#headless streams

[notsoheadless]

I'm In a Play! :D

My dear audience, it is with great pleasure I announce the finale of The Importance of Being Earnest, benefiting the Make-A-Wish Foundation in collaboration with Twitch Unity Guilds. We have raised over $2,500 and eagerly await your support during this LIVE theatre production on Twitch.tv/meadow. Join us at 6 PM PT / 9 PM ET—it would be quite improper to miss such an event.

Yours most earnestly, (notsoheadless/Jack "Earnest" Worthing)

[jaynaneeya]

Raise a glass (or spoon) to Sarah Grace Hart!

Happy Birthday Sarah!!! Thank you for all the joy you have spread over the years. Here's to an upcoming year full of exciting opportunities and adventures!

[trashpandaqc]

coming up for the internet in a couple weeks! playing a 10 min AV set along with this insane lineup https://twitch.tv/headlessbloodidol

[glivantic]

Headless Gardevoir With & Without Dress

[fairuzfan]

I don't think there's a point to "educating" this far into a live streamed genocide, if you still need "convincing" then you probably don't care that much about anything that doesn't have to do with you OR you don't want to abandon zionism for whatever selfish reason. At this point I see no use to a life where you can watch fathers cry over headless children in a plea to please make it all stop and all from the comfort of your own house while others call it "trauma porn" or "snuff films" to fit whatever agenda they want to further. So I have nothing else to talk about long term other than how much I despise the multinational entity that's invested in the slaughter of a people that have nothing but the land they stand on.

[sedumlovelacevt]

OH FUCK i forgot to make a post that i went live. oopsies! it was a guerrilla stream tho it's fine

[beansprean]

I POSTED THIS ON PATREON MONDAY MORNING. THIS IS AT LEAST HALF A DODGEBALL.

i would have posted it here immediately after the ep but i hadnt written the id yet dkfhdkj

Support me on Patreon!

(ID in alt and under cut)

iD: 1a. Aerial black and white view of the vampire house, or what's left of it. Bits of the walls and the front porch are still standing, but the rest has been blown away by an apparent explosion. The remains smoke heavily as a stream of water from an off-screen fire truck pours into what used to be the library. In the yard, Colin and the Guide are kneeling over the headless body of the monster, Colin holding up his severed head. Laszlo is holding his witch's skin hat to his head while Nadja screams at him. Nandor and Guillermo are sitting side by side on the porch steps. Everyone save Laszlo is covered in ash and soot, hair burnt and clothes torn in various places. Guillermo says, "I can't believe Cannon Capital was just a Simon the Devious scheme all along." 1b. Zoom in, full body of Nandor and Guillermo on the ruined porch, the house behind them full of holes and cracks and missing bricks, glass blown out of the window frames still intact. Nandor is looking over at Guillermo with concern. Guillermo slumped over his knees, continues depressingly, "I tried so hard... I really thought I had found what I was meant to do. But it was all supernatural bullshit again. I just can't escape the vampire world." 1c. Close up on Guillermo from Nandor's POV as Nandor asks, "Do you want to?" Guillermo sighs resignedly, eyes closed, and replies, "Nandor, we talked about this. I'm a human, I can't just-" 1d. Reverse shot of Nandor scowling at Guillermo and flicking his hand out dismissively. He interrupts, "Why not? Who says it is a vampire-only club here?" 1e. Full body of them both. Guillermo glares over at Nandor and responds flatly, "You did. Repeatedly." Nandor clasps his hands together in his lap and looks away archly, saying, "I don't recall that." He then mumbles under his breath, "I can always turn you again if it's that big a deal..." 1f. Bust of Guillermo as he turns to face Nandor fully, hands out in desperation, and cries, "I couldn't hack it as a vampire!!" 1g. Repeat. Guillermo turns back to face the yard and chops his hands decisively in the air, expression set and stubborn. He says, "I chose to be a human, so I have to live a human life."

2a. Reverse shot, shoulders up of Nandor. Guillermo continues from offscreeen, "That means no vampires, no slaying, no bababooks-" Nandor tosses his hand up again and interrupts with a frustrated groan, "Agh, these are fake rules, Guillermo! Made up!! No one is holding you to this except you!" 2b. Reverse shot of Guillermo looking pained, leaning away from Nandor and looking toward the ground, brow furrowed. Nandor continues from offscreen, "You can do whatever you want! Be whoever and whatever you want." 2c. Repeat. Guillermo's expression softens as Nandor's hand comes into frame to grip his shoulder, looking back up at Nandor with hesitation. Nandor says, "And if what you want is to be here with us, human or otherwise..." 2. Wide shot of Nandor, waist up, smiling gently with hooded eyes at Guillermo in the foreground, who is turned from the viewer to face him. Nandor finishes his sentence, "You will always have a home here." Behind him, we can see the other characters in the yard. Nadja has Laszlo by the throat and has lifted him up off the ground to shake him like a ragdoll while he struggles to hold his hat to his head. She is in the middle of screaming, "and your stupid fucking hat!" Further back, The Guide and Colin have stood up, the former with half her hair burnt off and looking up in concern at the monster's detached head, which Colin is holding aloft with a relieved smile. The monster is alive and looks back at Colin, assuring him "Little glue...fix right up."

3a. Waist up of them both on the porch. Left hand still on Guillermo's shoulder, Nandor breaks their eye contact to shrug with his other arm and roll his eyes upward, clarifying, "Well, metaphorically. This one exploded." Guillermo smiles at him fondly. 3b. Shoulders up of Guillermo from Nandor's POV, smiling bashfully as he looks down at Nandor's hand on his shoulder. He says, "I'll... I'll think about it." Nandor squeezes his shoulder and replies, "Great!" 3c. Zoom out to full body. Nandor stands up on the stairs and leans down to help Guillermo up, clasping both of his hands in his. "In the meantime, perhaps we can all stay in the shed with you so we don't shrivel into little crispy nuggets in a few hours?" he asks with a sheepish grin. Guillermo laughs back at him as he braces himself to be hoisted to his feet, replying, "Okay, temporarily, though."

4. Wide shot in full color of Guillermo and all his former housemates sitting crammed together on his mattress in the shed, looking over his shoulder as he browses on his laptop. They are all cleaned up and wearing Guillermo's clothes. The Guide, hair now cropped in a curly bob and wearing no makeup and a dark blue sweater that hangs dangerously low, leans in from the back with a grin, pointing over Laszlo and Nadja's shoulders to point at the laptop screen. She says, "Ooh, what about this 1899 colonial mansion? Very modern." Colin is next to her directly behind Guillermo, holding the monster's head up between them so he can see. The monster grumbles, "Ugh, need more personality on exterior." Colin, wearing some kind of glittery gold button up that Guillermo didn't even know he owned, grins and says, "Heated pool, eh? I can start up my water aerobics again." Nandor, slav squatting on Guillermo's left and wearing a too-short green sweater, sweatpants, and heart patterned socks, leans into Guillermo and points at the screen, demanding, "Guillermo, I wish to see the 3D rendering of the 'sun room' torture chamber!" Guillermo, sitting with his legs stretched out in his blue striped pajama set and black socks, smiles contentedly as he taps at the keyboard, responding, "This one is in an HOA anyway, we don't want that kind of scrutiny." Nadja is sitting on Guillermo's left with her arms propped up on one raised knee, wearing no makeup and the PUNY hoodie over her black slip and a pair of Guillermo's pink socks. She scowls and ducks her head as the monster's dislodged neck drifts into her space, snapping, "Colin Robinson, get that thing's face out of my face!" Laszlo, wearing a red v neck sweater and rolled up brown chinos, sits on Nadja's other side, leaning his weight on the arm he has propped behind her on the bed. His other hand is holding the brim of The Hat behind his leg. Laszlo gazes forlornly at the laptop and sighs, "If only Toby were here... Do you think we could get on '100-Day Dream Home?' /end ID

[ponderingmoonlight]

kny men saving you

Pairings: Sanemi x reader; Obanai x reader; Rengoku x reader

Word Count: 3,1k

Warnings: near death experiences but your knights in shining armor have your back hehe, pure fluff in every part, there might be some spelling mistakes here and there, my heart is in pieces bc I deleted Rengoku's part and had to re-write it and now it's bad

Sanemi Shinazugawa

The moon hangs low tonight, its pale light pooling in the dark grooves of the forest. You always loved how tender the night looks when the full moon is out, especially during summer. It dapples your path, just barely enough to see the worn trail beneath your feet. Your sandals whisper against the ground as you clutch the heavy clay jar in your arms. It’s not far now - you know the stream is just a little farther ahead. The thought of your mother, feverish and frail in her bed, keeps you going despite the nervous twist in your stomach. You hate walking out here alone. Because even though the night looks peaceful, it certainly isn’t.

Those past nights, a lot of innocent people disappeared during night. The elders talk frequently about creatures called demons who lurk out in the shelter of the dark in order to take lives. Your mother was very clear when telling you more than once that you aren’t allowed to go outside when it’s dark, that you have to stay inside at all cost.

But does that include her being so sick that she’s barely able to move? You can’t just sit there and watch her suffer, right? You can’t just wait for something that might never happen-

A twig snaps in the distance.

Your breath gets stuck in your throat. It’s probably nothing - you hope it’s nothing. But the hair on the back of your neck stands on end, and the oppressive weight of the dark seems to grow heavier with each passing minute.

The stream, you remind yourself. Get the water. Get back home.

Then the smell hits you.

It’s foul, coppery and rancid, and so wrong that your guts turn. You stumble, the clay jar nearly slipping from your grip. You freeze. There’s something ahead. No, someone.

But the silhouette isn’t really human. Too tall. Limbs too long. The gleam of sharp teeth is the first thing you make out, the grin stretching across its distorted face.

Your legs refuse to move. The demon lunges.

A demon?

Is this…what your mother always talked about, what everyone at the village warned you about countless times? Demons really do exist, that demon right in front of you is the ultimate prove for that.

You won’t be able to tell anyone the truth, though. Those sharp teeth that draw closer and closer, aiming for your neck. This is how you’ll die. Alone in a forest like so many people before you. Tears start stinging in your eyes, your throat so tight that you can’t catch breath.

Before you can even scream, there’s a flash of silver and a roar that shakes the trees. It takes you a moment to register what’s happening - the demon is on the ground now, twitching and headless. The stench of blood intensifies, and you realize it’s not just the demon’s. Your knees wobble.

And then he’s there.

The man who killed it, a whirlwind of pale scars and wild hair, is in front of you before you can blink. His blade gleams in the moonlight, still dripping. His eyes, sharp and livid, pin you in place.

“What the hell are you doing out here?!”

The force of his voice slams into you like a physical blow. You flinch, the jar slipping from your arms and shattering against the ground.

“I-I was just-” you stammer, words tumbling over each other, but he doesn’t let you finish.

“Do you have a death wish?” he snaps, taking a step closer.

“Are you stupid or just suicidal? Do you know how many of those things are out here? You’re lucky that was only one!”

Tears sting at the corners of your eyes. You can’t even bring yourself to speak now, your throat tightening with every harsh word he throws at you.

Are you…crying? Sanemi’s eyes narrow, mouth opening to yell again, but something shifts in his expression when he sees the tears spill down your cheeks. Fuck, how is he supposed to scream when you’re looking at him like that?

He exhales sharply, running a hand through his hair, his frustration palpable.

“Shit,” he mutters under his breath, looking away like he’s trying to calm himself.

“Shit. Stop crying.”

You hiccup, trying to stifle the sobs that threaten to bubble up. To his own surprise, he kneels down, so suddenly and close that it startles you. His hands hover awkwardly, like he’s not sure what to do with them. His voice, though still gruff, softens ever so slightly.

“Hey. I’m not gonna hurt you, alright? Just…stop crying already.”

You nod weakly, wiping at your face with trembling hands. He sighs again, this time more resigned.

“Look,” he grumbles, reaching out hesitantly,

“I didn’t mean to scare you. But you shouldn’t be out here. Not alone.”

His hand, rough and warm, settles lightly on your shoulder. It’s surprisingly steadying, even a little bit soft. You nod again, this time more firmly.

“I…I was getting water. For my mother. She’s sick.”

He frowns at that, eyes flicking to the broken jar on the ground. For a moment, he doesn’t say anything, just stares at you like he’s trying to figure you out. You were out there to get some water for your mother. How absolutely fucking stupid. But on the other side…he can’t help but admire your courage the slightest bit. Given your pretty weak frame and haunted eyes, you aren’t really experienced when it comes to combat. It’s obvious that you’re nothing but an ordinary villager, a girl who just tried to save her mother without having a single clue about the shit that awaits her.

Enough of that sentimental bullshit. If he looks at you one more second…

With a rough huff, he stands and turns his back to you.

“C’mon.”

You blink, trying to understand the meaning behind his rough words.

“W-What?”

“I’m taking you back. You’re gonna get yourself killed if I leave you out here.”

Before you can protest, he crouches slightly.

“Get on.”

“Wh-What?” you stammer again, heat flooding your cheeks.

No, you can’t do this. Not when he’s a stranger, not when he already saved you. He glares over his shoulder.

“Do I have to spell it out? You’re too slow, and I’m not dragging you the whole way. Now get on before I change my mind.”

Swallowing your nerves, you shuffle closer, hesitantly placing your hands on his shoulders. He doesn’t flinch. Instead, he hooks his arms under your knees and lifts you like it’s nothing. You’re startled by the steadiness of his grip, the surprising warmth of him despite the chill of the night. This is…the first time a boy ever touched you like this.

The walk back is quiet save for the crunch of his boots against the forest floor. You cling to his haori, your earlier fear slowly ebbing away. His presence, though sharp-edged and intense, is strangely comforting now.

When you finally see the soft glow of your village lights through the trees, relief washes over you. He doesn’t stop until he’s at the edge of your house, where he kneels to let you down.

“You’re lucky I came along,” he mutters, his voice still rough but quieter now.

“Next time, think before you do something stupid.”

You nod meekly.

“Thank you.”

He grunts, straightening.

“Get inside. And stay there.”

But before he turns to leave, he hesitates. His hand lingers for a moment, brushing against your shoulder again, almost absentmindedly. Then he steps back, his expression unreadable under the moonlight.

“Take care of your mom,” he says gruffly, before disappearing into the night.

Your heart feels a little fuller, even as your legs wobble carrying you inside.

Iguro Obanai

The wind howls against your ears as you step cautiously closer to the cliff’s edge, the jagged rocks below barely visible through the mist. It’s a beautiful view - almost ethereal. You should stop here, you know you should, but something about the sheer drop pulls you in. Just a few more steps, you think. A little closer and you’ll be able to see that gorgeous field of tulips your friends told you about.

The world seems quieter here, the rush of blood in your ears louder than the rustling trees behind you. You feel weightless, suspended between the earth and the empty sky. It’s thrilling, in a way. Comforting in depressing times like these.

You don’t notice the loose gravel underfoot until it shifts.

Your breath catches as your sandal slips, toes curling desperately to hold onto anything solid. For a brief, heart-stopping moment, there’s nothing but air beneath you, and you’re falling straight towards the tulips, straight towards certain death-

Until a strong hand clamps onto your wrist and yanks you back.

The force sends you sprawling onto solid ground, your heart hammering in your chest. You barely have time to register what happened before a familiar voice cuts through the panic, sharp and laced with fury.

“What the hell were you thinking?”

You look up to find Obanai crouched in front of you, his mismatched eyes blazing with barely-contained anger. His hand is still gripping your wrist, tight enough that it’s almost painful, but you can’t bring yourself to pull away.

“I-I didn’t mean-” you stammer, but he doesn’t let you finish.

“You didn’t mean what? To nearly kill yourself? To fall off a cliff like it’s nothing?”

His voice rises, each word sharper than the last.

“Do you even realize how close you were?!”

Tears well up in your eyes, hot and stinging, as his words hit you like a physical blow. You hadn’t meant to be careless - it wasn’t like you wanted to fall. But hearing the raw frustration in his voice, seeing the way his knuckles are white from gripping your wrist too tightly, makes you feel like you’ve done something unforgivable.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, your voice trembling.

“I didn’t-”

He cuts you off again, though this time it’s not with words. He pulls you into his arms so suddenly that you barely have time to react. His embrace is firm, almost desperate, and the tension in his body makes it clear that he’s holding on more for himself than for you.

“Don’t do that again,” he mutters, his voice muffled against your hair.

“Don’t you ever scare me like that again.”

Your tears spill over, and you nod against his chest, your hands clutching at his haori as if letting go would send you tumbling back over the edge. He’s warm, solid in a way that grounds you, his presence filling the air with something that feels like safety.

