“Walk the same tale over and over."

[decthless]

#decthless

written by   lenny .   she/her   .   28   .   brt   .

"No matter how fast light travels, it finds the darkness has always got there first, and is waiting for it."

nuwa sheng, he/him. 31. (luo yunxi) |  intro. tags.

kwon baeksa, he/him/they/them/it. 22. (lee felix) |  intro. tags.

[aubadement]

Lorcan may as well have carried the traveling bag for show, considering how little of his personal affairs was placed within. He'd lost much of everything once the village had been blown to bits and he'd not been quite inclined to rummage through the wreckage - and bits of loved ones - to find anything else of his. What had mattered was what had already been with him; his bow and bundle of arrows, those which he could make rather quickly through habitual practice. Still, the bag had a secondary pair of clothes, a few bronze coins, and little else. The secondary pair of clothes may have also been defunct considering Lenyra's adamant decree that he be fashioned with something less assaulting on the eyes. Plus, under her sponsorship there would be time for him to shop for clothes instead of having them personally sewn by another in the village. The village - gods, would there be a moment when his mind no longer wandered there? No, not quite - though his mind had a point for wandering there this moment, for each day, on every day, for the last near forty days, Lorcan had carried this useless parcel with the two bronze coins and pair of clothes. At the notion of the sudden difference, Lorcan peered inside, raising a brow at the creature who seemed rather damned to be discovered. ❝ Of all the things . . . I'd have imagined a mouse or a beetle in comparison to a snake . ❞ Stated in surprise rather than disappointment , ❝ Have you followed me out of the gardens , little fellow ? ❞ A brow had raised, reaching a hand forward despite the way they hissed; Lorcan was rather dexterous and felt confident he'd easily dodge a prospective bite from the pearlescent snake.

[decthless]

Little fellow, says the giant, earning a flicker of his pink tongue; a sharp, begrudging hissss as though it had understood every word and resented it; he did! Immediately, the little serpent is struck with the violent urge to strike against the massive hand that ventures into its den so carelessly and then... what if he was struck? What if they decided the gentleness was better spend elsewhere, and his beautiful scales might make a good satchel instead. He recoils once more, hiding in the dark, in its own coil as though it were afraid. It was, he was. The world was large and foreign, and he knew so little of it, only what he could gather from his little escapades, only to be pointed at and gawked at, and called little. What fault is it of his if everyone had decided to be born so awfully tall in this place? Perhaps there was somewhere out there where he would find others his size, where people were smaller, more malleable as he—he had not discovered such a place yet, all those books for naught. Can he not escape the grievance of being called little even in this form? He was not such a small serpent, was he? He knows he is not as formidable as his Haneul... but still—was his bite not as strong, as lethal?

There is a hand stretching, fingers unfurling towards him, and his first instinct is to bite—and then he thinks back on what a sad little burrow this one had made for him; a few bronze coins rattling about incessantly as he jostled within, a single pair of clothes folded clumsily within that he made a bed of. Had he nothing else? If he stung him, that might even be a kindness. How could anyone live like this? Did he have any idea how terribly sad those two pair of eyes staring back at him were? Tentatively, Baeksa peeks from his burrow—head rising, eyes gleaming with barely subdued curiosity, reaching towards the tips of his fingers with caution—he considers revealing himself, but decides against it—he might be a brute, searching for coin, and what would be of him, then? Testing the gentleness of the fingers that stretched his way, the white serpent eats the space in between, stretching its long, scaled form towards his wrist and languidly curling around the length of his arm like a silk ribbon, slowly climbing out of his burrow into the light. Where was he headed, he wonders? Perhaps—with some luck, he could show him a little more of the world.

[aenaos]

Her head feels stuffed. Each time the boy shrieks, her thoughts flutter into the air like feathers. They move in time with his breaths. Up and down, back and forth. There is a faint humming. The sound moves, and she follows it, trailing her head down the boy's chest in a slow drag of hair like river weed. She presses an ear to the vessel of his ribs and listens to the bees trapped within, his pulse buzzing angrily, wishing to break free of its cage. Nao swallows another lungful, rust trickling back down her throat and into her belly, which growls with hunger. She can taste it on her tongue. Ozone before the crack of thunder. The primordial longing of the flame for the wick. Water bubbling from a spring. Magic. So much of it. He is a pitcher stuffed to the brim, overflowing, a veritable cornucopia of milk and honey. Just a bite, a nibble. Nao licks her lips, but then she looks up and forgets her appetite.

He is beautiful.

Not in the way Nayuta is—no one could ever be as fair as she—but delectable to the eye. Enough to sate. She doesn't really want to do anything. Just wants to watch. And so she does, resting her chin on his chest, her eyes large and liquid and dark, like freshly wetted inkstones. Hello, she thinks. My name is Nao. I am quite adrift, but I mean no harm. The boy looks back at her, tears drying on his cheeks. He looks upset. She has upset him. Nao opens her mouth to speak, but only a low whine comes out. Her lungs are on the verge of failing her. Her mind races. What can she do? She thinks of the cat that once nursed her babies outside her cell and finds herself crawling closer. She licks the salt from his face, laving him with her tongue as the mother cat once did her kittens. Nuzzles his temple with her nose. Her breath smells of overripe fruit, sweetness and decay. She believes she may be dying again. With the last of her energy expended, Nao slumps down once more, her lips shaping a name over and over.

Nayuta. Nayuta. Nayuta.

She hopes the boy will feel less sad now. That is not a bad reason to return to existence, is it? To have kept his sorrows company? But she had really hoped to see her Yuty again, at least once, kiss her cheek and hold her hand. Tell her it's not her fault. That in the end, she chose.

Nao exhales. Closes her eyes. Dies.

[decthless]

The two of them: yin-yang, they clash, but fit against each other, limbs tangled in the grass like serpents mating in the summer. The sea of her hair cloaks him like a black lagoon and he is drowning; pitiful squeak of a creature, as insignificant as a cough, as small as a laugh; helpless, helpless and flailing until he stops—and she stops, and he is staring into the abyss of her eyes with a strange recognition, as though he sees his own reflection. And then everything stops, the dim pitter-patter of her own heartbeat with it. Thud... thud. Thud. His eyes widen, pupils shrunken into slits, and then wide as the moon, and his hand reaches for her grime-covered cheek. "You—!" he blinks once, twice, as if unwitting, dewy lashes like hoarfrost against the supple apples of his cheek. "Did you just...?" Some monster she is—turning yellow-bellied at the slightest of inconveniences...

The echoes of her spirit remain, dissonant, trapping within the shell of her; he can feel her, haunting her own body like a ghost with unfinished businesses.

"Ngh—off..." Baeksa grunts, the weight of her against his ribs almost numbing; his arm tingling, as if it wanted to sleep, and he grunts, pushing both hands against her chest. Off, off already! Such strenuous effort had his little little rabbit nose scrunching, eyes squeezing shut, tiny sounds of irremediable effort slipping through his throat. He hates how much effort it takes for him to just shove her, how his wrists ache afterwards, as he rolls her onto the grass, his own body next to her breathing heavy. The words of his father ripple back in time, that man's voice as clear and unpleasant as the thunders that would have him weeping in Haneul's arms like a child during bad storms; "this is your strategy? Shielding the weakest link in our bloodline forever and hoping the magistrate won't notice that he's more serpent than man half the time? That he still clings to you like a child? That he's never held a position, never managed an estate, never done a single thing to prove he's anything more than a drain on this house's resources?" He feels his throat closing with barely contained anguish, rage, fists bunched against the grass, breathing heavy. What did he know? His Haneul told him he was strong—and they did not lie to each other, therefore, he must be strong. He would show that despicable old man, he would every fool who had perceived weakness in him. There was no healer better than he, even death itself cowered before him—and it would not claim that which he did not allow to be taken.

The young lord stirs, dragging himself closer, rolling onto his side, his body half perched on top of her, white silk poured like snow over her dead body—he brushes the hair from her face, his perilous gaze hovering with silent appraisal before his thumb moved to her lips, nudging her jaw open, smudging the red on his pale finger. "You owe me an apology—open," he murmurs to her, knowing she cannot hear, and arches his head back—the well of his throat outstretched, burning hot, the skin flushing with effort as something moves through him—bright and uncanny, shifting beneath the flesh, climbing up his throat; as he chokes and coughs, struggling to draw air, Baeksa plucks two fingers inside his own mouth—life must be taken to be given; and so he gives her a sliver of his own. A shiny globe of pure white glistens at the end of his spit-slick fingers, his eyes hazy, heaving as it's reaped from him. Unceremoniously, he shoves it into her own mouth, forcing it down her throat like bitter medicine. "Swallow..." he demands, as though she had any other choice.

