#forced clove to wear pink

[synth-peach]

kawaii sleeves coming soon from louqe1! ♡♡

[thewinter-eden]

Blink Twice if You Need Help

images are mine (except middle CB pic that I got from pinterest). please do not use without permission. ATE pcs are my inspo for this series.

part 3 of the skz crack!horror series.

pairing: Seo Changbin x fem!reader rating: mature, dark themes summary: stalker!Changbin has been following you for weeks. He’s looking for his next target, and he’s obsessed with you. While he’s watching you, however, he learns the secret you keep—you’re being routinely robbed by your addict brother. After watching this cycle of abuse end with you crying almost every night, Changbin takes pity.

warnings: Familial abuse, drug addict brother, satirical but definitive death of character, physical abuse, stalking, nonconsensual photographs, creepiness, fear, breakup, blood and injury, strangulation (brief, no death), automotive-related death, please for the love of god don’t take this seriously, Changbin’s kinda icky (I’m sorry babes I swear I love you), chai lattes

word count: 6k

Comment a request to be tagged.

series info PART 2 INFO

You’re radiant.

You always are, have been since the moment you first stepped foot in his café.

But today, you’re radiant in blue. It’s a sweater he’s seen a dozen times, but now as you tiptoe up to the counter, pushing your sleeves up to your elbows and baring half a dozen clinking bracelets of various metals and stones, he thinks he’s never seen anything so perfect.

He responds to your chirped good morning and waits for the next notes of your voice to tell him what you’re ordering, and he can’t help but trace the lines of your face with his eyes as you glance over the menu.

Startled out of his admiring trance by your sharp gaze pinning him with a smile, he forces his stare to stay above your lips as you give a half laugh and request, “A chai latte with oatmilk and extra cloves, please.”

You never try anything new.

Today it’s yellow.

The bell above the door rings an announcement of your arrival, and there you are; wearing a warm yellow dress with thick black tights that keep the chill off, your cheeks flushed from the cold.

He can’t say your smile lights up a room, because from his perspective, your smile blacks the room out. Everyone else disappears. No one and nothing exists except for you, right before his eyes, your windswept hair a halo around your brow.

He hands off the drink he’s just finished making for another regular customer, sending them out the door with a kind smile, and then turns to you just as your fingertips touch down on his counter top.

It’s almost procedural, the way he anticipates each move you make just before you make it. You slide your fingertips towards the register before laying your palms flat, cocking your hip against the counter as though you have to lean closer to see the menu.

Your eyes trace the words and pictures for a few long seconds, gifting him with the view of your throat curving up towards your jaw, and the contemplative bow of your lips. And then, finally, you’ll drop your eyes to his, smile like you’ve never been more excited to order a cup of coffee, and then you place your order.

Always a chai latte with oatmilk and extra cloves.

“Good morning,” He greets you when you appear in a pink jumpsuit. His eyes follow the sounds of your bracelets jingling, up to the clink of the two necklaces you always wear, up to the cheeky swish of the earrings that ornate all three of your lobe piercings.

Your eyes fall from the menu to his face like they’ve been physically pushed, surprised by his friendly voice, and he doesn’t think he imagines the sudden rush of heat that crawls up your throat with a wash of color. “Oh.”

He’s caught you off-guard; he knows, because you’ve never given him that upward tilt of your voice before.

“Good morning!” You sing back, that smile pulling your lips back.

“Chai latte with oatmilk?” He recalls, already lifting a cup and holding his marker at the ready.

“With extra cloves.” You confirm, slightly in awe that he’s remembered.

Of course he remembers.

He flashes you a wink just before he turns around to start on your drink, and sees you in his peripheral moving towards the pickup counter. You’re smiling down at the rings that clutter your fingers, and he can’t help the swarm in his chest that floods in as a result of the fact that this time, you’re the one flustered over him.

The day that you arrive at the café to find that your latte is already made and ready for you, you’re missing one of your earrings. He catches your eye as you enter, his gaze flickering over that blue sweater again as you approach the register.

Before you can order, he’s pushing your full, steaming cup towards you and the screen is already flashing your total. His eyes flick from yours to the empty piercing on your left lobe. “Good morning,” He says.

You’re staring down at the cup with a sort of delighted, half-confusion, before your gaze snaps back up to him. “Is this—”

“Chai latte with oatmilk and extra cloves.” He confirms with a grin. Then he falters, tilting his head at you. “Unless you want something different today?”

Your hands bring the cup closer to you, possessively. “No, this is perfect.” You argue, and then you’re digging for your billfold. “Thank you…” You drift off, eyebrows lifting hopefully as you hint around for his name.

“Changbin.” A pink tint covers his cheeks as his grin softens. “And you?”

You give him your name, and your money, and leave the café with butterflies in your stomach.

When he finds the missing earring a few feet from the entrance to his café, accidentally dropped on the sidewalk, he scoops it up and tucks it in his pocket with care.

On an unseasonably warm day, you appear at his register in a shorter black skirt and a slouchy gray sweater that hangs off all the protruding points of your body with teasing subtlety. He passes you your drink, with the addition of a new flavor of muffin that his baker is trying out in the form of mini pastries, and notices that your skirt is well above your knees, fluttering around your mid-thigh in a way that has his gut clenching.

The tights don’t distract at all from the musculature of your legs and the curve of your ass that suddenly seems dangerously close to the hem of your skirt.

“Good morning, Changbin,” You greet cheerfully, and the sound of his name in your mouth brings his attention back to your bright features.

He makes sure no one follows you home. Your sweater is too flirty with your curves, your skirt too short, for him to rely on the strength and decency of lesser men.

You make it home, safe and sound, to your modest and tasteful townhouse. You live on the ground floor, surrounded by windows and bathed in soft fluorescent lighting.

You listen to pop music in the mornings, and early 2000s grunge rock in the afternoons. He takes note of the artists you listen to the most, and, soon enough, when you walk into the café in the mornings, there’s familiar music playing through the speakers.

He lives for the way it makes you smile when you notice.

As you get ready every morning, you put the same TV show on in the background, so he finds the station. It takes a few days for you to realize that he has it on one of the TVs mounted in the corners of his café, but when you do, you start lingering for a few extra moments every day to catch a couple seconds with fondness on your face.

He’s never watched an episode of the show in his life, but if it gets him two more sentences out of you every morning, consider him obsessed. He watches it all the time.

All of your snacks and meals are high protein and low sugar, because you go to the gym for two hours every other day and your one self indulgent treat is the sugary chai latte with oatmilk and extra cloves that he makes for you.

This fact warms him from the inside out, because he resonates with this lifestyle choice. Your gym is near his, and it’s almost as large, almost as nice. You’re a hard worker, your beautiful curves the product of self discipline and dedication. He stops offering you his baker’s pastries and starts giving you the rich and smoky cheesy egg bites instead, and starts to realize that the guilty smile you once accepted your freebies with is now replaced by weightless excitement.

There’s not a single inch of you that needs less sugar, of course. He’d give you every muffin in his shop if he thought that was what you wanted. But he understands the yen for the feeling of progress in the gym, and the burden of cheating yourself through bad nutrition, so if he can help you feel like you’re getting stronger, he will. Hell, he’d start serving steak in his café if he thought you had an iron deficiency.

“Changbin!” You keen one morning as you flounce to the register in a flattering red blouse that he watched you pick out this morning. You lean against the counter with a great heave, and past the rush of excitement he feels for the very deliberate interaction you’re giving him, he notices a trace of greenish blue wrapping around your throat.

Then you turn your head and the light shifts the shadows on your skin, and he’s not sure.

“Good morning, gorgeous,” He greets casually, despite the pink tinge to his cheeks. “What’s going on?”

You scrub your nails over your scalp with exasperation and then set your enormous pleading eyes on him. “Binnie…”

His gut swirls.

That’s a new nickname.

It’s in his head now, locked into his brain, the way your tongue forms the sweet sound of his name like that.

“Changbin,” you say again. “Changbinnie.”

Despite the absolute earthquake happening in his chest, he gives you the flattest expression of suspicion that he can manage, and hopes his skin tone isn’t currently tomato. “I’m not sure I like the sound of this.” It’s a lie.

A bald faced lie. He loves the sound of this. He wants you to keep repeating his name like that until it’s all he can hear.

Your bottom lip juts out in a pout, and he has to physically turn away to clean the milk steamer before he loses control in his place of business.

“Tell me you haven’t made my latte yet?” You plead, leaning further on the counter.

When he glances over his shoulder, he sees the way you’ve inadvertently showcased your breasts for him, and he spins around again, pinching his eyes shut. As though his apartment walls aren’t disappearing more and more by the day behind pictures of you.

As though he doesn’t know every single color in your underwear drawer.

“No, not yet. Why?” Another lie. The latte is sitting by his left hand, still steaming, just waiting for your manicured hands and perfectly lined lips.

“My blender broke this morning.” You whine, and dig in your purse for something. “I know you have smoothies on your menu, but I was wondering if you would add my protein powder to one? Is that legal, to take an ingredient from a customer?” You flap an admittedly suspicious looking ziplock bag at him. “I have a protein smoothie every morning for breakfast, and at this point it’s more of a crutch than my latte and I’ll just spiral for the rest of the day if I don’t start it with a strawberry shake, so please, Binnie—”

He cuts you off with one hand covering the one of yours that holds the ziplock, and the other pushing your latte towards you. “I have protein powder. You want vanilla or strawberry for your strawberry smoothie?”

Your mouth makes a beautiful “O” shape as your free hand cups the hot latte. “I thought you hadn’t made it?”

Changbin tosses a wink over his shoulder, already grabbing the vanilla protein powder. He already knows it’ll be vanilla. He already knows you want the whey powder and not the plant-based. He already knew about the blender.

Your morning may have started with an unexpected hiccup, but his is going exactly according to plan.

“Pull up a chair and drink while I make your smoothie. The latte is on the house.”

You immediately protest, but he won’t hear of it. He basks in your company as you sip down every bit of your comfort beverage, and then offers idle chatter between the scenes of your TV show as you spend ten minutes more than usual in his café, drinking your protein smoothie.

He got a full thirty minutes with you this morning, and it’s worth every second.

The morning that you wake up with another man steals the smile from his face. You must have brought him home with you last night, invited him to stay over, and are now foregoing your sacred protein smoothie in your new blender for a more traditional breakfast of eggs and toast, for the sake of your half-naked guest.

Changbin’s heels haven’t cooled even by the time you make it into the café for your latte, and he’s especially somber when you order an additional drink, a reeking pumpkin cappuccino that he’s forgotten to erase from the menu from a month ago.

He notices the extra warmth in your smile; your excitement is diminished, replaced with a satisfied contentment that makes his shoulders tense.

You’re falling in love with this new man, blushing down at your phone and walking home with your chin high, waking up in the mornings with a smile on your lips.

Changbin serves you every morning, your rich and creamy oatmilk chai latte with extra cloves, and the nauseating pumpkin cappuccino for your bedfellow. He doesn’t know why this man doesn’t come to the coffee shop with you, if he sends money or if he makes you pay for both of your drinks, if he even likes the autumn atrocity that Changbin makes with shaking hands every day.

The fire in his throat only heats when your drink order abruptly changes to two hot green teas. He watches you turn down his readily prepared chai latte with an awkward darting of your eyes, lifting your hand in refusal as though if he doesn’t take it away, you’ll reach out and snatch it from him.

“I’m actually getting some green teas this morning,” You say, and he knows he isn’t imagining the disappointed chuckle in your tone.

He takes your discarded usual away without hesitation, suddenly concerned that you may have developed an allergy or an intolerance for your favorite drink, but you just swipe a palm over your forehead and lean your elbow on the counter, settling into the comfort of your casual friendship with the attentive barista. “My boyfriend and I have decided to start eating healthier,”

Changbin can’t bring himself to believe you. You eat vegetables and chicken or fish for lunch, you snack on cheese and meat, you bake with honey instead of sugar, and he can’t remember the last time he’s seen you without a water bottle in hand, in various stages of emptiness.

“We’re opting away from the lattes and cappuccinos for a bit.” You give another awkward laugh that turns his stomach, and he raises his eyebrows at you.

“You like the green tea?” He’s surprised. You have tea at home, of course, but it’s all black teas—rich and spicy and meant to be topped with a swirl of milk and brown sugar.

The skin around your mouth tightens as you fight a shiver. “Oh, no, but my boyfriend does.”

“I can make you something different,” He offers. “I have a bunch of teas. I just got in a new chai spice blend—” He breaks off when you raise your hand again, a physical barrier between your weakening determination and his tempting offer.

“That’s okay, Binnie. I think it tastes like soap and grass, but I promised him I’d give it a chance. Just the two green teas, please.” And you give him a sweet smile, just to make sure he knows that you’re not frustrated with him so much as your new dietary commitments.

You know he’s about to argue again, so you toss an appreciative glance around his coffee bar. “You live around here? I can’t imagine working every day like you do.”

“The apartment upstairs is mine,” He explains. “This café is my life; it’s not really a job anymore.”

“Wow.” Your soft voice is awash with jealousy. “That sounds like a dream.”

He hums softly at you, pulling the tea from his shelf. “It only tastes like soap and grass if you brew it too hot,” He says, and flicks on the kettle, indicating the thermometer on the lid. “If it tastes fishy, or sudsy, it’s either steeped too long or brewed too hot. Brew it low, steep it briefly, add a drop of honey, I swear it tastes like summer. If you don’t like it, I’ll give it to you for free.”

You protest, rolling your eyes nervously at his kindness, insisting that you’re not going to like it but you’re going to pay anyway. But when he hands you the drink—yours with honey and the boyfriend’s without—he urges you to take a delicate sip and watches your anticipating frown fade into pleasant surprise.

“Oh, it’s not bad.” You say, and beam at him.

He beams right back. “You want more honey?”

You shake your head. “No, this is fine. I’m still not sold on the flavor, but it’s not rancid like it’s always been from other shops. Thank you, Changbin!” And then you skip right out of his shop, on your way to deliver the drinks you don’t even like to your boyfriend.

But then, the morning that you arrive at his register with dark circles under your eyes and a downward slant to your lips doesn’t bring him the sense of relief that he thought it would. Your voice is low and unengaging as you order the teas, your smile unconvincing as you pay and leave without so much as a glance toward the TV.

Your boyfriend starts waking up earlier than you, leaving you to eat breakfast by yourself. It allows you to go back to your usual protein smoothies for breakfast, which seems to grant you at least a little bit of peace.

It seems that you’re still meeting him for lunch, because you still come in and order the two teas that you hate so much, but you hardly even talk to Changbin anymore. He watches your posture droop when you walk home, watches the way your muscles bunch and tense when your boyfriend looms behind you to greet you, hears the rising voices float across the street as you argue for the hundredth time.

Changbin hates the man who’s taken you from lovesick and floating on air to burdened and fearful. He hates the snippets of your life that he gets to see, the early morning sighs of disappointment as you realize you’re waking up alone again, the drag of your feet as you prepare to head in and grab the teas, your discouraged slump after lunch when your boyfriend comes home from work.

So when the morning comes that you arrive with your makeup sloppily done, tear tracks splitting the seamless layer of your foundation, and you order a single chai latte with oatmilk and extra cloves, Changbin smiles sympathetically at you and gives it to you for free.

He had watched you receive the breakup text over breakfast, his heart keening as you cried into your smoothie, his gut clenching as you sniffled your way through applying and reapplying your mascara, smiling proudly as you stared at yourself in your bedroom mirror and set your shoulders, determined to go about your day as you intended.

“His loss, gorgeous.” He says, unprompted, as your purple-tipped fingers curl around your cup of comfort.

Your eyes snap up to him, wide with surprise, and for a second his smile stalls. But then he reaches across the counter and presses a napkin into your hand, gesturing to where your eyeliner has fallen from your lower lid, and says, “I assume the tears, the single drink, and the lack of rancid green tea means your boyfriend isn’t in the picture anymore.”

Suspicion falls from your shoulders and you dab at your eyes brokenly. “Your tea was never rancid, Changbin.”

He reaches across the counter in a move that he, himself, wasn’t anticipating, and covers your hand with his own. “I know you’re having a bad day, gorgeous, but you can always talk to me.”

That brings a smile to your face. “Do you give all your customers such five star service?”

“Only the crying ones,” He winks, and then gives your hand a squeeze once he notices that you haven’t tried to pull it away.

You gather yourself with a bit of his offered strength, pushing your shoulders back and swallowing the next threatening round of tears, and flash him a smile that holds a trace of your old vibrancy.

He smiles proudly back at you. “Can I assume you’ll be taking your usual from now on?”

You nod, pulling a long drink from the beverage you’ve missed for so long, and give him the most beautiful sigh of contentment. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Binnie.”

“See you soon, gorgeous.”

It turns out, that ominous bruise on your throat from a couple months ago wasn’t a trick of the light.

You bounce into the café wearing a shade of green that makes your eyes pop, earrings jingling as you make your way to the register. When you take a habitual gander at the menu, as though you’ll ever order anything but your usual ever again, he sees it again.

Not greenish blue, like it was that time, but a bright red and darkening purple, freshly settling into the flesh of your smooth throat.

You’re chattering about something, his peripheral catching flashes of your teeth as you talk, and his ears catch the clatter of your bracelets when you gesture with a hand to punctuate whatever point you’re making, but Changbin’s eyes are on the faint handprint beneath your jaw.

A paper to-go cup, mercifully empty, crushes in his angry fist, and your words stop abruptly.

“Binnie?”

His mouth stutters open, mind searching for words to demand an explanation for the signs of violence against you, stare still stuck on the marring of your perfect skin and supple flesh, when a delicate blanket of warmth covers his shaking hand. His mouth clicks shut, gaze dropping to where your hand is wrapped around his.

“Binnie. It’s fine.” How you knew what is speeding through his mind escapes him, because all he can see is another handprint, this one wrapped around your wrist, barely concealed by the stacks of mismatched bracelets.

When he finally catches your eyes, you look embarrassed and ashamed, but not unwell. Your smile is weaker this time, and his fingers pinch around the crumpled cup when he notices your lips trembling. “Binnie, I swear it’s fine.”

He takes your hand on his as permission to reach for you, and he tosses the cup in the trash and leans against the counter, his hand sliding up your forearm to grip your elbow. “Is someone hurting you?” His eyes narrow and his head cocks to peer under your jaw at the large, obviously male handprint.

Now that he’s close enough, he sees redness on your scalp, thin spots in your hair, tiny specks of crusted blood. Someone’s been yanking you around by the hair, and he’s almost sure it’s not a consensual act.

His mind is made up then, certain that something bad is happening in your house after he’s gone, determined that he needs to stick around longer and make sure you’re okay. Some time between his afternoon watch and his early morning check in, you’re being harmed by someone much larger than you.

When he looks away from the bruise at last, feeling your perfectly painted nails dig into the muscle of his forearm, he finds tears in your eyes.

“I’m okay, Binnie, I swear.” You whisper, and your free hand reaches for the latte that he tried to give you right before he noticed your damaged throat.

He loosens his grasp on you—it wasn’t tight to begin with, but he doesn’t want you feeling trapped. Instead of helping you reach the latte, he brings his hand up and lifts some of the loose strands of your hair away from your throat.

Changbin hears your breath catch, sees the pulse racing beneath your ear, so he pulls back. He drops his palms on the counter and watches you with a frown, observing as you desperately try to collect yourself from the intimate touches he’s surprised you with.

He can’t do anything about it until he knows what’s going on, so he just matches your weak smile and clears his throat. “Don’t go letting someone hurt my best customer, alright? No, put that away, it’s on me today.” He makes a waving motion at you as you go for your billfold, and the tension escapes from your chest.

Your voice sings with light laughter. “How can I be your best customer if you keep giving me things for free?”

Changbin just nods towards your latte. “Get out of here, gorgeous. Enjoy your drink.”

“I always do, Binnie.”

It’s your brother.

There’s a definite family resemblance in the slope of your noses and the bends of your knuckles, but the similarities stop there.

It’s after dinner that he arrives—two, three times a week—bursting into your house with no regard for your privacy or boundaries, rifling through the wallet that you keep on the mail table. His voice booms through the house, calling for you, so loudly it travels across the street.

He’s the reason you start coming in with darker bruises, poorly concealed by makeup on your throat, on your wrists, under your eyes. He’s the reason more of your hair tangles in your shower drain in clumps bunched together by clotted blood. He’s the reason for the spattering of bruises across the smooth skin of your chest, the reason you’ve stopped wearing bras with underwire that press into your damaged ribs for the sake of soft and gentle sports bras.

