-. HELLO~ hehehe~ forgib, i continue being absent, i cannot put a SINGLE WORD DOWN, but other than mental exhaustion i'm not dead, and i hope you're doing as splendidly as humanly possible i adore ALL our plots and i adore EVERYTHING i get to know about your characters, i am chewing on them, my nutrition during these trying times, i will return >:3

on a wholly separate not, my brother plays hs.r and i know nothing about it, i do NOT go there, BUT FUCK. AND DAMN. i can't watch that b-l-ck sw-n & -n-chron animation without taking DAMAGE, that video has the ability to instantly kill me, SO hmm among the plots i will be bullying you guys about (thank you for the leeway~) pls what if also something like that~? and pretend you can't hear me giggle and kick my feet rn btw

-. QUICK PSA, just logging in for this real quick: as you may or may not have heard, Ch.an.ce Pe.rdo.mo has recently passed away. For the moment it takes me to adjust Fabian, access to their about will be unavailable. Thank you ♥

-. QUICK HEAD'S UP queue ran out lmao ♥ (didn't get to refill it, but will do so hopefully soon, hope you're all having a most wonderful timezone ♥)

It's true.

Capitolites, for once not dictated by gender but rather by wealth in terms of likelihood, do enjoy their Victors, their feasts, young and bright, beautiful and as clean from the reality of their existence as is realistic to demand of the marketing team designing the Victors as perfect toys.

Hermes would be no exception, he enjoys wealth and the intricacies of commerce, he looks to his father's empire of energy, electricity, light, and what not all pertains to it, and finds something to earn from and something to exploit within it, yes, but still...

Not quite enough.

Victors to him are perhaps... less than toys. A humanization granted to them solely for the fact that Hermes cannot see them as products, a thought process not aided by any natural goodness of heart, but solely by... how to put it.

A decision.

Hermes cannot find it in himself to enjoy Victors as meals.

But he does find intrigue in their stories.

Even as his father's most distant son there's a cacophonic dissonance between life as he experiences it and life as it is experienced by the Districts, the Tributes, and most of all, the Victors, those who culminate Districts and Tributes into a new way of suffering (son, not necessarily child, his sisters would hardly answer to him if they weren't forced, to either maintain their inheritance or to avoid useless conflict that would never resolve in a win for them... although, he can name one sister who keeps her distance in spite of all that, anyway; good for her, is all he can say).

Maybe that's why Patrick was the name he'd ended up tapping his finger on, as opposed to much younger, fresher meat, as others of his class would suggest referring to them.

Hermes likes wealth and commerce, and can respect a good marketing strategy, but he also likes knowing. And trying to extrapolate the information he'd like to acquire from someone young enough to still fear him and focus only on appearing small, as opposed to running through whatever patterns they'd set for themselves to use to survive encounters with the likes of him... it simply doesn't go fast enough.

Besides, asking for someone well into their 30s guarantees a 'yes', as opposed to messing around in the pool of victims his father claims as his own.

Because no one is as active in this business as his father is, wandering hands and whatnot, he should perhaps venture further into it, instead of remaining client only, as passionate as he is to the trafficking of Victors.

Hermes can't relate.

Hermes smiles.

"Our president, I like that," his hands stay carefully folded behind his back until the garment is offered, concession given. Are all Victors this particular brand of eloquent? Remolded to find ways to appeal via words and bodies both? He can't imagine that to not be the case.

"Very deliberate, to refer to him as your president as well. I mean, it's not factually incorrect," Hermes takes the coat and lays it to rest over his arm, opting to hover off to the side now before retreating to abandon it on a designated hanger. He'd like to see Patrick's face some more.

In terms of age, Patrick is gracing what his father in particular would refer to as 'overripe fruit'. Hermes would argue there's beauty interwoven there still, every person comes with their own charm, and even in spite of Hermes' smoother, more youthful skin, he imagines Patrick's would be as pleasant to touch.

If he cared for it, that is.

"You could have just as well chosen to say 'the' president, though," he walks backwards while he guides Patrick further into his home, he supposes, he barely spends any time in to call it such.

How could he? There are Districts to sneak in and out of, after all.

A sitting room, bright and spacious, archs opening onto overseeing balconies, a mansion designed to pretend it was built at the sea, not quite couches, except for one sofa, but seats to recline on, and enough space to keep distance to the only other person in the room.

Marble, typically. Dirty white on every wall, blue cushions, and notes and lines and decorations of gold. A golden statue of a tortoise with its back shaped into a lyre. A painting of his mother, depicted motherly and demure, though not even the painter had managed to remove the cunning from her nearly black eyes.

It's pristine. Wealthy. Bright. Taken care of by anyone but himself.

He barely lives in it.

He just got back.

There's a bar cart, the only thing slightly out of place, glasses and bottles of liquors he doesn't care to remember the name of, recommendations and even brands handed off by his brother - a few bottles of his wine mixed in for good measure - presented for Patrick to take advantage of as he pleases... or feels obligated to.

"Be my guest. There's water, too. Coffee, tea, juice, whatever you may like, I can have that prepared instead. And if you can't find anything to your taste, tell me what you like, and I'll have it delivered to us, under one -" he appears at Patrick's side again, avoids his back, bad move earlier, flinch noted, lifting one perfectly uncalloused forefinger, "- sole condition: do never call me 'my dear' again."

He straightens his back.

"Unless it's intended as a joke."