[sidereius]

Could he not finish his sentences? Was there a malady of sorts that did not allow him to fully voice that which he half-whispered with his sweet lips, with that intoxicating tone of his, with his hands yet still on Adrian's skin? It lingered just as any ghost, the meaning his words could’ve carried. Doom, death. Come here, he felt outraged, and finish fastening that noose around my neck. They crave to join him in the dirt; scuffing their knees on the damp-dew, staining and tearing their robes in his name—both of them on the grass, on top of each other, looking at the moon while half-bared. It would not be the first time, it would be far from the last—but tonight, they will not kneel. Sheng may be the one pleading quite prettily, but it them who beg for an absolution that refuses to come. Say you do not care for me. But they are too scared—too scared now for even those half-promises, bound to be broken, have soothed them like a starving beast fed a poisoned morsel. A relief they ate greedily, from the hunger, from the fear of being without. “I wish that you missed me.” The admission tears flesh when it parts from them. Perhaps this is why Sheng never seemed to speak fully when it came to that most difficult. “I wish, I… This isn’t… This is not your problem, it is not. You cannot fail me on what has never been yours to carry. I won't accept your apology, for there it nothing to forgive. We can curse fate instead for it being so unfair, but this is a burden placed upon me. In another world,” And they sob, then, a wretched thing that escapes them from deeper than the heart. “I would’ve… I would’ve liked to be the tender creature you think me to be.” A sniff, and then their voice breaks. “But I’m not. And I never will be. I cannot.” The tears come again, this time uglier. Snot and face cringing like a child, as they try to rub it all away with the sleeve from the hand that has not been seized by his warmth. It is relief mixed with a horrid fear, both of what they had just offered, of what it would’ve meant had he said yes. “I just—Just look away! I just ask you to look away, stay at my side, but do not look… Do not make me lie to you again, or pretend. Do not,” They pause to swallow, to frown at him. “Do not make me some false thing.” Adrian would always be waiting for a knife hidden in a breast-pocket, even from those they might yearn to trust, but never with him. The light of him would not allow it. “For now, you care.” Adrian would allow this concession. They cradle his jaw on their hand, feel him, as the shape of him seeps past the cloth that unravels further in his presence. It should stop here, but Adrian has had a tendency to run head-first into that which hurts, even as a babe, even before they were able to slip into where such wounds would not take. They cannot help but look at his feet. In the night, they cannot tell how hurt they are. Adrian wants to heal him, turn the hourglass on its head, so that it dripped water the other way and they could have more time before the flood that would come. But they cannot help to ask—too scared not to. Prodding at the wound while begging it to scab, and instead opening it again; the bad blood pours, then, but it is a fear that it will never stop. “And after?” His patience was bound to wane, it must. It had to. Adrian never wished it to. They should just promise to keep him for tonight, let that fuel them for the little time to come until the end, but they are a greedy, damnable whelp. “Tomorrow, when we wake. What comes then?”

[decthless]

Love seeds itself in his lungs and the defeat of their collapse; his eyes are cruel things, his tongue crueler still. He smiles a little in only the way that the wolf can, too sharp, joyless, baring his teeth from pain as the thought of surrender washes ashore. There had always been the foolish hope in him that if only he chose his words more carefully, if only he listened harder, if only he loved more earnestly, some unseen lock would finally give beneath their ribcage, and he would be allowed in—instead, every key he offered was cast aside. Wrong, broken, wrong, wrong. As he was running out of keys, it occurs to him perhaps he was never meant to open it—they had locked and barred that door all by themselves, they'd curl up against the floor and bang their fists from the other side, but would never let him in. Was his help ever what they wanted? Or just his attention? To make of him a voyeur to their untimely demise?

All these years he stood, and here he was, still outside the door.

"Adrian, I have tried," He has always found so much sadness buried behind that single word; I tried, I'll try, I'll keep trying—it implies failure, defeat; tastes like it. "But you're the one who locked yourself away, out of my reach." he looks at—really looks at them, in a way that feels as though he might peel back the skin from their face. Was this their real face? Did they even remembered what it looked like? "This isn't about me not seeing you... this is about you being too afraid to let me."

"I am sorry. I'm sorry... that wasn't enough then…" his sooty lashes flicker downwards, burdened with memories that will never fade. "…I'm sorry I'm still not. I'm sorry even if you won't accept my apology." it feel futile on his tongue now, carrying an exhaustion that had settled bone-deep long before this turmoil of a night. "But I couldn't stand there and watch you get hurt that day," his voice has grown hoarse, grovely from too many apologies. "I still can't." his thumb brushed absently across the back of Adrian's hand, his thumb lingering where it shouldn't, tracing her knuckle before withdrawing altogether in quiet resignation.

His gaze lingered upon their tear-stained face with a tenderness that refused to sour into resentment—in the recess of his mind, the corners of his heart, he would always love him. How desperately he wished he could find that key, could gather every shattered piece them, put it together until Adrian saw what he saw. Yet the realization came with startling clarity: love could could offer a hand, not force another to see it had been extended. "Tell me truthfully, Adrian... if truth is what you want," his voice barely disturbed the night. "What evidence could I have shown to convinced you? What could I have said or done for you to believe me? Tell me... I'll say it." The question hung unanswered before he shook his head almost imperceptibly. "Is there even an answer? Will you keep pretending there is? That you didn't set me up to fail?" He knocks on a door without keys, asks him to see in complete darkness; he says you do not know me, you do not see me, but won't show themselves to him. What he did, he realized, might as well have been inconsequential. They wanted him to fail—and every answer, every word would not suffice, then.

He leaned on his knee to rise, groaning as he did; the stir beneath his ribs continued. He clutches at the wretched thing; he should not have come—he needed rest, meditation. Isolation. His spirit was uneasy, his soul was uneasy. His hands slip with reluctant gentleness as he withdraws, fingers curling reflexively, missing the warmth; it hurt, far more than he allowed his face to show. "If every kindness I offer becomes poison, and every attempt at getting close to you opens a new wound in you..." a jagged exhale caught in his lip, his hand tightening into fist to still a tremor. "...tell me what am I to do? I no longer know how to stand beside you without becoming part of your suffering. And I will not be complicit in your undoing... I did not pull you from the clutches of death with my own bare hands to watch you—" anger flickers in his, and underneath, that softness—the softness that had first led him here, that promised there would always be love in his eyes, a love that could not be cut out, even as if hurt him. "I came because you asked me to... I would have come a hundred times. I do not care if it was you or I calling," he lowered his head as the admission fell from his lips, his expression tired, his shoulders hunched, more creature than more. "But I cannot keep asking you to believe that I care. If you do not feel that I do, I fear I have failed once more, little one."

[tolvajok]

he should be insulted. to be accused of not making good decisions. his decisions led to him being in more power than sheng could ever imagine. his decisions helped him survive, not only this city, but everything that's happened to him before. one could argue he would make better decisions than the general could ever make. however... stripped of his mask and armed by nothing but his lute and charming appearance, tal leaves the decision making back home. and he gladly puts the responsibility into someone else's hands, as long as it serves him. so he listens, with a smile, and a gaze adorned with a glint of something gentle, and vulnerable. "so you think you're allowed to just control my life in whichever way you see fit. if I didn't find it endearing, I'd--" careful, now. he reminds himself he's just a minstrel, nothing more. "well... I'd complain louder."

he laughs, "arranging my courtship like a magister would their unruly child. someone with good family, lots of coin, and influence will do. though I wouldn't mind a personality in there somewhere, so I don't poison them the moment I grow bored." he plays along, as if the notion is in any way acceptable. as if he doesn't mind being chained up by the whims of an overly controlling general.

he wonders where the sudden sullen expression comes from. if someone told him he's not a good friend, or whether he came to the outrageous conclusion himself. in truth, sheng is quite an extraordinary man, with even more extraordinary morals, which are perhaps the reasons why tal finds himself in his proximity more often than not. "a sword means nothing without its wielder and their intentions." his head tilts to the side inquisitively. "I trust you." he says, voice lower, as if for once in his life tal is finally speaking the truth, without dressing it up with jokes and rhymes.

his hand is taken into sheng's, a touch so gentle that for a moment he doesn't know what to do with it. then, his other hand clasps around theirs, locking them in, assuring that what is said here, between the two of them in hushed tones will never be repeated to anyone else. not even in his songs. "I believe that actions speak louder than words. rumors are just that. rumors. you've never--" he trails off, his hand squeezing onto his slightly. "you've never made me feel anything but admiration for you. and I know I might express that in my own way-- but I trust you. you're my friend."

I can trust you, can't I? the words are like daggers lodging themselves into his chest. because the answer is no. and it will always be that, as long as taliesin goes home after their time spent together, puts his mask on, and does what he's set out to do in this city. and the pain in his chest intensifies even more as he makes the decision to lie to him. leaned in close, holding his hand, taking his food, the words roll off his tongue with ease. "you can trust me."

[decthless]

Endearing. The young general preens; it is not often such shameless compliments are given in fear a beheading should follow—the bard is incorrigible—and clearly considers himself above consequence. At times, he fears he might just be right. What other would dare to take such liberties? "You'd complain anyway." the accusation flows as smoothly as a river from his passive tongue, the faintest hint of amusement hidden where the corner of his mouth twitches, holding onto it steeliness the best it can. "Hardly a disincentive..." He considers the matter with all the gravity of a much too solemn gargoyle perched at the opposing side of the table, then concludes: "You can't marry my brother." too quickly, as though that possibility had already been thoroughly turned over in his mind. "Anyone else is..." Faces flash through his mind then—"...Almost anyone else is fair game." Whoever Tal chose, Sheng supposed he would simply have to drag them by the scruff to the nearest altar and inform them, politely, that there would be consequences if they proved themselves an unworthy partner. A sword to the throat, he found, was great incentive to behave. The thought earns the faintest smile, fragile but genuine. "I reserve the right to reject anyone who encourages you to swim with mermaids," a pause. "...Or race minotaurs." His brow furrows. "Can one race a minotaur?" He seems to consider the logistics with complete seriousness before giving a minute shake of his head. "No, no... never mind," his impervious gaze returns to Tal, a subtle warmth underneath he fears fuel their antics. "I suspect you'd find a way, regardless." he's just giving him ideas now, isn't he?

