#<- they really do. i think its the beady eyes and the happy expression combined with the horrifiying stature

[irl-morros-account]

I just searched it up and yeah what in the holy mother of all hell. We should put these guys down, all of them. That should not be allowed to live.

That's. Suspicious. Why do they only like humans. What are they plotting. What do they need the humans trust for

Behold the shoebill

They are known to stand still like statues for hours, just standing there …menacingly…

Now, I have absolutely seen those somewhere before. Some nightmare video. All I remember was that they were scary and also there was this one that loved a human.

Anyways I would not go within a mile radius of it.

Would you...describe them as.....ominous, even? Perhaps?

[carewyncromwell]

“We were dreamers not so long ago, But one by one, we all had to grow up. When it seems the magic’s slipped away, We find it all again on Christmas Day...”

~“Believe,” by Josh Groban

x~x~x~x

The Ravenclaw VS Hufflepuff match was one for the ages. With a final score of 320-10, it was one of the most decisive matches in Hogwarts history, let alone one of Ravenclaw house’s greatest triumphs -- and all of it was because of the combined efforts of Seeker Cho Chang and Ravenclaw’s Chasers, led by their Star Player Robert Bellamy. It put Ravenclaw well on its way to winning the Quidditch Cup for a second time, and it also made Robert once again the talk of Ravenclaw house. People latched onto the idea of him using echolocation to signal to his fellow Chasers where he was on the pitch and began to say he could fly faster than any bat, whether a real one or one from Ballycastle. 

And yet, despite all of the praise and fawning he received, just as Cecelia said, Robert shrugged all of it off. 

“All of us train more than just our eyes,” he said with a shrug. “And besides, signaling would’ve meant nothing if Roger and Randolph hadn’t been good enough Chasers to toss the Quaffle to me blindly -- and if Roger hadn’t been a good enough Captain to lead our team, to begin with. Not to mention Cho catching the Snitch in the middle of that fog -- that’s infinitely harder than anything we did...”

Atticus @cursebreakerfarrier​​​​ couldn’t quite understand how Robert could be so determined not to accept praise for his abilities when it was so clearly warranted...but even so, he found himself smiling every time he heard him respond with such modesty. For as flippant, rebellious, and devil-may-care as Robert was, he wasn’t full of himself. It was a rather endearing quality. 

When December arrived, the student body got into a predictable tizzy about the upcoming holidays. Atticus, as always, found himself grumpier than usual due to the noise. He’d never really liked Christmas even as a kid, and at Hogwarts the season only served to make him more surly. Atticus recalled, however, that Robert was one of those people who got obnoxious around Christmas -- it had always irritated him before, whenever Robert would sing Christmas carols loudly at the top of his lungs while helping decorate the Ravenclaw common room. And this year was no exception. The Star Chaser helped smuggle a tree up to Ravenclaw Tower, hung garlands and clusters of holly all over the Ravenclaw commonroom, and greeted and said goodbye to absolutely everybody with “Happy Christmas,” and on the morning of December 8th, the very day he no longer had to dress all neatly like Atticus, he pulled out his old red-felt Santa hat and wore it every single day for the rest of term.

Atticus was frankly done, and the holiday break hadn’t even started yet. 

“Aw, come on, Lestrange!” said Robert one day after Potions, giving the other boy a light punch to the shoulder. “Lighten up -- it’s Christmas!”

“So you keep reminding me,” Atticus said dully. He tried to bury his nose in his copy of Moste Potente Potions, but Robert wouldn’t drop the line of conversation. 

“Well, I wouldn’t keep reminding you if you cheered up a little,” he said with a grin. “Do you always have to be such a Scrooge around this time of year?”

“Do you always have to be so happy about it?” Atticus shot back. “...What’s a ‘Scrooge’ anyway?”

“A character from A Christmas Carol,” Ceci explained with a small, amused smile. “It’s a Muggle book -- it’s a lovely one too: you’d like it, Atticus...”

“Better have Rob read it aloud for you, though,” said Barty with a big grin. “No one reads it like Rob.”

“A Christmas Carol is a masterpiece of literature -- all I do is treat it accordingly,” Robert said offhandedly. He shot Atticus a wry smile over his shoulder. “Though I suppose if it’d help you actually get to sleep at a reasonable hour for once, I could always read it to you as a bedtime story, Lestrange -- ”

“No thank you,” Atticus cut him off crisply. 

Her face appearing rather sympathetic, Ceci lightly bumped her arm against Atticus’s as they walked.

“Are you staying here for the holidays again, Atticus?”

Atticus nodded. “The library’s always nice and quiet, over break. It’s a good time to get some extra work done...”

Robert’s light-hearted expression faded -- something almost guilty passed over his face. 

“...Mm...”

His black eyes drifted away, off toward the far wall. Barty offered both his best friend and Atticus a smile. 

“Well, uh...maybe we can do some work over break together, then, Atticus,” Barty offered.

Atticus stiffened like a startled cat. “Huh?”

“My parents are taking a trip to visit my aunt and cousins in Normandy,” Barty explained sheepishly, “so I was thinking of staying at Hogwarts over break too! Don’t reckon much of anyone else in our year will be, so maybe we can hang out a bit over break, if you’d like...”

Atticus truly couldn’t think of anything he’d want to do less. Knowing it’d be incredibly rude to say so, however, he forced an uncomfortable smile. Ceci, however, jumped on it.

“That’s perfect!” she said. “Maybe you and Atticus can do some extra research, Barty.”

Atticus blinked in confusion. “Research?”

“About our dreams,” said Ceci eagerly.

Barty nodded. “One thing all of our visions have in common is that we all look older, right? You said that the guy in your dreams kind of looks like me, but older -- and Ceci, Rob, and I all see each other looking older too. But when we looked into Divination, all we really got was a lot of vague preaching -- ”

“You mean utter rubbish,” Robert inserted with a smirk. 

“So Robert was thinking,” Barty pressed on, “if this is some kind of future sight we’re having, maybe we can find out what’s causing it by studying Time-centric magic.”

“And what better person to help us with researching something in the library than Atticus Lestrange?” Ceci said with satisfaction, taking both of Atticus’s shoulders from behind and giving them a light squeeze.

Atticus, however, didn’t look so sure. “Well, thank you, but...I’ve already read every book in the library about Time Turners -- and I don’t think there’s anything in there that might explain what’s going on...”

“Every book?” prompted Ceci, raising an eyebrow. 

“Yes,” said Atticus. “Well, except for the Restricted Section, but...”

He trailed off, noticing the wicked look that Ceci and Robert exchanged before they both glanced at Barty.

“Except for the Restricted Section,” repeated Robert, his lips spread in a broad white smirk.

Barty grinned -- his expression was perfectly angelic compared to his cohorts, and yet it was determined.

“Atticus,” he said in a very soft, but perfectly fearless voice, “mind if I join you on your evening Prefect rounds, over break?”

And that was how Atticus Lestrange got roped into sneaking into the Restricted Section of the Library after dark on Christmas Eve with Barty Gilbert. 

Atticus had been very wary when he lingered in the hall outside Ravenclaw Tower as planned, waiting for Barty. He knew his father most assuredly wouldn’t approve of this, and even despite that, he dreaded the thought of willingly spending time with his school rival. It didn’t matter how pleasantly the Gryffindor acted around him, or even how fond Atticus was becoming of his best friend -- Atticus didn’t like Barty, and that was that. And he absolutely hated the thought of getting into trouble just because he was roped into working with him. 

Unfortunately Atticus was so uptight and stiff while waiting around that he nearly had a heart attack when Barty’s disembodied voice whispered in his ear. 

“Sorry!” Barty whispered quickly. “I’m sorry -- I was really trying not to sneak up on you, but Filch is around that next corner...ack! Here he comes!”

He threw some sort of translucent cloth over Atticus’s head, prompting the other boy to crouch down so it covered both of them. 

The crabby Hogwarts caretaker, Argus Filch, rounded the corner, raising his lantern and looking around. His beady eyes glided over where Atticus and Barty were standing, narrowing suspiciously, before he trudged away.

“Andskotans djöful,” Atticus swore under his breath. 

He was clutching at his chest and breathing very heavily as he turned to gawk at Barty over his shoulder. 

“You have an Invisibility Cloak?”

Barty grinned sheepishly. “My parents own several robe shops. I figured one of their stock going missing wouldn’t be the absolute end of the world...”

He adjusted somewhat so that the fabric wouldn’t drag on the floor.

“Come on -- let’s get to the library.”

Fortunately the two managed to get into the Restricted Section without incident. Once they were positive no one was in the Library to catch them, Barty stood watch under his Cloak by the door, his wand over his chest, while Atticus combed through the shelves of books, his own wand lit and held aloft so he could scan the titles. The two didn’t talk much -- the discomfort congealed between them as Atticus tried to keep his eyes on what he was doing. 

“Anything promising?” asked Barty.

“Not yet,” said Atticus shortly. 

Silence returned. After another moment, Barty spoke again.

“Atticus...may I ask you something?”

“What?”

“In your dreams...do you see bad things happening?”

Atticus paused. Then he slid another book from the shelf and opened it, flipping through the pages. 

“Not really. I don’t see much of anything, I think -- at least, not that I can remember. It’s...feelings, mostly.”

“Feelings like you know something’s wrong? Like, even if you can’t see what happened, you feel so much pain and sorrow that you know it’s bad?”

“Sometimes.”

Barty nodded, turning his focus back out into the blackness of the Library. 

“As far back as I can remember,” he said very softly, “I’ve had this dream where I was trying to reach someone. I couldn’t ever see their face clearly, but I just knew, somehow, that the person was in trouble, and that I had to help them. But no matter how fast I tried to run to try to get to that person...my vision would black out and I’d feel like I was frozen still, unable to move at all.”

He bowed his head, his eyes cast into shadow. 

“...I would wake up screaming and crying at night, when I was little...all because I couldn’t reach that person in time. Because I knew that, because I didn’t move fast enough...that person was dead.”

Atticus’s hand had stilled on the book he was flipping through. His eyes were wide upon the page, but clearly weren’t taking in any of the words printed there. The memory of his own mother trying to comfort him after he woke up crying about a pair of red eyes and warm arms rippled over his mind. 

“When I got to Hogwarts,” Barty said lowly, “my dreams became a little clearer. I still didn’t know where I was or what I was doing...but this person who I’d been running to try to save, my whole life, suddenly had a face. A man with black eyes and curly hair...just like my best friend.”

He looked up at Atticus, his face incredibly serious. 

“I don’t know why you’ve seen someone like me in your dreams, Atticus,” said Barty, “and I know you don’t like me...but I could really use your help, in getting to the bottom of all this. Robert is my best friend in the whole world. He’s the first person who became my friend solely because of who I am, rather than who my family is. If I lost him...if anything bad happened to him...”

A dark, miserable shadow passed over his face. 

“...I don’t know what I’d do,” he whispered.

Atticus looked up at last. His blue eyes were rather uncertain. 

“What about Cecelia?” he asked. “Didn’t she become your friend for who you are?”

Barty’s eyes softened as his face flushed lightly. 

“...Ceci means everything to me. We’ve known each other forever. But her family only engaged with mine because we had money...and my parents only let us play together because her parents would bring her over. Our parents encouraged her to play with me because my parents reckoned she’d be a ‘good influence’ on me...might help me come out of my shell some...”

“Well, I suppose they were right,” muttered Atticus. “Now you’re the hot-shot Dueling Champion and Dragon Tamer...Hogwarts’s Golden Boy...”

The last words came out before he could stop himself and he immediately looked away, his insides prickling with discomfort. 

Barty, amazingly, only smiled weakly.

“It’s easy to be brave when you know you’re doing the right thing,” he said, “when you’re standing up for somebody or trying to calm an animal that doesn’t know any better. When you’re fighting, or protecting, there isn’t any thought -- you just do. Because it’s the right thing to do.”

He looked down again, his shoulders falling slightly.