"Thank you so much for introducing me into your busy schedule," Hermes says and he's oh so very polite, epitome of status and class, of the Capitol, complete with something less polite glistening in his eyes, making his stare resemble the kind worn by someone curiously waiting to see whether the distracted mouse will see the lurking cat in time. He comes up around Patrick, offering his hands. "Let me take your coat, hm? Care for a drink?" ((btw if Patrick is more of a jacket kinda peep here pretend it says jacket >:3333333)) || a year late but here we are ( unprompted w/ @mythvoiced )

One would think at his age, the stream of clients on his end would be slowing down by now. The copious amounts of surgeries and skin care routines Capitolites undergo would indict so– he’s already past his prime and with the pool of victors always growing larger and larger each year, he would assume the Capitol’s attention on him would fade. The Capitolites are like crows in that respect, eyes drawn to what is shiny and what is new, their attention spans that of goldfishes.

One would think then, that he’d be discarded by now, being OLD now and therefore in the Capitol’s eyes, as good as dead.

“But of course,” Patrick says astutely, flinching when he realizes the client has managed to sneak behind him. Well that’s new– most clients wait for him in their bedrooms. Most clients would have their avoxes let him in, the task of welcoming a guest apparently too arduous for those of their class. And most clients wouldn’t offer to take coats either. Perhaps this one was raised with a military background of sorts.  “Your father has a great deal of connections to the games and President Snow certainly didn’t want to disappoint his son. You know our president holds the games to the highest esteem.”

The coat stays on for a moment longer. He tries to savor it, his armor, as he looks around the foyer. It’s ornate, just like all the ones that came before. And all the ones that will come afterwards– at some point when you’ve seen one interior of a mansion, you’ve seen it all. The heirs of the elite aren’t much better and with the way his newest client looks at him, like he’s supposed to provide some sort of entertainment at the moment, Patrick can only bite back a sigh. Only three hours, Patrick tells himself. Slowly, he forces a smile. Three hours and then he can get on a train and go back home. Back to Sun. 

“It would be my pleasure,” Patrick says, finally offering Mister Hermes his coat. His stomach turns. “I suppose we all need a drink before the main event, hm? And a chance for me to get to know you, my dear.”

She can't quite tell if his spiel on gloating is intended as a joke to bridge whatever gap between them she refuses to not punch wider, or if he's simply using the opportunity of her slight to build his ego more and honestly?

It's just as likely it's both.

She snorts.

Not even despite herself, she hardly puts any effort in pretending she isn't, only turns her head to roll her eyes out of habit rather than the intention of not letting him see. What does she care. Clearly he's not here to uphold her reputation and she's not here to not tarnish his. There should nothing more between them than Aeri, the other only reason she actually knows who he is.

Accepting the snake's apple is what got the Church's second mother out of Eden.

But... then again, the Church always adores to blame the woman for falling and not the man for pushing.

She puts her weight onto her arms. Watches the bartender nearly stumble over himself to be worthy of Bellamy's attention, to serve him just well enough to maybe one day mention he'd gotten to serve him at all. The only thing he'll gain out of Hyun's presence there is wondering what he could turn her meeting with Bellamy into.

But... well, perhaps it's best he remain as silent about it as subservient. Even now, as Hyun watches, she can't help but chew quietly in the privacy of her mind on the knowledge that Bellamy's family name alone guarantees the public only ever knows what he wants them to know.

That he controls one of the funnels from which they drink their information certainly helps as well.

Which is perhaps why she's even... entertaining his company - because he's in control, but she can at least pretend she is partly.

Even the way he speaks about her... the praise for all the ways she's ruining her career, how her bite and lifted chin are things to exploit and not snuff out, she knows all these things herself. She also knows that, if it weren't for men like him, she wouldn't have to be a cunt.

She watches him.

He says whatever he wants because there's no reason for him to mince his words. He controls words, controls one of the largest platforms people use to share their own words. If he says something, the world will bend to turn his statements to his advantage. A useful power to slip under, even if only with the strength of the moon taking the sun's light.

But slip under she will have to.

"You're a cunt?" Hyun asks with a raised eyebrow. She makes a point of only glancing at the envelope she's offered. Her fingers twitch. Part of her wants to grab it before he gets the chance to pull it back. But that's not how she works. No amount of wealth wrapped around his skin or how easy it is for him to be a cunt and proud of it can make her bend so easily.

Even if she really, really has to.

"You sell yourself short, Chairman," she reaches out slowly, languidly, her forefinger rests on the envelope, her nail drags it closer, like she's considering things out of curiosity, and not with the certainty she'll have to accept.

She hates knowing he probably knows she won't refuse.

She straightens her back with a sigh, abandons the envelope in favour of her drink.

"And why, pray tell? My potential alone, and I have plenty, as perfect as God made me, has often been ignored by men more powerful than you. What do you hope to twist it into?"

A snicker escapes from Bellamy's lips. The type of snicker of a snake enjoying proding on her fresh wounds as well as the snicker of a man entertained by every single one of her words. Ji Hyun has little to no filter, she does not bow, she does not kiss ass and surprisingly that's everything he finds charming about her and firmly believes is a weapon in today's media industry. "Don't get me wrong, I adore the gloating. In fact, my morning routine is solely based on that. I wake up, as perfect as God made me and I gloat, that's why my skin shines like a diamond." Believe it or not, this is his sense of humor. "Two more." The Kang then speaks to the bartender, only using his eyes to point at the glasses. "Yes. Right away, Sir." Replies the employee, bowing his head to the heir, and then, immediatly executing himself in order to bring a new drink to Hyun and Bellamy. In the meantime, his eyes do not leave Hyun's figure, ideas spinning inside his head as she serves him a smile, that one pretty smile that is Oh so not meant : he likes that. "You can call me Chairman." A smirk from him. Of course her question sounds ironic and condescending but he enjoys giving a literal answer to that, condescendant as well. "The men who turned their backs on you are fools. You do not play by the rules Ji Hyun-sshi, that is why they think so little of You. You're an outsider. And outsiders... Well, are Dangerous." The line is fully meant. "However. I firmly believe a lost lamb and one big bad wolf can create wonders these fools will beg for in the future ." In his perfectly ironed Armani suit blazer, his perfectly manicured hand travels into the pocket inside, taking a golden enveloppe out of it. He places the enveloppe down before her eyes. An invitation. "Come. To Balmain. You will not have to seat next to me, you will not have to even speak to me nor look at me. Your presence there will create a tornado in the press. You have no idea what these socialite are ready to sell to me to get the seat I'm giving you now. Her? There? After the abuse scandal, the interview bans and I don't know, just being a Cunt all together?" Bellamy mimics, placing a hand over his chest like a middle aged woman reading Dispatch would. "Your agency does not know what they're doing, wasting your potential by branding you like a pest. They should have never tried to force you down a boring mold, they should have made a mold out of you. Yes, you're a cunt Ji Hyun-shii. And you know what, I am too." His snake smile does never leave his lips. He sees an oppotunity for the both of them. He has a vision.