The weight that had settled so heavily upon his shoulders eases by some imperceptible degree, dropping a few inches with a relief he'd been too scared to feel. It is a strange thing, trust—so easily lost, broken. He cradles the pieces of the last time it was broken, still, and hopes he can put it back together; isn't something that can be mended all the more precious for its cracks?. Did Tal know how rare it was to trust and to be trusted? Did he use these words casually? "You know, sometimes..." He points his chopsticks at him, accusatory now, though the gesture lacks any real conviction. "You can be very clever." a familiar, cocky smirk returns to the honed edge of his mouth, satisfied—that the answer was something he wanted to hear, and perhaps that is why he is so quick to swallow it whole.

He does not return Tal's hand, as though it had quietly become his now. Instead, his fingers shift around it, an absent-minded theft with no intention of surrendering the prize. A slow breath escapes him, followed by a quiet laugh. "Of course I trust you... you're too scared of the rack to lie to me," he tugs at his hand, almost laughing. "It does makes me question my own judgment..." he admits too casually. "...But I do." There is no flourish befitting a poet behind his own declaration—his tongue is neither as sharp nor as romantic as his friends—but it is earnest. He would simply have to hope that is enough.

Only then does it occur to him that he is still holding Tal's hand. The realization arrives all at once, mid bite, stealing the composure from his expression—he flusters, clearing his throat, withdrawing with visible reluctance before smoothing imaginary creases from his sleeve, eyes drift anywhere but Tal for the span of a heartbeat before, inevitably, returning. "Finish your meal," his voice settles back into something more demanding, stripped of its earlier teasing, gaze flicking toward the bowl still sitting before Tal, the old habit of worrying over him resurfacing at once. "We can talk more after."

[decthless]

Open Starter — Sheng (0/3)

The sharp end of the general's blade moves swiftly and with precision, gently cutting into the wooden figurine, hollowed out eyes and gaunt limbs, the pointed edge carving out the bits and lines of its hair to add detail and intricacy to piece; he's been out of the public eye for a minute now, since he returned home—meditating, isolated from the rest of the world as he recovered; it was a mistake to mingle too soon, when his mind and heart felt at war, he needed to find his center, his inner peace amidst the turmoil, the piece of him that could not be carved out by mere mortal hands. Solitude offered clarity, and a kind of solace nothing mortal could not hope to. For three days, after he comes home, he drinks only water—fasting, meditating, sleeping and waking and repeating, until his hands feel like his own again.

He leaves Húxīn by the doorway, laid to rest there to its own solitude, its resentment and fury simmering, contained by the temperament of the hand that yields it. There is a meeting he won't be attending tonight, and he's sure the magistrates breathe a sigh of relief for it—he cannot tempt his temperament, not yet, and so it is best he stayed away. When he feels well enough to stand, he walks off from his home with single-minded determination; he has made a habit of stopping by to visit the refugee children, whenever he can, his feet having memorized the rocky path by now.

The streets of Aurea feel familiar, perfectly imperfect, and he finds the small garden next to where the refugee children play; they crowd him when he comes and immediately guilt pierces at him for he knows he should do more—but children don't know any better, they fear empty bellies and boredom more than men. He pushes one by the forehead with a huff, "Enough of this..." he says, hiding his fondness. He tries to stop by whenever he returns home, and brings them some necessary things, and some unnecessary things—because he cannot rest well if he doesn't. He brings them fresh bread still warm from the bakery he passed along the way here, apples and pears the servants help gather from the orchard, hard cheese, honey cakes for the children. "The baker insisted." he always says, pretending he'd hold it above their heads for a moment before caving as the smallest one jumps to snatch it. For the coldest nights, he brings warm stew in large pots, porridge, hot buns.

Once they are satisfied, they mostly leave them be; they are uncomplicated, nothing like adults. He wonders if perhaps the world would be a better place if we stayed like that—innocent, uncomplicated. Taking only what we needed from each other. He sits down under a tree, and resumes his carving, always a different, familiar face—this one had hollow eyes and long limbs, hair that licked at its heels. It was meticulous work, to give it shape; he enjoyed the focus it demanded, reminding himself in the process his mind was still his own, and his hands still obeyed his will, and his will alone.

[lightbow87]

Luo Yunxi as Tang Lici Whispers of Fate (2025) | Ep 29

[sidereius]

Adrian winces when scolded, almost whines like a small dog; just as foolish and loyal, as their eyes moon after, start shining with wonder. What he says melts in their tongue like spun sugar and warms them with all they wish to hear. Little morsels they can pick up and eat, lured gently and slowly into a pretty cage where they could feast. Nothing but you, no room for anything but you. Nowhere for madness and suffering to make its home. Just them. A soul burning for its twin, and two hands reaching across the distance—despite that jagged and sharp, for it would be worth to bleed as long as their fingertips would meet. For so long a time, Adrian had forgotten that Sheng, too, could lie. But it is remembered, then, with the pleading. Ah, right. This too, is nothing but illusions. Just one that Adrian and Sheng had shared, spilling into reality, crawling into it slowly until it caught them both unaware. They were not real, and Adrian had to remember this. Not just when they slithered into where they should not be, not just then—but when they came awake with a mouth full of gored cotton, when blood seeped into the pillows and the sheets. Another faint: there was nothing there. It had been torn out of them, spilled stuffing of a cloth doll, through the decade since those that had crafted them had been gone. And their own hands had put anything they could find there, as long as it would work; as long as it would resemble something alive and pretty. Like a magician, Adrian thinks. Remembers the man with the little bird, with the golden coin, and the dagger. Fascinate, mesmerize; enchant them until the life is spilling out of their hands. Push the knife into the heart, and gut them. Adrian should. A weight in the stomach, stubborn yet again. Curse them, for having pride. They did not deserve to. Should taste his touch on their tongue, lick the salt. Not scrape their teeth on his fingertips, wishing to bite. They should be a dog lapping the dirty floor for whatever he would deign to give them for scraps.

“But you aren’t.” A pause. “You are not wrong. I broke your mind, ravaged it; like one cracks an egg to sup at the yolk.” They speak with his touch yet on their lips. Sheng can trace the words as they speak them. The eerie smoothness of them, the emptying of their dark eyes. “I split the apple of what you keep secret in half, bit into the core, spit the seeds into your hand. I plunged into that tender, like a butcher does to rip out the innards. And I am sorry!” Adrian cries out, suddenly, at anyone that will listen. Sheng won’t, but someone, anyone that would believe it— “I am sorry! I speak the truth! And you will never trust it!” Laughter comes as if someone had put a had into their throat and tore it out, like plucking a flower, or ripping out nails. “I am sorry and I will do it again! I would and will have to, again and again. I will never spare you! You ask for too much!” From blankness to fury to sobbing, and now the cycle repeats again. “You do not miss me.” It hurts to admit. “You speak as if you do, but you ask me to stop. What do you believe you miss?” If Adrian could not scream, they would wish instead to slither inside him. Whispers could be sickly sweet things. “Some harmless thing sprawled prettily for you to touch and prod, for you to move and pose and take as you will? That asked little from you, that would simply let you? Someone that waits and waits and keeps waiting, all for nothing to come? Stop, you say!” And even now it brings so much fear, how close it had come to it turning true. Adrian had felt it about to drop over their eyes, like blindfold for the execution, like a bridal veil. Making all beautiful and painless in its dimness. Submit, submit. Her mother’s voice saying words she never spoke, his father squeezing his shoulders. Do not forget about me. “I won’t! I won’t!” “You complain at the truth but hate the lies, yet still they spill from your mouth all the same. So which one is it? You think I truly don't dare do it back?” Words thrown like daggers, wishing cruelly for them to reach their mark. Their head tilts cruelly, lips curling into a smirk. “I offer to put it behind us with both our eyes open, suffering to ignore together that we cannot help but see—and yet you wish me to close yours and leave me alone in my misery? Would make it easier to stand, would it not? Even now, you cannot look at me.” Fine, then. Dreams die in the morning, even if the truth in them never does. Let it be hidden in a small chest they will bury in the sand, so that the waves can lap at the shore until there is nothing left and it is exposed again to the salt air; by then, Adrian would be long gone. Nothing stays hidden forever, and in this there is both solitude and sorrow. But they would make him dig the grave of Adrian’s hopes alongside them. “Very well. Ask me again, and I will do it.” They raise their chin, proud then, even with the slash of red around their neck. And if the voice breaks, what matter is it? So much had already, and beyond repair. “I will lie to you. But you lie to me, too. I will not let you make me bear that sin on my own. You do not care for me. I cannot fault you for that. Last you saw the truth of me, you were so angry you were almost in tears. It is all rotten, even the sliver which you ask, and you know this. But I will do it for you, just as I can give you a dream. I can give us both the dream in which you—In which you—” They blink. “Ask me for it again. Ask me for it.”