“...But when you’re around people...trying to figure out just what to say, to tell people what you mean...or even just how much to say, when you know not everyone means you well...well, that’s not so easy. You feel like the whole world is watching you, and judging you, no matter what you say...even if you say nothing at all. But at least when you’re quiet...people can kind of just see what they want to see...”

Atticus frowned. Barty had always been rather soft-spoken compared to witty, sassy Robert and sociable, amiable Ceci, but he’d never really taken the time to conclude that Barty was actually shy. 

“I’ve always envied Robert that way,” admitted Barty, offering Atticus a small smile. “He’s never at a loss of what to say. When you and he go at it, bantering like you do...I can tell you like each other, but there’s just such a charge there -- like the eclectic lamps Professor Burbage has in her Muggle Studies class!” He beamed a bit more broadly. “It’s so cool.”

Atticus stared at Barty for a moment, unsure of what to say. Then, after a moment, he looked back down at the book in his hands.

“...Thanks,” he said at last. He could feel his ears burning again.

Barty, however, only smiled, his blue eyes very understanding and patient as he returned his focus to the dark Library again. 

Atticus glanced up at Barty without raising his head, considering him for a moment. Then, with a swallow, he spoke again.

“...I...used to wake up crying too. When I was little.”

Barty looked up, taken aback.

“I used to dream about this person with red eyes,” said Atticus. “He’d be squeezing my shoulders -- almost as if he was afraid to touch me at first, but then gently, purposefully. Then, as he held my shoulders, he would start to laugh...but even though he was laughing, I would hear the sobs. I could tell he was crying...crying in grief and joy and something else altogether...but so much pain. A kind of pain I don’t think I could ever know...”

Just remembering the heartbreaking sound made Atticus’s throat clench and his eyes well up with traces of tears. He wiped them quickly from his eyes with one hand. 

“My mother used to comfort me, telling me that it was just a dream, that nothing in it could hurt me,” he said lowly. “But she never needed to say that -- I knew he wouldn’t hurt me. He was the one hurting.”

He swallowed. The lump in his throat was painful. 

“...I didn’t have the dream as much, as I got older -- just time to time, around some of the other weird ones. Maybe I just don’t sleep long enough stretches to dream as much anymore,” he added as an afterthought. “But when Bellamy and I got paired for Binns’s oral report...well, that feeling came back, out of nowhere...and again, when you, Ceci, and I were watching the match against Hufflepuff.”

Atticus forced himself to meet Barty’s eyes at last.

“I don’t understand this whole thing at all...but I want to know why I’m feeling these things, and I want to know why you, Ceci, and Bellamy see what you’re seeing, too. If that’s what you want too...well, then it’s only practical that we work together.”

He offered a weak smile of his own. Barty was definitely taken aback, but within seconds, his face had lit up with a warmer, more determined smile and he nodded.

“Mm-hmm.”

From that day on, Barty Gilbert and Atticus Lestrange had made peace. 

Unfortunately their night in the Library proved fruitless, research-wise. Not even Dark or restricted magic could explain the kinds of bizarre, fragmented visions the four students were experiencing. And so Atticus returned to his dorm that night feeling very disheartened. He was less so, however, when he awoke out of a restless doze in the Ravenclaw armchair Christmas morning to the feeling of someone holding his shoulder and lightly shaking it.

“Atticus. Atticus.”

Atticus blinked sleepily up at who’d woken him, to see a familiar, shyly smiling face framed by auburn hair.

“Happy Christmas,” Barty greeted gently.

Atticus shook his head rapidly, trying to orient himself. 

“W-what? Gilbert, what -- what are you doing in -- ?”

Just behind Barty, Atticus could see both Ceci and Robert grinning from ear to ear. 

“Surprise!” said Ceci brightly. 

“Happy Christmas, Lestrange,” said Robert, his black eyes dancing with mischief.

Atticus looked around at all three of them, perfectly bewildered. “But -- but you -- you two went home for Christmas -- how did -- ?”

“Rob and I took the Floo back!” Ceci explained. 

“It was Rob’s idea,” said Barty. “I thought I’d keep the whole thing quiet, until they got here.”

“I couldn’t change my plans and stay for my whole break, since I have to be at home for Christmas Eve church service,” said Robert, rubbing the back of his neck uncomfortably, “but well, the thought of you being stuck here all alone...”

His eyes drifted up to the ceiling. 

“‘The school is not quite deserted,’ said the Ghost,” he recited from memory, “‘A solitary child, neglected by his friends, is left there still.’”

He returned his gaze to Atticus seriously. 

“A Christmas Carol,” he added as explanation. “It’s part of why Scrooge ends up hating Christmas so much -- he wasn’t allowed to go home for the holidays to see his family, so instead he stayed at school all alone, with nothing but his books for company. I know this whole season isn’t your thing and all, but...it just seemed rotten, to leave you and Barty alone.” 

Barty beamed at Atticus. Atticus, on the other hand, was too overwhelmed to respond. He felt like his throat had gone very dry, all of the moisture instead moving up toward his eyes. 

Robert and Ceci had put their holidays with their families on hold for him. Yes, Robert said it was for him and Barty, but he’d been thinking of Atticus and how lonely he’d be. No one had ever done anything quite so kind for him before, and it made Atticus feel like his heart was flooding. 

“...You...” he murmured, “...but...why?”

Ceci laughed. “Why do you think? You’re our friend, Atticus! We wanted to spend Christmas with you!”

Atticus’s heart swelled. 

Friend. He was their friend?

He looked from Ceci to Barty to Robert -- his black-haired dormmate smiled, his black eyes sparkling as he nodded in agreement. 

The tears that had been prickling at the sides of Atticus’s eyes actually leaked through, escaping down his cheeks, as he smiled back. He quickly wiped them away, his smile gleaming as he looked up at the three of them.

“...Thank you,” he said at last breathily. “I...I don’t know what to say...”

Ceci brought her arms around Atticus in a sideways hug. “Then don’t say anything! We have presents to unwrap! Come on, come on -- Barty, Rob and I put ours under the tree before we woke you...”

Atticus felt a bit guilty that he hadn’t thought to buy any presents for Robert, Barty, and Cecelia, but he honestly hadn’t expected that they’d want to get him anything. But sure enough, all three of them gave marvelous presents -- Barty gave Atticus a book on Dark creatures; Ceci gave him his own leather-bound copy of A Christmas Carol; and Robert gave him a beautiful bookmark carved out of wood into the shape of a Phoenix and painted brilliant shades of red and orange. The card enclosed said,

Ceci helped me paint this for you. Hope this little turkey can keep you company in the Library. 

Happy Christmas!

Robert

Atticus was amazed when he learned that Robert had actually carved the bookmark himself by hand. Apparently Robert had used some of the leftover wood from the trunk of the tree he’d smuggled into Ravenclaw Tower to make Atticus’s bookmark -- he’d also used some of the branches he’d had to trim off to make Barty a carved picture frame and Ceci a pretty wooden heart pendant she could wear as a necklace. They were all a little rough around the edges, but the effort showed through, and it warmed Atticus’s heart to think of the amount of work Robert must’ve put in to make his presents. 

The whole day put Atticus in such a good mood that he even encouraged Robert to read aloud from his new leather-bound copy of A Christmas Carol, so he could hear it. The request made Robert’s dark eyes light up more brightly than Atticus had ever seen them before...and indeed, when Robert finished reading the beautifully written, emotional novel with such warm sincerity and articulated poetry that evening, Atticus had to admit -- it was a very, very good book. 

[johobi]

When You Least Expect It | 12

Pairing: Jungkook x Reader x Taehyung

Word count: 8.2k

Warnings: angst, angsty-angst, dramaTIC ANGST, anxiety, depression, fear of going mad. i swear it’s not all that bad though!!!!

AO3 link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16732419/navigate

A/N: thanks, as ever, for all your encouragement, love and patience. i truly treasure you.

Next: 13 ASAP! || WYLEI Masterlist

You’re in love with your childhood friend, Taehyung. The problem is, you treasure your friendship with him far too much to ever risk losing it. Oh, and he’s quite the Casanova. At your wits’ end with feelings you can no longer hide as diligently as you once did, you ask him to set you up with someone, anyone, in a last-ditch attempt to avoid a heartbreaking conversation. 

"Need to get my⁠—mmm⁠—keys."

Taehyung's argument was solid, but your lip-lock took precedence. "Nuh-uh," you murmured to his saliva-slick lips, eager to taste from them again. "Do it blind."

Your lover fished futilely for his keys, eyes closed for kissing. His body angled away when you only wanted it flush. Selfishly you clung to him, arms fast around his neck, compelling him closer. Oh, but you needed more. Needed his touch. It was painfully absent. Taehyung’s long-fingered hands trawled the depths of his pockets when they should have been defiling you. 

He snorted through the meagre space between your faces. "I can't find⁠—mmgh⁠—find them."

"Here," you offered in devilish whisper, plunging a hand into the pocket of his jeans. Shamelessly grasping a little too close to his left-leaning dick.

"Ah⁠—"

Your fingertips grazed metal. "That wasn't so hard, was it?"

"It will be." 

It was your turn to scoff. Right into his hot, nasty mouth.

Despite Taehyung's ineptitude at locating his own keys, it was spellcraft how easily he unlocked the door, with his back to it and his tongue thrust far past your lips. As the lock gave way, you threw yourself into his freshly-freed arms, urging he embrace your touch-starved body. But Taehyung was already around you, on you, fondling the breadth of your thinly-clothed ass. He broke away to whine:  “God, you drive me crazy.”

“You love it.”

“Fuck yeah, I do.”

You stumbled into his apartment as a mass of roving hands. "You’re gonna get it again, noona," Taehyung hummed around your earlobe. Tugged it between his teeth. Whispered obscenities while his hard cock pressed close. “You feel that, babe? You want it?”

Breath tumbled out. “Y-Ye⁠s—”

"It certainly sounds like she does," a wicked voice sang. It was high-pitched and heavy on the dialect and its source unmistakeable. You wished you were mistaken. "Whatever it is. I'm gonna hazard a guess that it's⁠—"

The two of you repelled like magnets. 

"Oh, fuck. Jimin, why are you still here?" Taehyung made no attempt to smother his exasperation. His erection, on the other hand, he smothered actively, obscuring it with the hem of his shirt..

"Good night without me?" the redhead side-stepped. Consistent with his character, the conversation became depraved, and all about him. You found yourself on the receiving end of an unwelcome eyebrow waggle. "I was only one phone call away."

Taehyung's hand flew to his face. Dragged down his features. "I told you I didn't know when I'd be back. If at all. Couldn't you have gone home, dude? What did you even do all night?"

As Jimin dithered and whined, you surveyed the damage the bachelor had inflicted upon Taehyung's usually immaculate apartment. Takeout trays, beer bottles and indiscernible spills surrounded the little imp. Insult to injury was his occupation of your beloved red slanket. It coupled his hair so garishly he resembled something of an angry pimple. You glared at Jimin from behind his 5'11" handler.

"I thought you were coming back!" Jimin finally exasperated. His wrists emerged from the slanket-holes when he gestured to his nest of trash. "I had to eat twice the amount of food. And I got drunk alone. You know how sad that is?"

"Got a glimpse of your future, did you, Jimin?" The snicker that shot from you almost took the contents of your nostrils with it. To say you were a little sniffly this morning was to minimise it. It took all your nasal strength to prevent a flood. Probably all that rain yesterday. 

No, don't think about yesterday.

Luckily, your dignity remained intact for discard another day. Jimin's however, had long been abandoned. Tact, too. "So—" He watched, beady-eyed, as you busied yourself in the undoing of his mess. When you reached for a pizza box: "You guys having an affair? Or is this some kinda friends-with-benefits deal?" The slanket rode up his offensively nude thighs as he leaned toward your stooping form. "Any chance of making this a three-person thing? Or four, if that Jungkook guy is still in the picture."

  It was like an icicle through your poor, hollowed heart. You froze, bent at the hinges, pizza grease becoming palm sweat. "W-What?"