For a long moment, the two of you stay like that, the wind swirling around you but never quite reaching where he holds you. His hand moves to the back of your head, cradling it gently, and you feel his fingers tremble ever so slightly.

“I’m sorry,” you murmur again, your voice barely audible.

“I didn’t mean to scare you.”

He sighs, the sound heavy but softer than before.

“You didn’t just scare me,” he says quietly, his voice steady now.

“You almost—” He stops himself, shaking his head.

“Just... be more careful. It’s not like I’m able to be around you all the time.”

You nod, pressing closer to him. The anger in his tone has faded, replaced by something warmer, something that feels like relief. His grip loosens just enough for you to breathe, but he doesn’t let go entirely.

After a while, he pulls back just enough to look at you, his hands settling on your shoulders. His gaze, though still stern, is no longer angry. Instead, it’s filled with something you can’t quite name, a mix of worry and something softer, something more fragile.

“You’re not allowed to scare me like that again.  Promise me.”

“I promise,” you whisper, your voice thick with emotion.

He studies you for a moment longer, as if trying to determine whether you mean it, before nodding.

“Good.”

And then, to your surprise, a small, almost imperceptible smile tugs at the corner of his mouth, visible through the bandages that cover his inviting lips. It’s fleeting, gone as quickly as it came, but it’s there, and it warms you in a way that nothing else could.

“Come on. Let’s get away from the edge.”

You take his hand without hesitation, letting him pull you to your feet. His grip is steady, his touch lingering just a moment longer than necessary as if to reassure himself that you’re really there.

“But…Why were you here in the first place?”

Obanai can’t help but get lost in a wave of coughing, his cheeks turning bright pink. Maybe, just maybe because he has his eyes on you since he can remember and never misses the chance to be around you when he’s home.

“Just…because”, he mumbles.

And as the two of you walk back toward safety, his hand never quite lets go of yours.

Rengoku Kyojuro

The festival is alive with the hum of happy chatter and flickering lanterns, their golden glow dancing across the busy streets. The air is thick with the scent of grilled skewers and sweetened rice cakes, and laughter echoes around you like a warm embrace. You pause at a stall, admiring the delicate charms on display.

You've been in love with those annual festivals since you were young, always admiring the different stalls with all the goos from far away while wearing your best kimono out.

But today was even better with that tall stranger wearing that elegant red kimono and those beaming eyes. Even though he talked louder than everyone surrounding him, you never got tired of listening to his food advice.

Maybe you should really try the sweet potatos he mentioned earlier. You lean in closer, trying to decide between a bento box and a side of sweet potatos when a scream cuts through the noise like a blade.

It’s sharp, raw, and sends a chill down your spine.

The joyous energy of the crowd fractures, shattering into chaos as people scatter. The street that had been so full of life mere moments ago is now a stampede of panicked footsteps. Vendors abandon their carts, children cry out for their parents, and the cheerful festival music grinds to a halt.

You hesitate, your instincts screaming at you to run, but your feet refuse to move. You can’t see what’s happening yet - the crowd is too thick - but the smell of blood is unmistakable, metallic and sickly sweet, twisting your stomach into knots.

And then you see it.

A demon emerges from the shadows, its grotesque face twisting into a wide, terrifying grin as it prowls forward. Its claws are long, sharp, and dripping with fresh blood. It locks eyes with you—a predator that has spotted its prey.

You freeze.

You’ve heard stories about demons. You know they’re real, but knowing something and facing it are two very different things. Your legs tremble, your heart slamming against your ribs, but you can’t make yourself move. It’s as though the world has narrowed, the monster at the center, everything else falling away.

It lunges.

A blur of orange and red streaks through the air before it can reach you.

"Do not dare to touch this lady!"

The voice is booming, confident, and electrifying. The demon’s attack is intercepted, its claws clashing with a nichirin blade that burns like fire. You gasp as your rescuer appears, his haori billowing around him like flames brought to life.

Rengoku Kyojuro.

“Do not fear!” he declares, his smile broad and reassuring even as he pushes the demon back with a powerful swing of his sword.

“You are safe now, young lady! I will not allow harm to come to you!”

He is...The stranger from before, the man with the elegant kimono!

The demon snarls, lunging again with feral speed, but Rengoku meets it head-on. His blade flashes, and sparks erupt as the demon’s claws glance off his sword. He’s a blur of motion, his strikes precise and devastating, and yet there’s something graceful in the way he moves, as though the fight is a choreographed dance he has perfected.

You watch, rooted to the spot, as he delivers the final blow. Flames erupt from his blade.

"Flame Breathing, Fifth Form: Flame Tiger!"

A fiery streak takes the shape of a roaring tiger, consuming the demon in one final, dazzling strike. Its body disintegrates into ash, leaving nothing behind but the acrid smell of death.

The silence that follows is almost as shocking as the chaos that preceded it.

Rengoku turns to you, lowering his sword but keeping it at the ready. His golden eyes scan your face, his expression softening into something kinder.

“Are you alright?” he asks, his voice warm, though tinged with concern.

You nod shakily, though you’re not entirely sure if you’re alright. Your knees feel like jelly, and your heart is still racing, but his presence alone feels like an anchor.

“Y-Yes. I think so,” you manage to whisper.

He steps closer, his towering frame somehow not intimidating but comforting.

“You were very brave to stay so calm,” he comments, his smile returning, this time gentler.

“But next time, it’s best to run. Demons are relentless creatures.”

“I-I couldn’t move,” you admit, shame coloring your voice.

“I froze.”

His gaze softens further, and he crouches slightly, bringing himself more to your eye level.

“That’s natural,” he replies, his tone soothing.

“Fear is not weakness. It’s what reminds us to protect what’s important.”

He tilts his head, his smile growing.

“But you’re safe now, and that’s all that matters.”

You feel tears pricking at your eyes, the overwhelming relief hitting you all at once. Before you can say anything, his warm hand gently pats the top of your head, his calloused fingers light but grounding.

“Good work holding on,” he says quietly.

“You did well.”

Your breath hitches at the kindness in his words. He straightens then, offering you his hand.

“Shall I escort you somewhere safe?” he asks, his voice as bright and steady as the flame he wields.

“There’s no need to fear - I’ll protect you.”

You take his hand, its warmth seeping into your skin, and nod. Somehow, with him beside you, the world doesn’t feel so terrifying anymore.

Tags: @chilichopsticks @hellkaiserinphoenix  @ynackerman9499 @keepghostly @beatrexworld

@froufrousnowman @hidazinie @tomiokathedepresso  @poketrainer2270 @chaoticwinnercupcake

@lees-chaotic-brain @wordskeeper @polarbvnny @sugu-love @ryva @baku2345

@komelrebi-san @kentocalls @barbuse @sunshine7queen @lavenderdrxp

@yaninnaacu @hopefulbelievertimemachine @laurencrsnt @sanemifucker @blunderland

[literaryvein-reblogs]

Archaic Words: Injuries & Death

writing inspiration for your fight scenes

Apeyrement - injury

Ascat - broken like an egg

Bresure - a bruise or sore

Byhanggid - hanged up

Byhefded - beheaded

Chined - broken in the back (e.g., chined his back, i.e., broke his back)

Diffade - to injure

Emperish - to injure, or impair

Flean - flayed

Frush - to bruise; to indent; to break, or dash to pieces

Hop headless - when a king beheaded a person, he was said to make him hop headless, a phrase which occurs in many early writers, and was even applied to decapitation in battle

Mench - to bruise, to beat up

Mudgelly - squashed; trampled on

Outraie - to injure; to ruin; to destroy

Scrim - to crush; to bruise

Sherdel - skinned

Sleep away - an idiomatic phrase signifying a gradual decay

Slocken - to suffocate in mud, and perhaps at times to drown simple. If a person should have been suffocated by getting into a bog or marsh he would be said to have been slockened; and the term was applied to a drunken man, who had perished in a ditch or running stream.

Stongen - to stab; to pierce

Worowe - to choke

Source ⚜ More: Notes & References ⚜ Word Lists ⚜ Writing Resources PDFs

[wisteria-lodge]

The Harry Potter Pretty People's Club

I’ve always been kind of fascinated by how and why *attractiveness* is used in the HP books. So, I’ve decided to play a little game, and score up characters based on how often their prettiness is brought up. Here’s my scoring system:

(1 point) - We are straight-up told that this character (or some aspect of this character) is attractive. The word beautiful, handsome, attractive, elegant, pretty, lovely, good-looking, good looks, nice-looking, curvy, or gorgeous is used.

(.5 points) - We are specifically told the character has nice hair, or nice teeth. (JKR describes teeth a lot, it’s a thing.) 

(.5 points) - The character is described as moving in an attractive way. The word lounging, lolling, graceful, posing, or haughty (so lounging/posing, but more evil coded) is applied to them

In terms of the ranking, twins and and parent+child duos get to compete together, because how common “they looked exactly like their parent” type descriptions are in these books.

No points for “they used to be beautiful” or “they would be beautiful if...” Also no points if someone is described as attractive specifically by Rita Skeeter. We are clearly not supposed to take her as a reliable source. Also not counting the times Petunia calls Dudley “handsome,” or the time when Slughorn calls Ron handsome while trying to cheer him up after the love potion, for the same reason.

(if you’re curious, Rita does describe Hermione as “stunningly pretty,” Pansy as “pretty and vivacious,” herself as “attractive blonde, forty-three” and Harry as “the most beautiful thing she had ever seen” when he’s giving the interview about Voldemort’s return.) So let's get to the top 26 most attractive (?) characters in Harry Potter.

#26 - WILKIE TWYCROSS (.5) 

“Graceful” apparition instructor. Unfortunately the rest of his description stresses that he’s practically see-through.

#25 - MADAM PUDDIFOOT  (.5) 

Has shiny hair. Unfortunately also “very stout” (and unfortunately we we know how JKR feels about fat people  : / )

#24 - ROMILDA VANE (.5)

Has hair that is “black and shiny and silky.” Of course Ron does say that while zoinked out his mind on love potion, so not sure how reliable his report is. 

#23 - HORACE SLUGHORN (.5)

Young Horace has “thick, shiny, straw-colored hair.” He’s also rocking embroidered waistcoats with golden buttons. Idk, I bet Horace was kind of dishy back in the day. Heck, I bet he still is. He’s well dressed, charismatic, charming. Someone has a crush on him. JKR is just mean and wrong about fat people

#22 - NEARLY HEADLESS NICK (1) 

Has “elegant” hands. So, if you’re into that…

 #21 - ANDROMEDA TONKS (1) 

Andromeda’s sisters are not actually going to make the list, because they fall in the “beauty potential” category. Narcissa “would have been nice-looking if she hadn’t been wearing a look that suggested there was a nasty smell under her nose,” and the “long blonde hair streaming down her back gave her the look of a drowned person.” I love Narcissa, but that framing isn’t especially flattering. Bellatrix was once beautiful, but “something — perhaps Azkaban — had taken most of her beauty.” Now if Andromeda looks enough like Bellatrix to give Harry a double-take, and she looks like a Bellatrix with “wider, kinder eyes” who hasn’t been to Azkaban… she more than earns her place on the pretty list. Also is described as “haughty.”

#20 - ANGELINA JOHNSON (1) 

“Rather attractive” according to Lee Jordan. Seems to wear micro box-braids, which Pansy says look like “worms.” Boo Pansy (who is not on this list.) 

#19 - PERCIVAL, KENDRA & ALBUS DUMBLDORE (2) 

Percival is “good-looking,” Albus has shiny hair, and Kendra is “haughty.” I’ll buy that the Dumbledores were a pretty striking family, that makes sense . But they rank a little low because they all only have one attractive descriptor apiece. 

#18 - OLYMPE MAXIME (2) 

She’s an elegant frenchwoman. The only lady on this list described as “handsome.” Also graceful, has shiny hair, and Hagrid is very into her. 

#17 - PARVATI & PADMA PATIL (2)

Both of them look “very pretty” in their Yule Ball dress robes, and are quickly snapped up by Beauxbatons boys when Harry and Ron ignore them.  

#16 -  FIRENZE (2) 

The “handsome centaur.” Also the only character described as “gorgeous” (by Parvati.) At which point Hermione scoffs and says that he’s got four legs. By which we can deduce that Hermione is a bit vanilla for this conversation.

#15 - BILL WEASLEY (2) 

Described as “good-looking” and “handsome” by Mrs. Weasley, and of course FLEUR is very into him very quickly. I considered adding “cool” to my list of words connoting attractiveness, which would have bumped Bill higher… but JKR seems to associate “cool” more with personality. Like Mad-Eye and Hagrid are “cool” without being especially pretty.

#14 - GELLERT GRINDELWALD (2) 

Briefly seen in a memory and a photograph, described as “handsome” both times.

#13 - LILY POTTER (2) 

A “very pretty woman” and a woman with a “kind, pretty face.” Like with Andromeda, JKR throws in “kind” to make sure we know this is good-pretty, one step up from the Patil twins who are girly-pretty (sorry Patil twins.) 

#12 - LUCIUS & DRACO MALFOY (2.5) 

They have super sleek hair. It’s brought up a lot. Pansy likes to pet it. 

#11 - BLAISE’S MOM & BLAISE ZABINI (2.5) 

Blaise’s mom is a “famously beautiful witch,” who “had been married seven times, each of her husbands dying mysteriously and leaving her mounds of gold.” Fanon needs to decide on a name for her, and I think Clytemnestra is the right amount of on-the-nose. Blaise himself is described as haughty, and picky, and tends to “pose” and “loll against pillars.” 

#10 - MADAM ROSMERTA (3) 

Attractive, pretty, and the only character who is “curvy.” (I think she might have the boobs of Harry Potter universe.) Also wears sparkly turquoise heels, which is cute. Ron is into her, and so (I think) is Cornelius Fudge. I mean -  “Rosmerta, m’dear… lovely to see you again, I must say. Have one [drink] yourself, won’t you? Come and join us.” Like, that’s flirty, right? 

#9 - ROWENA & HELENA RAVENCLAW (4) 

Surprising that they crack the top ten, but every time we see an image of them they are described as beautiful. Usually with a qualifier like “austere” or “intimidating.” Beautiful is a word with a little bit of an edge to it in this universe. Beautiful people are just… a little suspect. 

#8 - GILDEROY LOCKHART (5.5) 

Very handsome, good hair, good teeth. The teeth are honestly brought up enough to feel a little off-putting and predatory, which I think is exactly the point. Lockhart is a very 90s-Disney-movie queer-coded villain. But, he is extremely good looking (or at least very well put-together.) Mrs. Weasley and Hermione both have crushes on him, and he continues to get fan mail into his St. Mungo’s days. 

#7 - GINNY WEASLEY (5.5) 

Ginny’s an odd one. She’s described as “graceful,” popular, and “a lot of boys like her,” (according to Pansy.) Honestly, that’s mostly how we experience her beauty. Krum thinks she’s attractive, Blaise thinks she’s attractive, Amycus addresses her as “Pretty” in a creepy way, and so does some random Diagon alley amulet salesman. Both Harry and the narrative voice stay pretty quiet when it comes to thirsting over Ginny. We get the honestly very conflicted description “Ginny gave Harry a radiant smile: He had forgotten, or had never fully appreciated, how beautiful she was, but he had never been less pleased to see her” and then “Ginny and Gabrielle, both wearing golden dresses, looked even prettier than usual [at Fleur’s wedding].” Which isn’t even completely about Ginny! Maybe you could count the romantic descriptions of her hair being flamelike or on one occasion “dancing,” but that’s really it. I am doing my very best, and scraping the bottom here. 

#6 - HERMIONE GRANGER (7.5) 

Hermione seems to fall firmly into the “cleans up nice” category. She is the “pretty girl in blue robes” at the Yule Ball, looking good enough that Pansy gapes and Malfoy “didn’t seem to be able to find an insult to throw at her.” She’s also looking good at Fleur’s wedding, when Viktor and Ron are definitely interested. Her hair can look elegant and shiny if she puts in effort - otherwise it’s bushy, and Pansy compares her to a chipmunk. We also know she has large front teeth, before she gets them fixed. She occasionally gets a “graceful” or “haughty" description, and Greyback does creep on her (again with the creeping!) calling Hermione Harry’s “pretty little friend.” I also gave her half a point for the description of Horcrux!Hermione, who is “more beautiful and yet more terrible than the real Hermione.” That’s another good example of how JKR uses the word “beautiful,” and I guess “more beautiful” definitely implies some existing beauty.

