#I'm in pain..sunburn and my mouth is KILLING me

[diemauergone]

not to sound awful but , making a woman who is 2 years older than me , cry is an accomplishment today. and in my defense, she made my 13 year old niece feel like utter shit and someone HAD to call the woman out for being an ass.

[save-the-villainous-cat]

I just got the best idea! Vampire villain with a strong moral code who refuses to feed on blood, making themselves weak with hunger. Hero notices and purposefully cuts their finger on villain's fang to get them to eat🤍

The villain had never thought they could be overpowered by a human. It was terrifying to say the least.

Once the blood was in their mouth and the hero's hand off their throat, the villain started to suck on the hero's finger involuntarily. The instinct was ancient, something older than the vampire themselves. They had forgotten how good fresh blood tasted.

However, they could collect themselves pretty quickly.

"You're stupid," the vampire whispered. "You had a perfect physical advantage. You could have killed me..."

"Take more," the hero said, pushing their finger into the villain's mouth quick enough to make them gag. This time, the villain grabbed their enemy's wrist and nearly pushed them off their hips.

"I'm good," they said through gritted teeth. The vampire didn't really enjoy it when the hero was so adamant about absolutely everything they did. The hero always found a way to get what they wanted. They were a pain in their ass. Annoying and heroic.

"You're still pale," the hero said. "Interesting..."

They pushed the villain's chin up and managed to slip one finger under the villain's upper lip, lifting it to examine the villain's fangs as if they were a doctor.

"I am a vampire," the villain reminded them. "Sunlight doesn't turn me to ashes but the sunburns are out of this world."

"And you are sure you are fine?" the hero asked. They turned the villain's head to the right and then to the left, continuing their examination. Christ, they even put their hand on the villain's chest to search for a heartbeat.

"I'm great, just - get off, will you?" The hero stood up but the villain still needed a moment. They feared they would pass out again if they stood up.

They looked around the room but there was nothing. No furniture. Just a door that looked like it couldn’t be opened from the inside.

What a joke.

"You know," the hero said, hands on their hips, "this is actually quite interesting. I certainly didn't expect my dear nemesis to end up in the same cell as me. I guess they wanted you to eat me. A little grotesque if you ask me."

"But not too far-fetched," the villain said. They pushed themselves up but ended up leaning against the wall. "Hunger turns everyone into an animal."

"You still don't look too good," the hero said. Once again, they kneeled beside the villain. Their hand raked through the villain's hair and stopped on their forehead.

The villain didn't know why the hero was always so touchy. They never crossed any boundaries and the villain actually welcomed those soft hands on them, but still...it was strange. Strange to feel someone's warm skin on theirs like this.

"How much blood do you usually drink?"

"God, I don't know...I'm trying to quit." The hero stared at them. The silence was uncomfortable and the villain didn't know if they had said something wrong.

Then the hero huffed.

"And you say I'm the stupid one." They rolled their eyes. "So, severe undernourishment, I guess. That's why you're so weak."

"Ey, I am alright-"

"Which makes this even more baffling. What is an undernourished vampire doing in a supervillain facility?"

"What is an annoying hero doing here?"

"Saving a dumb vampire, apparently."

"Ugh. I was experimented on," the villain said. The hero had probably saved their life. That was something the villain certainly did not want to think about. Gosh, the hero was so annoying with their caring nature and their stupid curiousness. When they looked at the hero, though, they looked horrified. "No, all of it was voluntary. I got some money for it in return. Nothing bad, really."

"I got caught when I tried to steal some documents. They weren't that nice to me." The hero lifted their shirt and the villain saw two giant fresh bruises. The hero's ribs were definitely damaged.

"Shit..." the villain mumbled. "Scoot over. Are you okay?"

They let their fingers ghost over the hero's skin. Unsurprisingly, the hero flinched and threw their head back, cursing quietly.

"Looks broken. We need to get you out of here," the villain said.

"Wait, the experiments...they knew you were trying to quit with the blood?" the hero asked. They let their shirt fall down again but the villain couldn't help but think about the bruises.

Their own injuries healed pretty quickly. But they had totally forgotten that this would take days, maybe even weeks for the hero to get better. Humans were so fragile. They feared the hero could fall apart any second.

"...yeah, they encouraged it even."

"Great," the hero said. "This is the next phase of their experiments, then."

The villain stared at them. They thought they were on rather good terms with the company.

"Wait, you don't mean..."

"Yup. They really want to see if you'll eat me," the hero said. "Which also means we are definitely under surveillance."

[jellogram]

"Half-Hanged Mary" by Margaret Atwood was one of those poems that I had to read for school and never forgot. Everything about this poem lodged into my brain but I had a surprisingly difficult time finding the entire text online, so here it is, unedited, hopefully with all the correct spacing and inflections. Enjoy. I wish I could read it again for the first time.

7pm

Rumour was loose in the air

hunting for some neck to land on.

I was milking the cow,

the barn door open to the sunset.

I didn't feel the aimed word hit

and go in like a soft bullet.

I didn't feel the smashed flesh

closing over it like water

over a thrown stone.