Your brother is the reason you sit on your bed at night, pressing an ice pack to your naked thigh where a faint boot print has stiffened the flesh. He’s the reason two of your fingers are wrapped and splinted, and the reason that Changbin has watched you sell your family piano and your late father’s expensive stereo set.

All for drug money.

Threats and violence and theft from your own brother so he can meet with his dealer outside the fourth street McDonalds.

Your smiles grow heavier and Changbin’s heart pounds harder as he watches you tremble in front of him, holding your latte with both hands. The expensive stones from your jewelry collection are gone, as is the vintage watch that your grandmother gave you.

It’s getting worse.

Your brother comes by more often, he gets more desperate. He’s no longer just looking for drug money, now he’s in debt, and you don’t have the means to help him pay it back. Not that he can be convinced of that.

You stop coming to the café. Changbin knows why, he knows you don’t have the money to spend on a drink every morning—even though most times he gives it to you for free. You won’t take advantage of him, even though he tells you you don’t have to pay.

Instead, he sees you tenderly rise from bed, walking on stiff and pained legs to your closet, dragging loose clothes over your mottled skin. You haven’t stocked up on your protein powder; it’s an expensive supplement, and your bank account is drained from your brother’s latest visit. Your breakfast is the last of your frozen strawberries, blended with yogurt and honey, and you sag over your straw like you can’t hold yourself up anymore.

He sees you bend over your work with your water bottle next to you, not having the energy to take your usual gym break. Instead, you nap.

You’re drained of money, drained of strength, drained of hope.

He sees you lock your door, and then sweep up the splintered wood after your brother breaks it down. He sees you block the door with a bookshelf, and then collect all of your books off the floor after your brother shoves it aside anyway. You try everything, from nailing the door shut to setting a burglar alarm, but you just end up having to clean up shattered windows or stand silently while your brother explains to the police what a silly misunderstanding it all is.

And then one night, the one night that Changbin has to stay late to update his inventory after his weekly supply shipment at the café, there’s a knock on his apartment door. He’s fresh out of the shower, upper half bare and a towel draped over his shoulders, one end of it clutched in his hand and scrubbing the dampness from his hair, when he swings the door open and there you are.

You’re a tortured vision in white; white t-shirt and white sweatpants, your face streaked with tears and your left eye swollen from a fresh beating, and you throw yourself into his arms like you’ve known him forever.

He’s stunned, panicking, desperate to get you out of his apartment, but he’s a weak, weak man because you’re wrapped so tightly around him, your hands pressed into his back, your chest flush against his, your damp face curled into his neck, and his brain just blanks out.

The towel drops from his grasp and his arms find their way around you. Whether it’s his heart or yours that’s pounding like a jackhammer between you is unknowable, especially when he breathes in the scent of you. He knows the smell, knows it like his own home, but it’s different when it’s directly from you.

You’re weeping into his ear, trembling beneath his hands, and he’s forgotten everything he needs to hide.

“Slow down, gorgeous, I’m here.”

You crumble in his arms, sagging against his chest.

“I’m here.” His hands smooth delicately over your hair, mindful of the abrasions that you’ve suffered, and his strong arms keep you on your feet.

“I need help, Binnie.” You weep, pulling back ever so slightly. Your eyes flutter open and it’s like the entire ocean is inside them. “Please, Changbin, I—”

And then it’s too late.

Your gaze drifts over his shoulder, and there they are.

The walls are covered. Printouts, pictures, drawings. You sipping your smoothie in your kitchen, you working at your computer in your home office, you tugging a shirt over your head, the lace of his favorite red bra peeking out between the hem of the shirt and the skin of your stomach, you doing your hair in your bedroom mirror.

You.

You.

You.

It’s too late. He can’t get a word out before you bolt.

Gone in a second, terrified by the man you had run to for safety, disappearing into the night.

You pull all your curtains closed after that. The lights in your house are always off, a for sale sign goes up in your yard. You exist in the darkness, hiding in the shadows, suffering alone.

His heart breaks as he feels you slip further and further through his fingers.

You’re still hurting, still being hunted. Your brother keeps coming, keeps attacking you, keeps stealing from you. He’ll take the money from your house, too, Changbin already knows it.

It makes him angry.

He’s so angry, he hasn’t touched his camera in weeks. He’s so angry, he hasn’t swiped an article of clothing to hold onto the scent of you in ages. He’s so angry that your own brother has treated you so badly, that now all he does is watch.

Because you won’t be getting any more bruises.

You are so scared and tired of your brother’s treatment of you that you ran to Changbin’s apartment for the first time in your life, just to seek protection. You trusted him. You wanted his help. You knew he would protect you.

A million pictures of you aren’t worth that gift.

So he watches.

And waits.

And then, one night, just as the sun has disappeared beneath the neighborhood houses behind yours, your brother pulls up in the driveway. He stumbles out of his car, jerking with nerves, and pounds your door down, disappearing inside your home.

Each crash fills Changbin with rage. Each shatter, each groan of damaged belongings sets his blood on fire, until he’s across the street and on your porch. He finds the key where you’ve left it in the hanging pot and pushes the door open, skillfully dodging the creaky floor panels in the entryway.

The desperate grate of your brother’s voice worms into his ears like a venom, and the ensuing whimpers and cries from you settle in his stomach with painful weight. He rounds the corner and finds you there, your back pressed to the wall, your brother’s hands around your throat.

Your face is red from strangulation, your eyes wide and reddened from burst blood vessels, trails of crimson streaming from your scalp. Your brother is screaming about the money you owe him, money that he’s expected to find by some miracle after having already pilfered your paycheck earlier this week.

And then, just as your eyes begin to roll, you catch sight of Changbin. For a second, you freeze, and it’s fear in your expression as you behold the barista that you thought you knew, creeping through the shadows of your dark living room.

But then your brother’s other hand smacks against the split skin of your cheek, and your expression changes.

Changbin sees it.

You’re staring at him in relief, your mouth forming desperate pleas for help, tears spilling down your face in a sudden moment of vulnerability.

His chest clenches.

At your next whimper, he has your brother by the collar, hurling him backwards. At the thump of your feet hitting the floor, the rest of your body falling in a heap, his hands are fisted in your brother’s shirt, shoving him out of the house.

Your brother is spluttering and shouting in confusion and protest, while you’re coughing and gagging behind them.

There’s only a few seconds where your brother attempts to fight back, his wired muscles throwing stabbing punches into the dark at Changbin’s face, but he doesn’t land a single one. Instead, a deliberate blow strikes his jaw, knocking him back. Another hammers against his eye, and he sprawls in the grass, gasping for air.

You’re on your feet then, following them out of the house, standing on your porch as you watch through stinging eyes.

While your brother is stunned, Changbin turns and sees you, and he freezes. He knows he’s scared you. He knows he’s crossed every line of acceptable social interaction, and that you caught him red handed. He says your name, a whisper into the night, and your gaze shifts to him.

You’re thinking, panicking, mind no doubt tracing back through the evidence of his intrusion plastered all over his walls, the sanctity of your home utterly violated by his undetected presence.

While you try to make up your mind about it, Changbin can’t breathe.

But at this point, your brother can. “What the hell?” He gasps, breath clouding above his face. “This is none of your business, asshole.” He’s up on one knee then, cupping his face and getting his wits back.

Changbin whips around to face him, his fists once more clenched in fury. “Touch her again and I swear to god—”

“Binnie.”

Your voice is a song in his ears and his head snaps back around to you. Your hands wrap around his still tight fist, your eyes peering up at him in earnest. You’re leaning into his arm, begging for safety, and he sees the blood that spills over your lips.

You’re hurt, you need medical attention, and you’d rather be with him than with your brother.

“I’m gonna take you to the hospital, okay?” Changbin whispers, and when you nod weakly, he brings his hand to your temple. You’re hot, feverish, under his touch. “Will you let me do that, gorgeous?”

“You’re not taking her anywhere.” The voice is an inch away, and your hands grip Changbin’s bicep.

He reacts on impulse, shoving your brother away from himself, away from you, and can only watch as the larger man stumbles out onto the street, illuminated by the yellowish glow of headlights. And then it’s like that scene from Mall Cop—one minute he’s there, the next he’s been plowed out of sight like a sliding transition in a Star Wars movie.

You don’t scream.

You don’t cry.

Both of you gasping in shock at the completely unintentional turn of events, Changbin feels you press yourself into his side, your weak and bleeding arms winding around his back. He can’t believe you’re there, trusting him, clinging to him, but he holds you like you’ll disappear if he lets go.

He needs to take you to the hospital, let them figure out why you’re coughing up blood, check your bones for new breaks, but right now your face is nestled against his throat and he can’t move.

“You’re still such a creep.” Your broken voice whimpers, but your hand tightens in his shirt.

He could cry with relief. You’re not letting go. “I know,”

He gets a grumble in response. “You stole my favorite sweater.”

Not even the flashing red and blue lights speeding around the corner can take this moment from him. “I’m sorry, gorgeous. I’ll give it back.”

“Promise me you’ll burn the pictures.”

“All except the ones that incriminate your brother.”

“You swear?”

“I swear.”

Comment a request to be tagged for Hyunjin's next week!

Let me know what you thought of this one! Thank you all for reading!

PART 2 INFO

tag list:

@whatdoyouwanttocallmefor @estella-novella @babyphotos0325 @softfor-svtptg @furfoxsake22 @tubelightanyaa @kayleefriedchicken @rockstarkkami @sp1derst0rrr @allenajade-ite @naraportokala @its-stayville-forever

[glitterslittleuniverse]

Going Seventeen: Wonwoo's Diary

Characters

Haerim as Mu Joe

Oldest member of Seventeen played the youngest resident in the village, seven year old Mu Joe. The name translates to innocence and her character is just like her name, sweet and innocent. Little Joe spends a lot of her time following Fi Turin and Fe Dback around. She looks up to them like grandfathers and they love her like a granddaughter.

Joe wears a pair of overalls with a white blouse. Her hair styled in two braids with flower hair ties at the ends. She also wears a cute straw hat with a blue ribbon around it. The make up artists had painted her upper cheeks with a rosey blush and also added some little freckles. Haerim moved around on her knees wearing knee pads that look like shoes. She also used a pinwheel as a prop, blowing it and watching it spin. When she isn't holding her pinwheel it's sticking out the front pocket of her overalls.

She first appears in the first episode. Fi Turin and Fe Dback encounter her standing alone on the road playing with her pinwheel. They excitedly greet her, commenting on how much she's grown. After some conversation she follows along with them to where they meet Yoon Nieun and Jo Giyeok.

Zora as Kyungmin

Kyungmin played herself. Wonwoo's classmate and friend who follows him, helping him with his documentary.

Wearing a simple school uniform, a white short-sleeve button up shirt (same as Wonwoo's) and black skirt, her hair styled in a ponytail. She also carries around a note book, taking down notes for Wonwoo's documentary.

Kyungmin is always standing with Wonwoo in every scene. The two of them often share amused (or unamused) looks while filming the towns people. Kyungmin, who often had a hard time staying in character, sometimes hides behind Wonwoo or her note book to hide her smile.

Sage as Park Hana

Sage played Hana, a city girl who came to spend the weekend with her family in the town. The name Hana meaning 'number one' or 'favorite,' her character is self centered and believes she is better then everyone else. She is popular at school in the city and hate's that she's forced to go to the countryside to visit family. When she'd much rather be spending her weekend shopping with friends, she's stuck hanging out with her younger cousin Mar Tion, who doesn't want to do anything but look for aliens.

Hana's outfit is simple but trendy. Wearing a cropped tank top with a pair of ripped jeans, her hair styled down with pretty waves. She wears a pair of sunglasses and always has her phone, often seen scrolling on it when bored.

First appearing in the second episode along with Mar Tion. She's seen standing next to him, while he's busy looking up at the sky she's staring down at her phone. When Fi Turin and Fe Dback show up she ignores them until they address her properly. They scold her for being rude to her elders but she only rolls her eyes (she does that a lot in this episode).

Sunnie as an Alien

Sunnie plays an alien alongside Woozi, Dk and Vernon. Her strange habit is speaking backwards when she's nervous, which doesn't happen until Mar Tion comes along and accuses them of being aliens.

She wears the same orange outfit as the others with pink round shades.

Appearing in the second episode, Sunnie sits with the other 'aliens' pealing garlic cloves. She reveals her habit is talking backwards when she's nervous and that she's trying her best to stay calm around humans. When Mar Tion arrives and says he suspects the four of them are aliens she says, "About talking are you what know don't I."

(I will write highlights from scenes in another post but here are the characters played by the girls in Wonwoo's Diary. I hope you like it and as always comment's and feedback are are always welcome.)

[vampirehizzies]

🥊🥊🥵🥵

hooray for horny clato <3 // find part 1 here. keep in mind that this is a rough draft and the ending is a little abrupt because I couldn't find a natural stopping point lol

-------

Apparently finished using his words, Cato lunges forward with a powerful, deliberate force, moving like the trained machine (or, as others probably saw them, monster) he is, and that is when things really get interesting. Clove knows better than to be taken off guard, which is why she greets his attack with one of her own, serene and at ease when she steps slightly to the side and allows her knife to cut into his shoulder.

Not shaken in the slightest and unagitated by the blood that wells up against his shirt, creating a pool of red that Clove had ensured wouldn't be concerning enough to need medical attention, he only laughs in response, with a crazed gleam in his eyes, one that she is proud to be the cause of.

"That's my girl," he remarks, pleased. "I'm so glad you're not an easy fight." His comment of approval is oddly touching, and leaves a furious pink flush in her cheeks. Fortunately, the activity they're engaged in provides a good excuse, the dim yellow lights also making the effect he has on her less obvious. Nervous for the first time in her life, she bites her lip and considers her next move, noting how he looks at her like a meal to be devoured. Clove will be damned if he thinks he can win quickly.

"I'm a better fighter than you. Always have been," she retorts, continuing to berate him with vicious, merciless kicks and punches. He does a rather excellent job of blocking her, but Clove swiftly takes advantage when he leaves his side unprotected and delivers a painful blow, relishing his affronted groan.

In his weakened state, she places a harsh hit to his thigh, forcing him onto his knees, and then kicks him in the stomach so that he bends forward. Before he can grab onto her leg, Clove pushes his shoulders so he lies flat and goes down with him, swings one leg over his now vulnerable body until her knees are settled on either side of his hips, pressing into the hard ground while she straddles him.

Her weight probably means nothing to him, but the knife aimed at his Adam's apple, metal touching skin like a soft caress, probably does. He has nothing to fear from her. They both knew that terribly well. It had been the source of all their problems, with the Capitol, with the other Victors who looked down on them for their refusal to kill each other which was a traitorous act of cowardice in Two, and with each other when there was no one else readily available to blame. Still, she feels gratified by the power now in her hands, how his life is utterly in her control.

"You want to talk about me being an easy fight?" She croons, tilting her head to the side and licking her lips in an echo of the way he had just minutes before. "I literally have you on your back for me, don't I?" Cocky and insufferable was usually his thing, but Clove wears it well. Maybe even better.

[cloverskentwells]

headcanons about clove & glimmer & d4 female tribute (i named her cecaelia):

clove & cecaelia are bonded by the fact that they're both much less social and cheery compared to glimmer; glimmer thinks this is cute and calls them "c squared" or "grumpy twins"

clove isn't one to make forced conversation and pretend a friendship/camaraderie exists where it doesn't. but glimmer loves conversation and even temporary friendships. and despite their circumstances she does want to get to know her fellow career girls. cecaelia is more obliging than clove despite being herself reserved and in her own shell, and is more responsive to glimmer's icebreakers. clove remains sullen and quiet when glimmer asks her a question, only bothering with one word responses and a pointed flash of her knife

on the first night, hours after the bloodbath when they set up camp and get ready to sleep, glimmer chatters away and cecaelia listens, indulgently polite. glimmer wears clove down in the dark, and after a lot of tireless efforts at questioning finally gets clove to open up just a crack.

they all discuss what they'll do/how they'll live as a victor. cecaelia will own her own seafood restaurant either in d4 or the capitol if she's lucky enough to be permitted to live there. glimmer will spend money on shiny things and be a glamorous fashion model. clove's plans are less ambitious, and she'll retire to a lone mountainside cabin in the recesses of two.

glimmer, being the girls' girl that she is, immediately starts with the nicknames, calling cecaelia cece and clove... her own damn name, because clove's a lot less agreeable/conflict averse than cece and will pull out a knife if someone is too familiar with her. but even clove slips up and calls them each cece and glim once.

glimmer fixes cecaelia's hair - practically demands to, because according to her how the d4 stylists butchered it is atrocious. she also waxes poetic about what a lovely district cece comes from, with their pretty sea theme and gorgeous eyed-people and the wonderful weather there.

glimmer also admires her fellow career girlies' tokens. very loudly and excitedly, with so much enthusiasm that cecaelia and clove send each other bemused looks over glimmer's head. clove brought with her into the games a gorgeous beaded bracelet - mostly white pearl-like beads with some artfully painted blood red as if it had been dipped into a corpse. cecaelia brought a similar bracelet but it's black string through a simple teal ball. they both - even clove, much to her own surprise - let glimmer grab their arms to admire the bracelets, and snicker when she tells them about losing her own token, a pink diamond ring that had contained an allegedly poisoned spike.

clove loses them both to tracker-jackers, and she wasn't particularly attached to them - they all knew how the games worked and how this would end - and couldn't act like it was a great loss to her. but she still, on some level, misses them afterwards, especially having to deal with a mercurial unstable district partner and a boy who told too many jokes... it was nicer, clove thinks sometimes, when there were girls around.

[what-marsha-eats]

Spicy Sweet-Potato Bisque

From Chef Jodie Ferguson, Owner of Clara B's Kitchen Table in Belleville, IL

If you prepare the apples and sweet potatoes in advance, store them in water until they’re ready to use. I would go with a sweeter, less-tart apple. 

Yields: 4 servings

Ingredients

2 Tbsp extra-virgin olive oil

1 medium yellow onion, diced

1 habanero pepper, stem and seeds removed (wear gloves if you have them)

3 medium sweet potatoes (1 ½ pounds), peeled and cubed

1 apple, peeled and diced (Pink Lady or Gala are good)

3 garlic cloves, grated

1 tsp ground ginger

1 tsp ground coriander

½ tsp smoked paprika

1 tsp apple cider vinegar

½ cup maple syrup

3 to 4 cups vegetable broth

12 oz heavy cream (substitute coconut milk for dairy-free)

salt and pepper to taste

Directions

First, we’ll place a large pot over medium-high heat on the stove.

Next add the olive oil, sweet potatoes, apple, and onion into the pot, stirring to coat everything in oil, until onions are translucent, about 5 minutes.

Next, add the garlic, habanero, and stock. Habaneros are spicy, so wear gloves if you have them and be sure to remove the seeds and pith of the pepper, which hold the most heat. If you want to use a less-spicy pepper, I recommend a Serrano.

Next, we’ll add our spices: coriander, ginger, and smoked paprika. Follow with maple syrup and heavy cream, and give the soup a good stir. For vegans and those with dairy intolerances, coconut milk works well here.

Let the soup simmer over medium heat for 25 minutes or until sweet potatoes are tender.

Remove the soup from the heat and add a touch of apple cider vinegar for brightness. Let cool slightly. Fill a blender a little over halfway. Try not to fill it all the way to the top or hot soup will be forced out of the blender. Blend until smooth.

Follow with fresh ground black pepper and salt to taste.

The soup should be buttery, savory, and sweet, with just the right amount of heat.

[certifiedskywalker]

Breathing Room - Bucky Barnes

Thanks to Sharon’s new profession, you have a chance to catch your breath in Madripoor. Though, Bucky never fails at stealing it away.

WARNINGS: drinking (?) and tensiooooonnn

“I’ve never seen him look at anyone like how he looks at you. Except for Steve.”

“It’s not like that,” you persisted as you shook your head.

Ready to prove your counterpoint, you traced the path of Sharon’s pointed gaze. It landed on Bucky who, amidst the party of stiff art connoisseurs and writhing criminals, looked strangely at ease. When you let your gaze linger, you saw him shift against the far wall he was leaned on. His eyes found yours in an instant as if he had been glancing in your direction before. As if he already knew where you were stood.

Under the colored lights that seemed to flash in tune with the music, Bucky’s eyes, once bright and blue, were dark as he focused on you. Despite the heat of all those that danced, you found yourself frozen. A chill rolled up your spine and threatened to overtake you, thrust you in the depths of Bucky’s stare. Only the sound of a knowing, humming sigh freed you.