Jing - Sarang, is losing it. Clearly. Nothing else could explain why she's here, why she's doing any of this, why she's indulging any more than she previously had, and any more than she should, now that she's figured out there's no actual reason for Jing to continue flapping her butterfly wings around Nell.

It hadn't even mattered, at one point, that the man she'd tried to poke and prod at wasn't around. She'd saunter with careful and light step, cute and delightful, hands folded behind her back, directly up to Nell. And she'd bat her eyelashes, and she'd move her hair this way or that, she'd slip into her space innocently and with no intentions at all, and she'd only ever wear a perfume a second time if she'd imagined Nell responding just well enough to a particular scent, a particular brand.

And it was maddeningly infuriating how little any of it all mattered.

What did Nell have that Sarang couldn't acquire elsewhere?

No money, no ties, no connections. No associations she could figure at first and second glance, no associations to anything that would matter to her or the people holding onto the other end of her leash. Nothing that could help her pursue a path that would grant her one to walk, nothing that would warrant even looking any deeper beyond her hands or her eyes or the way her mouth moved when it stumbled over her words.

Even her skills - I can hack the mainframe - are skills she can find elsewhere, probably without having to worry about any strange men and their fun facts about pigeons or why something about his gait had looked so annoyingly familiar.

Maybe that's why the steering wheel had almost joined them on their venture.

Sarang is better than this.

Sarang is one of the best, in fact. Everyone that had been drafted or stolen or however you want to call it after her was beneath her. There was a before her, and an after her. There was the elite, with her as spear-head, and there was everybody else.

Would she have the pretense-liberty she has to go out on this crime-date if she weren't the best of the best?

She stops in her tracks. The building doesn't so much tower over them as it does to mock her from ground floor to the very top. She could be in an out of there in moments. She doesn't need a mainframe to hack, she needs a pretty woman to wrap around her finger to do it for her, and she can do that easily.

A kind woman. A just woman. A lovely woman, one that makes Sarang forget she's a monster and not a woman, one who makes her envy Jing in a way that is rotting the acid in her stomach, one that chatters until she stumbles over her tongue and forces Sarang to realize her smile feels genuine.

And if she can't, then she has other equally efficient ways.

But what for?

What is any of this for?

She spins around, almost knocking into Nell, uncaring of the proximity either of them had nurtured, Nell by stepping closer, Sarang by not budging.

"This is important to you... right?"

It's not every day crime is suggested as a date idea after all. It's not every day Sarang meets a woman as capable as Nell and watches her not lose faith in humanity, but rather gain so much righteous anger towards those that directly attack it that she'd nurture it into skills capable of fighting back.

What is Sarang doing in the meantime?

Jing's smile feels like a veil over her face, Sarang will make sure Nell is victorious here. No matter what it takes.

Well... except, maybe, killing. She'd hate having to justify that to her.

She'd hate showing that part of her.

She reaches out to rub her hands along Nell's arms. It's cold out, and she doesn't even check to see if Nell felt it for her to try and keep her warm. Because she had a brother once, who couldn't tell when it was too hot or when it was too cold, and she'd always make sure he was warm enough, or not overheating under his clothes.

Half a thousand years ago.

"We can watch a movie later, we'll just stream it," she reaches Nell's hands and folds them together between hers, blowing warm air with the repetitive motions of someone performing an action so naturally and ingrained, it suits Jing so well, so why does it feel so rotten to recognize that it'd be attributed to Jing and not Sarang, when it was Sarang being gentle for once?

A head-tilt.

"I've been in weirder situations with worse shoes, don't worry," she takes a few steps backwards with hardly any issues, she wasn't lying after all - which is definitely a problem, which is definitely THE problem - "did you have a plan or would you like me to..."

Well...

To what?

Should Jing even be able to be of any help here?

"Just tell me what to do~"

continued from here. / @mythvoiced

NELL’S DEFINITION OF A DATE usually goes along the line of her and a cute girl (or guy, but in Nell’s ideal world, it would be woman, a beautiful one if she’s lucky) going out for say, chips and then going back to her place for a movie night. The five letter word, crime, would play no part in this perfect night and perhaps it wouldn’t even be taking place at night. As much Nell loathes to admit it, the Black Knight will always take priority over any romantic relationships.

But if neither Myungdae nor Alfred are on the field, this time around, can this really be considered Black Knight activity? If the hat can’t be spotted in the crime, then it’s just another normal crime, isn’t it?

Well, Jing doesn’t seem to think of it that way. Not that she knows Nell’s part of the whole Black Knight persona, which might be a relief– these days, it seems like everyone who knows Myungdae also knows that he’s the Black Knight. Which, she argues, defeats the entire purpose of being a masked vigilante because no one is supposed to know in the first place.