#5 - CHO CHANG (8)  

Cho is very pretty. She’s often described that way, and she has long shiny black hair. She naturally pairs up with Cedric, who also scored an 8. I wish I had more to say about her, I really do. 

#4 - CEDRIC DIGGORY (8)

Our first “pretty boy" - he’s described that way by both Harry and Seamus. Seamus actually seems to kind of have a thing about Cedric. He doesn’t believe Cedric put his name in the Goblet of Fire because “I wouldn’t have thought he’d have wanted to risk his good looks.” And true, Cedric is “exceptionally handsome, with his straight nose, dark hair, and gray eyes” and probably our first extraordinarily pretty person. Angelina and Katie think he’s hot, Myrtle creeps on him - although, honestly - Myrtle creeps on everyone, and the text doesn’t take it very seriously. Interestingly in the film we get a moment of Voldemort turning over Cedric’s head with his bare foot, saying “Oh, such a handsome boy” - to which Harry replies “Don’t touch him!”  That’s a subtle difference - in the books it’s only threatening when girls get creeped on, the movies are a little more equal opportunity. 

#3 - SIRIUS & REGULUS BLACK (11) 

Sirius is hot. He’s “carelessly handsome,” his “dark hair fell into his eyes with a sort of casual elegance neither James’ nor Harry’s could ever have achieved.” He rolled out of bed looking this good. Sirius is graceful and lounging and bored as hell, but you know “handsomely so.” Even when he falls through the Veil, it’s a “graceful,” beautiful death. Regulus gets a shout-out too, because he “had the same dark hair and slightly haughty look of his brother, though he was smaller, slighter, and rather less handsome than Sirius had been.” But, as is mentioned nearly every time he appears on the page, Sirius is extremely handsome. Less handsome than Sirius is still handsome. 

I think it’s actually important to Sirius’ character that he is THAT beautiful. Sirius is a kid from a very bad environment who’s one bad day away from just snapping… but you’d never know it. He’s so attractive, he’s so effortlessly talented, he hides everything so well. Of course none of the adults in his life would be worried about him. 

#2 - FLEUR, GABRIELLE & APPOLINE DELACOUR (12.5) 

Fleur almost seems like a cheat, because she is supernaturally beautiful. She is “a woman of such breathtaking beauty that the room seemed to have become strangely airless. She was tall and willowy with long blonde hair and appeared to emanate a faint, silvery glow.” Even Aunt Muriel thinks she’s beautiful. (We also do get told that Fleur has nice teeth.)

But again, she’s beautiful. She’s that slightly threatening, too-feminine beauty. Until she gets married… and has a kid… which redeems her. “While [Fleur’s] radiance usually dimmed everyone else by comparison, today [at her wedding] it beautified everybody it fell upon.” 

#1 - TOM RIDDLE SR. & TOM RIDDLE JR. (14) 

Our clear winner, and also our second “pretty boy.” (Marvolo calls Tom Sr. “pretty,” and Tom Jr. is “his handsome father in miniature.” so yes, Voldemort does count as a pretty boy.) Poor Tom Sr. - the text frames the aftermath of his sexual assault as him “abandoning” his wife, but unfortunately that falls into the wider trend of only girls being victims of creeps in the HP books. It’s like the weird detail about the stairs to the dormitories - the girls can go to the boys dormitory, but not vice-versa. 

But yeah. Tom Riddle’s attractiveness is brought up almost every time he is. We even get details - we specifically know he lost weight and grew his hair out after he left school, and it looked super good on him. Hepzibah Smith is very into him, Bellatrix is very into him. (Although I do wonder just how snakey he looked when they met.) Adult Voldemort doesn’t treat the loss of his looks as any kind of sacrifice, he seems well rid of them. They’re just another annoying aspect he wants to shed on his quest for transhumanism. He gets rid of his father’s name, it only makes sense he would want to get rid of his looks as well. I do like the detail that his original eyes live inside the Locket, that is cool and creepy. 

(but, logically, I can only assume that means his original nose lives inside the Cup.) 

[hometoursandotherstuff]

What a great price for "The Castle on the Glen," a beautiful 1927 English Tudor in Elmira, NY. 3bds, 3ba, 1,760sqft, $295k. So, there are all the standard real estate listing photos on Zillow, but I found it on Airbnb, all decorated w/a castle theme for short term vac. rentals, so I'm posting some of the photos of how they had it decorated.

The living room and fireplace.

Chess area in front of the fireplace and a piano by the stairs.

Reading corner.

Little jousters.

The dining room has a beamed archway, wainscoting, and a plate ledge.

A typically Tudor kitchen with tiled counters. The cabinets are painted white, but could've more likely have been knotty pine.

Small half bath on the main floor.

Stairs in the living room.

Going up the stairs, that may be a key lock box.

Up on the 2nd level and the typically thick Tudor style railing.

Here in the turret area, they had vintage dress-up costumes.

Chainmail shirt and knight gloves.

Every castle has to have a crown.

This is known as "The Red Room."

The "Purple Room."

And, "The Blue Room."

Amenities in the full bath.

Large basement with a headless flapper.

Lovely footbridge.

Metal bistro set outside overlooking the "moat." (It's actually a stream.)

Nice large deck on the garage roof.

Fairy gardens on the .36 acre grounds.

https://www.zillow.com/homedetails/320-Glen-Ave-Elmira-NY-14905/29966605_zpid/

https://www.airbnb.com/rooms/3792889?source_impression_id=p3_1750783293_P3yTziovDwQjnDLr

[notsoheadless]

ORGANIZATION

(Playing the new A Little to the Left dlc)

[2-dsimp]

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Yandere Dullahan Incel x Crybaby! Fem reader!

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Cw: incel tendencies, obsessive/possessive tendencies, abuse/neglect, infidelity, slight angst, coercion, manipulation, toxic behaviors, codependency

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Yandere Incel who dislikes you to the point where they grow to love you.

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Yandere Incel! Who came from a broken home, his father was a habitual drunkard ever since his mother up and left them. Saying she couldn’t take it anymore, couldn’t take waking up everyday to the disembodied heads of her husband and son.

Said husband was a Dullahan where it was seen as normal practice to not have a head on one’s neck. But of course her reason for leaving was a lie, it’s because she had found someone new to fawn over despite the 7 year marriage. His father always had a sneaking suspicion but he didn’t want to believe it until divorce papers were carelessly thrown at him and his 13 year old son, Cynix who were just bonding in the living room.

Yandere Incel! Who became all too desensitized from his father’s drunken rant about women. Namely his wife, Cursing her while swigging on a poor strangers soul he had just reaped the night before. His father didn’t realize the impact he had on his son. What was merely some drunken venting became life lessons for his impressionable kin.

Yandere Incel! Who met you at a birthday he was forced to attend by his dad. He was in his freshman year of high school. And Cynix complained about going to a stupid girls birthday party. When he could’ve been on discord horsing around with his online friends.

However his Father wasn’t having it seeing how much of a reclusive hermit Cynix was. Never going outside only when it came to being forced out of bed. And always hunkering down in his room surrounded by energy drinks. With his Pc monitors glowing upon his head that was placed on the desk. Shit talking everyone while he looked at the chat logs of his streams. As his headless body did all the work of shooting everyone’s heads off.

Whenever his dad wasn’t drunk, the single father would try his best to do damage control. Knowing how traumatic the experience of Divorce must’ve been. As he picked up on his Cynix’s hostile behavior towards the opposite gender. However it was too late, his father and his mother, were already the direct cause of his evident dislike for women.

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Yandere Incel! Who had given you was his head. He brashly plucked it off of his neck and tossed it into your arms. Cynix carried a crass grin on his face at a job well done. You were the birthday girl after all so what better present than having a lopped off head chucked into your arms?

Cynix wanted to scare you off, after all his mother always said that he was an abomination with and without his head on. So it was expected that you’d fuck off. After all it was normal for girls to run away at the first sight of anything remotely inconveniencing them right? just like his cowardice bitch of a mother.

Yandere Incel! Who had a shocked blushing expression on his face when you hugged his head close to your chest. Innocently asking your parents if you could keep his head. Since he gave it to you, that’s when he came to know that you were oh so cherished by a family.

A family that was whole, with a doting father and a caring mother. A mother so different from his who upped and deserted them as if they were just toys. The fact alone made him envy you with gritted teeth. Cynix wanted to throttle you by the neck, and choke off that cute grin of yours.

It just wasn’t fair! As a woman you had everything given to you with a bat of your lashes. The fact made him despise being in your presence. Why couldn’t he have what you’ve got? A functional family. A mother who actually gives a shit about you, A father who wasn’t a drunkard that got suicidal every time he drank. Reliable siblings to confide in instead of rotting alone with dark thoughts. A normal life in which you weren’t seen as a freak, just because you were initially born without your head attached to your neck.

You had everything that he craved deep down. And he hated it, but the way you cradled his head as if he was something precious. Made his heart squeeze uncomfortably making him feel utterly sick and yet giddy simultaneously.

And to his horror his father saw this as an opportunity to make him socialize with a damned girl. Immediately chatting up the couple who happened to be his close friends from work. And becoming his sons unwanted wingman by setting the two of you up on play dates by your request of course.

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Yandere Incel! Who scowled on the outside from having to put up with you always following him around like a damned puppy. But was inwardly growing to adore the pitter patters of your feet hurriedly trailing behind him.

He hates that he loves how much of a crybaby you became, whenever he’d deliberately leave you alone. His head was hiding just out of reach to see you pretty face when you’d cry out for him. It made him shiver in ecstasy every time, at how much control he had over you. How much you needed him. He hadn’t ever felt so wanted by the opposite gender. Especially since his mother treated him like a disease. So he couldn’t help but to abuse that fact of codependency for his own gain.

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Yandere Incel! Who was proactive in keeping you on a tight leash. Making sure your days revolved around him. Though he found women in general to be an eyesore, gradually you became an exception.

With every play date he’d make sure to condition you into always finding him. Like a sick game of hide n seek, he’d leave you in a dark graveyard which his father owned. Making you all fearful and desperate to seek him out for comfort. Until it became an instinct of yours to search for him out of your own volition.

He’d cause rifts in the relationships with your other female friends. Successfully isolating you from them, making you feel alone with nobody to confide in. He didn’t need those dumb whores to put silly ideas into your head. About how he was a damned creep, that he was bad news. He’d make sure you remained untouched by those vile vermin who were just like his mother.

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Yandere Incel! Who’d occasionally get his buddies to terrorize you, just so you’d always come running into his embrace. Whenever you strayed a bit away from him. He’d never allow you to go so much as a day without you hanging off his arm like an obedient pet at his side.

Yandere incel! Who’d Oftentimes make you cry with his silver tongue. Only in the next minute lick them off murmuring garbled half assed apologies. He doesn’t mean to make you cry with his involuntary use of insults that weren’t supposed to be aimed at you.

The incel was just terrible at communicating with women in general. Always on the defensive as His brain immediately generalized the lot of them to be useless bitches out of habit. As that was how deep the resentment he bore for his mother.

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Yandere Incel! Who also sucks at any type of physical boundaries. After you guys started college, his obsessiveness grew palpable. As the nerd was all over you, absentmindedly pulling you into his lap anytime and anywhere. And groping you all over like a stress ball. Not giving a shit about who saw if they were in public.

He’s a touch starved degenerate but he’d gaslight you into thinking that you were the one who needed his hands all over you. His tongue to lick any perspiration off your skin, he found all of this to be completely normal. You were his to do with as he pleased after all.

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Yandere Incel! Who denies all simp allegations. You’d never catch him being a so called simp despite the numerous bodies he had marked for death. All because he caught a group of students ridiculing you for hanging out with a freak like him. Thanks to his undead nature as a natural soul harvester.

It definitely wasn’t simping if he just tossed you the things he knew you liked at your lap whenever he’d drag you into his college dorm room.

Yandere Incel! Who’d shrug his shoulders and claim that it was on sale. When it costed a chunk out of his allowance to buy. It wasn’t simping when he’d take the time out of his busy schedule to help you study. Though it did came with the price of you giving him full access to your body in return. Even though he had that to begin with. He just liked the embarrassment on your face when he’d tell you to do lewd things for him.

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.

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A/n: I’ve been itching to do an incel concept for awhile now let me know if you like this manchild lol ψ(｀∇´)ψ

[kathlare]

lando nowins

Lando Norris x Amelie Dayman

Summary: A chaotic gaming night with friends takes a hilarious turn as playful teasing turns into viral internet fame.

Wordcount: 2.0 k

Warnings: none

full masterlist // request over here!

March 17th, 2020 - London, United Kingdom

—Alright, lads, one more round. I swear if I die to George camping again I’m uninstalling this shit, I’m not joking,— Lando grumbled into his mic, furiously adjusting the straps on his headset like that would somehow make him play better.

—You say that every time and yet… you never uninstall it,— George replied smugly.

—Because I believe in personal growth, unlike you, spawn-camper!— Lando shot back.

Amelie giggled softly in the background, her voice coming through crystal clear. —Wait, is George the one hiding behind the door with a shotgun again?—

—Yes! Thank you, someone gets it!— Lando cried triumphantly.

—It’s called strategy,— George said flatly. —Also, shut up, you were the one running in like a headless chicken—

—Tactical aggression,— Lando replied, smugness fading instantly as the screen flashed You Died again. —FUCK!—

Alex cackled so hard he dropped his controller. —No fucking way, again?! Bro, how many times is that?—

—Five. In a row,— Charles announced like he was officiating the final score at the Olympics.

—No way. It’s been more than five,— Amelie chimed in sweetly. —I’ve been keeping track. It’s seven. Seven times in a row you’ve died first.—

—That’s because I’m reckless and passionate and fearless,— Lando said, shoulders slumping.

—That’s because you’re shit at this game,— George deadpanned.

Amelie snorted. —Lando Nowins strikes again.—

Silence.

—Wait. Wait. No. Don’t you dare.—

Alex wheezed. —NO. AMELIE, THAT’S SO GOOD. LANDO NOWINS. I’M USING THAT FOREVER.—

—No. I hate it. I veto it,— Lando tried to protest, panic rising in his chest as all four of their faces erupted into laughter on the stream overlay.

—Too late, mate. It’s canon now,— Charles grinned. —I’m gonna tweet it.—

—DON’T YOU DARE.—

—Too late,— Amelie said gleefully. —"First-hand witness to the birth of Lando Nowins." Posting it now.—

Lando’s jaw dropped. —Amelie, I trusted you.—

—That was your first mistake,— she teased, eyes sparkling in the webcam. She was wearing an oversized hoodie, hair up in a messy bun, and chewing absently on a Twizzler. Dangerous levels of cute, if you asked Lando. Which no one did. Tragically.

—Bro, this is why you keep dying. You’re too distracted staring at her in the corner of the screen,— Alex said, not even looking up from his monitor.

—I AM NOT.—

—You absolutely are,— George said, snorting.

—Leave him alone,— Amelie cut in, though her tone was less “defending a friend” and more “adding fuel to the fire.” —He’s just intimidated by my superior gaming skills.—

—You’re literally crouching in a bush eating snacks while we fight for our lives,— Charles pointed out.

—Tactical survival,— she said innocently, tossing another Twizzler in her mouth.

Lando groaned and slumped in his chair. —I can’t believe I’m being slandered on my own stream.—

—Correction: You’re being slandered and losing. Multitasking king,— Alex said, wiping tears from his eyes.

Amelie leaned forward toward the camera, voice lower, conspiratorial. —Hey Lan, if you win this next round, I’ll publicly retract the “Lando Nowins” nickname.—

Lando sat up like a fucking meerkat. —Wait, seriously?—

—Mhm. But if you lose again…— She smiled. —I get to change your Twitter name.—

—Absolutely not.—

—Too late, I already made a bet with your chat,— she said, clicking something on her screen. —They’re voting. And they love chaos.—

—You’re evil,— he whispered, heart racing. He hadn’t felt this panicked since Silverstone 2019.

—Don’t choke, Norris,— Charles sang.

—Focus up, mate. This is your redemption arc,— George said.

Lando cracked his knuckles, narrowing his eyes at the screen. —Alright. No distractions. Let’s fucking go.—

—You’re literally down to 13 health already,— Alex muttered.

—Oh for FUCK’S SAKE.—

Three minutes and an accidental grenade suicide later, Lando’s screen went dark again.

You Died.

Silence.

Then: hysterical screaming laughter from every person in the call.

—LAN-DO NOW-INS! LAN-DO NOW-INS!— George chanted like he was in a football stadium.

Amelie wheezed. —I’m literally changing your contact name to that right now.—

—I hate every single one of you,— Lando muttered, throwing his controller on the desk with a thud.

