#which would look otherwise grotesque on anyone else

[littlemourningstarr]

Purge the Desire

Astarion was convinced no one else could have stomached Thisobald's brew- but even his undead stomach can't handle whatever vile concoction the grotesque had him guzzle down. And, having not fed in days, he finds himself in quite the sorry state, in need of help he doesn't believe he truly deserves.

Read below or on AO3!

Pairing: Astarion x Gale x Halsin

Tags: Sickfic, Vomiting, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Masturbation, Edging

Astarion reached out, placed his hand on the old wooden wall, squeezing his eyes shut to try and close out the endless spinning. He’d kept himself together while downing that vile brew Thisobald pushed his way, until the grotesque and finally burst. Hells, he’d kept himself together while the party had explored the Waning Moon, picked up a few odds and ends that could be useful.

But he was fraying at the seams, and he knew it. He had hoped because it was just a liquid he’d be able to keep whatever hells was in that tankard down, that his body could adjust. Hells, he could drink wine typically.

But whatever the brew was laced with was wrecking him. His stomach was in tight knots, cramping so tightly it was as if it  was folding in on itself, and yet something was alive in there and clawing its way out.

“Astarion?”

Gale’s voice broke the strange ringing that had begun in Astarion’s ears. He opened his eyes, turned- and the wizard was a step back, looking at him skeptically. Astarion straightened up, squared his shoulders. “Hmm?”

He pointedly did not turn to face Gale. But he could hear his footsteps as he walked closer, and dammit all, around to face him properly. His brows shot up when he took in Astarion’s face- which must have had a paler strong for even the vampire, the skin around his eyes dark.

“Are you quite alright?” Astarion waved him off, but couldn’t bring himself to open his mouth, to form words. His saliva was thick, yet his tongue felt swollen and dry somehow. He was sure any words would only be half formed. He just needed to get out of there, back to Last Light, take a second to compose himself, vomit up all of this noxious concoction sloshing in his stomach.

He’d be fine.

But as he tried to wave Gale off the world spun around him, and suddenly Astarion was pitching forward. Gale’s hands grasped at his biceps, held him up as Astarion sagged against him, his forehead pressing into the wizard’s shoulder. He could register shock in Gale’s voice as the man said his name again, then a frantic pitch as he called out to Halsin and Shadowheart, who were still roaming the brewery. Astarion wanted to tell him to shut up, not to call the others, not to worry anyone. He was as fine as ever, right as rain-

He felt his knees buckle then, and Gale’s grip tightened on him, just as he could hear Shadowheart and Halsiun’s footsteps- and then the latter running to reach for him, pulling his weight from a struggling Gale.

Astarion felt Halsin’s large hands on his waist, leaning him against him, and gods above despite the delirium he was feeling, it was so lovely to lean into the Druid’s broad chest, feel a hellfire of heat radiating from him. He heard his name, and it took a moment for him to register that it was Shadowheart, a note of near panic barely hidden in her voice.

“Fine,” he managed, his voice cracking.

“Like hell,” she cursed, and Astarion managed to turn his head, take her in. Frantic eyes and a stern, utterly pissed off mouth. “You shouldn’t have drank whatever hell was in a cup down there.”

Astarion tried to lick his lips, got as far as getting his tongue to  poke at his fangs. He couldn’t tell her that he didn’t trust any of them to handle it otherwise. The only other companion he thought could have handled it would have been Karlach, but she had stayed back at Last Light today. The others wouldn’t have the stomach for it.

He assumed it would have been like anything else his stomach couldn’t digest- he’d just purge later and feel a bit uncomfortable. He’d even tried to mime drinking, but Thisobald’s comment on such a small drink had worried him that his charade had been seen through. He’d drained a whole tankard by the end.

“Jus-need’to” his words were slurring, and he closed his eyes again, his lids so heavy. Was that sleep, crepeing in at the edges of his consciousness? The goddess he so seldom knew- never since his undeath, no. Cazador had never dined to give him the gift of sleep.

“Get back to Last Light.” Halsin, his voice somehow calm, a deep rumble that made his chest vibrate, pleasantly pulsed through Astarion. “We’ll follow shortly.”

“The curse,” Gale started, but Halsin shifted Astarion slightly, held up a hand to silence him.

“Shadowheart need not fear the dark.”

Not while Shar still looked at her so fondly.

Shadowheart nodded. “I’ll tell them you’re bringing him back in bad shape.” She reached out, dared to touch Astarion’s shoulder. He wished he could feel her fingertips through his armor, but all he got was a subtle pressure.

She was gone quickly, running, and then he was suddenly being lifted, carried over the threshold of the Waning Moon. The old wooden board creaked, and then it was Halsin’s boots in the fetid soil outside. Astarion opened his eyes, trying so hard to keep himself present, could see Gale keeping stride with Halsin, just looking at Astarion.

He was worried. Or at least, he looked it. And of course he was, Astarion was an asset, they needed him-

Astarion told himself not to be delusional and think it was anything more.

Halsin knelt down, and began easing Astarion onto the ground. Gale threw himself down onto his knees, grimaced at the ache that shot through them as he helped adjust Astarion to be kneeling.

“We need to get it out of him,” Halsin said, “all of it.” Astarion braced his hands on the Druid’s shoulders, pushed himself away gently. He knew that.

“Gim-me a… moment.” He tried, before he swayed, and suddenly his shoulder was crashing into the ground before any of his companions could catch him. His arms felt like dead weight then, and he realized his body was beginning to shut down, to ignore his mental pleas to move.

“He can’t do it himself,” Halsin said, gathering him back up, holding his limp weight with such ease. Astarion tried to blink, but the dark around him was swimming, and even his eyelids felt foreign. “And I’m afraid he might choke on my fingers.”

There wasn’t a single second of debate after that.  Halsin kept an arm braced around Astarion’s chest, keeping him from collapsing again, and Gale grasped his chin in one hand, forcing his mouth open. “I’m sorry,” he said, rather softly, before two fingers pushed over Astarion’s tongue, back against his throat. Astarion felt his mouth water, drool thick under his tongue, and then his throat clench up over the intrusion.

Gale pulled his fingers out, and Halsin gave Astarion enough slack to lean over, mouth hanging open as his stomach turned. For a single moment he thought he might not wretch, but then he could feel his mouth salivating more, his stomach aching so badly he whimpered, and then that fiery convulsion of muscle.

He gagged, coughed up a thin stream of oily bile, before his stomach released on its second attempt. The liquid was bitter laced, much more sour than when he’d first drank it down. It felt oil like on his tongue, over his lips as he vomited into the acrid dirt. His throat burned.

“Good,” Halsin said, softly, and in any other moment Astarion would have silently bristled over the praise, reveled in it silently. Now he could barely focus on who was even with him.

He felt a hand, Gale’s, pushing his hair back as he coughed, vomited a second time. Acidic now, as his stomach had little to give now that the ghost of Thisobald’s brew was sinking into the hungry, dying dirt of the Shadowlands. Astarion could feel sweat prickling on his spine, his scalp, and he wanted to push Gale’s hand away- but gods it felt nice, and he still couldn’t bring his arms to even move.

He coughed again, a pathetic, broken sound leaving him as he gagged, heaved, but his stomach had no more to give. Halsin hushed him, and Astarion squeezed his eyes shut. Could feel tears brimming at the corners of his eyes.

Before he could even think the word pathetic, the world melted away, and there was simply nothing.

*

When reality filtered back in, Astarion felt different. Lighter. He forced his eyes open- and the ached- was met by the dim lantern light of a small room. He was lying on his back, and he realized quickly in a bed. His armor was gone.

He sat up, grimaced as the movement set his head to pounding. He reached up, cradled his forehead, his hair coming free in wild, unkempt curls. He closed his eyes against the pain, tried to piece together what in the ever living hells had happened.

The Waning Moon. Thisobald. That vile brew.

Haslin’s arms around him.

Gale’s fingers in his mouth.

He groaned, the pit of his belly sinking further. He couldn’t even hold himself together long enough to get back to Last Light on his own, pathetic. He should have known he wouldn’t have had the fucking stones to handle whatever the was, but gods above and below he couldn’t put the other through it, and- and…

And maybe he wanted to seem strong in their eyes.

The creak of the old wooden door snapped him from his thoughts. He let his hand fall from his forehead, turned- and Karlach was peeking just her head in. “Hey soldier,” she offered, boisterous voice rather soft. She didn’t move to push the door open more until Astarion gave her a nod, and then she was inside, pushing the door shut. She had a small glass in one hand. “Heard the bed creak, figured you were back with us. You didn’t move an inch otherwise, worse than the dead.”

Astarion snorted a very undignified laugh, and Karlach grinned at him. “Funny,” he said, relaxing just a little. It was hard not to, around her.

She walked over and sat on the bed, reached out her free hand and pressed it to his forehead. He was chilled as usual, skin damp with a layer of sweat that he was becoming all too conscious of. He wanted a bath. He wanted a potion to actually sleep for the first time in near two-hundred years.

He wanted to fucking feed so his body could recover.

Despite it all, he leaned into her touch a little. Now that Dammon had her as tuned up as possible, she couldn’t seem to stop herself from constantly touching someone. Astarion had never said he liked it, because her touches were so innocent, sweet and without purpose other than to soothe.

That, and she burned as hot as the hells, and he wanted nothing more than to be completely enveloped in that heat.

“How are you feeling?”

Astarion huffed. “Like shit.” He ran his tongue along his teeth, felt like his mouth was coated in a thin, oily layer, like the sweat on his body. He hated it. The sour, near bitter taste in his mouth made his stomach threaten to roll.

Karlach held out the glass- it looked like water, but Astarion could smell it. Something refreshing, minty. “Wyll mixed you up something to rinse your mouth out. Figured you’d probably be tastin’ death right about now.”

“My savior,” Astarion purred, mocking but not in all truth. He took the glass happily and swished the water in his mouth, the sour taste melting away to something quite refreshing. He spat back into the cup, and Karlach took it like a doting mother.

“I heard you put on quite a show for a Thorm,” Karlach said, as Astarion shifted in the bed, plucking at his shirt and trying to pull it from his damp skin. “Gale said you drank like the lads back in Waterdeep after a good round of debate on… fuck, I forgot the rest.”

Astarion almost laughed. Almost. “Someone had to.”

“But why you?”

She would ask that. Astarion hated that Karlach could read them all. Hated, and loved, loved so fiercely it hurt-

He swallowed that down. That word had no right to be in his life, for any of these people. They didn’t deserve that kind of curse.

“Who else?” he asked, lifting his chin and trying to brush his curls back, as if putting himself back in order. “If you’d been there maybe I’d have let you, but the others? It would have ruined them.”

“Almost sounds like you were worried about us.” Astarion jerked his head to the side, realized the door to the small bedroom had opened. Gale was standing there, for once with an expression Astarion couldn’t read.

And of course he had been. But dammit, they didn’t need to know that. Before he could say anything though, Karlach was standing up, walking over to the door. “I’m gonna go… somewhere,” she said, and Astarion wanted to scream at her that she had better not dare leave right now-

She was gone. And Gale was in the room now, leaning against the closed door, arms folded. Studying him. Astarion frowned. “What?”

“It was awful nice, you taking one for the team, so to speak.”

“Well, you’re all no use to me dead.” Astarion tried to sound detached, but his throat caught. “And of course I would have been the most ideal choice. My stomach is dead anyway.”

“I’d really argue differently.” Gale took a few steps from the door, then stopped, standing awkwardly in the very small room. The lantern was casting oranges and yellows on his skin, as if he was made of gold. Astarion’s dead heart leapt.

He cursed himself inwardly for it.

“You didn’t exactly handle it well.” Gale’s voice was almost teasing.

“I held myself together as long as I needed to!” Astarion yelled, but it only made Gale smile. And gods damn it all, that stupid little smile made Astarion’s own lips quirk. “Stop it!”

“Stop what?” Gale asked, inclining his head, quite obviously acting oblivious.

“Smiling!”

“Why?” He reached up, tapped his chin. “Could it be that I’m simply too charming and my smile is infectious?” Astarion bared his fangs, reached behind him for the lumpy pillow on the bed, and chucked it at Gale. It smacked him in the face, and Gale chuckled. He seemed about to throw it back, when the door opened again, and Halsin filled the impossibly small room.

“Ah, he’s awake.” Astarion grasped at the sheets on the bed, the mere sight of the large elf reminding him how easily his arms had wrapped around him. How solid his chest had been, against Astarion’s back.

“Awake and caddy as ever,” Gale said, still holding the pillow as Halsin shut the door. “He seems to think our palettes were all simply too weak to handle whatever Thisobald was dishing out.”

Halsin frowned, and Astarion knew the argument that was coming before the Druid opened his mouth. He was the largest so he should have done it, it would have affected him the least-

“I couldn’t do that to any of you.” Astarion said it without meaning to. The moment he did, he pinched his lips shut, cursing himself for even speaking. He was getting too comfortable around all of them. “I’m dead, what does it matter?”

“I would argue death is but a technicality here,” Gale said, sounding more serious now. “You’re very much alive right now. Sure, you do have a fascinating healing metabolism when properly fed…” Gale trailed off then, and for a moment, the air in the room was heavy with silence.

It seemed both Halsin and Gale had the same realization in that moment, as they stared at Astarion, took in his pallor that was stronger than usual, the dark circles around his eyes. Eyes that were a bit listless, faded.

“Astarion,” Halsin said, his voice timber, sturdy, and yet soft. “When did you last feed?”

Astarion sighed. He reached up, waved his hand dismissively. “The days all bleed together-”

“Astarion.”

“Three days.” He could remember the exact moment, the dying cultist who had bled out so much there wasn’t much left, but gods it had been something. There was nothing living in the Shadowlands, nothing for him to hunt. And the undead had no life to give him. “But it’s no matter. I’m fine as ever.” He tossed the blanket aside, stood up quickly- and before he even realized he was falling, Halsin had taken the few steps to him, caught him and leaned his weight into his broad chest.

“Right,” Gale said, sarcasm thick. “Fine.”

“Fuck off,” Astarion mumbled, before he made a little shocked noise as Halsin lifted him. Halsin settled on the ground, Astarion in his lap, as he leaned his back against the bed.

“Easily fixed,” he said, “I’m here. Drink from me.”

Astarion choked, couldn’t even hide his reaction. The number of times he’d wondered what the Druid would taste like were countless. Nights spent unable to fall into a trance, pushing his face into the thin blankets in his own tent, sinking his fangs into fabric and desperately grinding against his hand, desire to be satiated in so many ways by the other elf driving him to madness.

“I,” Astarion managed, as he heard Gale kneeling down just behind him. His charm was gone, dead on his tongue. He swore he couldn’t even process a thought.

“I won’t see you starve,” Halsin said, as he helped prop Astarion up, until the vampire was straddling his lap. Astarion stared down at him, but Halsin’s eyes were all gentle, honest. It made Astarion sick with wanting, sick with needing.

In his heart, his soul, his gut, he would never believe he deserved to be looked at in such a way.

“I’d offer,” Gale added, “but you’d just end up vomiting again.” Astarion glanced back at him, a dizziness overcoming him. Gods damn them both.

He had no quip prepared. All he could do was lean over, nose at Halsin’s neck. The Druid tilted his head, offered the side of his throat without hesitation, and Astarion trembled. He could hear Halsin’s pulse, swimming in his head, and oh, he was so starved, the hunger inside him gnawing, clawing his gut open with serrated teeth.

He pulled his lips back, sank his fangs into Halsin’s neck.

The moment he did his mind erupted, colors flashing behind his eyes, in his skull. He moaned, couldn’t stop himself, leaning into Halsin more, the first few drops of blood sliding past his fangs, into his mouth. He felt Halsin’s hands on his waist, bracing him, keeping him steady. He didn’t so much as seem to wince.

Astarion pulled his fangs from Halsin’s neck, let his pulse pump a fresh wave of blood into his mouth. He swallowed greedily, feeling alive from just the first taste. He rocked against the Druid, hands grasping at Halsin’s shoulders. One of the hands on his waist moved, and suddenly Halsin’s thick fingers were treading in Astarion’s hair, twirling curls around his fingers and pressing his face closer.

“I have you,” he said, so softly Astarion wanted to sob. A choked noise did escape him, something undignified- and the moment it did, Gale’s hand was rubbing along his spine, seeming to not care about the dampness of Astarion’s shirt, from his sweat.

Somewhere in his mind, Astarion felt a frantic scream- his scars. Surely Gale would feel the rigid bits of flesh he had yet to show anyone. Surely he would wonder.

But the voice died, drowned in the calming wave of finally feeding, of Halsin’s warmth, Gale’s reassuring touch. Astarion pushed his tongue against the wound, shivered over the heavy taste of Halsin’s blood. It was what he had once joked he thought Gale would have tasted like. Aged brandy, woody, smokey. Intoxicating.

“Should I stop him?” he heard Gale ask- but his mind was drifting blissfully. It wasn’t until he heard Halsin’s responses that he came back to himself.

“No. I trust him to take only what he needs.”

Something burst in Astarion, something hot melting from his chest, dripping along his ribs. He squeezed his eyes shut, fighting back how they stung. Halsin had no reason to trust him.

And yet, and yet.

He pulled back, gasped a breath against Halsin’s neck. He felt Halsin’s fingers flex in his hair, against his scalp, and then Halsin pushing him back to his neck. “I’m alright,” he said, as if knowing what Astarion needed to hear.

Gods damn him.

Astarion pressed his mouth to the wound, laved his tongue over it again. This time he felt something, a rumble in Halsin, an almost-shiver. The hand on his waist tightened, held him so firmly, in a way Astarion was guilty of imagining far too many times. Except there was far more skin involved in those fantasies, and every nerve inside Astarion alight as Halsin buried so deeply in him he could plant himself like a sapling.

Astarion rocked his hips again, achingly hard, unable to fight it. He ground against Halsin, just as Gale’s hand on his back moved, and then Gale’s hands were both on his waist, holding him.

He might have thought Astarion was going unsteady. But oh, the thought of Gale’s soft fingers clutching his skin with bruising force was also not an unknown fantasy.-

The vampling pulled back, further this time, another gasped, unneeded breath leaving his lips. Halsin’s hand cradled the base of his skull, the Druid turning those gorgeous eyes on him, smiling so softly.

Astarion wanted to kiss him, crash his mouth against Halsin’s. Wanted Halsin to taste the blood on his tongue, the life he had given Astarion. Astarion wanted to sob into him, wanted to disappear.

He almost did. For a single second his eyes stared too longingly at Halsin’s lips, and he swore he gave himself away. But then there was a warm pressure against his spine, and Gale’s chin resting on his shoulder, his hands still tight on his waist.

“So? Come now, describe how he tastes.”

Astarion swallowed thickly, glanced away. He was growing far too aware of just how aroused he was- and that he could feel Gale’s heart, pounding against his back. Elevated.

He wouldn’t dare dream that what he was feeling might be mirrored in these two.

“Better than his neighboring woodland beasties,” Astarion managed, lifting his chin, trying to come back to himself. Already his mind felt clear, the fatigue that had laced his body leaving him. Whatever last dregs of Thisobald’s brew had managed to invade his system were quickly dying.

Halsin chuckled, his hand leaving Astarion’s hair. “I assume that is a compliment.”

Astarion gave a single, curt nod, still glancing away, unable to meet Halsin’s stare. “I would kill for a bath,” he mumbled, becoming even more aware of the layer of now cooled sweat on his skin.

“You could use one,” Gale teased, and Astarion twisted, dislodging Gale from his shoulder. He shoved the wizard with no force, and Gale grinned at him, stupidly charming and making Astarion want to laugh. “You are getting close to the corpse-smell now.”

“Go to hell.”

“Pick a layer and get me a tour guide. I’ll take notes.” Gale stood up slowly, grimacing as his knees ached over the motion- and Astarion pouted without meaning to. Halsin chuckled, and then before Astarion could do much else, Halsin was pushing him against his shoulder and chest, standing up as if Astarion weighed nothing and hadn’t just drank quite the fill of him.

“You’re both like children,” he said, with no malice or even annoyance in his voice. Astarion didn’t fight the hold- but pointedly did not look at Gale but across the room, away from them both. He was still aroused, and there was no way Halsin hadn’t noticed.

Yet the Druid said nothing at all. He simply set Astarion down gently so he was sitting on the bed, took his chin in his hands and tilted his face carefully, inspecting his eyes, the bit of color that had rushed to his cheeks. “You look much better now.”

In a voice that was soft, Astarion managed, “thank you.” Halsin only kept his smile, wiped a smudge of crimson from the corner of Astarion’s lips. Without much thought Astarion turned, caught the Druid’s thumb in his mouth, rolled his tongue over the digit to clean the blood away.

He heard Halsin’s breath catch. Astarion glanced up, eyes heavy lidded, white lashes hiding most of his irises- and it was a look he had used countless times, but not one he had meant to use on his companions.

Something seemed stoked in Halsin’s eyes, a golden fire brimming in a quiet forest. Yet Halsin pulled back, turned his eyes to Gale. “Let’s give him some time to collect himself.”

Gale furrowed his brow, but after a moment too long of taking in Halsin as well- and gods below, was everyone attracted to the Druid?