[decthless]

I'm sorry! They screech like a child, helpless and anguished, on the verge of a tantrum. I'm sorry! I'm sorry and I'll do it again! I'm sorry, why won't you believe me?! That hand of his aches to wrap around her throat and smother the sound of her lies as they tie a noose around his throat. The more he hears of them, the deeper he crawls into that well, that pit of denial, lunacy begging, pleading for those words to be believed. He wants to be a fool, wants to beg for scraps of her heart—we were friends, weren't we? Each time he opens his mouth to ask he feels his eyes blur with tears. Are we not friends anymore? Were we ever? Alas, he is horrid is he not? Storming into her home, her life, like a brute, demanding to be acknowledged—in the shape of a past she surely wished to forget; she must hate him. He would. It is his fault that they stand here today, hands bloodied, crying out for ghosts that will not return to her. His mistake. His cowardice. Would it matter if he said he wished to go back? That he had saved them—not when it mattered, not when it counted, but every night after that? Would it make a difference if he begged for forgiveness until his throat was bleeding and raw? If he said he was sorry? Useless word… meaningless word. They are gone, and he is here, and how little he can offer to him. The sole perpetrator of her grievances—how little he has to show for his remorse, when his weakness was a poison that had spread, taken root in the very foundations of her life.

The ire of beasts burns through the veins in his wrists, blood pumping, red and angry; he is filled with savagery, but the moment breathes the same air as Adrian he feels himself deflate. His morals, his wounds, what did they matter? Where was his wrath now? It is so no use to turn them away from him, when the darkness behind his own eyelids will not offer respite. He sees their face so clearly there, anger and disappointment staring back at him, and feels his hand tremble with weakness; fingers slipping from the warmth of his mouth, sticky and wet and shaking. He wishes he'd taken a bite, ripped a piece of them off as punishment. What right had he to touch them?

"Why… Why didn't you—" he swallows and the words die in the well of his throat, choke, weak and restless, fading in the corridors of his mind with all other things that went unspoken between them. I'm sorry. I love you. Please don't hurt yourself. Make it stop. "What was it about me…" he can't bring himself to ask—it is too late now, anyway. She's mad, he's angry, and there's nothing to be done with the wreckage that was left of them, and at the end of each day only one thought remains: I miss you. Echoed over and over, until he had driven himself insane. "Stop…" another plea—the honesty that spills from their tongue so disarming, the offering so cruel. He lowers his head, tired and weak; he feels his heartbeat dimmer than it was before. His diseased mind cannot play catch up—not with Adrian. They are a constant turmoil, filling every crevice of him with doubt, with uncertainty; he stumbles, catching himself on their shoulder, one large hand gripping for balance, the other clutching at the fabric above their sternum as old wounds stirred back to life. He wondered if this was how his father felt, just before—"I do—I do miss you... I do—" His shoulders roll forward, draped in ebony, hunched over them like a creature as his breath grows ragged; he is like a dog, kicked over and over again, dragging himself back to their feet. "I'm sorry..." the tall thing looming above them whispers, wounded. "I'm sorry for everything—I'm sorry, my little one," he tumbles—falls with a muffled thump, kneeling against the dirt under the force of their wrath, only then he is smaller, more malleable, less shadow.

He looks up, ghosting his thumbs under weary eyes, the purple discoloration casting a morose shadow over his own soft-lit features—he wants to kiss it better, for his clumsy touch to heal instead of damage, but he has nothing but these hands to offer—only these hands, only these feeble, useless words. "I'm sorry, little one," he is a boy again, brushing the tears from their ruddy cheeks on his knees, crimson eyes wet and remorseful, reaping what he has sowed, reaching towards absolution, knowing it will never come. How can we rewrite sins of our past when too much blood has already been spilled? How could he ever hope to be loved by someone he had failed so terribly, to hope for a forgiveness he would never deserve? "I tried... I know it wasn't enough—it still isn't, but I'm trying..." he swallows, and the knot in his throat feels so tight, "it seems I'm always failing you whenever I close my eyes," his downcast gaze averts towards the ground in shame. He is holding them… but they've already slipped away, haven't them? "I care for you... I have always cared for you. You must know this…" his hand, much too large, calloused and unfitting to hold his, find them anyway—clumsily wrapped in gauze, bruised and small. "You're angry, I know… none of this is your fault, none of this is fair," Please be patient—he wants to ask. You don't have to do this alone—this path is dangerous, stop walking towards things that will take you from me. But what point is there, speaking such things, when he has no proof but his word? "You can be angry at me—I won't ask you to forgive me... but please, Adrian—enough of this," he lowers his lips to kiss their fingertips, their knuckles. "I care. I care... I care about your wrists, and your little hands... and your fingers. I care about all of you. Enough of this… no more tonight. Promise me. Even if you hate me—promise me anyway."

[tolvajok]

oh, how easy he makes it sometimes. one look is enough to hear threats that sound all to sweet coming from him. maybe that's exactly what he wants. one of those 'punishments' for being disorderly that brings a certain flutter to his core. he knows it's not right. he knows it's not appropriate. and yet... brows twitch in surprise, eyes wide with a few little words dancing on the tip of his tongue, itching to be let out.

does sheng realize what he sounds like when he says those words? does he understand how one as delusional as this bard could interpret these sentences? the idea that he is all but clueless to his own charm makes him even more charming. and taliesin decides he will not let him know. instead, he will simply sit there, and enjoy the haze of his own delusions. "you want to make my decisions for me?" good luck with that, he thinks. "what do I get in return?" as always, he must make everything into a business transaction. "for being obedient, I mean." it's all hypothetical, of course. taliesin only behaves for himself. anyone that tries to control him will find that it all depends on whether he allows them to. "right. so, next time I choose my company for the night, I shall come to you beforehand. makes perfect sense."

before he knows, the dumpling is shoved inside his mouth, and tal recoils, squeezing his eyes shut. he should've bit the general's finger for doing that. he still might. he pulls a face as he's chewing, quickly, just to defy sheng at any moment, before swallowing hard. he takes a breath, and before he can speak, the general says his name, and he's taken aback.

the question is awaited with a surprising silence from the bard, as if uttering his full name like that has enchanted him. and then, a different sort of silence falls between them. trust? does rook of the thieves' court trust the demon general? the answer is an obvious no. the two are natural enemies. but does taliesin trust sheng? taliesin, who is deathly afraid of being a burden? who makes everything into a joke?

a soft smile appears on his lips, meeting his gaze. "I trust you would keep me safe." it is both the truth, and a lie. "why do you ask?"

[decthless]

A chopstick is pointed at him accusatorily—"I want you to make good decisions," he clarified, so confident his offer was not only reasonable but kind. "And I do not trust you to do that by yourself... you can't even pick a healthy meal for dinner." what hope is there, then, for him to pick a proper mate? Of course his happiness is important too... but what about his safety? Who would guard his heart if he didn't? Taliesin was his friend—begrudgingly, he could admit that to himself; he did not wish for him to fall for one who treated him as lesser, or played his heart like a fiddle under the guise of providing thrill and excitement. Selfishly, he knew he'd rest easier at night too, knowing there was someone taking care of them so they'd not try to ride a minotaur or swim in mermaid infested waters on a whim.

"Maybe I could choose someone..." he muses, entirely dismissing his bargain. "I think I could find someone with infinite patience among my men..." Perhaps not. Though, it'd be easier to use his authority to threaten them into behaving well. "Oi! Oi..." as always, he pulls him out of his thoughts, interrupting his line of thought. "I said slow—tch... why are you so stubborn?" he moves his hand in a sharp gesture, as if to thwack him again—but doesn't. More empty threats, and now he's watching his throat bob intently, as if afraid he would actually choke. Will he give him not a moment of peace?

Awkwardly, he feels himself adjusting his posture, put on this vulnerable spot with nobody to blame but himself—his mind rushes back to the nymph he'd failed to rescue, his own passiveness a poison, his naivete a weapon he had handed them too easily—over and over he'd failed them. He did not wish to fail Taliesin too. "It's occurred to me lately, perhaps... I'm not... very good at... being a friend," the words are dragged out like grovel—it was not a lack of will to adhere to the role, but a lack of understanding in how to do so—the other children had always kept their distances, Lian, with sunshine in his smile, in his eyes, lit up the room, and had always been better at that—making himself approachable, making it easy for people to confide in him. He had never learned. He felt like rusted machinery, moving stuffily, stumbling over his own feet, his own words, in his feeble attempt to harness trust. "I know trust my sword..." Of course he would keep him safe—but that was a given, wasn't it? "But... what about the man carrying it?" he dares ask, something timid in how softly the question lands. "Do you... trust him too?" there is a subtle, barely contained eagerness behind his inquiry—he wants to hear a yes, yet part of him holds back, as though he is unsure if he will, if he even deserves to.

"Taliesin," hesitantly—like a dog unsure of what's allowed, Sheng extends a hand, coiling and recoiling his fingers before extending it over Taliesin's tentatively, his touch fragile and uncertain in its attempt to reassure. "I know the rumors about my family do not exactly inspire trust... but I am not..." he trails off, gathering his words; was he not the monster they all make of him? Had he not killed? Had he not maimed? Had he not taken lives, just as monsters do? "I... just want you to know you can... trust me," he clears his throat awkwardly, adjusting the weight on his rigid shoulders, his crimson gaze searching for a breach where he might be let in. "And... I can trust you, can't I?"