  “Actually, was he even real? I never saw him.”

  Was he even real?

  Taehyung was quick. Was there in a second, striding to your side, affixing a hand to your lower back. His fingertips, too, were quick. Quick to find that sliver of exposed skin where your jeans and shirt met. To give you the warmth of reassurance that came only with his touch. "Jesus, Jimin. I know this is your shtick, but no-one's in the mood for your bullshit today. Just go home dude, I'll text you later."

  An expression you'd never encountered warped Jimin's delicate features. Hurt. "What the fuck?" he grumbled, complying despite his injured feelings. Coming to a stand, he stuffed himself into his night-before skinny jeans, plump lips pursed. "What got into you? She peg you or something?" Jimin’s hmphs continued, punctuating his impromptu Get Ready With Me throughout. Without the care it warranted, he slung off the slanket and began turning out the couch.

  “Very funny. What are you looking for? I’ll help.” Taehyung offered, placidity masking his vexation incredibly well. Antagonising Jimin would only prolong his being there, after all, and the scenario was already unbearably awkward. Especially now, when he was flaunting a good inch of his ass-crack in the hunt for some misplaced possession. 

  "My wallet. Y’know, the pot leaf one. Where did I put the damn thing?"

  In that gaping crevice, maybe? It wasn’t aloud. 

  "Okay, look⁠—" Taehyung, too, looked to have had his fill of his friend's butt-cleft. "I'll bring your wallet 'round your place later. You got your phone and keys, yeah?" The outline in the redhead's jeans confirmed it. "Go home, sleep off the rest of the booze, we'll talk this evening."

  Despite his grievances, Jimin suddenly brightened. He never was one to hold a grudge. He was a Pisces, after all. "You're gonna come over? Cool! I'll get more beer in." The fact he'd consumed a dozen only two hours prior didn’t appear to deter him. "You coming, ____? We gonna have another game of Never Have I Ever?"

  The sincere sparkle of his eyes threw you a little. "Uh, I don't think so. Not today. Sorry, Jimin. Next time, okay? I've got some things to sort out later. Plus, I think I’m getting sick." A sniffle for illustration.

  "That's cool." He hummed, shrugged on his signature varsity jacket. The world would burn before he conceded college was over. "See you later, Tae. Happy smashing," was his parting comment as he sashayed out the door, mildly uncoordinated. Taehyung was charitable enough to relieve his friend of the quandry of closing it.

  And when it was closed, your lover turned back. Had a pensive purse to his lips. "Uh, sorry about that. You okay?"

  "Don’t apologise, I’m the one that disrupted your plans in the first place, Tae. But yeah, I’m good." 

  Taehyung couldn’t see the extent of that untruth. Not when you averted your eyes so swiftly. Pinned them to your busy hands as you continued to collect up Jimin's litter. Why had it been so easy for him to speak his name? Like it was nothing but breath? Just two syllables, plucked from an alphabet of indifference?

  When it was sand and salt on open sores?

  When it was woe so heavy it rasped the soul?

  "Alright." It wasn't, but what mattered was that Taehyung knew it. Knew it, and didn't pursue it. Instead, he fluffed a trashbag for you in which to deposit your greasy collection. "He's always like this. A mangy raccoon."  The comparison hit humorously enough to curtail your anguish. Momentarily, at least. A genuine laugh came from you. At that, Taehyung looked up. Caught your smile. "He's always like this. Always leaves me to clean up. His metaphorical and literal messes."

  Trash collected, you straightened. Inelegantly, and with a groan. You'd have to scrape together the pennies for some sweet chiropractic adjustment. "Yeah? That doesn't surprise me," you smirk, prodding at the knots in the small of your back. "All I know is he's a gross, unashamed pervert that could be a good guy if he grew up a little. You haven't really told me too much about him. I guess you'll—" the reality of your and Taehyung's changed relationship hit you, then. It had transfigured into something far more intense. Far more beautiful. Potentially volatile.  "—you'll have to tell me more. About him. Your other friends I don't see much. And about you, stuff I didn't get to know until we—well. You know."

  Taehyung's head came to a tilt. His downy locks strayed into his eyes, softening them into a squint. "It's weird, isn't it? Being like this. Good weird—" he added with haste. Had he been suddenly struck by the revelation, too? Your two combined brain cells continued to surf one wavelength. It was uncanny. "You're standing there, I'm standing here. We look the same. But it's all different. I look at you different." A contemplative pause. The trash-bag knocked noisily at his knees as he rocked. "And all I know is I want to learn about you. Again. Inside and out."

  "Yeah. I'd like that very much. I'm hardly a treasure trove of alluring secrets, but I'm sure I have a wild story or two from my college years. Ugh—" The ache that'd been no more than a dull tapping at your skull suddenly came to the fore. Your head throbbed like a blunt force concussion.

  "You okay?" The trashbag left Taehyung's hands and crumpled to the floor. You felt them on you shortly after, palpating your oddly sensitive forearms. "What's up?"

  "Headache. Think I was bent over for too long, or something." But then came a torrent of sneezing. And it was also then that Taehyung's proximity was suddenly, intolerably stifling. "Ugh. Maybe not. I’m definitely getting sick. Sick-sick."

  A satiny palm left your shoulder and found your forehead. Your vantage saw only Taehyung's mouth. It opened into an O. "Oh, shit. Yeah, you're burning up, noona. We should get you into bed."

  "No, no. That won't be necessary." You waved away his clammied hand and instead peeled off your - his - jacket. The last thing you wanted, on a day as emotionally strenuous as this one, was to find yourself physically compromised, too. "I'll be okay. I just need to cool down a bit. It's probably just a cold, and I can soldier through those. Uh—I'm a little hungry, though?"

  "Aha! Want some French toast or something?" Taehyung leapt at the opportunity to tend to you. Like Yoongi, you shied away from showing weakness and instead showed a reluctance to lean on others. It must’ve been frustrating for Taehyung, an unashamed empath who wanted nothing more than to accompany and comfort you during your times of adversity. But he understood that it could not be the case with you. That less was more. That the key to helping you was when you asked for it. Yes, even when it was something so small as the common cold.

  And when it wasn’t just the sniffles, but world-ending woe, Taehyung embraced your diversions from the difficult topics. Didn’t push it. Best friends never pushed. Yes, he was still your best friend. Something more, now, too, but forever your gentlest, most attuned of friends. "Don’t you like French toast? I could make something else?" He prompted, peering into your faraway face with those precious eyes of his.

  "You can make French toast?"

  "Of course I can. I can make you anything, within reason. I've been practicing. Takeout's giving me a belly." In illustration, Taehyung molded his hands to his mildly rounded flesh. Strained it out further, like an expecting mother.

  "I like your little belly." Your hands fell to his, pressing his stomach back to flat.

  "Yeah?" An errant quirk of his eyebrow. "It likes you, too."

  You smiled so, so wide. And then you became certain:

  Last night had been the right decision. One made in a swell of volatile emotion, yes. But this day - this moment - in which it was still possible to smile, proved that. Taehyung conjured it to your face with so little effort. It took so little effort to be with him. To just be. 

  And that was indeed a feat. 

  Because inside your mind, there was no reprieve. Barbed words and self-abuse clattered about your brain, painting you unworthy of Jungkook. Worse yet; deserving of his treatment. 

Every second since your waking hour you’d been assailed by volleys of it. But your self-loathing didn’t end its assault there. In your darkest seconds, it even dared to suggest that you proclaimed your love for Taehyung too hastily. 

  That you instead yearned for that other man.

  By some mercy, you were already adept in handling intrusive thoughts. Because that was all they were: Intrusive. Unwelcome and unwanted. There could be no truth to the doubt or longing. 

Not when your new horizon stood before you, a sunshine smile dawning across his cheeks. Taehyung. The once boy, now man, you'd forever coveted.

  He was yours. Your desperate words a night ago sealed it.

  Puzzlement mingled adorably with Taehyung's bright features. "Babe?"

  Yeah. It was the right choice.

  "Sorry, Tae." In spite of your climbing fever, you intertwined your idling fingers. Looked down at the union with a contented smile. "Thanks for letting me stay here for a bit. I didn't want to go back to my apartment yet." The reason why remained unspoken. "I know I can't avoid it forever, but for a little while at least, I just wanna not think."

  Soft, familiar lips were on your forehead. Spoke against the skin. "You stay here as long as you need. My apartment and I are at your disposal." It was Taehyung's turn to loose himself from your febrile embrace. Your perspiration lacquered his fingers. "We're getting you some painkillers for that fever, at the very least. You don't have to stay in bed, but I want you on the sofa so I can keep an eye on you while I do some marking."

  "Okay, dad."

  Taehyung’s tongue danced over the tips of his teeth. "That's daddy to you, noona. Get those damp clothes off and get some of my pyjamas on, there's a set on the bed."

  ----

  Your sentencing to the sofa had initially been met with resistance. Especially when Taehyung hovered, ever-watching, an eye on his papers and the other on your recalcitrant form. Your every attempt at productivity - even a surreptitious attempt to fold his laundry - had been met with soft but stern eyes and an escort back to your cologne-saturated prison. Jimin's stank had ingratiated itself with the fibres of Taehyung's cushions. No amount of deodorizer could reduce its cling. It did nothing but intensify the thudding behind your eyes.

  And at first, you attributed your worsening nausea to that silly little redhead. But the lightheadedness followed swiftly after, and then the chills, and then that horrid, off feeling encroached, like your soul lagged behind every of your body's movements.

  In the end, you begged for the bed. Taehyung's memory foam mattress and sweet-smelling pillows. Only, the sweet made you sick, and the memory foam only exacerbated all your indistinct aches. By early afternoon, despite his dutiful nursing of you, you tapped out of your brave-facing. Practically begged him to return you to your apartment, where all your remedies resided. 

  If there was something that united the men of your world, it was their haphazard approach to health crises. Taehyung possessed a pitiful two (2) painkillers. The nasty, round, chalky type that got you gagging. Expiry date: Last year. No hot water bottle, no frozen goods to improvise a cold compress. When questioned about his unreadiness in the face of illness, his reasoning was ridiculous. Sound, but ridiculous. 'I never get sick, so I don't need it.’ The painkillers were Jimin’s.

  Hoseok and Yoongi were much the same. The former would simply turn up on your doorstep and check-in to your veritable inpatient clinic and expect private-tier care. For the latter, you'd have to make a house visit, because he never got sick, and he didn't need you fussing over him so. And yet he was the one that fell ill the most. The one that needed the most tender of care.

  Sigh.

  Today, you required it. And that was how you now found yourself back home, a day earlier than you would have preferred. You tottered out of Taehyung's car in your royal red slanket, pyjama pants dragging on wet asphalt. It took what waning stamina you possessed to gaze upward at the same balconies Jungkook strode yesterday. It was like looking on an untouched crime scene; as gloomily lit and ominous as it had been then.

  Taehyung came to your side, and then a little in front, surveying that same sight. "Looks like he's gone, noona."

  The relief that surged was medicine in itself. "Thank God. Let's go in, quickly." Your teeth chattered animatedly during the climb, even though you burned like the sun incarnate. Taehyung's arm was fast about your waist, steadying you on each of your Everestian steps. Collapse felt close at times, but when your vision began to fail it was the image of Jungkook's guilt-ridden face that rallied you onward. To fall, here, was to expose yourself to the risk of seeing it again.

  And that could not happen.

  "Do you have the keys—"

  "Got 'em." Taehyung was ahead of you in every sense. With the dexterity he was inhibited from displaying earlier, he had your door open before you could reach him. "In you go, babe."

  "Thanks." You loped past, unsteady. Unready to climb the flight of stairs immediately within. "Why do I have a maisonette?" The question was to no-one, or God. 

  Taehyung answered anyway. “Because you’re a woman of discerning taste.” Large hands found your blanketed backside, lending you their support. “Plus, when the bedroom’s upstairs, the neighbours can’t hear.” 

