, it was love. But he would have still viewed it in the uglier light, discounting that Thorne loved him wholly, guiltily, the want growing in him with every hour, every day.
Thorne wants him to have the world, wants him to have everything and more. he wants to bow and break beneath the weight of it all - and a voice in him whispers and sings,let him be mine and mine alone,but oh, how selfish and cruel that would be. Thorne is many things, but he will not be a shackle or a chain.
His skin burns even when he lets go of Chris and says, "Try it. Try and terrorize me."
His skin feels like it has new scars from hellfire, dark fire. Now gypsy it's your turn,his fathers voice hissed like an oil spill in his head, but Thorne blinked and he didn't see a dining room in disorder and his mother standing her ground, he saw Chris,choose me or your pyre, be mine or you will burn.
Thorne bows his head and waits. Kyrie Eleison,a priest had once said to his father, Lord have mercy.
An Thorne can only think,god have mercy on him.Because he deserved no mercy himself. Kyrie Eleison,, a priest had once said to him, Lord have mercy.
Thorne closes his eyes. God have mercy on me.
PeanutButterPies
Confiteor Deo Omnipotenti (I confess to God almighty) Beatae Mariae semper Virgini (To blessed Mary ever Virgin) Beato Michaeli archangelo (To the blessed archangel Michael) Sanctis apostolis omnibus sanctis (To the holy apostles to all the saints)
Beata Maria You know I am a righteous man Of my virtue I am justly proud
Et tibit Pater (And to you, Father)
Beata Maria You know I'm so much purer than The common, vulgar, weak, licentious crowd
Quia peccavi nimis (That I have sinned)
Then tell me, Maria Why I see her dancing there Why her smoldering eyes still scorch my soul
Cogitatione (In thought)
I feel her, I see her The sun caught in her raven hair Is blazing in me out of all control
Verbo et opere (In word and deed)
Like fire Hellfire This fire in my skin This burning Desire Is turning me to sin It's not my fault
Mea culpa (Through my fault)
I'm not to blame
Mea culpa (Through my fault)
It is the gypsy girl The witch who sent this flame
Mea maxima culpa (Through my most griveous fault)
It's not my fault
Mea culpa (Through my fault)
If in God's plan
Mea culpa (Through my fault)
He made the devil so much Stronger than a man
Mea maxima culpa (Through my most griveous fault)
Protect me, Maria Don't let this siren cast her spell Don't let her fire sear my flesh and bone Destroy Esmeralda And let her taste the fires of hell Or else let her be mine and mine alone Hellfire Dark fire Now gypsy, it's your turn Choose me or Your pyre Be mine or you will burn
Kyrie Eleison (Lord have mercy)
God have mercy on her
Kyrie Eleison (Lord have mercy)
God have mercy on me
Kyrie Eleison (Lord have mercy)
But she will be mine Or she will burn!
Posted: Sun Oct 09, 2016 8:29 pm
Chris frowns, flushes a little, but he can't help but enjoy Thorne's laugh. The attention that he's being given, the sight that's above him, everything that is going on. He wants, he wants, oh god he wants but it will never be enough. He cannot think about this, cannot let these thoughts go anywhere, because it will only end in tradgedy. Be a man, take this defeat gracefully.
He watches Thorne's actions, watches how Thorne teaches him to change this. To give himself the upper hand, to make the situation work in his favor. You must be swift as a coursing river, he knows, to pull this off, to make this work but he'll do it. He'll do it because if he can't get what he wants, then he'll work with what Thorne is giving him. Be a man, do not let this get in the way of everything you've built, this home that is yours, he thinks bitterly.
"Okay," He says and it sounds grave, even to him. It could be passed off as focused if he wanted, if he thinks, and so he lets it be. He lets it be and puts to work what Thorne has taught him, pushes with all the force of a great typhoon against him, uses what strength he has to make this work. He will be great, he will be a man, he will do what he can.
But even trying to ignore it these feelings they burn through him with all the strength of a raging fire, singing through his bones, heating him from the inside out. He cannot ignore it, no matter how hard he tries. He wonders what Thorne thinks, wonder what he feels, but those things are mysterious as the dark side of the moon, unknowable to Chris. He wants to know desperately, wants to know badly, but instead he just does what Thorne says and wonders.
elbones
[wc: 328]
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Tiny Trickster
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moonjavas
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Posted: Sun Oct 09, 2016 8:50 pm
Thorne grunts as Chris does as instructed and throws him back to the floor. He cannot help but arch upwards as he lands with a soft groan, twisting a little to look up at Chris with half-lidded eyes, his body burning from where Chris has laid hits on him. He cannot help a smile grazing his face, a husky "well done," burning from his lips as he pushes up onto his elbows and hums.
With lightning efficiency though, he grabs at Chris's ankles and flips him on his stomach, pulling him over to him and leaning over the other again, hands on either side of his head.
"Quick learner," he praises, "Try it again."
In his head, his father whispers, but she will be mine, or she will burn.
But Thorne is already burning. He will not set Chris on fire too.