Astarion assumed so. Rightfully so.

“Fair enough.” He nodded at Astarion, seemed almost unsure what to do with himself for a moment, before he turned for the door, telling Halsin he’d help him clean his neck up. Astarion watched the door shut, listened to their footsteps leaving him-

Alone. In the near dark, the lantern beginning to die.

His breathing quickened as Astarion ran his tongue along his fangs, still tasted Halsin. He gripped at the bed for a moment, thinking perhaps calm was an option, that he could bring himself down from the delirium he was soaring towards-

Then he threw himself down on the bed, buried his face in the pillow Gale had at some point returned, and desperately clawed at his pants. He barely got his hand in before he was rutting against it and the bed, hips moving as if he was possessed. His cock slid with ease against his palm, slicking precum against his slightly warmed skin. Astarion whined, bit the pillow and pressed his tongue to it, trying to quiet himself.

He squeezed his eyes shut, drowned in the memory of Halsin’s taste. The Druid’s hand in his hair. The sheer warmth that radiated from him. But it almost wasn’t enough, not without Gale’s hands on his waist, and then pressed up against his back.

He groaned, stomach knotting. He’d let Gale take him, in Halsin’s lap. Gods, what a sheer joy it would be to have the wizard pressed along his back, heating up his scars, panting desperately in his ear as he drove his cock so far into Astarion that he saw stars. And Halsin there to tell Astarion he was good, so bloody good, taking everything so well-

Astarion gasped, threw himself onto his back and shoved his pants down his hips, taking himself properly in hand. His cock throbbed as he ran his thumb up along the underside, teased the sweet bundle of nerves below his glans. He arched a little, tipped his head back, sighed. Would Halsin let him feed, while Gale took him? Would he take him after? Before?

It didn’t matter, Astarion just wanted to be so lost in them he forgot everything. He became nothing, everything, all and none. He wanted them. Not because he was told to, not because it was some sort of transaction, his charming affection for safety, loyalty.

He wanted them simply because of who they were.

“Hells,” he gasped, thrusting up into his hand, And oh, what would it be like to have Gale’s legs around his waist, to have the man arching beneath him, sobbing in sheer ecstasy. Or Halsin, with his face pressed down into a pillow, Astarion able to see all that muscle along his back and shoulders as the Druid growled and grunted, his heat devouring Astarion whole.

Astarion pulled his hand away as he felt his stomach contracting, his balls tight to the point of aching. He didn’t want to come yet, though, gods no. He wanted to stay lost in this. He dragged just his fingertips down his shaft, back up- teased his slit as precum beaded. He bit his lip, couldn’t remember the last time he’d actually gotten himself off, and gods below, this was good.

He dragged his other hand up his chest, his neck, pooling his shirt awkwardly at his collar bone. His hand continued, dug into his own hair and pulled. The pain on his scalp was sharp but pleasing, and he hissed, his slick fingertips rubbing down his cock again. His hips shifted desperately, his body wanted more, more, more.

His eyes slid shut, and finally unable to take it, he took himself back in hand, firmly stroking quickly. His curls tangled around his own fingers, fingers he wished for Halsin’s, as he bit his lip- a lip he wished as Gale’s.

He came with a strangled cry on his lips, muffled just enough, his body arching, heels digging into the bed. Cum splattered along his pale belly, even dotted his ribs, as he stroked until it hurt. Only then did he go lax, hand falling to his side, as he panted, eyes slitting open to stare up into the dark.

The lantern had gone out.

Astarion felt a pleasant buzzing running through him, his body satiated in multiple ways now. He sighed, let his eyes fall shut, wished he wasn’t alone in the soft-edge bliss that was enveloping him.

And, because fate was never kind to him, there was a knock just as the static reached his fingertips, his toes. He sat up quickly, cursed and wasn’t even sure where to begin to hide the mess he was- but thankfully, the door remained closed.

“Astarion.” Gale’s voice, softer than it had been before. “Listen, if you… Halsin…” the man paused, and content that the door was going to remain shut, Astarion forced himself to smirk, to bring up the cocky bastard he liked to hide behind so well.

“What is it Gale? A tressym got your tongue? Or just the Druid?” Oh, he wished he could see Gale’s cheeks burning.

Gale cleared his throat. “Halsin had Karlach warm up some water. If you… need a hand, he and I are here.”

Color rose to Astarion’s cheeks. There was… something to the offer, some implication that he didn’t dare believe. He said something, not even sure what- but it was enough for Gale to leave.

Astarion took a deep breath, and told himself not to hope. To clean himself up, brush them off, and get back to being the darling charmer he tried so desperately to be. After all, if he allowed himself to think that maybe his desires were returned-

Well, he might start to wish for the warmth of Halsin’s arms, the safety of Gale’s hands. And those were things he was sure were strictly forbidden from the likes of him.

[probablyasocialecologist]

‘Refusing to actively assist in a genocide’ is the absolute lowest of low bars, an existentially minimal expectation of a post-war European polity. But that’s where we are. The ranks are closed and serried. It is a hypnotically grotesque spectacle. Meanwhile, in Gaza, the killing intensifies. Genocide has still been on the table all this time, it seems. Every piety about it being the ultimate evil was just so much noise, to be discarded when it became awkward. It now appears that thinking genocide is bad is for the little people. Or perhaps it is a ‘luxury belief’. The most powerful states in the world have enshrined remembrance of the Holocaust in their public places, their calendars, their museums, their education systems. We were given to understand that this was because genocide was the final, absolute line: never, ever again, for anyone. But insofar as Britain and other nations have ignored or assisted Israel’s campaign in Gaza, it turns out that these same states have in fact kept systematic human extermination and ethnic cleansing on the list of possible political options, as rights which they might need to exercise one day. At my most grimly cynical, I fear that this is because the Northern states have concluded that the coming age will take the form prophesied by the Bannonites and neo-reactionaries—a time of sovereign power amidst climate breakdown—and this means they want leeway to operate as they will, at home and abroad, without being bound by any laws or responsibilities, moral or otherwise. Gaza is the end of all pretence to a belief in any law but that of raw force, and as such, it is the proving ground for all tomorrow’s hells.

[...]

The British state is an active and official participant in an ongoing genocide, its politicians and press are running cover, its intelligence services and military are actively involved. The fact that this is still barely in the papers, and that the people who have taken to the streets asking for it to stop have been denounced as hate-filled racists and fanatics, should tell you all you need to know about how much anyone in power or in the press ever really understood or cared about ‘never again’. Perhaps I am naïve, but the purpose of Holocaust education, as I always understood it, was not to teach us that we should obediently wait and see what position pundits and politicians would take on urgent events, and then follow their lead. Nor was it so we could take the long view, see both sides, mutter about complexities, patiently wait for years to pass and for evidence to be gathered. No, the purpose of the quite extensive Holocaust education that most people in this country received was surely so we would know a genocide when we saw it. We were supposed to learn what it looked like so it could be stopped, and so that our perpetual duty to those who died in the camps – a duty consisting of an eternal never again, the magnetic north of personal and political morality – would be rightly discharged, should our time ever come to discharge it. It was so we would not be the ones who turned a blind eye to the removal of our friends and colleagues; so that we would know to speak, to act, to refuse to let it happen without a fight; so that we would never betray a hiding child, never denounce a neighbour, never find ourselves just following orders. Whatever else could it possibly have been for, if it was not to know these things, yourself, in your heart? What can the story of Anne Frank mean to us, as individuals, if it does not mean that we must each of us internalise the lesson that we should never give up a child to genocidaires? And did we not learn, too, that the state would bombard us with propaganda, that the truth would be hidden, and that without effort we would become inured and complacent so that it would not be so simple to see what was before us, and so that many would simply accept what was happening without demur? Were we not warned? We were. A clearly distressed Palestinian man whose mother and family had been killed in the bombardment of northern Gaza was recently manhandled out of a Labour party event in Stockport for the transgression of asking people to look at photographs of his dead mother. In a widely circulated film, Labour deputy leader Angela Rayner stands frozen and silent as he is violently ejected. What has happened to those heart lessons she was supposed to learn? Is this not the very moment for which those lessons were prepared, the moment that we were warned about? If not now, when?

[scoobydoodean]

Coming back to discussions on 6.06 because it wasn't on my mind at the time—the title of this episode is "You Can't Handle The Truth". On it's face, it's a reference to the curse victims get in this episode and how they literally cannot handle the truth, but it's also a reference to the movie/play "A Few Good Men". In 6.06, we still know very little about what Cas is up to. The title is a nice bit of foreshadowing for what's going on behind the scenes, but more interestingly, a tell regarding the unspoken emotions and resentments in play between Dean and (especially) Cas. Watch this scene (or read the transcript from IMDB copied below) and it's easy to see that Cas is Jessep (Nickolson's character) and Dean is Kaffee (Cruise's character)*.

Col. Jessep: You want answers? Kaffee: I think I'm entitled. Col. Jessep: You want answers? Kaffee: I WANT THE TRUTH! Col. Jessep: YOU CAN'T HANDLE THE TRUTH! Son, we live in a world that has walls, and those walls have to be guarded by men with guns. Who's gonna do it? You? You, Lt. Weinberg? I have a greater responsibility than you could possibly fathom. You weep for Santiago and you curse the Marines. You have that luxury. You have the luxury of not knowing what I know; that Santiago's death, while tragic, probably saved lives. And my existence, while grotesque and incomprehensible to you, saves lives. You don't want the truth because deep down in places you don't talk about at parties, you want me on that wall. You need me on that wall. We use words like honor, code, loyalty. We use these words as the backbone of a life spent defending something. You use them as a punchline. I have neither the time nor the inclination to explain myself to a man who rises and sleeps under the blanket of the very freedom that I provide, and then questions the manner in which I provide it! I would rather you just said "thank you" and went on your way, otherwise, I suggest you pick up a weapon and stand a post. Either way, I don't give a damn what you think you are entitled to! Kaffee: Did you order the code red? Col. Jessep: I did the job I- Kaffee: Did you order the Code Red? Col. Jessep: You're God damn right I did!

I don't think Cas is so blasé—I think a primary reason he lies to Dean is that he's ashamed of his actions and doesn't want anyone (Dean, Balthazar, the other angels he's lying to) to look down on him. But he also believes his actions are necessary, and he also doesn't think Dean can handle being a part of doing what Cas believes needs to be done. He very truly believes Dean can't handle the truth and doesn't want him or anyone else who "can't handle it" to stand in his way, and that's the other reason he lies. Whether Cas's resentment deep down reaches the levels Jessep feels for Kaffee is also another matter, but I think it's probably not terribly far off even if not as extreme. Cas's actions are cold, calculated, sometimes cruel, and (in his eyes) absolutely necessary—but (from his perspective) no one else can handle it and no one else will ever appreciate what he's doing or the "necessary" moral sacrifices he's making.

*Adding another interesting dimension here, Jensen Ackles starred as Kaffee in a stage play of "A Few Good Men" in 2007.

[wonda-fhr]

For the soft asks, 🥀 for a Step of ur choice (if any of them do notebook things!) and 💫 for each of them?

Thank you for your ask 💕 🥀 How would your OC decorate a notebook or journal? What kind of things are written in there? Could you give an example of a nice entry? I left this question to Justin (and Chen), he is the creative of the OC family.

----

"Oh, there it is."

"There's what?" The confusion on your face is real, because you're already scratching Spoon's head and haven't paid attention to other thoughts. Chen points to the bench next to you.

"This ominous little black book I keep hearing about. Ortega and Herald are already taking bets on what's in it."

"That's ridiculous."

"It is. But they say you always carry it with you. But I've never seen it. Either you're hiding it very well, or I'm losing my powers of observation."

"There is nothing wrong with your powers of observation. Little black books make people too nosy, so I always make it disappear quickly. Apparently not fast enough when they're around. And now? Are you also getting curious, Marshall? There it is. Take a look inside." You are a mystery to yourself as you utter these words. You have never let anyone look inside this book. Even your henchmen puzzle behind your back about the secrets it contains, but they would never dare touch it for fear of losing a hand. Around the marshall, you are somehow not yourself, becoming unreliable to your own principles.

You watch as he picks up the neutral black notebook and hesitates to open it. He is curious like everyone else, but he holds it out to you so that you can make it disappear again. But your mind is made up, you want him to see it. "Look inside, Chen. Please."

He still hesitates, you nod to confirm your decision and that's enough for him to open it. He flips through the first few pages and smiles at the sight of your little caricatures. He flips over flowers and animals, laughs at the grotesque figures that clearly show Ortega and Argent, and pauses at a picture of Spoon lying on his back with heart-shaped paws.

"Sometimes it helps me clear my head and focus." is your explanation, and it is the plain truth. Drawing the funny impressions helps you focus your brain, which is operating at high speed.

Chen keeps turning the pages and gets to the second half of the book, which is reserved for words, not pictures. Neatly separated from the funny stuff, he finds words that have more meaning than simple text. They have been lovingly combined into verses to give them symbolism and to make them flow in rhythms so that they are able to express feelings that you cannot feel otherwise.

You carefully touch his mind as he reads intently. He is touched, almost sad. On the next pages, anger takes over the sadness until the happy mood of the next lines catches him and he smiles again. When he closes the book at a point that made him smile, he hands it back to you and looks at you with different eyes, more curious than he was about the contents of the book.

"This is wonderful. Everything in it, but the poetry is incredible."

"Thank you. It was never meant to impress anyone. In fact, it was always meant for my eyes, but I'm glad you like it." He makes you say strange things, you have to stop letting him tempt you to express your true thoughts.

"You should decorate the book, make it glitter and shine colorfully, it's just too plain. Plain and black, it stands out in your hand like a beacon, that's what makes everyone so curious".

You look at your book, you like it just the way it is, so honest and real. But Chen is absolutely right, it stands out. Maybe you'll get a cover you can take off, like your makeup. Chen still looks at you, and suddenly you realize that he understands a lot more about the book than you were willing to reveal.

------

💫 What is your favourite fact about this character and why? I guess I'll have to answer that in my own words. :)

This question took me too far. I tried to write something, but I realized that I couldn't answer the question with a single fact. Lia, Luke, Justin, and David have been my companions for many years, and during that time you get so used to each of their characteristics that it is impossible to say which one you like best. Because all of them together make up the person you are talking about. I'll try to give you the basics.

Lia is protective, strong, determined, self-sacrificing. A bit too much of everything. She is a shield and a weapon for those she cares about. But she is so much better in those moments when she allows herself to let go, to be sensitive and to be loved.

Luke is always charming and in control. Real and honest. He speaks out what is otherwise unspoken, and his arm is ready for those for whom the truth is hard to bear. But when he loses his temper, he is magnificent, no one escalates as wonderfully irrational and emotional as he does.

Justin, my flamboyant disaster. My wonderfully erratic eye candy. He's always looking for stability, but can't stand to be restrained. Hard to reach, gone faster than a blink. But he is always there for everyone, caring and profound.

David remains, the weakest of the four? Maybe. Sensitive, emotional, fragile. The one who can show everyone how to enjoy life. The one who finds moments of true joy and shares them. The one who gives everyone strength. The driving force that holds everyone together.

This is a small declaration of love to my Oc family, they are perfect with all their good qualities and weaknesses.

[songofthesibyl]

Grotesque

A few weeks ago I got a request to write the scene of Feyre’s arrival Under the Mountain (chapter 34 of A Court of Thorns and Roses) from Tamlin’s POV:

https://archiveofourown.org/works/51222193

It was becoming tiresome. At a distance, everything flashed, blended together. Already. He had done his work well, he was safely inside. He imagined the sun on his back, curled up as a dog before a fire, the smell of warm earth and roses. Light rippling on the surface of a starlit pool. He smiled—inside still, always—he could see it in the play of light and shadow, how she had used color to show the glassy surface, and the silver, and the entirety of the spectrum that was held within. Limitless possibilities, wishes granted, happiness unending. An eternity of freedom, immortality of impression. Long after he was gone, he thought, her paintings would endure. Perhaps some future High Lord would find them. Or, after ages, when Prythian was finally ruined, and wild, every Court like the Middle, through walls of blackened, twisted bramble, a curious human would bravely venture inside, and come across his gallery, and know the works that had been done by human hands. Perhaps a descendant, or—not so far. A son, a daughter. Perhaps she had found Isaac waiting, and over time, as the glamour faded, her feelings would deepen, and she would find some measure of happiness. She had painted Isaac in a manner that did not belie pain, or fear. Maybe he would come, and find them, and save them from destruction. He would take the painting of the glen, for its beauty, and the one of the two of them—but perhaps. Perhaps he would leave her painting of the winter woods behind. Such a painful time, surely she would not want it. And it, and she, would endure somehow, until the end of time. When this mountain crumbled on top of them. Just as his mask would endure, while he rotted underneath. 

He had never been so close to Rhysand, for almost five hundred years, as he had in the days since had been here. It was disarming at first, however much he did not resemble the male he had known so long ago, who had shown him such kindness that both now sorely regretted. He had earned a certain freedom here, enough to go abroad, if only in her service, to torment and murder. The price paid, for getting close to an enemy. And he wore his mask well, yet it was thinning, and in their closeness he could begin to see what lay underneath. He had noticed before, in his manor. How sallow his skin had become, a hollowness around the eyes. A wasting sickness, like the one that affected humans—he was being consumed by this place. If he were allowed to show his wings, if he were inclined to, he imagined they would be tearing at intervals. He wondering if he would still be able to fly.

If he himself could. If he would be able to sport fangs, and claws again. If Rhysand, in almost fifty years, had not found one moment in which to release his talons and slit Amarantha’s throat. He felt Rhysand’s power at his manor, too—felt it here, greater than his own. And yet nothing. He almost wanted to listen to Lucien now, and make one great last stand as Summer, Winter, and Day. It would be suicide, though, with no plan, no one willing to stand with him. Rhysand, or anyone else. And so instead, for the past few days since being brought Under the Mountain, he had sat. And been contented to be numb, and distant. But it was already blending together, the screams of torment further and further away, himself deeper. And he looked at Rhysand’s skin, his eyes, and bemoaned it happening to him. But it was already happening. He could not endure it otherwise.  And he was already tired of Amarantha’s sadistic smile, the endless parade of depravity and pain. And Clare still on the wall, rotting. And how relieved he was that it was not Feyre. And what that made of him. It was already happening. 

It would happen again. Suddenly, everything in his body seized up, every animal that had made its shelter in him squawked and howled and roared, a beating of wings and a baring of teeth. He had expected another boring night at Amarantha’s side, of blankly watching soulless revels, listening to jarring, dissonant music. Rhysand’s fawning and preening. He had imagined himself becoming him and thought it was his worst fate, only a few days in. And he had prepared for it, and now, as the possibility ebbed away forever, he desired it back. Let him be hidden, let him be taken piece by piece, let him rot away under his mask. But not this. Anything but this. 

He silenced the menagerie inside himself, thought that Amarantha’s monsters must have gone back, and found something of Feyre’s to taunt him with, now that he had disappointed Amarantha by not giving her any sport with Clare. A tunic, her Solstice dress, something from her room. Or perhaps they had gone and taken her paintings, knowing which ones had been done by human hands, seeing their place of honor on his walls. Now, they would go beside Amarantha’s self-proclaimed work of art, that she would, that they would now all see daily. And Feyre’s paintings hung beside. That was it. It was not her. She had not been found. They had not realized. Rhysand had not told them. The human being brought before them was one of the poor, misguided Children of the Blessed—Amarantha had taken so many of them over the years. It was awful, and terrible, and he was already sick of it. But it was not her. He did not see her. She was not here.

The animals stilled at his command. The boredom he had felt weigh on him only a moment before, now affected. He was not as good at the performance as Rhysand. But he thought he might turn into him now, instead of in weeks, months, years. Be convincing. Let nothing show, of what was underneath. He had made his peace. This wasn’t supposed to happen. Feyre was not supposed to be here. 

“What’s this?” Amarantha said, unimpressed, uninterested. Feyre looked to him. He felt her, everywhere, her scent penetrated every part of him that he had taken such pains to lock away. But he stared at nothing, listening to Amarantha and her Attor speak, and not hearing. And Feyre’s eyes, and his feet unmoving. She was so close he could almost touch her. He wondered who had shown her the way here.

She rose to her feet, terror in her bones, as there should have been, but resolve, and defiance in her eyes. He caught a glimpse of Clare behind her.

“I’ve come to claim the one I love.” A steady, but quiet voice. She looked at him again. A shudder went through him, just as his heart filled. It was all over now.

“Oh?” He saw Amarantha lean forward out of the corner of his eyes. A predator, leaning in before it pounced on its prey. There was a quick calculation if he could rip her head off before she realized.

He couldn’t. 

“I’ve come to claim Tamlin, High Lord of the Spring Court.”

An intake of breath, silence in the hall. Amarantha laughed, and looked at him. Looking, they were all looking at him. He had so disappointed her with Clare. She would get nothing now.

It took a moment of her insulting him on his taste in women before she realized. He sensed the pleasure in her, delight naked on her face, in her voice. He wanted to recoil from it. 

“Oh, you are delicious. You let me torture that innocent girl to keep this one safe? You lovely thing! You actually made a human worm love you. Marvelous.” 