  “A valid point,” you ceded, beginning your ascent. Even with Taehyung - quite literally - bringing up the rear, your legs felt like those of an unpractised infant. It was astonishing just how quickly the virus had incapacitated you.

  Still. The higher you climbed, the handsier Taehyung became. He stole squeezes of your rump with every step. Said it was incentive to keep going.

  Well, he wasn’t wrong. 

  After much of his unscrupulous groping, the laughter finally broke free. "Oh my God, you're being so shameless right now." Another shaky step. "I wish I had a stairmaster."

  He wasn't done being outrageous. "Sit back and I'll stairmaster you all the way up, babe."

  The giggling became painful. Welcome, but painful. "Stop."

  At the top of the staircase, you stopped to compose your failing limbs. It was alarming just how vital you'd been this morning. This afternoon, you felt one laboured breath from death. "One sec."

  "I knew this was a bad idea. You shouldn't be going anywhere in your condition." His two, warm hands stabilised you from the back, preventing an inevitable tumble. "I coulda just bought more painkillers and whatever else you needed."

  "It's alright, Tae. I had to come back at some point soon, anyway. My keys for the cafe are here and I'm opening tomorrow." Blotting the sweat from your brow, you advanced on unstable legs to the sofa and immediately crumpled onto its familiar comfort. "Plus, when I'm sick, I like to be sick at home."

  "I don't think you'll be going into work tomorrow." By the time it took you to maneuver yourself onto your stomach, Taehyung was stood over you, hands emphatically on hips. "Look at you. Can't even get comfortable without exhausting yourself."

  "I don't wanna let Hoseok down." Nor did you want to enlighten him to your current romantic quandry, though. Ugh. "But I do feel terrible. If I’m no better later, I might text him."

  "Wow, I thought for sure it would take far more convincing than that," Taehyung snickered, eyes round with mock shock. He'd accumulated a number of dirty dishes from your coffee table in his hands. "Glad you're prepared to rest. Stay there and let me get whatever it is you need. I'll clean your place up a little as well, so don't stress about it."

  "No—Tae—"

  "Hush. Get the pyjama bottoms off, too, they're wet on the bottom."

  You'd been shouldering so much discomfort that your freezing wet ankles had eluded you. A glance down. "Oh. Yeah. I don't know if I can, though." You flopped your feeble arms. "Too far to reach." Plus, Taehyung could undress you now. To disrobe in any other way was to squander the opportunity.

  His mouth curved villainously. "Okay." Clap. "Let's see if I can do this in one swift move. Like a magician pulling a table cloth."

  Before his proposition had entirely processed, he pinched the hems of your sodden pyjama bottoms and snatched them from your legs. "Wh—"

  "Open sesame!"

  Wheezy giggling filled the air. "Oh, it hurts to laugh. Fuck." Being semi-naked and comically incapacitated only heightened the hilarity. Taehyung straddled your legs, twirling the wet pants in triumph— "Oww. Oh my God, stop, I can’t—” More rasping laughter. “What even goes on in your head? Also, magicians don't shout open sesame when they do that shit."

  "I do. That's why other magicians suck. They say the wrong words." He spoke it like he believed it, and for a moment he was again the boy from childhood, proclaiming the weirdest - but sincerest - of things. And now he was your loveable oddball. "Daddy's gonna get you some dry ones."

  And there was the gross-ass man he'd grown into.

  Nevermind.

  "Okay, you're taking that in a direction I don't want to go in, Tae," you protested, flimsily, through persistent laughs. With a half-hearted kick, you nudged him toward your bedroom. "Hurry up, my ass is getting cold."

  “A cold ass will do you good,” was his nonsensical retort. He wriggled out of his own, damp jeans as he went, gifting you the sight of his luscious ass in curve-hugging cotton. 

  You were appallingly close to catcalling take the boxers off too!, but in your current state you could barely lift a pinky, let alone give him the vigorous fucking he deserved.

  ---

  A little channel-hopping later, Taehyung returned. Armed, coincidentally, with your favourite flannel bottoms. Yes, it was likely just coincidence, but the romantic in you posited destiny. "Legs up," he commanded. You did try, but the attempt was laughable. Taehyung's sigh hit the back of your thighs. "Listen here, lazy," he crooned, turning your body with the care one would an undercooked omelette. Pyjama pants in hand, he glowered down at your defiant face, brandishing them like a threat. "You gonna co-operate?"

  "Nope." You turned your attention to the TV to stifle further laughter. Why you were hindering his attempts to help with your misbehaviour was anyone's guess. There was something irresistible about making trouble for him, though. Probably because Taehyung, too, was an unrepenting rascal.

  "Okay then," was his equivocal response. You scrutinised him through narrowed eyes, waiting on his next, underhanded move.

  Which was to tickle your feet. Underhanded indeed.

  "Oh, God, no!" you yelped, cried, rasped for breath. Flailed your legs like a fawn on skates.

  "Thought you couldn't move, huh? Huh?" Taehyung caught your ankles amidst their thrashing and pulled them through freshly-laundered flannel.

  Once the pyjamas reached your knees, you relented in your nonsense and shot him a buoyant smile. "Thanks."

  "Hips up."

  This time, you were obedient.

  And Taehyung was thankful. A fine smile shone back at you as he settled the waistband around your hips. Your smile, however, drifted. Awe replaced it as you stole glances at his beautifully-hewn features. He truly was sublime. The bridge of his nose was high and strong, its tip hosting the most precious of moles. Beneath his bottom lip there was another. These little details, of course, hadn’t escaped you before, but it was something to see them so close now. With time, you would kiss each and every of his chaotically placed moles. 

  When you recalled your gaze upward, Taehyung was watching you. The chocolate of his eyes was molten with feeling. Love and warmth irradiated him. "Can't believe you're mine now."

  It was crucial that you kiss him.

  You moved to do so. His lips were only a breath away. But then—

  Three, distinct knocks.

  You traded looks. Yours, petrified. His, outraged.

  "Wait—"

  But Taehyung's weight had already left you. An intimidating energy lingered in his wake as he strode toward the staircase, fists clenched. "I'll get that."

  "Tae, no—"

  The difficulty with which it took you to extricate yourself from your slanket was all the more frustrating for the urgency of the situation. You staggered, almost toppled, to catch him, but he'd already descended the steps by the time you reached the top. Damn those lovely, long legs of his. All you could do now was brace yourself on either bannister to prevent a gruesome fall. Because no amount of honeyed pleading was going to stop him. You peered, lightly nauseous, down the expanse of stair as Taehyung slung open the door.

  It came as no surprise that it was Jungkook stood there, his doe-eyes wide.

  It eviscerated your guts, nonetheless, to see him.

  “Noona!”

  At first, he lit up in elation. Perhaps he thought the door-answerer to be you. When Taehyung’s identity became clear, however, that elation morphed. First, to shock. Your long-legged lover wasn’t wearing pants, after all. But when Jungkook spied you at the back all shy, sadness again descended upon him. It was a sadistic hope that your sickly appearance intensified that upset. That it fueled his guilt for having decimated you. With every, shredded fibre of your being, you wished Jungkook hurt.

  “Thank you for answering the door,” he began with an earnest bow, as though he didn’t know just how much you abhorred him. “H—”

  "I answered the door. What do you want?" Taehyung straddled the doorframe, asserting his dominance over the territory. Jungkook's every attempt to look past him was foiled. The lissom man angled himself obstructively, and yet you sought Jungkook's face, too. Wanted to glimpse the heartbreaker for yourself, like he was some loathsome thing of legend. Like it was hard to believe you'd looked into that face just yesterday and seen the world. "Don't you ever give up?" he added, his patience sounding pencil-thin.

  After several, weighty seconds of silence, Jungkook eventually acknowledged Taehyung's existence. Addressed him earnestly. "I know I'm not welcome here. I just want a couple of minutes with ____ to explain what she saw—" A derisive snort threatened to cut him off, so he continued hastily, and louder— "—Not for my benefit. For hers. I don't want her to—to—" Choked with frustration, Jungkook thrust himself into your sightline. Implored you with large, gleaming eyes. "I don't want you to blame yourself in any way."

  You despised how pregnable you were under his gaze. Like imminent, avoidable death, it became impossible to look away. The void called. There, in his desolate eyes. He wanted you to join him. 

  No, Jungkook didn’t need you anymore. What he wanted was absolution. At great personal cost to you. But whatever he wished, no matter how detrimental, you would likely grant. 

  Because as much as you hated him, you loved him.

  “I—”

  But you loved Taehyung, too.

  “____?” And he was there, soft voice enticing you back toward the light. Back toward his pretty face and tender-hearted intentions. There was no hurt to be had with Taehyung.

  "I don't,” you spat, clear-minded once more. “I don’t blame myself, Jungkook. Only you.” 

  But you did blame yourself. Every second since, in fact. 

  Too fat, too boring, too ugly, too old, too much baggage—

  It mustn't have been too convincing an outburst. Jungkook's mouth remained a thin, grim line. And those fucking eyes of his were so fucking ridiculously big and sad and—fuck!

  It was all too much.

  Mercifully, Taehyung was composed enough to mediate. You, however, were on the brink of emotional - and physical - collapse. "You heard her." Again, he filled out the doorframe. Stood provocatively close to the man in front. "You fucked up majorly. Actually—" Taehyung leaned in. His baritone dived lower. "You're lucky we're not alone right now."

  Jungkook did not recoil an inch. Neither did he square up, though. He just stood, toe-to-toe with Taehyung, receiving the vitriol.

  "You've imparted your message. You’re too late. You shouldn’t have done it in the first place. Are you finally going to go?"

  At that, something bubbled within Jungkook. It shook his frame, balled his fists. Blinking came more rapidly. And then— "I know all that, dude. Look, I’m not here to fight with you. I appreciate what you’re doing, and that you’re protecting her, but I just—I need to talk to noona—to ___ a little longer. Privately. I just need a little more time. Please. Let me get the words out."

  Taehyung bore impossibly close. "You don't need more time."

  Jungkook’s mouth opened, combatively downturned. But whatever he meant to launch next was stymied when you took one, noodly step down the stairs. Taehyung turned toward the movement, and Jungkook peered past. It was then that he clocked just how arduous it was for you to move. “Noona? Are you okay?”

  Dizzyness crowded your peripheral vision. But Jungkook was front and centre, and so painfully clear, that the influenza quietened. "I don't want to see you, Jungkook. I’m pretty sure I got that across yesterday. How many times do I have to tell you to leave me alone? What if I don’t even want to hear your damn sob story?"

  He fell mute when your words reached him. Like he could scarcely believe you'd deigned him worthy of directly addressing. Palms pressed together and with his mouth agape, he looked the picture of a supplicant.

  But he was unworthy.

  No, I am.

  You hung your head again. It was strenuous on your neck; weighing like a cannonball. "I don't want to stand here all day, Jungkook. Fucking say something. Why did you come here if—"

  "Because I love you!” he gasped. “I love you, and—"

  "Bullshit you do!"

  It came from Taehyung, not you. He'd turned back, teeth bared, no longer saying but growling. There he was. Your guard dog. The leash was straining. "You don't love someone and hide a fucking fiancee, you piece of shit." Jungkook flinched at Taehyung's ferocity, but remained stalwart on his spot. Curled his lip instead. "You blew it. Now go."

  Jungkook shook his head suddenly, violently. Flung rain from his hair and onto the walls. "This has nothing to do with you!" The bridge of his nose scrunched tight and bared not bunny teeth, but fangs.

  Taehyung swatted away the finger poised aggressively at his chest. Stepped closer, but didn't stop. No, he bumped him back toward the threshold with his chest. "It does now. Read between the lines, dumbass."

  Jungkook was ineffably innocent. “What do you mean?” He stared into Taehyung’s narrowed eyes to glean more meaning. 

  And then he gulped.

  Jungkook’s gaze flickered to Taehyung’s immodestly nude legs, and clarity began to dawn. It astounded you how little reaction Taehyung’s state of undress had initially garnered from Jungkook. But now he was giving the situation its due attention.