—We love you too, loser,— Alex said, heart emoji hand gestures flashing across his webcam.

Lando flopped back in his chair, groaning. But then he glanced at Amelie’s face on his monitor. She was grinning, eyes crinkled, cheeks flushed with laughter.

And okay, maybe losing wasn’t so bad.

Even if he was now cursed with the name Lando Nowins for the rest of his goddamn life.

—Fine,— he muttered. —But I’m putting all of you on mute next round.—

—You’d still lose,— Amelie whispered, and winked.

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liked by amelieupdates, lanpilled, and others

twitchquintetcentral: not Lando going completely silent after she called him Lando Nowins 😭😭 like bro forgot how to hold a mouse

View all 48,005 comments

lanmeliepilled: she said Lando Nowins and he just accepted it like a man in love → softiepink22: @lanmeliepilled you could hear his heartbreak through the headset 😭 → lanstansupreme: @lanmeliepilled she bullies him and he giggles. it’s giving soulmate energy

deluluforpairings: lando pre-amelie: silent and twitchy lando post-amelie: giggling, stuttering, losing every match → screaminginmclaren: @deluluforpairings love is ruining his KD ratio and i support it

lanpilled: she called him Lando Nowins and he just took it??? → helmet_hottie: @lanpilled no fight left in him. that man folded like a lawn chair. → softboilan: @lanpilled he’s not even mad. he’s in love. → gridgirlchronicles: @lanpilled i would simply perish if she winked at me like that mid-roast.

carnageracing: she really said “you’re trash” in the cutest voice possible and he THANKED HER → f1gossipgremlin: @carnageracing stockholm syndrome but it’s twitch stream coded → alexsillyhands: @carnageracing bro got cooked in 4K and smiled about it 😭😭

amelieupdates: not her calling him Lando Nowins and then betting on his L if he loses again 😭💀 → slaylily44: @amelieupdates she came into that stream like: girl dinner + verbal violence → callumspunchingbag: @amelieupdates no bc why was that the flirtiest roast ever?? → quadrattraction: @amelieupdates she giggled and ended his career. power.

twitchshiptruthers: lando 2 years ago: “i mean yeah she’s cute or whatever lol.” lando now: dies seven times in a row and lets her rename his twitter account → ameszn: @twitchshiptruthers character development but make it romantic → fastgirlf1: @twitchshiptruthers he used to simp in silence now he simps in surround sound

racingcrushrvw: from “i have a crush” to “she straight up memes me live on stream” in 3 weeks flat → norrisnothanks: @racingcrushrvw bless his heart, he peaked with his crush existing → gamergeorge: @racingcrushrvw imagine years of lowkey simping and this is the reward → ameliemode: @racingcrushrvw this is what happens when you wait too long to shoot your shot

lan_dodo: imagine being called “Lando Nowins” by your crush and not fighting back 🤡 → alex_killer7: @lan_dodo bro accepted his fate like it was a podium ceremony → chucklescharles: @lan_dodo we all know that look = “I’m dead inside but also smitten”

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Lando padded down the stairs to the kitchen, the smell of roasting chicken and garlic drawing him in like a moth to a flame. His siblings — Oliver, Flo, and Cisca — were already gathered around the table, casually scrolling on their phones while munching on snacks.

As soon as Lando sat down, Oliver shot him a mischievous grin.

—Hey, Lando Nowins— he teased, pronouncing it exactly like it had blown up on social media earlier that day.

Lando froze with one hand on his water glass.

—Don’t start,— he warned, eyes narrowing at Oliver, who looked entirely too pleased with himself.

—What? I’m just greeting you properly, Lando Nowins,— Oliver repeated, louder this time, dragging out the name like he was announcing a Premier League goal scorer.

Flo perked up instantly. —Wait, Lando Nowins? Oh my god, is that from that stream last night?—

—Yup,— Oliver grinned, spinning his phone around to show the now-viral clip. —It’s all over TikTok. You’re trending, bro. Congratulations.—

—It’s not funny,— Lando muttered, stabbing aggressively at the roasted potatoes on his plate.

—Oh, it’s hilarious,— Cisca chimed in, barely looking up from her phone. —There’s already merch. Someone made a mug that says “Tactical Aggression: Lando Nowins.” I almost bought it.—

—You guys are the worst,— Lando grumbled, cheeks flushing. —I died seven times in a row, okay? It was just a bad night.—

—Sure, mate,— Oliver said, winking. —Seven’s a strong number though. Biblical, even. Lucky for some. Not for Nowins.—

—Can we not?— Lando said sharply, dropping his fork. —Seriously, it’s not funny anymore.—

The room went quiet for a half second.

Then Flo tilted her head. —Wait… you didn’t get this mad when Amelie called you that.—

Cisca’s eyes lit up. —Oh my god. He’s only mad when we say it. But when it’s her, he just goes all red and flustered and smiles like a little idiot.—

Oliver gasped dramatically. —Are you blushing, Lando? Oh my god, you are. You're doing the thing. The ears. The little red ear thing!—

—I am not,— Lando snapped, dragging a hand over his face. —Can we please talk about something else? Literally anything else.—

—Nope,— Flo said gleefully. —We’ve cracked the code. We’ve found your weakness.—

—You’re evil,— Lando said, slumping back into his chair. —All of you. Absolute demons.—

—Aww, come on. You’re still our favorite loser,— Oliver teased.

—Favorite loser with a crush so bad he doesn’t even mind being humiliated if it’s by her,— Flo added.

—He’s gonna marry her and we’re all gonna be giving speeches like “to our brother, Lando Nowins, and his wife, Amelie Alwayswins”,— Cisca said through laughter.

Lando buried his face in his hands.

Why was he even surprised?

He should’ve just stayed upstairs.

From the hallway, their mum’s voice floated in.

—Dinner ready? And is Lando pouting again? What’d you guys do now?—

—Nothing,— Oliver called back. —Just reminding him of his greatest gaming achievement.—

[the-midnight-blooms]

THE NIGHT WE MET | KYS

pairing: grade 2 sorcerer!kang yeosang x ex lover!reader (ft. special grade!reader from liminal echo) AU: jujitsu kaisen au word count: 15.2k warnings: strong violence, strong language, torture, yandere themes, mentions of mental illness

A/N: this arc follows on from liminal echo, i recommend reading that first - for context. this is essentially the part two to that arc.

masterlist | ateez x jujitsu kaisen masterlist

chronology | part one — available for streaming!

There she is.

Under the eclipse, her body swirling through the night as if she is bred of the same essence of dreams, itself. She moves with such fluidity, as her limbs are the stream that passes through an eloquent meadow.

And there he is.

The moon, so solitary but illuminating his ethereal presence on her. So she looks at him, infatuated by his beauty, her hands reach for him, to caress him. To hold him, to breathe in his scent as if it’s oxygen itself. His skin carved from porcelain, and eyes holding the depths of the deep cerulean ocean begging the command over her heart. Her soft lips move to whisper his name, masticating its vowels, relishing its taste.

Yeosang.

Yeosang.

"Yeosang!" A voice shouts into his ear, it's hot breath tickling his canal. He jumps, under the covers, roughly six feet into the air, wailing in response. She chuckles, moving towards his curtains to rip them open, welcoming the stream of light that floods into the room. A guttural groan escapes from his lips, his head sinking further into the pillowcase. "Wake up, we've got training with Satoru."

LOCATION: DOJO, TOKYO METROPOLITAN CURSE TECHNICAL COLLEGE

TIME: 08:56 AM

The scent of pine and old sweat clung to the polished wood floors, marked with countless battles. Whilst the rest of Tokyo’s establishment may have undergone modernisation since the past 100 years, the antiquity from the Meiji Era still remains in the dojo. It is a low, timber-framed building in the rear courtyard, surrounded by gravel and a protective salt moat, opening up into a vast field with a fixture of trees. Both Tokyo and Kyoto’s dojos are splitting image of each other, yet Kyoto’s has Park Seonghwa’s katana nailed to the wall.

A gust of wind smacks against her skin, her hair billowing with the cool breeze. Beads of sweat line her upper brow, her bare feet sticking against the tatami mats, the back of her shirt is drenched with sweat. The edge of the shinai rests under his chin, with a quick manoeuvre his head is tilted, his cerulean gaze penetrating through her skin. "Speak now or forever hold your peace." A silence suffuses the air, and Yeosang tilts his head from where he is sitting on the low bench in the corner of the room.

"Isn't that what they ask at weddings?" Hanami hums, swinging the shinai behind her neck, her forearms looped on either side as if she's awaiting a beheading.

"I don't know, I thought it would be cool to say." Yeosang snickers, shaking his head as he raises from his seat, ignoring his friend parading around the room like a headless chicken. You wouldn't think she's a Special Grade Sorceress. There's an eccentricity to Hanami, a powerful woman with insatiable wit and an appetite for destruction. She's weird, with her outlandish behaviour that only seemed to heighten after she destroyed The Red Naga a few years ago. No, it's not arrogance that pretty much no one can harm a strand of hair on her head, it feels like a defence mechanism. To isolate herself, to stop the rush of memories from three years ago coming back to haunt her. Staring at Yeosang, she cocks her head in the direction of the mat, summoning him to duel with her. Gojo let out a low whistle, getting up from his seat to sit by the side lines.

Hanami stood tall and still, her skin gleaming under the daylight. Her shinai looked almost like an extension of the vines coiled around her forearm, humming faintly with cursed energy—rooted, grounded. Waiting. Across from her stood Yeosang, deceptively calm. A faint shimmer danced around him, a subtle distortion in the air, like heat waves; his prowess barely restrained.

Off to the side, Gojo leaned against a support pillar with a bag of popcorn in one hand and a soda in the other, holding the grin of someone who had absolutely no intention of shutting up. Hanami ignores the fact that he's munching on junk food in the middle of training. And so early in the morning too. That's such a Satoru thing to do. “Ohhh boy. Shinai duel between Hot Socket and Mr. Stopwatch. Place your bets, folks—who’s walking out with bruised ribs and a bruised ego?” They both spare him a dry look before shifting their gazes back to each other.

The room stilled. Hanami stepped forward, her cursed energy pulsed in time with the sound of cicadas outside. They lowered their stance, shinai angled precisely. Yeosang responded in kind. He exhaled once, then vanished.

Or, he almost vanished. To the untrained eye, he seemed to teleport, reappearing on Hanami’s left flank with his shinai swinging low in a precise, calculated arc. But Hanami twisted her hips, meeting the strike with a crack of bamboo-on-bamboo, her beams anchoring them like stone.

“Did you see that? Someone get me slow-mo footage and a dramatic soundtrack!” Gojo jeers, through a mouthful of food. Hanami contains a scowl. Yeosang flicked his wrist and struck again. This time high, then low. Time shimmered around him, giving him a half-second edge, enough to slip through most opponents’ guard. Hanami absorbed the blows with quiet patience, each block smoother than the last, like the forest learning the rhythm of a storm. One step and suddenly the air felt heavier, denser. Cursed energy flowed into the ground, dragging Yeosang’s footwork just enough to stagger him. He stepped back, fingers twitching, rewinding a second of momentum to re-centre himself. The duel escalated, the boom of bamboo colliding reverberating into the air. Hanami’s tendrils snaked out occasionally to bind Yeosang’s movement, but each time, Yeosang twisted space, breaking free just in time with a blur of afterimages.

Her shinai swung in a wide, sweeping blow, an attack meant to disrupt Yeosang’s temporal balance. The cursed energy rippled outward in a low pulse, grounding the dojo in an anti-magic field for a split second. Yeosang faltered, his body being pushed away from her, skidding past the sliding doors. He halted just before the wall, shifting his feet to sustain balance. Yeosang’s expression remained unaltered, but his eyes narrowed. He stepped forward, letting time stretch—not teleporting, but flowing faster. His shinai blurred.

Thwack.

He caught Hanami on the shoulder. Hanami grunted, then retaliated with a swift upward strike, grazing Yeosang’s ribs. The two of them stepped back simultaneously, breathing hard.

Gojo raised his soda, as if it were a wine glass, “And that, my friends, is what I call art. Drama. Tension. Bamboo sticks and god-tier reflexes. Shakespeare WISHES he wrote this duel.”

Yeosang turned, visibly entertained, “Do you ever stop talking?”

Steam rose lazily from the ramen cups and takeout containers cluttered across the table. In the quiet lull of midnight, the dorm’s common room glowed softly under the amber light of a single hanging lamp. The smell of miso and fried chicken infiltrated her nose as she sat cross-legged on the floor, Yeosang to her right and Gojo in front. “You’re seriously telling me,” Gojo said between mouthfuls of karaage, “That no one laughed at that joke during the event?” He looked personally offended.

“Probably because it wasn’t funny,” Yeosang deadpanned, chopsticks elegantly moving through his rice. His sleeves were rolled to the elbows, a faint scar peeking out, evidence of the mission they barely got back from earlier.

Gojo gasped as if he had been stabbed, Hanami and Yeosang shared a look. “Excuse me? A joke about cursed wombs and baby showers is peak humour. Hanami gets it.” Her eyes were fixed on her food in front, she bites down on her lip to stop herself from giving Gojo the satisfaction of having a decent sense of humour.

“It was... sort of funny.” Her voice was a low rumble, a product of sheer exhaustion. It was always when midnight rolled around that all her quips had dissipated from her body. Yeosang rolled his eyes, but the corner of his mouth twitched lightly.

The three of them were an odd trio, a strange group, even by Jujutsu standards. Two Special Grade Sorcerers, one from a reputable clan whilst the other came from a schizophrenic sorcerer and a mundane office worker. Yeosang, was the only one from the two who wasn't as highly ranked as them. He was a Grade 2, much to Hanami's dismay and despite her spending the last three years trying to get him promoted, all of it proved futile. To her it only concluded that their society was corrupt and perhaps it really would take for Yeosang to face a Special Grade in order for him to be promoted to Grade 1.

They had met in an unconventional way too.

“Alright, new game,” Gojo declared, sitting up straighter, snapping her out of her thoughts. “One cursed technique you would date, and one you absolutely wouldn’t. Go.”

Yeosang exhaled, stretching out his legs before him. “What even goes through your head?”

“I’ll go first,” Gojo continued, ignoring Yeosang's comment. “Date: Boogie Woogie. It’s flashy, it’s spontaneous, it’ll keep you on your toes. Wouldn’t date: Maximum Uzumami. No explanation needed.”

Hanami released a thoughtful hum. “I’d date Blood Manipulation. It’s elegant. Consistent. Reliable.” She quirked her eyebrow, “Would not date Hollow Purple. Too destructive. Bad communication skills.”

Yeosang burst out laughing, Gojo clutched his chest in mock betrayal. “You wound me.” Hanami settled down her bowl on the low table, before crawling to his side. “Oh, Satoru.” She reaches behind her back for a phantom blade, before pounding her first at Gojo’s chest. He gasps again, slumping into the ground.

“Hanami…my wife…how could you do this to me?” He presses her palm flat against his chest, Yeosang covers his mouth to stop himself laughing.

“‘Toru, I just wanted to be the greatest sorcerer of all time.” Gojo pretends to sob, a smile tries paving its way onto Hanami’s face.

“To die in your arms is the most beautiful feeling. I want it to haunt my soul forever.” Hanami hastily stands up, yielding her palm away from Gojo’s soft hold, the warmth of his hand dispersing from her skin.

“What did you just say?” A crease forms between his eyebrows, her heart shudders in her chest. Blood running cold, speeding mercilessly through her veins. The confused stares from her friends begin to burn through her skin. “Never mind, I’ve just heard it before that’s all.” She mutters, before reaching for the empty cardboard containers.

Her dreams are plagued with notions of him. His smile, his feline gaze, that blonde hair of his. His humanity, he had felt too human to be a cursed spirit. The softness of his lips against hers, full of raw emotion and subservience. ‘You did it. You defeated him’, they had said when she had exiled him. They cheered for his death but Hanami could not feel the same joy as them. It was almost like it was her duty to defeat him and so she had. She had simply fulfilled a task given to her, not understanding the weight of it and that she would live to be one of the greats.

It has been three haunting years, each gruelling second spent as if she had murdered an innocent civilian.

He comes to her in the bleakness of the night, the shadows carving him from nothing but a recollection encapsulating his divine essence, enough to have her intoxicated on his fumes. His hand reaches out to her, encircling her into his arms, eyes conveying the depths of countless emotions boring into her own. Hongjoong releases a small breath from his pink lips, before leaning down to press them against her forehead. His touch felt too real, especially with the way her skin tingled with consternation, her heart roaring in his name. "My Hanami. I am back my dearest. Didn't I say I would be?"