“Uh-huh, sure. It’s not like that,” Sharon echoed sarcastically. You glared at her as she moved out from behind the bar. She passed a glass of dark liquor over to you with a grin. Gently, you nudged the drink back across the counter and shook your head.

“I’m on a mission.”

“So is he,” Sharon quipped as she tipped her head towards Bucky. Steaming embarrassment rose along your skin as you glanced back over towards the super-soldier. He was no longer fixed on you. He instead squinted at Zemo as the Baron broke it down in the most awkward, display of dance you had ever seen.

“Yeah, and I’m not it.”

“You are, you just won’t admit it,” Sharon sipped at her drink before she continued. “The way he watches you...he’s ready to take a bullet for you.”

“He already has,” you sighed, gesturing to your left arm. “Vibranium, remember? He’s covered me more than once.”

“Couldn’t forget it.”

“Also, he stares at everyone.”

Sharon scoffed, a light laugh slipping from her lips. “Sure, but not like that.”

“Do you really think...he’s hard to read. I don’t know if he really means to…”

“You’re right, he might not mean to look at you like you’re his lifeline, but it doesn’t change the fact that he does.” Sharon downed the rest of her drink and rested the empty glass on the counter. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m on a mission too: to sell some art and information.”

With a wink, she sauntered away, towards a group of individuals clad in formal wear. You watched her go for a moment longer before you shifted your gaze to sneak a glance at Bucky. When you did, you found he was already looking at you, dark eyes fixed on your face. It was tough to tell in the red tones that shone down on him, but you thought you saw Bucky’s mouth quirk the slightest bit upward. Though, you did not stare long enough to see if it morphed into a full-fledged smile.

You were too aware of how your chest tightened to let yourself linger on him. Especially with Sharon’s teasing, her insights, you could not find it in yourself to stare back. Not then, not when there was a chance Bucky felt the same as you had for years, which meant both of you were too stubborn, or too wary, to say anything about it. Even the thought of it knocked the air from your lungs. You eyed the liquor Sharon had poured out for you, considered downing it to distract yourself from the new wave of nerves that washed over you. Before you stretched your fingers out towards the glass, a sudden warmth brushed against your left shoulder.

“You gonna drink that?”

You turned and saw Bucky, his side nearly pressed against yours. The scent of the cologne Sharon had forcibly sprayed on him before the party filled your nose. Fragrant balsam and clove: warm, welcoming, and enough to numb your racing thoughts. When you didn’t respond to his question, Bucky leaned in closer to you with furrowed brows.

“Y/N?” Up close, you noticed just how clear his eyes were, how wholly focused on you he was. Silently you hoped he didn’t detect the shuddering breath you took.

“Yeah,” you said as tipped your head towards the drink, “it’s all yours.”

Bucky nodded at you as he reached for the glass. As he moved, his gaze remained fixed on you and you could not tear your eyes away. The moment the lights flashed an almost natural white, you swore you saw hints of pink on Bucky’s cheeks; but before you could truly tell, the fixtures flickered between blue and red. As Bucky brought the glass to his lips, you forced your eyes to the granite countertop.

To busy your mind, distract yourself from the lure of Bucky’s presence, you traced your fingertips along some of the natural patterns on the stone’s smoothed surface. It was only when you heard the clinking of glass against the countertop over the music that you felt enough courage to face the man stood at your side. Bucky’s eyes were still trained on you when you looked back up at him, full of that same attention Sharon had noted earlier.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you drink before,” you remarked, “or relaxed.”

“I’m not relaxed,” Bucky said, shouting slightly to be heard over the music. You smiled as he leaned in closer to add, “I don’t think I’ve ever been. Not since….”

“The forties?”

Bucky averted his eyes from you at your teasing question and turned his gaze to the floor. “Well, yeah, honestly.”

The smallness of his voice made your heart ache. Without a moment’s thought, you reached out and rested a hand on his shoulder. At your touch, Bucky met your eyes again, and then you saw it. It must have been the glint that Sharon picked up on before. A ferocity, but not one that frightened you. It was a ferocity born of passion, the same, deeply rooted feeling that forced the air from your lungs when you let yourself stare at Bucky for too long.

The passion that you had kept bottled in your chest since you met him, the real Bucky, not the Winter Soldier. It had taken so long for you to truly see him and he was just finally seeing himself. Until the party and Sharon’s observations, you hadn’t realized that maybe he was seeing you too. How long had you been blind to each other, giving each other breathing room when all you wanted was to be close?

“Honestly, I think you look good,” you said, with a confidence that surprised you.

Bucky cocked his head to the side slightly, with the faintest hints of a smile on his lips. “Really? I don’t...it’s been...I haven’t been to a party since the forties. I haven’t danced…”

“You look great, Bucky,” you pressed as you let your hand fall from his shoulder. Bucky blinked at you a few times as if trying to compute your compliments. You gave him a soft smile, an expression that he, shockingly, returned.

“So do you, Y/N.”

The way he said your name sent another chilling shiver down your spine and tightened your chest. Your breath grew ragged and you became suddenly self-conscious about the volume of your breathing. Though, when you noticed how Bucky’s chest rose and fell a bit more rapidly than before, your worries faded. They melted into the music and the smell of his, Sharon’s, cologne until all you felt was warmth and light.

“Do you want to danc-”

Before Bucky could ask his question in full, a drunken party-goer knocked into your back and sent you leaning off your stool. As you tipped forward into him, Bucky opened his arms to catch you. The cool metal of his left arm dug into your waist as your hands braced against his chest. Once you found your footing, you glanced up at Bucky.

“Are you alright?” His eyes scanned over your face as he asked. Yet, all you really heard was Sharon’s voice: he’s ready to take a bullet for you. Ready to fight for you too.

“I’m fine.”

Despite your assertion, Bucky looked past you and towards the person that had nearly knocked you over. For a moment, you saw the man that Zemo had ordered around in the Power Broker’s bar. He wasn’t your Bucky. The passion had turned to anger in his eyes. Quickly, you trailed your hands up from his chest to cup the sides of his face.

“Hey, hey, look at me,” you forced Bucky’s face to turn until his eyes found yours. “I’m fine. Are you fine?”

Bucky didn’t respond. Instead, he just stared down at you, his eyes flickered from your eyes to your lips and back again. Gently, you rubbed the pads of your thumbs along the peaks of his cheekbones. At the contact, eyes glinted and you knew he was the Bucky you loved again. The scruff that lined his jaw and grew up the sides of his face prickled and tickled the skin of your palm as he drew in closer.

Suddenly, there was no more breathing room; but you were so wonderfully okay with that. Each breath you each took mingled between you until there was no space at all. Bucky’s lips brushed softly against yours, a tentative ask for permission before you closed the gap. He tasted like whiskey as you kissed and, when his arms tightened around your waist, you felt that you might drown in him.

You were prepared to do just that when you heard someone loudly clear their throat. With a small gasp for air, you and Bucky parted and turned your attention away from the other. Sam, clad in Sharon’s spare turtle neck, stood with his arms crossed over his chest and a knowing grin on his lips. Your hands slipped from Bucky’s face and the super soldier’s arms went a little more slack around your waist.

“So, if you two are done, Sharon found Nagel.”

“Y-yeah,” you stammered, “we’ll...follow you.”

Sam glanced at you then Bucky and back again. “You really gotta work on your timing. We’re on a mission, guys. Seriously.”

Before you or Bucky could comment, Sam started off towards Zemo and Sharon. You glanced up at Bucky who seemingly sensed your eyes and looked back at you.

“He’s not wrong.”

“Don’t tell him that.”

[theartofdreaming1]

Here is my attempt at portraying Peeta’s camouflage skills convincingly 😅😅

As usual, my thoughts regarding this week’s prompts and random thoughts on chapters 19-21 are below the cut.

heart

While I love all the banter between Katniss and Peeta, I think my favorite of these three chapters is: “Trust me. Killing things is much easier than this,” I say. “Although for all I know, I am killing you.” “Can you speed it up a little?” he asks. “No. Shut up and eat your pears,” I say. A classic 😄

mind

I always imagined that Cato went after Thresh before coming for Katniss and Peeta because a) Thresh took the backpack for District 2 (which contained the body armor that would make dealing with Katniss’s arrow so much easier) and b) Thresh killed Clove and Cato wanted to avenge her... Although I have no idea how Cato ended up killing Thresh... he was doing pretty well for himself in his grass-y area... Maybe the Gamemakers wanted to punish Thresh for not killing Katniss and generated that thunderstorm and rain to force Thresh out of his refuge, which would give Cato a fair chance to kill him, I guess...

soul

Lol, honestly, since Peeta just generally seems to be motivated by kindness and love/caring, I don’t think it took much for him to keep the star-crossed lovers angle alive (I could easily imagine him actually noticing Katniss in the willow tree early in the Games and offering to take care of the District 8 girl, so the Careers would get the hell out of there, away from Katniss)

Chapter 19:

Peeta, who’s been wounded, is now my ally. [...] I’d loathe any tribute who didn’t immediately ally with their district partner. Besides, it just makes sense to protect each other. - Honestly, this just highlights what a kind person Katniss is, despite her aloof front; her innermost instinct is always to stick together and to protect. Because it doesn’t really make sense for her to team up with Peeta - she knows he’s wounded and won’t be of much help to her, her chances of survival are way better if she stayed on her own, but it’s not something she’d ever consider now that they are allowed to form a team (and only then does she even factor in the whole ‘star-crossed lovers of district 12′ -angle)

Peeta, it turns out, has never been a danger to me. The thought makes me smile. - Aww 😊 (but also, how heart-breaking that the Capitol will do everything in their power to change that, to make Peeta become a danger to Katniss 😢)

He’s very hard to predict, which might be interesting under different circumstances - Okay, but this just makes me think of that exchange in Gilmore Girls when Paris and Rory talk about how you know a guy is right for you:  “Someone who’s compatible but not compatible.” “Yeah, kind of. I mean, you respect each other’s opinions and you can laugh at the same jokes, but I don’t know – there’s just something about not quite knowing what the other person’s gonna do at all times that’s just really exciting.” - fits these two to a T 😏

In fact, I’ve just about decided I’m on the wrong track entirely, that a wounded boy would be unable to navigate getting to and from this water source, when I see the bloody streak - Okay, but how flipping tough is Peeta?! He’s severely injured, with multiple tracker jacker stings and he drags himself to this terrain that is almost impossible to navigate for someone in his condition - a sturdy dandelion, indeed!

“You’re here to finish me off, sweetheart?” - What an entrance after having gone AWOL for quite a couple of chapters 👌🏼👏����

“Remember, we’re madly in love, so it’s all right to kiss me anytime you feel like it.” I jerk my head back but end up laughing. “Thanks, I’ll keep it in mind.” [...] “Katniss?” Peeta says. I meet his eyes, knowing my face must be some shade of green. He mouths the words “How about that kiss?” I burst out laughing - He’s lying in a river bed, slowly dying, and he can still make her laugh 😊

“You know, you’re kind of squeamish for such a lethal person” - It’s such a small comment, but I can’t help but think that Peeta is just kind of intrigued to discover all these little idiosyncrasies that make up the ever-elusive Katniss Everdeen ;)

Impulsively, I lean forward and kiss him, stopping his words. -  Aww, she doesn’t even want to consider him dying, so she spontaneously decides to cut him off with a kiss👀👀 Honestly, at this point Peeta has elicited 2 (!) spontaneous kisses  (the kiss after the chariot ride and this one) from Katniss, who generally isn’t that big on touching people

“You’re not going to die. I forbid it. All right?” - Stubborn, protective Katniss... But also reminds me of their rooftop “date” in CF and the “Then you’ll allow it?” “I’ll allow it” - exchange

I kiss him awake, which seems to startle him. Then he smiles as if he’d be happy to lie there gazing at me forever. He’s great at this stuff. - KaTNisSs, gurl... 🙄🤦🏼‍♀️

Chapter 20:

But I knew he was injured. And still I came after him. I’m just going to have to trust whatever instinct sent me to find him was a good one. - The very best of instincts, Katniss, don’t you worry😉

Peeta’s struggling to get up when I reach the cave. “I woke up and you were gone,” he says, “I was worried about you.” - Gah, why are the both of them so good?! They just care for and worry about each other 24/7

“How do you feel?” “Better than yesterday. This is an enormous improvement over the mud,” he says. “Clean clothes and medicine and a sleeping bag... and you.” Oh right, the whole romance thing. - Oh Katniss...😐 I reach out to touch his cheek and he catches my hand and presses it against his lips. I remember my father doing this very thing to my mother and I wonder where Peeta picked it up. - Where did Peeta pick this up? From a time his family was less dysfunctional? Observing couples in the town square? Or is he a fricking disney prince and these things come natural to him? Questions, questions...

“You didn’t sleep,” Peeta says. “I’m all right,” I say. But the truth is, I’m exhausted. “Sleep now. I’ll keep watch.” [...] I test his cheek. Hot as a coal stove. He claims he’s been drinking, but the containers still feel full to me. I give him more fever pills and stand over him while he drinks first one, then a second quart of water. - These two are just too stubborn to take proper care of themselves - good thing that each of them is adamant to force the other to sleep/drink/eat when necessary

“Besides I like watching you sleep. You don’t scowl. Improves your looks a lot.” - When presented with the choice of being flirty vs being a cheeky little shit, Peeta will choose being a flirty cheeky little shit every time 😂

“I’m going to make soup,” I say. “Don’t light a fire,” he says. “It’s not worth it.” - Okay, but what he’s actually saying is “I’m not worth it” 😭😭

Katniss telling that story about buying Prim’s goat😊... A young buck, probably a yearling by his size. His antlers were just growing in, still small and coated in velvet. [...] Beautiful. - We are all very much aware of Peeta’s appreciation for beauty, but the same does apply to Katniss, too (she’s just overall more pragmatic)

“Was it [the goat] still wearing the pink ribbon?″ he asks. “I think so,” I say. “Why?” “I’m just trying to get a picture,” he says thoughtfully. -  Peeta is so detail-oriented! I have this theory that this is actually something that enables him to overcome his hijacking; we catch glimpses in MJ of how he inches himself out of his condition by asking/focusing on small details or things most people would dismiss as trivial (Katniss’s favorite color, the color of her dress visiting District 7, her Dad singing the Hanging Tree when Peeta was 6 or 7 years old...) and I feel like it makes a lot of sense - his tormentors in the Capitol either wouldn’t have access to distort these moments or not even consider them to have any significance (since they are all about big, flashy gestures in the Capitol), so these memories would remain untouched. Luckily, Peeta seems to live by Robert Brault’s words: “Enjoy the little things, for one day you may look back and realize they were the big things. “

“Really? What did you cost me again?” I ask. “A lot of trouble. Don’t worry. You’ll get it all back,” he says. - Well, he’s going to cost her a lot more trouble in the future - but we know he’s going to make up for it and bring her much happiness, too 😊

“You’re not risking your life for me.” “Who said I was?” I say. [...] “Of course I’m not going.” [...] “You’re such a bad liar, Karniss.” [...] Anger flushes my face. “All right, I am going, and you can’t stop me!” “I can follow you. At least partway. I may not make it to the Cornucopia, but if I’m yelling your name I bet someone can find me. And then I’ll be dead for sure,” he says. - Soo.. their love language is offering to sacrifice their life like it’s nothing, huh?! 😳😅 

Peeta eats without complaint, even scraping out the pot to show his enthusiasm. He rambles on about how delicious it is, - lol, sounds like a husband trying to get back on his wife’s good side after they had a row 😂

I clamp my hand over his mouth and nose hard, forcing him to swallow instead of spit. He tries to make himself vomit the stuff up, but it’s too late, he’s already losing consciousness. - Ah, the most important indicator of true love: having person A force-feed person B a sedative so they can run off to get them life-saving medicine ;)

Chapter 21:

I lie next to Peeta in the bag, trying to absorb every bit of his fever heat. It’s strange to be so physically close to someone who’s so distant. Peeta might as well be back in the Capitol, - Reminds me how in MJ she’s going to be so close to Peeta (mentally/emotionally) while he will be physically so distant (in the Capitol!)

a tiny orange one [backpack] [...] that must be marked with a 12 - Interesting how that backpack is orange, huh? Why is that? Are smaller backpacks generally orange (like the one Katniss already has) to be more visible or is this simply to connect the backpack to Peeta (though we don’t know his favorite color at this point)? Do the Gamemakers care whether Katniss gets a matching backpack? It just seems like an unnecessary detail to throw in🤔

The table has just clicked into place when a figure darts out of the Cornucopia, snags the green backpack, and speeds off. Foxface! - Honestly, this was a truly brilliant move; kudos! 👏🏼

[Clove] carefully selects an almost dainty-looking number [knife] with a cruel, curved blade. “I promised Cato if he let me have you, I’d give the audience a good show.” [...] “I think...” she almost purrs. “I think we’ll start with your mouth.” [...] she teasingly traces the outline of my lips with the tip of the blade. - Okay, but the idea of Clove cutting off Katniss’s lips is just all kinds of terrifying and disturbing 😨

“No! No, I-” Clove sees the stone, about the size of a small loaf of bread in Thresh’s hand [...] Thresh brings the rock down hard against Clove’s temple. [...] and I know she’s a goner. - Interesting how Katniss describes that rock that basically saves her life (or at least kills her assailant) as bread-sized, huh? “Your district... they sent me bread. [...] Conflicting emotions cross Thresh’s face. He lowers the rock and points at me, almost accusingly. “Just this one time, I let you go. For the little girl.” - Katniss mentions the bread from District 11 as a proof of her alliance with Rue (and the recognition of D11) and Thresh spares her; bread keeps saving her life (while it keeps representing acts of kindness)

Cato kneels beside Clove, spear in hand, begging her to stay with him. - I appreciate this small, humanizing moment with Cato

The last thing I remember is an exquisitely beautiful green and silver moth landing on the curve of my wrist. - I don’t know much about North American insects (not that I know that much about European insects either - just recently came across a relatively rare moth on my walks that I had never seen or heard of before) - is Katniss describing a special/noteworthy species of moth? Or is this a more literary symbolism kind of moth? (Just looked up some symbolism meaning of moths: change/transformation, seeking light; power of regeneration in some Native American mythology, hmm...)

[fishnets-fingers]

[Steady soft phlegm filled snores] oh wow...

[highlighting on Adobe was annoying her to no extreme.]- agreed!!!

I LOOOOOOOVEE READING SICK!H

[A soft sigh escapes his lips as she gently smooths his hair away from his face.] AWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWH

[Skinny dipping was not a great idea.] sounds quite true xD

////

[clumsy ass boyfriend could be quiet as a mouse when he wants to be.] lmfaoooo

[it surprised him to no extent that the awkward, self-effacing girl he met wearing a pink floral top would have a geeky side to her] excuse him?

[Harry’s stomach growls in response] *goes to get myself some leftover fried rice because my stomach also growled*

[“What’s that?”] i can imagine her squinting her eyes at him xD

[“Weird.”] I'm agreeing with this for both of the shows...

////

[She cut up a papaya] I haven't eaten a Papaya since soo long!!

[the indication she needed to call out on his bullshit and take him to the hospital.]- I was supposed to laugh at this, right? Cause I did ...and so hard lmfao

[“Harry Styles! You can either eat the soup slowly by yourself or I can force it all down your throat!” she says in a stern voice. - “Okay, jeez. You don’t have to use your mom voice. It’s scary.”] LOVED THESE TWO DIALOGUES

[“I’ll eat,” he acquiesces.]....okayyy

////

[steam inhalation]- whenever anyone falls sick or catches cold, or my sinus is active, my dad: A clove of garlic and steam inhalation, daily and you'll be perfect.

[She wiggles her bum into his hips and she feels a certain hard member press into her ass cheek.]- LMFAOOOO

[“Harry! You can’t be serious! You’re ill!” She laughs. - “I’m not horny!” He defends himself. - “Does your penis know that,” she giggles. - “I’ve been semi hard since I saw you in the kitchen, I agree,” he admits. - “I didn’t even know you can get hard when you’re sick,” she teases him. - “You can when it’s a love boner.” - “A what now?” -“A love boner. I walked into the kitchen to find you busy making me soup. You rubbed vaporub on my chest, so I can sleep better. I was thinking of how lucky I am to love you and I got hard,” he smiles, hiding his face in her neck. “I’m flattered but you’re a weird weird man, Har.” - “Most girls would swoon, you know. And here you are calling me weird,” he says. - “I’m sorry you ended up with me,” she chuckles sarcastically.] not gonna lie, I read this whole while having a big arse smile on my face.... loved it queen <33333

[“It’s not my favourite. I don’t hate it either. It’s just that ahhh… well uh…” she fumbles.] loved from here, till ["Right.”], no kidding, just loved it.