I was hanged for living alone

for having blue eyes and a sunburned skin,

tattered skirts, few buttons,

a weedy farm in my own name,

and a surefire cure for warts;

Oh yes, and breasts,

and a sweet pear hidden in my body.

Whenever there's talk of demons

these come in handy.

8pm

The rope was an improvisation.

With time they'd have thought of axes.

Up I go like a windfall in reverse,

a blackened apple stuck back onto the tree.

Trussed hands, rag in my mouth,

a flag raised to salute the moon,

old bone‐faced goddess, old original,

who once took blood in return for food.

The men of the town stalk homeward,

excited by their show of hate,

their own evil turned inside out like a glove,

and me wearing it.

9pm

The bonnets come to stare,

the dark skirts also,

the upturned faces in between,

mouths closed so tight they're lipless.

I can see down into their eyeholes

and nostrils. I can see their fear.

You were my friend, you too.

I cured your baby, Mrs.,

and flushed yours out of you,

Non‐wife, to save your life.

Help me down? You don't dare.

I might rub off on you,

like soot or gossip. Birds

of a feather burn together,

though as a rule ravens are singular.

In a gathering like this one

the safe place is the background,

pretending you can't dance,

the safe stance pointing a finger.

I understand. You can't spare

anything, a hand, a piece of bread, a shawl

against the cold,

a good word. Lord

knows there isn't much

to go around. You need it all.

10pm

Well God, now that I'm up here

with maybe some time to kill

away from the daily

fingerwork, legwork, work

at the hen level,

we can continue our quarrel,

the one about free will.

Is it my choice that I'm dangling

like a turkey's wattles from this

more than indifferent tree?

If Nature is Your alphabet,

what letter is this rope?

Does my twisting body spell out Grace?

I hurt, therefore I am.

Faith, Charity, and Hope

are three dead angels

falling like meteors or

burning owls across

the profound blank sky of Your face.

12 midnight

My throat is taut against the rope

choking off words and air;

I'm reduced to knotted muscle.

Blood bulges in my skull,

my clenched teeth hold it in;

I bite down on despair

Death sits on my shoulder like a crow

waiting for my squeezed beet

of a heart to burst

so he can eat my eyes

or like a judge

muttering about sluts and punishment

and licking his lips

or like a dark angel

insidious in his glossy feathers

whispering to me to be easy

on myself. To breathe out finally.

Trust me, he says, caressing

me. Why suffer?

A temptation, to sink down

into these definitions.

To become a martyr in reverse,

or food, or trash.

To give up my own words for myself,

my own refusals.

To give up knowing.

To give up pain.

To let go.

2am

Out of my mouth is coming, at some

distance from me, a thin gnawing sound

which you could confuse with prayer except that

praying is not constrained.

Or is it, Lord?

Maybe it's more like being strangled

than I once thought. Maybe it's

a gasp for air, prayer.

Did those men at Pentecost

want flames to shoot out of their heads?

Did they ask to be tossed

on the ground, gabbling like holy poultry,

eyeballs bulging?

As mine are, as mine are.

There is only one prayer; it is not

the knees in the clean nightgown

on the hooked rug

I want this, I want that.

Oh far beyond.

Call it Please. Call it Mercy.

Call it Not yet, not yet,

as Heaven threatens to explode

inwards in fire and shredded flesh, and the angels caw.

3am

Wind seethes in the leaves around

me the tree exude night

birds night birds yell inside

my ears like stabbed hearts my heart

stutters in my fluttering cloth

body I dangle with strength

going out of me the wind seethes

in my body tattering

the words I clench

my fists hold No

talisman or silver disc my lungs

flail as if drowning I call

on you as witness I did

no crime I was born I have borne I

bear I will be born this is

a crime I will not

acknowledge leaves and wind

hold onto me

I will not give in

6am

Sun comes up, huge and blaring,

no longer a simile for God.

Wrong address. I've been out there.

Time is relative, let me tell you

I have lived a millennium.

I would like to say my hair turned white

overnight, but it didn't.

Instead it was my heart:

bleached out like meat in water.

Also, I'm about three inches taller.

This is what happens when you drift in space

listening to the gospel

of the red‐hot stars.

Pinpoints of infinity riddle my brain,

a revelation of deafness.

At the end of my rope

I testify to silence.

Don't say I'm not grateful.

Most will have only one death.

I will have two.

8am

When they came to harvest my corpse

(open your mouth, close your eyes)

cut my body from the rope,

surprise, surprise:

I was still alive.

Tough luck, folks,

I know the law:

you can't execute me twice

for the same thing. How nice.

I fell to the clover, breathed it in,

and bared my teeth at them

in a filthy grin.

You can imagine how that went over.

Now I only need to look

out at them through my sky‐blue eyes.

They see their own ill will

staring them in the forehead

and turn tail

Before, I was not a witch.

But now I am one.

Later

My body of skin waxes and wanes

around my true body,

a tender nimbus.

I skitter over the paths and fields

mumbling to myself like crazy,

mouth full of juicy adjectives

and purple berries.

The townsfolk dive headfirst into the bushes

to get out of my way.

My first death orbits my head,

an ambiguous nimbus,

medallion of my ordeal.

No one crosses that circle.