“You know a movie is still an option, they have to still be showing something–” Even though by now no theater would be open by 11 PM and that shouldn’t be an issue, even if the chill of night in Seoul is now creeping under Nell’s leather jacket and she’s really, really hard not to stare at the smooth curve of Jing’s neck and how it dips below her shirt and let’s not forget her hands on the wheel although why does it look like that’s gonna snap at any given moment– 

(God, why are women so beautiful? And does she have to be attracted to said women?)

“Maybe…we could get you a pair of running shoes first? Not that yours are bad but–” The heels Jing drove them in definitely did not go unnoticed. Nell swings the car door open, following behind Jing. Maybe even crowding a little closer to her than appropriate for an acquaintance. Oh my god, they’re really doing this. “...The door shouldn’t be too far. We need to get to the top floor so I can uh, hack the mainframe– their firewall’s too strong to be hacked from the outside.”

@r4bidog | ♥

Yihwa doesn't spend a lot of time inside... proper houses. There are safe havens here and there more than anything else. The places of the people who crawl up her mountain and then die to become another soul trapped in her spirit-retaining collection of plants.

They don't last long because she doesn't pay the bills.

But they're useful, for a squatter like her, when she needs this, or that, and the city.

They're not supposed to be disrupted by lost dogs.

Granted, Yihwa wouldn't even care. He can mind his business. She will mind hers. But she's had a bad day and he reeks, he fucking reeks.

She's at the fridge in two steps, slamming her hand onto the door to shut it again. She hasn't been graced by height, but she makes up for the lack of altitude by stepping onto her tip-toes and directly into his face. Her hair cascades.

"You are ruining the air," it's her plants, it's her souls, "and I don't like you. You talk too much. Nonsense, nonetheless."

it's five o'clock in the evening when the video call comes through from lí chényǔ's number --- though the moment the camera turns on, it becomes immediately obvious that the man himself isn't the one placing the call. wendy's face mostly fills the screen, her eyes wide with concern, gaze flitting side to side as if she's attempting to be sneaky. she carefully ( pointedly ) adjusts the angle of the camera just right, such that the patch of damp, discolored plaster ( and the black mold splotched across it ) in the corner of the ceiling comes into view. all the rain has set it to leaking again; even as she videos it, several drops of water fall and land on the cluttered floor beneath, soaking into some ratty old towels that have long since ceased to serve their purpose in keeping what little free floor space there is dry.

in the background, a tv is playing faintly --- by the sound of it, a game show from the mainland. chopsticks clink against a bowl --- michael. wendy glances over at him where he sits next to her on the cramped bottom bunk, then back to the camera. the rain pounds against the single-pane glass; the wind rattles the window in its frame, whistling around the nonexistent weatherstripping. someone coughs as if they're drowning in their own lungs --- lí chényǔ. wendy's face falls, and she surreptitiously tilts the camera just enough to capture the scene.

lí chényǔ sits hunched on the edge of the bed, wrapped in a heavy comforter, a thermometer hanging from the corner of his mouth. his head rests heavily in one hand, a smouldering cigarette perched precariously between his fingers; even from this angle, the unhealthy flush on his cheeks is obvious. the thermometer beeps, and he scrutinizes it, expressionless.

"gēge," wendy asks, "what's it say ?"

"méishénme," lí chényǔ replies hoarsely, with a dismissive wave of his hand. he turns away from his younger siblings, then sneezes violently twice, unable to stop himself from groaning faintly in discomfort afterwards.

michael glances over at wendy, then takes advantage of lí chényǔ's distraction while searching for tissues to snatch the thermometer away from him. "chénchén, why's your temperature 103 ?" he asks worriedly, reaching out rub lí chényǔ's back when his big brother starts coughing again. "you're sick, please don't go play tonight, look how bad the weather is !"

"i won't be long," lí chényǔ whispers in mandarin ( it seems to hurt him to talk. ) "i just ... need to make enough to buy something so i won't cough all night and keep you both up. you have school tomorrow." there's a beat; lí chényǔ sniffles miserably, then turns to wendy. "wénxīn, i need my phone --- "

the video cuts off abruptly. and then ---

[ text to / 徐文哲 ]: its wendy he says hes going to busk at union square when the rain stops. winnie gege what do i do 😭 chenchen is so sick and im scared 😭😭

[ for wenzhe, from lí chényǔ / @xiianxias ! ]

@xiianxias | annabel & lcy rip len's heart apart hours~

There's a lot Wenzhe associates Lí ChénYǔ to. Mostly things he doesn't want to speak out loud because they're romantic and flowery, dreamy and ridiculous. Certain hands and caresses of a musician, little habits and that contrasting cigarette, the tenderness of a good man coupled with the harshness of the world sitting on his back.

Eyes with enough in them to fill the basin of the sea stretching between this coast and the mainland. Tentative speech and the intelligence hiding behind the language barrier, broad shoulders nearly solely in the metaphorical sense because if his sleeves slip his arms are thin, a brother and father both, someone a thousand times better than Wenzhe will ever be without ever asking to be considered anything more than just capable enough to be allowed to continue being capable, that little smile and the Mandarin Wenzhe mouths after him and pretends it's not to imitate his lips.

Enough to get lost about, enough to lose focus during classes, enough to stop at corners and create connections between a busker he's not and the music he plays, between a drugstore and that terrible cough, between a restaurant and warm food he'd like his siblings to taste.

A whole lot of things.

He often forgets this part.

The cough. The look in those basins of the sea. The siblings. The hope. Careful. The sense of responsibility. The weight on those shoulders.

Wenzhe thinks of the beautiful man and the notes of one of the saddest instruments the world has created and too often doesn't associate its solemnity to its player.

Wenzhe almost walks into a pole.