[“No. It makes me feel taken care of,” he says, meeting her eyes with an earnest look.] hmmmmmmmmmmm hm-hm-hm

////

[crunch orange leaf] I miss my orange plant...

[“‘Harry I swear to god, I’d shove this shoe so far up your ass that the doctors will need to cut open your brain to find it!’“] lmaoooo

[He sneezes into the side of her neck. Droplets of saliva land on her skin.] aw hell naw

[“If you get your germs on me and make me sick before I go to the temple, I’ll stab you in the throat.” - “Sorry!” He says sheepishly, wiping her neck with his tissue. “Your hair tickled me.” - “Liar. My hair isn’t even down, you idiot.”] dis waz funneh

[Harry smiles. “I really mean what I said in the bath you know. I truly love you. I felt it deep in my bones with the moonlight illuminating every inch of your cute face in my arms. I’ve been feeling it for a few weeks. But I didn’t know that it was love. It just clicked at that moment that there’s no one I’d rather have in my arms.” - Layla was taken back. She didn’t know how to respond. She was stunned when he first said it. It made her feel all types of things. They were ineffable. She didn’t even think of herself as someone who was capable of being loved romantically. She grew up thinking whatever bullshit made her parents fight with each other was inside her wholly. She didn’t seek a romantic relationship or had someone pursue her. That and the fear of getting into trouble if her family ever found out. So, when Harry had told her that the first time, after the initial explosion of enchantment and tenderness that swept her off her feet, she chalked it up to impulsiveness. But when he said it again and again, that feeling of tenderness grew to squander her impulsivity theory. - “You know,” Harry continues, derailing her train of thought. “Mum was the first one to point it out to me. It was that day you had a panic attack. I was confused and a downright mess. So I went and talked to her and she looked at me and said sounds like you are in love and I snorted that away.” - “Mother knows best.” Layla contributes. “Can I ask you something?” - “Shoot.” - “I haven’t said it back yet. Does that upset you? I mean I would be annoyed if the roles were flipped. I honestly didn’t know what to say. You have to understand that I do like you. Very very much. But I don’t know,” she sighs. “I’m scared that if I give it a serious label, it will all crumble,” she confesses. - “Layla, baby, I told you this before, I don’t expect you to tell that to me unless you want to. And no, it does not annoy me. People have their own timelines. Take all the time you need. I’ll be right here when you are ready, my sweet girl.” He bends down to kiss the top of her head, inhaling the coconut scent of her shampoo in.] this.... THIS!!!!!!!!!!!!!! THIS HAD A TEAR SLIDING DOWN MY CHEEK!! MAM I LOVE YOU AND LOVE THIS WOLE PART

[“My faculties were compromised. I blame the brownies. Yours was significantly smaller than mine and I had just used your eyeliner to draw googly eyes and a nose on top of my belly button moving it around and making it sing, Got to be Real by Cheryl Lynn.” He interrupts her, defending himself. - “I don’t know if it was because of the weed but that was hilarious. My stomach hurt from laughing. But I wasn’t done before you rudely interrupted me. You also had every single drink with ice whereas I stick to hot water. You also refused to drink my tulsi, ginger, and hibiscus green tea.” - “In my defence, it didn’t smell very tempting,” he says. - “And look who’s sick now.”] I FEEL LIKE I'M SITTING ON A ROLLERCOASTER RIDE OF EMOTIONS

[They could make out a few stars in the sky and a shy moon that was busy hiding behind the clouds.] sigh, this line is exquisite....

////

[“How about I just curl up underneath this afghan and try and close my eyes till we get there?” He says burrowing in the colourful blanket that she wrapped him up in. - “Thank you. I’d also appreciate it if you moved your giant fat head away from the window so I could see the side mirror.” She teases him. - He rolls his eyes. “Can’t believe I’m in love with a literal dickhead.” He does not move, eyes staring at her face. Layla’s eyes glued to the traffic light, fingers drumming on the wheel, lip gnawing on her bottom lip. - Her face turns green and she nudges the car forward. “I’m serious about not being able to see the mirror, babe.” - He reclines his seat and moves his head from the cold glass to rest against the headrest.] dayum xD

////

[“Well, at least you’ll be back soon.”] aow

[If her hunch is right, her son is going to ask her if he or the two of them could celebrate Christmas with his love.] he better do...

[Layla can’t help but feel quite jealous of the relationship between the two. For a brief second, she wishes that she had these cute little traditions with her mother but she squanders that thought away instantaneously.] ahah- ......ouch

[“Alright, you’re supposed to not call sick individuals fussy as shit, nurse.” Harry stresses the nurse and narrows his eyes playfully at his mum. - “I can if I’m their mum,” she playfully ruffles his hair.] I'm not getting jealous, absolutely not.

////

[“Are you angry with me?” She whispers to Harry. He hasn’t said anything to her since she came here, not even a hello. - “What no!” He whisper screams. “I’ve never seen you like this before and I’m taking it all in. You look so stunning. I can’t even process anything. Just radiant, sweet girl.” That was the truth, he hadn’t been able to peel his eyes away from her or form sentences when she first came into his field of vision. Her pink and gold kurti with matching pants (***). Her hair was in a loose side braid. A small bindi on her forehead and there were two streaks - vibuthi over and  kumkum under - it. She had no makeup on her face but her lips were glossy, Harry assumes it’s from her lip balm.] heheh

[“Not really. I’d actually like some of yours,” Harry says. - “Nope. You probably had one at the temple,” he tells her, taking the cup away from her reach. - “No, I haven’t.” - “Liar. You really expect me to believe that you went to the temple and didn’t eat there.” - “I didn’t eat the panchamirtham,” Layla tells him. - “Harry, that’s not nice. Share, please. She’d been so sweet in taking care of you when you were sick. She even drove you back and forth from the hospital.” Anne chastises him. - “Driving. Ha. You should have seen her climb into the car-” Harry laughs. - “Hey, it’s not my fault that your car is not made for short people,” Layla sticks her tongue out at him. - “She’s actually a good driver. She’s just stressed. Her shoulders were literally stapled to her ears all the way,” he tells Anne. - “I’m super proud of you, Layla. Harry told me how much it meant to him that you drove him all the way to the hospital,” she says, patting her on the shoulder. - “It’s alright,” Layla dismisses the attention that has shifted towards her. - “Here,” Harry says, holding a spoon of panchamirtham to her lips, and she willingly accepts. - “See that wasn’t so bad now, was it? No need to be mean to her,” Anne tells him. - “She bullies me all the time. You’re just not around to see it,” he mutters, making Layla giggle. “Oh, mum, before you leave for your book club, can you take a picture of the two of us out in the garden, please?” He desperately wanted a picture of her in her outfit. - “I’d be delighted.”] LOVED THIS TOO

////

[“Lails,” he chuckles. He gives it a weak tug and it unravels. “That’s the saddest knot in the history of knots.” He laughs. - “Shut it,” she giggles along with him. “I’m trying my best. It’s not like I have the handbook of BDSM in my back pocket. I’m doing my best.” - “You’ve always told me that you wanted to tie me up and you didn’t think with that big brain of yours that it would require, I don’t know… TYING!” He howls, wiping a tear from the corner of his eyes. Their laughs ring through the room.] Lmaoo

[“Splendid. Now please have your wicked way with me, my sweet girl.”]- .....................

[“Am I your good boy?” Harry asks as he pulls out, bending down to rest his forehead against hers.] dayum

THE SMUT WAS EXPLICIT AND AMAZING!!

- - -

I LOVED IT I LOVED IT I LOVED!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! THE PATIENCE WAS WORTH THE WAIT, WHOOP WHOOP!! I LOVE YOU MY QUEEN, THIS WAS WRITTEN SO WELL!!

Please keep on writing cause you're the death of me and I love dying every-time I read your writings <3333333333333333

Aaaaah! Thank you thank you thank you! Honestly, sometimes when I write all I can think of is what your reaction would be lol.

I was slightly disappointed because this part didn’t get many notes but this makes it all worth it. Just waiting for feedback from @sunandherflores and everything will be complete.

You two make this so worth it!

Congratulations on your exams! I hope you have the time to unwind before school starts again.

[breakupspells18]

top 5 Real working Sex spells kamasutra spell

Sex spells that work

At the point when we talk about carrying on with a glad life, we can't overlook sexual joy as it assumes a major part in the bliss of an individual. More is the sexual joy, seriously satisfying your life becomes. For individuals who feel there, the friend is the best individual, one justification that is connected to sexual joy. Yet, in the event that you feel your life isn't acceptable and you are not fulfilled then there are sexual joys which you can get by performing sex spells. They will build your sexual ability and will assist you with having a glad life. 

Sex Spell as a Service has a ton to bring to the table. You can really make your exhausting life an incident and glad one. In the event that you are not happy with the capability of your accomplice, he thinks his energy isn't equivalent to you or you are not sufficient, going for a sex spell can help you increment the delight. It will assist you with getting fulfilled. There are little spells to be performed which can build your sexual delight and make your life intriguing once more. Regardless of whether you need to feel the climax and you can't do it, giving sex spell can assist you with accomplishing something similar. These spells could be handily known from a specialist or an expert. They have the correct information about what sort of spell is to be performed and as indicated by the franticness you have they will reveal to you the spell and from that point onward, you will see the outcome. Simply remember to play out the spell with full confidence. At the point when you play out the spell and afterward you don't thoroughly consider it as bad at that point spell ends up occurring quicker and surprisingly its force is more. So think positive and let it all out. 

sex spells that truly work 

In the event that you feel your sexual coexistence is somewhat exhausting and you feel it isn't sufficient then you can attempt this custom which is given beneath and afterward you will get the opportunity to reignite the energy. All you need is one red flame, rose incense, a photograph of the accomplice, a clove of garlic, bean stew powder and a little red material sack. To begin with first you think for a couple of moments so your psyche is clear and loose. Subsequent stage is light the red candle and the incense with the roses. The emanation will be extraordinary all finished. Presently you snap the picture of the accomplice and afterward shake it in the smoke of the incense. Alongside this formula this equation: 

"Wish me, want me, love, want me. Your eyes sink into mine, your body sinks into mine, your tongue goes through my spirit, thus my goes through yours. Light your indispensable fire, give me my sweet creature once more." 

In the wake of doing this currently embed the photograph of your accomplice into the fabric sack. Alongside that put the garlic clove and a small bunch of stew powder. Presently let the red flame and anger wear out. After this shroud the sack under your bed or in where your accomplice can't pay special mind to it and afterward it's finished. 

Free sex spells drones 

You are enthusiastic about improving your sexual coexistence? Would you like to make your accomplice insane for you? You need to improve your relationship, so here is an arrangement for you. You should simply recite the mantra two times each day and afterward perceive how change comes in your day to day existence. Given beneath is the mantra. 

I'm enchantment and sorcery is me 

I hold the universe inside my belly 

What's more, the silvery doors to paradise between my tissue columns 

I secret the nectars of God and my heart is full. I'm not embarrassed 

I love myself. I'm not embarrassed. I love my body 

I'm not embarrassed. Sex is sound. 

At the point when you recount the mantra you will see the change. You will take note of the change and inspiration it will spread in your sexual coexistence. You should simply recount it with full fixation and accept. Ne clear to you that you post for the positive qualities in it rather what something negative. 

So play out this mantra and notice the excellent wizardry it makes. 

Voodoo sex spells 

Voodoo sex spell has been existing in the public eye from old occasions. Individuals are playing out this from an extensive stretch of time. They simply need to make their sexual life the most stunning one so they play out this spell. To play out these spell you need certain fixings. They are two red candles and a photograph or an individual thing for the ideal individual. This specific voodoo sex spell is to be done when it is the phase of waxing moon going on particularly on a Friday. Ensure you utilize the correct energy and be feeling quiet. Take one delightful red candle and spot it precisely before the image. Ensure that in the image he is the final straggler are this will bring more certain outcomes. Presently require the subsequent red flame and the individual thing of that individual and do exactly the same thing. Presently serenade his name or the readied section various occasions until the light consumes off totally. This voodoo spell can affect an ideal outsider, and his fascination for you will become as in he adores you from years. So for the ones who need to get an extraordinary sexual coexistence with somebody you have been desiring for this is the most ideal way. 

Genuine sex spells that work quick 

This is a spell which will make you connection exceptional. All you need is a pink flame, sandalwood oil, 2 sheets of white paper, red pen or pencil and paper. This custom you ought to perform with your accomplice. The initial step is you both need to make a rundown of characteristics that you like and appreciate most in one another. Record it. Be cautious when you compose. Compose at least 6 or 10 things. Doing this on a Friday night is the awesome. 

Presently light the candle and sit as you both are confronting one another. Presently discuss this spell by pondering the goddess of adoration Summon Aphrodite. 

"Aphrodite, join this space around evening time. 

Favor our association and favor our custom, 

Assist us with opening our eyes, 

Assist us with reinforcing our bond, 

Help us join together, 

Always infatuated. 

So bit it be" 

Both you and your accomplice should say these words. At the point when you are done, take your rundown and both of you read it so anyone might hear. Presently pour some sandalwood oil on your thumb and press it on the highest point of each piece of paper to leave your thumbprint. 

In conclusion say thanks to Aphrodite for joining your custom, and afterward knock off of the light. Overlap the pieces of paper and spot them together in your room. 

Gay sex spells 

To have a decent connection with your accomplice here is a sex spell. You need to perform it when your accomplice is sleeping. First and foremost consider the individual you need and explicitly excite yourself. At the point when you will peak, picture the energy that illuminates his/her entire body and air. Presently say an order through an explanation. The assertion ought to be quick and painless in right now, and really forthright. For instance "— - [name of the individual you desire] is frantically enamored with me and wants me explicitly." Further to make the spell, go into a daze and ideally when he/she is snoozing, envision his/her group of light and with empathy yet immovably, order it again For instance: "— - [name of the ideal person], you love me and need me without question, each day. I'm interesting to you". When you do this you are done your gay accomplice will ache for you more than you do and will make your sexual coexistence a genuine happening one. Attempt this with full confidence and see what ponders it brings to your gay sexual coexistence. Simply play out this spell. 

simple sex spells with hair 

This is a serious straightforward love spell which you can do and the outcomes would be truly viable. There are various sex spells which are troublesome and you need the direction of a specialist for the equivalent. In any case, this is a simple thing. So for this you don't need some other fixing leaving hair in that capacity. All you need is a hair and the photography of your sweetheart. Presently what you need to do is put the hair close to your darling's photograph. Presently discuss the mantra Photo with hair Lover come here. Simply rehash this mantra multiple times and afterward you are finished. You will see the sorcery. The darling will really come to you and you would set up an excellent climate improving your relationship. So for individuals who need simple sex spell that too something with fast outcome lets it all out and afterward see the sorcery. Have full confidence when you do this. Try not to denounce about it later as results will not be powerful at that point. So have full confidence and do with everything that is in you 

Spells to draw in sex 

This is a straightforward custom which just requires a couple of things and afterward you are finished. It is very basic and powerful. Here are the subtleties. All you need is a red candle and some new brilliant pins. Do remember the pins are not utilized previously. You additionally need some wooden matches to "make" your accomplice's name with them. Regardless utilize a pin to etch the name of the individual you love. It ought to be done upward on the light. After that stick a pin in each letter of his/her name. Presently you need to do this consistently as when it is 12 PM light the candle with an alternate match. Allow it to consume until the main brilliant pin drop out and rehash that consistently until all the others tumbles down as well. Presently when the last pin will fall and on the off chance that there are coordinates with left, consume every one of them and cover the remaining parts of a light and matches. You are finished. You will see the enchantment occurring. Do play out this custom on Thursday among 12 PM and three AM. The impact would be more and results would be truly fast. 

questions that are as often as possible got some information about sex spells 

The most effective method to project genuine sex spells 

To project genuine sex spells you need to come in interview with a specialist who can direct you remembering your craving. Playing out any the spell isn't intense yet you need the individual who can show you the correct track and you get the ideal outcome. 

end 

In this way to finish up in the event that you wish to have a glad life and you feel sex is the explanation which is making your life dull and exhausting then going for a sex spell is a decent alternative. It will help you experience a decent life and afterward the issues of your life are tackled. So going for sex spells with the assistance of a specialist can improve your life and fascinating. They would simply request that you carry out the seemingly insignificant detail or serenade a mantra and afterward it is finished. Let the spell's enchantment work.

[cobaltcaster]

Creating a Magickal Atmosphere

Within this post is a comprehensive check list of creating the right atmosphere

[[ Click Here for Part 1. Preparing for Your Spell ]]

Here are the individual links if you’d like to take it step by step. 

Magickal Enchantments [[ Food, Clothing, Music ]]

Magickal Tools [[ Candles ]]

Incense and Fragrances

Crystals and Gemstones

Element Water

Additional Magickal Tools

Personal Altars

If you’re ready for a medium read then let us begin!

⚪9⚪

Magickal Enchantments

Food and Beverage

Three simple words: Keep it light! A spell on a full stomach is not recommended. A heavy meal can leave you sleepy or uncomfortable. Avoid meat the day of your spell, if you can. Stick with fruits and vegetables as much as possible. Fish ----- baked, but not fried or in a heavy sauce----- is a good option. Wait at least two hours after eating to begin your spell.

Try to avoid caffeinated or carbonated beverages; distilled water is an excellent choice because the impurities have been removed. A cup of caffeine-free herbal tea is soothing and relaxing. Try a blend of chamomile and passionflower. Although some of the spells include type of wine or fruit juice during the actual spell, do not take it to extremes.

Clothing As with food and drink, here, too, three simple words apply: natural, loose, and clean. One hundred percent cotton is a wise choice. A loose white gauze garment is nonrestricting and gives you a sense of cleanliness and purity. Some individuals enjoy taking the time to find certain color garments for special spells. The same colors listed in the candle color chart ( click here ) can be use for clothing as well.

If you do not have a cotton garment, choose something as close as possible, like a cotton blend. Comfort is important; Tight jeans and belts do not allow your body to relax. However, wear jeans if they are the most comfortable thing you own ----- and most jeans are 100 percent cotton. If you are in a private place, you may decide to just wear a robe, towel, or oversized t-shirt. You may even opt for nudity. The choice is yours.

Before you get dressed, make every ever to take a bath or shower. Start fresh and clean. Think as you are showering or bathing that you are washing any negative energy off your body. A bath is an excellent idea, especially if you use music and candlelight.

If you're doing a group spell, bathe or shower before leaving the house or before the group arrives. If you can't shower, at least wash your hands and face. If you can wash your feet, that's even better. If water is not available, shake your hands and visualized negativity being removed.

Music

Music has the ability to create a sense of peace ----- providing it's the right music.

By virtue of the fact you are reading this book, I feel safe in saying you most likely are a seeker of peace and well-being. And all likelihood, you already have in your possession music that soothes you. Slow classical music or New Age music seems to be the most popular. Drumming and chanting recordings are also something to consider. Nature tapes offering gentle background music can be found in most department or music stores.

After purchasing any new tape or CD, listen to the entire recording befor e using it for spell work. The first two selections may be ideal, but if song number three goes up thirty decibels and a wolf starts howling, it could send you crashing down from your altered state.

If you have the time, visit your local music or New Age store. Most provide headsets and demonstration tapes that give you the opportunity to listen before you buy. The recording you choose should be long enough to last your entire spell.

Music that suddenly stops in the middle of a ceremony will also break the mood. If you have no choice and you must turn a tape over, at the very least have your sound system close to you so you do not have to leave your spell area. Music is the sound of the soul: If you can include it in your rituals, all the better.

⚪10⚪

Magickal Tools

Any tangible item used for ritual can be considered a magickal tool as long as it means something special to you. The creative part of our brain works in symbols, so it makes sense to use symbols as a way to conduct creative magick. You probably already have magickal tools and may not even recognize them. It may be your favorite picture that makes you "feel good" upon merely looking at it, that special coin that a relative gave you when you were a child, or a favorite pen you've had for years.

Candles

Candles bring light into our lives ----- both literally and symbolically. They chase away the darkness and allowed new projects, thoughts, and relationships to emerge. Lighting candles before a spell can create very powerful energy.

Candles also represent the three levels in which we exist. The wax corresponds to our physical body, the wick to our mind, and the flame to our soul or spirit.

Candles come in a myriad of colors, shapes, and sizes. Some are scented, some unscented. For our purposes, shape and scent ( or lack thereof ) are unimportant. Do give some consideration to the size of your candle. If you deem your spell will take an hour, don't light a candle that burns for only thirty minutes.

