They say it can make you stronger. They say it is beautiful. They say it changes you—for better or for worse.
Isn’t love a beautiful thing?
—It would’ve been nice if that was all it was.
But it’s not. At least, not always.
In this world, there is a disease said to break people, carving away at their insides. It takes root with a single thought, and from there saps away their life. Having no cure, it is a disease that only ends with death.
The only way to stop its progression is to cut it out, from its very roots.
But doing so changes the person—irrevocably so. The one who is left behind may not be the same as the one who left.
It changes them so deeply, they may as well have died.
Is it any wonder why those afflicted with such a disease most often choose to live and die just as they are?
—You must be wondering what the connection is between this disease and the earlier rabble on love. After all, aren’t those two ultimately two different things?
The answer is just about what you’d expect. Indeed—
Your dreams are filled with things that you don’t know. (They are filled with things that you have forgotten.)
A smiling girl, and a downcast boy. Their shadows stretch farther than the eye can see. They walk towards the sunset, their footsteps trailing red. (Only one of them will come back.)
Scattered on the floor are papers inked red, filled with familiar handwriting and blurry sketches, torn pages from someone’s diary. Picking them up, a sinking weight of dread forms in your stomach. (This is the beginning of despair.)
A child crosses the street. Someone follows after. Steel bars fall. A truck screeches to a halt. (There is nobody there.) A black cat from nowhere jumps into your arms. Red steadily trickles out. (There is no body here.)
The steady, halting beeping evens out. The highs and lows turn flat. The boy enters the stage. (He dies right on time). She runs and runs and runs, but she is going nowhere. There is nothing behind her, nothing chasing her. (Red stares her in the eyes.)
There’s a boy with scars and bruises everywhere. His house is empty and silent. There is red everywhere. They find him hugging the air. (His mother isn’t there anymore.)
The red reaches for them, and the monster devours them whole.
You wake screaming, tears running down your face and an inexplicable feeling of loss festering in your chest.
Not knowing what it was like to love, yet at the same time wanting to be loved. That was Hoshino Ai, once upon a time.
But then she became Ai, B-Komachiʼs Ai, the favorite star, the beloved idol. She was loved, so very loved, by so many people. But still itʼs hard for Hoshino Ai to love.
And then she met him. He didnʼt want to love or be loved. That didnʼt stop him from being loved. He hated it, hated being loved, that he hated to love too. Or so she thought.
She didnʼt really know, what it was like to love or be loved. But she wanted to learn. That boy didnʼt like love, but for some reason he decided to teach her how to love, how to love someone.
That was how Hoshino Ai learned the shape of love.
Still, for all the good that did her, she still didnʼt know what it was like to love, to really love, someone, until it was too late.
Ai, Ai, Hoshino Ai. B-Komachiʼs Ai.
When she decided to break it, break them, Hoshino Ai had known the shape of love. But she did not know what sort of thing would be made from the pieces of it.
By the time she did, it had penetrated deep inside her. Such a thing would have filled her up, before. Now all it did was tear her open and bleed her dry.
Even then, even when she knew what it was like to love, Hoshino Ai at her end couldnʼt say those words at the very end to the one person she wanted to show it to.
(Even at the very end, Hoshino Ai couldnʼt help but be loved.)
Even as she said the words to the two other people she found she wanted to say it to, it ended up being just the same as before.
(Even when she wanted to love and be loved, the only thing she could do was leave. Like mother, like daughter, a certain cruel fate might have loved to say.)
(It hurt her to love and be loved, just as much as she hurt to love and be loved.)
(Unable to love or be loved, that was Hoshino Ai once upon a time.)
evillious chronicles short ft. eve & mikulia
connected to this belated addition to heartbreak valentine's
.
From the beginning, she was always just a shell. A vessel for her to dwell in, just like every girl who came before her. They—were a part of her. Of Eve.
And yet.
Mikulia was different. She was...something born from Eve, but she wasn’t Eve.
That was why it was easy for Eve to leave.
And yet.