[yonglixx]

SKZ CODE Ep.102😴 (Travel Log in Busan) #3

[aenaos]

Who: Yukimara Nao & Kwon Baeksa ( @decthless ) Where: Kwon grounds Trigger warnings: murder and gore

The groundskeeper twitches in the grass, wheezing through the hole in his throat.It is a cry like that of a wounded bird, shrill and mournful all at once. Nao kneels, half-blinded by the sweltering sphere in the sky, a globe fat with light dripping from the heavens. Like the groundskeeper's blood that dyes the blades of grass scarlet-sweet. Planting her one hand beside his head, she leans close and tries to shape her words into some simulacrum of meaning while her eyes well with salt.

"S…o….." A glob of blood makes its way up her throat. She spits it out, the fweeeepp followed by a wet splack. Her eardrums hum with the sound. It is all so new. So much of it. All those experiences, stolen from her for too long.

"Soo……"

A gasp. A moan. His? Hers?

"Sooooooooo…………………"

She coughs, splattering his face with blood. On instinct, her good hand—no, her only hand—reaches out to wipe the red liquid away, and down she goes. The world tilts in a blur of azure and greenery, specks of light blurring before her eyes, and then she is on her back. Like a turtle, she thinks. The one someone poked with a stick once, until Yuta said... what did Yuta say...? Where did Yuta go?

If she is her, and she is here, then where is she?

Nao turns her head, tendrils of inky hair plastered to her temple, and sees that the groundskeeper has died. His mouth is open. She gets up. Closes it. She sucks in air. Expels it. "Sor..."

The cherry tree is pink, its petals lush as an open mouth. Nao takes a running leap and delights in the whoosh of air across her skin, in the way her feet know exactly where to land. The branch creaks beneath her weight, but does not give. With her teeth, she adjusts the stolen robe. It is a heavy thing, all gray cloth, the sort of heavy wool meant for an Aurean shepherd. Not that Aurea has shepherds. But she imagines it is the sort of thing they would wear. Hidden beneath the foliage, she waits, and waits, and waits. Once the sun has descended, she will continue her voyage. No, odyssey. That has a nicer ring to it.

After all, her harbor awaits.

Sister-sweet, heart-root, blood-rot.

She is waiting. She must be.

A soft sound. A whisper of silk. Nao sees him then: the boy, the doll, the pale bird. He drifts, he flies, he floats. As he moves through the garden, so does she, climbing from branch to branch, bending her joints into angles once deemed impossible. Making herself smaller, a cluster of not-girl. He has the longest hair she has ever seen, even longer than hers, and a thousand times silkier. When he drifts farther from her sight, her neck cranes out to follow, vertebrae creaking. Perhaps he feels her gaze. Perhaps he likes this pink tree too.

Whatever the reason, he nears again, but she does not move back beneath the canopy. She leans forward, just a little closer. Too close.

Punishment follows swiftly as Nao falls like a leaf in autumn. They collide violently, her knee finding a rib, her head slamming into his.

"Aaaaaaa," she groans. Then, once more, with feeling: "Aaaaaaaah."

[decthless]

A wisp of a boy rushes beneath the leaves, walking, gliding, waltzing through the moonlight, kissed by it like a lover as his gown drags, whispering morosely at the trail of his heels. The night is cold and lonely and his alone to own—he would not be told not to wander by a stranger. What good is coddling when he is to be abandoned like a defective thing the moment he outgrows his usefulness? Perhaps it is not reality, that his sibling will outgrow him, grow bored, weary of his antics—that they already are, no different from all the others; no different. They will leave him. They will leave him helpless and defenseless, he hears his own mind antagonize. Insecurities flare at midnight, when they are too far away to soothe him, when he retreats into himself and refuses to let others console him. Is their love waning? Where has he failed? What atrocities must he commit to hold onto it? They need only tell him—

Love is a scarce resource, and he dreads the thought of being alone. He wanders into the dark like a wounded sylph, without home, without aim, drifting through the haze of his late-night madness, shoulders hunched into a regrettable posture; sniffling, wiping away tears as they well in his eyes, hoping to be obscured, cradled by the veil of darkness stretching endlessly ahead while his bare feet pad across the cool grass.

Who would love him, then? Who would shield him? Who else would foolishly agree to shoulder the burden of him? Helpless thing, he was—how he loathed this pale, gilded carcass; this crippling weakness, this pale flesh rotting around his bones, these lungs, useless, useless! Failing him with every breath—what was he, if not deserving of cruelty, if not deserving of mockery and—

"Eek—!"

Ungracefully, his body tumbles towards the ground, crashing with a startled thud, something heavy and damp tumbling down on top of him. Hair spills into his mouth, veiling his eyes, caught between his fingers. The young lord flails helplessly. "Haneul! Haneul!" he shrieks, trembling violently, convinced he has come under attack; he is being taken. Devoured. Only... the monster does not bite. Teeth do not sink into flesh. His hands push feebly against the unexpected intruder—he has exhausted himself crying, his heart hammering like a frightened hummingbird thrashing against the bars of its cage, blood staining the ivory folds of his garments like violence against such small a creature, the white of his hair fanned beneath him across the grass like freshly fallen snow. "O-Off—off with you, you accursed...!" His eyes widen, pools of molten gold gleaming beneath the moonlight, the slivers of black at their center shrinking to pinpricks. "...Uh?" His heart skips a beat. He looks—really looks—and sees... A girl?

[aurean-wabi-sabi]

Lethe kept a social calendar out of obligation and appearances only. She was often exhausted by the busy bodies around Aurea who treated her gifts as if they were a parlor trick; was the diamond their beloved gave them real, how much was the heirloom they had dragged around town in hopes of seeing her worth, a thread of golden hair found on a lover’s pillow when neither they nor their lover was blond. Their tedious uses of her were banal. But the Kwon Castle was often a reprieve from such things, so Lethe accepted most invitations from the family, though she seldom stayed long. 

One leg crossed over another in the manner her mother had trained her to be polite, Lethe watched down the slope of her shin as the serpent made itself at home. Its small marbled eyes and iridescent scales were more interesting than much else in the surrounding, though she was not under the impression that this interaction was not beyond a certain danger. Her eyes followed the trail up the stranger’s arm to meet Baeksa's gaze instead, and against their warning, the thin pinky of her hand holding her tea cup lifted. “I should hate for her to judge me impolite,” was the explanation Lethe offered. “Perhaps she appreciates the same level of conversation I do.” Which, if Baeksa had been observing Lethe during the tea service, was exactly none.

[decthless]

Lethe is a special kind of aberration in this world—the kind that feels no need to grovel for his attention; sometimes that is something of a relief, and other times, he misses the indulgence of less prideful, self-assured creatures. But for the most part, she was inoffensive, with an interesting silence to justify her existence, and a curious personality; so he allows her to linger, peruse as she wishes. Perhaps she finds solace in the solitude of this home as well.

A fair brow arches by a fraction as the serpent regarded the gesture for a long, contemplative moment before gliding forward, cool scales whispering across embroidered silk until her narrow head rested delicately against the offered finger. Hydra was in a rare good mood today—or, she had found someone who matched her temperament. Her tongue flickered once, twice, tasting the air around Lethe before settling comfortably with a satisfied little coil, finding kinship in a stranger. So curious.

Baeksa watches in silence over the rim of his teacup. "You are quiet as a snake... perhaps she thinks you are her mother," his gaze flickers towards the tiny serpent and back to her, the young Kwon's head tilting in quiet contemplation. "How does your brother feel about serpents, Lethe?" his fingers traced the porcelain absentmindedly, golden eyes holding Lethe's impervious stare. "I don't suppose you'd like to take her home, would you?" The corner of his mouth twitched, his jealous gaze drifting toward the gardens beyond the open veranda where jasmine swayed lazily against the afternoon breeze. "I think she likes you better than me."

[breweri]

ah,  the  eggshell  has  cracked.  it  had  not  been  kastor's  intention.  for  all  his  clumsiness  and  fat-fingered  carelessness,  he  does  not  set  out  into  the  world  to  cause  harm.  he  is  the  only  intended  victim  of  his  malice,  and  even  then,  it  is  cloaked  under  a  shroud  of  indulgence.  and  moreover,  his  duties  where  the  younger  kwon  are  concerned  center  entirely  around  preservation  —  mostly  of  the  body,  though  it  would  not  be  much  of  a  stretch  to  imagine  the  mind  included  as  well.  if  haneul  had  wanted  their  younger  brother  disciplined,  he  did  not  think  they  would  hesitate  to  say  so.  but  kas  did  think  that  he  would  be  the  last  person  they'd  turn  to,  if  that  was  the  case. 

the  other's  clipped  tones  bring  nary  a  blink  to  kastor's  face.  he's  heard  it  all  before,  those  silvery  barbs  meant  to  hook  and  catch,  to  tear  worse  coming  out  for  all  the  harm  they'd  already  done  going  in.  an  admirable  effort,  if  weeping  with  adolescence.  on  someone  less  self-flagellatory  and  more  self-important,  it  may  even  have  been  good  practice.  as  it  is,  his  charge's  words  bounce  off  of  him  like  droplets  of  rain  on  plate,  making  tiny  little  dinks  that  sound  melodic  to  a  romantic  ear.  kas  will  always  be  unmatched  in  the  contest  of  loathing  him  the  worst.  it  just  so  happens  that  the  list  of  participants  grows  ever  longer  with  each  passing  day.  and  in  this  instance,  there  is  pedigree  in  the  petulance.  it  is  the  biting  perfume  of  cardamom,  the  buttery  aroma  of  iris,  the  mortal  sensuousness  of  ambergris,  so  far  beyond  the  reach  of  common  wretches  such  as  he,  whose  noses  grew  blind  to  the  stench  of  fertilizer  and  rot  and  who  dreaded  rain  for  the  fetor  it  would  spring.  he  had  allowed  himself  to  grow  unfamiliar  with  parsing  through  such  highborn  acrimony  (  because,  of  course,  only  the  most  useless  things  were  easiest  to  forget  )  and  yet  he  feels  the  need  to  dredge  it  up  somehow.