She clapped in her delight, and the sound echoing through the room shook him, and he faltered, turning away from her. It had seemed so long ago. But Clare was still there, looking down on all of them, waiting.

“Let him go.” Feyre’s voice began to waver. 

Another laugh stilled him again, and he righted himself. She would see. See what he had already become here. What she had forfeited her life for.

“Give me one reason why I shouldn’t destroy you where you stand, human.”

“You tricked him. He is bound unfairly.”

Amarantha continued savoring each word, drawing it out—but eventually, she pointed to the spot on the wall, and Feyre turned, and looked. And his crime was laid bare.

“Perhaps I should have listened when she said she’d never seen Tamlin before. Or when she insisted she’d never killed a faerie, never hunted a day in her life. Though her screaming was delightful. I haven’t heard such lovely music in ages. I should thank you for giving Rhysand her name instead of yours.”

Feyre stood still in horror, until the Attor turned her back around to face them.

“Come now, precious. What have you to say to that?”

Feyre’s eyes went to him for a moment. He willed her. Yes. You see now what I am. What I have become, so soon in your absence. Now run. Even as he knew it was pointless, he pleaded, he begged her. Run.

“Do you still wish to claim someone who would do that to an innocent?” Amarantha went on.

Feyre turned from him. “Yes. Yes, I do.” Fight remaining in her voice. For him.

“Well, Tamlin,” he wanted to flinch as Amarantha put a claiming hand on his arm. Everything fled, recoiled from her touch. But the animals held him still. “I don’t suppose you ever expected this to occur.”

She indicated Feyre, and he heard a ripple of laughter through the hall that he longed to silence. 

“What do you have to say, High Lord?”

There was a silence then. A waiting. He made himself very, very still. “I’ve never seen her before. Someone must have glamoured her as a joke. Probably Rhysand.”

A desperate attempt, after Clare.

“Oh, that’s not even a halfway decent lie.” She paused for a moment, and he sensed the shift, the realization. And how it would condemn Feyre. “Could it be—could it be that you, despite your words so many years ago, return the human’s feelings? A girl with hate in her heart for our kind has managed to fall in love with a faerie. And a faerie whose father once slaughtered the human masses by my side has actually fallen in love with her too?” She croaked with laughter, and he felt the venom behind it, the salivating of her mouth. “Oh, this is too good—this is too fun.” She lowered her head, and spoke to Jurian. “I suppose if anyone can appreciate the moment, it would be you, Jurian. A pity your human whore on the side never bothered to save you, though.”

He ignored her, looking at Feyre, from within the layers sheltering him. A long howl in the wilderness, alone in winter woods. He saw her pleading, her not understanding, her seeking for some sign. She was alone, and he was the father who sat and did not fight, and shaped wood. He was stone. A grotesque warning her to flee. But she wouldn’t. And he would find out, if the salivating on Amarantha’s tongue would be enough to sustain her, for now. 

“Things have been awfully boring since Clare decided to die on me. Killing you outright, human, would be dull.” His heart strained inside him. “But Fate stirs the Cauldron in strange ways. Perhaps my darling Clare had to die in order for me to have some true amusement with you.” 

He would kill her. He would kill her.

“You came to claim Tamlin? Well, as it happens, I’m bored to tears of his sullen silence. I was worried when he didn’t flinch while I played with darling Clare, when he didn’t even show those lovely claws…But I’ll make a bargain with you, human.”

His hands, his mouth, ached. His throat burned. They wanted to come out, it wanted to come out. 

“You complete three tasks of my choosing—three tasks to prove how deep that human sense of loyalty and love runs, and Tamlin is yours. Just three little challenges to prove your dedication, to prove to me, to darling Jurian, that your kind can indeed love true, and you can have your High Lord.” She turned to him. “Consider it a favor, High Lord—these human dogs can make our kind so lust-blind that we lose all common sense. Better for you to see her true nature now.”

He might have said something about Feyre’s true nature already being shown here, but she spoke instead, drawing Amarantha’s attention back.

“I want his curse broken, too.”

He could see Amarantha’s teeth gleaming even out of the corner of his eye. This attempt from a human to outwit the female who had managed to subdue all seven High Lords—ten, counting those she had murdered. Feyre had spoken to someone—Alis, perhaps—she had an air of confidence, she considered her words carefully in the now deathly-silent hall. The details of the bargain, Amarantha’s addition of a riddle that would free them all immediately if answered correctly. Breaths, all of time, stood still as this human considered—this human girl with no power, no magic, no real sense of what she had stepped into, or what she faced, but for the body behind her, another grotesque, an omen, a promise. There was fear, but a resolute bravery, as one who faces certain death on the battlefield and yet forges ahead all the same. She did not cow, or beg. Instead she stood tall, and faced Amarantha fully. For him. The part of himself he would not yield grew until it filled him, struggling against his bonds, un-glamoured, threatening to break through and fill the darkened space with golden light. But then Feyre looked at him, and it would not burst through, the stone remained intact, and as they bargained, the horror crept back, forcing him back into himself. He felt flush from the strain. Feyre had already revealed her true nature, but Amarantha would only use it to destroy her. He had told her. He had sent her away. She wasn’t supposed to be here. Look at me. Look at my mask. Remember Clare. And do not bind yourself to her killer. 

“If I complete your three tasks or solve your riddle, you’ll do as I request?”

“Of course,” Amarantha replied, her voice calm and even. “Is it agreed?”

No. Don’t do this. He looked at Feyre, the strain overwhelming him, and his eyes widened, a momentary lapse. The stone is supposed to stay a stone, as it warns. But he saw the slight shift in her demeanor. Still the weight of her decision, but it had already been made. If he spoke now, if he moved, it would be nothing but pain for her. But the desire ached in him, as teeth struggling to grow, as claws scraping under skin. Feyre was strong, she was insanely brave, braver than all of them, and he loved her. But she would be bound. To torture, to suffering, to this forsaken place. And he did not want her so, because of him. But if she agreed—there was nothing he, or anyone could do, to undo it.

“Well?”

Feyre looked at him one more time before she said the next word. “Agreed.”

And he was too late. Amarantha snapped her fingers, and it was done.

Magic rippled through the hall, the world. Bound. She was bound now. Perhaps—perhaps it had given her time. If she passed the first two trials. If she could solve the riddle. And, he knew—if she hadn’t agreed, she would be up on the wall now. 

Amarantha settled back on her throne, satisfied. “Give her a greeting worthy of my hall.”

He made himself watch, without flinching. What he had done, what it had all led to. Clare, and Andras, and Lucien dropping at his feet, and frightened sisters and their crippled father stock-still as Feyre faced him full in the eyes.

Get out. Get out and begone.

And he had roared and bellowed in his fury. At Andras. At himself. 

And he was so quiet now. And he was so still. He was her sisters, her father, crouching on the ground in his feebleness. A heart that could not work as it should weighing him to his chair, sinking him into the earth.

And the truth was laid bare before him, before Amarantha, before everyone in the hall. Echoing beyond. The Attor struck her, and she reeled, thrown by its power, right into another one of Amarantha’s monsters, who got the other side. She twisted, and tried to evade them, but a third caught her. She could say what she would, be brave, but she was still human, and would break as a human. That was the lesson. That was Amarantha’s settledness, her confidence. 

Feyre cried out in pain as she was passed between them, blood starting to pour from her nose. And with each blow, the layers that he had curled around himself—so painstakingly, he was so safe and secure within—fur and scale and tail, fell from him, one by one, cowering, afraid, prey. They leaped, and scattered, peeled from his flesh, until only one layer remained, that he struggled with everything he had to keep intact.

Finally, Feyre went silent, and limp, falling to the floor. 

“Ugh. Disgusting. Remove her, and clean the floor. And start the music again, I never told them to stop. You all act as if you had never seen a human before.” Amarantha smiled, looking at Clare up on the wall. 

“Oh, Tamlin,” she said indulgently, not moving her gaze, her voice dripping with pleasure and satisfaction as he watched Feyre’s body being dragged from the hall, her face bloody and bruised. “And here I was worried it would be boring. That I would have to get a little…” She swayed from side to side. “…creative to get you talking. I have waited for so long, and yet now that I have you—“

He tensed. She did not have him yet, and she knew it.

“I had become impatient. When Clare didn’t work.” She laughed as the music swelled. “Oh, but I know why now. You love that one.” She glanced at him, then turned back to Clare. “Don’t try to deny it again. You sent her away. You didn’t just condemn this poor thing, you tried to save that—oh, what’s her name?” Not waiting for an answer from him that she knew would not come. “Never mind. I’ll ask her when she wakes up. I’ll have to have a word with Rhysand, too. Hmm…” She tapped her fingers on her chair. He felt Jurian look at him. Out of hatred, or pity, or both, he could not tell. Suddenly she gripped the chair. In it, he saw with the eye her blindness. Her hatred. That had cost her the war. That had made her bind herself to a human, of her own free will, for centuries. That she bound her fate to now. Her sugary words. Her darlings, and sweets. They hid, but barely, a great malice. And jealousy.

“She looked quite hideous leaving, didn’t she? Not much different from when she arrived, though. You fell in love with that?”

Trying to figure it out. To understand. Life flickered in him, even as he burned with fury. Humans had always been her downfall. Would be now. He knew this, listening to her. She was angry. She was trying to get to him, but he—Feyre—had gotten to her. That in itself was dangerous, though. He knew better now than to antagonize her further. But they had already won. Amarantha had kept Jurian for five hundred years. Now she was keeping Feyre alive.

“You think I spared her? You think she got a reprieve tonight?”

She looked at him again. “You saw how easily she broke. You think what I have in store for her will be easier than what you let Clare endure? You think that’s the last time she’ll scream?”

He said nothing, and looked at Clare. Suddenly he felt Amarantha’s hand on him, grabbing him by his chin and roughly pulling him to her, forcing him to look into her black eyes.

“You sit here, so proud in your defiance. It’s been but a few days. You know what I can do. Just listen for the beating of your heart. I’ll find such delicious ways to torture her. Maybe I’ll ask Rhysand—he’s so good at that sort of thing. How he could make her scream and beg. I don’t even have to ask with him. He’ll gladly do it. And you’ll beg for her to get Clare’s treatment. You’ll wish you had given me her when you had the chance.” She pulled him closer, until they were almost touching, her nails digging in. “That pathetic worm will fail, and suffer, just as all those who get close to you. And after she does, then you’ll be a good pet, and I’ll get this silly little mask off, and taste the flesh waiting for me underneath. By the time this is all over—sweet Tamlin—I’ll have you on your knees.”

She let him go, throwing him back in his seat, and settled back in again, a mask of smug self-satisfaction on her face. 

He reeled, and looked at the floor, a wave of nausea at the thought of Rhysand touching her, at the knowledge of what Amarantha would do if Feyre did not answer her riddle correctly. What she would do before then. He thought of Feyre, away from him, and what she would wake up to, and the hurt already done to her, the suffering already, because of him. His mind spun in desperation of her promised torment, panic rising in him that he fought to still.

He thought of the words Amarantha had used to describe Feyre—worm, dog. Beast. Used as insults. The same that had been used against him. All the accumulated shapes, everything he had ever been and shifted into—all had left him, and now only the Beast was left, under a skin that was not sallow, not rotting underneath, but thinning, thinning. Soon, there’d be nothing left, only this tension so great it would break through the stone surrounding him. 

And then she’d see his lovely claws.

[memurfevur-archive]

SPEAKING of the bounty hunter!! Can we get another lil peek at how M4ngl3 is doing :3

People milled and bustled below. Overseers barked orders at the slaves picking grim off the floors and animal hide trophies lining the halls. It was getting well into the night now, not very many hours left before daybreak-- but the shifting moonlight filtering through the windows would never reach the shadows that the drone-hunter waited within.

Wires and tubes wrapped around rafters, and metal claws digging into wood and stone, the mechanical canid watched and recorded its enemies. It observed schedules and patterns, listened in on varied conversations, and overheard grotesque events in other rooms. But it was silent. Still. Apathetic to the world around it, for all it cared about was its target. And so, with eye sockets as black as recesses of void, and as still as a dead man's breath, the M4NGL3 lied in wait for its chosen prey.

And then, the door swung open. The Hidelord marched forward, a frown deeply settled on his lips. He wore his iconic insignia: his expensive looking coat made from troll skin, all of which housed a grisly looking man with scratches on his antlers and a scar running over one eye.

In one hand his fingers were locked around the wrist of a beautiful Purple-blooded woman, smeared in blood and dressed in drapes and rags the finest that any would see in this Gog forbidden realm-- which is to say, not fine at all, but it was nicer than what most Safarans looked. Even beneath bruises and scars, her Vaelari traits outshone them all, making her a pretty price tag for any slaver.

But tonight, she would not have a chance to belong to anyone else.

M4NGL3's carapace trembled, shaking the beast alive and activating the lights in its otherwise inky sockets.

DATA MATCH. TARGET FOUND.

[fratricideknight]

i just want to talk for a sec about 'perfect looks'. i used to be super into drawn characters and rl people who look quote unquote 'perfect' but now i've suddenly become really disillusioned with it. people who hit every single point on the perfect feature list are like blank white canvases. sure, there are no flaws. but that's because you didn't actually attempt anything... it's basic and boring. i'd take a wonky, imperfect painting which actually has something going on over a blank canvas any day. i'm not going to name any names and NO ONE ELSE had better do it, either, bc shaming people's appearances directly contradicts the point of this post. but when people proudly parade their faves around, talking about how perfect they are, i just . they have the most basic style bc their sponsors aren't willing to take any risks, they often have little to no personality to speak of in their public appearances bc their sponsors aren't willing to take any risks, and their faces and bodies look like 3d printouts bc their sponsors aren't willing to take any risks. i - in no way, shape, or form - blame people for wanting to use make-up or dress a certain way or get plastic surgery. the pressure to be perfect, which is dictated as having certain a certain set of attributes, is unbearable. but. i don't understand why people would celebrate the culling of diversity among facial and bodily features. if everyone looked the same it would be scary as hell. not to mention that someone being gone at by make-up artists and stylists and quite possibly plastic surgeons to the point that they looked like they've just rolled off a production line is grotesque. the dehumanising comparison makes me flinch, but the truth is that it is dehumanising. both treating someone like an object to be shaped and moulded, and attempting to strip someone of everything which makes them individual. when i see someone zooming in on a celebrity's - or otherwise - features, claiming that their nose is the wrong shape or their eyes aren't right and this makes them unattractive (and, quite often, inferior to the person's fave), i feel incredibly sad. well, no - first and foremost, i feel angry, because they're being a dickhead. but also, i feel sad. bestie. do you realise how goofy you sound claiming that there's a 'wrong nose shape' to have? especially considering you most likely have a 'wrong nose shape' yourself 😶 instead of being weirdly, freakishly pedantic about people's pores, please zoom out and just look at someone's face in isolation. chances are, they're really fucking attractive when you stop thinking about their relative 'rank' and scouring their face for flaws with a fucking microscope. selecting one photo of a person where they don't look as good and using this to claim they aren't attractive is quite possibly the saddest thing anyone could possibly do. these are human beings you're talking about. please get a grip. the truth is, on any human being, you will find something! a scar, a bit of asymmetry, blackheads, wayward eyebrow hairs, something. all of which serve to make their face more interesting. mainstream media will not change bc of this stupid post, but it should know that characters looking perfect all the time is disturbing. you should not wake up with a full face of makeup. you should not be smooth and scar-free when you're fighting a fucking zombie apocalypse. it makes them look like a doll, rather than a person! which they are, bc it's fictional, but immersion is kind of the point... stylists and make-up artists do amazing work! they give you a sense of characters' personalities and circumstances and make them look realistic for their setting. their purpose is not to make someone look "perfect" all the damn time! i can't even imagine how mind-numbingly boring it must be to do the same thing over and over. where's the individuality? where's the risk? where's the literal point of fashion and make-up?

every single industry in every single country does this, but a good example is k dramas. (if anyone starts up some 'those fucking asians' bullshit i will personally curse you to tread on a lego with every step for the rest of your life. this is just an example; it happens in your country, too - have some self-awareness and shut the hell up.) i used to be super into the way they make up characters in a lot of k dramas, and i don't blame anyone for liking it! it's just an aesthetic choice. but now i really don't like it. the characters being too luminous and perfect just looks odd to me. as with any film industry, only actors with select features are allowed to play main roles, so everyone ends up looking really similar once they've been made up in the exact same way as everyone else. these days, i'm just wondering where the dirt and the scars and the smile lines are. i know that dirt and scars etc. are made up in media to be perfect versions of themselves lmao, and it's still all smoke and mirrors, so i don't think of myself as morally superior for this. i just love to see and indulge in the beauty of people with a range of different features. i'm still shallow, and will probably enjoy a show more if i'm attracted to the cast, but at least i'm not expecting everyone to look uniform. i've improved.

in conclusion, if you want to make a character creepy as fuck, make them incongruously perfect. they don't lift their mouth enough when they smile because they want to avoid smile lines. their hair never falls a strand out of place, like it's locked in a vacuum. their skin is so smooth and clear it looks like their features have been painted on. legitimately terrifying

[smileymoth]

it hurts so bad when he is on his own but then when he tries to fix it and it gets even worse because he can not fucking control himself. is he asleep, is he awake, no one knows. he's suffocating in his own grief and agony of self deprication and probably a coctail of meds. AND THE WAY HE DELIVERS those three last lines.... girl i'm kissing you on the mouth its so raw and out there from the rest of the opening of the song... that night the screaming hurt because it didn't come from him, it was someone else for once

"we find each other under blankets as warm as summer" is such a EASY lyric and it even rhymes so it's not even that rythmically complex, but the way he delivers it in the song makes me ascend into heaven forever and ever. as warm as summer. come on now... it makes summer warmth seem so comfortable even if it isn't (for me, anyway), is this the point? to make something so uncomfortably warm seem so heavenly??? am i the freak here who hates the sun??? (yes) "we are inseparable" INSEPARABLE. COME ON. AND YOU HAD TO RUIN IT.... the echo of the singing also sends shivers through my brain. it's somewhere far away from you but yet close because otherwise you wouldn't be hearing it... just like a dream, so clear yet distorted

this guy is describing a corpse like i an art student explain a still life painting. "we made it that way" shifting the blame. it was y o u who did it, not we. who is we. you killed them and now you are removing yourself from the situation because this is fine, it's all fine. it's just for the influence, an artist needs inspiration. they have more songs about death and inspiration... im so insane about this band. he's not grasping the situation, he thinks he's still falling in his dream forever but no it's wrong, it's done, it's done forever. "This coma kiss is infinite" no reason i just really like that line. a fluid and intricate dream also insinuates the fact that he remembers it crystal clear....

he's repeating it again, it makes me think he's somewhat grasping the situation but still in complete denial because oh it was so beautiful, death can't be beautiful. i am thinking about a soft green fleece blanket that looks like moss for no reason. he wrapped her up, drowned her, as she was bleeding out trying to stop it so now the blanket is soaked, she was struggling so it got everywhere. now she was the one who was suffocating, not him. "wrapped up in her" he might've been too delusional to realise what he was doing until it was too far gone and he had to make it final so he could never get rid of her even in death, so he made them inseparable from each other because this way they will always be connected.

it all got the better of him, his love became violent and too much, he betrayed himself and her by giving in to his dream like state. he know's he's delusional, that he's better left alone, he trusted himself too much and it landed him here.

morning arrived, it's still so fuzzy in his head he can't grasp it, the same song will have been embedded into his brain, their song, the only thing he could've heard. it's inseparable from the situation now, just like he and her... but the aftermath is grotesque, the ripped out hair, the smell of copper that will never leave. she tried to get out, the hair in the phone cord indicates, but he wanted it all for himself, he couldn't have anyone else nearby. it was a nightmare afterall, which figure would she have called upon if he had let her... he didn't want to find out. but now it's over and perhaps he doesn't know what happened. it was a nightmare not real life. something is wrong, so so wrong, why isn't she moving, why is there blood everywhere. heartrate speeding up yet skipping beats from the fear. something's not right. the fact that the music cuts out before the last line makes me think that it finally clicked, this wasn't a dream afterall

@pikslasrce never call me a coward again <3

@theslyvoid9 tagging you because ive been talking about this stupid song for months now!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! moss and all!!!!!

DREAMING BY BOYS NIGHT OUT maybe ill finally be normal avbout this (lying) heres sleep deprived rambles of a song i am obsessed with.....

[freewillacquired]

Some part of him had been afraid Rain might bail on him, given the threat he might pose to her. But given her answer, he silently chastised himself for forgetting just how damn solidly brave she was. A possible threat, even a big one, that may or may not ever occur, wasn't doing to deter someone like Rain, especially after everything that had already happened to her. Nemesis knew he should've known better.

He felt oddly a bit better with her promising to take him out if he lost control of his mind. Just like she didn't want to walk around as one of the undead, Nemesis never again wanted to be controlled by Umbrella or lose his mind to hunger or the virus. He would honestly rather be dead. Dead dead. At least he knew he had a friend watching his back that would do the deed if it ever needed doing. "Thanks," he said. "And I'll do the sane... thor you," he vowed. "Ith you start... look-ing like a steak... I'll let you know," he then added with a laugh.