  A few, unmoving moments later, he gulped again. Harder this time, like something tangibly obstructed his speech. “N-Noona?” It was a mere rasp.

  When Jungkook looked back, eyes glossy with devastation, your heart tore again. Right along its freshly-stitched seams. You tried desperately to avert your gaze, but the void shimmering back at you was dense. His voice reached for you again. "____?" 

  Your name, alien in tone, was what finally closed your eyes. Fresh tears ran down established tracks. You turned away, grip on the bannisters dubious.

  "You and—him?" Jungkook gasped, so quietly, so pained, it was like agonal breath.

  You crumpled as if stomped on. Your chest was ablaze, and you wanted so desperately to clutch at it. To smother it. To cradle your torso as it caved once more. But you were too impaired to move. Instead, you stood there, frozen and hunched, crying uglier than you could remember ever letting anyone see. Staring at your toes as the carpet caught your tears. 

  But why? You should be overjoyed to shatter him as he had you.

  "Get it? Now go." Taehyung sighed, all the fight siphoning from him. He backed up from Jungkook and went monotone. "You've upset ___. Again. This is your last warning. Get going."

  Predictably, Jungkook didn't budge. In the ensuing silence, however, he didn't plead his case as he once would have done. No, something about him was changed. An aggrieved aura hugged him, expanded, until— "Last warning? Fuck you, Kim Taehyung." His eyes, once brimming with tears, now seared with a fury. Even Taehyung looked taken aback. The outburst came sharp despite its gentle source. Again, Jungkook thrust forward an accusing finger. "Don't pretend you're better than me. You're selfish. I knew you couldn't wait to get your dick in her. I knew it ever since we saw you at the movies and you looked so fucking jealous—"

  The gasp that exited you was so heavy with outrage it almost took you with it. You gripped the bannisters tighter, wobbled down two further steps. You had to de-escalate this. Somehow. "Jungkook!"

  He granted you a brief, guilt-ridden side-glance before once again affixing his target with a glare. "You were just waiting for your moment, weren't you? Didn't want her 'til I had her. Couldn't bear the thought of your closest friend not being one of your conquests."

  “Shut the fuck up!”

  You didn't make it in time. Not before Taehyung wound back his elbow and snapped it forward, a hard, coiled fist on its end. It landed, brutal and blunt, on Jungkook's jaw. A dull, fleshy thud resounded, but to you it was like a gunshot. And so was the way his head and body whipped away, spiralling until his knees buffered his fall.

  "Oh my G—Jungkook!"

  The younger man, crouched away as he was, breathed deep, coppery air. Smeared his mouth along his sleeve, leaving red where it touched. And then, standing, he glared hatred at Taehyung. His shoulders shuddered with untethered anger. "You—"

  "It's more than that for me. I can't say the same for you," Taehyung cut in, surveying his reddened knuckles. He flexed his fingers for feeling. "Fucking cheater."

  Distracted, Taehyung was unprepared for the solid hunk of human that caught him around his midsection. Jungkook tackled him without caution, throwing his entire, intimidating mass into Taehyung's lankier frame. The two surged into the ground, clawing and grappling at the other's limbs, eyes wild, lips stretched back from teeth.

  "Stop!"

  "Oh my God, stop it!"

  Neither listened. They were feral. Both heard only the rush of blood.

  Knowing you must intervene, you manipulated your ragdollish limbs into descending the last half dozen steps. It was then, after an elongated struggle, Jungkook clambered atop Taehyung and fisted the collar of his shirt, glaring daggers enough to maim him.

  “You’re so fucking smug—”

  “Why shouldn’t I be? I’m not the one who fucked up!” Taehyung crowed from beneath, maniacal. He taunted Jungkook with an angular grin, like he wasn’t the one at disadvantage. 

  “Shut up!”

  Once your feet met ground, you crumbled to your knees, Taehyung's head of hair between them. The sneer he brandished fell when he caught sight of your sweat-soaked face. Pitifully you pressed against Jungkook's shoulders, dissuading him from further violence. You felt like a toreador pushing on 1800lbs of charging bull. Jungkook didn't even so much as register your attempts until you wheezed out, "P-Please stop."

  He did. He went rigid, in fact. Trembled, when he became aware of your touch. His rage evaporated and the boy that sat there was no longer a bull but a meek little kit. Trepidation rolled from Jungkook in waves, and he would not meet your eyes.  

  Why? 

  Was he now repulsed by you? 

  How could he judge you for your indiscretion when he—he—! 

  No. It wasn't an indiscretion. What you did with Taehyung held no moral ambiguity. 

  It occurred to you, then, that the pair of you hadn't been so close since the last time you were intimate. And happy. Though damp, Jungkook's familiar, and once comforting scent, brushed your nostrils. Perhaps your proximity was what flustered him.

  When he finally met your gaze, you knew it to be true. He didn't look upon you with the anger nor revulsion you expected. Not anything obvious, anyway. Instead it was the wide-eyed wonder from your first date. The shyness. For just a moment, you allowed yourself to revisit it. 

But then his brows drooped low in remorse. "Noona," he called to you like you were far away. Pined for you. Taehyung's shirt fell from his clutches, and you found his hands on your elbows instead, propping up your drooping form.

  Feverish before, you were positively boiling now. To have his gentle palms on you again, no matter the circumstance, was a threat to your hastily-cobbled retreat. His fingertips told you, as they caressed your inner elbow, that any other man's hands would never do. And yet - you squirmed feebly, recalling it - those hands had been on, been in some other woman's body. And that would never do. "Don't touch me, J-Jungkook. Not with those hands."

  But it was his hands that stirred your heart into uproar. 

  No. It was simply the flu. Nothing more. It influenced your body in the oddest ways. 

  And there was someone that had pumped your blood for far longer.

  You cast your eyes to where Taehyung lay, honey hair a halo about his head and eyes only for you. Love bloomed fiercely in the bowels of your heart. “You really don’t look very good.” He made to push Jungkook off, but the younger man was already up on his knees, scanning your wan complexion. 

  "Are you burning up?" Jungkook murmured, his lips a line of concern. "You feel hot." Again he clasped your elbows, testing along their length for temperature. When he reached your upper arms, he was bold enough to advance on your neck, thumbs either side the line of your jaw. To your great shame, though you attributed it in most part to the fever, you enjoyed Jungkook's handling. "Your glands are out. And—" he pressed a cool, clammy palm to your clammier forehead. Spellbound, your eyes closed. "Yeah, you're even hotter up here, noona."

  "No shit, dumbass," Taehyung growled from above. When you opened your eyes, he was no longer supine but towering over the two of you, fingers twitching by his sides. You foresaw Jungkook's imminent scalping if you weren't quick to intervene. "You chased her into torrential rain. She's sick, asshole, and it's your fault."

  But there was no need to intervene. Jungkook didn't anger again. Nor did he stare down the man spitting insults. His focus remained fixed on you. On the damage he'd done. The deadened, bloodshot eyes, the pallid skin, the absence of joy. Of understanding. "I-I'm sorry," was all he could think to say? Again?

  Desperate, you implored him for more with forlorn eyes. Begged him for sense. Practically mouthed the word please. It would be nothing you wanted to hear, but perhaps hearing it could bring closure. Some semblance of peace, eventually, in some far-off year. 

  Jungkook stared back, ruminating, and you knew there was no sense to be found. None that you wanted, anyway. Jungkook was a liar, an adulterer, a manipulator—

  "Alright, you said sorry again. Time to go." Taehyung hauled him up by his underarms and, hopefully, away from you forever. It was a credit to him for tolerating Jungkook’s presence for so long. Especially when all he did was regurgitate the same, tired shit. "Don't come here again, or I'll call the cops," he snarled to Jungkook's ear, spittle flying. With a grip on the scruff of Jungkook's jacket, he whirled him toward the door.

  "She's not my fiancee!"

  Taehyung paused. As did you, in your agonised ascent into standing.

  "She's not my fiancee," Jungkook repeated over his shoulder, looking for you over his gathering jacket. "I wanted to talk to you about it calmly, and in private. It's not simple, and it’s hard to believe."

  "Don't lie to me n-now, Jungkook." The finger with which you jabbed at him, trembled. "I asked you that. You said she was."

  Taehyung's expression darkened by the second. It would devolve into another brawl at this rate, and you didn't want that. Not because you didn't want to see Jungkook get served, but because you didn't want him in your presence another gut-wrenching moment.

  Brazenly, Jungkook yanked himself from Taehyung's grip and turned, palms up and pacifying. He inched back toward the door; a gesture of his intent to finally leave. "Look. It's because technically she is, but it's not real—I'm going, asshole!—" Jungkook waved his arms demonstratively at the nearing door. Having appeased Taehyung, he pinned you again with fervent eyes. "What you saw wasn't the truth. If you won't hear me out entirely, at least hear that.”

  “No-one believes you. Everything you say is a fucking contradiction.” Taehyung was red and riled again. 

  Jungkook ignored him, his time short. “I won't text you anymore, I won't come here anymore. What I’ve done to you is unforgivable. I know that. I should never have lied. But—" The lamp outside illuminated his bedraggled hair. The tip of his nose when he turned. "You know my number if you do want to hear me out. I'll be around for a bit longer.”

  A bit longer?

  You granted him the minutest of nods.

  It was enough. Nodding back, Jungkook turned on his heel and flew around the corner. And though he was gone, his silhouette stayed seared into your retinas, haunting your every blink. It was only when Taehyung replaced him in the doorway that Jungkook faded. “Come on, babe. Let’s get you back on the sofa.” 

  Wow, he was tall.

Oh.

  Somehow, you were on the floor again. You squinted up at him with sore, watering eyes, overwhelmed by it all. You reached for him like an infant would its parent, too vulnerable to move, and too stupid to know better. “Okay.”

  "It’s been a shitty day, but I’m gonna try and make it better. Why don’t we have a Netflix nostalgiafest?" Taehyung cooed into your sodden hair, no minding the sweat. He wound your arms around his neck, legs about his waist and chauffered you up the stairs, grunting by the step. Exaggerating the effort by comedic amounts in order to provoke you.

  “Sure.”

  But you were far, far away. Hidden behind your glazed eyes, the encounter replayed on loop. Lingered on Jungkook's Disney eyes and big buck teeth. The ones you loved back when he deserved to be loved. The nonsense he spouted toward the end was of particular interest in your mental re-runs, even though it should have immediately been dismissed.

  'What you saw wasn't the truth.'

  But neither was his relationship with you. Not when he kept such weighty secrets as sport.

  'I'll be around for a bit longer.'

  And that? Another of his manipulative tactics? Was he really leaving, or merely dangling the threat of it?

  But why would it be a threat? You wanted nothing more than him to be gone.

  Oh, it was all so bad. Everything was bad. Everything was too much, and, oh, even being in your body was too much, let alone your mind. You were drowning in affliction. Assailed from all sides with nothing for defense.

  "Babe."

  All went black, and then you opened your eyes. Taehyung stood over you, mouth downturned. Cotton caressed your naked skin, and you knew these were your sheets. This was your bed. Your lover had stripped you of your oppressive pyjamas. You stared at the mole on his nose, the one under his bottom lip. One, two. You could count to two.

  "Are you doing okay? Your fever really spiked there. Should I call a doctor?"

  “No, no.”

  Perhaps you'd simply hallucinated the entire encounter. Perhaps it was your mind's exercise in catharsis. Or perhaps Jungkook had never existed to begin with, and his betrayal was the product of a detailed fever dream. Taehyung was real, though, and here he was still. Your forever best friend. Your secret love. You had not yet confessed your love to this real Taehyung. But now you were awake, you would seize the chance. Because if there was one thing your prolonged nightmare had taught you, it was that you should have just done it to begin with. On the porch those years ago, when the stars weighed heavy over his head and dared you to kiss him.

  "I love you," you rasped, sounding like Death's next call.