❝  forgive  me,  m'lord.  i  spoke  out  of  turn.  ❞  such  an  abrupt  about-face  can  only  appear  insincere,  barely  salvaged  in  a  lowered  gaze  and  hands  folded  benignly  at  his  front.  he  takes  the  opportunity  in  the  angle  of  his  head  to  give  himself  a  quick,  discreet  sniff,  and  is  met  with  a  sourness  that  makes  his  own  nose  wrinkle.  generously,  he  moves  a  step  away,  though  he  remains  close  enough  to  intervene  in  unlikely  circumstances.  ❝  in  your  unestimable  wisdom,  you  must  know  there  is  only  so  much  i  can  truly  enjoy.  creature  comforts  best  suited  to  men  such  as  i,  who  can  only  laugh  when  we've  little  else  with  which  to  fill  our  mouths.  ❞  he  allows  himself  a  wry  tilt,  because  he  can  only  manage  a  handful  of  virtues,  and  temperance  has  never  been  one  of  them.  ❝  i  confess,  i  do  not  mind  being  much  of  a  joke.  when  you've  worn  as  many  hats  as  i  have,  you  may  find  that  it  is  a  comfortable  enough  one.  keeps  the  ears  warm.  though,  i  suppose  one's  already  been  tailored  for  you.  better  than  having  to  scrounge  off  the  floor  like  the  rest  of  us.  ❞

let  him  get  it  out  of  his  system,  for  kwon  baeksa  would  be  hard  pressed  to  find  a  better  target  than  kastor  hywel.  he  can  count  on  one  hand  the  number  of  times  retaliation  has  ever  crossed  his  mind.  ❝  i  don't  believe  i've  ever  mentioned  it  before,  but  i  come  from  a  hunting  village,  little  kwon.  ❞  the  endearment  had,  until  then,  only  lived  in  his  head.  it  may  have  been  a  mistake  to  bring  it  to  light,  though  it  is  too  late  to  snatch  it  back  now.  ❝  i  learned  to  kill  mercifully  before  i  learned  my  letters.  and  after  that,  i  learned  to  make  every  use  of  the  animal  so  that  nothing  went  to  waste.  mercy  does  not  end  at  the  slaying,  as  it  goes.  perhaps  you  might  surprise  h  —  ❞  a  quiet  chuckle  escapes  kas,  a  conciliatory  placation  following  the  ascent  of  his  brows.  ❝  i  mean,  our…  mutual  acquaintance  with  such  a  lesson.  ❞

[decthless]

Fondness is cruelty to those who were taught to cower from warmth, and the endearment lands with all the jagged violence of a blade slipped between the ribs; he cannot taste anything but his own nausea, rolling in waves, climbing up his throat.

Little Kwon. Little Kwon? What right had he to make him sound soft and small and helpless on his tongue? Was it pity that compelled him, or the urge to mock? Baeksa rejects both as if scorched; he wants to throw up, forgets to breathe, holding so still, he thinks for a moment he might be just another piece of furniture, with bones jutting, and skin stretched taut over them, as though it wants to tear at the seams of this detestable body. And even the soft, rhythmic hiss of serpents weaving through shadow is of no comfort to his jealous heart, their narrow heads lifting in quiet uncertainty, sensing the subtle fracture beneath their master's facade. Golden eyes remain fixed upon Kastor, fury barely contained, stripped of their earlier amusement as he claws at his own arm, tearing at skin tissues unkindly—cruel, even towards himself, when he cannot tear at anything else; blood gathers, warm between his fingers, dripping to the floor.

"Shut up..." he spews, voice shaking, but barely louder than a murmur. His throat feels tight; the buzzing in his ears grows louder. "...Shut up!" yell louder, claw harder, tear yourself to ribbons, sweet coos of dissonant madness lick at the back of his skull, in his own voice. He thinks he is better than you. No. No, that isn't what he said. Then why does it sound like it? Stop it, stop it! "Do not presume to know me." the growl rips through him, unnervingly low, as if the young Kwon is lost in an argument with himself. One serpent ventures too close, brushing against the silk pooled around his ankles in quiet reassurance, and Baeksa startles as though burned—his foot lashes out before thought can catch it, sending the little creature skittering helplessly across polished stone. Another recoils at the sharp hiss that tears itself from somewhere deep within his throat, disappearing beneath a cabinet with frightened haste. His gaze lowers, bony fingers slipping into the silk of his hair, clutching, ripping through a bundle of hair as they vanished, something wounded flickering across his face before being buried beneath practiced composure. He smooths trembling fingers through the length of his pale hair once, twice, three times—again and again, until not a single strand dares sit out of place. "Aha..." a laugh chokes in his throat, yellow hues trembling, as if about to spill, fixed on the gleaming floor. "They're so terribly disobedient..."

With measured elegance the young lord rises, stumbles, as if disoriented, drifting like the pale ghost of a boy toward the nearest sideboard where crystal decanters gleam beneath candlelight, where ruby liquor catches the light and he fills a glass nearly to its brim, spilling it all over his hands, all over the floor. His constitution had never tolerated spirits; everyone in the estate knew as much—what of it? It will make the feeling stop. Is that not why Kastor indulges? Perhaps then, he would indulge too. Would he be more likable for it? More worthy of affection? The physicians scolded him, but he could not hear their nagging voices now. Haneul confiscated bottles whenever they found them—locked it all away, knowing well of his sibling's temperament; but his father was not as careful. Baeksa knew precisely how ill it would make him, he drinks it anyway—the burn forces tears into his eyes, body recoiling beneath expensive silk, fingers whitening around the crystal stem before he calmly pours himself another. Disgusting. Another. The glass cracks between the grip of his hand; he does not rush, something ceremonial about the way he doses his own self-harm, each swallow a quiet defiance, an assertion of territory reclaimed, ensuring the reigns of control remain within his clutches, that his pain belongs to himself, if nothing else does.

Perhaps you might surprise h—his eyes snap to him, honed and ready to strike, then fall again, wounded, defeated. Would they? Would he surprise them? Did they not know all there was to know of each other? He feels ill, the veins on his neck throbbing faintly."You'll kill me and eat me, then," he drawls out, twisting the story on his venomous tongue, the cloying sweet lilt of his voice tinged by the bitter start of inebriation, fair lashes lowering into the red surface of the drink that bleeds between his knuckles—or was that blood? His lips curve into the ghost of a smile that never reaches his eyes at the thought. "If you're as merciful as you say, you would've already killed me by now," the smile stretches a fraction wider, emptied of joy, looking at him only through the reflection of his glass, filled with envy, and resentment, and a thousand other complicated things he cannot name nor identify. Another sip; his throat tightens around it, the ache spreading. "So forgive me if I find your mercy..." a stifled laugh squeezes through the narrow well of his throat, brittle and sardonic. "...hard to believe."

[sidereius]

He should flinch. Adrian should pull away, push him—make himself something as difficult to touch as he is to bear. For a moment, there is a valiant attempt; tense shoulders rise to meet their ears, and they turn as rigid as if they were made of stone and not skin. But wishing does not make anything so, never has, and the wall caves inwards; crumbles, rather than melts. Adrian bites down on their lip, to choke down a sob from the pain. The pulse thrumming in their veins does not gentle as much as submits, caught in the jaws of his gentleness. Fury flees, is bled out like guts are spilled. “What do you do with them, then? Watch them string their lyres?” Still he tries, attempts to hold onto it with clumsy hands and voice wet—but it is useless. His touch soothes the creatures beneath darkened waters, and brought tempests down to ripples, where the waves kissed his fingertips. Hanging pale flowers part, head bending forward, to reveal their nape. “I can’t…” He speaks as if Adrian ever could, and it does not strike as if lightning, but rather seeps down into their core like blood through layers of silken cloth: it is true. Could not help it—horrid creature, disgusting thing, too weak for what must be done and too stubborn to let go of it. Their parents must be turning in their graves, full of wrath and accusation. It is no wonder them and those that came before visited, when their dreams finally were their own. He deserved someone soft, sweet and pliant; subdued, tamed. Not someone that would rage and then weep, who you could not predict. Darker hair and a prettier smile; voice like a song and perfumed in orange blossoms. Not something so fake that it did not know its’ shape. That knew nothing but desire, nothing but— “I did not wish to—” But already he knew he would, again and again and again. Transgressions would be chased by shame, trailed after by a miser that pleads for forgiveness; a dog biting its master’s hands, and then begging to be pet.