As Rain teased him about not being great with the ladies, Nemesis shrugged in dramatic fashion. "I know, right?! Who would'th thought!" he said before answering her question. "Us-u-al-ly... it was shit-heads. I was... to nice... and they took... adthantage." Another shrug, and he let it go. "Doesn't natter now... any-way. I'n not get-ting... a date... look-ing like this... that's thor sure." It was a joke, but... also a painful truth. Not that the end of the world was when you wanted to date anyone, necessarily, but Nemesis didn't like that feeling of being that alone, and indefinitely so. Almost certainly forever.

He may have been a walking wall, but if there was one thing he did love about being the way he was now, it was how much more effective in combat he was. He didn't have to worry about infection, he was infinitely stronger than he was as a human, and he didn't feel the same fear anymore that would always cause him to hesitate in fights. It was easy now to just jump in and get the job done, which is what he did now.

Giant bugs. Just great. That's exactly what you wanna see. Sometimes they caused him problems by cutting off the ends of his tentacles with various pincers or mouth parts, but they always grew back, thanks to the virus. Nemesis didn't know what these two mutations were capable of, and he wasn't about to give them a chance to let him find out.

When Rain opened fire at one of them, he turned his attention to the other, giving his tentacles free rein to do as they pleased. Reacting to his emotions of anger and disgust at the creature, the tentacles shot out with lightning speed, lengthening instantly and skewering the insect through its grotesquely plump abdomen, its thorax, and its head. Two other tentacles then grabbed it at opposite ends and tore it apart. "Nice," Nemesis complimented them, even though he'd helped them along with the idea in the first place.

As the dead bugs leaked sticky, yellow fluid everywhere, Nemesis shook his head. "Yeah... sudden-ly I'n not... hun-gry any-nore," he joked. The store otherwise looked to be in good condition, aside from the few packages the insects had gotten into. I can't believe I ever used to hate mosquitos so much, he thought. Compared to these monsters, mosquitos would almost be a pleasure to deal with.

His tentacles were at ease now, undulating slowly in their usual relaxed fashion, and so Nemesis knew there wasn't anything around in their immediate vicinity. "We're good thor now," he told Rain. And so he set about reading the signs on the aisles, finding the one that read cookies and crackers. "Here we go..." he said, stomping down the aisle all the way to where there were actually packs of unopened cookies. "Coooookiiiessss!!" he announced like the dork he was, grabbing a package of chocolate chip. He held the bag close to his one good eye. "Only sethen years extired. Es-sent-ial-ly new!" he joked, tearing it open.

Should he be looking for meat or something else that would better help him? Yes. Should he also be looking for survival supplies like clean water and first aid? Also yes. Was he going to devour this entire package of cookies before doing any of that? Absolutely.

In a world ravaged by a virus that primarily creates monsters, nasty encounters are in no short supply. When Rain begins to hear heavy footfalls—when she feels them practically shaking the ground beneath her, she figures she's about to have another.

Cursing under her breath, she unholsters her gun.

The days were blending together in depressing ways now. Nemesis was shocked at how quickly things had gone to hell after the Hive and Raccoon City Incidents. It had taken him quite a while to regenerate after the city's "sanitation," but once he was on his feet again, he realized the gravity of what was happening to the world.

Alone and with nothing left to do in his current mutated state, Nemesis had taken to showing up at Umbrella facilities unannounced, and destroying as much of them as he could. The digital feed supplied by the retinal implant attached to his right eye and sewn up into his head gave him a lot of useful information, especially after his mind was liberated from Umbrella's control. May as well put it to good use, right?

He'd acquired more clothes and equipment this way, with the boots and leather trenchcoat-style getup being standard issues for a creature called a Tyrant, which he apparently now was. They seemed just about the only things that were going to fit his... unique body shape nowadays.

Learning about himself and destroying Umbrella assets were good pastimes, but Nemesis was extremely lonely. The few survivors he came across now and then either screamed and ran from him or shot at him. Bullet wounds were nothing more than annoying mosquito bites to him now, thanks to his thick hide, but even so... it was demoralizing. All he wanted to do was help. He was almost getting used to being alone all the time, by necessity rather than desire, until that unexpectedly changed. While exploring a city one day, he rounded a corner and-

"Raaaain!" Nemesis bellowed the moment he saw her, unable to contain his excitement upon seeing her. "Oh... ny god!" He couldn't believe his eyes. Well, eye. He still had two, but one was... indisposed. In a move that probably looked damn near ridiculous to the other, he lifted his hand... and waved to her. "I'n so glad... to see you! How... are you... alithe... right now?" he tried to ask, his massive chompers getting in the way, as usual.

Nemesis couldn't get his voice to be anything other than a monotone growl, and with monstrous teeth and a noticeable lack of lips, his speech was something of a garbled mess. It took him a while, but he'd learned to make certain sounds in other ways, using his throat and tongue. Essentially, he'd had to relearn how to speak. Some sounds and words, though, were lost forever. None of that did anything to curb his enthusiasm at seeing Rain alive, however. Was he finally losing his mind? Hallucinating, maybe? No, the target identification system is identifying her as Rain... Right now, Nemesis didn't care either way. Just the sight of her was one for sore eyes, since his last clear memory of her was being at death's door.

"I thought... the anti-thirus... didn't work...?" he said, his elation at seeing her alive completely overriding his common sense. Nemesis wasn't thinking about the fact that Rain wouldn't recognize him anymore, or about how negatively she would likely react to seeing the hulking beast before her. Not to mention his tentacles, rooted at the backs of his shoulders, which were excitedly coiling and undulating in their own right, reacting to his surprise and happiness. He batted one of them with his hand. "Cut it out...!" he admonished the obnoxious appendage. It recoiled temporarily before returning to its idle activities.

Then it dawned on him, especially with how she had her gun at the ready. Oh no... she has no idea who I am. "It's Natt," he said, laying his hand on his chest. "Natt... Ad-di-son." How pathetic is it that I can't even say my own name correctly anymore? he thought grimly.

[translations-by-aiimee]

The Husky and His White Cat Shizun - Chapter 32

Original Title:  二哈和他的白猫师尊

Genres: Drama, Romance, Tragedy, Xianxia, Yaoi

This translation is based on multiple MTLs and my own limited knowledge of Chinese characters. If I have made any egregious mistakes, please let me know.

Chapter Index

Chapter 32 - This Venerable One is Coaxing You, It's Alright

Through the heavy lotus leaves, Mo Ran reacted like he had been struck by lightning. He was frozen in shock, all the conflicting feelings in his heart going wild, his expression unable to hide his emotions.

Shock, anger, bitter jealousy, irritation; all burst in him like fireworks. He moved his lips but was so angry, he couldn't even get a word out. He didn't even know what he was angry about. There was only one thought going through his head --

This Venerable One has slept with this guy. You think you're worthy enough to touch him?

Chu Wanning, you arrogant, egotistical, lewd slut! You, I can't believe you . . .

He didn't react at all. In this life, Chu Wanning didn't have the slightest passion or desire to engage with him. In an instant, something in his mind snapped.

All in all, it had been more than ten years, a lifetime, from birth until death.

When he was in his right mind, he was able to play it off easily, pretending to be calm.

But under the circumstances, his thoughts were chaotic and the truth was revealed. He still subconsciously believed that Chu Wanning belonged to him. Even now, he realized that he could even remember the taste of Chu Wanning's lips when they kissed . . . not to mention their desire-fueled, lustful interaction and passionate sex.

It was something that he didn't dare think about after he was reborn.

Until he saw Chu Wanning's naked back, saw that familiar figure, - broad shoulders and long legs, tight muscles, thin and powerful waist - immersed in the clear water.

These things that he had deliberately avoided, the lingering feeling he tried to forget, burst through his mind and swept away any resolve.

Mo Ran's mind went blank.

. . . This body made him react.

And it was a strong reaction that couldn't be contained at all. Just looking at it, a fire burned in his belly.

When he came back to his senses, he angrily shouted: "Chu Wanning!"

Chu Wanning actually ignored him.

The two people on either side of him held his shoulders. Steam rose from the lotus pond making it hard to discern the specific identity of the two people. But they are very close together, the distance between them dubiously close.

Mo Ran cursed. He plopped into the lotus pond and waded towards Chu Wanning—when he got closer, he realized —

I-It was actually two mecha men made of metal and redwood!

Even worse, they seemed to be taking advantage of the spiritual energy of the lotus pond water, channelling that energy into Chu Waning. Mo Ran, foolishly jumping into the water, had completely broken the spiritual energy flow . . .

He didn't know what kind of array Chu Wanning was using. He was unconscious, supported by the golden light coming from the metal palms of the two mechs. Those rays kept surging upward and converged on the wound on his shoulder, clearly healing it.

Mo Ran's intrusion caused the golden light to quickly dissipate. What was even more unexpected was that the array actually started to undo!

As the golden light dissipated, Chu Wanning's wounds began to rapidly spread. He frowned, stifling a grunt, and coughed out a mouthful of blood. Immediately, all the scars on his body began to tear open. The blood spilled out like smoke, seeping across the flower pool in an instant.

Mo Ran froze.

This was Chu Wanning's "Flower Spirit Sacrifice Technique"!

He realized that he might . . . be in trouble . . .

Chu Wanning's spiritual flow is a dual system of metal and wood. The metal energy was like "Tianwen", focusing on attack and defence. The redwood energy was used for healing.

Flower Spirit Sacrifice was one of those healing techniques. Chu Wanning could gather the spirits of hundreds of flowers to heal wounds. However, during the process, no other people should enter the array, otherwise, the spirits would scatter. Instead of healing, it would exacerbate the injury. In serious cases, Chu Wanning's spiritual core would most likely be snatched up by the spirits of the flowers.

Fortunately, Mo Ran had dabbled with the Flower Spirit Sacrifice Technique in his previous life and immediately severed the energy flow from the spirits. Chu Wanning, who had lost the support of the array, fell down and was steadily held by Mo Ran.

The unconscious shizun's face was pale, his lips blue, and his body was as cold as ice.

Mo Ran dragged him onto the shore. It was too dark out to see anything else. He half-held, half-dragged Chu Wanning back to his bedroom and lay him on the bed.

"Shizun? Shizun!"

After calling for him several times, there wasn't even the slightest tremble in Chu Wanning's eyelashes. Other than the slight rise in his chest, he looked dead.

Seeing Chu Wanning in this state reminded Mo Ran of his past life.

Inexplicably, his throat constricted and his heart raced.

In the last life, there were two people who died in Mo Ran's arms.

Shi Mei and Chu Wanning.

The two of them, one the love he had endlessly longed for, the other an enemy he had been entangled with all his life.

After Shi Mei was gone, Mo Weiyu ceased to exist in the world.

After Chu Wanning?

Mo Ran didn't know. He only remembered that, on that day, he guarded the person in his arms as he grew cold. He didn't cry, he didn't laugh; joy and sadness became out of reach.

After Chu Wanning was gone, Mo Weiyu no longer knew what the world was.

The lights were bright, illuminating Chu Wanning's exposed upper body.

Yuheng of the Evening Sky typically wore tight clothing. His overlapping collar was folded tight and high, and his waistband was wrapped around his waist three times, proper and simple.

Therefore, no one had seen how injured his body was after two hundred strikes . . .

That day, while he was being punished in the Court of Discipline, Mo Ran saw the beating wounds on Chu Wanning's back with his own eyes. At that time, he only knew that it was bloody and extremely grotesque. But then he saw that Chu Wanning walking around like normal and thought that he probably hadn't been hurt that badly.

Only at this moment did he realize that Chu Wanning's injuries were far more serious than he had imagined.

The five holes left by the Master of Ceremonies Ghost had fully reopened, the deepest of the holes even exposing some bone.

Chu Wanning probably didn't let anyone help reapply the medicine. He did it all by himself. The ointment was unevenly applied, and some places that he couldn't reach were inflamed and ulcerated.

Not to mention the bruises from the cane. They covered his entire back, almost no skin left unmarred. Plus, with the backlash from the array, now Chu Wanning's wounds were all torn open, blood flowing, staining the sheets underneath him.

If he didn’t witness it with his own eyes, Mo Ran wouldn't have believed that the person who insisted on wiping the bridge pillars and opening a huge rain-blocking barrier for the disciples was the person in front of him - this kind of serious injury could be classified as "debilitating".

If Chu Wanning hadn't lost consciousness, Mo Ran really wanted to grab him by the collar and ask him——

Chu Wanning, are you really that prideful?

If you bow your head and give in, who will stop you? Why do you have to be so stubborn? You're an adult. Why don't you know how to take care of yourself and treat yourself better?

Why are you so reluctant to ask others to help treat your wounds?

Why would you rather have two mechs help you with a healing array rather than ask for help?

Chu Wanning, you're delusional!!

Are you that stubborn?

He cursed to himself while he quickly tapped some acupuncture points to stop the bleeding. Then he fetched some hot water and wiped away the bloodstains on Chu Wanning's back . . .

The sharp knife was quenched and cut off the flesh that had completely festered.

For the first time, Chu Wanning groaned in pain, and his body jerking subconsciously. Mo Ran held him down, irritated: "What are you moaning for? Haven't been fucked recently? If you make any more noise, I'll stab you straight in the chest. If you die, it won't hurt anymore! It'll all be over!"

It was only at a time like this that Mo Ran could reveal his violent nature and scream at him like he did in his previous life.

But there were too many places where the wound was white and rotting. He gradually cleaned it while Chu Wanning was muttering and panting.

Even if he was unconscious, he worked hard to suppress his discomfort. He didn't shout or cry out in pain, simply covered in a layer of cold sweat. His body, which had just been wiped clean, was soaked in sweat again.

After working for almost an hour, he had finally applied the medicine and bandaged the wound.

Mo Ran helped Chu Wanning into some clothes and grabbed a thick blanket to cover the fevered shizun. He breathed a sigh of relief. Remembering that Madam Wang mixed medicine was still sealed in the paper bag, he took some boiling water and brewed a bowl of medicine, bringing it to Chu Wanning's bedside.

"Come on, take the medicine."

He picked up the sleeping person with one hand, letting him lean on his shoulder, and spooned the tonic with the other hand. He blew it and tried a sip first.

Mo Ran immediately frowned, his face screwed up: "Damn it, it's that bitter?" But he still let it cool and feed it to Chu Wanning.

Inevitably, after just half a spoonful, Chu Wanning couldn't stand it. He choked and coughed, spitting out the concoction, most of which splashed on Mo Ran's clothes.

Mo Ran: ". . ."

He knew that Chu Wanning didn't like anything bitter. He was almost afraid of it.

But if he was in his normal state of mind, the stubborn Elder Yuheng would definitely push through his disgust, swallowing the medicine in one swig. At most his face might pucker afterwards and he'd secretly eat a piece of candy.

Unfortunately, Chu Wanning was currently unconscious.

Mo Ran couldn't help it. It's not good to lose your temper with someone who's unconscious so you have to be patient and feed him small sips. From time to time, you have to use a handkerchief to wipe the tonic from the corner of his mouth.

This wasn't a difficult chance for Mo Ran. After all, in his previous life, for a while, he regularly had to feed Chu Wanning. At that time, Chu Wanning resisted, and Mo Ran slapped him in the face. Then he'd grab his chin and roughly kiss him, his tongue rushing in, blood flowing . . .

He didn't dare think too deeply about it. The last few spoonfuls Mo Ran fed him were a bit sloppy, almost half of them coughed up by Chu Wanning. Then he put the man to bed, Chu Wanning harshly twisted the covers.

"I'm so kind. Don't kick the blankets off, you'll get a fever. If you're not careful, you'll catch a cold again . . ."

Halfway through his rant, he suddenly lost his temper and kicked the leg of the bed.

"Forget it. What do I care if you catch a cold? I hope you get sicker and sicker and die.""

After speaking, he turned and left.

When he reached the door, he felt a tug in his heart and couldn't ignore it. So he turned back, thought about it, and put out the candle for him. Then he left again.

This time he walked to the edge of Red Lotus Pond. Looking at the increasingly beautiful water lilies that had been dyed with Chu Wanning's blood, the annoyance in his chest only grew.

He was annoyed but still returned to the bedroom.

He stiffly walked around the room like a rusty and ageing mecha before he finally reluctantly stood next to Chu Wanning's bed.

The moonlight peaked in from the half-open bamboo window, the silver glow fanning across Chu Wanning's handsome face.

His lips were pale, and his eyebrows were slightly furrowed.

Mo Ran hesitated and closed the window for him. It was very humid overnight. Sleeping with the windows open at night was always bad for a person. After doing this, Mo Ran inwardly cursed:

Just walked through the door and leave, you damned dog!

So, just as he walked to the door, with a bang, Chu Wanning actually kicked the blanket off.

Mo Ran: ". . ."

How could this person's habit of kicking the covers off the bed be changed?

In order not to be a dog, the sixteen-year-old Emperor TaXian had the backbone to ignore it and walk away.

He was true to his word and would never walk through that door!

A few moments later.

-- The wise and powerful emperor opened the window and tumbled in.

He picked the blanket up off the floor and covered Chu Wanning again. Mo Ran listened to Chu Wanning's soft painful groan. He twitched. Watching him curl up in the corner of the bed, no longer looking even half as fierce as he normally did.

His lips were cursing that he "deserved it", but, out of his compassion, he still started moving.

He sat by Chu Wanning's bedside and stood guard. He wouldn't let him kick the blanket off again.

It was late at night. After an exhausting day, Mo Ran couldn't keep his eyes open. His head slowly nodded down and he fell asleep.

It wasn't a good sleep. Chu Wanning kept tossing and turning. In his sleepy state, Mo Ran seemed to have heard him humming lowly.

Through his drowsiness and restful sleep, Mo Ran could barely distinguish between what was day or night. Somehow it had become natural to lie next to Chu Wanning and hold his twitching and trembling figure. He squinted his sleepy eyes, subconsciously stroking his back. He held the person in his arms and muttered softly in his sleep: "It's alright, it's alright. It doesn't hurt . . . It doesn't hurt . . ."

Mo Ran fell asleep, murmuring, as if he had returned to the Life-Death Peak of his previous life, back to the desolate and empty Wushan Hall.

Since Chu Wanning died, no one had slept beside him.

Even if their intimacy was bred out of hatred, those days after days spent in the cold made him think of nothing but his heartache, like ten thousand ants were devouring his heart.

But when he thought about it again, Chu Wanning couldn't come back.

He lost the last flame in his life.

On this night, Mo Ran embraced Chu Wanning, half-asleep and half-dreaming. One moment it was clear that he was living a new life, and in another, it was like it had been way back then.

He suddenly couldn't bear to open his eyes for fear that he would wake up tomorrow to an empty pillow and cold sheets. He was the only one left in a long life in this uncertain world.

He undoubtedly hated Chu Wanning.

However, when he held this person in his arms, the corners of his eyes grew a little moist.

He was the thirty-two-year-old Emperor TaXian, holding the warmth that he thought he would never find again.

"Wanning, it doesn't hurt anymore . . ."

His mind was hazy. Like before he had been reborn, Mo Ran stroked the hair of the person in his arms, muttering softly, unconsciously blurting out such a tender line.

He was so sleepy that he didn't even realize what he had said or what he had called the other. He spoke the words without any thought. They had just slipped out naturally. Mo Ran's breathing evened out and he plunged into an even deeper sleep.

Early the next morning, Chu Wanning's eyelashes fluttered and he leisurely awoke.

He had a strong cultivation base and the high fever that he had gotten overnight was already gone.

Chu Wanning drowsily opened his eyes, his mind still a bit fuzzy. He was about to get up but suddenly realized that someone was lying in the same bed as him.

. . . Mo-Mo Weiyu???

His shock wasn't something trivial. The colour drained from Chu Wanning's face. He couldn't remember what happened last night. What's worse, his movements had woken up Mo Ran.

The young man yawned. With a smooth and delicate face with a healthy blush that was typical of a sound sleep, he raised his confused eyes. He glanced at Chu Wanning lightly, and languidly said: "Ah . . . let me sleep a while longer . . . Since you're awake, go and cook me a bowl of preserved egg and pork congee . . ."

Chu Wanning: ". . ."

What was all this nonsense? Was he talking in his sleep?

Mo Ran was still out of it. Seeing that Chu Wanning didn't move, nor did he urge others to get up to cook the congee, he lazily smiled. He stretched out his hand and lowered Chu Wanning’s face, giving him a familiar kiss on the lips.

"It's okay, you don't have to get up. I just had a nightmare. In my dream . . . ah . . . nevermind." He sighed and embraced the man who had become completely lifeless and stiff. His chin rubbed against the hair of the person in his arms. He muttered, "Chu Wanning, let me hold you again."

[cosmicjoke]

So I just got through chapter’s 51 and 52 of Attack on Titan, and one thing that stuck out to me in 51, other than Levi’s obvious, deep anger with Erwin, which I’ll talk about in a minute, was how Levi made it a point to tell Connie that he’d done a good job after coming back with Hange from investigating his village.  Once again we see here Levi’s immense compassion for other people.  Nobody else really thought to give Connie that encouragement, despite his obvious distress in that moment.  They all were aware that Connie had lost everyone in his village, including his family, so it really demonstrates Levi’s thoughtfulness, once again, for other people and what they’re going through, that he takes the time to say just a few, kind words to Connie here.  