  And just like it should have happened then, Taehyung lowered his face to yours. "I love you too, noona," he murmured through a joyous smile, brushing together your noses first, lips second. "But it's time for your next dose of painkillers. We gotta get this in you ‘cause your fever’s really mounting. Pretty sure you’ve been hallucinating. It’s worrying me. I’m this close—” he pinched together his fingers— “to calling a doctor. I don't think that asshole turning up did you much good."

  Brainless, you repeated. "No doctor. Asshole?"

  "Yeah, Jungkook." A tray of painkillers dangled from the corner of Taehyung’s mouth while he poured water. "Lying douchebag. Who, by the way, will not be working at the school anymore. Not if I have something to say about it."

  The words went in, but floated right back out. The ceiling swirled.

  "Oh." He was real. 

  Of course, you knew that. Even in the murk of fever it was apparent. Still, it’d been nice to pretend for a while.

  The sound of preparation ceased and the mattress dipped. Taehyung extended your next dose and a glass of water to you. His expression was no longer so sunny, but clouded with disquiet. "Talk to me, ____. I know you're sick, but that's not all that's going on in that muddled head of yours. It might help to talk. I know you don’t like it, but you don’t have to be afraid. Just try it."

  It was a credit to your weakened state that you were so loose-lipped. You downed the pills and curled around Taehyung's seated position, molding to his lap. "I'm just—I don't know." Your cheek was hot against his thigh. His Calvin Klein waistband stared back at you. "I don't want to be sad anymore. I'm so, so sad. It's unbearable. I can't handle much as it is. It doesn't take a lot to drag me down, but this, this—" Tears welled. Taehyung's slender fingers were there to catch them. "This feels almost too much. Even with you here. It's like I'm locked in a mental prison."

  "I know, babe," he whispered, stroking your face free of limpid hair. "It's gonna take a while to feel better, like it does with any big change. What he did to you was villain material. Of course you're going to be devastated." For once, you listened. "You don't owe him forgiveness, though he tried his damned best to get it. For his own selfish satisfaction, I'm sure. And you don't owe him anything else, either, not even the thoughts in your brain. Though I know that's gonna take a while, too. I'm sure it's all you can think about." You nodded, snuffled into your blanket until it was wet. A sob felt ripe for eruption. "The flu won't make things easier, either. You're not losing your mind. You just need rest. And when you're not resting, distraction. I'm on hand for the latter." All that he said was all that you craved to hear. A tremulous smile - of relief, of gratitude - wobbled into place. Taehyung must have seen. "That's it, babe. It won't always be this bad, okay?"

  You nodded, marring his exemplary thighs with a variety of unpleasant excretions. "Ugh. Sorry." You’d been intimate just one day with Taehyung and you were already establishing yourself as a repellent bog monster. Usually that happens at least 3 years in.

  Taehyung merely chuckled. Kept the tissue box out of reach when you moved for it, thinking himself funny. It was only upon your panicked pleas of oh my god, snot’s gonna go in my mouth, that he finally indulged you. By wiping your nose for you, cooing all the while. "That better, little baby?"

  Your face spelt vexation. But inwardly, yes, yes, it was better.

  Taehyung made you so.

-

Next: 13 ASAP! || WYLEI Masterlist

[kny-secret-santa2019]

From: @3rdgymbros​

For: @knybits​

message: hi, lovely, merry christmas! i was watching mulan and this was the result - i really hope you like this oneshot! i’ve been a big fan of your blog, and i love the creativity and effort that you put into writing scenarios! thank you for all your hard work!

— pairing; tanjirou kamado x reader ( modern au )

— prompt; want to help me get my parents off my ass about not having a date?

The matter of you finding a date for the annual family Christmas party begins to obsess your Grandmother. She won’t let the matter rest until your Grandfather and Father both take up the refrain; and once the men of the household are of her own mind, Grandmother immediately goes through the list of prestigious family connections. One such date includes the eldest son of an abalone cannery millionaire. A prospective date is suggested and your protests dismissed entirely.

“Only one date. If you like him, you can have another,” Your Grandmother says, with an impatient wave of her blood-coloured nails, the scent of Schiaparelli and mothballs wafting about her.

It’s unbearable. You lock yourself in your room and refuse to come out, anger and fear drumming through your body. You throw yourself onto the bed and listen as your Grandmother beats her small fists against the door.

“Do you want to be an old maid?” She screams.

“Yes!” You howl in return. Outside you hear whispering, and you know that your mother is there.

It’s unbearable. You’re only in High School and already your life is being squeezed into a box, all those rules and expectations laid out for you, and you’re expected to play along like the good daughter that you are. No one cares that you’ve been acing all your classes, that you’ve been nursing a secret hope that you might win a scholarship and go to England and study law when you graduate.

At last you’re left alone, and you hear the tiny shuffling steps of your Grandmother, supported by your Mother, fading away down the corridor. After a while, you get up, and, opening the window shutters wide, observe the slender branches of the Mexican lilac pushing up beneath the sill, wondering if it will hold your weight.

It’s not easy to reach the tree without falling from the window, but at last you grasp a strong branch and you swing yourself forwards, your sneaker-clad feet scrabbling for a hold against the trunk. Almost at once, you hear a loud crack, and falls with the branch the short distance to the ground. Your knee is scraped and you feel your shoulder throb with the beginnings of a bruise, but nothing more, and scrambling up, you run off through the main gate of the family estate.

An hour later, with nowhere else to go, you find yourself in the Kamado family bakery, pouring out your sorrows to a sympathetic Tanjirou, who nods in response at your story, as your tone rises to a high, fevered crescendo, and how your face wrinkles in distress at the impossible situation that your family has forced you into.

You pause for breath, and look around the Kamado family bakery. Nezuko, a baguette in her mouth, mans the cashier and counts out change for a waiting customer. Bells of all sizes, from tiny jingle to massive cow, chimes out entrances from hooks on the back of the door. The combination of scents envelops you: vanilla and cinnamon and warm chocolates with hints of lemon and cherry. As you sip on your frothy latte, you inhale the pockets of aromas, each one a comforting embrace of all that is good in this upside-down world.

Tanjirou slides a cream éclair over to you; you moan at the sight of the chocolate-covered confection, a specialty of the bakery, and your favorite dessert. “It’s on the house,” He says, smiling warmly, and a twinge sadly. “I wish I could do more to help.”

You seep deeper into your chair, letting his words roll over you. Tanjirou’s always been a good friend of yours, helpful and eager to please, and when he smiles, oh, when he smiles, it’s almost as if the sun itself is unfurling its rays and bringing light to your dreary existence. You have to battle back a blush, along with the realization that this little crush on your classmate isn’t going away anytime soon.

A plan slowly begins to form in your mind. You almost feel guilty for what you’re about to propose, and you promise yourself that you’ll buy all your bread from The Kamado Family Bakery for as long as you live.

“You can.” Propping your chin up with the flat of your palm, you motion Tanjirou closer. “So. Want to help me get my parents off my ass about not having a date?”

Tanjirou smiles, his face wrinkling into the lines of one used to joy and gentleness. In your chest, your traitorous heart thumps all the harder, a shoe knocking about noisily in the dryer. You swallow. Hard.

“Sure! What do you have in mind?”

This is the first thing that you think: that this whole situation seems like something right out one of Zenitsu’s trashy romance novels. This is the second thing that you think, somewhat in a daze, with cheeks painted red: Tanjirou cleans up well.

You make a beeline for Tanjirou as he hovers by the door, a paper bag clutched uncertainly in his hands, even as an uncharacteristically timid smile graces his lips; but as your attention is currently being occupied by your Grand-Aunt, who has forgotten your name for the third time in a row, and it’s your Mother and Father who, as one, both move intercept him, cutting through the crowd to greet him. Though, you suppose, it’s better your parents than your Grandmother, who is bound to be watching the boy you’ve brought home with an eagle-eye from her place of honor at the head of the table.

“You must be Tanjirou,” Father says, his face impassive as always, giving nothing away. “( Your Name ) has told us about you.”

“I-It’s very nice to meet you!” Tanjirou says in response, a little too loudly, and his cheeks color pink as everyone in the room turns to look, sizing him up from the top of his hair, plastered to his brows with very strong hair gel, all the way down to his neatly polished shoes. He bows, stiffly and formally. “This is for you!”

“You brought bread?” Your mother asks, taking a peek into the proffered bag. She inhales the yeasty goodness and her eyes light up. “Everyone here loves the bread your family bakes! Come, let me introduce you to the family.”

The tension drains out of Tanjirou’s frame, his expression morphing into one of pride. Mother takes him by the hand and circles the room, making introductions. Every set of eyes smile at him. Father nods discreetly at you before stepping into the kitchen, and you heave a silent sigh of relief. You catch Tanjirou’s eye as he moves about the room, and you smile and nod encouragingly, trying to push calm energy at him.

Step one, passed.

Step two is getting through dinner.

Although you already know how extensive your family is, every year you still find yourself marveling at the sheer amount of people currently occupying the family dining room. The glow of fairy lights adoring the walls gives the large dining room unworldly appeal. The sound of laughter, chatter and greetings competes with the Christmas music playing from the speakers.

Everyone sits down to eat almost immediately. The table is an impressive expanse of solid burl wood, topped with glass. Each place setting bears a napkin starched white, silverware, and a stiff card embossed with individual names. Blessedly, your seat is next to Tanjirou, and directly beside your Grandmother, whose beady eyes always seem to linger on the boy at your side. Her wrinkled lips are pursed into a thin line, and she only nods as Tanjirou introduces himself once again.

You’ll never be able to please her, you think bitterly, staring down at your silverware and your rainbow-hued cup, filled to the brim with sparkling juice. Still, you do feel a tad guilty that it’s because of your hare-brained scheme that Tanjirou is currently in this mess, and so, under the table, you brush your hand against his own. You hope that Tanjirou feels you in that moment, a mix of gratitude and apology wrapped in that one touch.

The moment is fleeting, but the warmth of his smile grounds you and wrings the air out of your lungs all at once. You close your eyes for a moment, enjoying the sensation, how the butterflies in your stomach seem to flutter to life at this one simple touch.

Juicy, garlicky meatloaf, creamy scalloped potatoes, blanched greens with slivered almonds, French bread, and salads full of bright colours and textures are placed on the table and passed around family style. The conversation is pleasant but not heady. The star would definitely be Tanjirou, who gracefully answers every question thrown at him; though you do end up stepping in as soon as you catch his face twitching as he forces out a lie – good, honest Tanjirou, you think, would make a terrible poker player.

How did you and ( Your Name ) meet?

We’re classmates. She invited me for dinner.

How old are you?

I’m 16.

Doesn’t your family own a bakery downtown?

Yes, the Kamado Bakery!

The bread there is so good, my daughter stops there every day after school.

Thank you for your support, my dad would be really happy to know that you like his bread so much!

As the conversation tapers into a lull, your mother stands, slips into the kitchen and brings out dessert on a silver tray. There are slices of fruit cake, mince pies, and a chestnut log cake donated by the Kamado Bakery.

You spear a fork into your second slice of log cake, tasting thick, velvety chocolate coating your tongue. You let out a long hum of satisfaction. Various faces around the table are also glazed over with satisfaction, as they refill their plates.

Your Mother turns to Tanjirou then, with a smile and friendly eyes. There’s no doubt in your mind that she fully approves of Tanjirou. “Why don’t you come back again tomorrow with your family? Stay for dinner?”

Until, finally, your Grandmother speaks up, for the first time in the evening. Her voice is completely serious. “Would you like to stay forever?”

You choke on your next spoonful of cake.

[yatorihell]

In The Darkness Chapter 23 - The Hogwarts Express

Words: 3,891

Summary: Third arc of the Harry Potter AU! Another summer has passed, and a new threat presents itself.

Previous chapter | First chapter

Thank you Gio @themusicalbookworm for beta-ing me <3

Happy birthday Kayla (@pahndah)

Read on AO3

Yato groaned. The rattle of a passing train threatened yet again to bring down the roof above his head, waking him from an otherwise peaceful sleep. The world peeked back at him through the slit in his fringe where he squinted at the curtain-less window, much too bright and too grey for him to want to wake up.