PeanutButterPies
Confiteor Deo Omnipotenti (I confess to God almighty) Beatae Mariae semper Virgini (To blessed Mary ever Virgin) Beato Michaeli archangelo (To the blessed archangel Michael) Sanctis apostolis omnibus sanctis (To the holy apostles to all the saints)
Beata Maria You know I am a righteous man Of my virtue I am justly proud
Et tibit Pater (And to you, Father)
Beata Maria You know I'm so much purer than The common, vulgar, weak, licentious crowd
Quia peccavi nimis (That I have sinned)
Then tell me, Maria Why I see her dancing there Why her smoldering eyes still scorch my soul
Cogitatione (In thought)
I feel her, I see her The sun caught in her raven hair Is blazing in me out of all control
Verbo et opere (In word and deed)
Like fire Hellfire This fire in my skin This burning Desire Is turning me to sin It's not my fault
Mea culpa (Through my fault)
I'm not to blame
Mea culpa (Through my fault)
It is the gypsy girl The witch who sent this flame
Mea maxima culpa (Through my most griveous fault)
It's not my fault
Mea culpa (Through my fault)
If in God's plan
Mea culpa (Through my fault)
He made the devil so much Stronger than a man
Mea maxima culpa (Through my most griveous fault)
Protect me, Maria Don't let this siren cast her spell Don't let her fire sear my flesh and bone Destroy Esmeralda And let her taste the fires of hell Or else let her be mine and mine alone Hellfire Dark fire Now gypsy, it's your turn Choose me or Your pyre Be mine or you will burn
Kyrie Eleison (Lord have mercy)
God have mercy on her
Kyrie Eleison (Lord have mercy)
God have mercy on me
Kyrie Eleison (Lord have mercy)
But she will be mine Or she will burn!
Posted: Sun Oct 09, 2016 9:01 pm
Chris flushes a little more at Thorne's grunt, at the way he arches. The look he's sending Chris, the smile that graces his face. The praise feels good, soothes the stupidity he felt earlier. He did something right, he did something right.
Time is racing toward us till the Huns arrive, his shitty brain supplies at that moment, interjecting mulan from earlier, but Chris can't even feel it to be mad. He's riding the high from earlier, the fact he's done it correctly. Heed my every order and you might survive , he thinks and oh he's doing it. He's learning.
He doesn't even feel anything as Thorne flips him again, not anger or anything at all. He knew this was coming and he can hear the taunting of old ghosts, their jeers. You're unsuited for the rage of war One says, Why even bother trying to learn this when you won't do well? Another whispers, So pack up, go home you're through. How could I make a man out of you?
But Thorne praises him again and they burn away, they burn away as he tries this again, pushes at Thorne again. Because he's doing good, he's doing better, and he will not discourage his own progress for old ghosts or for his own feelings.
elbones
[wc: 229]
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Tiny Trickster
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moonjavas
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Posted: Sun Oct 09, 2016 9:08 pm
Thorne hums as Chris repeats the motion, laughing and rolling this time as he falls away, tucking himself so that he does not hurt himself in any capacity fro the tumble. He can hear his fathers ghost, but the more he lets Chris do this to him, the less it echoes, as though the familiar touch is somehow burning, but also burning the thoughts away.
He lazes where he's fallen, staring up at the ceiling for a moment before pushing himself to his elbows and smiling at Chris.
"Nice," Thorne drawls with a laugh, and picks himself up, offering a hand to Chris. "Shall I teach you how to escape a chokehold now, or do you want to go back to the first routine I showed you?"
PeanutButterPies
Posted: Sun Oct 09, 2016 9:30 pm
He stares at Thorne tumbling away, smiles and laughs a little. Feels good about what he's done, what he's doing. Be a man, something in him hums, but it's in approval, not disparaging. Not yet.
You must be swift as a coursing river, he knows, to get through this, to use these. Be a man, he knows, use these with all the force of a great typhoon.
Be a man, he thinks, and ignore the feelings burning through you with all the strength of a raging fire.
He looks at Thorne again and smiles, takes the hand and hauls himself up. Thinks for a second, then says, "Chokeholds now, I guess. I want to go back after it all though, practice until I know it."
For another second he wonders how Thorne knows this all, but it's still mysterious as the dark side of the moon.
elbones
[wc: 154]
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Tiny Trickster
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moonjavas
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Posted: Sun Oct 09, 2016 9:45 pm
Thorne laughs, and with ease he catches Chris up against his chest, his knee bolting forward to bend Chris's own legs so that he can get the taller man beneath him, tucking his chin against Chris's hair with a grin.
"Well, now you could try headbutting me if you wanted," he teases, before showing him the motions. They've started to devolve into motions more than words. Thorne feels at ease in physicality with Chris, allowing himself to lead and then be led, teach and then be taught how Chris reacts, how Chris pulls himself into the motions and makes them his own.
"We can practice as many times, as many days as you want," Thorne adds, earnestly.
PeanutButterPies
Posted: Sun Oct 09, 2016 10:00 pm
It's startling being dropped like that, being tucked under Thorne's chin in a way that isn't affectionate, like the way they do sometimes. This definitely has a more predatory feel, but it takes it anyways. Be a man, being a man.
He laughs at Thorne's tease, but the motions once again are now starting to become familiar, show and tell. He's learning that this is all about swiftness, never not about swiftness, and he thinks You must be swift as a coursing river. Be a man, he thinks, adds on that he also needs force though. Has to do this with all the force of a great typhoon, has to be a man and do this with all the strength of a raging fire.
Like Thorne teaches he does what's asked, pushing through and making sure to try until it works. Until he can see he's done it right once, look at Thorne with something like pride. Because there's more than just simple praise working here, than the want to be better. It's these feelings he can't figure out, won't figure out, refuse to do anything with. Keep them as mysterious as the dark side of the moon.
But if he has Thorne, well. He can deal with that.
"I'd like that," Chris says, smiling, "I'd like that a lot."