Having been hanged for something

I never said,

I can now say anything I can say.

Holiness gleams on my dirty fingers,

I eat flowers and dung,

two forms of the same thing, I eat mice

and give thanks, blasphemies

gleam and burst in my wake

like lovely bubbles.

I speak in tongues,

my audience is owls.

My audience is God,

because who the hell else could understand me?

Who else has been dead twice?

The words boil out of me,

coil after coil of sinuous possibility.

The cosmos unravels from my mouth,

all fullness, all vacancy.

[farfromsugafanfic]

Sutures - Chapter Ten: Amiodarone

Genre: Soulmates AU, Idiots to Lovers, slight Enemies to Lovers

Pairing: Yoongi/Named Reader

Warnings (chapter specific): family member hospitalization, therapy, angst if you squint

Synopsis: “A person often meets his destiny on the road he took to avoid it.” –Jean de la Fontaine

There was only one thing you and Min Yoongi had in common that night. You were both brokenhearted. You only intended to be together for one night, but when you both end up in the hospital the next day you discover that you are soulmates. It could kill you to be apart. As you and Yoongi attempt to sever the bond between you, will another be formed?

Previous | Series Masterlist | Next

The first thing you felt--before you opened your eyes--was Yoongi's white T-shirt against your cheek and the warmth of his skin beneath it. His arm was around you and his hand rested on the peak of your hip. You opened your eyes and looked up to see his hair splayed across his forehead and his lips pouted.

You smiled as you slowly removed yourself from Yoongi's arms. He stirred as you stood up and were away from his grasp, but he softly moved as he rolled onto his side and his arms reached for where you had once been. You could get used to waking up next to Yoongi every morning. Something about the way he missed you--even when he wasn't awake--made your heart swell.

You quickly pushed those thoughts away as you took two mugs from the table and flipped them right side up. While you were used to cheap hotels with packages of instant coffee and--if you were lucky--an electric tea kettle, this hotel, however, had a full coffee maker and a few coffee brands to choose from. You chose a brand you recognized and placed it in the coffee maker.

It wasn't long before the entire room smelled of coffee. As you were pouring the second cup of coffee, you felt a soft touch on your waist and turned to catch Yoongi's soft smile and messy hair as he reached for one of the mugs.

"Thanks," he said, his voice raspy and deep.

You nodded and took a sip of your coffee and sat down at the table, Yoongi soon following and sitting across from you.

"You like it black?"

"Yeah," you said. "My dad would always drink it black and when I was old enough that's how he made it for me. It just kind of stuck."

"Do you miss them?"

"Of course," you said. "It's hard when they're so far away, but I don't regret staying here. I can make a living here, more so than I could in the US."

"When did you see them last?"

"Around a year ago. Minki came with me and it was the first time he'd been to the US and the first time he met my family. They didn't like him that much. I guess I should've listened to them." You chuckled sardonically and took a large sip of coffee, creating a silence--while not uncomfortable--had a small bit of tension laced in. "What about you? You don't get to see your family much either, right? Being an idol and all?"

The question caused him to sit up straight and meet your eyes before quickly looking back down at the wooden table. "Uh, yeah, we usually see our families a couple of times a year. Usually towards the end of the year and then sporadically throughout. Some see their families more often cause they live near Seoul, but getting to Daegu is hard. We didn't always get along when I first moved, so it was hard for a while."

"Oh," you said. While all families fight and disagree, you couldn't imagine not talking to your family or not having their support. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be," he said. "We've moved past it. It was a long time ago. We talk more often now and they really want to meet you."

You laughed, not sure if it was from the nerves of thinking about meeting his family or simply because the idea itself was laughable because you weren't in a relationship. "Why? I mean, they know what we're trying to do, right?"

"Yeah," he said. "They're convinced it won't work though. We're soulmates. We'll always come back to each other."

"It's worked before. Pairs of soulmates able to distance themselves and move on. I think we can do it."

"Yeah," he said, his words punctuated by sips of coffee. "Yeah, we can." There were a few moments of silence before he set his mug down and his eyes met yours. "So, I promised you a proper date, but after everything that happened yesterday, do you want to risk going out into the city?"

"Not really," you said. "I don't even want to leave the room. I want to see the city, but it makes me nervous just thinking about going back out there."

Yoongi reached across the table, his fingers brushing over the back of your hand. "I'll bring you back someday when we can properly wander the city."

Your stomach flipped. You knew it was probably just an empty promise and supposed to be comforting, but considering you had just talked about distancing yourselves from one another, it seemed unwise to promise, even something empty and trivial.

---

Two hours later and the two of you were laid on the bed, close, but not touching. Empty plates littered the bedside tables and each of you held a wine glass in your hand. You smiled as you sipped the deep red alcohol and felt as a buzz came over your senses. It wasn't unpleasant, just like a small vibration in your head. The same one that had convinced you to sleep with Yoongi the first time you met him.

"You're sure this isn't too much?" you asked, glancing down at the nearly three hundred dollar room service bill.

Yoongi laughed. "You really don't have to worry about it."

"It makes me feel bad," you said. "Will you let me pay for something later?"