A blood-curdling scream rumbled in the evocative airs, followed by a cacophony of heaving breaths. Beads of sweat form above her upper brow, her heart dilapidating against her ribcage - her fingers smack against her blanket, her rationality slipping through her hands, obeying the pull of gravity. The door flings open, she is met by a pair of brown eyes and strong hands that cage her with certainty. Hanami's words shatter, falling dead on her lips all she can say is his name before tears well up in her eyes, her bottom lip trembling as her soul fills with melancholia. Yeosang hushes her, pulling her flush against his chest, his large hand caressing her hair. When her breathing ceases, she nuzzles deeper into him - laying down her vulnerability at her feet. "He said he's back." She breathes out.

LOCATION: HEADMASTER'S OFFICE, TOKYO METROPOLITAN CURSE TECHNICAL COLLEGE

TIME: 09:02 AM

"Are you going to continue staring, broodingly, into our eyes or will you tell us why we're here?" Gojo quips, as he lounges on the chair legs sprawled out before him. Hanami stands just behind Yeosang's chair, he suppresses a yawn before sparing his peer a single look. Yaga rolls his eyes, or at least Hanami thinks (she can't actually tell through the glasses), and leans back in his chair. One of the first years, Jung Wooyoung, is loitering by the doorway too. He won't actively be involved in anything, he's just there to give information. Whilst Gojo may require answers, Hanami's blood runs cold at the thought of Yaga's declaration. Her ears tune out his words when he claims, "The Red Naga is back."

The rest of Jujitsu Society refer to the cursed spirit as the 'The Red Naga' and not ‘Hongjoong’ like she does. They avoid saying his name, like it will subjugate them to his formidable power. As it has done in the past. For which living soul would risk being sent into a liminal space—an undefined, eerie realm that exists between reality and the afterlife. His name, alone, holds so much potency that seems immune to Hanami. Three years ago, the S-grade sorceress never told them that he was so infatuated with her that it made her heart waver with guilt when she had finally destroyed him. Three years ago, Kim Hongjoong had tacitly pledged his allegiance to her as if he was her lover. That is what terrifies her most. Not his prowess, but rather his obsession, the root of which she cannot identify.

Immediately they begin discussing battle strategies, how to tackle the spirit, where they estimate he will attack this time. How to work against each of his techniques. There's a mention of Oneirophrenia from Wooyoung's end. Satoru prompts him to speak as he doesn't quite understand the logic behind the cursed technique. "Oneirophrenia is a dream-like state where someone can't tell the difference between dream and reality. An Oneirophrenic, to a dimension manipulator like Yeo and I, is an object, place or a person that is a bridge back to the real world. If you destroy an Oneirophrenic, you come back to reality." A soft 'ah' escapes from Gojo.

"Maybe this time someone should go with Hanami." Yeosang offers, her head snaps his way. She almost opens her mouth to disagree, but then she realises. Hongjoong can also tap into the fourth dimension, and who better than 'Mr. Stopwatch' can help her tackle him.

"I agree. Yeosang should go with me." Hanami piques Yaga, knits his brows, narrowing his eyes at the pair.

"Why not Gojo? He's an S-Grade too."

"If Gojo was going to go with me, he would have been the one to stop Hongjoong three years ago." Wooyoung flinches at the sound of his name, Yaga freezing in his spot.

"Lady, you really have to stop saying his name out loud like that." Wooyoung shudders as if the temperature of the atmosphere has dropped and the presence of 'The Red Naga' has come to torment him. Hanami doesn't bother sparing a look, challenging Yaga's hard stare.

Why do you think they sent you, darling? Because you’re the best or because you were their last option?

And so Hanami had spent the subsequent years searching for the answer. Trying to uncover the truth as to why Yaga had sent her, who was only a first-grade at the time, and not a Special Grade like Gojo or Geto. At the same time, it seemed possible that all The Red Naga was trying to do was pit her against jujitsu society, but the society in itself had its flaws — the ranking system being one of them. "Fine, Yeosang will go with you."

"And he will be promoted to Grade 1." Hanami commands. He didn't say anything, there was just a slight nod. That was all Hanami needed.

The sun sets behind the glass-and-steel skyline, casting long shadows across the streets of Shibuya. The bustle of commuters slows to an uneasy trickle. Pedestrians pause mid-step—frozen, eyes wide with longing, mouths slightly parted as if whispering names only they can hear. A couple, hand-in-hand, stalls at a crosswalk. The woman gasps, her grip on her boyfriend tightening. Her partner stares into her face—and then freezes. A pale blush creeps up his neck, his trembling frame rocking him into subservience.

All around them, it spreads. People slump against lampposts, crumple in bus seats, collapse in cafés. Struck down not in pain, but rather in a dreamlike trance. Their eyes complete with yearning. A low-frequency hum vibrates through the air, barely perceptible, yet deeply intimate. The neon signs flicker pink, then red, then something darker—a shade that doesn't seem to exist in nature.

"You missed me, didn't you?" The voice is nowhere and everywhere all at once. Seductive. Cruel. Compelling. It coils around the victims’ ears, bypassing their minds and sinking straight into the body. High above, on the ledge of a skyscraper, a figure in white silk robes stands barefoot, his blonde hair slightly longer than what it had been three years ago. A serene, almost angelic smile on his face.

Kim Hongjoong—a cursed spirit of temptation incarnate. Reborn through years of buried desire, resentment, and shame. He exhales, and the city sighs in return.

Late into the night, shoji screens adorned the walls of the common room, their delicate paper panels patterned with subtle floral motifs - the light that poured through them was muted, as if the room was wrapped in the very essence of twilight. She loved the remnants of Japan's history in the architecture within Tokyo High. Gojo sat on the sofa in the corner, flicking through his phone, with a bag of crisps at his feet. Hanami saunters towards him with her rose tea in a fancy porcelain cup she stole from Kyoto High. "You should be sleeping." She states, as she slumps onto the plush leather, he remains silent. The rain pattered against the windows, sliding down the glass before forging a puddle on the window ledge.

“You’re really going through with it?” Gojo asked, voice quieter than usual.

Hanami turned slightly, enough for her profile to catch the lamp’s soft light. “You know I am.”

“There are… other options,” he said, picking at the edge of the pillow resting across his laps. “We could—”

"There have never been any other options." She cuts in, gently. He swallowed. A muscle in his jaw ticked, and for once, he didn’t joke his way out of it.

She finally turned fully to face him, studying him for a moment. “You’re not very good at hiding things,” She stated, squinting her eyes at him. Her going on dangerous missions was never a problem before, Hanami doesn't understand why it's a massive issue now.

“Oh?” He gave her a tired smirk. “I’ve often been told I’m a man of mystery.” Hanami leaned closer to him, not close enough to be touching him, but close enough anyway.

“You keep looking at me like I’m already gone,” She said softly. Gojo’s expression faltered for a microsecond.

“That obvious?” he asked, barely above a whisper. She gave a small nod. Then thick silence again, like it held words neither of them could say without blowing open something dangerous. “Think you’ll destroy him again?” Gojo teases, as if a moment ago there wasn't any semblance of fear painted across his perfect features. She can feel his cerulean gaze penetrating past her skin, even through his blindfold. Her hand gravitates to the fabric obscuring his eyes, slipping it down the long bridge of his nose.

“When I’m done with him, the world will wonder if Gojo Satoru really is the strongest sorcerer.” There was always something bewitching about Satoru's eyes—the impossible clarity of them, like frost-touched sapphires glittering with mischief and unmatched power. Now, when he looked at Hanami across the placid space between them, there was a shift. The weight of her words had tempered the usual arrogance, just at the edges; a glint of something lingered a beat too long. Admiration, perhaps, but Hanami had always been oblivious to the obvious. Gojo didn't know how long he had to spend spelling it out for her. "Just you wait, Satoru." His pompous nature returns, his pink lips pull into a comedic grin.

"Oh, I'll be waiting, Hanami-sama." Snickering, she pushes herself off the sofa before ambling out of the room, her footsteps receding as she shuffles down the narrow hallways. "I'll always be waiting."

LOCATION: SHIBUYA TIME: 08:24 AM

A yawn emits from her lips as she rubs her eyes, the bustling of the platform ringing in her eyes. Her limbs are wrought with heaviness as she trudges towards the staircase leading to the exit of the train station. The crowd staggers with her, swayed by both fear and an intimate desire for money. Otherwise, it was rather quiet for this time in the morning; there weren't many children going to school at this time either. Yaga told her many schools had closed, in Tokyo, due to the disasters over the weekend.

Déjà vu.

It washed over like a quiet relic from the past, slipping through the cracks of time and brushing against the present moment. It was disorientating, the way she rose from the bed and dragged her aching limbs to the bathroom, in the morning. The way she switched on the light then reached out for the toothbrush; she was living the same scene again except the detail of the present moment felt sharper, more vivid. Her eyes cast over the red ribbon in the reflection of the shop window, granted it was not the same red ribbon as Hongjoong had stolen it from her. This time also feels much different. Especially with Yeosang's presence, that looms behind her like an unbroken shadow, his poised silence following her like a trail of her past sins. Their boots pound against the cobbled, desolate streets - the soft morning light fades as they venture straight towards the building with red neon lights; their vermillion hue glowing boldly in the distance.

The air around her shifts, she can no longer hear the whistling of the cicadas in the spring heat, even Yeosang's gentle breathing has diminished at her ears. Instead the air feels hushed and reverent as if nature has become subject to some higher power. Hanami's sharp eyes scan her surroundings.

Perched atop the pile of twisted, broken bodies sat The Red Naga, standing upon the pyramid of dead—no, comatose— bodies, ascending down it as if each vessel was a stone step. As he had done three years ago. A breath hitches in her throat upon sight of him, his skin - pale as it was - was full of colour. His eyes were sharp and calculated, jawline carved from obsidian stone. There was no change to his bleached blonde hair. A white robe enshrouded his body in lieu of the drapes of shadows that sprung from his figure like wildfires. Then Hanami noticed what she had been drawn to first. His lips. The corners of his mouth curled upwards, a twisted smirk dancing on his lips. His hand outstretched, the air pulls out of her lungs as her body, involuntarily, gravitates towards him.

"My dearest, Hanami. Did you miss me?" He drawls, his sharp gaze softening upon sight of her. He takes a step down, sauntering towards her, slowly but carefully, not missing the way her hands trembled at her side. Her muscles tense as his fingers reach out to play with the end of a loose strand of her hair, his eyes boring into her as if he had nothing better to do in the world. "I see you brought a friend." Her eyebrows furrowed in confusion, but she does not dare look back, hearing the thumping of feet behind her. Yeosang. Hongjoong's gaze flickers between her and the Grade 2 sorcerer.

"This time, I'm going to kill you properly." She hisses. Her fingers twitched, and a ball of luminous, seething energy formed before her, crackling with power. With a flick of her hand, the sphere shot forward, thrashing in Hongjoong's direction. His hand raises, the alignment of particles shifting into his own configuration. The ball of energy surpasses him, effortlessly, scorching the tall buildings. Where it passed, the landscape was burned beyond recognition, as if the very essence of the world had been undone. Her eyes widened in shock. He had just shifted her energy. Without breaking a single sweat.

"What can I say? It looks like we've both gotten stronger. And with your little pet behind you, I suppose this is only going to get interesting." The cocky undertone in his words irked her, her peripheral vision becoming obscured as Yeosang fell into step with her. They both resume their planned positions, Hongjoong at the epicentre of the forthcoming chaos.

Her movements were deliberate, precise —her mastery over her technique as innate as the beating of her heart. A slight wave of her hand sent a wave of energy cascading across the battlefield, flattening everything in its wake with surgical precision. Hongjoong dodged every strike as if he had foreseen each one of her moves. Then it occurred to her: what if he had? Before she could blink, he had redirected her strike towards her. The impact was a sonic blast—Hanami was launched back, skidding through the overturned cars and limp bodies, hurtling past Yeosang, her back slamming into the lamppost. Her lungs scream for air as dots cloud her vision, her fingers burying into the rubble for stability as her consciousness screams for traction.

In comparison to Hanami, Yeosang's cursed technique was much more quiet and delicate: it was the manipulation of time. He could slow it, freeze it, or even twist it like the threads of a broken clock. With a hollow gesticulation, the world around him began to warp. The air shimmered, the surrounding sounds blurring into a distorted hum. Time obeyed his command, rippling in waves as though the universe itself hesitated, unsure whether to move forward or stand still. Hongjoong watches him with curiosity, his cursed energy is reserved, concealed beneath layers of illusion.

Could he bend reality? No, there was no change in the setting. There was no manipulation of mind space either. Until.

There. Subtle. He was moving too slowly, the particles moved against his command, the configurations lagging before they pieced to form irregular forces of destructions. The world around him seemed to pause - mid-motion - as if time had taken a deep breath and suspended itself. Instead, a powerful beam pummelled Hongjoong's way, forged from the eloquent thread of time, a swirling distortion between past, present and future slicing through The Red Naga's precise movements. Hongjoong was yanked down by sudden gravitational force—slammed through the ground.

A wheeze escapes from Hanami, as she crawls to where Yeosang is standing. The pyramid of souls emerges over them, the incapacitated bodies let out grievous sighs and groans, eyes widened and bloodshot piercing through Hanami's soul. Yeosang peers down the massive aperture in the ground he has just created, in search of the cursed spirit's body. "Is he dead?" Yeosang ponders out loud, he can't seem to find a sign of Hongjoong's body. Hanami scoffs, wiping the blood dribbling from her lips.

"You wish. He doesn't die that easily." He raises a brow in agreement, moving past the hole in the ground - dashing up the pyramid, in an attempt to regain higher ground.

"Is this even moral?" Yeosang questions, the heel of his boot stepping onto a woman's face, her flesh becoming squeezed by the pressure - he grimaces at her paling face and low wail.

"Is any of what we do moral?" Hanami retorts, halting by one of the steps, hauling one of the bodies, she creates a small shield, partitioning Hongjoong's view of them. He says nothing, casting his eyes over the landscape; then the light from the sky begins to die. The sky thickened, the clouds folding into one another. A creeping black spilled across the land, an enigmatic shadow ascended the stairs - carrying an air of hostility and raw power that would be enough to command the life out of one's soul. Hanami and Yeosang resume their defensive stance.

His conniving gaze sweeps the room, an air of dominance and raw power shimmering from his figure. His eyes filled with an unmitigable rage, his jaw clenched into a tight line. Hanami's blood simmers with raw power, Yeosang clenches his fist summoning the essence of time to his will. But Hongjoong's cursed energy was dense and merciless, swirling around him in jagged, cracking tendrils. With a deep growl, he summoned his technique, the corpses rising with his will. He sends a powerful blast their way, the pair roll out of view dashing behind the remnants of the shield to obscure themselves from the damage.

Hongjoong is fast, but they must be faster. Yeosang raises his hands. With a sharp twist of his fingers, time collapsed like a tidal wave crashing forward. The Red Naga makes a futile attempt to summon his prowess, his every motion slowed to an agonisingly slowness. The seconds stretched out, where his heart would beat a minimum of sixty beats per minute, it had significantly halved. Hanami moved out from the pillar, sprinting in Hongjoong's direction: a blow of energy cut through the air like a sword, penetrating its delicate membrane before piercing through his supple flesh. With no hesitation, she unsheathed her sword, raising the iron above her head to strike down on him.

Then the world around her began to distort, blood pounding through her arteries slower, her actions halted as if a pair of shackles had been enamoured around her wrists. Even though her breathing had slowed, her lips opened as if to call for Yeosang. Was this his doing? It couldn't be, not when he was skilled enough to manoeuvre the essence of time for one being alone.

As it had three years ago, a blast radiated from the centre flinging Yeosang and Hanami across the space in opposite directions. Hongjoong raised his hands, tearing through the thin fabric of the universe, and shrouding them with it. An ear-splitting scream permitted the air, their bodies sucked into a vacuum, the rush of air spilling from their lungs like a gust of wind through a broken window.

I'm going to make you mine, my dearest.

A huff escapes from her lips as she shoves her books into her bag, sparing no second to put her pen back. It rests in the pocket of her light blue scrubs, bidding goodbye to her fellow peers before rushing out of the door. Grasping her phone it constantly buzzes with notifications, her eyes reeling through her home screen. Missed calls, emails, app notifications, messages.

HONGJOONG-NAH: When are you coming over?