Then of course, there’s the big exchange in this chapter between Levi and Erwin, and there’s so much going on here.  But the first thing I noticed is the shift in Levi’s attitude, after he notices Erwin smiling upon hearing Hange’s theory about the Titan’s being humans.  At the beginning of this scene, Levi is showing Erwin a great deal of concern for his physical state, apologizing to him for him and Pixis showing up to talk, knowing how tired he must still be, saying to Erwin that he’ll understand if he would rather him and Pixis just come back later so he can keep sleeping.  Levi is giving Erwin the option here to deal with all of these new developments that they’re all dealing with later, and that offers a really insightful glimpse into the kind of respect and consideration Levi has for Erwin leading up to this point in the story.

What’s really interesting is the shift in Levi’s attitude here, after he sees Erwin smiling.  Levi starts to try and ask Erwin a question, after Hange’s revelations about the Titans, and he sees Erwin smiling to himself with a glazed, distant look in his eyes, and Levi’s horror is readily apparent.  He figures out almost immediately that Erwin is excited by this news, and Levi’s reaction is one of repulsion.  He even tells Erwin that he’s going to make him sick.  I think Levi’s reaction here is also partly fueled by his own feelings of deep dismay and horror at learning that all this time, he’s been killing other human beings.  So to see Erwin seemingly HAPPY about this revelation must seem particularly grotesque to Levi in that moment, while he’s dealing with his own feelings of guilt and despair and hopelessness.  Levi’s anger here is REALLY obvious, as he asks Erwin if this is the real reason he joined the Survey Corps.  We see Levi’s belief in Erwin starting to erode here, in real time.  Part of Levi’s anger, I think, must also stem from knowing that he’s put his faith entirely in Erwin, followed him with full belief in Erwin’s altruistic intentions, but now he has to face the possibility that his faith has been misplaced, that indeed the very REASON he joined the Corps to begin with, his faith in Erwin and his greater vision, may have been built on a lie.  This coming on the heels of realizing that Titans were actually humans, and he’s dedicated himself to killing them for years.  All of this leads you to really understand Levi’s controlled fury at Erwin in this scene.  When Erwin gets annoyed himself at Levi and tells him to lay off of him, and asks him to show him some pity, Levi says with obvious derision that, yeah, Erwin IS pitiful.  We see later in the scene Levi turn Erwin’s own words back on him, about him being mentally and physically exhausted, almost mocking Erwin with them as he reveals to him that he’s chosen to make the 104th his new squad and had Eren and Historia moved to an isolated location.  Levi’s anger here is really palpable, and it demonstrates the tension I think Levi’s probably always had with Erwin and their relationship.

Levi respects Erwin immensely, and I have no doubt he’d been ready to tell Erwin about his plans for the 104th with a lot more cordiality and willingness to involve him in that decision before Erwin’s motivations became revealed to him here.  But there’s always been that kind of conflict between them too, where Levi was willing to put his faith totally in Erwin’s vision, and in his ability to make the right choices, in order to advance the cause of humanity, but at the same time, felt deeply uncomfortable at times with Erwin’s methods towards achieving that goal, his willingness to sacrifice the lives of so many to that end, often resulting in the deaths of soldiers with no, substantial gain to be had.  He’s deeply aware of Erwin’s ruthlessness in getting the job done (we see that awareness later in chapter 52, when he asks Hange if they should run or kill their enemies before they can strike, and says it’s just like something Erwin would do when Hange says both).  It was Levi’s faith in Erwin, though, and his belief in Erwin’s purity and the righteousness of his cause, that allowed Levi to put his misgivings about Erwin’s methods aside, because he fully believed Erwin’s intentions were only to benefit humanity, and win them back their freedom someday.  So seeing Erwin smiling here, and having that faith in Erwin’s intentions thrown into question, alongside the awful revelation that Titan’s are actually humans, is obviously a pretty devastating blow to Levi’s own sense of balance and place, throwing into doubt what it is he’s been fighting for all this time, whether it was even real or not.  It’s like in one, fell swoop, Levi’s lost any amount of certainty in both what they’ve all been fighting for this whole time, and in the person he had put the most faith and trust in to guide them in the right direction.  I’m not sure how people could miss Levi’s anger towards Erwin here, or the reasons for it.  Levi is shown something in Erwin that makes him seriously doubt whether Erwin actually cares about humanity at all, or people at all.  Erwin appears happy that it turned out that Titan’s were humans, and Levi has no context, no way of knowing WHY Erwin would be happy about that.  He doesn’t know about his father, or the things his father told him, or how his father died.  So to Levi, it must just seem like Erwin is getting some sort of sick joy out of the revelation.  Again, to see something like that in the person you believed in the most, a person you admired deeply and thought of as superior to you, as holding a greater vision than you ever could, would be really, really hard.  It’s like Levi’s hero letting him down in the worst way possible.  

I think this should also be looked at in the context of Levi’s own experiences in life, and how that shaped his world view.  Levi comes from an extremely hard, deprived background, one of extreme poverty and desperation and violence.  That background, that difficult childhood, resulted in a necessary cynicism and jadedness in Levi.  He knows the way the world works, knows how hard life is, and how cruel and ruthless people can be.  He grew up in a world where there was no pretense, no civility or politeness to hide behind.  He grew up in a world where it was kill or be killed.  We see this weary understanding of how things really are later, again, in chapter 52, when Levi is explaining to Hange and the rest that they have two options, because the MP’s and those they work for aren’t going to just give up on getting their hands on Eren and Historia.  He knows they’re only going to try more forcefully and violently to get what they want, because that’s the way the world works, and that’s the way people are.  He also shows his worldly understanding of these sorts of things when he asks Hange how many of Nick’s fingernails they pulled, and knows that Nick likely didn’t talk because they pulled more than one.  It tells us about Levi’s experience and how he’s been exposed to the darker, crueler side of humanity, more than anyone else in that room.

So Levi also understands that if they just wait around, they’ll all eventually be killed.  He understands they can’t be passive here, and have to act immediately.  He impresses that reality unto Hange, who’s still reeling from Nick’s death, and forces her to make a decision as to what their next move should be.  He doesn’t allow her to wallow in her despair, and he does this for the sake of Eren and Historia, and all of them.  Once again, we see Levi being most concerned for the greater good, ready to act however is needed to help the most people.  He knows Hange is hurting, but he knows also that none of them can afford to be, as he says to her, timid.  They have to move.  Well, anyway, my point that I’m trying to make is that Levi’s life experience has forced him to be cynical about other people’s motivations and characters, about concepts of nobility and morality.  To look at other people’s true intentions with a skeptical eye, because he grew up in a cut-throat environment, exposed to deep poverty, trauma and pain, where people no doubt would turn on you, or abandon you in a moment for nothing more than a scrap of bread.  With that in mind, you have to realize that Levi’s faith in Erwin is rather remarkable.  That he’s able to BELIEVE that deeply in another person, to believe in another person’s goodness, and purity of intention, given Levi’s background and the life he’s lived, is extraordinary, and really tells us so much about who Levi really is.  Despite every experience in his life informing him  that he should be skeptical and cynical and mistrustful of people and their intentions, despite his every experience telling him that the world is a cruel, ugly, awful place filled with loss, pain and grief, Levi still wants so much to believe in something better.  To believe in purity of hearts and intentions, to believe in a higher morality and goodness.  And despite all of his life experience telling him otherwise, Levi is able to believe that’s who Erwin is.  A person with a higher, better moral standing, a person with a pure and true heart.  He believes it all the way.  So, to then have that faith, which Levi somehow held onto against all odds and reason, dashed against the rocks in a single, terrible moment of realization, would be horrible.  Levi is someone who wants so much to believe there can be a better world, with better people in it.  And I think Erwin represented that possibility to Levi, for a long time.  And so to learn that his belief in Erwin was, perhaps, too idealistic, to have that skepticism that his life’s beaten into him affirmed, rather than rejected, must have felt like the worst kind of betrayal to Levi, and just a crushing disappointment.

Of course, Erwin later is able to prove to Levi that his faith in him wasn’t misplaced, as he lives up to the ideal Levi saw in him to begin with, with Levi’s help and encouragement.  But that’s a different post altogether!  When I get to that part of the manga, I’ll be positing about it as well.

Also, Hange’s own sense of horrible guilt and remorse in these chapters, both over realizing she’d been experimenting on human’s this whole time, and over Nick’s death, was an amazing parallel to Levi’s.  I think the two of them share so many similar feelings and such a similar depth of feeling over everything.  Always trying to do the right thing, and struggling so much with whether the choices they make are the right choices, or whether any of this is worth the sacrifices they’re forced to make.

[hausofmamadas]

THIS SWEATER KILLS ME

[hhjs]

forget me not.

♡ based on — "During times of war. I want to say: I only love you, And I cling you, Like the peel clings to a pomegranate, Like the tear clings to the eye, Like the knife clings to the wound." and the song nightlife by daydream masi.

♡ summary  —   Hyunjin's unsure of the tingle in his gut, why it's happening. But he thinks, just for a second, it feels a little like hope.

wherein, putting your heart on the line for the sake of doing favours isn’t a frequent component in your schedule. But what happens when this favour is asked for by the boy you may or may not have fancied for far too long?

 You accept it. 

 For a very embarrassing reason, really, which is — you think Hwang Hyunjin needs you.

♡ pairing— hwang hyunjin x reader

♡ word count— 8.8k whoopsies

♡ genre and alternate universe — angst, fluff + hanahaki au.

♡ author's note— this was supposed to be a drabble and then i sort of lost my fucking mind ehe...also this is easily the worst thing i have ever written im so sorry aaa but this is a lil present from my end hahaha

♡ warnings— suggestive content, vomiting, mention of blood. allusions to depression and heartbreak.

Amongst other things, you're extremely bad at saying 'no'. You don't mean the word per se...but the underlying connotation of this very monosyllable which may come at the expense of letting another person down.

It's sort of stupid, you understand, your friends have constantly voiced their worries for your extremely complacent nature more often than you'd think actually. But it all goes over your head. See — old habits really do die hard.

When you're eight, this very defect takes you to dreadful saxophone lessons your mum spoke so highly of. When you're 15, it gets you called to the principal's office for flashing Jeongin trigonometric functions in Mister Choi's pop quiz, when you're older, things are definitely no different.

The passenger seat is occupied, Hyunjin's holding a tangled muffler to his suede jacket clad chest. At 21, he's become someone you used to know. A friend of a friend, Felix's to be very specific. But the man in question, who was supposed to be his ride, passes off this duty for kegstands and you just happen to be the designated driver for the night, shuffling Jisung beside Changbin and Chan, who claims to be 'sober' even though he's half asleep.

Hyunjin is uncharacteristically quiet.

There's a polite smile on rendered your way as your eyes meet. A small curvature along his plump bottom lip, tighter around the edges. Still this simple formality is so beautiful that you feel something inside you come alive.

When Jisung starts snoring, you flip on the radio and Pink Floyd's Wish You Were Here comes on.

Your fingers feel numb when they come to tap out a rhythm to the track. It's nice. Tingling guitar riffs swelling, David Gilmour's gruffy voice pours in from faulty speakers. The more the song progresses, the more you find yourself attempting to think about anything that will distract you from the boy beside you, in the flesh no less.

So late at night, the main road is eerily silent. Cobblestones reflecting the sound of tires thumping against its layout, streetlights blinking at you from their drooping heads. Across the street, a baker is tucking away leftover bread and buskers are packing up their beat up guitars, a man in his late 50's pulling his blanket to his nose as he rests a head full of gray hair on the cold pavement.

You glance at Hyunjin from the corner of your eye and find that his staggering smile has completely disappeared. Now there's a distant glaze in his eyes. It's like he's here, in this moment, with you, but at the same time, he's somewhere else.

Under the impression you've done something wrong, you immediately begin to panic. But the thing is, you don't actually know if you should ask. Would it constitute as crossing a line if you had anyway?

Hyunjin covers his mouth with a sleeve, muffled retching building beyond fabric.

The reasonable assumption is obvious. It's not abnormal to be nauseous when you've got one too many drinks in you. He motions for you to pull over, incoherent sentences practically melding together, words forming and dissipating between choking fits.

You scramble to dig out a bottle of mineral water you habitually deposit in the glove compartment, offering him the tissue first. Ears perking up in satisfaction when a garbled thanks escapes his parted lips. But then... something weird happens.

As your eyes flicker to unintentionally glance at the contents discarded on the pitch grey sidewalk, you freeze in your seat.

You were never a big believer of superstition, not someone who buys into myths only meant for the fiction genre. Sure, you can be gullible sometimes...but what's happening falls no way under the realistic category.

The lethal Hanahaki disease, only inherited by some unlucky descendants, every moment in your head prior to this one, was something that's obviously non existent.

Yet... there's so much blood, too much blood attesting to your blatant ignorance. The petals are of a white rose, smudging together in swirls of grotesque crimson in mimicry of a sheen of red sticking to the inner corners of his lips. It has happened before, you can tell, from just how unsurprised he looks.

Hyunjin's stare flits to commit every detail of your to memory, in what only seems a quick study of gauging your forthcoming reaction, though even before you can produce a coherent thought, he says,

"You can't tell anyone." His voice drops a few octaves as though he's afraid your snoring friends in the back might've noticed. "Please."

Hyunjin's face softens by the slightest, contrary to his firm demand, there lies a desperation you couldn't overlook.

In retrospect, what you're about to tell is ultimately a promise that'd come back to bite you in due time. However, see now, you're extremely bad at saying no. Somehow you're even worse when it comes to Hyunjin. So you blink, turn the radio off and say,

"Okay."

—

The pool is preheated. For that you're most thankful.

Frankly, you couldn't imagine what it'd be like being pushed into a chilly body of water mid winter. Not that it's pleasant otherwise, you can't swim.

Well at 15, you hadn't quite learned to. The other kids have scurried inside to hog freshly baked Snowman biscuits Seungmin's mum is renowned for.

Then and you think you'll never quite forget it, Hyunjin's wearing an orange power ranger t shirt, it's darker now that it's wet, his glasses are marked with uneven splatters. His face scrunches up at the sudden splash of wetness engulfing his body. He wasn't planning to get in the water.

"Hold on tight." He says, wounding your arms around his neck, your calves tighter to his sides to support your shivering body. Back then Hyunjin's hair was black, cropped short and swept to the side, he smells like fabric softener and skittles. A water donut is discarded in the middle of the pool.

Everybody you know and don't know, from the birth of superheroes stuck in comic books to valiant protagonists behind fuzzy television screens, has this inherent desire to be saved. From the world, from themselves. No, no, it doesn't have to be a grand gesture, swooping them off of their feet from the grasp of surly men in dark alleys, sometimes it's really just simple. Sometimes people save you in the most ordinary way there is.

The weight of your form on his bright pink water donut while he stood on his toes to merely rest his elbows so the item wouldn't flip, a small act, certified this very claim, had not the nimble touch of his cold fingers, brushing away wet hair from your face, to anxiously ask if you're okay met the purpose. He talks to you like the sound of his voice has the power to injure you.

You nod slowly. Like this, it feels like you're going to be.

Hyunjin pouts, looking perfectly unconvinced. He paddles the pair of you to steel stairs spiraling into the pool, so he can stand without just his nose peeking out of the water, he looks at you once again, a wrinkle between his dark, arched eyebrows and says solemnly, "Jisung's such an idiot sometimes, isn’t he?"

But isn't he your friend? You want to ask. Something stops you though —his tone tells you you aren't the only one to fall victim to Jisung's practical jokes. Not that they were offensive or anything. Han Jisung, the same person who twiddles his thumbs when he wants the last chicken nugget and cries every time you watch Howl's Moving Castle together, genuinely doesn't mean any harm. It's just that...when he's comfortable with people, who aren't many, he tends to do a lot of dumb things. Dumb, endearing things that Minho will kill him for someday.

"A little bit," You mumble under your breath. Heat rising to your face at the possibility of Hyunjin being concerned for you. He sounds almost angry. "Thanks by the way."

It's rather pitiful to remember. Because with time, Hyunjin's world becomes so big that your interaction stands to be too insignificant to not forget. Before you know it, he's the shooting guard of your school's basketball team, just a handsome face who dates better girls, makes better friends. It's superficial and a little sad.

No, no, a little sad is an understatement actually.

To see someone you understood intimately, a boy who always described details too much just to stray from the main story, a boy with too many emotions bubbling to an awfully animated surface; someone who was passionate, sensitive and so nauseatingly big hearted...change into a man who is indubitably untouchable...is tragic. At least.

Yet funnily enough — you can't quite imagine a world without Hwang Hyunjin. His ringing laughter rippling through loud ambiences, his distant humming of Christmas carols whilst he absently skimmed through spines of children's novels and his eyes glimmering in adoration whenever he spoke of something he loved — Without him, you imagine, there would be a massive deficiency in your world, in the world. Like if birthday cakes came with the biggest slice carved out.

Hyunjin grins, a big sort of candid grin that turns his eyes into upturned crescents. His previous temperament long forgotten. Suddenly, this utterly atrocious happening seems to not be so bad. Suddenly you don't mind that Jisung is an idiot sometimes.

"Of course."

—

Hyunjin is not perfect. Hyunjin is no prince charming.

People don't know this. They don't understand this.

He ends up paying for dinner when he's out with a big crowd even though they were supposed to split the bill, he ends up crying when he gets angry and he is an abysmal liar, in every sense of the phrase. Hardly ever succeeding to hide his emotions when he should. When he was a kid his parents reminded him that it's a good thing to be unapologetically himself, that being honest is a good thing.

But as your eyes meet from across an ocean of people quagmired by crunchy leaves, sticky remnants of rain and his ex girlfriend who he now claims to be okay with being friends with, on her toes to poke his cheek whilst Chan's arm wraps around her waist, the soft white roses ornamented on a bow she loves wearing all the time, he thinks it's far from an agreeable trait to have.

Actually whilst you balance a newspaper under your arm and bring your coffee to your lips, it's like you're looking through him, past his skin, his flesh, something secret inscribed on his bones, embedded into his soul. You know everything, you know everything, you know everything.

The thought itself... surprisingly enough, doesn't appal him.

Hyunjin raises his palm in the air, feeling the autumn prickling against his skin. He waves at you.

—

Working at a library can be taxing. But it sure has its perks.

You can just about turn the place upside down and put it all back together without getting in trouble. Albeit another reason, besides your profession could be that Minho owns the place. Frankly, he may or may not have been the only cause behind your employment. It's hard to tell now that your co-workers really do recognise you've a knack for arranging things.

But to you, your job is very personal. A precious thing which relieves you from various worldly tensions. Velvety spines under your roughened fingertips, the burst of minted pages hitting your face every time you walk in, your love for reading, for a world of stories is so immense that you think you wouldn't have traded it even if your life depended on it.

For a disease that's not very well known, it's ironic how an entire section of mythology is dedicated to it. Past closing hours, amongst many novels mounted on your desk, you fixate on the one that made most sense. There's a few things you've picked up in common from all of them though — the hanahaki disease is extremely rare, it doesn't affect all those who suffer from the qualms of unrequited love.

Possible remedy according to findings entail

growths can be surgically removed, if the patient consents to eradication of memories of their loved ones.

Clanking of keys alerts incoming and you pause your tapping pen to look up.

"Burning the midnight oil, are we?"

Minho leans against the doorframe, he's half yawning, half talking and fully concerned for you.

"Yeah, looks like I'm gonna be a while." Your monotonous tone provides that you are not paying a lot of attention. You blurt without looking up. "Are you leaving?"

"No, still haven't finished archiving for that Pfizer project...But I'm going to get a bite to eat..." His inky eyes remain on you as his tone falters, "You want anything?"

"I'm fine. Thanks."

"Wow you're like...really uh invested." He tilts his head in thought, "You seeing someone again?"

You know Minho long enough to know he has a teasing side to him, from diaper days to play dates ending in pillow fights because he kept offering you his last Pringle just to pop it into his stupid smirking mouth — but you have no idea where he's going with this.

So you look up, finally. Furrowing your brows.

"No. What does that have to do with anything?"

He shrugs, "I haven't seen you concentrate so hard since you dumped Jeongin."

Your right eye twitches. Because you know exactly what he's referring to, and simultaneously, for the sake of your well-being, you much prefer being in denial. "What?"

"C'mon. Remember how you always ended up doing his homework?" He reminds you. "It's like when you like someone, you go out of your way to do charitable stuff for them. But...this? Too much. Even for you."

You ignore Minho's comment. To the world, Hwang Hyunjin's place in your life is not significant. After all this is the most natural undulation in the vicissitudes of life — for someone who once was your friend to eventually drift apart, to become a has been. It's too hard to explain why you care. After all this time.

"I was just being nice." You narrow your eyes, unimpressed. "Clearly this concept is lost on some people."