"If it makes you feel better." His fingers glided over the skin of your left hand that rested on the bed, dangerously close to his thigh.

The couple in the movie you were watching kissed and you felt a stirring low in your stomach. It had been so long since you'd felt Yoongi's lips on yours. You knew he was feeling the same way, as he squirmed slightly beside you.

"You feel it, too?"

"Yeah," he said. "We need to try and resist it."

"Didn't the therapist say to try and get through it with mainly friendly things?"

"I think so."

His arm came around you and his skin felt like ice on a sunburn. You nearly let out a moan. You wanted to feel his lips on your neck and his hands on your thighs. The bruising way he grabbed your skin without leaving any bruises. How his hair looked pushed back and the way his lips swelled after even the softest of kisses.

"Yoongi, can--can I kiss you?"

"I don't think that's exactly friendly."

"Just one," you said. "It'll be less than we did last time this happened."

"All right," he said. "But, we can't let it go too far."

You nodded and shifted so that you faced him, the front of your body pressed into his side. His hand came to rest on the small of you back and his lips came to meet yours before you'd fully closed your eyes.

They were soft, like always. You could taste the red wine on his lips and the hesitation as he pushed the tip of his tongue into your mouth. His hand bunched the fabric of your T-shirt and your hands laced in his hair. You never wanted to let go.

Yoongi pulled away first, although his eyes were pained as he did so. He reached up and smoothed your hair back.

"Damn," he said. "If only I'd met you before Jihee."

"Yoongi, you can't mean that."

"Maybe if it was a different time, or if I wasn't an idol, I don't know, but I like to think there's a universe where we work out."

Your lips formed words you hadn't thought of yet when your phone vibrated on the bed beside you. You reached for it and saw it was your mom. It was nearing 9 p.m. in Los Angeles and your mom normally called you just after dinner. 

"I--uh--have to take this." 

---

You walked into the bathroom and answered the phone as you shut the door. 

"Mom? Hey, what's going on?" 

"Sumi!" Your mom's voice sounded panicked. "Are you still in Japan?" 

"Yeah, we're flying back to Korea tomorrow?" You paused. "Is everything okay? You don't usually call me at this time." 

"Well, I don't want to worry you. I want you to enjoy the rest of your time in Japan, okay?"

"Okay..."

"Grandma fell and is in the hospital. She broke her wrist and the doctors say her blood sugar was too low. They don't know what caused it yet, but they're going to monitor her for a few days." 

You nodded and already felt the tears forming in your eyes. Your grandmother was nearing ninety and you knew your time with her was limited, but she'd been the one to encourage you to stay in Korea and do what you wanted. She always knew and wanted what was best for you and you loved her more than anyone for it. 

"Okay," you said, your voice cracking. "Is there anything I can do?" 

"Call when you get back tomorrow. If she's feeling better, I'm sure she'd love to talk to you." 

"Of course. I'll call as soon as I'm back." You reached up and wiped the few tears that had managed to squeeze out. "Just keep me updated."

You heard a soft knock on the door as you hung up the door. You opened it and met with a soft-eyed Yoongi, his arms almost immediately coming to rest on your hips. 

"Everything okay?" 

"Uh. yeah," you said. "My grandma's in the hospital. It's not too concerning at the moment, I just, uh, get a bit emotional when it comes to her." 

He nodded and led you back to the bed. He didn't say anything else, just electing to keep one of his arms around your shoulders and turn the volume on the movie up. He handed you an unopened bag of cookies as if he knew it was exactly what you needed. 

---

A few days later

"So, how are things going?" the therapist asked, her notebook resting on her lap and her glasses slid down the bridge of her nose. 

"Uh, well, we get along better now. I-I think we understand each other better now. But, we've run into something a little more worrisome." 

"What's that?" 

"Well, we had a fight a while ago. I'm fairly close with his other members and one of them was trying to comfort me and when he touched me, I burned him." 

"Yeah, I also have a weird emotional attachment to her. Like, my emotions are tied to hers. If she's sad, then I feel overwhelmingly sad until she's happy again." 

You turned to Yoongi with your lips pursed in curiosity. "What?" 

"Oh, I thought you'd caught onto to that." 

You had noticed that Yoongi had seemed to understand you better recently. He was always there whenever your mood flatlined, you soon found Yoongi coming with a snack or a cup of tea. Sometimes he stuck around and sometimes he didn't, but he never failed to jumpstart your mood.

"Is this happening constantly or only after a conflict?" 

"I'm always tuned into her emotions. However, negative emotions always come through the strongest, whether caused by me or not." 

You felt him looking at you and it caused your cheeks to heat. "Oh, the burning happened twice. Once as we mentioned and the second time I burnt through another's T-shirt, but I didn't actually burn him." 

The therapist nodded and chewed on the end of her pen. "There aren't many precedents for these sorts of things, as you know, soulmates are rare. It's even rarer for a pair to decide they don't want to be together. The physical symptoms we've seen before were not that different from the ones you're exhibiting." She jotted down a few notes and flipped back to a previous page. "Now that you're exhibiting these symptoms though, it means that you've grown to the stage where we can begin to back off the connection.