In and out of a campus café where he works on his way back home, the food there isn't glamorous or gourmet, or even fresh at this hour, but it's soft and pastry, it's sweet, it's never as high-class as all Vienna has to offer in terms of chocolate and desserts, but it fills the stomach and makes sweet-tooth's sigh. Wenzhe doesn't quite know how to ask 'is it all right' and 'what do you like', so he forewent the mortification and just bought the damn thing.

If Lí ChénYǔ likes it, good, if he doesn't, mark it down for next time.

Now it feels heavy in his hands.

The call cuts too abruptly. He'd been too focused on not frowning at his screen, on ignoring the pain of slamming his shoulder into the pole to narrowly avoid it, on wrapping his mouth around the first syllables of 'what's wrong did something happen-' before Wendy beats him too it and knocks the words back off his tongue.

He tries not to panic. And almost sways with the relief at getting a text.

He didn't know what his brain had computed could have happened between Lí ChénYǔ's cough, Mandarin he doesn't understand, and Wendy suddenly disappearing off his screen. But if his heart races any faster, he'll lose it and his hair within the next 24 hours.

[ unsent text to | 😖😵‍💫🥺 ] i'm on my way, tell him if he tries to go out i'll

He halts in his power-walk and nearly slams into someone.

He'll what, exactly. They're not that close. Or… are they? No, they are. But… he'll what. What could he hold against him?

What can you hold against someone you want to give the world to?

He slams his phone onto his forehead and tries again.

[ text to | 😖😵‍💫🥺 ] i'm on my way, once i'm there i'll figure out how to help him, okay? thank you for calling me.

A frown.

[ text to | 😖😵‍💫🥺 ] you did well! always call me in situations like these, okay?

Or maybe… not?

He's jogging by the time he's decided he'll overthink it later, and by the time the alley's in sight, and his phone is stuck to his ear, he'll figure he'll be put back in his place soon enough, if Wendy picks up.

@crue11 | ♥

The first thing the beautiful and ever-so-righteous Xiao XingChen hates himself for today is the way he trembles, ever so slightly, when Xue Yang touches him.

When Xue Yang touches him. Xue Yang. Xue Yang.

Xue Yang whom Xiao XingChen had vouched for, he'd looked at him once, and even despite the things he was already doing, a part of Xiao XingChen would always assume he would have made it out. Would have learned how to be better, would have recognized the error of his ways, how power means nothing if it's built on hills of corpses, quite literally it seems.

All at his own expense.

All because he didn't know better, all because he thought he knew better.

It's different now.

The voice he hears is both more and less familiar than the one he used to sit next to, entertained by stories and tentative touches, inching closer to a reality he didn't think he was allowed solely because it served no purpose other than indulging himself and whatever desire he'd managed to develop over the years.

Xue Yang.

He's still caring. He cares every day, there's food every day, even while his face continues to ache in pain at this point near-numbing, even if he bleeds through nearly every fabric wrapped around his eyes, Xue Yang, Xue Yang, will be there, and wipe it clean, the face he couldn't protect.

Every time Xue Yang comes back, Xiao XingChen is overcome with an intensity of emotions unbecoming to the moon he used to be equalled to. Where Song Lan was icy wind, he was the kinder breeze. He was praised for being gentle, soft-spoken but assertive, someone who'd do the right thing without ever stepping on others, unless terribly provoked, and even then solely to protect the innocent.

When Xue Yang doesn't show up... or when Xiao XingChen gets lost inside his own head and forgets to count the seconds, minutes, hours, when he can't hear him shift around outside, when it's too quiet... it's worse.

He's never been afraid of his disability. Even growing accustomed to it hadn't scared him. It wasn't easy, the jump. It was dreadful, but like a painful challenge, not a terrible reality he'd never learn to come to terms with.

Now, though, the idea of waking up one day and realizing Xue Yang had left, either because his passion project had come back wrong, or for some other reason, none good enough for Xiao XingChen to not think about stumbling out the coffin house and try to track him down.

It wouldn't be fair... if he left now. And yet... can he stomach having him around?

Who's who's property.

When Xiao XingChen used to move, back then, 'grace' and 'elegance' would be associated to him the way clouds were associated to the sky, and depths to lakes.

Now when he knocks the bowl of water over with an accidental swat like he doesn't seem to care for it, as uncaring of the way he sways before he rights himself and reaches for where he'd last heard Xue Yang, Xue Yang's voice, he resembles more all those men pitied for being once large and now small.

He doesn't want to go to him. He can't also not move away from him.

He gets stuck somewhere halfway. He just stops.

"Are you ever going to be honest with me," spat, choked. There's so much ache behind the words he can't make it sound like hate even if he wanted to, but it is. It's the kind of hate born from... well.

It's wet, and it means too much, it's almost swallowed back in a hitch of air, not one of surprise, but one caused by the struggle to not lose his breath under the onslaught of whatever he feels.

Never once does he think about killing Xue Yang. Never once does he think about hurting him. That's not what he wants. He doesn't want Xue Yang to pay. He doesn't want things to be this way.

He wouldn't have hated him.

Maybe.

Under different circumstances.

"I don't want your eyes," that's more like it. Angrier. Tighter jaw, but so aching, so yearning. It's not fair. And for the first time in forever, Xiao XingChen indulges. Allows himself to whine about it, even if only in his heart. Allows himself to selfishly wish it'd been someone else in his stead. Allows himself to hate the entire world, just for a moment.

He's exhausted.

"Why are you..." if only he could cry proper tears. His face contorts. He looks like he's watched a loved one die, without the tranquility of mind to realize what that means for him, for them, as they are. "What do you want from me...?"

I haven’t painted a #XiaoXingChen in a long time! So here we go!