"Sure you are, bud. If being 'nice' is synonymous with whipped." Of course, there's a smug grin gracing his pouted lips that tempts you to fling something at him. Not that you can though. Seeing as Minho breaks out into a full fledged sprint, his singsongy voice a thinning echo bouncing off of shelves and windows and doors.

Still somehow his footsteps manage to travel through walls, permeating into your office with such great amplitude that you could be bamboozled into thinking he hasn't left at all. Or maybe you've stopped paying attention, your eyes zoom in on any other helpful detail you can put to use in wrapping your head around what you have witnessed firsthand.

At the same time, you can't really ignore how hungry you're feeling just from the mention of a bite to eat. So when Minho's shadow forms again on the page you've been 'reading' for the last few seconds you sense a gigantic wave of relief washing over you.

"You know what I changed my—" slamming the book shut, you blink against scanty provision of light, with raise your head and a bleary vision, recognise him in an instant. Except...it isn't Minho. "mind..."

The only source of brightness is a small emerald lamp perched on the corner of your desk, light green catches onto one of the ornamented corners and speckles of golden caress his supple skin gently. You hadn't realised how cold it might've been outside until you see how heavily dressed Hyunjin was, a long overcoat worn over woollen sweater, a Santa hat and muffler pulled to his chin. It's no one other than your boss himself who has given him directions to your office, you know this, Hyunjin has never been inside before.

So when he marvels absently, you sense yourself feeling a little self conscious about not cleaning up. All around you, a comforter and love seat pushed against the window, cigarette butts discarded in ashtray and then...the books strewn before you tell him you practically live here.

For some reason, Hyunjin only seems to loosen up at the spectacle.

"Hi." He says finally.

"Hi..." you arrange the reading materials quickly to one side so you can rest your elbows. A small (successful) attempt made to hide your research. "Something up?" You say, but what you really mean is, what are you doing here?!

Did he suspect you were going to tell on him? Right that's it, that must be it, you tell yourself, believing, knowing, of all the years Hwang Hyunjin has known of you he has never been one to care about your whereabouts.

"I just...um," He starts, forwarding his mitten clad hands. It's the back of a crumpled coffee cup on which straight handwriting reads a bucket list...of sorts. You immediately understand that his coming is an act of impulse. Urgency of living every moment like it's slipping through it's fingers, that he just needed to tell the only person who knows, be it by accident.

Hyunjin clears his throat. "I wanna do all this before I die."

In lieu of giving an instant response, baffled, you gawp at him. Despite knowing, hearing Hyunjin say it out loud somehow makes everything...too real.

It's as though someone's reached inside your throat, pulled your heart out and crushed it with their bare hands. Hyunjin, the boy who smelled like fabric softener and skittles and wore power ranger shirts, the boy with the fantastic smile and cold fingers, is dying. You won't let him. You can't let him.

You thumb along the numbers scribbled in hasty penmanship, look up and blink rapidly, "Okay," you say, a small whisper, barely there words. "That's okay."

Even with the hat covering tips of ears, you could tell the same faint blush coating his cheeks had rushed to that particular area. His eyes drift off to the sight of pens discarded inside a wooden holder because he can feel your gaze on him. "and I...I need your help."

"Alright."

Hyunjin's eyes widen to a great degree, he sits straighter, as if he hadn't expected you to comply so quickly.

And honestly? Neither had you.

It's quiet. Awkward.

"You know it's not like I haven't thought about dying. I just figured I'd get to grow old first, settle down, have kids and all that," A wry laugh escapes his parted lips. "Everything's happening too fast."

You hesitate, thinking he's making a mistake. Frankly he shouldn't feel obligated to give you an explanation.

"You...you don't have to tell me."

"No—I mean...can I?" He gives you a sheepish look, disliking his own whimsical tone, somehow endearing still. You find yourself wondering how long he had to keep his burdens to himself, not just pertaining to his illness, but everything. His dreams, his hopes, his fears. Anything which requires a certain amount of depth. And you almost ask him, the question sitting at the tip of your tongue, yet the realisation rather simple, stops you. Maybe you've mistranslated 21 year old Hyunjin all along — moulding himself into someone who's convenient around people who only liked him for who he appeared to be, maybe even with all that popularity, parties and glamour, he's just...lonely.

You push your reading glasses into your hair, press your knuckles under your chin and hum in consent.

He shifts in his seat, "Have you ever... been in love?"

You release an amused huff. Let your eyes linger on him for a long minute.

"Once."

Hyunjin half expects you to laugh. Poke fun at him for his melodramatic backstory. That's the sole reason why he doesn't tell his friends (funny, for people he considers close, they seem to know not much about him or care to know, that is. ). But you... you look at him with something in your eyes that tells him the rubbish reasons he posited makes all the sense in the world. Hyunjin's unsure of the tingle in his gut, why it's happening. But he thinks, just for a second, it feels a little like hope.

—

 Midnight rendezvous.

As someone who has lived a fairly extraordinary life, Hwang Hyunjin's bucket list is bafflingly ordinary. He's more of a finding joy in small things kind of a person, punctilious at best.

Things change. People notice. They hesitate, whisper about you and last night while you were out on last minute cheap wine run, the grocerer, a girl who looks around sixteen asks you if you're dating Hyunjin. Underneath the thinly veiled curiousity, there's something like anger dripping from her words.

You furrow your eyebrows in simple insinuation that it's weird for a stranger to take interest in your life. Maybe it was written on your face, the fact that you're a dying man's beck and call is for reasons far more complicated than it looks.

You go to his parties. Greet him as a friend would and not just for the sake of maintaining formalities. He comes to the library more times than he does, waits for you to get off work so you can check something off the list at least. People notice. People understand. Hyunjin's different around you. He's bright, talkative when he forgets to contain himself. You sense your heart swelling with pride just at the understanding that he can be himself around you.

You drive to the beach, sit in your trunk and drink straight out of the bottle.

Hyunjin laughs a little. Suspends his feet in the air. With time, he's gotten paler, exhausted. "Rough day?"

You hum.

"Very. Our children's collection is usually low in stock around the weekends."

Hyunjin crosses his arms over his chest. Curious.

"And?"

"And if I say I got yelled at by a toddler would you believe me?"

Hyunjin feigns contemplation, even with the realisation that his body is becoming less and less cooperative, he manages to remain perfectly cheerful.

"I can actually," he grins, "At that age, I was a real pain in the ass."

"Were?"

Your smile is just a slight curl against the bottle's mouth as he grumbles under his breath about your 'insensitive' remark.

You think of your life after Hyunjin, think of his absence like a gaping hole you'll never be able to fill out. It makes you sick to your stomach.

—

Bake something from scratch.

Hyunjin's face twists in apparent thought, eyebrows rising. A pink tongue poked against his cheek, whilst he chews carefully, trying really hard not to flash an accidental reaction whilst you clasp your butter and oat flour soiled hands together, some of the batter on your cheek, neck to anticipate his answer like your will to live depends on it.

You ask yourself how it got to this. Why you didn't care that you were awake so early on a Sunday morning with flour powdering every kitchen appliance in sight in spite of being awfully restrictive about who you let into your kitchen. But it doesn't matter, it doesn't matter because it's nice like this.

Hyunjin has his hair pulled away from his bare face, a mole under his eye, a small birthmark on the back of his ear.

When you first met, you thought he was a kind of handsome that couldn't be real. Something formidable about it. Only destined to exist behind fuzzy television screens and flashy magazines.

But in retrospect, you realise, that that's not true at all. 

If you look close enough, if you really pay attention, there's a softness underneath, something goofy, something warm, the sharp jut of his nose circling into a soft button, his eyes are big, black and his mouth jutted out into a natural pout, he looks innocent, like he doesn't quite realise the extent of his charms.

"It's..." His soft voice pulls you out of your reverie, and you look up to find his eyes glimmering jovially. Every time it surprises you, the lack of regret in them and the abundance of nonchalance. You wonder what it means to love someone like that, to love someone to the point of martyrdom. It shouldn't be like this. "perfect,"

"This is like, the only batch we didn't burn, right?"

You snort, "Yeah." Fully turn to him, "You know what they say, fifth time's the charm."

Hyunjin's laugh, you think, is so contagious that it makes it an imperative to smile in return. In shaky compartments the sound comes, like being 8, laying wide-eyed in a paddling pool and staring up at a crayon blue sky, raindrop rippling beyond all that noiseless water. His eyes curve to upturned crescents, an unconscious hand covering up the seams of his lips whilst he shakes his head. You don't even notice when he starts speaking again.

"Huh?"

"I said you got a little...something..."

You almost lose a fraction of your sanity when his nimble fingers come to wrap around your wrist while you hold onto the spatula employed into the whole snickerdoodle batter mixing business, a liberated hand coming up to gently wipe your cheek. It means everything to you. And nothing to him.

Later, when you're alone at night, really alone, you put your palm to your chest and feel the unsteady beat of your heart. A warning, a reminder. I can't. I can't. I can't.

—

You hold Hyunjin's hair up. His hands resting on the cold toilet seat, he's whimpering and bleeding. It happens every time he sees Haseul, or something which reminds him of her. Like the song.

This time she's drunk. And it's because she impulsively rises to her toes and presses a tender kiss to Chan's lips.

Hyunjin's just a feet away, across students and solo cups and streaks of neon falling irregularly through his line of sight.

He can never confess, not to her. The last thing Hyunjin wants is for her to feel bad for him. To say she feels the same as an act of service. He tells you. You understand. Somehow... you always understand.

They met in college, Hyunjin and she. And Chan was an upperclassman who seemed to be good at...well everything. At first, he couldn't figure out why it never occured to him before, the fact they were getting together maybe before, after or during the length of their relationship.

Though the answer is simple.

Hyunjin thinks the pillar to good relationships is trust. Call him a sappy romantic or whatever but he had seen true love manifest from it through generations before him and his parents and their parents. To think a different fate was woven for him...used to be unimaginable.

How ironic is that?

Hyunjin presses his cheek against your chest because he doesn't want you to look at him when he cries.

Then for the first time....he tells you he's scared. He's scared of what will happen to him. Of what is happening to him.

He's falling apart.

You cradle him, press him closer to your body like you're trying to put him together. People can't fix each other. Not really. But sometimes... they're worth the try.

"Hey...hey...it's alright," You shush him, run your fingers through his hair. Your voice almost breaking, faltering. Still this, this you mean it with every fibre of your being. "It's okay to be scared."

—

Self bleach hair.

It's Christmas and you're late for a late night dinner he's putting together. (As reluctant as he was about getting along with Hyunjin, he seems all too eager to make invite him whenever a get together takes effect.)

His apartment smells like floor cleaner. There's a queen sized bed pushed against an electric blue wall, a Fleetwood Mac poster taped to his door, small reading desk where Canon EOS New Kiss rests, polaroids of things checked off the list littered all its wooden surface.

You pick up the only photo he hasn't labelled, it reminds you that your friendship isn't just based off a pursuit. This is natural. Pizza box discarded between you two, on your roof top. It's a little too dark, you're holding a cigarette between your fingers, you're laughing and Hyunjin looks like he's going to complain the minute he's done taking the picture. (And he does.)

You smile, pressing your fingers against it like the touch could transport you to a simpler time.

"Ready to go?"

Hyunjin rakes a tentative hand through his newly dyed hair, grey (a suitable colour he says.). You can tell he's put a lot of effort into cleaning up, his usual hoodies and sweats alternated with a red satin shirt tucked into dark dress pants and a coat of the same colour.  Hyunjin is beautiful. Perhaps even more like this. In fact, the extent of this quality is so Goliath-like that it obliges dolled up attendees to marvel up in awe.  While you fully agree with their unsaid ponderings, you really do, you find yourself missing a less sophisticated version of him. 

"Yeah, but first..." you fish out a wrapped squarish material from the depths of your pocket. Hyunjin's eyes widen, two bunny-like teeth showing for the extent of his grin.

"You got me a present!" He all but rips it out of your hand, shaking the material eagerly. He’s a Christmas person, a supreme holiday enthusiast if you will. The sheer excitement in him projects itself in every physical aspect possible. Slight jumping on the balls of his feet. "It's a cassette...?"

You speak too much, nervous he doesn't like it. "It’s a Christmas mix. I thought...since you like carols. I know it's a little old school, I'm sorry if that’s not what you were hoping for—"

Hyunjin pulls you into a big hug, wrapping his entire body it feels like; his arms around your waist, he squeezes you tighter against him, "Thank you." He whispers into your hair, it's not just about the cassette, you can tell. 

There's a small light bulb dangling from his ceiling, he hasn't fixed it since the first time you pointed it out. You can tell with your eyes closed, you've begun to know more intimately than your own home. It's safe here. A place that deludes you into thinking that he's not running out of time, that even in his absence in the world, whenever you should walk into this room, it would be an imperative to find Hyunjin lazying about in its confines. Familiarity can be quite tricky, can't it?

His gratitude is not unknown to you. It's in the guilty smile that threatens to show every now and then, it's in this and it's in that. In many ways, it is not something you're a stranger to.

And yet the words manage to tears your heart at the seams. Just a little.

—

 Make a snow angel.

From above, he imagines, he may appear to look like a chunk of cookie dough in an ice cream pint.

The snow is not as comfortable as it appears, its frigid temperature seeps into Hyunjin's clothes (and what feels like his internal organs, if that's even possible). He waves his hands and legs inward, outward.

Your head tilts towards him. Face twisted in annoyance. "You're getting on my wing!" You say. "Have you no respect for personal space?!"

Hyunjin narrows his eyes jovially. And people tell him he's the one with a penchant for theatrics. He leans closer in rebuttal, waving his leg around your design with more purpose.  You give up. Sit on your knees, fumble with the snow. He’s still in the same position. Smug as ever...

"This is what happens when you disrespect your elders." He fake-warns. "Oka—"

What he doesn't anticipate, however, is the snowball you launch on his stupid grinning face. Now it's your turn to laugh. You clutch your stomach and point at him whilst he glares at you having barely managed to blow the snow off of his mouth.

"Oh, you're gonna get it now!"

You let out an animalistic screech, Hyunjin’s already trapped you under his weight, his thighs wound around your waist, hamstringing your plan to escape, now you're merely squirming. His fingers come down to attack your sides, digging into the flesh so mercilessly to the point you’re not sure if you’re laughing or crying. It's like there's a wildfire inside your lungs.

For a moment you forget, you let yourself forget what's to come.

“Alright, alright I’m sorry!” you press your palms against his chest in an attempt to push him off, Hyunjin has a dumb smile on his face that seems to give the impression of a hanger  stuck inside his mouth. But... there's something behind his entertainment as the sound of his laugh dies down, chest heaving with exercise. His smile drops.

You can count each lash, each freckle and line on his face. The dark in his eyes. The pink of his lips. Your sweater's ridden to your ribs. And the warmth of his fingers shifting against your bare skin hits you with an earthshattering force.

Hyunjin kisses you. For a fleeting second, you freeze. Rigid with shock. Then it passes as soon as it comes.

 You let out a noise of content,indubitably grateful that your neighbours forgot to put on their porch light for the night.  See it’s like this, the act of kissing is not as special as is the person himself, you muse, you can kiss anyone, you can touch and be touched by anyone. But none of that truly compares to this. Not when they aren't him.

You’d be lying if you said you never thought about it. Just like you’ve thought about a lot of things. But just the realisation that the boy you’ve harboured in your heart for more complicated reasons than you disclose, to yourself even, touches you with so, so much care...it’s tearing you apart. 

It’s too good to be real.

You suddenly push him away. The tugging and pulling at your heart too much to handle. For the fact remains — Hyunjin doesn't love you. He doesn't even like you. You never expected him to. Actually, you've never felt what you feel with that condition in mind either.

See when the feeling of having everything you could ever want is cradled between your palms...it ought to be hard to let go. (Maybe he’s just doing this because he feels bad for you, the little voice in your head says. You listen.)

Hyunjin speaks up first.

“I love Haseul.”  he tells you, but it sounds more like he’s telling himself. “That’s why...that’s why, all this...I love her.” Not you.

You swallow, “I know.” Your hands come up to dust your pants. Hyunjin’s still on his knees, as if the answer to his conflicts are deposited under all the snow. “It’s okay.”

“No, it’s not, it’s not okay. I shouldn’t have, I shouldn’t have done—”

Now you hear it, the hint of pity in his voice. You don’t mean to sound as bitter as you do. Seeing as you’re usually very good at keeping calm , breaking that very reputed front frustrates you even more.

“Look just forget about it, okay? We don’t have to talk about this.”

Hyunjin looks like he didn’t expect this side of you to exist. At least, you think, at least it got him to stop talking.

—

Learn to skate.

"If I fall, I'm taking you with me."

"You say it like I have a choice."

Hyunjin shoots you a warning glare even though you can't see. His choppy skidding steps supported by the vice grip he has on your arms. You haven't skated since you were in highschool. But when you're pretty good at it still, the smooth blade of your beaten skates gliding through ice with much dexterity, it's like floating, freeing, the wind hitting your faces, snow catching in your lashes. It's peaceful, you try not to think about the warmth of Hyunjin's arm circling around body, the vague rhythm of his heartbeat against your back. His laboured breaths on your neck. It's torturous. But spending so much time with him has taught you to hide your feelings better.

The park welcomes a large crowd around holiday season, children with toothless grins, tugging onto their mum's coats, small chin resting onto a parents' head, teenagers moving in together in school uniforms. It's the happiest time of the year. When you move past an elderly couple, they smile and tell you make a wonderful couple.

You're just about to make a correction. This puts you in an awkward position... doesn't it?

But then Hyunjin grins toothily and says, Thank you, like it's the most amusing thing in the world. You ignore the wrenching inside your chest.

Hyunjin leans forward, his plump lips brushing against your ear. "Where did you learn to skate so well?!" There's something like excitement in his kiddish laugh aside from admiration. It's not much of a question as it is an exclamation.

"I am pretty good, aren't I?"

He laughs, doesn't let you go. "Yes, yes...really good."

Out of breath, you slow down, move your feet steadily, careful not to lose balance.

"Oh my God! It is you!"

You raise your head, blink against flakes hindering your vision. Jeongin's voice used to be thinner before. As far as you remember. Now it has a weight to it.

You let out a nervous laugh.

"And it's you..."

Jeongin's eyes travel to the arms around your waist, to the stiffened figure behind you and you immediately liberate yourself. Moving to let Hyunjin use your arm as purchase, you don't fail to notice the pinch in his forehead, a frown on his mouth.

"This is my friend Hyunjin. Hyunjin, this is Jeongin—"

"We used to go out." Jeongin smiles, forwarding his hand, which is returned with an unenthused shake and a demure reply. Hyunjin never speaks to anyone this way, not even people he claims to hate.

The former male looks to you again, "I was, uh... wondering if you'd like to go out for a cup of coffee sometime."

Things between you and him ended amicably at the event of his departure for further studies, which deprives you of awkward tension which is expected when exes meet.

Besides, a cup of coffee never hurt anyone.

Right?

Without thinking, you nod slowly, "Yeah that sounds good,"

"Text me anytime."

"Sure."

 “I'll be out of your hair then," he beams. "It was very nice meeting you too, Hyunjin."

"Right."

Hyunjin, you realise, has released your arm. He leans on barricades fencing along the skating area, smiling briefly. You know it’s wrong...yet you sense that you almost need him to be upset.

Then he tilts his head back towards you, "He seems like a really nice guy," he whispers, genuinely meaning every word. Your heart sinks. "I see the appeal." Underneath the lurid glare of fairy lights brandished overhead, Hyunjin's ash hair glints like it's threaded out of silver. You wonder what he's thinking.

—

 Watch every Disney movie ever made.

You never end up texting Jeongin back. Just stalling for when you're ready, you tell yourself. Even though that's not true at all.

"This brings back so many memories. My parents used to belt out A Whole New World with me, like every time we watched Aladdin."

Hyunjin wipes his face with the back of his hand, technically you’re not very sure what he’s saying exactly because he’s mumbling into a paper napkin you've  passed over for the umpteenth time. You find yourself picturing a small but happy family of three, of Hyunjin in Scooby Doo pajamas and gap between his teeth. (Contrary to your previous convictions, he hasn't changed all at much, save for the teeth bit. ) It's cute.

He looks to you expectantly. Can't be the only one telling embarrassing stories.

You shrug, "I had a thing for Simba. Let's just say my mum and dad were nice enough to indulge me."

Hyunjin reaches for the remote and pauses the ending credits of Lady and the Tramp. He turns to you fully now, gives you a judgemental stare. "Simba...?" He says, "Like the...lion?"

"What? It's normal to crush on fictional characters, okay?!"

"Okay,sure," Hyunjin snorts, putting a pillow between you and him so you can't kill him. "furry."

A part of you is tempted, obviously. But the much bigger part is more invested in how he looks happier, healthier. You want to think that means something.

—

Hyunjin invites you over for movie night. It's getting colder and you keep poking him with your cold feet. There's an extra set of blankets in his cupboard, he informs you, he isn't sharing his with you — and that's when you see it.

The deflated pink donut folded to the side, his and yours sharpie inscribed initials on one side. 

"Found it yet?"

You don't even notice when he comes to stand behind you. So the question effectively makes you jump out of your skin. Hyunjin has a bowl of popcorn pressed to his chest, there's a pink hair band holding his hair away from his forehead. For the lack of a answer he takes it on himself to find the source of your silence. As if you've been caught red handed.