"The only things you two need to do is to try and minimize the conflict between the two of you, continue resisting urges to the best of your ability, and we will be prescribing some medication. Since such a high profile soulmates case has come up, the interest in research recently has increased and so your medical treatment may change. So, you'll need to go in for a checkup in after about a week on the new medication."

"I have a quick question," Yoongi said. "My, uh, parents really want to meet Sumi. They know we're trying to break this and everything, but we have some time off and I was wondering if that would hurt things if she came with me to Daegu?"

The therapist shrugged. "I don't see why it would. It's perfectly fine for the two of you to act as friends and you have to stay together until the bond is completely severed. However, if something feels off during the visit, leave." 

You looked at Yoongi. He'd left you speechless for the second time during the appointment. He never brought up meeting his parents, only that they wanted to meet you. Your palms went clammy and you began to pick at the skin around your fingernails. You wished you'd brought your needles.

---

"You never mentioned actually meeting your parents," you said, carrying your prescription and ducking into the car before anyone could catch sight of you and Yoongi. 

"I didn't really think it was happening, but, I don't know. If we only have one soulmate, I want them to meet mine."

"Okay," you said. "I-uh-I just don't have much time to prepare." 

"What? Why would you need to prepare?"

"So they'll like me." 

"You don't need to worry about that, Sumi. They'll love you." 

---

Mom (3:45 am): Sumi!

You (3:47 am): Yes? Is everything all right?

Mom (3:49 am): Hey, isn't it early there? Shouldn't you be asleep?

You (3:50 am): It's all right. How's Grandma?

Mom (3:52 am): Oh, she's fine. She's getting discharged now. She's actually in fairly good spirits. You'll never guess what arrived this morning.

Sumi (3:53 am): What?

Mom (3:55 am):

Mom (3:55 am): From Min Yoongi. It made her so happy. Give him our thanks.

[aliceslantern]

Nocturnal Memory, a Kingdom Hearts fanfic, chapter 17

[Summary:  Dying takes a lot out of you, it's true, but when Demyx wakes up for the first time since his fight with Sora nothing's right. His memories are fragmented and he's missing his true name. And he's not the only one. An incomprehensible mystery and an inevitable war make him question what, exactly, he would do to become whole, and reclaim the music lost to him.

on FF.net/on AO3]

The next few weeks became a bleary slog between work and training. He didn't even have time to try and fix the guitar, but even if he did, he doubted he could. The weather got hotter and drier. He got sorer and sorer, but found that, after a while, those mortar bags weren't so heavy, and he could get through a day without feeling like death.

And he wasn't great with the knife, maybe, but he could at least block things now. The first time he disarmed Lea came as a surprise to both of them. He was finally starting to pick up on the whole "holes in the guard" thing. It was in the timing. There was always a brief break in defense after Lea attacked, of course, when he normally sprang back. Only this time, Demyx was actually able to slip in a solid kick to the stomach and knock Lea off balance. After so many weeks of getting beat up, it was satisfying.

"Well," Lea said, coughing, "It's about fucking time."

"…You don't remember your parents, do you?"

Talking to Yuffie was still like treading a minefield. However tentative their interactions were—even friendly at times—the wrong thing could make her mad. "Only my mom a little," he admitted. They'd built quite a bit of the aqueduct at that point. The goal was to finish it by summer, so the dry season wouldn't be so straining. "I don't think I ever had a dad."

"My mom died when she gave birth to me." There was pink sunburn across her nose and she scratched at it, getting gray mortar onto her face. "We didn't exactly have an Aerith at that point."

"I'm sorry."

She shrugged. "I never really knew her to miss her."

"Sometimes it feels like I came out of thin air. Or an act of will."

She laughed. "I know how that is. Even my dad, when faced with a kid, was like, what the hell is this? I think that looks pretty good."

The compliment took him off guard. "Uh, thanks. Once I had to watch these guys build a stone wall for days. I had to get into this noble's palace to steal a scroll. Those dark corridors work, but they're pretty conspicuous, so I couldn't just teleport my way in. I guess I picked something up then. I picked up a lot of skills that way. I'm not a half bad potter. I can weave pretty well."

"A lot of marketable skills."

He snorted. "Yeah, right. "Hello mister job man? Here's my résumé. I know it says I was part of an evil organization, but I'm experienced, I promise." Shit. How am I supposed to get a job if we get through all this?"

She sighed. "Hell if I know. They always make it sound like we're fucked."

"We kind of are."

"I don't want to believe that." She heaved down a stone. "We've always fought. We probably always will fight. We'll pull through."

"What if we don't?" Demyx put down his trowel.

She turned. "What do you mean, if we don't?"

"If we lose."

"Weren't you all just "hey I want to fight with you guys!" a few days ago? You can't think like that." Her cheeks were turning red. "You're not allowed."

Here we go. "I'm allowed to feel however I want."

"Fuck that." She brushed the dust off of her legs. "Let's go eat. I'm starving."

Sometimes Demyx would wonder if following through with his drunken epiphany was a good idea. All the evidence pointed to the fact that they would absolutely get crushed. Sora's uncertainty, mounting reports that worlds were flooding with Xehanort's darkness… It didn't look good. And every time he even allowed himself to consider what being a double agent might mean, his heart started to race and he couldn't breathe and the room around him seemed dizzy.