HONGJOONG-NAH: Namiii

HONGJOONG-NAH: You have the key, I might be sleeping

HANAMI: Finished from placement, be there in <15 mins

The petulant buzz of the city drained into her ears. Despite the arrogance of bustling streets, honking cars, and chatter, it was all eerily familiar to her. For every turn she took, every step forward, felt as if the ground beneath her was both familiar and foreign. The buildings were the same as the real world: brick facades, cracked sidewalks, the same worn-down street signs. However there was something poignant to be said both about her clothes and the people. Firstly, what was she doing in a pair of scrubs? She'd never made it to medical school, having rejected the offer. Her mind whirls for answers, but her mind blanks as her mind reels with images of a life she cannot fathom having ever lived. It was paradoxical, the way she was content with the memories of the past but her mind rejected such notions. Surely, she never lived with them? Then there were the people. There may have been a normality to their facial expressions, to their actions but none of them ever made eye contact. None of them ever stopped to talk or to shout at her for walking through the city at a minute pace.

Subconsciously turning down an alley, she spotted a figure ahead—a young man in a black hoodie, his head slightly tilted, as if listening to something. As she neared, his expression flickered with recognition. It was him—Yeosang. Her heart skipped, but before she could call his name, his eyes narrowed. Without warning, he brushed past her, his shoulder colliding with hers so forcefully that she stumbled back, her breath catching in her throat. "Yeosang!" she called, her voice desperate.

But he didn’t stop. He didn’t even flinch.

She reached out a hand to him, fingers brushing the sleeve of his hoodie. The fabric felt like paper, light and fragile. Her fingers passed through it like it was smoke.

Hanami blinked.

That was all it took, before she stood outside of a door, her wrist wrapping against the wood. She's patiently waiting, when it is swung open. The figure on the opposite holds a belated expression, gesticulating for her to enter.

“Thank you for letting me use you for OSCE practise!” She squeals, pulling out her stethoscope from her bag before hauling Hongjoong towards his bedroom, instructing him to sit on his bed. “Ok, take off your shirt.”

“Aren’t you supposed to ask for consent first?” She grumbles, running off the bathroom to wash her hands before appearing back inside the bedroom.

“Hello, I’m Hanami a fifth-year medical student at Tokyo Medical University. Am I ok to complete a heart examination on you, to help aid my learning?” Hongjoong is slightly startled by her extroverted demeanour, he immediately summons the disposition of a patient, consenting to the examination. “Ok, first of all I’m going to count your radial pulse.” He holds back a smile.

“Not going to ask for my full name and date of birth?” She scowls at him, retorting about how she’d remember in the exam. He resumes character, failing to hold back a laugh.

“Now I’m just going to listen to your heart. Please could you remove your shirt?” A smirk dances on his lips, as he peels off his shirt—taking his time so he can savour the aggravated look on her face. He supposes she’s much more patient with other patients, yet with him it completely dissipates. Raising the bell to his chest, she utters ‘atrial, pulmonary, tricuspid and mitral’ underneath her breath then stepping back she thanks him for his time.

When she’s out-of-character, Hongjoong barks out an obnoxious laugh, her cheeks tinge pink in embarrassment. “Oh ‘Nami, don’t be embarrassed Miss Doctor, you’re going to do so well.”

“Can’t you be serious Hongjoong?” She snaps, scuttling back to the bathroom to wash her hands. He shouts that he's going to turn on the kettle, humming as she shoves her stethoscope back into her bag.

Absently, her fingers brushed over the hem of her scrubs, the fabric smooth against her skin. Her eyes outcasted out of the window, suddenly catching a glimpse of something odd. The reflection in the glass. The window wasn’t supposed to imitate the interior of the room like that, it wasn't supposed to look so distorted. Hanami's breath caught in her throat, assessing how the mirror did not match her movements. Rather, it was staggered, lingering a fraction of a second too long - her face malforming into an expression of dread that she was sure she hadn't made. The overhead light from the living room dims, the thrum of the current fluttering her figure dissipating from the reflection too soon. Her ears drown out the sound of the cars horning on the street below, instead a long ringing sound filters into her ears as her blood runs cold.

Her throat tightened, the rush of reality came running back to her. Suddenly, his presence felt suffocating, as though he was the very air around her, controlling it, bending it to his will. The temperature of the room dropped, goosebumps cascaded up her arms. Her figure moved faster across the floor, ignoring Hongjoong's burning gaze, gripping the handle. Jerking it open, it rattled against the lock containing her in. Her eyes flit to the hook on the wall but there was no key. Wasn't it there before?

"Leaving so soon? I just made tea." Hanami stood silent and in a state of frenzy by the doorway. A soft chuckle escaped his lips, he reached into his pocket for the keys, sticking it through the lock - leaving her to open it himself.

The door didn’t open. Instead, it seemed to melt away, leaving only an endless white room.

"Come on Hanami. Open the door." He taunts. She turns to meet his derisive stare, lips curled into a cruel smirk. Her heart beat to the rhythm of a war drum.

"Why are you doing this Hongjoong?" She whispers, concealing the crack in her voice.

"The real question is, why are you doing this? Did you not just see how happy we were?" He spreads out his arms, motioning to the surroundings. It is ever so domestic. Then she sees it. The red velvet case on the corner of the table, the size of a ring box. Scratch that - it is a ring box.

Her finger curls but there is no hum that radiates through her body, no warmth that flushes with a pulse that is concentrated at her core. Her breath quickened as she visualised the surge of raw force gathering in her palm. A pulse of light, flared from her hand. But then the light fluttered, flickered again, and then sputtered out entirely like a broken engine.

The silence that followed was deafening.

Her fingers trembled as she fought to regain control. Sweat began to bead on her forehead. Hanami was losing it. The dreamscape was choking her, dragging her deeper into its dark grip, and she couldn’t even fight back. Then the tears began to well up in her eyes. She was useless here, she couldn't use her cursed energy, she couldn't find the oneirophrenic, there was no Yeosang to help her.

Her fingers clenched into fists. She breathed in sharply, exhaling slowly as the energy began to crackle again. This time, the energy didn’t flicker or shatter. It pulsed—once, twice, thrice—growing steadier, more defined with each beat. The power began to hum beneath her skin, as if it had been waiting for her to reach out and take control. With a flick of her wrist, she raised her hand toward the ceiling. The energy she had absorbed detonated outward, sending a pulse that shattered the boundaries of the Oneirophrenia. The dreamscape peeled away like dead skin, the pyramid coming back into sight and then Yeosang. With a final blow, a beam shot out from the palm of her hands completely disintegrating his reality.

The city is suspended in twilight — not the light of the sun, but something more artificial, cast in tones of amber and silver. How long had she been stuck in the past? Cars hover mid-turn, raindrops hang like glass beads in the air, and untouched souls stand still, their expressions locked in place. Time has stopped.

"What took you so long?" Yeosang stalks towards her, his heavy palms resting on her shoulders. His eyes are glazed with both agitation and concern, a paradox. Yeosang stared through her, gaze sharpening, heat crawling up his neck.

"I called for you. I tried to reach out for you, but you didn't help me." Her voice came out like cracked glass, her muscles trembling under his cold touch. A long breath slipped past his lips, not annoyance, but more like the quiet ache of empathy worn thin. "Where were you?" Hanami inquires, the biting ache of the forlorn city trembling through her bones.

"Never mind where I was, the Oneirophrenic isn't an object. It's a person." He declares. His pupils trembled, just slightly, and the corners of his mouth held too still, too carefully neutral. Beneath the calm mask he wore like armour, there was a hollowness—like a crack behind polished glass. Not fear. Not guilt. Something older. Bruised. The kind of sadness that doesn’t scream or weep, but lingers in the way someone avoids looking too long, or holds their breath between words. Hanami's stare softened, the weight of it no longer probing but knowing.

“What did you see, Yeosang?" Yeosang didn’t answer. He just blinked, once, and for a heartbeat - looked years older than he was.

Suddenly — a low grinding sound echoes from beneath the city. Yeosang stiffens. The air thickens. The buildings begin to shift, slowly rotating as if part of an enormous clockwork machine. A clocktower ticks forward a few degrees. Shadows swirl in perfect circles. Yeosang clenches his fists, blue veins of cursed energy snaking up his arms.

A shockwave ripples out from the centre, her forearms immediately raise to protect her skull as the force of the wind knocks the air out of her lungs. Hanami wheezes, clutching her chest eyes wide awaiting for the presence of the Angel of Death. Instead, the world dims, a light casting over her as her eyes droop.

Yeosang watches her from the far table in the lunch hall, sitting in the corner, near the door so he can leave when the bell rings to get to class. His eyes often dart between the food on his tray and to her, the two main focuses of his attention. His friends are nattering about something, probably anime or some latest video game that came out. One of them is gushing about his crush, however the one thing they all have in common (except for Yeosang) is that they have a date for prom.

And there she is, sitting silently with a smile on her face, laughing occasionally with her friends, without a date for prom too. She sits next to him in Literature class, spending every lesson analysing quotations and talking about the effects of socio-historical events on the author's work. She sits in front of Yeosang in Maths, the same row but a few seats down in History. She’s everywhere but with him, he yearns for her as teenagers do, which makes him scoff. But she’s perfect, he swears.

So one day, he plucks up the courage to talk to her, ambling over to her outside of the school gates where she’s turning to walk home. In the opposite direction to himself, but he couldn't care less. His lips form the shape of her name, the wind carrying his words to her. Throwing her gaze over her shoulder, a smile curls at his lips and she stops to admire him. Silently, as she always has. As she always will. They converse in a light chatter: ‘How are you? How was fifth period? Excited for the weekend?’.

“Listen.” Beads of sweat form on his upper lip and his heart beats a thousand miles per hour. “Would you like to go to prom with me?” He asks, ever so nervously, which makes her heart swoon.

“Oh Yeosang. I would love to go to prom with you, except the thing is: I’m not going.”

“Ah. You’re not? Why not?” He ponders. He was so sure her entire friend group was going to be at prom, no?

“It’s just not my thing.” She announces before moving further down the road, turning the corner into her street. He scuttles after her, only for a silence to suffuse the air between them, he bids her goodbye outside of her front porch before leaving. He's upset, to say the least, but at least she's not taken. He's afraid that would upset him even more.

As academically intelligent as he is, Yeosang can be so stupid sometimes. It is a wonder how he has not noticed her staring at him from across the classroom, or holding his lovesick gaze when he rambles on about Brontë and Shakespeare. Oh, how he has a love-hate relationship with Shakespeare. He confesses to her that he does not quite understand what he means when he reads the text for the first time, so she help him understand what 'thou', 'thy', 'thee' and all of the other baffling, extinct phrases in his play means. Yeosang sits in front of her, in Maths and the same row but a few seats down in History. She takes every opportunity she can to steal glances of him in the field where the boys and girls do P.E separately, sneaking a look at his lean figure. All of the girls in the school have a crush on him, who would not? He is ever so pretty, and kind. He holds the door open for the teachers, hands out worksheets and tidies the classroom at the end of each lesson, which only instigates his friend's to reprimand him considering the lunch line is always long. They're both so head over heels for each other, it hurts for everyone else to watch.

After all, they're a pair of introverts, lost in their solitude finding comfort being imperceptible amongst their friends. They're just happy to be included.

Yeosang always knew his cursed energy existed. He came from a line of sorcerers who existed to protect Japan from century-old spirits yet had chosen up until the age of 16 to live a relatively normal life. Or rather, his parents had forced him into jujitsu society, deeming that he was not fit for normality. They gave him until high school graduation to enrol into Tokyo Metropolitan Curse Technical College without arguing. So he did. Yeosang was always the obedient child, adhering to his parent's wishes whether or not he liked them. Leaving his high school friends behind was one thing, but leaving her? Yeosang could never leave her. Leaving her was like leaving a part of his soul, he did not care that he was sixteen and too young or too rash to make a bold statement such as that but first and foremost he was an obedient son. So he leaves, bidding his friends goodbye, claiming to leave for Tokyo to study and that he'll probably be back once he gets his degree. He promised to stay in touch, knowing that it was a great big lie he was telling.

When the news passed that Yeosang was leaving, her heart lodged in her throat. The smile on her face faltered and she ran out of the classroom that her friends were in to search the school grounds for him. She checked his homeroom, the gymnasium, and the field. Then she saw his friends congregating around the school gate chatting to one of the teachers. She asked for him, and they all exchanged looks.

"Don't you know? He's already left to go to Tokyo. He left last night."

He left last night.

He left without telling her.

A pang penetrated through her heart. All those years of yearning for him. All those years of sharing glances, barely holding in laughter when the teacher yelled at the class, even asking her to be his date to prom. Perhaps it had all meant much more to her than it had ever meant for him.

Three years later, Yeosang is pushing his way through a crowd of drunken university students whilst Hanami is trailing behind him, dragging along an intoxicated Gojo. He has had one too many drinks and stumbles lazily behind his peer who has ascended the sorcery ranks faster than he can blink. He feels like it was only yesterday she joined their society, albeit it had been two years, and Hanami had already surpassed Yeosang in rank. It didn't bother him as much, sorcery was never his niche, but her dedication to perfecting her craft was inspiring. He imagines he looks a little funny in his jujitsu uniform but with news of a sighting of a dangerous spirit, he doesn't really give a shit.

The students all holler at himself, Hanami and Gojo (who only hollers back since he's pathetically drunk, like the irresponsible 'adult' he is). Hanami grumbles, rolling her eyes, before dragging Gojo, staring daggers at the women who almost drop to their knees before him. "He's taken!" She takes the liberty of shouting, in a knowingness that he isn't actually her type. That's when he sees her.

Stood under a maroon canopy of a closed café, wrapping the jumper she's wearing tightly around her figure. Glasses fit perfectly on her face, her hair is tucked behind her shoulders. His heart stops at the mere sight of her.

She, who holds his heart captive. Then her eyes meet his. A second passes, then another. Then just one more, as she registers his delicate features. They widen in realisation, her lips part, jaw slack at the sight of him. He, who had held her heart captive from the moment she had seen him, stood before her. Or at least making his way to her, an abnormally tall white-haired man and another woman watching him. His lips move forming the shape of her name, rolling off his tongue, so smoothly as if his vessels had been made in her honour and to commemorate the notion of her alone. Her heart swayed to the sound of her name falling from his tongue like a sweet melody. It was intoxicating, a drug so potent she would never recover from its addiction.

Yeosang was someone she could never recover from. But as she stares at him, all she can think about is how he left her without saying more than a word to her. "Kang. It's been a while." His heart shivers at her monotonous tone, he nods in agreement. "How have you been?" Casting her eyes over his uniform, she suppresses a laugh, focusing on his birthmark instead, shaped like a heart.

"I've been well. How about you? Why are you here, you waiting on someone?" Moving her head in disagreement, her arms wrap tighter around her shoulder to provide herself with some warmth.

"I've been waiting for the rain to calm down before I run back home." He nods, almost baring his teeth at how awkward and dry the conversation was. "Listen, it was nice meeting you -,"

"Can I get your number?" He interjects, quickly, before a blush highlights his round cheeks. Her perfect lips part once more, falling into a thin line.

"Will you remember?" She asks. It's a stupid question, of course he will remember. How could she ever forget how impeccable his memory was?

Later that week he strolls into the common room, finding his friend sat on the window ledge with a book across her laps. He takes a seat beside her, opening the chat message from her scrolling up to re-read the messages so he can relive the exact emotions he had felt when he read them for the first time. “So that’s the lucky girl?” Hanami teases, looking up from her book. His cheeks tinge red and she bites down on her lip to stop herself from laughing at him, the poor boy will only feel worse. “Are you taking her out on a date?” Yeosang falls quiet, averting his gaze to the floor and Hanami’s lips flatten into a straight line.

“Kang! You idiot! You see her after three years of pining like a fool, and you didn’t ask her out on a date?” She scowls at him, shutting her book to swing her legs off the windowsill. “Grow some balls Yeosang and take her out on the date.”

"Do you think she'll take me back?" Hanami nods profusely, staring at him as if that wasn't a question worth answering. Then her figure blurs in and out, lagging. Her words repeat herself as if her soul has not caught up with the passage of time. He reaches his hand out towards her, caressing her cheek.

"Kang, what are you doing? Is there something on my face?" He plucks the curvature of her plush cheek between his fingers, squeezing it lightly. A dense beam plunges through her flesh, her body crumples up like a prune before her ashes flow with circulating wind.

“She’s never called me ‘Kang’, Naga.” He throws his unwavering stare over his shoulder meeting the spirits feline gaze, “Ever.” Hongjoong smirks, Yeosang spins on his heel, keeping his defensive stance. He’s ready to attack first, recalling the words of his father. It feels like he’s back in the family dojo, in the early morning hours of a Saturday, duelling until he physically collapses.