I hope you like it, despite the loss of quality here 🙈

Prints and other stuff on my RedBubble and Threadless (I’m Wisesnail on both)        

a frog stares at him from the bright lake touched by the moonlight , a clear night and warm weather ; thankfully . xue yang wasn't sure if he would survive the chill of the mountain just wearing these stupid robes that didn't even cover up his arms warmly enough . idiots , first rule of meditating is to feel comfortable — or whatever . he winces , rubs his bruised wrists before wetting the soft cloth in the lake's water . lan qiren didn't give him a headband , out of his grudge or because he was a special little case , it didn't matter because xue yang simply grinned it off . they look like they're designed for girls , anyway . he's so lost in trying to reach the leash marks bleeding on his back to hear xingchen's footsteps until he sees him walk toward the bright spring . . . he gives him a smile while he's panting . maybe he should just get inside the water instead of trying to clean the blood off . ❛ daozhang . came for a swim ? ❜  did they tell him he's sneaked inside the forbidden library ? if the cloud recesses didn't hold the information he needed to create his own , original spell to bring a pair of lovely eyes back , then xue yang isn't sure where he could find it . he washes the red cloth on the water , pushes away his hair from one bare shoulder as he mumbles ; ❛ did you eat from the lotus cake lan wangji brought ? it was horrible . the lengths he's going to impress yilling laozu , so funny . he's not even close to what wei wuxian is . ❜  isn't that funny ; is he even remotely close to the beauty of xiao xingchen ? does he have any connections to the moon and gentleness of spring winds ? xue yang respects wei ying , more than anyone perhaps . there were nights he'd lay awake and wonder with eyes wide open – how did wei wuxian do such remarkable things ? he pauses momentarily , smiles with a lock of brown hair half-blocking his left eye . moonlight looks incredibly ugly compared to xingchen , tonight ; ❛ are you here for another set of leash hits ?? daozhang . have mercy . i haven't even eaten my dinner . ❜

@crue11 | xxc carefully not frowning about being called 'daozhang' at this stage-

They did tell him.

They tell him everything Xue Yang does and does not do, because Xiao XingChen vouches for him, a demonic cultivator, another one nonetheless, not quite as mad as the Grandmaster himself, but still as loathed via association alone, bringing Lan QiRen just one step closer to considering the very cultivation world itself lost.

Xiao XingChen knows, not so much painfully as begrudgingly well, that it's most likely his name that had gotten Xue Yang this spot Xiao XingChen had been the one to even demand for him.

It was a necessity.

One more step to fulfill the act that Xue Yang needed redemption he hadn't already fulfilled. One more move to make sure everyone to look at them walking as a pair would see that Xiao XingChen was doing a right and just thing... and that it wasn't his heart that came up with all these conclusions, all the different ways he could justify being as tightly bound to Xue Yang as Xue Yang decided to be bound to him.

So, yes.

They did tell him.

Because he demands to know.

And is he surprised?

No.

Xue Yang didn't become who he became or do what he did, and Xiao XingChen would not even be here, alive to mull over the past and whatnot, if it weren't for Xue Yang's knack for breaking rules and doing as he pleases. He couldn't quite tell how much of it was ingrained into his very character, and how much came to be as a vengeance towards the world that took so much effort to break him into becoming a demonic cultivator in the first place.

Fact is fact, that's all he knows, and if Xue Yang breaks a rule, well... Xiao XingChen can only be glad it was one coupled with a thirst for knowledge as opposed to a massacre waiting to happen.

Perhaps that is why he isn't here to scold him. Xiao XingChen spent a lot of time on a different kind of mountain. Baoshan Sanren had been just as disciplined and strict, but she never presented them with walls covered in thousands upon thousands of rules. The rules they were meant to follow, people like him, people like Song Lan, were implicit, intertwined into the behaviours they were taught to mimic.

Or... in other words, Xiao XingChen doesn't actually respect GusuLan as much as he pretends to, to guarantee Xue Yang a spot here.

The alternative, aforementioned Baoshan Sanren, was not an option - he couldn't return a second time - if he wanted to be around to keep people off Xue Yang's back and away from whatever reaction he would muster to having his toes stepped on.

Whichever sounds closer to the truth.

"You seem to hold quite a bit of reverie for Wei WuXian," Xiao XingChen says, as he seeks out the spot Xue Yang is talking from and assesses it coming close enough to the ground to consider him seated. He lowers himself to the ground nearby, and feels around for the air to turn into bare skin until he knows how much closer he needs to shift.

His fingers brush Xue Yang's arm and he pulls them back as if scalded, revealing no more than that until he's sat directly behind his... his... his?

His tone is carefully neutral. There's no reason for him to believe Wei WuXian and him are in anyway connected to one another, most likely placed in two different categories within Xue Yang's mind. He can't help but wonder, though, how likely Xue Yang would be to break more serious rules, just for a chance to learn from the Grandmaster of the cultivation he's known for.

"Don't be ridiculous," Xiao XingChen adds to the... well, ridiculous suggestion of himself appearing to add more punishment to Xue Yang's already marred back. He may not know what it looks like, but he heard it. And he's heard of how exactly GusuLan thinks discipline can be ingrained into its guest disciples.

One of the many reasons he doesn't like working with sects.

He finds Xue Yang's arm again and pinches the underside he can reach, hardly an action worth of note, just a way to pretend he's annoyed as opposed to all the other things he typically feels around him.

Conflicting and dissonant as they may be.

"Let me help you," his fingertips ghost along and upwards until Xue Yang's arm bends into a shoulder, and then carefully down the first inches of the expanse of his back. He's careful to make sure he's not pushing or adding pressure where the marks start, terrible things as exaggerated as some suggest demonic cultivation to be.

"I may not be able to see, but I've treated wounds of yours before. Then we can eat dinner."