Color is a significant part of what candle burning is all about. Different colors represent different vibrations. As the candle burns, the vibration of that color is red. Refer to the color chart to clarify which color best suits your needs. You may use just one candle or a combination.

If you don't have any idea color available, use white. When burning a white candle, pay attention to the smoke. When it starts to smoke, negative energy is being cleansed from that area. When the smoke subsides, the energy in that area is cleanse and clear.

Take caution in purchasing a white candle that is too inexpensive. Inexpensive white candles smoke too readily and can confuse you. However, I would also not advise going to the extreme and looking for top-of-the-line candles. Use common sense and buy moderately. When working with candles, always use caution and do not leave them unattended.

Candle Color Interpretation

WHITE Purity, power, newness, spells, healing, peace, and psychic skills. White will intensify the effect of any color candle it is used with.  

BLACK Removal of negative energy; not a color of evil or negativity. Release and banish.

BLUE Peace, tranquility, protection, fidelity, astral projection.

BROWN Protection for the household; telepathy, stability.

SILVER Neutralizer of negative energy or forces.

GREEN Prosperity, money, success; counteracts jealousy, ambition.

ORANGE Provides additional energy needed for work or other endeavors; promotes order, control over the self.

PINK Love, friendship, romance, affection, giving.

PURPLE Intuition, psychic pursuits, power and independence, wisdom.

RED Fertility, physical strength, sexual passion, courage.

YELLOW Well-being, self-esteem, attraction, glamour, action.  

As mentioned earlier, this chart can be used as a guide for making clothing color choices.

In my experience, people have either love incense or they have an aversion to it.

⚪11⚪

Incense and Fragrance

Incense also comes in different sizes, shapes, and forms. Some types of incense are already labeled with names reflecting the effects they hope to achieve: There is stress-relieving incense, energy incense, love incense, and so on.

Some people prefer to burn potpourri or oils. One of the purposes of incense in these particular rituals is to bring you into an altered state of consciousness in the most peaceful way possible. If the smell of sage or sandalwood calms you, use it. But if your sinuses say no, give them respect.

Don't get caught up in what others have decided is the best aroma for you. For example, studies have shown citrus fragrances promote energy, and the smell of lilac can calm us. But don't force yourself to inhale a scent if you don't care for simply because the label states "incense for romance." Always buy what you enjoy.

Experimenting with new aromas is also fun. Most incense is inexpensive and sometimes sold by the stick. One thing to be careful of: If you are going to do a spell inside or in a small area, try your new purchase out prior to its actual use. Otherwise, you may be subject to a disagreeable smell for hours, if not days. Incense can take a while to dissipate and may linger in the air for a long period of time.

Here are some recommended sense and herbs you may want to try that correspond to a certain magickal work. Remember: These are only suggestions and not a must.

👤 Health Bay, Carnation, Cedar, Eucalyptus, Juniper, Lavender, Lemon Balm, Myrrh, Pine, Sage, Sandalwood, Thyme 💞 Love Apple, Musk, Rose, Ambergris, Basil, Cinnamon, Chamomile, Dragon's Blood, Jasmine, Lemongrass, Patchouli, Peppermint 📠 Career \ Job Vanilla, Allspice, Cloves, Nutmeg, Pine, Wisteria, Heliotrope, Spruce, Sage, Mint, Honeysuckle, Cedar, Bayberry 🌹 Women's Issues Musk, Orange, Hyacinth, Myrrh, Pine, Rose 🐯 Men's Issues Musk, Cedar, Jasmine 🌅 Spirituality Frankincense, Heliotrope, Jasmine, Sweetgrass, Gardenia, Pine, Sage, Violet, Sandalwood, Rose

⚪12⚪

Crystals and Gemstones

Crystals bring life to our quartz watches. They receive and transmit radio waves. Without quartz crystals, the computer age would never have happened: They are what make up integrated circuits and electronic chips.

The power of crystals go far beyond the products we have derived from them. They are important tools in magick, having the ability to focus and direct energy to a specific intention. Some say they have healing powers, mentally, physically, and spiritually.

Many other stones also have special energy that can assist in your spells. For a quick reference, I’ve listed a few below. But this is a huge area of exploration. If you want to know more, your local bookstore or library will certainly contain numerous books on the subject.

Gem Stone Qualities

A special note about quartz crystals: These stones are available in nature stores, gem shops, and most New Age gift stores in rough or polished form. You need not spend more than a few dollars on your crystals. Start with something small, and go to a larger size if you feel it's necessary. If you are unsure of which is the best stone to intensify your spells, use a clear quartz crystal. Clear quartz crystal stimulates healing, balances the elements to fulfill us and make us whole. Aids psychic development. Amethyst a very powerful spell stone. Psychics and healers have used its curative properties for years. Helpful in dispelling anger and anxiety, aids in feeling less scattered. Carnelian often called the stone of good luck. Said to purify the blood, stimulate sexual emotions, and aid in sexual function. Lapis lazuli draws love to us. It is also reputed to be effective in healing headaches, high blood pressure, depression, insomnia, and other such ailments. Malachite increases energy, is connected to change and creativeness. The Egyptians wore crushed malachite as eye shadow to guard against the evil eye. Moonstone is said to be a stone of magic. It increases psychic abilities and is used widely for spell rituals. Astral projection is accelerated when using a moonstone. Rose quartz also known as the love stone. A stone and that deals with the energy of all the emotions. Turquoise builds strength, provides protection. It is a sacred stone to the Native Americans. It is a protective stone for horses and their riders. In Arabia it is a stone of meditation. It has equality of absorbing negative energy. When purchasing, carefully touch the crystals at the store. A stone chooses you, you don't choose it. It would just “feel good” to you, having something the others don't possess. Use your gut feeling ----- which is your intuition talking to you.

Charging Your Crystal

Once you find your crystal, it needs to be "cleared, charged, and programmed." Cleanse it of a past owner’s energy and \ or the energy that has been placed on it by individuals examining it by washing it in cold water or letting it sit in a bowl of water.

Next, use the Moon to charge the crystal. Place it overnight in view of one of the phases listed below:

New Moon a crystal charged in this phase specifically offers energy that supports new beginnings, confidence, hope, and specifically anything of increase. Full Moon a crystal charged in this phase brings power to support anything you want to achieve. This is actually the best all-around phase to utilize.

Once you have cleared and charged your crystal the last step is to program it. Hold it in your hand, and focus on the vibrational energy you are looking for to accomplish your goal. Visualize your final goal, but not the way you think you're going to get there.

For example: if you want to lose twenty pounds, see yourself on the scale twenty pounds thinner. Don't try to analyze the way it will come about. This is best left to your higher power to solve.

If you choose, you can program any of your other gemstones as well.

⚪13⚪

Element Water

Throughout the spells you will see the use of what I refer to as element water. Element water is basically water that has been charged to help you do magick during a thunderstorm.

It represents fire, earth, air, and water, a forceful mix of elements at their highest potency. Lightning represents fire, which corresponds to power, energy, magick, and lust. Thunder represents air, which corresponds to spirituality, health, and knowledge. The strength of the storm represents earth, which corresponds to nature, being grounded, wisdom, and all things material. The rain itself represents water, which corresponds to emotions, reflection, love, creativity, and purification.

How to Make Element Water

Basically you are collecting rainwater with intention. First you will need a container to collect the water. I have used glass, plastic, clay pottery, and almost any type of container one can use, and I have seen no difference. You may feel a natural material is better or something you feel special has more impact. If these are your thoughts, then seek a special container. I personally use two or three chalices.

The important thing is that the container is new or extremely cleaned, having been sterilized in a dishwasher or by boiling if is made of glass. If the container is new, still clean it to remove energies from other people who may have handled it. Because thunderstorms are not all that common, I recommend obtaining as much water as possible so you will always have some on hand.

If you know that a storm is approaching, take your container and place it in a spot where it will collect water. Some people always leave a container outside just in case, and others only place one out when they are almost certain storm is near.

After the storm and your water has been collected, you should invoke a "hand blessing." Place both hands above the container with your palms facing down and say, "Bless this water. May it empower my intentions."

Now, transfer your element water into a practical container for later use if you are not going to use it immediately. A glass or plastic jug or bottle with a lid is a good choice.

The water is not limited to use only during rituals. It can also be used to bless something. Feel free to separate your water into smaller bottles for traveling or even to give a small bottle to a friend. It is a perfect gift for someone who is like-minded because it comes from nature and you have put your personal energy into it with good thoughts and well-wishes.

Around the holidays, I take element water and put it in tiny plastic containers with little labels that read, “Element Water.” I then tie ribbons around the necks of the containers and give them to special friends in case they want to bless something. I use element water to bless my car, computer, office, home, and the cat next door!

Special Notes

Element water will only be powerful when rain, lightning, and thunder are all present. An average rain will not do.

Do not use water that flows from a gutter! It may seem to be a very easy solution, especially if you want a large amount quickly. However, the fact is the rainwater being channeled through the gutter is not as pure as water coming directly from the sky because it has picked up debris.

Do not be concerned about pollution in the air when gathering water. Your blessing over the water purifies it.

Do not drink the water, as it is not meant for your inner body.

If you are not in an area where you are able to collect water, ask a friend to do it for you. However, you must conduct the “hand blessing” once it is in your possession.

Be cautious in thunderstorms and do not go out when lightning is about. For safety reasons, wait till the storm is over to bring your collected water inside.

⚪14⚪

Additional Magickal Tools

Other magickal tools mentioned in spells will include the following. Feel free to substitute what is available or what works for you.

Wand or knife: Sword, athame, letter opener, or any type of wand or long crystal. Any pointed object that extends as a pointer will work. One can purchase decorative wands displaying gemstones and crystals in New Age gift stores, fantasy stores, or through Internet Web sites. A double-edged knife is also available through the same sources. Fire burning container: Iron pot, mini-chiminera ( small Mexican fireplace ), ashtray, metal trash can, cauldron. Anything that can contain a piece of paper being burned within a safe vessel. Special drinking glass: Any container that can hold wine or grape juice: wine glass, cup, bowl, chalice, or favorite goblet. Optional tools:

Flowers and fruit

Religious statues or holy cards

Tarot cards or Runes ( or other methods for telling future events; psychic forms divination )

Pendulum ( Click here for information on making decisions using a pendulum )

Pentacle or pentagram symbol ( The pentacle is a five pointed star with lines connecting with a circle encompassing it. A pentagram is the same five point star but has no circle. This symbol represents the elements earth, air, fire, water, and what is sometimes known as the fifth element, spirit. A pentacle or pentagram can also represent the human body with legs and arms outstretched. This symbol is often used in rituals as a form of protection while the ritual is underway. The star should always be in an upright position. The reverse is considered to be negative.)

[[ Image Source ]]

Cross ----- any kind ( The universal symbol of a cross represents the bringing together of multiple dualities into a single whole. It can represent human form with extended arms, as well as crossroads in your life. Crosses have numerous religious and spiritual meanings.)

Bells ( A bell can be rung to invoke universal powers and note the beginning of a ritual. Some people use bells as a form of protection to keep evil away. )

Who knows what contains magic and love for each individual? But I do know if you have such items, you should hold them dear and use them to assist you.

⚪15⚪

Personal Altars

To have a personal altar is by no means a requirements for doing spell work, but it is an excellent place in which to keep your magical tools and to worship whomever you choose. Use it not only as a storage for these special items but also has a place to pray, meditate, and to receive answers from your higher self.

An altar can be any area that is flat. It can be a separate small table or any action on your dresser. The top of a large sound speaker could be used; a bookshelf or two cement block with a piece of wood laid across them would do. Once again, you get to be creative.

You may not want to have a permanent altar but prefer to set up a temporary one just for your spell use. Your altar can typically would display items such as candles, incense, wands, knives, gemstones, statues, chalices, element or holy water, and anything else you would use as a special component that had spiritual and enchanting properties. I do not feel there is any special way to set up an altar. Moving things around until it looks and feels right to you.

An outside altar is also a lovely thing to create if possible. It can be built near a favorite tree using stones and bricks. You may construct a special table outside made of wood. To make it easier, use a tree stump or a rock that is fairly level.

When fashioning an altar, try to stay away from the use of too much metal. Natural materials are always the best. However, if your only choice is an altar containing a lot of metal, tried to cover it. Use a natural fabric or put a piece of wood over it. Try to keep things natural.

As for the direction to face your altar, there are many schools of thought. Some suggest facing north because it is the most grounded direction. Others will recommend facing the altar east because it is the direction the Sun and Moon rise. Each direction has a special meaning and place. Therefore, I feel you should put it anywhere in which it is practical.

I have seen rolling altars, where people have made altars on the top of units that have wheels so they can roll through a room to face the direction they feel it needs to face for a particular spell or meditation. A rolling altar can also be kept out of the way in a closet if you are pressed for space.

Altars are extremely personal, as well as very interesting, and there is no right or wrong way in which to set up this area of sacred items.

[language-of-love]

sweater weather: fireplace and whiskey...

This is the first of many fall prompt fics I’ll be writing over the next few months. This one came from @durbanskies! I’ll be posting these all as a series titled “sweater weather” on AO3 as well. (2000 words, M rated)

🍂

A sudden gust of wind makes the flame of David’s cinnamon and clove candle dance and almost burn out, but it hangs on, straightening itself once again after a long moment in the deep orange glass holder on their coffee table. He’d close the windows, but the last of the smoke still needs to clear from the apartment before Patrick gets home. So much for romantic whims, he thinks to himself as he kneels back down in front of the fireplace to try this again, hopefully without setting the apartment on fire this time around. How was he supposed to know there was such a thing called a flue and that thing he’d never heard of needed to be opened before using your fireplace? This is not something people like David Rose are taught. Thankfully, putting “my fireplace is filling with smoke” into YouTube proved quite enlightening. While he was there, he found a pretty handy tutorial on how to light the perfect fire, which he hits play on now.

By the time he’s back on his feet, he’s feeling pretty damn proud of himself. The fire looks just like the digital yule log Twyla had playing on George’s laptop at the cafe last Christmas, just without the random cat that kept strolling in and out of the frame. 

The alarm on his phone goes off and he rushes to the stove, lifting the lid off the pot of butternut squash soup he’s been simmering all afternoon. Giving it a taste, he grabs the nutmeg and tips a tiny bit more in, stirring until it disappears into the buttery orange bisque. It’s been fun finding new recipes online that he can impress Patrick with, but this one is an old favorite. Back in New York, as soon as the leaves would show the first hint of fall color, he’d make weekly trips to the farmer’s market near the park, filling his bags with as many autumn vegetables as he could carry. He’d loved cooking then, usually for himself or a few of his drag queen friends from down the hall, finding that it calmed his anxiety as it forced him to pay attention to the recipes instead of whatever happened to be stressing him out at that particular moment. 

Since coming to Schitt’s Creek, he’d fallen out of practice without a kitchen. With him living with Patrick in his apartment now, he’s taken full advantage of this mediocre, but passable stove. Seeing Patrick react to his cooking, it’s been a revelation, something David has come to cherish as they continue to learn all the little things about each other that only time spent could have ever revealed. 

On queue, David hears the door unlock and Patrick steps into the apartment, his cheeks adorably pink from the early fall chill that’s fallen over the town. 

“It smells amazing in here,” Patrick says with a grin, dropping his keys in the bowl on the counter before pressing himself up against David’s back. Strong arms wrap around his waist and David smiles, shivering slightly at the feel of Patrick’s cold lips pressing a kiss into the side of his neck. After all this time, David’s body still thrums with awareness whenever Patrick is near, his nerve endings firing away like homing beacons, pulsing faster the closer he gets. 

“I think it’s almost ready. You can change and then meet me by the fire.” David tries for nonchalance, but he’s sure Patrick can hear that he’s smiling like a fool. He’s still really proud of that damn fire.

“Fire? Oh!” Patrick’s arms slide free and David turns to see Patrick smiling in wonder at the fireplace. “I wasn’t sure if we’d ever get around to actually having a real fire in there.”

“Oh, it was easy,” David lies, turning quickly back to his soup to give it an unnecessary stir. 

“I’m surprised the flue was open, with this being the first time we’ve used it.” Patrick crosses over to their bedroom and kicks off his shoes before moving to lift his sweater up and over his head. “It’s a little chilly in here, mind if I close the windows?”

“Go ahead, I was just a little flushed after lighting the fire and needed to cool down.” David isn’t a fan of lying, but this is such a silly little white one that he doesn’t really see the harm. Rather unabashedly, he indulges in watching Patrick change into sweatpants and a long sleeve t-shirt, which Patrick notices, earning David a knowing smile. Before leaving the bedroom, Patrick turns off the bedside lamps, leaving the only light left on in the apartment the one illuminating the kitchen. 

David reaches into the cabinet for the bowls, carefully ladling just the right amount into each and finishing with one large sourdough crouton he’d baked in the oven with cinnamon and butter. Patrick appears at his side, eyes warm and maybe a bit sleepy as he grabs for the whiskey and two of the nice tumblers they’d brought home from the store. David carries the soup to the couch and sets the bowls on the coffee table, reaching for the blanket to put over their legs while he waits for Patrick to join him. The light in the kitchen goes out and the small flame from the candle and roaring fire turns their apartment into a cozy light show, oranges and gold dancing with the shadows as Patrick sidles in to join David on the sofa.

He sits close, thighs and knees like magnets as David covers their legs with the blanket and passes Patrick his soup. 

“I wasn’t expecting a romantic date tonight, babe,” Patrick says as he leans in close, “so this is a really welcome surprise.” He kisses David’s cheek, but David wants more, quickly turning his head to catch Patrick’s lips. Patrick smiles into the kiss, pecking David’s cupid’s bow two times before pulling back to turn his attention to his soup. David is suddenly jealous of his own cooking, but if something is going to pull Patrick’s attention away from him, at least it’s this.

They eat together in comfortable silence, their bodies drifting closer together the emptier their bowls get. By the time they’re finished, Patrick is cuddled under David’s arm, one hand curled around his whiskey while the other is tucked under the blanket between David’s knees. It’s perfect. Beyond perfect, really. It’s like a dream come true. 

David takes a sip of his drink, already a bit lightheaded from the strong liquor, but the feeling isn’t unwelcome. He’s comfortably warm, heat from the fire, the whiskey and Patrick’s body melting all the tension from his body in languid, peaceful waves. There’s a small sliver of skin at Patrick’s side where his shirt has ridden up and David takes full advantage, running the pads of his fingertips back and forth until he feels Patrick shudder lightly against his chest. Patrick responds by moving the hand between David’s knees up to the inside of David’s thigh, squeezing lightly as he lets his pinky wander just a bit higher. 

Heat fills David’s cheeks and he takes another sip of his drink, smiling into the rim of the glass as he dips his hand just below the waistband of Patrick’s sweatpants at his hip. They’ve done a similar dance like this before, minus the romantic fire and whiskey, but with one of Patrick’s baseball games playing on his laptop with David pretending to read his book. The conclusion will hopefully be the same.

Patrick tilts his head back to drain his glass before leaning forward to place it on the table, his hand on David’s leg slipping further up so when he sits back he’s pressing right into the crease of David’s thigh. He doesn’t make any other move, just settles back against David’s shoulder as if his actions are completely innocent, which has David squeezing his eyes shut in delicious frustration. There’s an embarrassing shake to his hand when he takes the last sip of his drink, sure that Patrick can feel just how turned on he is by this little game. When Patrick’s hand shifts in that moment to cup David’s erection, the thankfully empty tumbler falls from David’s fingers to the end of the sofa cushion as David’s entire body bows with relief. 

He tries to speak, but only manages to mumble out a broken “Pat..rick…” as Patrick’s fingers tighten and begin to move, the soft fabric of David’s lounge pants creating a mind-numbing friction that’s both not enough and so amazing he doesn’t know what to ask for. But then Patrick is turning and even in the firelight, David can see the desire darkening his usual honey colored eyes to warm molasses. When Patrick kisses him, it’s with intention, open mouthed and hungry, hands now shoving their blanket to the floor before urging David onto his back. 

The fire is hot now as they make out, heat licking at each bit of skin revealed as hands grip at shirts and grope into pants. David loves feeling Patrick’s weight pushing him into the sofa cushions, the scratch of his stubble against David’s cheek as Patrick nibbles on David’s earlobe. It’s the best kind of torture, both of them hard and aching, David’s hands gripping Patrick’s ass beneath his sweatpants as he lifts his hips, smiling as Patrick’s breath comes out in a hot gasp against David’s throat. 

