#devotedrowning

@devotedrowning / the hunt

a ghost of a smile curls a corner of edward’s lips as he fixes the scarf around his neck, sufficiently hiding how suddenly moved he feels by the steward’s words. he stares at the lantern, a firefly in the dark, many of them on deck but it’s still not enough. the dark has overpowered them so much, one almost feels like he’s already made it to the grave. down there, in the underworld, where no amount of light can compete with death’s stare. it’s morbid but feels somewhat appropriate—they’re marching off straight into a beast’s bared teeth. though he tries to cling onto last bouts of hope his mind treats him with, he cannot wave the thoughts of death away. it feels like that’s all there is. like that’s all that’s waiting for them out there. and they’re fools enough to do exactly what it wants them to. 

(as if he knew what it wants. they know what it does. what it can do. but the motivation still remains a mystery. damn the doctor, damn ayla, damn the rest of them for wanting to find out first)

“well. if anything happens, i hope that’s what you remember of me. i like the person you got to see much more than the man who stands before the crew everyday.” the words shouldn’t be so final. the hope. claw at it, if you have to. better for you to leave marks on yourself in order to keep your spirits up, rather than the beast ripping you open when you’re full of nothing but despair. 

for the first time in her memory, jules was not restless to leave land behind --- she was wary, ragged, taking moments to stand by the edge of the ship and look at the ocean. it was as alive as ever; it was a crashing, sharp, lovely thing. she did not believe it. and so she wandered down below the ship, trying to rid herself of her concerns, trying to immerse herself in all the makings of her job. ( routine was the most powerful force against fear. this was something she told the crew as well; this was something she repeated to herself. )

she fell into a seat beside timoti, releasing a puff of air. her hands came down on the table, and she felt more at home in the jostling buzz of the mess area than she had felt standing by the sea. it gave her a bravery to talk of the very things she was trying to forget --- and who better to speak of them with than one who was as wary as she? 

𝐈𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐂𝐎𝐑𝐍𝐄𝐑 𝐑𝐎𝐎𝐌 𝐎𝐅 𝐀 𝐂𝐀𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐋𝐈𝐂 𝐎𝐑𝐏𝐇𝐀𝐍𝐀𝐆𝐄  You’d been in your cot, maybe. Threadbare quilt kicked to a heap on the floor. Your gangly frame strewn atop your tangled sheet and your stare affixed to the ceiling. Waiting for something to happen. For the earth to open, to swallow you, maybe. For a knock at the door that brings excuses or escapes. Only, nothing ever happens. There’s only this waiting. This bated breath. This rock, sinking and sinking in your chest. Perhaps with enough time it will pull you through the floor. By the latest hours, you can no longer stand it. Something inside you giving, you slip under your sheet and pore over a book.

For as long as he can recall, Laurents has been a light and fitful sleeper-- the restlessness of his childhood translating to a spot of insomnia in his adulthood ( something alleviated by tinctures, yet more often endured. ) He often sleeps a measly handful of hours a night, either dreaming vividly or not at all; rarely are there in-betweens. At eighteen, he found he could sleep to rival Hypnos when his back was pressed up against another’s body; but this nightly ritual ceased at twenty. 

jack’s a dangerous combination of idiocy and more money than he knows what to do with thanks to his job, so his instagram is a bit of a nightmare. shirtless workout selfies? they’re there in full force, every tuesday with their own hashtag. expensive cars? there as well. vacations he takes jon on at the drop of a hat? you better believe it. he also has photos from games he plays in, with completely inane captions like ‘can’t believe how football really has the power to bring people together’ or ‘it wasn’t the result we wanted but we’re going to keep working 💪   #grindneverstops’ occasionally he’ll let slip a glimpse of his life off the pitch--a blurry selfie at three in the morning with vladya and august that just has the caption ‘LADS #sutherland2020′, a topless pic on the boat with roi and mal, and of course, the obligatory picture of jon gesticulating wildly and grinning with the caption ‘can’t believe how damn lucky i am sometimes 💓 ‘ 

richard siken starters. 

☺ for a loving/affectionate text

roi 🥝 ☀️   /   ROIMATA.

TO.  ROI  :    mate full homo but im so glad you came into my life. or i came into yours

TO.  ROI  :    i feel like lads dont say what they feel enough and because of what? toxic masculinity? fear of being seen giving a shit? cowards, all of them

TO.  ROI  :    if i want to yell from the rooftops that you’re one of the best bloody men i know then i should be allowed to and the only reason anyone would call it gay is because we both have boyfriends

TO.  ROI  :    i love you roimata

TO.  ROI  :    and no i’m not just saying this because you crushed vladya at king’s cup last night although that was extremely satisfying and his ego needed it

↕ for a scared/worried text

TO.  ROI  :    ok it’s been 5 - FIVE!!!!!! hours since you responded to my vine and that is just ludicrous

TO.  ROI  :    i think cyrus mentioned smth abt hitting up the local pub? are you absolutely shit faced rn? if you dont explain i’m going to start wildly conjecturing. did you get into a bar fight? did the bouncers toss you out? was it because they took the piss out of tottenham?

♣ [ SENT TO --> sharkboy🦈  ] 

ijust.......you an4 tamati.........are li3ke the onl7y borthers i’ve ev er wnated.......thanx babes 4 beighn so cool xoxo FAM

↕ [ SENT TO --> sharkboy🦈  ]

just got out of the post game press conference

didn’t get a good look at what happened to tamati--

DAMN IT ALL, coach wants to see me. 

what is liberty to a man who has never had to go to war for his place in the world? and yet the question is not quite right, is it? ill-fitting. like gilt on copper rust. the sheen of polished verisimilitude a skin that doesn’t belong to him, has never belonged to him  —  his birthright and distinction wrested from progenitors by the simple stroke of fortune that would have them rolling in their graves to see him bear their name. heir apparent to a gilded cage, an ivory tower built entirely of glass palisade and alabaster bedrock. the leash around his throat is long and magnanimous, but it is still is a leash. he wouldn’t know true freedom if you were to dangle it before him and call it salvation.

“you’d have to give it another name if it was. the only things worth their salt in this world are the ones you fight for.”  he inclines his chin, a somber, pensive look on his face. one rarely unbidden or provoked by volition, but granted here as a mark of quiet esteem.  “will you tell me the story of it some time?”