You can actually pinpoint the exact moment the rage that flares up within Hyun is shut down like a fire being snuffed out by a particularly heavy load of sand. It's accompanied by the exact same sound, even, by the ash that had already settled beneath it puffing into the air in grey and black, by the smoke still trying to escape, by the scent of charred where the fire attempts to eat at what it was being killed with.

It's in the widening of her eyes. And the subsequent stillness of her features. Her face doesn't relax as much as it settles into something else, something ice cold and dexterous, smooth, like a boa constrictor.

Every woman, and every person raised as a woman, comes equipped with... primordial rage. Millennia of injustices and being told to be quieter, softer, well-behaved, grateful, the list goes on. Hyun differentiates herself from others in her branch for being in love with that rage. And hating how often she has to still it.

No. She's seen that face before. Younger. Different. More open. An expression she can't describe but recognizes inherently, probably portraying one of those emotions human can't escape, something... inbred into the species. And she will figure it out. Even if only to show up again and wave it under that nose. Or even just to prove herself...

Prove herself...

She watches the avoidance and the bite behind the confrontational reaction. Had that been intended to shut her down? Piss her off to get her to back off? Put her in her place?

She's not familiar with the intentions of a stranger. She'll make herself easy to recognize, though.

"Relax," she says after a while, consciously choosing to ignore the discomfort that had preceded the paralegal's outburst, consciously choosing violence, so to speak. Her voice is ice-cold, and as condescending as she can muster.

"Are you familiar with the concept of small talk? Do you need me to mansplain it to you?"

Her phone appears before her with the ease of someone who's practiced with keeping it in her hands at all times. Usually, to feign contact to the outside world if she's alone with a male designer. Occasionally, to prove her reputation right.

"What's your name."

"Also, I don't have a case here. I'm window shopping."

nosy. → “NO.” But even if she did recognize them via that man, they wouldn’t admit that to her. The wariness creeps up on them like their shadow though– they frown, turning slightly away from her. What’s it got to do with her anyways? It’s not like supermodel Ji Hyun has a reason to be sticking her nose into politics. Or the law, but who knows– rich people always seem to have a way of getting into drama one way or another. Ga-ram scowls. “What’s it to you? I thought part of the industry standard was knowing how to mind your own business– unless that’s the reason you have a case here?”

-. wenzhe-core (pt. 5) SPECIAL EDITION: yu qianru-core

tol wifey

[insert] protection squad president, she will start shit on your behalf

not easily flustered or embarrassed or is she just very good at hiding it

don't hit on her just be direct she doesn't like weird verbal flirting (she likes joking around and playing and the kind of flirting that is also yknow FUN but finding pick up lines and setting them up and then acting all smug, BLEAH)

mechanical engineer baybay

very good with her hands, very sexy hands

somehow acespec but the jury's still out on how exactly

very efficient, annoyingly efficient, if you're the kind of person who likes to tease folks or learn something with someone don't do it with her because she'll roll her sleeves up and Figure It Out

if you see a tall girl carrying the backbags of several other people that's her

she's chivalrous but less in a 'allow me to woo you' kind of way but more in a 'give that to me GIVE-'

very bad at handing off responsibility she's either gotta do everything on her own or you have to RIP it out of her hands

excessively competitive but not actually at anyone's expense, it's about? proving something to herself? she loves challenges, she LOVES personal challenges, she's Very Intense actually

if you're scared of dating women who are boyfriends don't ask her out

she knows wenzhe is bisexual she's known him almost all her life and she's very confident in her own queerness and he's so fucking obvious

nothing gets her going as much as correcting a figure of authority does

wenzhe may seem slightly Out Of His Boots but qianru is the one you actually have to look out for

she's not even all that deranged she just refuses to make herself 'bite-sized' for people and wears her neurodivergency TITS OUT

gosh they would have been THE audhd couple of the year

wenzhe recognized he was crushing on her sometime in high-school and repressed that shit so fast

i will NOT TALK ABOUT HER DEATH i am maKING MYSELF SAD

probably panromantic or demiromantic

i am not sure if qianru was also romantically interested in wenzhe, she certainly adores him in a vibrantly queerplatonic way and if they idea was 'spend the rest of my life with him' she'd say 'yes' but is it romantic?

she actually also knows EXACTLY who his male crush in high school was, she knows exactly, she was sitting around him and he'd get these sparkly eyes straight out of a shoujo whenever the guy would walk in

she knows way too much about that guy as a result because she kind of stalked him to figure out if he's any good

i was not joking when i said she's the one you actually have to look out for

she had to stop when people started spreading rumours SHE was into him because she could see the negative visceral reaction that had on wenzhe and fuck

between the two of them, wenzhe's??? softer????

qianru doesn't like people 'protecting her' or 'looking out for her' she likes small gestures of kindness but doesn't like when people try to fight her fights or underestimate her ability to fight her own so she really rarely reaches out and often even backtracks when she does

she prefers being the one Who Looks Out and she's Very protective of wenzhe

from an outsiders perspective, if you met them casually, wenzhe is a relatively relaxed extroverted kind of guy with a bit of a bitch-face when he thinks no one's watching him who's always poking and prodding at her, whereas qianru seems like a relatively introverted bookworm-ish kind of girl who brushes him off with tsundere vibes

in REALITY wenzhe's mental health has a always been a little more on the fragile side of things, he gets in his head a lot, has a noteworthy amount of misplaced resentment, and this really tires him out so his relaxed is usually just mentally exhausted, his extroversion is partly an act to help him mask, and he only pokes and prods at qianru because he's comfortable with her

and QIANRU is quiet because she isn't particularly verbal, she can absolutely pop off given the right conversation topic but her quietness is not meek or submissive, she just... doesn't talk a lot, and that is commonly associated with bookworm-ish shy characters, which qianru is not, she's a very active person, she likes hiking and trying out sports sitting somewhere, reading is not for her, and she is the absolute opposite of a tsundere, she's very direct with her feelings, it's just her way to tease wenzhe back