Somehow Eve is drawn to her. Her vessel, her shell. Her...dregs.
It’s the tugging in her heart that calls her back to the girl.
But she’s a doll. She shouldn’t have a heart, not anymore.
And yet.
She finds her lying in a pool of her own blood.
There’s a babe in her hands, wailing, crying. It looks like a fruit, a red, red fruit.
And Eve thinks back to her own two fruits. To the bear from whom she stole those fruits.
Mikulia Greeonio is a girl made from her soul, a shell made wearing her face.
And yet.
All Eve can see is her, that wretched beast that took everything from her.
It shouldn’t be, it couldn’t be.
And yet.
It is all she can see.
And yet.
Her clockwork heart stutters, it whines as if it aches.
She is a demon, a capricious thing that feels nothing for human suffering.
And yet.
She feels like the girl she used to be once upon a time.
Just a girl, not quite a witch, living in that quiet village she called home.
And yet.
Her home is gone. Not a trace is left of the place that she loved.
Another summer's come and gone, but still they're here.
bad end, grave, “waiting, lonely”
There’s snow on her grave, and flowers underneath.
He comes here every now and then, talking to stone and earth and trees. He talks to no one but ghosts who aren’t there.
They’re dead, the ones he wants to talk to. They’re gone, and they—are not coming back.
He used to keep hoping he’d find their ghosts if he came on that cursed day. But they never do. And he ends up waiting for nothing, like an idiot who missed every memo.
It’s the fourteenth again. And he’s standing before her grave—waiting.
How pointless.
“It should’ve been me.”
.
Hibiya’s dead, again. For good, this time.
He’s not coming back. She’s not going to see him again.
She won’t see him pushing her away from a truck, from steel beams, from wrecking balls. She won’t be pulling him away from the knife, from the cliffs, from the edges again.
He’s gone, and this time he’s not coming back.
Hiyori should’ve beat him up more. Made him treasure his life a little bit more.
Hiyori doesn’t know where she should go anymore. It’s just her, and him.
“I wish you were here. At least you would’ve known what to do.”
For Marry, Kousuke can wait forever. (Marry doesn’t want to wake from this dream.)
platonic, time, post-canon, comfort, “wait, wake”
It’s over.
It’s over, but...for her, it isn’t. It’s not over yet.
Marry keeps looking at Kousuke like he isn’t real. (He keeps seeing flashes of red and green when he looks in her eyes.)
“It’s alright,” he tells her. “Take your time. We have all the time in the world now.”
(Kousuke has so much he wants to tell her, but she comes first.)
Her voice is small as she whispers. “Promise?”
“Promise.” To you, and to me.
And if Marry holds his hand a little tighter that night, well. That’s for him to know and never tell.
.
Kousuke’s breath feels warm on her cheek. Her heart beats a little bit faster.
It still doesn’t feel real. She keeps waiting for the other shoe to drop. She keeps waiting to be woken from this beautiful, hurting dream.
Kousuke hugs her and brushes his hand through her hair the way he always does when she needs grounding. She’s never told him how guilty it makes her feel to be such a burden. She thinks he knows anyway.
It feels terrible to know how much he wants to tell her but doesn’t.
(Kousuke couldn’t hide those flower rings fast enough.)
welp there goes the proposal. Ik they’re young but i feel like that’s the sweet thing a boy like seto would do.
Hibiya tries his luck, again. Also, Momo is terrible at keeping secrets.
so supposedly this was just the kids, but momo is intrusive and gossipy and kanoshin is just there in the bg so~
children, sweet, fluff, rejection, just kids being kids, find this on AO3
For one reason or another, Hibiya dreads the fourteenth. It’s usually for good reasons, though.
It’s Kisaragi—February—now. Valentine’s.
Hibiya looks forward to it a lot. No sane person refuses free chocoloate, after all.
Speaking of which, he only gets some from Hiyori.
Every time, he asks her.
Unfortunately...
“I like you, Hibiya, but I don’t like like you, Hibiya,” her eyes soften, crinkling in pity.