Patrick finds David’s mouth again, curling his arms under David’s shoulders as he slides his tongue past David’s lips, sweeping slow and deep as he grinds down between David’s open legs. It’s just this close to too much and David fears he’s about to fall apart. But Patrick is unrelenting, mouth hot and demanding as he continues to pump his hips, obviously uncaring that they are both about to make an absolute mess of themselves while still wearing their pants. Fuck, David doesn’t care either. Gripping Patrick harder, he gives as good as he’s getting, sucking hard on Patrick’s tongue until they both have to take a few heaving breaths. 

“Fuck,” Patrick pants against David’s lips, “you feel so good, I’m so close…”

“Me too,” David agrees on a long breath, “kiss me again.” 

Patrick does. And David comes. Hips bucking up as he guides Patrick down, his hand sliding around between them to grip Patrick inside his boxers, feeling his release after a few quick strokes. 

David is sweaty and sticky, but he doesn’t care, well, maybe a little, but he’ll deal with that in a minute. Patrick, however, is an unmoving mass on David’s chest, his heavy breathing the only sign of life. 

“You okay up there?” David jokes, squeezing Patrick’s ass with the hand still gripping it. 

“Need a minute,” Patrick mumbles, words barely audible as his head is now buried against the couch cushion by David’s ear. 

They do, eventually, make it off the couch and into the shower, both of them crawling naked into bed with the last of the fire still crackling in the fireplace. As they lie there facing each other on the mattress, Patrick tracing David’s lower lip with his thumb, David sees Patrick’s face light up with a smile.

“So, how long did it take you to realize the flue was closed?” Patrick asks, thumb pressing into David’s dimple the second David’s lips can’t fight his own crooked smile.

“How did you know?”

“I closed it the other day when I saw a few leaves had fallen into the grate. I’m actually a bit surprised you knew how to open it.”

A flash of a memory of a very important day crosses David’s mind and he shuffles a bit closer to Patrick, curling an arm around his waist.

“I watched a lot of YouTube tutorials.”

Patrick gives him a fond smile as he lifts his chin, whispering “very impressive” against David’s lips as they both get lost in a sleepy kiss. 

[glorifiedscapegoat]

Happy New Year’s!

Happy New Year’s, everyone! My name's Mira, and we're kicking off 2019 with some NSFW No.6 stuff! This was originally a Christmas gift for my friend @just-something-miraculous, but now it's here on the Archive and tumblr, so I hope you enjoy it.

Title: blindfolds, silk, and lace (Ao3 Link)

Fandom: No.6 (All Media Types)

Characters: Nezumi, Shion

Pairing: Nezumi/Shion

Rating: M

Tags: BDSM, post-reunion

Summary:  "Hmph." A gust of warmth against Shion's stomach. He clenched his fists, his own short nails digging into the palms of his hands. He strained against the silk trapping his wrists to the headboard as Nezumi's canines traced a path from his navel to his pelvic bone. "What am I going to do with you?"

Shion could hear the curtains flapping in the warm autumn breeze. It was an odd thing to focus on, he thought, the sound of fabric rustling in the other room. Their cramped little apartment didn't have much space for an air conditioning unit, so they'd had to crack all the windows to get a comfortable draft going.

Shion thought about asking Nezumi to go into the next room and shut the windows. He didn't want to get too involved before thinking to mention something—lest he ruin the mood. Shion didn't like ruining the mood. For him, at least, it was difficult to get back into character. Shion wasn't a skilled actor. He wasn't even B-List.

The sound of the bedroom door closing blocked out the rustling of the curtains. The windows had slotted shades, and the screens had been cracked just enough to let a cool gust of wind wash over Shion's skin. Goosebumps rose on his arms and legs. His entire body was bare aside from a pair of black boxers, made of silk. Shion had spent more on this single pair than he'd ever spent on a three-pack of cotton boxer shorts, but at the time, it'd been worth it.

For Shion, the sexual appeal of these games came from the dilution of the senses. The temporary thrill of danger. The inability to know. The white blindfold around his eyes, settling above his ears and flattening his bangs to his forehead, prevented him from seeing the person he could feel sitting on the edge of the bed.

The same could not be said of Nezumi. Danger had never been a turn-on for him—but the ability to manipulate the game, to seize control and work a scene the way a puppet master worked a set of strings, was a powerful aphrodisiac.

Nezumi liked to dominate as much as Shion enjoyed being dominated. And Shion had found excitement in the ability to trust someone to cut off his senses, to blind him and bind him and leave him unable to fight back, and to stop when Shion had enough.

With the blindfold on, Shion couldn't see Nezumi, but he knew what he looked like. When Shion had first proposed the game several months ago, Nezumi spent hours agonizing over which outfit to wear. He'd stolen several of his costumes from the theater's dressing room and dragged them home for Shion to scrutinize.

Juliet's gentle pink frock didn't scream control at all. Hero's haunting white wedding dress had a mix of lace running down the spine that Shion thought was gorgeous, but the sight of it hadn't wowed him as much as it had when Nezumi wore it on stage. Ophelia's gown would do as a last resort, but Shion didn't find her to be all that intimidating, as far as heroines went.

In the end, it had been Lady Macbeth's dress that Shion picked. The deep wine-red of the fabric scratched against his bare legs when Nezumi perched at the edge of the bed and ran a long nail—lacquered and painted crimson, especially for this game—from Shion's navel to the hem of his boxer shorts. Shion remembered being enamored and a little frightened when Nezumi first swept from behind the wings during the theater’s Spring performance of Macbeth, his long hair swept up in a stern bun, the curve of his throat gloriously white against the material of the dress.

"This one," Shion had insisted, desperately trying to control the tremor in his voice, shifting to conceal the sudden growth in his jeans. "You should wear this one."

Nezumi's fingers against his skin hesitated for a moment. Shion's imagination remembered the sweep of mascara surrounding those devastating silver eyes. Nezumi's coworker, Tana, had stayed after hours to teach him how to make a wing. Shion had woken in the middle of the night to the sound of Nezumi fumbling with the eyeliner pen, muttering under his breath when the line wasn't crisp enough.

Shion could feel the weight of Nezumi's body on the edge of the bed, his hips angling toward the dip in the mattress. His arms were splayed above his head, tied to the slots in the headboard with pieces of silk cord that bit into the skin just enough to sting but never to cut. Nezumi had never been comfortable with rope, and Shion didn't enjoy handcuffs. After a rather unfortunate incident about a month ago, and a series of uncomfortable weeks where Shion hated himself for not following the rules of self-binding safety, Nezumi and Shion agreed to never use something that couldn't be broken with a little effort. The silk holding Shion to the headboard now kept him restrained well enough, but if Shion exerted a bit more force than usual, he could rip them.

The silk gave each of Shion's hands about six inches of movement. Not enough to be of much use, but better than absolute restraint. Sometimes during the games, Shion flashed back to the cold terror that had gripped him all those weeks ago when he realized he couldn't get out. Feeling daring one evening, while waiting for Nezumi to return home after rehearsal, Shion had attempted a binding method he’d discovered on the Internet that left him unable to escape on his own. His plan had been for Nezumi discover him and dive immediately into another game—but Nezumi had been late coming home. Two hours late.

If he'd come home even a moment later—well, neither of them liked to think much about what could have happened.

Shion didn't worry about not being able to end it. Nezumi dominated the game, but the real power rested in Shion's ability to stop it with a word. Two words, to be exact. He and Nezumi had spent long days pitching ideas for safe words, struggling over something that would match the nature of their game but also provide an exit.

Two weeks after Shion had proposed the game, thirteen days after Nezumi had agreed to explore it, Shion had pitched the phrase: "Forgive me."

Matching the dominating tone of their game, Shion believed the words worked because Nezumi didn't like it when Shion apologized for things that weren't his fault. Nezumi didn't like apologies.

And so "Forgive me" had become Shion's "Stop." It had become Nezumi's "No." Shion had placed the entirety of his trust in those words, in Nezumi, in the love that he had for the other man and in the knowledge that Nezumi would never hurt him.

When Shion said "forgive me", the game ended. Then and there. No room for negotiation. No hurt feelings. When Nezumi said "forgive me", Shion became himself again. He stepped out of the role of dominated playmate and Nezumi emerged from the cocoon of dominating mistress.

Nezumi's fingers resumed their exploration of the skin on Shion's stomach. Shion arched into the touch and whimpered. The cool end-of-summer air was sharp against his bare flesh, and the buzz of excitement that burst through him was narrowed down to the path of Nezumi's nails.

Shion's spine lifted off the bed. The balls of his feet dug into the comforter—plush and soft and smelling of expensive cologne and perfume. Part of the game involved taking Shion's mind away from the comforts of home, tricking his senses into believing he was somewhere other than the third bedroom, the smallest, in his and Nezumi's little apartment. Nezumi had practically soaked the blankets in the clove-scented mist he'd purchased at the market downtown. Shion's back pressed into the fabric, slightly damp where Nezumi had held down the nozzle too long.

"Well," said Nezumi, and the lilting sound of his voice sent pleasurable shivers through Shion's spine. "I didn't think you'd be this excited." His nails traveled south, hooking in the hem of Shion's boxers.

During these games, Nezumi slipped into his "Eve" voice. Slightly raised and melodic, a faint echo of his own sarcastic snap. It was similar enough to Nezumi's usual sound for Shion to be comforted, but different enough for Shion to differentiate between Nezumi and Eve.

Shion shuddered at the sharp sensation of nails against his hip bone. He wondered if Nezumi had forgone cutting them to be prepared for the game. "N—Nezumi." His eyes were squeezed shut behind the blindfold. A comfortable grey buzz began in the back of his skull.

"’Nezumi’?" That musical voice lifted at the end, an obvious question. Shion could hear the scowl in his voice, the feigned disgust at Shion's impudence. "Getting a bit ahead of ourselves, aren't we?"

Shion's stomach clenched. A thrill of excitement and just a dash of terror went through him, from the tips of his toes to the top of his head. "Ah, I—I'm sorry, I didn't mean—"

Something sharp and damp clamped around Shion's left hip. He arched off the bed with a yelp. Punishment. He was grateful Nezumi had bitten somewhere he could easily hide. It'd been a little awkward to have to wear a turtleneck in the middle of June.

"What's my name?" Shion felt the soft brush of Nezumi's lips above the hem of his boxer shorts. The warm puff of breath against his skin.

"E—Eve."

"Again."

"Eve." Those sharp nails brushed against the fabric of Shion's boxers, and then the expensive silk was sliding down his legs. They caught at his knees, but Shion shifted his legs without thinking. The cool air fluttered over his too-warm body. He shivered.

The hard sensation of Nezumi's teeth pressed into Shion's skin, again. The groove of the indentations formed in a deep oval. Shion could feel the bruise forming. "Say it again," Nezumi demanded.

"Eve," Shion whispered.

"Again."

Something wonderful was happening, Shion realized. There were parts of himself that lingered beneath the security of his skin. Little bits and pieces of a broader picture that, at first glance, nobody paid much attention to because of their insignificance. These games, however, brought those minuscule tatters to the forefront of Shion’s mind. Nezumi brought them out. Nezumi—and Eve, in the confines of the game itself—saw the entire picture of Shion at first glance. All the parts that were beautiful and hideous and cruel and overwhelmingly amazing.

“Eve,” Shion said, louder this time, and Nezumi’s hand came to rest on the bite marks. Small, purple bruises would be there in the morning.

Nezumi was a heavy weight above him—and Shion was tempted to take off the blindfold without asking. Partly because he wanted to see Nezumi, and mostly because he wanted to make Nezumi mad. He wanted Eve to get mad at him.

Shion has never thought of himself as someone who enjoyed pain. And he didn't enjoy it in large quantities. But little bits, tiny flickers—and especially when it came in the form of painted lips and a wine red dress, there was nothing in the world he wanted more.

"Hmph." A gust of warmth against Shion's stomach. He clenched his fists, his own short nails digging into the palms of his hands. He strained against the silk trapping his wrists to the headboard as Nezumi's canines traced a path from his navel to his pelvic bone. "What am I going to do with you?"

Everything. Shion leaned into the weight against his stomach, the heat radiating from Nezumi's body. He shifted his hips, feeling a slow ache forming in his lower stomach, a pressure that crept up his spine and into the base of his neck.

The game wasn't new. This wasn't the first time—when things had been awkward and hilarious. The first night, Nezumi had strutted around the bedroom in his red dress with his hair piled on top of his head like a crown, dramatically reciting Shakespeare while Shion curled in a ball on the mattress and laughed until it hurt too much to speak. And yet, despite the fact that the game had been played well over a dozen times, there was still that same magic, that same wondrous amazement, of discovering something new. Shion discovered something new about Nezumi, and about himself, every single time they were together.

With his eyes completely covered, Shion couldn't see Nezumi, but he could picture him. He could see the red line of Nezumi's lips as he smirked, smearing a smudge of scarlet along the crook of Shion's inner thigh. Nezumi was pressed close enough that, when he blinked, his eyelashes dusted against the scar on Shion's leg. There would probably be tiny scratches of black when Shion looked. He loved those tiny markings. Loved those things that made the game so real. Loved that Nezumi was here with him and that he'd come back at last.

Shion opened his mouth to beg—and then Nezumi's lips were on him, kissing Shion in places he'd never imagined he would be kissed. Shion knew what a blowjob was from a practical standpoint, but experience was much different than speculation.

Shion dug his heels into the mattress. He whined when Nezumi's hands clamped around his hips and forced them back on the bed. Nezumi drew back and hissed “stop it” against his thighs, and the sharp command in his voice sent bolts of excitement racing through Shion's body.

"Stop it," Nezumi repeated, digging his nails into Shion's skin and forcing him to keep still.

Nezumi was stronger than him. Even without restraints, Shion would never be able to fight him off. He whimpered and tossed his head against the pillows. He pulled on his restraints and thought, for a moment, that he might rip the silk in half.

And then the warmth was leaving him. The bed creaked as Nezumi shifted his weight. Shion could sense him sitting on the edge of the bed again. Could picture the elegant curve of his throat, the dark hairs gathered at the nape of his neck.

"I gave you an order," Nezumi said, the words sliding over his tongue like water. "And you keep not listening."

"Then do something about it!" Shion demanded, the words leaving his mouth before he could think to stop them.

For a long moment, Nezumi didn’t move. Shion closed his eyes behind the blindfold and took a deep, steadying breath. He could picture Nezumi perched at the bed, looking down at him with that blank expression. One fine, dark eyebrow raised over those fierce silver eyes. A queen passing judgment on an unworthy subject.

Perhaps Nezumi was smiling a bit. Perhaps he’d broken character for a moment: a brief upward quirk of those painted lips. Shion doubted it. Nezumi was a very good actor.

“Very well,” Nezumi said, the gentle lilt of his voice sending shivers through the pit of Shion’s stomach. He knew that voice. He liked that voice very much. “I’ll do something about it...if you’re good. Can you be good, Shion?”

A warm buzz had muddled Shion’s mind into a horrendous pile of gray and crimson. His tongue was a thick weight in his mouth. He couldn’t form the one word he knew Nezumi wanted to hear. Yes. Rather than attempt to speak, Shion nodded quickly. The gray haze flickered with bits of white, and Shion’s entire body fluttered with excitement.

Nezumi placed his hands against Shion’s thighs and began guiding them apart. Shion didn’t resist. In previous games, when he felt a bit more defiant, he would shift around and stick his tongue out when Nezumi growled at him to stop moving. Other times, he would beg and shiver when Nezumi’s amused laughter shot through him like bolts of lightning.

Today, however, Shion felt like handing complete control of the situation over to Nezumi. He’d already been as defiant as he wished—he’d made Eve scold him and punish him a little, which was always exciting.

These games had evolved so much in just a few short months. It had started small: no costumes, no makeup, no pretending. Just Nezumi tying Shion’s hands together with a silk scarf he’d accidentally brought home from the theater, progressing from there to expensive rope designed specifically for bondage that Shion had, at first, reprimanded Nezumi for purchasing.

Experimentation and communication. Those had been the two factors in the development of these games. Dozens of conversations that continued to cycle through Shion’s mind, even now: Stop laughing at me, I was trying to sound sexy. Um, Nezumi? Did you get waterproof lipstick, because this isn’t coming off. Are you all right? Yes, Nezumi, I’m fine. I’ll tell you if I’m not. Trust me.

Shion's back arched off the bed, a breathless cry snapping out of his lips. Nezumi was a hard, sudden weight on top of him, inside of him. Shion's eyelids fluttered behind the blindfold. He felt the familiar, pulsating warmth against his hips. Ribbed. The condom Nezumi was wearing must have been one of those ribbed ones. That was new.

Nezumi's lips dusted along the curve of Shion's cheek. Shion felt him mouthing words against the shell of his ear, airbrushing that red lipstick into his hair. Are you all right?

Shion smiled around the pleasurable ache radiating through him. This was the only time during the game when Nezumi became himself without the safe word. The only time he broke character.

Shion nodded, rolling his hips and feeling the new, unfamiliar sensation of the ribbed condom inside him. He was all right. He’d prepped himself while Nezumi had dressed in the bathroom. The little voices in his head that’d made him embarrassed about these things months ago had long since vanished. It was impossible to feel embarrassed or insecure when Nezumi looked at him the way he did. When Nezumi looked at him and talked to him and treated him like he was the most beautiful thing in the world.

The scratchy fabric of Lady Macbeth’s dress pooled around Shion’s legs. Shion’s hands were bound, so he couldn’t dig his fingers into the blades of Nezumi’s shoulders. Couldn’t curl his fingers in those long strands of hair and take down the braids Nezumi had spent almost an hour winding together.

Shion could feel Nezumi inside him. Every inch of him, every place where their skin touched and their bodies connected. He squeezed his eyes shut and clenched his teeth. Nezumi panted in his ear as Shion adjusted to it. Small movements, gentle rolls of their connected hips that had Shion seeing red and black stars behind his closed eyelids.

Nezumi went slower than Shion wanted. Much slower. Several aggravated demands formed on the tip of his tongue, but Shion caged them behind his clenched teeth. He’d played this game long enough to know that arguing would only make Nezumi go slower. Or worse, pull out completely. Shion had already been punished once in this round of the game—if he wanted anything, he would have to beg.

A strangled “please” cracked off Shion’s tongue and dissipated into the air between them. He couldn’t form anything stronger than that. Damn. He wasn’t even sure Nezumi could hear him over the crinkling of the fabric.

Another slight withdrawal, and then Nezumi plunged back in. Shion’s spine arched off the mattress. He choked out a breathless grunt.

Something sharp nicked his throat. Nezumi moved inside him, hard and sudden, and sunk his teeth in the soft space between Shion’s throat and his shoulder.

Shion couldn’t tell if he was saying anything. Couldn’t tell if the please’s firing off in his mind were making their way off his tongue or not. He didn’t care.

Tingles began to form at the base of his spine. Shion never lasted long in these games. And, for that matter, neither did Nezumi. Shion could feel Nezumi’s breath on his neck, could hear the sharp intakes of breath next to his ear. One of Shion’s whispered pleas must have made it out into the world, because Nezumi had begun to move harder. Either that, or he’d grown desperate for something other than slow friction.

Shion’s arms jerked, the strips of cloth straining against the headboard. He hoped he didn’t rip them, as Nezumi finally gave him everything he wanted. Nezumi always did. Regardless of the teasing, the impish smirks and the pretense, Nezumi always made sure Shion got what he wanted. It was his apology for taking four years to return. His thanks that Shion had waited for him, welcomed him back without hesitation. His assurance that he wouldn’t vanish in the middle of the night with no promises of return.

And then, all at once, Shion broke into pieces. Every inch of him fractured into bits, blown away into nothing but dust in the wind. Nezumi’s arms latched around him, gathering all the splintered pieces and holding them together.

Shion’s mind was a glorious haze. He couldn’t form any words, couldn’t feel anything aside from the final few thrusts of Nezumi’s body into his own before he came, too.

With a sharp gasp, Nezumi sunk his teeth into Shion’s shoulder, a bit harder than usual. He might have been meaning to aim for the pillow. Shion didn’t mind. No blood had been drawn.

Nezumi dropped on top of him, panting against Shion’s throat. He was trembling, and Shion’s arms ached to be free of the silk scarves so he could wrap them around him.

Shion turned his head to the side. Nezumi was buried in the crook of his neck, breathing hard. Shion’s legs trembled with little aftershocks, a gray haze lingering beneath the blindfold.

“Eve?” he murmured.

“Forgive me,” Nezumi replied, still a bit breathless, and like a lightswitch clicking, the game ended.

Shion felt a strange weightlessness wash over him—the feeling of shedding his skin, sliding it down his shoulders, letting it pool to the floor and emerging as a new, sensitive creature. Not for the first time, he found himself thinking of snakes.