Whatever you do, attack first, Yeosang. If you attack last, consider yourself dead.

She hears her name, in the same tone as her mother used to call for her. Again.

Hanami is confused. Nobody has ever called her by her forename except from her mother. Nobody has ever called her by her forename in four years.

Her body whips around, her mother is sat inside the silver Hyundai, her arm stuck out of the car window waving for her. Hanami's eyes catch a glimpse of herself in the reflection, she's dressed ever so pompous in a striped formal shirt with slacks and heels to pair the look. A bag is slung over her shoulder carrying a ring binder and her wallet. Her arms outstretched for the handle, hauling it open before slipping inside. It is when she's inside the car that she takes a good look at her mother's face. Round, with pink cheeks, full of warmth and an elated smile dancing on her lips.

Mum.

Hanami's hand reaches out for her mother's cheek, who dips her head forward to press her lips to her daughter's forehead before leaning back to grip onto the steering wheel. "Come on, let's get out of here." She leans back in her seat, putting the engine in gear before driving off. The light shimmers slightly, and it's dull around her mother's silhouette, the hum of the engine feels tangible in her ears, especially with how it reverberates in the ear canal. She blinks once, then twice trying to understand where she is and what she's doing here, before reaching inside her bag for the maroon red ring binder.

TOKYO MEDICAL UNIVERSITY, INTERVIEW NOTES

Beauchamp's Principles of Biomedical Ethics: respect for autonomy, non-maleficence, beneficence, and justice

This is the same day as her university interview. Her mother had just picked her up from the campus, and was driving her home. Her breath hitched in her throat. When the letter of interview came, Hanami considered rejecting the interview offer, seeing as though expenses were sky high. Her mother wouldn't be able to afford to send her. After a stern telling off, Hanami, reluctantly, sent a letter back accepting the invite whilst worrying about the pending cost. But. What was she doing here? Last she checked, she was fighting Hongjoong.

"How do you think the interview went?" Her mother asks, tapping her fingers against the steering wheel as they wait at the traffic lights. Hanami's eyes glance across the pedestrian crossing, watching as the people rush across before the lights turn green again. Hanami slumps further into her seat, massaging her temples.

"I think it went fine, the questions were a lot more difficult than I thought they'd be. They asked questions on euthanasia, then that national health scandal that happened three months ago." Her mother hums before setting off again, turning the wheel as they enter their village. "I'm so tired, I need bed." Her eyes outcast the window, the houses bleed together forging an amalgamation of colours. That's when she first sees a cursed spirit.

17 years of living in Tokyo and it's before she’s about to take her finals that she finally sees a cursed spirit. Unbeknownst to Hanami, the first time she sees one, it’s a Grade 2. And there's no sorcerer for at least three miles. But Hanami doesn't know that she has cursed energy. She waves off her surmountable amount of strength and speed, boiling it down to her 'natural' athleticism. Her eyes widen as the creature dives before them, a scream emitting from her lips. Her mother stares at her in confusion before shrieking herself as its herculean punch pounds through the windscreen. The worst thing: her mother can’t even see what she’s looking at. Crack of glass resounded through the air, the spirit's razor teeth bare, gnashing furiously at her mother, who lost her grip on the steering wheel as the creature's pale arms outstretched for her, its one foot claws tearing through her supple flesh. Hanami lets out another ear-splitting scream before flinging herself onto it. The spirit leaps backwards out of the car, her palms curl around its horn, screaming as she tears the horns out of its skin. Raising the sharp end over her head, the blade pummels through its skin, a geyser of black blood spurts out of its body, crashing to the ground.

Her heart palpitates in her chest, something simmers within her bones. A pulse of energy emits from her skin, shattering straight into its cranium. It releases a thunderous cry, skin paling significantly beyond what exists. Shrivelling up into a ball, its skin sheds; before it hits the ground it fades into a purple mist with nothing but the blood splatter on Hanami's face as a reminder of its existence. In light of her adrenaline, Hanami has gone unbeknownst to the car that has skidded into the wall, the airbags have blown up with her body draped over the steering wheel, head on the dashboard. A pool of blood seeps out of the front screen, she dashes to her mother's side.

“Mum! MUM!” She scrambles for her phone, which has skidded out of the car. Her hands tremble as she dials in the emergency number calling for the ambulance.

“Hate to break it to you, but she’s not going to make it.” Her body freezes, spinning on her heel as an absurdly tall man stares down at her. He stood at the edge of the wreckage, untouched by the chaos, as if reality bent around him. With an almost careless elegance (to Hanami) he looked more like someone who'd strolled out of a fashion shoot than a man staring down twisted metal and smoke. Her eyes had latched onto his snow-white hair, tousled but deliberate, like he woke up perfect on purpose. A blindfold, which was utterly out of place, masked his eyes but even without them, his presence was impossible to ignore.

Despite the chaos of the scene he was unnervingly calm. The subtle tilt of a smirk irked her. Was he involved? The operator on the other end of the phone call goes eerily quiet, before the line cuts off. The ambulance should be here soon anyway. She's ripped out the hem of her shirt to bandage it around her mother's most fatal wound site, her lower torso bare. His head tilted to meet her bare skin and she wraps her arms around her lower abdomen. "Who are you?" She demands, almost threateningly.

“Woah, woah. I’m Gojo Satoru, at your service. This is my associate, Kang Yeosang. And you are?” Her eyes narrow in confusion, she didn't notice his associate but when he jumps out from behind Gojo, she knows why. He's not short, but Gojo makes him look significantly smaller than himself. He exudes an air of timidness but composure. He looks more trustworthy than Gojo, to say the least. “‘Nami, right? Hanami-senpai’s daughter?” She takes a tentative step back, she was never the best in Taekwondo but she knows enough to at least take down the other guy.

“How do you know my father?”

“Well, can’t you tell from the honorific? He taught me.” Mr Hanami was a teacher in Physics. Neither of the two look like physicists, their uniform looks like they might be competing in Martial Arts but even that is a bit of a stretch.

“My father died a few years ago. If you’re looking for him, I can point you in the direction of his grave.” Her eyes flit to her mother’s lifeless body in the car. Her bloody hands reached up to wipe the tears falling down her face.

“Hey, pretty girl. Don’t worry about the funeral costs, I got it.” Yeosang spares him a dirty look, before staring at Hanami sympathetically.

“Hey, fuck you, Gojo. For the first time in my life, I’ve seen some fucking hideous monster kill my mother. Then some Iron Man type sonic blast comes out of my hand, and you’re telling me not to worry about it?” He chuckles at her words, drawing closer to her. Stretching out her hand in front of her, Satoru throws his head back in laughter.

"Do you even know how to summon your technique?" She stumbles backwards until her lower back hits the shattered headlights, heart punching against her ribs. He cocked his head to the side, curiously, lips pressed into a thin line. Bending down to her level, his lips moved closer to ears, his voice no longer held that playful undertone but had transcended into something more sinister. "The ambulance is coming. You're going to let me deal with this situation, otherwise things you won't like will happen to you."

Sat on her living room floor, Hanami's eyes cast into space. The house is desolate, there’s no longer the reverberation of the clatter of dishes, the bubbling of boiled chai on the hob and the crackling of stew. No doors open and shut randomly and even those silly soap operas her mother used to watch aren’t blasting from the television. Her eyes flutter close, she bites down on her lip preventing the sobs from entering her surroundings. When the knock resounds from the front door, she moves to open it letting the men pile into the room.

It’s Gojo and Kang from before, and they come with their headteacher who paid the funeral fees: Masamichi Yaga, the man who used to work with her father. Hanami chooses to trust him since her uncle couldn’t even turn up to the funeral. They take a seat around the coffee table, he’s about to explain to her what is going on.

He begins to explain the existence of malevolent entities borne from negative human emotions; the more powerful the emotion, the stronger the curse becomes. Thus, they are categorised into Grades, with 4 being the 'weakest' and 'Special Grade' being the worst. They have sorcerer counterparts, who with immense training and experience can ascend these ranks. He, himself, is a Grade 1 sorcerer. Yeosang is a Grade 4 (since he just entered the Academy) and Gojo seems to be the most powerful one. Yaga mentions that only those with cursed energy can see cursed spirits, yet Hanami can’t comprehend where hers has come from. “Well your father was a sorcerer, he just never told your mother. But when he did, she went ballistic and believed he was schizophrenic.”

“Which he was.” Hanami adds.

“You saw the spirits too. Does that make you schizophrenic as well?” A spectral silence suspends in the air.

“I—How has it been seventeen years without seeing one?”

“I’m only going to assume it was your father at times. Why do you think your mother filed for a restraining order?” Hanami falls silent. All those times he was following her home, he was really just protecting her from the cursed spirits. Her jaw tightens as she looks towards Yaga, in unmistakable rage. How dare he make her feel guilt for chastising her father? He was not a good man. Mr Hanami had made her mother cry herself to sleep, he was never there once she had reached 12 years old and when he came back his face was always full of bruises, cuts and wounds — a bottle of vodka in hand, scarfing it down as if it was his lifeline. She doesn’t want to possibly think that the bleeding was from the danger of his missions, and vodka was to take the edge off the pain. Because if she does, Hanami will hate the fact that she’s spent the majority of her life despising her father for neglecting both herself and her mother.

“I hope when I die, you don’t hate me so fruitfully, ‘Nami.” Those last words he had uttered to her before he left the home, and her eyes welled up with tears at the memory. She presses her lips together with her fingers. Sucking in a deep breath, she looks towards Yaga.

“So what do you want me to do now?”

“Well it’s up to you. You’ll probably get an offer from medical school, and you can go. Or you can join my institute. And we’ll train you to protect the world from the same demons that killed your parents. You decide.”

The air was ripped from her lungs in an instant, her chest tightening as if a heavy weight had crushed her ribs, leaving her gasping for breath. There was no longer a spontaneous disposition of particles, shimmering as if they carved the essence of her verity. A dome carved from the clot of vitality; a single glow of light spills into the room illuminating over her - as if she was at the centre of the stage of the world and they were all watching her. Waiting. Anticipating. Her limbs did not ache, her chest did not suspire in exhaustion, but rather: panic.

Her eyes cast over her surroundings, searching for the shred of her friend. She stared into the void, and it stared back at her - echoing the lonely desire sewn into her soul. Her limbs trembled in apathy, he had shown her the memory she was hiding away for years. A memory she refused to meet up with, come to terms with me. That she, the next strongest sorcerer to Gojo Satoru, was the child of a self-proclaimed Physics teacher and an office worker. That she was a child of two people who promised their love to each other, only for one to be lying his whole identity to her. That she, who had spent the entirety of her childhood despising her father, had learnt it was all in vain.

With a tilt of her head, she cast a glance over her shoulder, meeting Hongjoong’s feline gaze. He stood motionless, the shadows draping his body like silk. Hanami rises to her feet, her footsteps pattering in the opposite direction to himself.

Hospitals are a nasty place to be, with its pristine, disinfected walls, floors scrubbed to perfection. The constant beeping of the machines, and quiet mumbling of doctors, patients screaming in agony. Yet, it’s where Hanami has wanted to be; having watched one too many of her own family members suffer. ‘I’ll figure out what’s wrong with you’ she jokes, more often than not.

She doesn’t quite understand what she’s doing, dressed in a pair of creased blue scrubs, gnawing the hair tie from the tight knot at the back of her head; walking through the automatic doors at the exit. On instinct, her hands reach into her pocket for her car keys, unlocking the door sliding inside. Starting the engine, look both ways, pull out of the bay and out of that wretched place she loves.

It’s all methodical, she does it like it’s innate. The sequence is firmly rooted within her. The traffic is minimal at this time, which is funny since no matter where you go in Tokyo, it is busy at any time of day. Yet the light in the sky is distinctive of the fact that it must be summer, the heat concludes that too. A few beads pool on her upper lip, the windows are rolled down at the traffic lights. Put the car into gear again, drive off, turn. Curse under your breath as the kids dash across the roads so you have to drive at 3 miles per hour so you don't actually hit them and get your medical licence revoked.

Tiredly, her key pushes through the lock pushing her way into the entrance. The foyer is relatively neat, her gaze does not amiss the tiny shoes next to her flip flops. Then the pair that is slightly larger than her own.

“Look, Mama’s home.” Then he comes bustling from the doorway from their home, a child bouncing on his hip. Hanami found herself focusing on his smile; there was something hidden beneath that seemed beyond one’s comprehension — like it always did in every universe. Yet as she stared at him, from where the draft circulated in from the doorway, he carried a current of domesticity emanating a paternal disposition. He was a father with a little girl who had inherited his smile too. He leans forward, pressing his lips to her forehead and when he pulls back, the little girl puckers her lips.

Hanami pauses. Would she like a kiss or to be kissed? On maternal instinct, her arms reach for the girl, and plaster smooches all over her soft, chubby cheeks, heart melting as sweet giggles eruct from her mouth. “Mama! Mama!” She squeals.

Mama.

Hanami’s heart stops in her chest. It feels like she’s watching a dream she has no control over. Except dreams feel peaceful, and she’s so sure there’s a nightmare concealed behind this façade of contentment. “My dear, would you put Mina to bed? I’ll prepare you dinner.” Mina. That’s her name.

With a swift nod, she travels up the staircase and she continues a programmed response of: washing Mina in the bathroom, changing her into her pyjamas, then tucking her into bed. Then once Mina’s eyes have fluttered to a close, she moves into their shared bedroom flopping onto the mattress.

“Not hungry, yeobo?” Lifting her head, she grumbles at him before sinking her head back onto the pillow. He chuckles, before crawling onto the bed to sit on his knees. “How do you feel?” Hongjoong rubs his palm over her lower abdomen. “You’ve started your period, haven’t you?”

“How did you know?” He waves his phone, as if to indicate the period app he’s installed onto his mobile. Or maybe he's got his own calendar. Hanami doesn't remember. Hell, Hanami doesn't even know. She nods, but at the moment the sorceress can’t feel anything. “I’m fine, just tired.” Hongjoong leans over, pressing a firm kiss to her forehead. Then he settles beside her, wrapping his arms around her waist pulling her flush against his chest.

There’s a comfortable silence suspended in the air, for the time being, and Hanami releases a contented sigh as her head buried deeper into her husband’s neck. This is how it should be. Coming home to her husband and daughter, spending every remaining minute of the day with them. There was always the notion of how to juggle the work-life balance as both a doctor and a mother. Her wages were good enough to support them all should Hongjoong decide to stay at home and be a househusband, but considering her family always struggled for money when they were younger, she didn’t want Mina to go through the same ordeal. So Hongjoong mostly did his designing job, from home, and Hanami reduced her hours so she could be there for her daughter. He was so accommodating, and that was what she loved the most about him.

I love him?

Her head leans back, taking in his inclination. His hair is no longer blonde, but black, and slicked back with a few loose strands structuring his face. There's a fading dent from where he wears his glasses lateral to the bridge of his nose. He looks…homely. Even more so than when he had cooked for her. Hanami wants to push herself out of his embrace, but he’s warm and the mere notion of tearing away sends goosebumps rippling under her skin.

She tries to move away from him, but her body pulls herself back towards him. Each attempt to move away somehow attaches her more to him, it’s as if their limbs are opposite poles magnetised by each other. “Ach, stop moving around Mrs Kim, I’m tired too.” Reaching for the comforter, he tucks their legs in and drapes it over them.

“Hongjoong.” Hanami whispers, and he hums in response, peeking one eye open to look at her. What am I doing here? Why are you my husband? Why do we have a child together? Every time I try to move away from you, why do I move closer? She’s burning to say those words, her lips struggle to form the vowels, and when Hongjoong blinks, her words take a series of turns, “I took next week off, should we go somewhere. Me, you, Mina. Like on a picnic?” In a state of disbelief, her limbs obey her command and she finally sits up, shuffling away from him.

“That’s a good idea. I’m off next Wednesday and Friday. Let’s say, Wednesday?” He offers, Hongjoong mirrors her movements, sitting up with his legs out before him. Stretching her limbs, Hanami makes her way to the window where her folded night clothes sit, her eyes cast out of the window catching sight of a familiar shadow.

There. That boy with the birthmark.

Do I know him?

Hanami stood frozen, her gaze fixed on him standing outside her house. His features were so strikingly familiar, yet she couldn’t place where she had seen him before. Was he her patient? His dark eyes, framed by lashes that seemed too perfect to be real, locked onto hers, piercingly. His expression was calm, but there was something in the way his lips curved, the way his posture seemed too poised, as if he were just waiting for something to click.