Yuffie was right about some things, though. There wasn't really any way to sit idly by, as tempting as it was. If he bailed now, he'd still be surrounded by the plan making and the statistics and the-this and the-that. There was no escape, literally or figuratively; he didn't have any control over the dark corridors anymore. And where would he go?

Besides… he very nearly had friends. At the end of the day the committee would ask him along to dinner, and they would just… hang out. No talking about the war, or Xehanort… they talked about normal people things. It was a bizarre sensation.

Cid liked to play cards. He had a battered old deck that Demyx was positive he'd marked. Mostly they played—funnily enough—Hearts. It was the only card game that Demyx was competent at.

"You know you're the only one to beat me," Cid said. He tapped out a cigarette and lit another. Cid's smoking was getting heavier and heavier. Demyx didn't know how he afforded it.

"I don't believe that."

"Leon's sick of it and Yuffie's terrible."

He shuffled the deck again. "21?"

"…I guess."

"Where'd you learn all this stuff, kid?"

He shrugged. "Ten. Mostly." Luxord hadn't frequently invited him along to the card parties, but any time he had had certainly been an experience.

Cid dealt them each a few cards. "Say we make this more interesting."

"Good luck with that. I'm broke."

"Say if I win… you buy me a cigarette."

He laughed. "Alright, fine. And if I win… you give me yours."

Cid smirked. "Hit or sit?"

He looked at the two cards on the table in front of him—ace and eight. It was a shame he was never this lucky in real life. "…Sit."

Cid turned over his other card; cool sixteen. With an expression Demyx guessed was supposed to be calm and confident, he pulled another card. A six. "…Motherfucker. All right. A deal's a deal. Though joke's on you, I only have three left." He handed over the pack. "Remind me to never play with you again."

He lit up one of his prizes. "Oh, don't be a sore loser."

Cid grimaced when the smoke hit his face.

June ended without much comment. Three days of rain trapped them all within their respective houses. This was apparently a sign of the dry season coming. Demyx helped Dilan set up a rain collection tank on the roof.

"Haven't seen hide or hair of you in days," Dilan said gruffly. They both hefted the tank into place on one of the drains.

"Well. We wanted to get most of the aqueduct done to get this rain."

""We."" He gave the tank a solid kick. "Is that connected?"

"Feels like it."

"I'm glad you're at least following your convictions." His tone was bitter.

"What does that mean?"

"I'm merely surprised."

For a moment he could only stand there, speechless, as rain pattered off of their jackets.

"The situation gets grimmer by the day," Dilan continued. "I figured you, of all people, would be long gone. I admit it gets tempting."

"I can't leave," he said.

"What on earth is holding you here?"

"I can't use the corridors. I don't want to. Isn't this your home? Don't you care about it?"

Dilan shook his head. "I'm afraid I have nothing left from what made this place home."

In the distance, thunder boomed.

"I don't want you to make any mistakes," Dilan said. "You'll as good as get yourself killed."

Demyx's hands shook.

"Goodness, you needn't listen to me. If this is how you want to waste your life, go ahead." He shook his head and started towards the door.

"I am so sick of people telling me how I should feel or what I should do." His voice was barely audible. "This… sage advice…"

Dilan didn't look impressed.

"I don't want to hear it anymore. From anyone. I'm… I'm going for a walk."

Dilan shook his head and started towards the door. "Very well."

His clothes were nearly soaking by the time he was down by the ground. He crammed his hands deeper into his pockets. It was raining so hard he could barely see. Cold drops snaked down his neck. His eyes were hot.

He wasn't sure this was the right choice. Not really. But he was doing something good, he was being almost normal. Better than sitting holed up in that castle, bored and alone and stewing in his own memories, conscious of the pressing quiet around him…

The sound of the rain sharpened. The air was humid and hard to breathe.

Ahead he saw a shadow, blobby and black, below the archway leading towards the marketplace. He figured it was some sort of Heartless and drew the knife, but it disappeared.

A human arm tightened around his neck. He floundered and tried to remember what Lea had taught him, but sharp panic clouded his head. Demyx flailed and tried to yell, but a bony hand in a leather glove covered his mouth. He bit one of the fingers hard, but the figure didn't relent. He dropped like a rock, figuring that maybe his weight would take them off guard, but they countered with a sharp kick to his groin. He crumpled and saw stars. He heard them pick up his useless knife and struggled to move, but he hadn't yet caught his breath.

He heard the cut more than he felt it, right into his belly. The figure twisted the handle. Demyx tried to scream but the shock had paralyzed him; he could only exhale sharply.

He was forced onto his back. The figure grabbed at his face. Demyx could only see the maw of the black hood. The figure pulled back his eyelids, took a good look, yanked out the knife, and was gone.

For a moment he lay on his side. Blood spooled out of him, quickly diluted by the rain. He struggled to sit up. He had to yell, to make some sort of noise; he couldn't breathe. The rain seemed squiggly and the wound inside him burned. He sat up and immediately fell as pain crashed through him.

He wasn't going to die like this. He refused.