The fabric scratched against his shins as Nezumi drew away from him. Shion heard something thump beside the bed, something that might have been the condom plopping into the little trash can they kept close at hand. Shion was weightless and hyper-focused on the hem of the dress brushing against his hip. He felt strangely empty without Nezumi inside him, but content with the fact that Nezumi hadn’t gone far. After years apart, a miniscule part of Shion still feared that, despite the promises, he would awaken one morning to a cold bed and no clue where Nezumi had gone. It was a cruel, disgusting part of himself that he kept bottled up tight. A part that became smaller with each passing day. He wasn’t certain if a time would ever come when it vanished for good, but he hoped.

Long fingers brushed along the curve of his jaw. Nezumi cupped his cheek for a moment, and Shion felt the soft, familiar scratch of calluses. No amount of moisturizer had been able to erase them completely. Shion didn’t mind. If anything, he preferred it. It was a reminder that Nezumi fit in more than one world. Nezumi was someone who could thrive in the apocalypse with nothing to his name. Someone who could wield an eyeliner pen with the same skill as he wielded a blade. A million and a half little fragments that created this wonderful person who’d come back to Shion after all this time.

Nezumi hooked his fingers beneath the blindfold. Shion lifted his head, freeing the knot that’d been wedged between his skull and the pillow. With a soft tug, the strip of cloth fell away.

Shion blinked into the dim light. Buttery rays of sun leaked into the bedroom through the slats in the curtains, but the color was gentle and warm. No longer the harsh brilliance of summer.

Nezumi shifted and loomed over him. “There you are,” he murmured. Setting the blindfold off to the side, Nezumi gently took Shion’s face in his hands. His thumb brushed idly along the red marking beneath Shion’s left eye. “Hey.”

Shion looked up at him with a breathless smile. He’d seen Nezumi just before the game began, when Nezumi had swept into the room, carrying the three silk scarves he’d use to bind Shion to the headboard. Their game hadn’t lasted long, but Nezumi already looked so different. His long, dark hair had started to sneak out from the crown-like pile Nezumi had pinned it into. Several strands clung to his throat. The dark lipstick he’d used to color his mouth was smeared, fading to a pale rose as it approached his chin.

Those piercing silver eyes softened as Nezumi gazed down at him. The thick black lines on his lower lids sharpened them. The wings he’d meticulously applied in the bathroom mirror were still flawless; Shion wondered if Nezumi had used waterproof eyeliner, and whether or not the makeup wipes he kept in the bottom drawer would be enough to remove them.

“Hi,” Shion murmured. He gave his wrists a slight jerk. “Untie me?”

Nezumi made quick work of the knots. They hadn’t been particularly strong. Setting the silk scarves on the mattress beside the blindfold, Nezumi took Shion’s hands and guided them down to the pillow.

“Thank you,” Shion said, giving him another warm smile. Despite the fact that the game had ended, Shion found himself eager to make Nezumi happy. Words were important, but Nezumi was someone who appreciated actions. A gentle smile had more weight than a verbal assurance that Shion was, in fact, all right.

Nezumi wove their fingers together. "How're your wrists?" he asked, because once the game ended, he always asked.

After the accident, Nezumi was careful with Shion's hands. It bordered on excessive, but Shion allowed Nezumi these moments. It was better than remembering the night Nezumi had held him as they waited for the ambulance, kissing away Shion’s tears and assuring him through his own that everything would be all right. It was better than remembering the night he’d spent in the hospital or the questioning Nezumi had been forced to endure, simply because the doctors had wanted to rule out any chance of Shion’s injury being related to domestic violence. It was better than knowing that, during their games, some hollow part of Nezumi worried about Shion having yet another panic attack.

"They're fine," Shion replied. He flexed all ten of his fingers, just to be sure. He could feel Nezumi’s cool skin against the pads of his fingertips, the creases of their palms lined up and their thumbs overlapping.

“You’re sure?” Nezumi gingerly picked up one of Shion’s hands and kissed his knuckles. A red stamp came away as he drew back, and Shion huffed out a slight laugh.

“Yes,” he said, as Nezumi placed his hand back on the pillow and gave the other the same quick, red-marked kiss. “I’m sure.”

Shion watched as Nezumi pushed the massive pile of skirts aside so he could drop on the mattress beside him. One of Nezumi’s arms draped across him, the long sleeve warm as it crossed over his bare skin. Nezumi’s hand rested over Shion’s heart, the constant thumping in his flesh a comfort that Nezumi required after all they’d been through.

Shion reached a hand out and cupped Nezumi’s cheek. “This came out well,” he murmured, his thumb swiping gently over the solid black line stretching from the corner of Nezumi’s eye.

“Glad you think so,” Nezumi remarked with a slight laugh. “I think my boss is just glad I can do it myself now. Apparently, Tana was getting sick of my ‘bitching’.”

Shion shook his head. He didn’t need to be told twice that Nezumi could be a bit dramatic when it came to his costuming. He’d made the mistake of stopping by the teacher once on his lunch break, only to find Nezumi in a literal screaming match with his manager about which color dress best suited Hermione: pale blue or dark green.

“I like your eyeshadow, too,” Shion said. Nezumi had darkened his eyelids just a bit. A bit of dark smoke to make the pale color of his irises stick out. “You’re beautiful.”

Nezumi snorted. “Thanks.”

Shion’s heart skipped a beat. He was impossibly warm and content. He knew Nezumi liked to be told things like this. Knew that it meant the world to hear verbal assurances. Shion also knew that it meant everything coming from him. Nezumi had spent years being told he was beautiful by drunks who lusted after him or people who thought flattery could manipulate him into bending to their will. But Shion’s assurances were genuine. There was no hidden agenda. Shion said these things because they were true.

“Should we—” Shion shifted closer to Nezumi on the mattress, stretching his legs out. “We should shower soon.”

“Yeah,” Nezumi mumbled. He angled his head closer to Shion’s, resting his cheek against Shion’s shoulder and drawing in a deep, steadying breath. “In a minute.”

Nezumi’s hand was still resting over Shion’s heart. Shion reached up and overlapped their hands, feeling the light thump of Nezumi’s heart through his skin. For a while, there was silence, broken only by the diluted sounds of their breathing. Sleep hovered in the air before Shion’s eyes, unfurling like beautiful blue petals. Closing around him, Shion couldn’t feel anything aside from Nezumi, warm and safe and lined up perfectly beside him.

THE END

[activatingaggro]

I’LL BRING THUNDER (i’ll bring rain)

RICCIN KAYATA | 9 SWEEPS / 21 YEARS OLD

A SEATOWN IN THE EASTERN SEA | 5860 WORDS

"You look nice," Liyiji tells you. "Almost like you're a decent fucking person."

The times that you've worn full paint can be counted on one hand. True paint, at least - concealer and cover-up has always felt lighter than the pigment smeared across your skin, pulling it gray enough to match Gliese, and it's always let you breathe. Concealer and cover-up have never felt like a shield between you and the crisp night air. You'd thought, even only a few perigees ago, that wearing full paint was just another burden that the indigoes were forced to adorn. The dank sort of joke that the Messiahs laid down upon the most blessed of castes, to even them out and pull them the fuck down when they got uppity. Grease paint always seemed like it was a punishment, as much as it was proof of your devotion.

But the weight of the paint's almost fucking merciful, right now. It's a different sort of sensation, something new and novel, and exactly what you need to distract you from your deja vu.

Because as you step off of Li's ship, and onto the thick, pink bridge anchoring his to the nearest houseboat, it feels almost like you're four perigees again, and you're finally coming back home.

You're deep in the Eastern Sea, at one of the seatowns that you'd used to visit as a sprog. It's too small to have ever gotten a name from the Empire. Only the largest of the Rickshaws get that sort of endorsement. No, the only name you've ever learned for it is what the locals called it: Kah Kin, to hurry, the place where everything is always moving, and nothing ever stays still. Because while some of the seatowns are anchored, entire flotillas of planks and boats permanently anchored around abandoned oil rigs and flooded lighthouses, Kah Kin is different. It's mobile, and the location changes every perigee.

So does the size. High above you, the moons have tucked themselves away behind their veils, and the sky is blood deep in its absence, deep enough that even the spackling of the nebula far above can't fucking light it. In the distance, it streaks into the horizon, rich purples blurring into the wine-dark sea until there's no way to tell them apart. If it weren't for the lanterns aboard each ship, you might've missed them entirely. But the sails are bright tonight, huge banners of white that pulse in the night sky like clouds, and fires sit on the deck of every boat, casting off just enough light to illuminate the next. Some nights, there's hardly any ships here at all.

Tonight, you think, there might be six hundred ships here, all hooked together by teetering ladders and bridges made of rope. It certainly sounds like it could be that many, the din loud enough that even you can hear it.

It's a queer feeling deep in your chest as you take it all in. You hadn't known you could be nostalgic for something like this, but here you are, mooning like a wriggler witnessing their first murder, and.. it's not often that you want to stand still, soak in the atmosphere. The air reeks of salt, harsh enough that your throat chafes at the stench of it, but it smells like the markets, too, that you'd grown up in. Prior to the program. Prior to Kindra, even, back when it was just you, Myrrha, Orpheo, Melete, and -

"Stop gawking," Liyiji scolds you, and gives your braid a sharp tug before he pushes past you on the rope.

"Who says I'm gawkin', brother?" You shake your head, casting your braid back over your shoulder, and the way the veil shifts across your shoulders is unfamiliar enough to stir you from your thoughts. "Maybe I'm just thinking." The last time you'd come here, you'd been four and a half, bright-eyed and eager for an adventure that Melete had promised you. Your hair'd still been short back then. That's another difference. You just need to keep remembering those.

"I said you're gawking. Are you deaf," he drawls, warm, "or just fucking stupid?" Liyiji's pushing forward, ignoring the welcoming volley of words from the shopkeep he passes. The way the boats are set up, everything's connected. If you were the right kind of psionic, you could leap high into the sky, take it all in proper, but you don't have to - you know how things are situated, out here. The boats are woven together like the strands of a net, tied to each of their neighbours like flies caught in a web. If a Rickshaw came across the lot of you without that network, you'd be ruined. There's be no room to flee, no room to flee: the boats would crash into each other in their hurry to get out, the frantic rush to save their own hides even at the expense of everyone else together. If the ropes were hemp, this sort of set-up would never be viable.

But the nets hooking the lot of you together ain't hemp. It's biowire, harvested by some stalwart soul before the adult Exodus, and kept in hand ever since. It's not made for space, these gunky pink lines: nah, they're old, made specially for ships, and the Empire can't bring itself to care about tech so fucking outdated. The biowire connects the logic centers of each ship together, like cells in a brain, and when one sends off an alert that they're being attacked, it draws on the energy from all of them to put up a shield, made of the same psionic energy that some folks use to go deep underwater. It'll let things out, but anything bigger than air just can't filter in.

It's the sort of thing that means there's a helm here, buried deep into one of these ships guts, with just enough ability to put that sort of thing up.

It's the sort of thing that's got you dressed in indigo from head-to-tail, with a clown's full paint coating your mug, all despite the fact that your veins run with liquid gold. You can be whatever chrome you want on land, where the law protects you, and folks have the Messiah’s sense to know what the white on your face means. Out here? The only time law matters is if it’s around to see you.

And the legislacerator’s on the seatowns keep their eyes closed shut.

"If you gotta ask.." You fall in step beside Liyiji as he steps onto the next bridge. The air's heady with incense here, drifting from the burners resting on each ship you pass through. None of 'em have had the courtesy to coordinate: the first you pass by has oranges burning away, the sticks still smoking, and the next has cloves, heavy enough that you can taste them on the back of your tongue. For you, it's just a bother. For Liyiji..

Well. Your invertebrother might be navy, but he's always been the weakest out of all the motherfuckers you've ever met. His ears are pinned as he navigates the crowds, dead-set on a spot that you ain't quite sure either of you know. Wretch must be bothered by the smell, living as he does all on his lonesome - but least he ain't showing it. Ain’t like there’s anything the either of you could do, if he did. "Oh, brother, look at this mug. Look at this goddamn rack. This pan’s too gilded to be fucking empty," you tell him instead, as a distraction, and he snorts, ears flicking forward for the briefest of seconds. "Unlike your ugly-ass mug. You tip out your pan to the gods, brother, or you actually know where we goin'? ‘cause when you said you had someone for me to meet, shit, I was expectin' - iunno - a goddamn teashop?"

You pause, peering at the next ship over. They're a ramshackle of a boat, with plywood nailed in to cover the holes in the cocoon, and a deck that keeps leaking what you hope's gotta be slime. They've got the door of their cabin swung wide open, covered from top to bottom in bowls, and the rest of their ships covered in baskets and displays, each full of stoneware that mostly ain't broken. "I ain't seen a teashop anywhere," you complain. There's snakes coiled over the plates, their eyes strange and wet like they were freshly painted, but that ain’t uncommon. The seafolk always decorate with snakes, like calling down on his kin will stop the Leviathan from wreaking their homes. "One that don't look like a lusus took a bite out of it."

"Why the fuck would I take you to a teahouse? So you could hit on the waitress, and I have to tip to make up for it..? Please, Riccin." He sounds peevish. But that's the delight of Li, you reckon: if he’s got the energy to act like someone shoved a sack of bees up his nook, then he’s still calm, not letting himself get bothered by the crowds brushing past the both of you. He’s navy, and you’re dressed in indigo, but that’s the wonder of the seatowns: so’s everyone fucking else. "No, I'm taking you to someone I think you want to meet. That's all."

He pauses. The tip of his ears flush blue, same way they always do when he gets to paying attention. Then he looks back at you, lashes low. Boy's got heavier lids than even Dysseu: when he does this, it's hard to get a feel on him at all, but for a moment, you almost think he's going to apologise.

The moment passes. "She's almost as foul as you," he says instead, then sets back to walking. "But she's got foresight. And you have questions. She takes payment in alcohol. She'll cut you for it to work."

Foresight. It's a tricky psi, that, and one of the rarest: there was a jade in Chiloa and Ico's creche that'd sported it, back when you were young, but you haven't thought of her in sweeps.  You whistle, low and impressed, then arch your eyebrows at him. "Foresight, brother? Does that shit work better than yours, or are we about to get fucking fleeced?" The crowd’s thinned around you as you’ve walked: it’s just the two of you on this next boat, and the boats surrounding you, the merchandise abandoned as their residents drifted towards the center.

"Mine is perfectly standard." Li's got a way with words. Each one drops like it's a personal goddamn disappointment, but you know him: the fact he's saying them at all is a sweet enough kind of affection. "And more useful. So fuck off. She does probabilities. She can tell you what’s most likely to happen, and how likely it is, and divine from there. Or you could just ask me, and I’ll -”

“- tell me all the grisly ass ways a motherfucker could die?” Something shifts inside one of the houseboat’s doorways, but when you squint, it’s just a ward, catching in the wind. A snake winks at you from the edges, all gild in gold, even as the shape calls for protection. “You ought to give up the divin’, brother, and just sell here. Why, look at these poor fools. Look at the lines they have fucking writ.” There’s another set of wards on the next boat’s shack, three stacked in a row, calling for protection, for health, for light. This tradition isn’t of the Mirthful faith - it’s some remnant kept live on the ocean floor, the sort that trickles up in streams and gasps to the sea’s surface, so you’ve got no qualms pulling it from the wall, waving the ward right at his face. “Look at this shit!” you crow. “They fear death so hard, they bring it into their fucking homes.”

“Sell divinations, so I can be surrounded by strangers, even when I’m asleep?” he asks, dry. “I’ll pass. Stop playing with the deco, Riccin, and hurry up. We’re almost there.”

And indeed, you almost are. The ships are abandoned this far out. The air’s clean, with naught but the fucking salt on the wind, and even the sounds are so far away, they’re muffled. The last few ships are spartan in their solitude. There are no lights on their rails, no candles in the windows or leds along their awnings. There’s just wards, their gilded edges catching the stars light, and the faint pink pulse of each bridge, visible now in the absence of the light.

When you cross the final bridge, onto the boat at the farthest outskirts of the town, you think the sea’s churning around you. But then your eyes adjust. It’s not the sea.  It’s a dozen little canoes with shutters drawn tight on their lanterns, staring in.

You pause mid-step.

“Li,” you say, but he’s seen it, too, and he’s pushing past you.

“Loxias!” he calls, then he pauses.

The brownblood sits in the middle of the boat, her head thrown back and her braids strewn across the floor around her like a cloak. From this angle, the line of her long neck looks like the sort of things trolls would've fought wars for, but then she moves. She's too long-limbed, too bony: the skin pricks at the back of your neck as she pulls herself to her feet, hands splayed with their spider-thin fingers flat against the deck.

She stands up, each movement jerky, like she ain't quite sure how to make each bit of her move on its own, and you take a step back. Liyiji’s paused beside you, his ears pinned back, eyes wide in the darkness.

"Something's wrong," Liyiji says, his voice strained. "Just -" He drags a hand down his braids, mouth drawing thin into a slash, then he glances at you side-long. "Just wait here? I'll check in on her."

She's not looking at the either of you. She's standing, half hunched, her back crooked like she can't quite manage to stand straight. She's still got one long, ungainly palm lying flat on the deck, but she doesn't look up when his feet hit the deck. She doesn't react at all, even, as he steps in closer, but your mouth's gone dry. You're right behind him, never mind his goddamn order, because there's something feral about the way she's holding herself.

It's the sort of look that you've seen on lusii gone rabid, and while you're sure trolls can't go rabid..

Well. It's not worth a risk, is it? Because she’s not looking at the two of you yet, but when Liyiji’s heel catches the deck hard, her ears twitch up. She looks at the two of you then, braids falling away, and there’s something queer about her eyes --

"Oh, for fuck's sake - don't go over there!" someone shouts from the nearest boat, hangs cupped around her, and Loxias pivots.

There ain’t nothing troll about the way she moves, that's the thing. It's limbs pushing like they don't know how limbs work, like a puppet with three strings cut: she jerks and she tilts to the side hard enough you think she must be about to fall right over with those foot long horns, but she manages to haul herself upright just in time.

She lunges for the side of the rail, fingers wrapping hard around it, and she tenses -

- then screams as the troll snaps the shutters on their lantern open. They swing it out wide and hard, so the oil splashes up against the walls and her face is caught in the full light. Your eyes ache with the change, enough that orange floods the corners, but it ain’t any cause to scream. It’s a sting, that’s all.

But she’s howling like something hurt, like the oil has gone through the glass and is eating into her skin.

"She's gone dark!" the troll hollers over the noise of her. "Get off the fucking boat! We’re burning it to the ground!'

"Gone dark," you repeat, looking at Li - but his face's gone bone pale, all his blue fading at once. "Li, what the fuck they on about?"

He wets his lips. But he's not looking at you. He's staring at Loxias, who's taken in a long, shakey breathe, deep enough that you can see her ribcage rattle with it. She slips back to the deck like all of her bones have been lost, her hair falling forward, her hands pressed to the front of her face to block out the light. She's back to moving her lips, words too high for you to hear proper, but you catch snippets - shit that don't make any sense, angels and songs and homes, but said all wrong.

"Li!" you snap, and you lean in, landing an elbow hard on his shoulder. He doesn't quite react, not until you hook around his horn, claws curving in - then he jerks away with a snarl, his pupils slit fear-thin against the blue of his iris.

"The fuck do you think it means?" He starts to curl his arms around himself. Then he stops, shoulders drawing up, and he drags a hand down his face instead. "We've got to go, Riccin," he says, ragged, but for all that he's speaking to you, he's looking at her. Loxias is back to looking almost harmless, but after the way you saw her moving.. there's nothing attractive in that shit now. "She's contaminated. If we stay near for too long, she might infect us, too."

"Contaminated with what?"

"With something dark," he snaps, "something worse than any of your fucking gods! Seatown bullshit! The reason they had those wards up! And we don't have anyone here to get rid of it, so we're just - we -" He swallows, takes a step back. "We're just going to have get rid of her. And if we stay on this boat any fucking longer, they're going to get rid of us."

"Get rid of her," you say, slow. "As in - what, brother, they gonna burn her? Her own people?" But of course they are. The troll off in the distance is still waving their lamp, their face too bright under it to make out their colour. And for all that there's a sea of faces all around you, everyone collected against the edge of their canoes to watch, ain't nobody stepping up to do a damn thing. Should you care? You don't suppose you should. This isn't your town. This isn't your fucking people.

The ward hangs heavy in your pocket, where you’d crammed it down. What point to care is there, when their own ways did fucking naught?