Almost immediately, Hibiya slumps. The disappointment stung, even when he expected it.
Well, I tried.
Extending his hand, he smiles helplessly. “Still friends?”
“Do you even have to ask?” Hiyori pouts. “Always, duh.”
.
“Whaaaat, she doesn’t like you?”
Shintarou and Kano’s heads turn to them, slowly, hearing Momo’s exaggerated gasp. The former whistles, while the latter’s face splits into a teasing grin.
“Ooh, is that spring’s coming I hear?”
“Wow, chibi, I didn’t know you had it in you.”
His face flushes red. Groaning exasperatedly, Hibiya glares at the big-mouthed idol for a moment, before giving up and just burying his face in his hands. This is why I didn’t want to tell you.
Oops, she mouths. Forgive me?
Too little, too late, Hibiya thinks, blurting, “It’s orange hearts on white laces today.”
183 days after he confesses, Ayano takes her leap.
183 days after her confession, Shintarou took a leap.
post-canon, half a year (183 days)(twice! before and after), unrequited love, foot in mouth, two-part story (and so the sun sets; hazy shapes), find this on AO3
Today is the day.
Ayano’s been preparing for this day for months. Her hands feel cold and clammy with sweat. It’s probably the cold from the winter.
Her heart feels full to bursting. It feels too good to be true. Ayano convinces herself that that’s because it is true.
Shintarou told her likes her. (Shuuya said so.)
“Shintarou,” she hands him her chocolate, the one her brother helped her make, “I made this for you.”
And Shintarou takes it, muttering, “You’re...different today.”
“Am I...?”
(Her heart feels full to bursting.)
“...I liked you better yesterday.”
(And burst it does.)
.
“It was never me, was it?”
Ayano’s eyes shine with unshed tears. Even so, she smiles, as if it doesn’t hurt her to ask.
Shintarou can’t bear to look at her.
(She’s always been the stupidly brave one. Doing things she knows would hurt... He doesn’t hate that, about her.)
The smile he makes mirrors hers. “I still like you anyway,” he looks over her shoulder, “Tateyama Ayano.”
Her image before him flickers, and the illusion breaks. (Kano breaks.)
His eyes are trained on the girl whose face is a red blush, and he sees—himself.
His eyes burn red.
P.S. foot in mouth, shin! also shinkano if you squint.
four drabbles, all inspired by the art, the poem, and dedicated to the inner children of everyone living in this world right now.
inner child
You can hear crying out there, in here.
It’s faint. A wheezing, dying sound. As if it were being strangled. Or muffled. You do not know which is worse.
You find it huddled in a cage. It is open. That provides it no comfort still. But maybe it’s the thought.
It curls into itself. It makes itself seem small. Insignificant.
Covered in blood, it cries, soft and quiet. You might not have heard it if it was not such a silent night.
It is an ugly thing. You might have killed it yourself, once upon a time.
Weak, you think.
silent, mild
It stares at you, eyes open wide.
There is wonder in those eyes—childlike, innocent, untainted and pure. You wish it would stay forever that way.
Everything fades with time.
They may shine with awe today, and they will certainly flicker with awe tomorrow.
But it will not be the awe you wish were there.
It will be the awe of terror, of fear, of disgust and horror. It will be a disbelieving awe twisted to be a shadow of what once was there.
Now those wondering eyes can’t believe what they see.
Soon those eyes won’t want to see.
stay within your cage
You were safe, inside.
You could not be hurt, you could not be touched. You did not have to see what is there outside in this terrible, terrible world.
It was beautiful, once.
Now it is not.
It is gone, all the beautiful things of the world. They have taken it, destroyed it.
All that remains is the memory you hold in your heart.
Let it not be sullied by the filth of the world.
So stay. Stay where you can still remain the same.
Stay unknown, do not try to know.
Stay inside your cage.
Please, stay. Don’t leave.
bury all your rage
It is hot. It is cold.
It has an all-consuming hold.