Darkness encroached his vision and he saw another blur, in violet, coming towards him. He started shivering. He tried to call for help but was too busy passing out.

Trembling and feverishness all over. The room was blurry and dim. Something sticky and cool clung to his chest and side. His head pounded.

He must have slipped in and out of consciousness. Shadows came into the room and left. He couldn't see well.

A memory smoothly unfurled. "Don't go." His own voice, to his mother, her lying there still in the bed. The air was freezing; a storm was coming. The water looked green. He was on some sort of boat, up high, looking down when the first shadow climbed across the horizon—

The stickiness on his body smelled like menthol. He couldn't focus his eyes but he could see now at least a little. The room was warm in color, dim, and a fire burned in a fireplace at the corner. A brown-haired figure hummed a little tune as she did something at a cabinet against the wall.

He tried to speak. His mouth was so dry. "…Aerith?"

Her head snapped up and she rushed over. "You're awake," she said. She checked his pulse.

"What… what…"

"Don't speak. I'm so glad Yuffie found you when she did…"

He felt like he'd been hit by a freight train. A gummy cloth clung to practically his whole torso. Rain still pattered against the roof. "What day is it?"

"It's only been about twenty-four hours."

"…Really?" He lay still. She poked at the gummy cloth. "What happened?" He vaguely remembered—the shadow, his own knife.

"A Heartless hurt you pretty badly. There's a new pureblood that's very stealthy. It poisoned you."

"…Heartless?"

"It punctured your side." He tried to sit up; she pushed him back down. "I only just was able to remove the poison."

"No, it wasn't a Heartless, it was… something else… A person. I saw them." He clutched at her sleeve.

"One of the symptoms of the poison is hallucinations. You more than likely made that up." She smiled.

"No." That couldn't be true. "No, I didn't. I swear. They—they stabbed me with my own knife—" So much for not being able to be poisoned. No wonder he'd been able to get drunk so easily.

"Your weapon was in its holster when Yuffie found you." She pointed to a small night table, where the holster lay on top of his shirt and jacket. "It happens. You're not the first person that thing attacked. How do you feel?"

Demyx half believed her. The fight already was distant and faded. He'd only seen the shadow… the maw of the head… how could he be sure…

He knew that beading and those zippers anywhere.

"My head is killing me."

"I'd be surprised if it didn't. Like a bad hangover, right?"

He shook his head dismissively. "What's this green stuff?"

"It's a healing tissue. I couldn't help but take a crack at those scars. I hope you don't mind. It seemed to help at least a little."

He wasn't sure how he felt about it.

"I can probably take it off, actually. I know it's not that pleasant." She pulled at an end of the cloth and helped him sit up. It sounded sticky and wet when it came off his skin and made him shudder. "I know you must feel sick, but you healed well." Most of the stuff was off of him, other than a patch stuck to his side. "Not all patients are so good."

"Or so unconscious."

She shrugged. "How has this rain been treating you?"

"Well, other than getting stabbed—" She yanked at the patch and it came off painfully, causing him to swear.

"The medicine in this tends to fuse with the skin. Nobody likes it," she explained.

He looked at his side, amazed to find no wound, only a red patch. "This healing stuff sure is complicated. Aren't you supposed to just cast Cure and be done?" He remembered his weeks and weeks of recovery, and how he'd always felt like they were dragging it out.

"Cure is nothing but a temporary metabolic boost that'll make the tissue grow back without treating anything. You can get into real trouble that way. Not to mention, get into a serious caloric deficit." She handed him a glass of water. She'd put the green stuff back into a glass jar full of iridescent liquid. "I'm afraid I couldn't do much for these after all." She poked gently at some of the scars.

"It's… all right." He wished he had something to put on to cover himself up. At least she'd left on his underwear.

"You really have been through a lot," she said lightly.

"I guess so." He looked into the glass of water, which shimmered slightly in the poor lighting. "Aerith, how did you know you wanted to fight back?"

She thought about this, twisting the end of her braid. "I never really had any other option. I was… very young when this world fell. It impacted every part of me. I want to make sure that doesn't happen again."

"Is that why you took up healing?"

"Maybe." She drifted in thought for a moment. "I know it must feel different for you and the others."

He laughed awkwardly, sending a spasm of pain through his side. "Well. Some of this mess is our fault. How can we not clean it up?"

""We"? Or "I"?"

Demyx shrugged.

She stood. "Why don't you get some rest? I'll tell everyone that you're okay."

[xwitches-gardenx]

Half-Hanged Mary-Margaret Atwood

7pm

Rumour was loose in the air hunting for some neck to land on. I was milking the cow,

the barn door open to the sunset.

I didn't feel the aimed word hit and go in like a soft bullet.

I didn't feel the smashed flesh closing over it like water

over a thrown stone.

I was hanged for living alone

for having blue eyes and a sunburned skin, tattered skirts, few buttons,

a weedy farm in my own name,

and a surefire cure for warts;

Oh yes, and breasts,

and a sweet pear hidden in my body. Whenever there's talk of demons these come in handy.

8pm

The rope was an improvisation.

With time they'd have thought of axes.

Up I go like a windfall in reverse,

a blackend apple stuck back onto the tree.