She blinked, a pang of recognition striking her heart, but the more she thought about it, the less sense it made. The air around her shimmered—everything flickering as if it were an illusion.

Her breath caught in her throat as the memories rushed in—fragments of a past she had long forgotten, moments blurred by the cursed spirit's power.

“Earth to Counsellor Kang. Do you copy?” He cranes his neck to finally meet her, his lips immediately uplifting into a soft smile.

“Roger that.” He jokes back, a small giggle escapes her lip. They walk down the cobbled stream, the gentle afternoon glow fluorescing his moon-carved structure. Her eyes flicker from a warm brown to a cerulean blue, her skin occasionally fading as Yeosang encapsulates his larger hand into her own. It goes from feeling firm to like sand within the palm of his hands, yet his smile doesn’t falter because she’s ecstatically chatting away about work and then offering the idea of going to some café that sells matcha. He wants to laugh at the fact that she hasn’t tried it yet, but he can’t as discomfort sears through his heart.

She never got to try it either.

“Yeo, are you even listening to me?”

“Even if I wanted to, I don't think I ever could” He responds, their clasped hands swinging as they walk, gliding past the children who whine when their mothers call them in.

"Now what do you mean by that?" Her lips pull into a polite frown, his grasp on her hand tightens which doesn't go unnoticed by her.

"It means, I don't ever want to stop listening to you speak." Her eyes soften at his words, her heart thumping to the beat of his soul for when he moved, she would move with him. She could pass her eyes over whatever he thought was fit to look at, bend to his will, and fulfil his commands as if she was void of freedom. For being with him revered the mere notion of liberation itself. "Will you take me back to the night we met?" He confesses, his voice travelling to her like the essence of nostalgia.

"We were children when we met."

"Then could you take me back to the night I fell in love with you?" There's a silence between them, nothing but the light dipping lower beneath the horizon. "Take me back to the night I fell deeper in love with you."

He stood under the soft glow of the fluorescent lights outside the convenience store, his hands shoved deep in the pockets of his jacket. A slight chill brushing against his skin; the neon signs above hummed faintly in the dark, casting streaks of red and blue across his face. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, tugging his phone out of his pocket to check the time. A faint smile tugged at the corner of his lips at her message.

THE OWNER OF MY HEART: I'll be there in two mins!

YEOSANG: It's ok, i'll be waiting :)

Despite the time slot she had given, every few seconds his eyes would scan the quiet street again, hoping to catch a glimpse of her silhouette. The night was quiet, save for the occasional passing car, the rhythmic murmur of the store’s refrigeration units, and the distant chatter of people in the nearby alley. He felt it was too quiet for its own good, he'd been off the whole day - no missions, they'd all been passed onto his peers so he spent the remainder of it being less productive than he had liked and stressing about the date instead. A midnight matcha run. He wanted to laugh, and he would in her face like they were high school kids. Bless her soul she had gotten excited by the most easiest things ever.

Her silhouette was carved by the stars itself, he saw her gravitating towards him with a pleased smile etched onto her face. Her arm moved over her head, an exuberant wave was given his way. His lips pull into a grin that's way to passionate for his own good, not long before it falters at the edges. Just, ever so slightly. Cursed energy emanates in the tense atmosphere, its maleficence caressing his benevolent core - his sharp eyes survey the setting.

Her smile drops deeper than his own. Was there something wrong with the way she was dressed? Or the way she looked? Was he not happy to see her? Suddenly, she feels it. A brazen stab through her neck - the supple flesh tears like aged paper, the blade cutting through his arteries. Blood flows like scarlet rivers down her body, the air is lodged in her throat. Her vision begins to dissolve, the lights off the convenience store forging an amalgamation of colours, then the shape of his body distorting. Her eyes don't notice the way he moves towards, as fast as the speed of light, or the way his hands move to manipulate the earth, his prowess tearing through the cursed vessel that destroyed her. Her ears fall to death to the scream that resound in the alleyway, both the spirit's and Yeosang's. Her body becomes numb to his careful touch, as he holds her decaying soul within his hands.

Here it is. The memory of his life falling apart at his feet before it had even begun.

"Tell me." He moves his hand to her cheek, one he never had the privilege of feeling. "When did you fall in love with me?" Yeosang knows it is not her soul speaking to him, but some sick, twisted part of him latches onto a possibility that even in The Red Naga's conjure of what his life could have been: she is still there. A fragment of her. She is there still reaching for him, where he now has to wait until his own death to meet her again.

"When you asked me to prom. I had always liked you, Yeosang. I was just waiting to hear it back."

"I'm sorry I never said it back." His voice cracks under her adoration, tears swell up in his eyes, he bites down on his quivering lip, taking a deep breath to ground himself. "I love you."

"I know." His hand steadies on her soft skin, caressing it like it's porcelain. The arrangement of molecules shifts, before a blast of light scatters throughout the dream.

Pitiful cries enter into the haunted city, her body wracks in agony unbeknownst to the vessel watching her from afar. He moves closer, in succinct caution, his eyes latching onto the two bodies sprawled across the floor. One is a man, just as old as himself with dark hair loose over his head - achingly familiar. His eyes socks are laid bare, oozing with rich, red blood his mouth parted as if in his last moments he tried to say something to his murderer. Pleading more like. Then about a foot away from him, is a toddler. A girl. On her back, her chest blasted open, bits of flesh scattered around her. Her hair, too, is black and even though the man doesn't have eyes - they look similar to each other. He assesses the shape of their jawline and their lips. Their vulnerability. Yeosang then turns back to the lady choking back sobs, her face is buried within her palms and she's mumbling incoherent words over and over. He falls to his knees, gently outstretching her hands.

"I killed her." She chokes out. "He made her the oneirophrenic, he made me murder her."

“Yeosang.” She whispers out, and his eyebrows furrowed in confusion. Getting up immediately she looks towards him, her chest heaving in anticipation.

“You sick bastard!” She remembers screaming. Then she recalls her child erupting into vicious wailing, until stopping for a second to soothe her sore throat before continuing again.

Yeosang doesn't dare tell her it's not real, because if it wasn't there wouldn't be a child's lifeless body laying on the ground between them. "He can't keep getting away with this. He has to go." She utters between her sobs, her tears pattering onto the concrete.  

A creeping black spilled across the city silently, the wind swayed to its every command. The city breathed in his authority, commanding and raw as the ground jolted beneath them. Before speeding around like hands on a clock once more. "Armour up. Let's do this one last time."

In the stillness of the Eternal Realm where time bent and twisted like a river’s flow that had forgotten its course, the sinister Kim Hongjoong drifted. His fingers wove through the fabric of existence as though they were threads in an intricate tapestry, unravelling moments with ease. He watched as day bled into night, only to be reversed moments later, just as the winds in the sky spun in violent, erratic gusts and then calmed without warning. He was, in his own domain and the world was just a little more than a toy to play with.

The realm was his playground—shifting, collapsing, and expanding in patterns that only he could comprehend. It was not a place bound by the rigid linearity of the mortal world. The atmosphere shimmered, echoes of broken time stretching, collapsing, and then fading. Hongjoong paused in his movements, sensing something unusual—another presence. A ripple ran through his timeless dimension, unfamiliar and sharp like a flicker of static in an otherwise perfect symphony.

There, standing at the edge of his realm, confined between the scraps of the past, present and future, was a woman. Her presence was striking, her silhouette seemed to shimmer against the backdrop of fractured time, as though she belonged to the world but also did not. She was a sorcerer, he quickly realised, her energy rippling outward like a delicate storm just waiting to uncoil. Her name hovered at the edge of his thoughts, but he did not care for it. Not yet. Not while the strange allure of her presence pulled at him in ways he hadn’t expected. There was beauty in her: a fleeting, delicate beauty, like a flower blooming against the harshest winds. Hongjoong’s fingers curled into the air. Time itself bent, spiralling around him. He reached into her timeline, unwinding the moments that led to her arrival here, weaving his power into the fabric of her life.

The threads unravelled before his eyes. Her difficult childhood, her battles with cursed spirits, her personality and attitude. Both her victories and her losses. Friends in Jujitsu society she had lost, enemies she had gained. He saw it all. Yet, at the end of it all, he sought Hanami and stood beside him. No longer the defiant sorcerer but her face would soften with acceptance. Her shoulders would no longer bore the weight of a fight.

Something thrilling danced in his chest. He knew she would fall to him eventually; it was inevitable. This timeline, this future, was the one he would craft. She would bend to his will, just as all others before her had.

His vision of her future played out like a fading echo, a ripple of awareness tugged at the edge of her mind as the twilight settled back into their view. She found Yeosang's eyes again, and though Hongjoong could not visibly be seen - his presence was still felt. From behind the veil of shattered moments, Hanami’s eyes glinted with something that made Yeosang's stomach tighten. The type of look she gave when she was about to say something she knew he wouldn't like. "If I'm a part of his timeline, the only way to stop him is to get rid of me." She blurts, the Grade 2 Sorcerer stares at her in disbelief.

"I can't do that." Yeosang shakes his head profusely, taking a step back from her. Steel slices through the air, coolly, Hanami holds out her sword for him to take.

"Do it, Yeosang."

"No. What's wrong with you?"

"DO IT YEOSANG!" Her voice bellows into the void, echoing into the pits as if it aims to mock her. He shakes her head, tears forging in his brown eyes, her stare abating. Yeosang flits his eyes between the sword and then her. Taking in a deep breath, her eyes flutter shut momentarily. "I, Hanami, daughter of Hanami Daeho, Special Grade Sorceress command my associate, Kang Yeosang, Grade 2 Sorcerer to take my life in order to assimilate the Special Grade Curse Spirit, Red Naga, otherwise known as Kim Hongjoong." Hot tears roll down Yeosang's cheek, tickling his jawline before they patter onto the floor.

"You can't be this sure." His voice wavers in desolation, heart lodged within his throat. “Hanami, re-think this. Please.” But what other choice did they really have? Hongjoong had reels of another life, ready to play for days and days. Might it have been that they had a bottomless pit of energy, but the Spirit had enough to exhaust them by torturing them mentally. Hanami could no longer do this. She couldn’t take the life of all the children she had with Hongjoong, despite the fact that they were just constructs. Yeosang could no longer watch his lover continue to be ripped away from him.

"I am your superior, am I not?" Painful wails permeate the air, pharynx wrought with suffocation as he can barely breathe under her tyranny. "Use Hollow Degeneration while you're at it." Hanami whispers, as footsteps facsimile behind her.

Hongjoong’s pulse quickened, a spark of confusion clouding him. What did she mean by that? Her energy pulsed, a strange resonance vibrating through the moment.

With a hollow gesticulation, the world around Kang began to warp. The ground shuddered, the surrounding sounds blurring into a distorted hum. Time obeyed his decree, rippling in waves like the ebbing of smooth tides, lapping the sand on the ocean's shore.

It was quick. Hanami was denied her next breath when her own blade thrust, mercilessly, into her chest. Valves ripping as the blood sprung from its banks, gushing out of her wound like a waterfall. Sinking to her knees, a pool of blood flows out from her mouth. Hongjoong shrieks, his energy cutting through the air with a precise strike, but it rebounds, the waves of energy shooting up the barriers of Yeosang's domain - his hands reached for the ropes of time, in an attempt to reverse the movements.

Hollow Degeneration. Where a succinct juncture repeats itself over and over, approximately a hundred times at sixty miles per hour until the scene bleeds together. It's a perfect death for a cursed spirit. Now? It means Hanami has to relive her death a hundred times before she actually dies.

Her body hits the floor with a final thud, the last of her respirations diffusing into the twilight. A silence expels into the empyrean. Hollow, like his technique. The god-awful technique he had used to kill her.

Hongjoong watches, with wide-eyes, as her body hits the floor, viciously. No last words for him, no final look for him. Everything, selfishly, taken by him. He cranes his neck, demonic gaze terrorising Yeosang who only looks back with a numbness. Languidly, the sorcerer makes his way towards the devil tightening his grip on the handle with his left hand. The threads of the futures, which were once intertwined with hers, have unravelled. If her life had ended, he only had mere minutes left.

Hongjoong stumbles backwards as Yeosang moves closer and closer. "Yeosang, please. Don't do this. I can bring her back. If you work with me, I can bring both her and Hanami back—,”

"You aren't worthy of saying her name." His body follows the movements of the shadows that follow him like electromagnets. Yeosang's eyes darken with malevolence, his right hand presses against Hongjoong's forehead.

"Yeosang, please. Please don't, I'm begging you. PLEASE!" In the moment of finality, the light erupted in a flash, spilling through his fingers, swallowing the darkness around them. It caught Hongjoong's features in a mournful glow, his body blurred, ripples cascading out from his chest. His limbs thinned until he was nothing more than a mirage.

In the quietness that followed, there was nothing in the broken city except Kang Yeosang and the lifeless body of Hanami resting in the fractured heart of Shibuya.

Nothing but the cool whisper of shadows carrying her legacy into the wind.

All Rights Reserved © the-midnight-blooms

DO NOT REPOST, TRANSLATE, REPURPOSE, OR PLAGISRISE ANY OF THE WORK HERE

A/N: Happy Yeosang month! Totally should have posted on his birthday but like took an atrocious turn (my grandma passed away, had finals, fell ill etc) Anyways: AHHHHH, PART TWOOO!! i've never done a part two to a fic before, let alone in this funny little format of combining two arcs together. Not too sure about that ending either 🤡 Ach, let me know your thoughts.

let me know if you’d like to be added to the tag list for any future fics I post!

tag list: @n0v4t33z @potatos-on-clouds @jjongwho @devilzliaison @asweetblueberry2 @arilevenatz @xdannix @yuyamihi @l0vjoongie @pansexual-and-eating-pancakes @wooyoungsbrat @matchahintonagar @byeolttongbye0l

[flightyalrighty]

OKAY SO-

First of all I wanna say that I love everything about your comic so far. The story has amazing pacing and the writing of the characters is on point (at least what I would consider to be) and fun, the panel layout of the pages is interesting and easy to read and compliments the flow of everything, and the art- ffs the ARRRRTTTT

I love it a lot and I have a couple questions (if you don't mind answering- you don't have to)

so I was curious what program you use and what kinda brushes, cus like the inking is so solid and like crisp (I can't put the mafia hand emoji)- but your sketches have a soft brush that loooks like it might be a lower opacity maybeee-

Also, specifically when it comes to your rendering, when it comes to lighting and non-solid-black shadows do you use a lower opacity layer or just paint it with a selected colour? IT'S JUST CUS THE WAYYYY Your colours come out they work so well together, and like as an artist that has a vague idea of what makes something look good I struggle with shading and lighting a lot. And the way you colour just makes everything come together so well and realistically?

again you don't have to answer any of the questions you don't feel comfortable with and I hope your having a good day and giving your back and drawing hand a well deserved break ^^

Hello! Thanks for this ask! Sorry it took so long for me to answer it!

The program I use is Photoshop, which I don't recommend, and the brush I use when inking is usually "Amazing Cartoon Nib" from Kyle T Webster's Megapack!

The sketches that I've posted, if these are the sorta sketches you're referring to, are actually not digital at all! I use a Pentel Twist-Erase mechanical pencil in a Strathmore 5.5 x 8.5 recycled sketchbook, and then scan those sketches from my phone using the Scanner Mini app in Black And White mode!

If you mean sketches like these though, that's also a Kyle's Megapack brush! "Animator Pencil 2016"!

My color situation is crazy, I'll just, uh, show you what I mean with my phone camera (since I super duper don't know how to take a screenshot on a PC):

(Sorry about my screen, I need to give it a wipe)

For the shadows I use a gradient map (green to red) on top of a 90% dark grey + greyscale "Rendering" layer, in which I carve out the shadows and lighter areas. Then I put a flats layer with a 45% dark grey layer mask over that. The lighter a scene is, the brighter I can make that flats layer. So yeah, that part's kinda a low opacity?

The lighting layer is pretty self-explanatory. Instead of ever lowering the opacity on anything with the slider, I use layer masks as a way to mess around with how strong I want that lighting to be without ever making anything super destructive and permanent. I highly recommend the use of gradient maps and layer masks when making comics!

Also, if you're wondering about that Flats Copy 2 layer above "Flats Copy," that's actually just what I do to color characters that are at certain distances. Blue for background, green for mid-ground, purple for foreground. 70% grey layer mask for that one.

You can see me do this in real time sometimes when I do comic streams on the first and last Sunday of every month! Those are available for all Headless Ko-Fi members!