His thumb presses into the hollow of his bandaged hands, and Adrian feels it as if it were their throat. Traveling witches and old sages both spoke of the past and future being in the lines of one’s palms, but Adrian had learnt little of it, before their own bites and scratches had marred the skin where such was written. If one day they managed to survive enough to scar, would they come back? Or would they be forever underneath the knotted flesh, entombed but still there? Adrian would not remember what they were. He turns in Sheng’s arms, but it is different, now. Tear trails shine like little stars on those blotchy reddened cheeks, and some still spill as their eyelashes flutter like moth wings. But there is no snarl left in their face, besides a sadenned twist to their lips. “I’m sorry." This is all that they could offer him. Fate and heart lines had touched in his palm, of this he was sure. But maybe this life would be short. Let him not suffer me for too long, he thought. This is as selfless as he could ever be. But let him suffer me. Please, please. Arms wrap around again, but this time the truth is unmistakable: Adrian’s cheek rests against his chest, where it beats, and feels the place where their skin meets turn sticky and real from the salt of their dried tears. It is cold, and Adrian is no longer numb. The wind lashes at the skin, but in this arms it is sweet, comforting, safe; like something he knew long ago. “I didn’t wish for you to be—to be hurt, or worse. I wanted you to come, because—” He swallows around a dry throat. “So that I could tell you—that we can just forget. Pretend it did not happen. And,” Gaze lowers as if penitent, and it is then that it catches and his face blanches, stilling in his arms again. “And your feet?! How did you—sit. Sit.” The glare returns, but now only in furious worry. “How could you forget to put on slippers on your feet?” Adrian bites his lip. Because of me, because of me. Adrian starts unwrapping the outer bandages around their own hands, those cleanest and closest. “Let me tend to you.”

[decthless]

Tension grips at his small shoulders and Sheng, in all of his greediness, pulls them taut against himself—you will not escape me, he promises to himself. "Stop it," he scolds as if reprimanding a particularly belligerent child. His love is stubborn and cruel, his boy is hardens, and softens, and hardens again, and all of his sharp edges are his to hold—he could cut himself open on the jaggedness of his tongue, and still he would not relinquish his proprietary hold. "Do you think there's room in me for anything but you?" Do you not know me at all? Adrian, oh his Adrian... always such a foolish child. He had splintered the ruins of his heart, and still tears welled in those beautiful winter eyes, as though he could ever be rid of the ghost of them.

Tenderly, bony fingers slip between his own—cold, so cold. He feels a cold shiver climb up his spine, skin on skin, the intimacy of it alone ravaged him. "Do you think I can think of anything but you all day?" Confessions pour directly into his ear in quiet, shameful whispers as he moves a hand to contour the delicate shape of his ear, brushing the hair off his face with all the tenderness of a lover. "What do you make of me, Adrian? Do you think I do not miss you? That I do not go mad with worry—that I don't agonize over every second I spend out of your reach for fear of what you might—" his jaw grips with tension and he cuts himself off with bated breath, refusing to step into the horrible truth of that reality. He could not bear it—he could not bear the thought of them being laid upon an altar of their own grief and gutted.

Stop this. Stop this, his throat swells with the unspoken pleas of a desperate man. You are going to die, and I'm going to be left to mourn you; I will go mad from the loss of you, I cannot live in a world emptied of you.

"Stop. Just... stop. Stop all this," he is a wretched thing, isn't he? Stomping over the tatters of his pride, begging openly, shamelessly; has he no sense of decorum? Does this despair knows no end? Hunger claws at the well of his throat and here he is, begging for him again, uselessly, pitifully—im a voice he can scarcely recognize as his own. "Stop. Just please... stop." the wolf's lament turns mournful on his tongue, teeth ravenous and aching to tear into his garments; a labored breath quivers on his lips as his forehead falls, pressing to the back of his head in quiet defeat, that cold, cadaveous hand of his reaching beyond the grave this boy had made of his body—creeping up the length of his throat to ensnare it, close around it with the barely contained urge to squeeze and hold it—hold him—still. Was he mad to think such things? To want him so desperately it turned his breaths ragged?

I love you—why is my love not enough, you selfish, cruel fool? Abandon this revenge—abandon this vendetta, and all the parts of you it will take—give them to me instead.

Liar. Liar. Cruel liar he is... he is abashed at his own weakness, his own desire to crumble, to believe them, as they willingly crawl inside the confines of him—unwrapping those bandages so clumsily, as though there could ever be anything but distance between them. Liar. He wants to hear them anyways. The sound of their voice is a nose around his throat and he wants it tighter, ans he wants to live and die by his hands and his hands only.

He turns them—abruptly, unceremoniously; he cannot look at that face, he cannot look without falling to his knees, and so he restrains their wrist with one hand so they will not turn back again, so they will not make him look upon that face again and make him question his faith.

Can he not see it? How meaningless that word was on their treacherous tongue? "Liar," the general accuses without remorse, sharp and unyielding as he pulls their body into himself. "I should rip this lying tongue of yours for such brazen insolence..." had he told herself this lie enough times that he himself had come to believe it too? No—no, they were not sorry. "Stop lying," he demands without meaning it—he wants to hear it. All of their lies, all of their conniving, untruthful words. Filling his head. Driving him crazy. A quiet, simmering fever climbs up his spine as he grips that throat and releases, pushing two fingers between those supple, hateful lips, silencing that mouth before it enraged him beyond redemption. "Haven't I earned even a sliver of you? After everything?"

We can just forget, he says, like it's the that easy. Like he had not ravaged him, had wounded him deeper than anyone had before. He feels his heart pound painfully like a drum and his breath leave him in haste. "Tell me I'm wrong, then." he pleads, something ravenous and unsteady lodged in his throat. "Lie to me... tell me I'm wrong, about everything. Tell me you didn't pry into my head while I was asleep next to you, while I had my arms around you... tell me you didn't use me to get what you wanted—that you wouldn't do it again." He goaded, once more, knowing he would fail the test. "Go on... make me believe you—and I promise to forget. I'll forget everything. I'll forgive you... I'll pretend it never happened."

[tolvajok]

it is moments like this, when taliesin manages to crack that hard shell sheng puts up and finds something gooey, warm, and syrupy inside that he can't get enough of. "but you play it so well--!" his tone is almost like a melody, accompanied by a purr-like hum. if the bard had a tail, it would be long and curled up in sheng's lap, as if he was just a stray cat the general pitied enough to feed for the night.

"are you calling me clever?" the corners of his lips stretch into a devious smirk, as he has successfully omitted that attribute just to hear it from sheng's mouth. "have you ever thought that perhaps I relish in running? feeling the rush of danger? the relief of seeing you at the top of the stairs, my hero, my stone wall?" ah... there's the title of his next song. his smile drops, though his amusement does not. it is simply his skill in acting that helps him change his expression into something more disappointed, with brows knitted together, and lower lip jutting out ever-so-slightly. "oh... so I'm only work for you... I understand." he looks away, as if heartbroken.

it doesn't last long, though. not when sheng's body language tastes so delicious as he tenses up, and... is that a flush of cheeks he sees? tal moves an index finger and a thumb over to his other arm, pinching himself as if he was trying to wake up from whatever dream he's fallen into. he is brought back into reality. not by the pinch, but by the enormous hand of the general smacking him in the head once more. tal bursts out laughing, getting another idea that might get him more than just a smack. but he cannot simply keep it in.... not when the reward might be the best thing he's ever seen!

his hair is brushed behind his ear, and tal only gives a breath's moment to enjoy is to the fullest before he speaks again. "he is quite boring, I'm afraid. not nearly as stimulating as I'd hoped. I prefer someone stronger. more captivating. bigger."

to ask him not to be reckless is as if asking the rain not to fall or the sun not to shine. damn near impossible. tal only knows how to live the way he always has. in danger.

with food having arrived, tal all but forgets about his teasing, hunger taking over his mind altogether, but before he can reach for a dumpling, sheng has already taken one, offering it up to him. he wonders whether the general realizes just how intimate he's being. more intimate than claudius' boring, forgettable son whose name he never cared to memorize. and so he does as he's told, lips parting and waiting to be fed like the spoiled little bard he is.

[decthless]

Oh, he's not answering that. It's a trap. There's no right answer; one answer will have him preening the whole night, the other will have him pouting—either will have him in an undesirable position. The general adjusts his sleeve instead—pausing, contemplating eating—then those jeweled eyes move to him instead. "I will gag you." he knows what he's thinking—chasing him around, plucking strings, singing some romantic lullaby to test his patience. "A lot of work." he adds, and conceals his affections in what goes unspoken—safer that way; least he finds another dagger aimed at the soft center of his heart. He does not know how many more blows it can take before he can feel his pulse slow.

"Your preferences are bad. You shouldn't be allowed to make decisions," he makes bad decisions, and his priorities are ill-suited for a long, happy life, he concludes. "I'll look into them. Next time come to me first." So objective and deadpan even as they talk about love affairs; he's truly helpless, isn't he? Trying to assign order to matters of the heart, as if it were not blind and deaf to every warning; it would be better that way—can't he see? He could prevent his heartache, even if he could not prevent his own. Won't he let him just take care of him? He'd come to him wouldn't he? He wouldn't lie to him, would he? Was there something about him that made him feel... unsafe to come to? Did he do too much? Too little? Did anything he did mattered, at all?