Trussed hands, rag in my mouth, a flag raised to salute the moon,

old bone-faced goddess, old original, who once took blood in return for food.

The men of the town stalk homeward, excited by their show of hate,

their own evil turned inside out like a glove, and me wearing it.

9pm

The bonnets come to stare,

the dark skirts also,

the upturned faces in between, mouths closed so tight they're lipless. I can see down into their eyeholes and nostrils. I can see their fear.

You were my friend, you too. I cured your baby, Mrs.,

and flushed yours out of you, Non-wife, to save your life.

Help me down? You don't dare.

I might rub off on you,

like soot or gossip. Birds

of a feather burn together,

though as a rule ravens are singular.

In a gathering like this one

the safe place is the background, pretending you can't dance,

the safe stance pointing a finger.

I understand. You can't spare

anything, a hand, a piece of bread, a shawl

against the cold,

a good word. Lord

knows there isn't much

to go around. You need it all.

10pm

Well God, now that I'm up here with maybe some time to kill away from the daily fingerwork, legwork, work

at the hen level,

we can continue our quarrel, the one about free will.

Is it my choice that I'm dangling like a turkey's wattles from his more then indifferent tree?

If Nature is Your alphabet, what letter is this rope?

Does my twisting body spell out Grace? I hurt, therefore I am.

Faith, Charity, and Hope

are three dead angels

falling like meteors or

burning owls across

the profound blank sky of Your face.

12 midnight

My throat is taut against the rope choking off words and air;

I'm reduced to knotted muscle. Blood bulges in my skull,

my clenched teeth hold it in; I bite down on despair

Death sits on my shoulder like a crow waiting for my squeezed beet

of a heart to burst

so he can eat my eyes

or like a judge

muttering about sluts and punishment and licking his lips

or like a dark angel

insidious in his glossy feathers whispering to me to be easy

on myself. To breathe out finally. Trust me, he says, caressing

me. Why suffer?

A temptation, to sink down into these definitions.

To become a martyr in reverse, or food, or trash.

To give up my own words for myself,

my own refusals.

To give up knowing. To give up pain.

To let go.

2 a.m.

Out of my mouths is coming, at some

distance from me, a thin gnawing sound

which you could confuse with prayer except that praying is not constrained.

Or is it, Lord?

Maybe it’s more like being strangled than I once thought. Maybe it’s

a gasp for air, prayer.

Did those men at Pentecost

want flames to shoot out of their heads? Did they ask to be tossed

on the ground, gabbling like holy poultry, eyeballs bulging?

As mine are, as mine are.

There is only one prayer; it is not the knees in the clean nightgown on the hooked rug.

I want this, I want that.

Oh far beyond.

Call it Please. Call it Mercy.

Call it Not yet, not yet,

as Heaven threatens to explode

inwards in fire and shredded flesh, and the angels caw.

3 a.m.

wind seethes in the leaves around me the trees exude night

birds night birds yell inside

my ears like stabbed hearts my heart stutters in my fluttering cloth

body I dangle with strength going out of the wind seethes in my body tattering

the words I clench

my fists hold No

talisman or silver disc my lungs flail as if drowning I call

on you as witness I did

no crime I was born I have borne I bear I will be born this is

a crime I will not

acknowledge leaves and wind hold on to me

I will not give in

6 a.m.

Sun comes up, huge and blaring, no longer a simile for God.

Wrong address. I’ve been out there.

Time is relative, let me tell you I have lived a millennium.

I would like to say my hair turned white overnight, but it didn’t.

Instead it was my heart;

bleached out like meat in water.

Also, I’m about three inches taller.

This is what happens when you drift in space listening to the gospel

of the red hot stars.

Pinpoints of infinity riddle my brain,

a revelation of deafness.

At the end of my rope I testify to silence.

Don’t say I’m not grateful.

Most will only have one death. I will have two.

8 a.m.

When they came to harvest my corpse (open your mouth, close your eyes) cut my body from the rope,

surprise, surprise,

I was still alive.

Tough luck, folks,

I know the law:

you can’t execute me twice for the same thing. How nice.

I fell to the clover, breathed it in,

and bared my teeth at them

in a filthy grin.

You can imagine how that went over.

Now I only need to look

out at them through my sky-blue eyes. They see their own ill will

staring them in the forehead

and turn tail.

Before, I was not a witch. But now I am one.

Later

My body of skin waxes and wanes around my true body,

a tender nimbus.

I skitter over the paths and fields, mumbling to myself like crazy, mouth full of juicy adjectives

and purple berries.

The townsfolk dive headfirst into the bushes to get out of my way.

My first death orbits my head, an ambiguous nimbus, medallion of my ordeal.

No one crosses that circle.

Having been hanged for something I never said,

I can now say anything I can say.

Holiness gleams on my dirty fingers,

I eat flowers and dung,,

two forms of the same thing, I eat mice and give thanks, blasphemies

gleam and burst in my wake like lovely bubbles.

I speak in tongues,

my audience is owls.

My audience is God,

because who the hell else could understand me?

The words boil out of me,

coil after coil of sinuous possibility. The cosmos unravels from my mouth, all fullness, all vacancy.