The Leaky Cauldron wasn’t the finest place to live, but it was the cheapest.

He had a modest room – the best he could get at such a low price – which became more of an owl cage to Yato as he whittled the summer away.

Yato kicked his legs out in the tangle of bedsheets he had created, frowning at where the canopy of his bed should be, instead seeing the same bland ceiling that greeted him every day. He wasn’t sure just what had happened to the fabric that was meant to give him some kind of privacy, but something told him it had been stolen a long time ago, possibly to make clothes for whichever poor hermit had stayed in his room before.

Aside from a lack of veil, the bed was similar to the one he had grown accustomed to at Hogwarts: four-poster but instead it was an ebony oak, meticulously carved with patterns too hard to distinguish. Its age showed when Yato pushed himself up, the alarming creak of wooden slats and the dangerous wobble of rickety wood a sign of the countless visitors who had stayed in the very same bed over the last millennia.

A cloying, lingering smell of age and dirt had saturated into his clothes. Sometimes he was sure it had permeated itself into his skin when he scrubbed his dirty fingernails under the sputtering taps in the shared washroom that stopped giving hot water long ago.

The enclosed charcoal fireplace on the far side of the room had blackened the floor, scuff marks of boots visible from where the cleaning lady had attempted to sweep some muck away. Plumes of sooty smoke had stained the once white walls, laying a fine layer of dirt to every surface and giving the room a shabby chic-less aura.

Yato shuffled to the window and swiped the thin lattice glass pane lazily, grime dirtying his hand which he wiped on his bed trousers without a second thought. It made no difference – the years of dirt from the old-fashioned wizard side of London had marred the outside of the glass, all but obscuring a less than appealing view of tin-patched roofs and dingy alleys where the most shadowy character would not dare go.

Yato let out another longer groan, stretching an arm over his head before dropping it to ruffle his hair into some sort of acceptable mop. He dressed lightly, shoes creaking on the floor with the door slamming shut behind him as he jogged down the wonky staircase and slipped through the small entrance of the Leaky Cauldron.

Wandering was his only hobby that he could say he was happy to do if it meant he could escape the small room he had, and it wasn’t a completely terrible thing if he was confined to Diagon Alley.

Yato ambled, not paying attention to what the common street merchants were trying to sell him. The same rustic cauldrons lined the outside of multiple shops, spilling in heaps on bronze and silver alongside lopsided scales that had been handed down through generations of witches and wizards.

He’d seen new animals being delivered to the Magical Menagerie, cats and toads alike ready to be bought by eager first years when they descended for school supplies. He had also loitered for far too long outside of the Quality Quidditch Supplies when Spudmore’s brand new broomstick – the Firebolt – graced its display window.

Yato wondered if he would bump into Yukine, or Hiyori, but every day proved fruitless and a gnawing feeling started in his stomach when August came with no sign of either of them. A brief thought of contacting them crossed his mind before he realised that one, he had no addresses for them and two, he had no clue how to send a muggle letter. They were probably using their little pocket things to send notes all summer.

Yato’s pace slowed as he reached a shadowy pathway, one that wouldn’t be noticed by the innocent shopper unless they knew where to look. The murkiness of the street against the liveliness of Diagon Alley was unreal, like stepping across the fine line from a dream to a nightmare.

The shadowy depths of Knockturn Alley – a most dubious place you wouldn’t want to be seen in even if you had nothing to hide – concealed the most questionable artefacts, and even more questionable people. Phantom-like witches and wizards hugged the shadows, their dark robes questionable as to who their allegiance lay with, or the manner of magic they practiced.

Yato’s assessment of the alley ceased abruptly.

He squinted.

There, just around the corner, he could see something out of the ordinary – a rarity in such places as this. Eyes, yellow and venomous, stared back at him. Though they were much lower than a person’s height, he could tell that the thing watching him was no human, neither elf nor goblin.

Yato scrunched his eyes more. He could feel his head aching from the contrast of lightning as he took a half-step into the overcast before he caught himself and stopped.

The look he had seen was primal, animalistic, but when he snapped back to his senses, they had already vanished.

 ~

 Hiyori and Yukine stared at Yato in amazement.

It was September 1st. It was 10:45AM. Yato grinned at them, steadying a cage on top of his trolley.

There was a pigeon in the cage.

“What. The hell. Is that?” Yukine said slowly. The beady red eye of the pigeon glared back at him, head twitching in curiosity as the new sounds of Kings Cross Station filled its ears.

“I didn't have one of your cool little thingies!” Yato replied, voice a high whine the way a child would complain if they didn’t receive what they wanted for Christmas.

Hiyori could only guess he meant a mobile phone as he had seen her give Yukine her old one, but she didn't think Yato would have been as jealous as to buy a carrier pigeon.

“If you wanted a ‘cool phone’ you could’ve said,” Hiyori sighed in exasperation.

“Cool phone?” Yato echoed. “Well, I’ve got a ‘coo’ phone!”

He looked so proud at his joke that Hiyori didn't have the heart to shoot him down. Yukine, on the other hand, was ready and waiting.

“It’s vermin. Let it go.”

“But I wanted to talk to you guys!”

Yukine cocked an eyebrow. “I didn’t get anything.”

Yato suddenly lost his words. One small detail – one that would be huge to them – had escaped his mind and was the reason why he hadn’t sent any sort of letter.  

“Yeah….” Yato drew out the word, hoping that what he was about to say wouldn’t be as stupid as he thought it was. “I need your addresses.”

Yukine rolled his eyes and turned on the spot, muttering about how it was a miracle that Yato had been accepted into Hogwarts at all. Hiyori gave Yato a faint bemused smile before following after Yukine, who had already began boarding the Hogwarts Express – though he was still was short enough to lose sight of, he was taller than the first and second years that preceded them.

Yato hurriedly pushed his trolley towards the luggage cart where the stewards were loading bundles of cases and stashing owl cages into a private, quiet carriage. He ignored the strange looks he got from a young girl and her mother upon spotting his odd selection of bird, ducking out of the way and bounding onto the train behind Hiyori.

As usual the train was in a riot of students and all sorts of magic that could easily blind them if they didn’t keep their wits about them. Silver firecrackers and ebony fizz bombs exploded with noisy pops that left their ears ringing by the time they had stumbled through the smoke, searching for vacant cabins only to find all were occupied by at least one person.

Not fancying another death-defying trip through the train, Hiyori pointed at the last door of the carriage where they would be best off staying for the remainder of the journey.

The cabin had a musky smell, probably from its sole occupant who didn’t rise nor turn in their direction when Yukine slid the door open. The trio exchanged glances before shrugging, stepping into the cabin and gently shutting the door as to not wake the stranger.

Yato took a seat on the far side of the compartment next to the door. Yukine sat by the window opposite the stranger, leaving Hiyori to sit by his side.

“Definitely not a student,” Yato remarked, eyeing the stranger suspiciously.

His face was concealed by the tented peak of a coat – probably older than all of them combined – which had been haphazardly draped over his frame which rose and fell steadily with deep breaths. Sleeping.

A battered case similar to his own had been stashed in the rack above their heads, a name tag yellowed with age dangled between the railings. Before any of them could decipher the name the jolted and swung as the Hogwarts Express juddered to life.

Yato relaxed in his seat after a few moments, observing the stranger who didn’t stir as they were slowly taken out of London before the ancient train gather speed, hurtling them towards another year at Hogwarts.

Hiyori initiated the conversation, asking Yato what he had done over the summer to which he gave some vague reply of ‘this and that’ before turning the question back on her and Yukine.

Chattering about things like ‘theme parks’ and ‘cinemas’ that he didn’t understand, Yato nodded like he had the faintest idea what Hiyori was talking about. Yukine seemed to already know all of this – of course, he did have a phone to talk to Hiyori about this – as he didn’t really take part in the conversation. His summer probably involved sleeping. A lot of sleeping.

“I didn’t see you around this year,” Hiyori recalled the time she had bumped into Yato the previous summer. “I thought I would’ve bumped into you the amount of times I went to get school stuff.”

Yato twanged in disappointment. Why didn’t he see her if she was there so often? Still, she had no idea that his he knew full well he was in Diagon Alley the whole time.

“Well, you know, I was at home…” Yato said. It wasn’t a lie exactly as the Leaky Cauldron was his home, but Hiyori nor Yukine had to know that.

“I went to Diagon Alley a few times.” Lie. “But I had to go to other places.” Lie. “Like Knockturn Alley.”

“What the hell were you doing there?!” Yukine exclaimed.

Shit.

Yato’s loss for words and Yukine’s aghast face told Hiyori that wherever that was, it was not a place for a teenager – or anybody – to be. Curiosity got the better of her when she saw Yato’s guilty face.

“What’s in Knockturn Alley? Hiyori asked.

Yato avoided her inquisitive eyes, but Yukine was the one who answered her with a hissed whisper in case anyone outside, or the stranger, was eavesdropping.

“Bad stuff, bad wizards, full of nutjobs.”

At this statement and their paired looks of perplexity, Yato’s gaze shifted to the window. He should’ve kept quiet.

Of course, Knockturn Alley had a bad reputation and it was incredibly suspicious for anyone to go there. Tongues would wag, and whispers would spread over involvement in dark magic and shifty connections to an even darker underground of demented wizards.

They’d think he was crazy if he told them the real reason he was there. Who goes looking for a pair of eyes that may or may not have been watching and following them? The amount of times Yato had glanced behind in the past few months when he felt a presence was enough to make him paranoid.

“There’s a lot of old stuff in there,” Yato said carelessly as if the topic had been blown out of proportion. “I just had a look.”

“I’d rather if you didn’t,” Yukine grumbled. “It was bad enough last year with everyone thinking you were a nutjob trying to kill muggleborns. This would be the icing on the cake if anyone found out.”

A wry smile played on Yato’s lips. “Aww, you do care.”

“Shut up.”

A lack of entertainment left the trio to chat and doze and daydream for the most part of the journey. They hesitated over whether or not to wake the stranger when the dear old trolley witch stopped by, deciding instead to raid the sweets (no chocolate frogs, out of consideration for Hiyori) and a few piping hot pumpkin pies that cooled almost immediately.

The weather had turned drastically after dusk had settled. Instead of blue skies over rolling hills and azure loughs were thunderous storm clouds that blackened the world around them.

The small lights of the cabins crawled through the gloom, the near-invisible snake of train carriages blindly taking its occupants to their destination and giving no hint of where they were or when they would arrive.

Rain lashed against the window in powerful waves, running in too many rivulets to count and battering the roof with deafening racket.

Yato leaned in the corner of the bench, arms folded. He listlessly staring out at the storm, wondering when they would arrive at Hogwarts. Yukine studied a book, scribbling notes with some sort of quill he had brought from home which did not need ink whilst Hiyori pointed out sentences and muttered quiet hints.

They were quickly cut off as the train lurched and the locomotive’s wheels screeched painfully on the tracks, throwing them all off balance and nearly tumbling to the floor alongside Yukine’s fallen book.

Yukine swore under his breath, rubbing his head where it had clashed against the window before reaching down to pick up his book. Right as his fingers closed on its spine, the lights flickered, blinked, and died.

“Bloody perfect,” Yukine muttered. He dropped the book on the short table in front of him. Lucky for some, the train’s sudden halt had not woken the stranger at all. “What happened?”

Hiyori shrugged, head turning to Yato who gave her an equally clueless look.

The train juddered again, cutting off Yato’s attempt to stand up and go outside, and making the windows rattle with a huge force. It was Yato’s turn to cuss before a hissed whisper made the cabin fall deathly silent.

“Look!”

Yukine’s reflection, bewildered in the window of the train, was vanishing. Not because the lights had returned, but because of a frost that glazed the pane with a soft crackling noise. Frozen fractals forming underneath Yukine’s hand which he had pressed up to meet the phenomena.

“Something’s out there,” he said in a hushed voice. His eyes trained on the darkness outside, straining to be able to see something beyond the sudden wintery occurrence.