You think this is where he'll ask you to leave, that or he'll least scold you or something. You prepare for the worst.

Hyunjin just smiles, it's a big smile that succeeds in bringing out the small dimple indented on the side of his cheek. You've never noticed before. It's kinda weird. Because when it comes to him, your attention hardly ever falters.

"You probably don't remember. That’s from Seungmin's 15th birthday,"

You want to scoff under your breath. All this time you had told yourself that you were the only one to be affected by your estranged friendship growing up. Now...the same logic colours you every bit of ridiculous. 

You blink away, swallowing. Voice solemn.

"I remember." Hyunjin's gaze is heavy on your shoulders. An emotion you can't quite put a finger on crosses his delicate features. It's something between surprise and relief... something else too. You don’t understand it. 

—

It's disconcerting that he can’t remember the last time he got sick. Not the usual discomfort inside his chest, not the blood, not the thorns or petals. Hyunjin's just gotten so used to it, you know? What if he gets his hopes up for no good reason? What if it just comes back?

There's no possible explanation, he explains over a hasty 3 A.M message he had to leave on your answering machine because he's freaking out.

Then Haseul texts Hyunjin, tells him she misses him. Everything's adding up. Everything's falling into place. This is what he wanted, isn't it? She loves him, she finally loves him back. That must be it. He doesn't know what to say. 

But he tells you, and when he does, it sounds a lot like an apology.

— 

Kiss underneath a mistletoe. 

“Chan and I broke up.” She says it like it’s something he should be happy about. So when he remains quiet, it only prompts her to speak more, fill up the big mighty silences. 

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“Look Jinnie, I know I made a mistake, but...can’t you give a second chance? Just this once?”

Hyunjin has thought about this particular moment a lot. Kissing her instead of producing a response, pulling her off of her feet and mumbling of course, of course, of course. Back then, there were little doubts in his head pertaining to her, back then he believed that she was the only one for him. The love of his life at the wrong time, in the wrong place.

Now...something doesn’t feel right. 

The thing about wounds, sometimes, of the heart in particular, is when they close up, it’s hard to make head or tails of the kind of person you become in their wake. Hard to adjust. Like when he suddenly shot up 7 inches in ninth grade, a late bloomer at that, and the weight of his new sneakers felt..odd.

He glances at her and also understands what it’s like to be lonely, the constant need to compensate for it by grasping at the last straw. He used to be in her shoes too. This isn’t any different.  Albeit, he isn’t exactly taken by her presence. Just that he doesn’t know if what he’s doing is right. He looks over your table a few feet away from where he’s standing. Having gone out to take a call. You notice his absence and then from your seat, do your best to locate him. (he thinks of kissing you on a bed of snow, thinks of the sizzle of your skates against ice, thinks of his list on a coffee cup and his pink water donut and it’s okay to be scared. Why did it have to be you of all people, through everything? It’s not really a work of coincidence. Not at all actually.

  Maybe he just wanted it to be you.)

When your eyes do lock...seeing him with his hands in his pockets, her standing beyond the barrier as she tries to say something, you smile, even if it’s a little sad. Hyunjin thinks to the conversation some nights before. Thinks of you reminding him that there's nothing to lose at this point, that he should do what his heart tells him. That it’ll be alright, if he just takes a leap of faith. Hyunjin smiles back. Through the glassy exterior and mini water fountains running down its slanted form. The realisation is not as dramatic as he thought. It’s just late.

 He tears off the false mistletoe decoration glued along the periphery of an arch.

And like always.

He takes your advice.

— 

Cohorts of guests pour into the colossal hotel, heads turning in quiet admiration for bejeweled arches breaking out against buttery white architecture, the roof is impossibly naked, translucent glass baring a starlit sky to your watchful eyes. Showing little mercy to a frail chute held over your head,costumed characters wade through oceans of gossamer, twinkling silver and swaying movements to slow jazz. You prop a heeled foot up on the bar platform, which strangely resembles a pedestal, in a futile attempt to catch your breath, with clammy digits settled atop the risky surface of a marbled counter. A soft voice speaks over the ambience, uttering your name with much care. You lift your head. And there he is.

Jisung is scouring through the Spotify playlist you’ve put together for New Year’s Eve. He’s complaining about the lack of Beyoncé while your friends go around the buffet table. When he calls you, you’re sipping your drink, laughing at something Changbin is saying, his eyes brighten just at the sound of your laugh.  Hyunjin isn’t surprised to see his friend taking a liking of you even though he hardly knows you. That’s just the effect you have on people.

Excusing yourself, you allow him to walk you to a less densely populated area where a stone pillar faces expensive paintings of nameless painters. With the effect of alcohol settling in and your inhibitions effectively lowered, your steps sway a little. You lean against the massive build rising from tiled floor. “So what’s up?” you murmur, the lump in your throat thickening just at the thought of him speaking the good news into existence. “I take it went well?”

 Hyunjin doesn't answer. He looks distracted for a bit. Then in an instant he snaps out of his daze. “What did you mean when you said ‘once’?”

Your brows come together in inquiry.

“What?”

"When I asked you if you have ever been in love, you said ‘once’." He persists, his fingers come up to your shoulder, grazing slightly as if they’re trying to carve out words against the skin. "You weren’t talking about Jeongin.”

He knows. He’s always known. Hyunjin can’t believe he’s been so stupid.

“Took you long enough.” You let out a sardonic laugh.“Well, it doesn’t matter now, does it?”

"It matters to me..." Hyunjin sounds offended, you gather, but he manages to quell his temper for the sake of coaxing your confession. Is he purposely embarrassing you?  "I don’t think...I love Haseul anymore...I didn’t realise...I haven’t for a long time."  

A big chandelier beams over withering plants pushed against the ceiling, in this poor supply of light, you can tell exactly how he looks, eyes glimmering adoringly, you've spent something-teen years of your life wondering what it's supposed to mean. And it still manages to confuse you.

"Why are you telling me this?" you ask, albeit you already know.  Because funnily enough, before he got his braces removed and dyed his hair a scandalous blonde, before bucket lists and heartbreak, he was just the boy who told you he liked your stupid reindeer sweater even though it had officially made you the 7th grade laughing stock. You remember being fifteen and in love with Hyunjin. And you've never actually stopped. You need to hear it to believe it.

It drives you crazy. The way Hyunjin brushes his fingers against your cheek, shifting strands away from your eyes. But you can't help it, you've always wanted this. You lean into the caress, peering up at him as his large hand cups your jaw, thumb traversing from your tilted chin to your glossy lips like he's trying to smooth out all the creases. His voice is small, a whisper.

"Because I need you to know I think I’m falling in love with you.” he says. His palm opens and there’s a plastic mistletoe nestled between his fingers. You’re smiling and sniffling whilst his forehead comes to press against yours. Hyunjin grins. “And there’s still one last item on my list.”

“Are you seriously asking me to land one on you now?”

“Oh hell yeah.”

— 

"Move."

You press your fingers against the slick, sweaty skin.

In rebuttal, Hyunjin grumbles under his breath. Only half awake, half aware that he was mumbling in his sleep. His naked chest seems to be, if it’s even possible, glued to your bare front as he sprawls out like a starfish over your body, using his gangly arms to accommodate the strange position.

Though and you know he knows it too — it’s anything but uncomfortable.

See by now, you aren't exactly a stranger to Hyunjin's sleeping habits. Or really, any habits of his.

All the windows are cracked open, moonlight percolating through a thin sheet of curtains in rendering evidence that it’s still night time. You can make out the faint sound of  honking in the distance, a few stray dogs here and there, probably producing strings of complaints about the blatantly unbearable heat.

The strong stench of sweat and an aftermath of what happened before is a quick reminder of where you are, what you’re doing and that your arm’s going cold for a lack of circulation under his weight. Beads of sweat collected against his skin and trickle down the side of your face, the crook of your neck, which only prompts you to apply more force to the pads of your index and pointer — albeit it did nothing to move him, "Gross." You groan. "You're sweating like a pig!"

This comment, of all the things you've tried to get him to sleep on his side, succeeds in making Hyunjin raise his head, his grey hair matted down, a few rogue strands pushed out to fall over the unamused look in his eyes.

In an unprecedented minute of absolute clarity, something inside your stomach started to churn at the shocking sight. You’re impossibly, absolutely and nauseatingly in love with Hwang Hyunjin and the funny thing is, you don’t have to think twice to know he is too.

"Gross?" Hyunjin lowers his face to brush his pouted lips along your jaw, grinning when you let out a shaky but involuntary breath and as if he is looking to make a point with his digits traversing from your bare stomach, just along the hem of your underwear,   "After all that?"

"I hate you." You say — but more like, stutter. The sound of his giggles eliciting a strange sensation in you, reverberating against your chest, knocking against his ribs and your skin, like it’s trying to reach out to you, like your bodies insist on melding into one.

"I don’t think you’re being honest, baby." He laughs, squeezing your side, coming up to plant a warm palm to your butt to repeat the action, which in turn, drew a mewl from you. “Because you looove me.” Hyunjin smirks, his finger thumbing along your throat to your chin. You think this is what all those great poets meant in endless litanies of lovers torn apart by time and war woven together in a simple caress, like a longing, like a secret. Guarded from prying eyes, greedy hands, and you keep it, you keep it. For him. With him.

[lunarfly]

Harmione Essay: the most underrated H/Hr hug

The Harry Potter movies did a great job at showing one part of book Harmione - they share lots of hugs. But this seemed to shift the attention from book Harmione hugs to movie Harmione hugs. And the situation is worse than you’d think. Many Harmione fans not only underrate some book hugs, but most don’t even know the existence of them. I’m going to be discussing the most underrated hug shared between Harry and Hermione. The one that happens in HBP after Dumbledore’s death. Here’s the hug I’m talking about:

They [Harry and Ginny] had reached the hospital wing. Pushing open the doors, Harry saw Neville lying, apparently asleep, in a bed near the door. Ron, Hermione, Luna, Tonks, and Lupin were gathered around another bed near the far end of the ward. At the sound of the doors opening, they all looked up. Hermione ran to Harry and hugged him; Lupin moved forward too, looking anxious. 

In this scene, Harry had just seen Dumbledore’s dead body and Ginny was taking him to the hospital wing on McGonagall’s orders. Right as Harry stepped in, he looked around, everyone started looking at him and Hermione jumped in his arms and hugged him. 

At first glance, this may seem like a regular H/Hr moment, just another one of their hugs. It may seem like nothing special, we don’t get a unique description of the hug like we did in OotP, for example, when Hermione “threw herself into a hug that nearly knocked him flat.” So you may think it’s not s big deal at all.

But it is.

We have quite a few things to keep in mind while analyzing this hug, one of them being the phrasing. As I said, this hug doesn’t get a unique description but there’s still one thing to note:

At the sound of the doors opening, they all looked up. Hermione ran to Harry and hugged him; Lupin moved forward too, looking anxious.

Hermione didn’t just wrap her arms around him, she ran to him. She was probably standing at the other side of the room but as she heard the “sound of the doors opening”, she immediately saw Harry and ran up to him just to hug him! It’s such a sweet moment.

That’s not all though. It isn’t only cute, it’s also deep and emotional. To understand this, we’ll just have to take a look at the context of this hug, which gives it most of its depth and beauty. 

Here’s a rather long (sorry!) scene for some context:

Dumbledore turned back to look out of the fiery window; the sun was now a ruby red glare along the horizon. Harry walked quickly from the office and down the spiral staircase. His mind was oddly clear all of a sudden. He knew what to do.

Ron and Hermione were sitting together in the common room when he came back. “What does he want?” Hermione said at once. “Harry, are you okay?” she added anxiously.

“I’m fine,” said Harry shortly, racing past them. He dashed up the stairs and into his dormitory, where he flung open his trunk and pulled out the Marauder’s Map and a pair of balled-up socks. Then he sped back down the stairs and into the common room, skidding to a halt where Ron and Hermione sat, looking stunned.

“I’ve got to be quick,” Harry panted. “Dumbledore thinks I’m getting my Invisibility Cloak. Listen. . . .”

Quickly he told them where he was going and why. He did not pause either for Hermione’s gasps of horror or for Ron’s hasty questions; they could work out the finer details for themselves later.

“. . . so you see what this means?” Harry finished at a gallop. “Dumbledore won’t be here tonight, so Malfoy’s going to have another clear shot at whatever he’s up to. No, listen to me!” he hissed angrily, as both Ron and Hermione showed every sign of interrupting. “I know it was Malfoy celebrating in the Room of Requirement. Here —” He shoved the Marauder’s Map into Hermione’s hands. “You’ve got to watch him and you’ve got to watch Snape too. Use anyone else who you can rustle up from the D.A., Hermione, those contact Galleons will still work, right? Dumbledore says he’s put extra protection in the school, but if Snape’s involved, he’ll know what Dumbledore’s protection is, and how to avoid it — but he won’t be expecting you lot to be on the watch, will he?”

“Harry —” began Hermione, her eyes huge with fear.

“I haven’t got time to argue,” said Harry curtly. “Take this as well —”

He thrust the socks into Ron’s hands.

“Thanks,” said Ron. “Er — why do I need socks?”

“You need what’s wrapped in them, it’s the Felix Felicis. Share it between yourselves and Ginny too. Say good-bye to her for me. I’d better go, Dumbledore’s waiting —”

“No!” said Hermione, as Ron unwrapped the tiny little bottle of golden potion, looking awestruck. “We don’t want it, you take it, who knows what you’re going to be facing?”

“I’ll be fine, I’ll be with Dumbledore,” said Harry. “I want to know you lot are okay. . . . Don’t look like that, Hermione, I’ll see you later. . . .”

And he was off, hurrying back through the portrait hole and toward the entrance hall.

So I’ve highlighted the parts to pay the most attention to.

Basically, Harry rushes into the common room after meeting Dumbledore, Hermione asks him what has happened and she notices that Harry looks worried and is in a rush. She asks him what has happened and she’s anxious because she’s already worried just by seeing the look on his face. Harry answers “shortly” and runs to get the marauders map and Felix Felicis to give them to Hermione and Ron. He explains everything to them quickly, leaving out the details, and tells them what to do with the map and to take the Felix Felicis because he’s sure that Draco has achieved something which means no good. And now he’s off to this dangerous mission out of Hogwarts with Dumbledore where his life could possibly be put in danger! Just imagine how Ron and Hermione feel right now. Their best friend is taking a huge risk and is taking part in fighting the dark arts and he might not even return. They’re both looking “stunned” and Hermione is gasping out of horror! That’s right. Her worries and fears are sky-high. And now, after this short explanation, while Harry is “racing”, “speeding” and “dashing” to do everything in time and he’s going so fast that he’s running out of breath, “panting”, he’s just going to leave without saying proper goodbyes. The fact that this is all happening in such a rush is extremely important and meaningful because Hermione doesn’t even get to say a proper goodbye, she’s so scared and worried that her eyes are “huge with fear”, she doesn’t know what’s going to happen to Harry, whether she’s even going to see him ever again, she’s ready to reject the liquid luck so Harry can be safe, she’s trying to convince him to take the liquid luck, even after Harry says he’ll be fine with Dumbledore. She’s giving him the look of disapproval but before she can say another word and say a proper goodbye, he’s off again, hurrying to meet Dumbledore and his own possible death.

Just imagine how Hermione is feeling right now. And if that isn’t bad enough, Harry’s prediction actually comes true and death eaters start attacking! Ron, Hermione and Ginny barely survive the attack just by luck, literally. And now, when it’s all over and Hermione’s standing in a room in the hospital wing, desperately waiting for news along with the whole Order, Harry comes in. And she completely loses it. She runs to him and hugs him. Now do you understand the emotion in this scene? Both of them nearly died, she was probably going crazy thinking what could’ve happened to him, Harry was thinking and worrying about her too (”How long had they been away? Had Ron, Hermione, and Ginny’s luck run out by now?” “ Would he be responsible, again, for the death of a friend?”) and now they finally see each other and Hermione is probably feeling lightheaded knowing that he’s safe (compare to the DoM scene in OotP) and she hugs him. She just can’t do otherwise. And all of the unsaid “I’m so glad you’re safe” and “I’ve been so worried about you”s are all expressed through a beautiful and emotional embrace.

Now we know how deep this scene truly is. And imagine how beautiful this scene would be on screen. So much lost potential. 

It brings a smile on my face imagining a worried Hermione running all the way across the room and flinging her arms tightly around Harry, hugging him and both of them looking so deeply relieved. Then quickly breaking apart as Lupin approaches “anxiously” and asks what Hermione doesn’t have the courage to ask. 

The continuation of this scene is also nice. It’s Lupin who asks how Harry is, while Hermione stays silent but still stays next to Harry.

Nobody answered. Harry looked over Hermione’s shoulder and saw an unrecognizable face lying on Bill’s pillow, so badly slashed and ripped that he looked grotesque.

This shows they are still standing near each other. 

And  later everyone else seems interested in the conversation about Dumbledore’s death and Snape’s betrayal but Hermione doesn’t say a word. Like she’s still petrified from everything that’s happened and now this happened too. 

Hermione clapped her hands to her mouth and Ron groaned.

[...]

Almost against his will he glanced from Ron to Hermione, both of whom looked devastated.

She looks “devastated” and doesn’t say a single word until Harry directly asks her, it almost reminds me of the scene at the hospital when Ron was poisoned.

“So if Ron was watching the Room of Requirement with Ginny and Neville,” said Harry, turning to Hermione, “were you — ?” 

“Outside Snape’s office, yes,” whispered Hermione, her eyes sparkling with tears, “with Luna. We hung around for ages outside it and nothing happened. . . . We didn’t know what was going on upstairs, Ron had taken the map. . . . It was nearly midnight when Professor Flitwick came sprinting down into the dungeons. He was shouting about Death Eaters in the castle, I don’t think he really registered that Luna and I were there at all, he just burst his way into Snape’s office and we heard him saying that Snape had to go back with him and help and then we heard a loud thump and Snape came hurtling out of his room and he saw us and — and —” 

The rest is irrelevant. I just thought I’d mention that Hermione is whispering and she’s almost crying, on top of all of the battles and duels she went through and all the worries and fears she had before seeing Harry alive, now she’s shocked from the news of Dumbledore. This girl is so strong. 

I know I wrote a little more than I should’ve but I just really love this moment. Their care for each other, their worries and their fears, that’s what strengthens their bond. They have the most emotional relationship out of everyone in the series. This hug was truly beautiful and much, much more than just a hug. 

And to end this essay, I thought I’d give you something about hugs (they happen over 5 times between H/Hr in the books) in general:

“We love to feel loved, and we love to feel good. Hugs satisfy both needs. When you touch someone affectionately, sit or stand close to them, gaze into their eyes, or wrap them in a big bear hug, our body responds on all levels: emotionally, cognitively, and physiologically.

Oxytocin — the human love drug — is also released when we hug. This hormone reduces blood pressure and stress hormones. According to Medical News Today, oxytocin ‘contributes to relaxation, trust, and psychological stability.’ Over time, it makes us feel bonded with another person.

Oxytocin provides feelings of pleasure, contentment, happiness, and even euphoria. These feels feel great — and they’re good for you.”

[yanderenightmare]

Oh master, plez, DRAGON WARRIOR BAKUGO, my lord! I was thinking, if you please, a darling who is like clairvoyant, and that's why King bakugo needs her??? can you make it dark ;3 like like like whatever means necessary dark, like like like ill murder anyone who gets in my way, also also also it being really grotesque, I want merciless bakugo, BUT also kinda sweet when it comes to darling?? I don't know what exactly I want, but I know whatever you write I'll prob enjoy, Master Nightmare :3

DRAGON ! WARRIOR ! KING BAKUGO KATSUKI x FEM ! READER

goodiebag WARNINGS: abuse, violence, genocide, kidnapping, abduction, death, blood, murder, ableism, classism, anxiety, arson, narcissistic personality disorder, slavery, trauma, war

so, a little foreword, the darling in this story has a quirk (ik, I’m breaking my beliefs thinking Bakugo should have a quirkless reader! The insanity!) but it’s because in this au not it’s quite special to have a quirk. Quirks are achieved and not given so to say. So Katsuki has earned his quirk and reader has earned her quirk, and so has everyone else who has a quirk. Also the song is called “If I Had a Heart” by Fever Ray, it’s the theme song to vikings ironically haha.

PART TWO

MUTE AND NUDE

The King was in her village.

Word from the south spread quickly, like any wildfire would, especially when riding the wings of a dragon. The Kingdom’s seer was dead, and the almighty bruise-knuckled King required a new one. They called it misfortune, but give a child a toy, and the toy is destined to break. Some might say that that’s what they’re made for. The old toy had apparently done something so distasteful that it cost her own tongue. Unfortunately, or perhaps ironically the only thing she was useful for: on her knees, mouth open, worshipping her king.

She counted the smoke rising to the sky near the horizon. Hers would be the thirteenth village they came to, lest their quest was done. She thought she might have seen him in the cloud-coverage. Eerie shadows resembling what bats she found in the caves, but the sun was bright and could easily be mistaken for him, or the other way around, as she’s heard his coat is golden.