The voices in the well of his mind get meaner, toothed; he shoves the dumpling into the bard's mouth—unceremoniously, carelessly, biting back the fleeting urge to lighten up, laugh in that way that makes him feel more jovial at the way it makes him look like a chipmunk—chubby. It reminds of Lian's face, cradled between his large hands, protesting every pinch with all the strained tolerance of a small kitten who wants to bite. His gloved fingers furl and unfurl from holding back these lighter emotions inside, pushing his brows into a frown instead. "Chew. Slowly... don't choke." there's a flash of worry there, as though he's a baby—over-worrying at every opportunity. Don't they know Taliesin's survival skills far superseded his own when it came to this?

He wipes the crumbs with his sleeve, plucking another dumpling with his chopsticks and dumping it into his plate before he's done chewing—he doesn't touch the food. Maybe he forgets. Was he ever hungry? Did he ever actually eat or just made everyone think that he did? Did his shoulders ever drop? Did the tension ever leave him in an exhale?

"Taliesin," the hesitation slips in without thinking while he gorges himself in his attention, his mindless pampering and fussing—he doesn't dwell, doesn't stumble on what it could mean that his heart lodges in his throat; he barely registers it's there at at all as he swallows, pale fingers absently fidgeting in his lap. "If you were in trouble... I mean, real trouble.... would you—" He lowers his eyes, sooty lashes resting against the high bone of his cheeks, hovering over the bruises of his knuckles. He twists the question around in his tongue, uncertain, ever so uncertain whenever the subject strayed from battles and strategies, almost as if he was scared to ask. If fear existed in him, it lingered in the smallest interactions, the softer questions. "Would you say you... trust me?"

[movielosophy]

Whispers of Fate | Oooh, smooth!

[aenaos]

He often speaks as if he is a hammer seeking a nail, but she does not feel the blow as others would. Whatever heaviness shapes his words is for him to lash himself with, not to strike at others. Forever repentant for one imagined sin or another, he bathes his wounds in saltwater, and all she can do is salve the lesions whenever he allows it, and trace the red-lettered markings that phrase his guilt and pronounce them forgiven. I've known my fair share of the evil that walks this earth, she sometimes wishes to say, and you soar so highly above them all. But she does not, for he would not listen.

"I'm aware," Lenyra replies softly. At least you know where to find yours. "But that does not mean his legacy does not weigh on you, or that I would dishonor it." Lenyra watches Sheng tear his fruit into a glistening rupture and is suddenly struck with the desire to split open the sun itself and scorch away all that has harmed him. Them. This city is a gilded coffin harboring decay, and it has reduced everyone inside to carrion and scavenger. If she could, she would reduce it to sun-bleached bone, that another world might grow atop the old one. But no world will ever be better, and all she can do is weave a slightly different tomorrow. Not a kinder one. Not a more merciful one. But twined into a new shape.

"Yet the memory holds weight," Lenyra calmly corrects. "Memory is not only a burden. It is also a lesson." If not, all her days of servitude would have been for nothing. All that pain and blood would have been just another bruise fading into nonexistence, forgotten by the man who had caused it all. She will not allow such a thing. Every humiliation bestowed upon her she will return tenfold, or die trying.

The memory sharpens her enough for her next words to prick at the shell of the soldier beside her, who has done her no wrong, but was born into the same Aureate privilege that makes men monsters. "And your father was no stranger to indulgence himself, so another lesson can be found in that." Her voice is supple as flowing water, intended to drown, and just then Sheng offers her a sliver of orange. She looks at it, takes it, and tastes it. The poison dissolves on her tongue. The spider withdraws back into her webbing, soothed and shamed.

"You are the general." Her voice shifts into true softness then, that of a mother's fingers brushing a brow. "And I am the lady of delights." Lenyra leans closer, a faint smile curving her mouth. "We play our parts, the audience leaves satisfied, and all is well beneath the heavens— as long as we don't look up." She leans back and brushes a lock from her temple. The slopes of her shoulders rise in a slender shrug like white-foamed waves. "Be glad they whisper. A reputation, false or otherwise, provides protection where anonymity does not." Her eyes sweep over Sheng in a once-over, her inspection swift but teasing. "Not that obscurity was ever in the cards for you. I do believe you've grown in size since we last met."

His head rests in the cradle of her palm. In response, her thumb brushes once along his cheek. "I do not like your hair, Sheng, I adore it. That does not mean a trim is not in order." Her words fill with quiet warmth, an ember within the hearth. "Haven't I taught you to always look your best?"

Her touch falls from his face and settles into her lap with demure obligation; she returns to her hostess's veneer. "Danae." One arm rises, slender and sylphlike, palm upturned as though she might cup the girl and present her to Sheng like an offering of ambrosia. "A new face, but a sweet one, don't you agree?" A practiced pause. "As fresh as a daisy in spring." But as cunning as a fox among doves. She speaks five tongues, not counting the arts of the body, and remembers all she hears. "I could introduce you."

[decthless]

The general tilts his head, and those locks he combs so thoroughly fall down the length of his back, the wisps she holds between her fingers remain there in willing submission, and he wonders how it is she does not feel disgusted to touch something so covered in tragedy. What happened to her, that had made her so comfortable to linger in the same corridors death did, without staggering, without flinching. "I know so..." the oldest Zhou reassures, a softness to the certainty of his words, spoken without that subtle undertone of paranoia and resentment that tends to sneak between his words whenever one threatens to know him, to understand him; he chooses selective those he feels safe confiding in, and he had chosen her, and he would choose her a thousand times over. A quiet sigh leaves him, he sounds so tired—his gaze lingering idly somewhere beyond her shoulder before his eyelids fall over them, carving a moment of respite out of their small affections, where his shoulders could drop and his hand could loosen the shape of fists they'd held for too long. "I would not put my trust in someone who would..." he would not say so if he did not mean it—she knows him well enough by now to know that, doesn't she? That he is incorrigible? That he speaks truth, even, maybe especially so, when he shouldn't? She had tried to tame his tongue before, and they'd both accumulated nothing but frustration from it.

Was that what they were? A tale to be written and rewritten in a the eyes of others to amuse themselves? Did it truly look so strange for a creature such as he to search solace in her company? "Then forgive your general for speaking so brazenly, Lady of Delights..." his head inclines towards her, pulled naturally into her orbit in a gesture that teeters somewhere between courtesy and intimacy. "But I think you are much more than just that." Perhaps not to the untrained eye—to those cemented in too much judgement to make room for curiosity, but he does. He thinks he does—see her, that is; beyond the veils of hedonism, beyond the facade of indifference she wears. He was certain no mask could be worn for long without wearing traces on one's skin... just as he was certain there was much more to her than she had ever been given credit for. There is a pause, thoughtful, hesitant, as though he weighs each word before offering it at her alter. "You, my lady, are clever as a fox, is what you are..." Much clever than he, who would've not thought to take advantage of such rumors, but put his ego first where it had no place being. Every time he comes, she teaches him something new. The corners of his mouth lift ever so slightly, unveiling the faintest flicker of amusement beneath his usual solemn expression. "Wise well beyond your years." He adds, his perilous gaze steady upon her. "If the magistrates possessed any sense, they would put you in charge." he'd much happier serving under her, he thinks. Though much of her remains a mystery, somehow he had faith she would be neither as wasteful, nor as mercurial as the lot of them.

He laughs, and his throat bobs—a rare sound, gravely and harsh from misuse. It catches in his throat before settling into an easy exhale, and for a fleeting instant he feels unburdened of the weight of his responsibilities. "Perhaps it is you who's shrunken a few inches," he teases back, the jest is dry, understated, with enough warmth behind it for her to recognize his feeble attempts at being playful.

"Mm..." an agreeable nod follows, the well-behaved, dutiful son living within those bones of his still. "Then you should be the one to trim it," a faint smile touches his lips. "I trust your hand to be gentle with me." It had been some time since he had asked Lian for a trim—surely his baby brother would not be too upset to delegate such boring duties onto the hands of another, would he?

Silence settles comfortably between them, his eyes hesitant to even look, as though that in itself was a kind of betrayal. "Mm…" he is shy; all these years, and Sheng is still much too timid to approach—the answer, if you could call it that, is nothing but a quiet, agreeable hum, afraid to exist, to be heard, to be acknowledged. "Perhaps..." his eyes drift toward the gardens beyond, to the wisps of fair locks caught in a playful breeze, the the sweetened air, imbibed in the scent of mischeif and ripe fruit, moonlight spilling across winding paths and rustling hedges as the moths flutter in the endless blue.

There is something boyish in the hesitation that follows, the way he averts his eyes, the formidable general shrinking inside its own armor. "Before I make a fool of myself," he says, lifting his gaze to her tentatively. "I'd like to take a walk..." his hand moves subtly to hover above her own without touching—a silent invitation that leaves the choice to reach entirely in her hands. "...if my hostess will have me." his gaze lingers, waiting, expectant, a breeze stirring the loose strands of his dark hair. "The night is lovely, isn't it?"