You look at the world and you wonder, you ask, why?
There is no answer. There will be no answer that can satisfy you.
You’ve heard it all.
There is no more peace in the world.
You loved this world, once upon a time.
Now you look at it and wonder, where has the world you loved gone?
It is gone.
This world is angry, and their rage is all-consuming.
Don’t let it swallow you.
Swallow your rage. Bury it deep inside.
Look inside, and find your inner child.
P.S. The first part was kinda inspired by that scene in Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows where Harry finds the ugly baby piece of Voldemortʼs soul.
little extended drabble inspired by kdj, od, and @vacationtown
There is food on the table.
Thereʼs steak. Thereʼs salad. Thereʼs cake and biscuits and creams. Thereʼs soup, broth, stew.
Itʼs a mouthwatering spread, and your belly is just empty. Your stomach begs you to eat. Your hunger demands a feast.
And why shouldn’t you?
Itʼs a full-course meal, prepared just for you.
You reach for the steak.
You do not bite—you grasp, ensure there is no escape. Tempered in suffering, it is firm.
You do not chew—you savor, tasting the inky blood-and-sweat juices seeping from torn flesh-and-bone. Its connections make it soft.
It is perfect.
The soup is delicious, their tears taste heavenly. Bitter loss and salty regrets meet the spice of drive. And they become.
The broth is and is not the dregs. It is something else altogether. Relics of old, yet their flavor has only been tempered by time.
The stew is thick with clouded desires. What did they want? What did they truly want? The uncertainty it holds is simply delectable. When it is finished, you find that the question is still unanswered, the irony is not lost on you.
Imperfection does not taste so bad.
The cake is sweet, soft, sugar-sweet happiness. It’s the last thing on the menu, yet it leaves you wanting still.
The biscuits come in varieties. The sweet ones are few and far between. The salty and bitter are a shock at first; later, they come as a change but even then they are still a surprise. Some are sour, you don’t know if you like it or not. Decidedly, you do not.
Most of the biscuits, however, are flavorless. And they come in droves. You neither like nor dislike them. Yet you eat them anyway.
It’s all gone. How long until the next meal comes?
Your hunger is king, and you want to eat. (You want it more than you need it.)
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Chapters: 2/7
Fandom: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Characters: Harry Potter, Ron Weasley, Quirinus Quirrell, Albus Dumbledore, Cedric Diggory, Minerva McGonagall, Arthur Weasley, Moaning Myrtle, Severus Snape, Irma Pince, Hermione Granger, Other Character Tags to Be Added
Additional Tags: Seer Harry Potter, Sleepwalking, Canon Compliant, besides the obvious, and only until fourth year, Prompt Fic, Reddit Prompt, Snippets, NOT!, character tags limited to snippet centers, Out of Character, understand that these kids are growing, of course they change, adults are just stressed out around him, Song: Stressed Out (Twenty One Pilots), also the song prompt i forgot, Song: Monsters (All Time Low)
Summary:
She meets him in the dead of night.
He’s a ghost in a shell, waiting, waiting. Who is he waiting for? She doesn’t know.
Whispers humming low, she thinks she sees glimpses of a bloodied ring and a blade reflecting the moon in red. It’s horribly familiar, though she can’t place just where she’s seen it from.
She looks into those eyes so green, and she sees. She hears his voice, echoing, ringing in her mind:
“Beautiful, lovely, wise. Wit beyond measure. Her mother is everything she wants to be. It’s the diadem, isn’t it? Man’s greatest treasure. She wants it, wants it like she wants to be like her mother, to be beautiful, lovely, and wise. Wrong, she’s wrong. She steals it, wears it, but she’s no wiser that she already is. Fool, fool, she’s a fool. You, you are a fool.”
Just as suddenly as she went, she’s back again.
Helena really doesn’t want to know.
OR
Harry is a Dreamer, a rare kind of Seer who can see the past, present, and future—but only while sleepwalking. Everyone is creeped out with his Sleepwalking prophecy's and ramblings.
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