She heard the rumbling tumbling of hooves and paws and claws riding up the mountain-side. They were coming.

Their houses were made of rock, sturdy as they should be when placed on a mountain-top with constant winds howling at them, and handled the fire well. But people aren’t made of stone. The smell of burning flesh is awful, and though she had nothing to puke, she barfed nonetheless. People were screaming and she probably would have too if she could, she was most certainly crying and bleeding and heaving for breath like those unlucky others that were still left alive.

High mountains are a bleak habitat for animal life, partially why they lived up there: to be spared of being hunted, to escape fangs and claws. And now: people running for their lives, the aching in her ankles, a body not built for running, and a mind not used to being hunted. Yet, it was strange but, it wasn’t really foreign at all.

She’d been dreaming of things lately, and as death as well as dust and ash and blood settled and seeped into the mud around her, she couldn’t help but feel as though she’d seen it all before. In fact, there came a point in the middle of the fray she was certain she was dreaming as she stopped to eye the great golden mass in front of her. Scales sharp and silvery like mica on the mountainside, ruby-red eyes as though soaked with blood. Teeth long and sturdy like the jagged rocks of the tunnels, dripping not with water as they did in the caves but with blood and guts and torn clothes. And the talons, curved and shiny, black as night, digging into the gravel by his feet, treating the soil as though it were as thin as the air. But the wings… the wings are what had her falling to her knees, skin bitten by gravel. Greater then roofs, sweeping the sky as though he could pluck each and every star from the welkin, stud himself with them if he so wanted to, or swallow them if only to breath the light onto earth. He could shred trees with those wings, he could slice oceans apart, he could probably part the mountain, head in the heavens and roots with hell, the bridge that had stood for thousands of years, singlehandedly torn open by that great monster conquering both sky and earth as though they gave him life.

Her arm was bleeding. It had dentures, no… puncture wounds it seemed the more she looked. A pretty crescent moon of red marking deep into the soft tissue of her meager muscles, dripping onto the dirt, creating streaks in the mud caking her bare feet. She looked up to see a wolf turn into a man, a large man with spikes for hair, red but not the same red she’d seen earlier in those eyes, red like poppies far away from the red flowing in her veins, from what was leaking out of her arm.

She looked forward and saw bodies… no, not bodies… mangled mockeries of the human form strewn about her as though they were trampled wildflowers on a field. She looked to her side and saw her reflection in the faces of those she’d grown up with but never truly knew. She looked behind her, not spotting what abomination of life she’d seen earlier, the one painting the sky, the one eclipsing the sun.

Every young, pretty thing was lined up on a row that stretched about ten meters long as they weren’t that many in her village, and she was surprised to be one of them. The auditions began in the early left side of the fray, boys and girl shaking on unsteady knees, holding onto broken arms and gushing wounds. Her bitemark was begging for a fist around it too, but she had not the focus to indulge the wish as her eyes caught sight of a blot of gold contrasting the otherwise grey figures, it being clear who he was despite having altered form. Although not the tallest in stature, one could see it as clear as day, he towered over the rest of the flock.

The tones ripped from their throats were scratchy, untuned; garbage. It would seem none of the kids in the village were gifted, but if the Gods were of mercy they would grant them the vocal cords to survive the night. She couldn’t blame them for allowing their fear to taint their song. Seeing how the drapes in which the hooded figures dressed were soaked in blood from past failures. Knowing well how their weapons would breach flesh and bone were they not of any use to them.

If she had a voice she would use it for speaking and not for singing. This would probably be her last night.

They rushed through the girls and boys rather quickly. Swiftly; as if they had done it countless times before, as if they could decide by the first utterance of their very first tone, that they were a disappointment, that they were as good as dead.

Caught in the middle of the small gathering; her turn came along. The man, standing in front, had purple hair and a nasty scar on his face, adorned with bladed eyes like a cat. Another blade, a steel blade, was held at her throat. Unnecessary, as the brutal scarring of his arms was intimidating enough for her to understand she could survive nothing compared to what he had already lived through. “Sing.” He commanded abruptly, an atmosphere of force settled on the word, as though compelling her, quite like how the wind shakes the trees in command to dance for them.

She did her hand gestures as smooth as she could under the pressure, lips remaining closed.

He threw his eyebrows up, scar shifting in its place like a serpent, the message had clearly gotten across. A condescending smile, a most sinister snicker and an unfortunate scoff was all the sympathy he allowed her. “No voice?” It wasn’t a question. “What a meaningless life.” He stated in a mutter, before moving onto the next girl.

The golden figure, who had followed discreetly, didn’t continue on with the scarred boy, he instead planted his clawedfeet in front of the girl, threatening to crush her barefooted toes, sinking into the red clay of the town square. “Sing.” His voice was fuller, and because of it she didn’t dare look up.

The scarred boy came to a halt, looking back to watch the girl repeat the hand gestures once again, she thinking that maybe the scarred boy had blocked the view the first time.

“No excuses.” His foot shifted in the mud, talons somehow growing longer as they impaled the ground, indicated he leant in closer. “Sing.” He said again, the sharpness of the demand sending a shiver to travel down her spine as it was accompanied with a growl too much like the sound of thunder to be called human. The girl furrowed her brows and looked up, her bottom lip visible quaking. Yet, what looked at her was no dragon, no… it was a man, a boy. And his skin was not golden like the rarity found in the mountain halls, but tan like sand, and his hair was only a shade lighter, nothing alike the mane of the sun. But those eyes had her quaking, those sharp slitted eyes that seemed to hold her soul in a chokehold, full of cultivated knowledge, merciless, red like wine, red like blood, red like hell. What’s a fate worse than death? She wondered and swallowed at the thought, her breathing picking up its pace. “Sing!” Spit flew to her face like venom with the roar, the tone reverberating through the ground, shaking in her knees.

She felt the itch in her throat, and she would be lying if she said she hadn’t been feeling it more and more lately, the feeling of dead born words somehow washing away. Her whimpers, absent of anything except for breathiness before, now carrying a somewhat lilt of tone. She stared a little deeper into those blood-soaked orbs of the man that looked like the onset of death before her.

“If I had heart.”

The wind roared as if it were as surprised as she was, or perhaps it rejoiced, or perhaps it mourned.

She was silent, the wind crashing and flailing, whipping the rags of her dress, letting the ripped fabric lick her dirty and bruised legs, pulling the disheveled locks of hair out from her face. Eyes; terror-wide, looking into a pair of sharp ones, who seemed to be looking beyond her disheveled state, into something far more divine than she had ever seen, ever known. “Continue.” The red-eyed boy commanded firmly, a detectable form of lust in his voice.

Startled, feeling the gravel dig into her soles. “I would love you... if I had a voice, I would sing.” The people on either side of her looked to be even more distressed now, crying and screaming, looking like wraiths in those charcoaled rags they wore, hands covering their ears as though to protect themselves, terrified as they looked to the sky expecting it to come falling down upon them.

However, their insolence and disrespect wasn’t what angered him, he could allow them that much before he took their lives. But the conflict found in her voice, that’s what truly boiled beneath his skin. He reached out his hand, quick like a viper, the pressure in his fingertips simmering on her skin, sizzling with heat, only for him to dig his fingernails into her throat as well. “Forget everything you know, except for that your life is in the palm of my hand.” He said, securing her gaze, lifting her up to her tippy-toes, though still nowhere near leveling his height.

Awakened by his words and frightened to her bones by the searing look of his eyes, she did as she was told and forgot who she was, forgot what she was and gave into simply doing exactly what needed to be done to keep her alive, to keep what beast in front of her subdued, or perhaps also to satiate what fire seemed to have burst to life inside of her, screaming to be heard. “After the night, when I wake up, I’ll see what tomorrow brings.” Eyes glazed over by some infernal light. She roared, a howl of some sorts, and the trees seemed to shiver and shake in the outmost reverence. “More, give me more, give me more.”

Somehow the leaves stopped rustling at the sound of her abrupt finish. Overwhelmed; all she could do was breath, all she could to was quake, the wind making the tears ever present on her face, the blood of her arm drying and awakened again as new blood came gushing out of her wounds.

The swirling dramatics in his eyes died down into a calm yet eerie content look. “Found you.” He stated, taking his time for the awakening to soak in, bask in the glorious feeling of triumph, before breaking focus from her. He let out a long, satisfied sigh. “Burn the village.” The statement left her blood turning cold. “There’s nothing left for us here. Dispose of the disappointments.” He was quick with his words as though they had been said many times before, and the actions performed by the ones in grey were just as swift, just as merciless. Humans turning into monsters murdering humans.

“No!” She wasn’t aware the voice belonged to her, so many years gone by without being able to voice anything; an opinion; nothing more than a foreigner, let alone an objection.

The people beside her dropped to the floor like rag dolls nonetheless, her voice just as insignificant as if she was still voiceless, drowning in their own bloodied throats. Her throat didn’t match theirs, but had strong, calloused fingers wrapped around it instead, coated with blood, the stench of it becoming so familiar yet far from friendly.

“Forget them, they don’t matter.” His voice still sheer, despite the screams around them both, overwhelming in fact. She felt her mind slip away from her then, as though her sentience was squeezed out from her by the deadlock fist wrapped around her neck, a conquering drowsiness following, seeping into her like the crawling of darkness when the sun settles on the horizon, her vision blurring everything except for those red, red eyes, who; from this point until her death, would never leave her.

PART TWO

[minor-solemnity]

To be a Seer pt.4

Tag List: @jinxqsu @naps-and-lemons @riddles-wifey @mainlynonsense @cakesarecute @crumpets-are-better-with-jam

When you enter the classroom you’re not even surprised to see that Riddle is already waiting for you at your usual table. He smiles at you congenially, and even stands up as you approach, pulling out your chair for you to sit. One thing that you’ve learnt from spending as much time with him as you have been is that Riddle’s manners are impeccable. It’s not half as endearing now that you know what hiding underneath his affable exterior.

You learn that girl is Annabel Wheatley. A third-year Hufflepuff student who, according to the chattering of your peers, is kind, quiet, and loves Care of Magical Creatures more than anything. The rumours surrounding her petrification spread like wildfire throughout the school, people who’ve never spoken to you before start stopping you in the hallway to ask if it’s true that you had seen the person who did it? if her body had really been hanging from the ceiling? if Tom Riddle had really run all the way from the sixth floor in order to protect you from the monster lurking in the school? You tell everyone who asks the truth. You don’t know who did it, Annabel had been sitting at her desk, Tom Riddle had not run anywhere to protect you from anything.

No one seems to believe this last correction. And you’re not sure you can really blame them; in the weeks following the attack, Riddle has taken to escorting you to and from class, acting for all the world to see, as your protector. He politely asks anyone who goes near you to leave you alone - “Can’t you see that this is incredibly hard for her? Do I need to start handing out detentions?” - to anyone who doesn’t know better, Riddle is a worried boyfriend who can’t stand to see his beloved so upset. Even Lizzie and Lucas seem sceptical.

“You must admit, it’s awfully strange that he’s suddenly showing you so much interest,” Lizzie says one evening in the common room as you’re attempting to study for an upcoming Ancient Runes test. “At the very least, he’s hardly hiding that he quite clearly likes you.” You shoot her a withering glare and Lucas laughs from where he’s lounging on the settee.

“I have no idea why he’s following me around all the time,” You say loudly, and promptly blush when a few curious housemates turn to face you. Neither Lucas nor Lizzie look at all like they believe you and you sigh, staring glumly at the textbook in front of you. “I honestly think he might just be worried?” You try to inject as much honesty as you can into your voice, hoping that this new tact will convince them. “It was… It was really disturbing seeing her.” Your voice grows quiet and Lizzie’s expression morphs into one of concern and you think you can detect a little bit of guilt too. Should you feel bad for manipulating your friends like this? You probably should. But you don’t. “And he was the only one around, you know? I don’t think I reacted that well.” That at least is partly true, it’s just that your poor reaction had nothing to do with Annabel and everything to do with Riddle.

After a moment of uncomfortable silence, Lucas clears his throat and the subject is dropped.

***

Lizzie’s sick (or at least, she’s claiming to be) and so you’re on your own as you make your way to Divination. Riddle’s also absent and you’d not realised how used to his presence you’d become until he’s no longer walking with you to lessons. The solitary walk from breakfast to Divination gives you time to think about everything you know about the petrifications and a certain Tom Riddle. The most obvious, and the thing you are most concerned about, is that Riddle very clearly has something to do with the petrifications. Even without your visions, his attitude in the classroom whilst you’d waited for Dippet and Dumbledore to arrive would have been enough to make you suspicious, let alone the fact that he barely lets you out of his sight these days.

But regardless of any of that, you had Seen him. You’ve been Seeing him for weeks and it’s always the same: a boy splintering apart into seven pieces, distorting and mutating into something grotesque and unearthly. There’s no convincing you otherwise that Riddle and the boy in the smoke aren’t one and the same.

It’s your moral duty to tell someone, of course. You should be banging on Dippet’s door right this instance instead of making your way to Divination. You should be screaming it in the corridors. You should be doing a lot of things. And it’s not as though you’re happy that muggle-borns are being attacked. It’s just that… you’re stuck between doing what you know is right and following your own damned curiosity. And there is part of you that is unwilling to divulge to anyone what you know because that would entail telling them how you know. It’s selfish and dangerous and you hate yourself for it a little bit, but the thought of admitting what you’ve Seen is enough to make your chest constrict and your palms grow clammy.

When you enter the classroom you’re not even surprised to see that Riddle is already waiting for you at your usual table. He smiles at you congenially, and even stands up as you approach, pulling out your chair for you to sit. One thing that you’ve learnt from spending as much time with him as you have been is that Riddle’s manners are impeccable. It’s not half as endearing now that you know what hiding underneath his affable exterior. “Good morning,” He says pleasantly, “I’m sorry I wasn’t able to meet you after breakfast this morning, I had a few things I needed to take care of.” He leans forward as he says this, smiles conspiratorially at you like he’s letting you in on a secret. You have a horrible feeling that he’s testing you.

“That’s okay,” You say slowly, watching him carefully as you begin to unpack your things. “I’m sure that you must be busy this year, with all that’s happening. It would be selfish of me to keep you to myself all the time.” His smile widens and he nods.

“That’s very understanding of you. I must say, juggling schoolwork, prefect duties, and extracurriculars has been a lot more of a balancing act than I anticipated,” He pauses and the look he sends your way is entirely too knowing for your liking. “Still, I’m sure I don’t need to explain that to you.” You frown and anxiety begins to set in. The way Tom is talking to you makes you think that he knows about your visions, but that’s impossible. You’ve been so careful to make sure that no one knows. Not even Lizzie and Lucas. So how could he have found out? Unless he’s just baiting you? Trying to make you think he knows more than he does?

Not knowing what else to do, you simply smile and turn your attention to the front of the class where Professor Levintus begins the lesson with a small lecture on predeterminism and the role of destiny in Divination. Immediately, you perk up, scribbling notes on the lecture with a fervour that you’ve not felt since the petrifications started. You’ve always believed that the things you See are inevitable. That, once you’ve Seen them, your visions will come to pass no matter what you do. You’ve always believed this and so you’ve never once tried to stop them. Never once tried to change the future.

You think maybe you might want to see if you can.

“Sir,” You call, raising your hand. Levintus pauses in the middle of his sentence looking over at you, startled. “Forgive me for interrupting, but you mentioned that many consider the Sight to be absolute. Is that a fact or just a popular theory?” You try to keep your voice even; interested but academic. Out of the corner of your eye, Riddle sits up a little straighter, his attention focused entirely on you.

“Well, it’s certainly a popular theory. Many would argue that because all known instances of true foretelling have come to pass that it’s the only viable hypothesis we have at the moment.” Levintus explains. He looks like he’s about to move on with the lesson, but you still have questions.

“Surely, the keyword is ‘known’, though? There might be hundreds of foretellings that haven’t come to pass because the Seer acted to make sure they didn’t? Or prophecies that were never heard and therefore never acted out?” A hint of hysteria leaks into your voice and more students turn to look at you. Whilst it’s not exactly a secret that you take Divination more seriously than most, you’re not known for talking in class.

“That’s certainly a possibility, which is why I use the term theory. Is there a reason that you’re so interested?” Levintus smiles and cocks his head, “Do we have our very own Seer sitting among us, I wonder?” The rest of the class laughs, and, despite the way your heart does an uncomfortable flip in your chest, you force yourself to join in. The only person who isn’t laughing is Riddle who watches you with a small smile. You tell yourself that you don’t find it flattering.

***

You finish your rounds for the night and wave goodbye to the Hufflepuff prefect before heading straight to the Prefect’s bathroom. You’ve been given next weeks rota for patrols and aren’t surprised to see that you’ve been paired with Riddle. You haven’t been paired with him since the first week of fifth year, after which he’d only been partnered with other Slytherins but apparently times are changing.

You slip inside the bathroom and quickly set about filling the tub. You light incense and pour perfumed oils into the water. You smoke a cigarette and then light another one immediately after. These aren’t to help you See, but rather because you’ve been feeling on edge since Divination that morning. The next thing you do is pull out the small ornate dagger that you’d bought from Borgin and Burks the previous summer. You set it down carefully on the ledge of the bath as you sink into the warm water.

Driromancy is something you’ve studied but never attempted before. You’ve always found the idea faintly unsettling. Now though, you’re desperate for answers, and blood divination is said to be one of the most potent forms of divination. Blood magic is personal; it draws its power from the most essential parts of the user, and practitioners of driromancy are said to have highly intense and personal divinations. It is for exactly these reasons why you’re even considering it in the first place. Riddle has been haunting your dreams for months, he’s in the smoke you exhale, and that connects you to him somehow. In many ways, you know him better than he knows himself and you can’t shake the feeling that there has to be a reason for it. That there has to be a reason that of all the Seers in the world, it’s you that has been gifted the warning of his future.

You eye the dagger with a mix of anticipation and foreboding as the perfumed steam begins to work its magic and your mind calms and stills. You’re not sure how long you soak, allowing the water to soften your skin, but eventually, you feel the familiar tug at the edges of your mind, the gentle pull of the Other waiting for you to open your Inner Eye and See.

It doesn’t take much. A few drops on the tiles next to you, dark red against the white marble. You track the speed at which the droplets fall, the viscosity, and the patterns they land in. The slow, steady drip suggests someone determined, resourceful, and independently minded; the thin, watery viscosity indicates an uncertain future or a change of heart; the pattern that forms on the marble is a constellation - the hydra, representing a monster that cannot die.

You stare at the drops of blood for longer than you can tell, feeling strangely relieved by what they’ve told you. A future in flux is certainly better than a future set in stone. Especially, if the future is what you think it might be. It still leaves you with the question of how to change it. Riddle is, of course, the answer. Your futures are somehow tied together, however tangentially that might be, you just hope that his past actions aren’t indicative of how he might treat you should he find out.

The water has completely cooled, and you shiver as you clamber out of the bath and begin to dry yourself off. A quick vanishing charm and you’re ready to leave. You manage to take one step out of the corridor when you hear a soft hum coming from the shadows. Riddle steps into view and smiles down at you. In the dim candlelight of the corridor, he looks like a gothic prince. How did… How did he know you were here? Or was it just a coincidence?

Is anything a coincidence when it comes to you and Riddle?

He takes in your still-damp hair, your slightly wild eyes, the hitch in your breathing as he draws closer. “It’s a little late to be out, isn’t it? And hardly safe,” He says, and he’s close enough that you can see the way his eyelashes cast shadows along his cheeks. “I’d hate for something to happen to you when I’ve been trying so hard to prevent that.”

“Last I checked, prefects aren’t beholden to the same rules as other students,” You say and your voice is steady where your heart is not. He hums again and you’re struck by how pleasant the sound is, by the way his upper curls and his expression softens slightly. “I promise I’m being careful - though, I might ask the same of you, you know. Sneaking around the castle when you weren’t even on patrol tonight.” Without really meaning to, your tone takes on a slight teasing quality, gentle and sweet in the quiet hallway. You think you might be flirting with him which is… well, it’s an interesting development at any rate. Though perhaps, not one you should be surprised by; you’ve been spending enough time with Riddle to have grown somewhat comfortable in his presence (which is a somewhat unsettling realisation in and of itself) and you can’t deny he’s got a handsome face.

He laughs and the sound is beautiful. “I can assure you, no harm will come to me tonight.” No, you don’t expect it will. He offers you his arm, “It’s getting late though, and your common room is on the way to mine; allow me to escort you, seeing as I couldn’t this morning.” You know the exact moment that Riddle notices the shallow cut on your palm. He hums again, though this time, it isn’t from amusement but rather, you think with a small stab of anxiety, understanding. Like he’s putting the pieces together in his mind and is reaching a conclusion. Your hand hovers uncertainly in the air before you lay it gently against the crook of his elbow and he starts to walk you back.

Some distant part of you recognises that you’re in the middle of crossing a threshold, that you’re willingly walking into dangerous territory arm in arm with Riddle. You’d be lying if you said you weren’t a little bit curious about where you’ll end up.

(part 1) (part 2) (part 3) (part 4) (part 5)