But you know what it's like, to have folks that ought to stand by you turn on you instead. Raphae did his job right when you asked him, no matter how Chiloa sniffed, or how distraught Kindra became. There's no ache left when the thought strikes you anymore, no pain: nah, there's just the sour-sweet sting of the truth, and that's a taste you're learning to get used to. You've never wanted to get used to it. But there hadn't been a choice, had it?

You’ve got a choice now.

"No," you decide. "We ain't."

"Riccin -" He snatches at your shoulder, but you're already striding forward. He doesn't follow, and that ain't a slight. Li's seatown raised, seatown bred, and who are you to ask him to turn against himself? He's true to his nature, same as any lusus, but he's loyal, too: when you look back, he's pulled his trident off of his back, and angled to look towards the crowd. His chin's up, his horns angled in a rake, in the sort of dare that no one seems keen to protest.

He won’t follow you on, but he won’t let none of ‘em intervene, either.

Let him hold them back, then, as you approach the girl. Or, no - the adult, for what you'd taken as an adolescent's gangliness is just the queer shapes of an adult underfed, lengths all wrong for any troll ascended. She's got the knobby knees of Dysseu, when you get closer, stretched thin whereas Sipara'd been squashed short. She's got his long fingers, too, and when she looks up, she's got his gaunt cheeks.

But her eyes are the opposite. These ain't bone-white: they're black, deep as any pit, and your breath catches in an involuntary growl when you see them. The colour's too dark for psi, too curved to pass of as an empty socket. You would've blamed contacts, if you thought anybody was fool enough to play that kind of game. But it ain't contacts. It's like gas, almost, and as you stare into it, you think you can see it moving, strand by strand, thick as an atmosphere over a planet. You can't see her bulbs behind all of it, but she angles her head towards the sound of you, like she can see you.

You can't even see if she's got bulbs, still.

She pulls herself up, rickety, her shoulders bending like they might pop straight out.

"What's going on? Is she - is she burning out?" Liyiji calls, but it's not quite a question

For the best, because it ain't one you can answer. Loxias isn't stepping towards you. Nah, girl just flings herself straight at you, hard enough that you have to catch her with your hands, and she's keening, low and heady in a set of sounds that just don't work together, a lusus's keen of 'come here' hooked in with a pupa's screech for blood, for food, for attention, for anything and everything they can receive. It’s all slip-slod over words too low for you to properly hear, her mouth-gestures too mealy for you to properly read, if you had the attention for it.

You don’t. It's a good thing she's bone thin, more waifish than even Pheres for her size, or else she might push straight past your grip. As is, she pushes and she presses, making that sound until your ears pin to escape it, and - Messiahs fucking above.

This close, you can see the way the things over her eyes coils, the movement undeniable. It's like watching stormclouds, almost, in a way that makes you bare your fangs, your words caught in a tangle at the back of your throat. You hate it, is the thing, for all that you don’t know what it is. A pupa doesn’t have to know the sun to fear the light, and the urge to pick her up, throw her into the sea or the flames each time that smoke churns, is almost impossible to fight.

But you're not going to cull her, no matter how much your pan’s screaming it needs to be done. You're going to help her, and with that thought, you shove her back, hard, then step into her space while she staggers. Your elbows brace against her shoulders, then you hook your hands under her chin, thumbs pressed firmly to the corners of her eyes. Part of you is surprised, when the ink rolls over your fingers, that it doesn't hurt. It doesn't stick, either, because it's not liquid at all. It's like gas, almost, or smoke from one of Iconic's cigars. It doesn't stain your hands: it just pours over them, like something curious, or like aura. And that's it.

This must be psionics, you think, but then you catch a whiff of something else, something sharper, like the smell of ice at the heart of winter. She’s stilled under your hands, losing the wild energy that’d overtaken her, and now you can read her lips. It’s still nonsense, for the most part.

But part of it’s legible enough. "The angels are calling me home," Loxias mouths at you, with a cadence just short of song, and then your hands are burning, a sharp, aching pain that cuts straight through to the depths of your awareness. It's more than just hurt. It's everything, for one heart-stopping moment, sensation so much that it blocks out everything else -

- you're jerking your hands back, hard as if they were scalded.

When you look down, they're bleeding, gold seeping through the lines of your palms and curling down your wrists like water. It aches like frostbite, or like needles in your skin, soaking all the way to the deepest parts of you, but there's a kind of shock to it. There's gold meeting the indigo, brilliant as Grand Highblood Myddus's palms, and.. you can taste the pain in your mouth, almost, the sickly sweet tang of iron, but you can't quite process it.

So you take a deep breath, then grab her face again, more firmly this time. She actually chitters at you, baring her teeth. This close, she could tear out your wrist. This close, with your palms bleeding and bile falling from her eyesockets, she could be contaminating you with the same filth that's taken up in her core. What proof would you have? What protection could anyone fucking give to this?

"Oh, sister, sister," you breathe, like your heart ain't wrenching to escape, like there ain't bile on your tongue. No: your words are like the water around you, still and soothing and more weight than any one troll ought to muster. You speak to her like she is a lamb in your flock, and she has been lost, and like your soul isn't curling away at the sight of the black coiling over your fingers. Because what else can you fucking do? "What have you done? What lies with which did they fucking lure you? These mirthless fucks have taken you astray. They have stripped away your sense. They have stolen away your dignity. But they ain't taken your mind, have they? There is a soul in here, one that is being bound in the chains of this noissome song. There is a troll buried in that deep, dank space, too weak to break free."

"But don't you worry none, little brown," you say, "for I have brought a fucking light."

Deep within you, you pull your psionics together like armour, curling them one point at a time over your mind. You link them together, tight as a shield, and you take a breath, and you think to the past. Myddus of the Golden Palms, they'd called him back before he was the Grand Highblood, and Myddus of the Golden Tongue. He'd pulled the angels from the heart of a sinner, and he had called her soul back with the song on his lips, and the Messiahs had loved him for that.

They'd killed him for that, in the end, but it'd been his place. And what troll can reject their place?

It strikes you, suddenly, that you might die here. But you don't want to die, no matter if it's your place, no matter if it's the Messiah's fucking plan, so you draw your psionics tighter. You think of the Messiahs, their eyes bright, their words full of mirth. You think of the light of their moons, the cast-off spawn of the terrors, and how they'd caught them in the sky - how Pink had stripped them of their tails, and Lime had stripped them of their feathers, and those castoffs had become the angels, who longed for their old bodies, but were destroyed by the glow within them.

You think of the ward in your pocket, painted with the gold of the angel’s servants, and the call for light scribed upon it.

"I'm going to help you, girl," you tell her, and if your voice is shaking, then who is around that would tell?

Then you lean in, placing your mouth to her nearest eye.

The stories had never mentioned the sting of this. To breathe in the gas is like swallowing the sun. It feels like it's flaying away your flesh as it pours down your throat, stripping away everything it touches and making it its own. You've never tolerated pain well, never had much cause to learn, but what other choice do you have? To let her die at the hands of her own? To toss her away, like so many have tossed you?

Life is a sacrifice, the fifth Highblood told his choir. Life is naught but a set of strings set to be snipped, and the joke of it all - the truth of it all, the noise that the Empress tries to filter is  - is you decide if you'll be the strings, or the hands holding them. You'd never thought much about that quote, before, but now it's weighing.

When the sting is too much - when you can't handle it any longer - you pull away. Her face is sallow under your hands.

"Sister," you say, or you try, but the words that come out ain't nothing that you've ever heard before. They ain't words at all. They're just filth, tearing out of your throat like cicadas from their coons, and there's iron in your mouth, coating your tongue as thick as the ink on her face.

Chiloa and the IEP - they'd raised you to be the string, and they told you there would be nothing sweeter than the snap, and they held the scissors to you, and you'd never even thought to fray, not until it was nearly too late. And has it ever helped you? Has it ever done jack shit but cost you?

Maybe it's worth it to be something else, just for one night.

You’d made a choice, when you stepped onto this ship. Right now, all you’re doing is abiding by it.

Loxias blinks. When she opens her eyes, one eye is clear, free of the filth, and flooded with only her blood.

So you lean in, you press your lips to her other eye, and you pray.

Second time around, it's not any better. If anything, you think it's almost worse, for now you've got the taste of the pain in your soul, and you know what's coming. There's no shock to keep it away from you now. It's just pain, washing over you like a wave, and all you can do is close your eyes, and kick towards the surface. Because sure, there's pain, but you know, now, what sort of sick beast is raining discord upon her soul. You can feel the coils of it, pressing in on you from every side. You can feel the way it -

- and you can feel the way it recoils, when it brushes up against your psionics and the light flares.

The world flashes orange. When you open your eyes, the sky's bright, brighter than it ever should be, even this late in the sweep and with the boat lit aflame. But nah. The boat ain't lit. There's no heat save for the reek of your own blood, streaming down your face and leaking from your hands. Loxias's eyes are clear, but the light ain't from her or hers. Her irises are blown big, large enough to take over most of the yellow, but there's scarcely any glow to them, even this close: the dusting of brown light across her cheeks could just as easily be blood.

No, the light's coming from you. When you reach out, careful, to wind it back in, all it does is flare brighter, with a pulse of energy that leaves your veins burning in the aftermath. Your eyes are shining, bright enough that they feel ready to start weeping. There's sparks drifting down around you, like the snow that ain't yet come, but it's fine. There's none of the pain of burnout, none of that sick siren call that comes with destruction. Your psionics are just there, flared, caught up in the grid of armour you'd wound them into, and you'll have to figure out how to fix that later.

And you’re just tired, right down to the bones.

But right now, you have different problems. Loxias's gone limp in front of you, but when she lifts her hands, it's with the movement of a troll, not whatever fuck had been wearing her skin. And when you turn to face the crowd behind you..

There's a few hundred eyes all on you, watching, and in the darkness, with shadows cast harsh on their faces and jaws, it's impossible to tell what they're thinking of you: all dressed up in indigo, with the morning sky in your eyes and the sun's light dripping from your palms. You ain't Iconic. You've never had to go and figure out the beat of a crowd, whether the crook of their arms was to clap, or to grab a rope. You've never fucking wanted to, but Liyiji's tongue-tied and pale next to you, and you know he won't be any help at all.

So you take a breath, you cast your eyes across them, and you pull yourself up tall.

"And what the hell," you ask, voice pitched low, and oh - your throat's gone raw, so the words fucking rasp, deep as any highblood's purr. "Are all of y'all looking at? Do you even fucking know? Has fear stripped the sense from you, that I have laid down salvation in front of you and all you can do is stare? A terror would've plagued your goddamn cities. They would have ripped the bones from your flesh. They would've supped on your quadrants, and left you to fucking watch, for how could some fucking flame - the detriment of the land, the Messiah's first joke - ever quench what comes from the origin of us all? Do you drown your fish in the waters, cousins? Do you hold them there until they stop fucking moving? Because if one does - if you have ever - that would be the most rank of goddamn miracles."

"And you have not earned a miracle." Your mouth tastes of iron. It drags down your throat when you breathe in, but what is that discomfort compared to the patter of your heart? There’s a fire in your veins, burning like it’ll eat its way free of you, and it pours out in your words, like a lash with which you could burn away their sin.  "You have earned jack and shit, motherfuckers, save for the most righteous of ire. What sort of shit is this? Trouble comes, and you sinners, you feckless fucks, all you do is fucking cower. You swing a lamp, and you promise a resolution that you cannot - will not - fucking deliver.  You don't deserve a fucking miracle.”

“If the gods were just, I would have let this motherfucker wreck all of you."

"But the gods ain't just," you tell them, heat enough to match the pulse in your veins, "so we must be, you worthless wretches. Remember that, next time you think to fucking cower. Think of that the next time you go to claiming you'll light a flame upon a motherfucker still occupied. C'mon, Li." The crowd isn't moving. They're just watching, but that's fine - you don't expect they'll move at all, not after that show. "Get your girl, and let's fucking go."

[tenshibeth1]

Like It Never Happened

Sess-Kag Week 2k18

Canon take-off. Kagome was never let back into the past, and she and Inuyasha ended any relationship they had when Kikyo passed for the second time.

Prompt:

Day 2 - Fleeting, whisper, touch, cherry blossoms

Spring again.

Kagome let out a sigh as she stood on a concrete path littered in shades of pink. The cherry blossoms were in full bloom again, and she had come to this little park for the cherry blossom viewing. It was better than staying home and doing nothing...like the night before, and the night before that, and the night before that... Monotonous. Unending. Boring. That had been so many days and nights since the well had closed on her all those years ago. She helped save the world...had adventures people can only dream about...and then was thrust back into the mundane and ordinary world of the future. It was, by no means, easy to reintegrate into society. It took time, and effort, and concentration... It took her an entire year to stop jumping and leaping into action when she thought someone was trailing her or about to attack her. There were no stalkers, or attackers,...or demons, or youki whispering across her senses...just...people. People going to class, people going home, people working, people aspiring towards their dreams... Normal people. With normal, attainable, hopes and dreams. No matter how many times she wished...Kagome knew she would never be able to attain her own dream of returning to the Fuedal Era. She had exhausted every possible method of going back before she finally gave in and accepted the depressing fact that she would never again go back. She would never see the friends that had become her family. And she would always feel helplessly different and seperate from the world she now lived in...

"It reminds me of then," Kagome murmered as she approached one of the towering trees that rained pink petals on all who drew near. Trees, nature...fresh air. She closed her eyes and breathed in deep. There was still a hint of the acrid scent of pollution in the air, but it was much better now than other times. The cherry blossoms perfumed the gentle breezes wafting through enough that she could almost remember what it felt like to be outside in the Feudal Era, senses open and reiki flowing freely... She let her reiki expand, letting out a shuddered, pleased breath at the feeling of sheer freedom that came over her.

And then she felt it.

It was light and fleeting, but it had been there. Youki. It had brushed against her reiki almost in test... Azure eyes snapped open. Her body acted of its own accord- she whirled around on the balls of her feet, and started sprinting towards the direction she had felt the probing come from. A secluded edge of the park, amid a cluster of pink-flowered trees. It took her a few minutes to get there, since it was at the far edge of the park from where she had been, and she searched the area thoroughly, leaving no stone unturned. Every tree was checked. Her reiki sought out any person within range...but there was no one in this side of the park, save Kagome, herself. Breathless with a burning midsection, the trembling woman who had once been a powerful miko grasped onto a tree trunk for support as hot tears spilled from the edges of her eyes.

"I have to stop doing this," Kagome pleaded with herself. "I thought I had..." A sob tore from her throat and she shut her eyes against the feelings of disappointment, shame, depression, and being completely, utterly, alone. It was all creeping in again, consuming her from the inside out. She took several steadying breaths before standing straight again and forcing her breathing to even out. Eyes still firmly shut, she gave herself a moment's solace. Kagome imagined that she was in the Feudal Era, Shippou and Rin playing amid the cherry blossom trees and making flower jewelry to decorate Jaken with. Kohaku watched on and smiled warmly when he thought no one was looking. Miroku was discreetly watching Sango...who was sharpening her Hiraikotsu by the fire. Kilala was tucked into Inuyasha's arm as they took a siesta in the boughs above. And Sesshoumaru was sitting a little ways from where she stood, one leg up and one tucked in as he pretended to be asleep. Every once in a while she would catch his lips turning up at the edges or his nose flaring when he was scenting the area for their safety. The most important thing she reimagined was his youki blanketing the area, powerful and comforting. She knew they were safe when he was around. He always looked out for each and every one of them...no matter what he said or how he came off. She had carefully observed him in their time together as a group, so she knew it. She had understood him on a deeper level than she had ever thought possible. Footsteps caught her attention...but not fast enough. A gentle touch...fingers running over her face, a large hand cupping her cheek. It felt nice...and comforting...and that familiar musky scent...

"Why do you cry?" Came a hushed voice she knew all too well. Surely, she was hallucinating. It was all a part of her dream, her unattainable desire. Sesshoumaru was before her now, and not at the tree. His youki gently blanketed over her, as if to comfort her. Kagome didn't dare open her eyes. It felt too real... But even as the revelled in it, the truth still reared its ugly head.

"Because you're not real," she whispered brokenly. "Nothing from the past is real...not in this world, this time..." A sob wracked her body, her hand clenching the tree tightly. "And I hate it...I hate it so much...it's like it never happened." She sniffled. "Gods I'm hallucinating badly this time...I can even smell you..." And she could- the musty earthy comforting male-scent that clung to him...along with the lingering hint of sweet cloves from the choji oil he used to clean his sword with. A strangled laugh escaped her lips, and she tilted her chin down, her waist-length ebony locks spilling over her shoulders.

"Open your eyes, miko," Sesshoumaru's voice rumbled in her ear as her chin was forced back up. She could feel his hot breath on her ear. Brow furrowed and heart pounding away in her chest, Kagome slowly blinked her bleary eyes open; it took a moment for them to adjust so she could see clearly. Sesshoumaru as she had once known him was not standing before her. But it was Sesshoumaru. A modern male with unmarked, pale skin, amber eyes, and silver hair tied back in a bun. But his features were still there. His sharp nose and long, handsome and regal face was just the same...sans the face markings. He was the same height, same lithe but muscled body type. No mokomoko-sama. He was dressed in a crisp modern white button-up shirt with a white undershirt, and black slacks...but the powerful youki that radiated off of him assured her that he was, indeed, who she thought he was.

"S-Sesshou...my gods...is this real? Are you real?" Kagome sobbed with wide eyes, her hands reaching out to touch his chest in test. His hand shifted on her face so she could draw near, fingers rubbing against her ear, and her hands met with a solid surface, his clothes warm from wear and chest inflating and deflating with every breath. Her eyes followed the trail of her hands as they moved upwards, his chest reverberating with an inaudible growl that she could feel. Kagome's hands worked their way up the warm flesh of his neck to his face, the daiyoukai's amber eyes fluttering shut under her gentle minstrations. She ran her fingers over his face...something she never thought in a million years she would ever get to do; rubbing and prodding, she traced the places where his markings should have been. His lips parted and a more audible purr of a growl came forth. She was tracing the shells of his elongated ears when his eyes cracked open once more. The look within was completely unreadable. "...You're real..." Her words were but a whisper as he wound his right arm around her waist, pulling her closer yet, the hand on her face gently caressing her cheek. She could hardly believe it, but here he was...standing before her in all of his modern-day glory.

"Indeed," Sesshoumaru rumbled, his chest vibrating against her. It was oddly soothing...but it didn't stop the dark spots from obstructing her vision. Numbness spread outwards from her nose, the dark spots getting larger and larger. Her body felt heavy...like someone was progressively strapping weights to her. "...Kagome?" His eyes were wider now, alarm shining in his amber orbs. But the only thing that she could think was...

"You called me by my name," Kagome uttered, a smile crossing her face even as she faded into dark depths of oblivion...

[queen-of-meows]

WIP Wednesday

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Here's a snippet of the next chapter of Heart Asks Pleasure First :

The movie was moving at a predictable flow. City girl meets country boy at the Harvest Festival. She's arrogant, he's a jerk. She's getting sick of her position as a jurist, his aunt seeks a new assistant in her restaurant. She's not truely bad, neither he is. Curled in a soft blanket, Ravonna ponders about getting another cup of tea.

It's already been a few days and night, all merged together in a magma of slow paced time. Ravonna couldn't even say exactly how long it's been since she moved to her new room. She also found out Mobius has to leave, sometimes for a few hours, sometimes for a full day, sometimes with his car and sometimes using his Tempad. She's glad he's a busy man, at least he has found his purpose. A commercial break forces her to get up and make another cup. She leaves the blanket regretfully, even though bright summer sunlight brings warmth from the window. She's wearing a light sleeveless top and a pair of light cotton sports pants, which is more than the skimpy dresses from Sakaar, but not enough yet to feel fully protected.

There is not much variety of tea in the kitchen, but the cinnamon and clove blend is enough. Ravonna carefully picks a spoonful of it while the water is boiling. Enough to give taste, but not too much because she cannot stand waste. Doing so, she keeps an eye on the telly, just to make sure the movie doesn't resume without her.

Suddenly, the door bell rang, startling Ravonna who immediately stopped the kettle and put on the light pink cardigan previously discarded on a chair back. She headed to the door, ready to send away whoever was ringing on this boring afternoon. Probably a salesman, or a neibourg looking for their pet.

She could barely hide her surprise when she found herself face to face with Loki. The God of Mischief was standing on the porch casually, and Ravonna noticed she wasn't the only one overdressed for the season. She blinked with surprise and Loki tilted his head, an outgoing smile on his face.

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