The storm outside had stopped, almost suspended in time, giving an eerie silence to the entire train as students wondered alike if they had merely broken down, or if something larger was at work. They were in the eye of the hurricane, and the storm was about to hit.

Cold more intense than any winter he had known chilled the cabin immediately, leaking into the very cracks of his being where he thought it would be impossible to feel such a cutting frost. Their breaths clouded in puffs of white that formed and dissipated in the air with every short breath they took. Looking from one to another, Yato could see the matched quaking fear visible in Hiyori’s and Yukine’s wide eyes.

Nothing felt like this – nothing this unfeeling or sinister. Except for…

A movement outside the cabin caught his attention. Not at the window where Yukine peered out, but from the carriage hallway where, instinctively, they all turned to look.

A shadowed hand with bone-thin, elongated fingers stretched out against the frosted glass window, beckoning the door handle which opened with a frigid click.

It moved slowly, or maybe that was the feeling of suspended time that the trio could feel as their breath hitched. Their hearts pounded the blood in their ears so impossibly loud that they almost couldn’t hear the slow scrape of the cabin door sliding open. A tall figure blocked any escape, enshrouded in something that resembled cloth floating underwater; enchanting, free, but simultaneously terrifying, oppressive. Inhuman.

It inhaled a rattling breath as it straightened its skinny shoulders, the cusp of the thin black robes draped over its head revealing a wrinkled mouth similar to one of a rotting corpse. Its breaths deepened and as if smelling him, its head reared and its lips – if it had any – pulled back, leaving a black pit to greet Yato as he stared the harbinger death in the face.

A dementor.

Yato’s stomach knotted, the pit feeling in his stomach falling away and making him feel like he was going to hurl if terror would allow his body to move. The blood rushed from his ears to his head, but still he could hear nothing but the crazed electric pump of his heart slamming against his ribcage and the heavy breaths of the dementor which drew in more than air.

It’s happening again.

It was familiar. Not in the sense of nostalgic memories, but as the familiar feeling of the cusp of death – where the dementor was allowed to draw its victims life-force for just a tad longer than it was bearable before it was stopped, placated until it could serve its use again.

His body went limp when its inhales grew longer and deeper, his body twitching with every stolen breath. It was enough to make Yato’s chest explode with the desperation for air.

I can’t breathe.

I can’t breathe I can’t breathe I can’t –

The last thing he saw was a quick black shadow by his side, immediately replaced by a light so bright, so serene, that he thought this time the Dementor had fulfilled its task.

His eyes rolled white, and his mind was set adrift in a blanketed abyss.

 ~

 Yato jerked back to life -- or was this the afterlife? If it weren’t for the familiar ceiling of the Hogwarts Express – which had been illuminated by the now-functional lights – and his swimming sight of the cabin accompanied by the rhythmic clacks of the steam engine, he would’ve thought he was there.

A cold sweat drenched his body that left him shivering as his eyes stared up at the ceiling for a moment. Blinking, he tuned back into the world.

Yato’s head throbbed as he pushed himself up, a hand steadying him when he winced and pressed his palm to his temple.

“Easy there.”

That wasn’t Hiyori. It wasn’t Yukine. It wasn’t even Kazuma. The voice, gruff and deep, but in what sounded like a gentler tone of voice, spoke again.

“Eat this.”

The hand left his shoulder. With some shuffling of the person standing and rummaging through for something the other side of the cabin. A hard object fell into Yato’s lap a moment later, catching him completely off-guard.

His head swam, but the fog was clearing enough for him to gain his bearings. The first thing he noticed was that he was on the floor – he must’ve slipped right out of his own seat when he passed out. Yukine and Hiyori were still perched on the cushioned bench looking shaken, but nowhere near as bad as Yato when he saw the scared, searching looks they gave him.

His eyes slid away from theirs, ashamed that they had seen him in such a state. His eyes flickered to the figure standing over them.

He didn’t need to stretch to reach the shelf that hung above the seats; it was more of a challenge for him not to bump his head on them.

Brown eyes under a furrowed brown glanced down at Yato when he felt his eyes on him, mouth twisted into a thin line as he shoved the case back in its holding. A scruff of dark stubble sparingly patched his chin, giving way to short sideburns that grew into longer, thicker locks that had been slicked back from his face.

“Eat.”

Yato dazedly looked back down when the man pointed at the thing he’d dropped in Yato’s lap. Wrapped in paper and silver foil, a darkly sweet-smelling aroma filled his nostrils – chocolate.

Not comprehending the stranger’s kindness – or why exactly he had to eat it – Yato looked back at him for answers, but his heavy footsteps were already fading down the corridor as the cabin door glided shut with a dull thump.

The trio remained silent.

“Who’s that?” Yato asked stupidly after a long pause.

“He didn’t say,” Hiyori said quietly. Her eyes stayed trained on Yato’s as he grasped the seat and hauled himself back up, “What was that thing?”

“… It was a Dementor.”

“What the hell is a Dementor doing out here?!” Yukine burst out, catching them by surprise.

Hiyori looked between the two, a sense of dread overtaking her when she carefully asked:

“What’s a Dementor?”

“Dark creatures,” Yukine said, uneasiness evident in his voice when he cast a side long look at Yato when he continued, “they feed on happiness and consume a person’s soul.”

Hiyori looked like she was about to be ill, a shaking hand covering her mouth.

“Question is,” Yukine said, unsuccessfully trying to take her mind off it, “what’s it doing it here?”

Yato shrugged nonchalantly, feigning a carelessness at the ordeal. He didn’t exactly feel like discussing it, not when he still felt like there was part of him missing. One question nagged him:

“Why did it stop?”

“That man, he used a spell to make it leave,” Hiyori said. “I don’t know what it was…”

She looked to Yukine for help, but he shook his head, equally as clueless as Hiyori and Yato who gave a small frown.

“What did it look like?” Yato asked.

It was Yukine’s turn to look at Hiyori, slowly trying to find the right words which made no sense.

“It was like light, and water, but it was… shiny…” he said vaguely, moving his hands it the way the spell moved.

Yato’s small, exasperated sigh quietened the carriage again. His head had dropped again. The uneaten chocolate still sat in his clammy hand, and hadn’t gone unnoticed by Hiyori who kept a worried eye on him.

“You have to eat,” she said gently.

Yato nodded quietly. He snapped the bar in its wrapper before opening it, throwing pieces to both Yukine and Hiyori. He gave them a wry smile that didn’t reach his eyes as he stared at his reflection in the window. The ice had all but melted under the harsh pelting of raindrops of the resumed storm.

It had completely escaped his attention that the sleeping stranger was now gone, and that the man pacing down the hallway had just saved his life.

[kiribbeanplays-blog]

Character Critiques - Oddish Family

There’s something about sentient plants that never goes out of style.

I can’t believe I love a simple plant bulb with stumpy legs. There’s so little to Oddish’s design, but it doesn’t bother me in the slightest. It think it’s because those tiny eyes win me over. Imagine bumping your foot on an ordinary vegetable, only to find a poisonous plant monster turning around to glare at you with its beady eyes.

Oddish’s simple composition benefits from its biography. It’s a nocturnal creature, only emerging from the soil when its leaves are bathed in moonlight. During the daytime, it buries its head back underground. For Oddish, having generic-looking leaves makes for perfect camouflage. And since they’re typically found in wide, open patches of grass, this concept fits the character perfectly.

Interestingly, a couple Pokédex entries have exclusive information on Oddish. If yanked from the ground, it screeches bloody murder at the offender. There’s no doubt that Oddish is supposed to be Mandrake! Or, as other people might remember them: those obnoxious plant buggers in the first Harry Potter:

With that in mind, Oddish’s “feet” are actually its roots! It’s adorable that a plant managed to evolve its traditional anatomy into more animalistic traits.

Game Freak loved to throw the Poison typing on a bunch of Pokémon in the first generation. Outside of an explanation I can only guess as, "Because poisonous monsters are cool," it didn’t always make sense right away. But for Oddish, it may tie into the real-world mandrake root. In ancient times, it was thought to be great for medicinal purposes, but in truth it’s a highly toxic plant. Vomiting, hallucinations, and asphyxia are just a few symptoms caused by ingesting the root. It’s amazing our ancestors still used it anyways.

It would have been cool to see Oddish take a more humanoid approach, considering how mandrake roots vaguely look as such. But I love that it looks more like a harmless radish that you definitely do not want to mess with.

Ah, now there’s a more humanoid appearance! Gloom just grew spindly arms and called it a day, but it works.

To this day, Gloom is the only Pokémon to have nectar that oozes from its mouth like drool. It makes for a striking and memorable feature. Gloom may have gotten its namesake from its sullen expression, but to me it looks like it’s enduring three nights of sleep deprivation.

It’s worth noting that Gloom does still have eyes. They seem to only widen when surprised.

I’m not sure how this thing walks around with them closed most of the time.

With nectar and pistils pungent enough to curl noses, Gloom is without a doubt a rafflesia arnoldii. It’s interesting that the first generation got two Pokémon that represent this one flower (the other being Venusaur)! And even though they both follow the same base concept, they each take their own spins on it!

My biggest critique on Gloom is that I don’t like its flower bud being a bunch of spheres. They look more like coconuts. I wish they were a little more organic like Ivysaur’s bud. Other than that, it looks nice with the rest of Gloom’s design.

Apparently, I have serious issues with geometrically perfect shapes.

Here’s a little random trivia: male and female Gloom have visible differences on their buds. Males have the classic speckled pattern, while females - as of generation IV - have single, large spots.

Only a handful of older Pokémon designs were given subtle dimorphism in Diamond and Pearl. It may be a tiny detail, but I’d love to see more instances like these again in future games.

When exposed to a Leaf Stone, Gloom matures into the full-fledged flower monster it was teasing at.

Not much has changed to Oddish’s body throughout its evolution. Rather, there’s a heavier emphasis on how the flower changes. While I’ve often complained about certain Pokémon for barely changing when they evolve, Vileplume doesn’t bother me.

I suppose that’s because the flower contrasts with its body. Vileplume’s family has one point of interest, but it takes that concept and fleshes it out as much as possible. It’s much more visually striking compared to simply changing the entire character’s body a little bit.

I only have one question on my mind: why, oh why did Vileplume drop the drooling face? Don’t get me wrong, I like seeing the return of those tiny, vacant eyes. But Gloom’s nectar drool was an excellent concept, and it’s a shame that it was dropped upon evolution. I don’t care that Vileplume is designed to look “prettier” than its predecessor. I feel that rafflesia arnoldii are flowers that are half beautiful and half grotesque.

Game Freak shouldn’t have held back on combining those two ideas into Vileplume’s design.

Digressing from my small rant there, I do still like Vileplume. Taking an “uglier” flower and putting a “pretty” spin on it is a solid concept. The flower atop Vileplume's head does still emit an immeasurably foul odor, so that hasn’t been abandoned. It’s like a “femme fatale” with its beautiful flower hiding a deadlier secret.

I still think Vileplume could have been refined or experimented with just a little more, but I’m happy with the final product.

Generation II rolled around and gave Gloom a branching evolution, separate from Vileplume. If near a Sun Stone, it has a complete identity crisis in the form of Bellossom.

Bellossom is such a “meh” character to me. Nothing in its design looks garish, but nothing particularly stands out, either. Bellossom isn’t the first humanlike plant creature out there, and that might be why it feels so lackluster. So many other designs have more of a punch in comparison.

The only ties this Pokémon has with Vileplume are that its tiny head flowers might be another species of Rafflesia. The Pokédex doesn’t really touch on them, so they could just be average flowers, for all I know.

Instead, the only information on Bellossom is about its ritualistic dancing. But not even that is fleshed out very much. Nothing about its movements or performances. Nothing hinting at its Hawaiian dancer motif. Bellossom just dances… and that’s all the time we have talk about it, apparently.

Bellossom feels like an early-game Grass type that got tacked onto the end of Gloom’s evolutionary tree. Personally, I think it would have done better as a standalone species.