also i'm not saying oh, you can fuck with her just don't touch her friends, no bro, don't fuck with her either, she's also her own very best friend don't do it man

wenzhe needs qianru more than qianru needs wenzhe, wenzhe needs qianru in his life, qianru wants wenzhe in her life

if you've read this far and went HMM qianru is a lil similar to hyun, well that's the thought i got but consider this: hyun is aggressive, not violent, but her stuff is aggressive, qianru is 'simply' direct, yknow? hyun will weaponize brutal honest, qianru will not tell you shit that doesn't have to be said, and well that's another post anyways lmao

also hyun will not take one for the team but YOU KNOW WHO WILL? qianru, qianru is the head of the team, she comes up with the crazy plans, she's the one who suggested breaking and entering to retrieve balls as a child, a classic qianru line is 'i have a plan'

@wellfell | ♥

Eren's back collides with the ground almost like a man collapsing out of sheer exhaustion. There's an odd air of relief woven into the way he stares up at her, the slight smile that continues to attempt to resemble the boyish charm that accompanied him, monster-blood be damned.

Boyish charm... he IS a boy.

He even goes as far as folding his hands over his stomach, somewhat below the point her makeshift weapon was now supposedly holding him in place. He doubts he'd struggle disarming her, or even getting her onto the ground in his stead.

It's true. Akina Mori is small, not worryingly so, and she has figured out how to work it to her advantage. But Eren is not only bigger than her, he's stronger, too.

The only issue is... he's probably stronger than anybody at this point. All of his friends. He thinks about it, sometimes, when he can't sleep, when he lies on his bed, stares at his hands, and wonders how often his friends put in genuine effort to not appear scared in front of him.

It'd make sense.

He wouldn't blame them for being scared.

Sometimes he stares at his titan-hands and his mother appears in his palm, and he imagines he knows exactly what it felt like, to crush her between his fingers.

But Akina... well, he can't really tell.

This is the first time in days they've spoken, and he may not be as smart as Armin, but he can do basic maths. If what he did is two and when exactly Akina stopped talking to him was the other two, he'd figure what four was.

Maybe that's where the relief comes from... being somewhat right about Akina Mori. Refusing to acknowledge that his supposing she wouldn't let her fear allow her to lower her head beneath it, was actually the hope she wouldn't.

"Or what," he shoots back, and it would be easy to pretend. Eren has often wondered how good Akina is... at pretending. She doesn't show how intensely things get to her unless you learn how to look, unless you don't allow her to unlearn being interested in her. She fits in better than he'd have ever assumed she would have.

Similarly to Jean, he supposes. Similarly to Armin, he supposes.

Maybe he's not so good at reading people after all.

Maybe there is very little he actually knows.

Maybe this as generous as Akina is willing to be... she, or the world.

Maybe that's the point. Maybe that's the reason you are who you are and can do what you can do. Maybe you're supposed to change all those things, make the world better. Force it into becoming better, if need be.

He blinks up at Akina.

He'd never force those he loves to do terrible things for him... right?

Right?

"It's a good thing," he continues, "makes you slippery. You should continue taking advantage of it."

Since you're alive. Since you can. Since you HAVE to stay alive. I'm running out of ways to mourn, I can't keep grieving someone new every day.

-. the evil-ification of my good-est (nicest? morally most upstanding?) characters (pt.1 ig idk)

zhìjiàn subconsciously thinks he's morally superior to most people he meets

miyoung is nice and polite and even very forthcoming but that can change real quick, real fast, with no ounce of guilt, she's nice because why not, not because she inherently thinks being nice to others is 'the right way to be'

seok-ju does not believe in redemption arcs, he'll enable them because it's the better option, but they will not be surprised if you commit whatever you need redemption for again, and they'll turn on you fast

domenico will only aid people in need if he's received the go-ahead from figures of authority first, he lacks initiative in most contexts and his constant fear of 'doing the wrong thing' or even being judged will get people killed

yoshino is very judgmental, very selective, very black-and-white, very incapable of understanding nuance

wenzhe is a MASSIVE hypocrite, this sometimes shows itself in harmless ways where he simply doesn't follow his own advice of 'take care', but it can also come up in the worst moments

raiden is perfect. full stop. leave him alone.

ambrosius is watch the movie~ like... deadass, i'm not trying to gate-keep, it's just-- his entire arc in the movie---

liz is, for the most part, unreliable, and violently emotionally unavailable

patrick makes it onto this list because he makes a continuous effort of being particularly kind to the underdog or people who 'deserve it', but thinking himself capable of discerning who 'deserves' being treated well (even if his choice is usually everybody who's not a hateful dickhead, even if he were correct) is a faux-pas attitude to have, ALSO??? look at an OUNCE of the baggage he comes with, he's--

ajay is submissive, not nice, and he's submission is a weird consequence of his perception of himself as someone who should not get to live in peace after all the pain he's caused, it's not natural to his character, it's subconsciously self-imposed. he would actually be nice if he got some healing.

samuel is very judgmental and really does not know how to not involve the entire rest of the world into his business

sabriel IS NOT NICE. sabriel is cheerful and excitable and loves learning but they are NOT nice. no sense of nuance. very dangerous.

thanh is great, leave them aloNE.

OPEN STARTER | Samuel Díaz

"Okay, but if… hypotethically speaking, hear me out, if- if everything you write… were to become reality… could that alter history? I'm… do you think I can still get some coffee at this hour, or-"

OPEN STARTER | Boo Yihwa

"New idea: you fuck off or I'll kill you. I hate the way you smell."