burnt skin

look away, traveler, eyes are not meant to see this. mortals are not meant to lay eyes on such an ethereal thing, such an abomination of nature, such a petrifying sight. see, no matter how our little witch boasts (blood pure, magic a birthright laid out for her and her solely) there’s nothing divine about the “magic” that is to occur here.

that is, there’s nothing magical about this. that is, organ harvesting, i mean.

but bex would not have been an opportunist at heart (wicked, selfish, nasty little thing she is) had she not taken this chance. for what better chance would she have than this—to have the fragile delicacy of a fae’s wings offered up to wandering feet and curious hands—to have sunseong in ruins and ripe for picking?

she might not have been the instigator but far be it from her to be above prospering from the spoils of someone else’s war.

which leaves our little wicked thing here, knees digging into soft dirt, fingers dipping through sliced skin. rightfully, she will not deny the disgust that rises with the act, the putrid stench of blood and fae magic reigns pungent to her olfactory organs, swirls in her head and leaves her lightheaded, eyes watering, and teeth gritted. but there is no magic without sacrifice, no victory without blood spilt—if she wanted something, at least, when it comes to magic, she would work for it herself.

(or rather, one could say she simply didn’t trust the simpletons of sunseong (read, our little witch’s waning collection of “friends”) enough to correctly retrieve what she needed.)

that is, wings of a fae for its vitality (magic she could harness). that is, the third rib from the clavicle down for its protection (wards she could spell).

the former is easy when it came down to it, something akin to ripping off a bandaid, the dead fae’s wings lay intact beside the two, gleaming in the moonlight despite the fraying of its owner’s body beside it.

it is the latter that proves to be far more difficult. that is, messy.

evidently, there is no clean way to remove a rib; especially with bare hands, when the blood still runs a warm red and the hole in the creature’s chest is not big enough to retrieve the bone. bex has no other option but to tear the flesh apart, exposing more of the innards of the fae to the night chill—intestines, kidneys, missing heart (positively tasteful of those barbaric dogs pressed under the chaos controller’s thumb) and all—to wrap around the bone, slicked fingers sliding along the smooth curve as she mutters the needed incantation.

it’s just that easy when it came down to it. so long as she doesn’t get caught, that is.

but when have we known our little witch to ever be afraid of something like that?

or rather to even be unprepared for something like that to begin with? of course, that would be assuming her guard dog paid enough attention to their surroundings while she busied herself.

“sehun…” his name slips past in the most delicious ways, relishing in the way the scuffle behind her seems to indicate the vampire’s snap to attention at her call. “are you keeping an eye out?” the witch questions casually, more amused than she really should be—considering the circumstances, where the bodies of various supernaturals still hung from all over the city.

the sounds of flesh and skin- dragged, torn and the crack, the release of limbs and the almost satisfactory sound of blood splatting. 

intoxication. temptation. that’s what it sounds like, thats what it smells like.

decades of such hunger and desire in its most base and aggressive form is surefire, absolute, in dulling his attention for an almost carnal need for crimson to touch his pink tongue. for him to stay so still, so docile, so good at the wafting smell of fresh hot crimson blood dancing under his nose has him teetering, resolve fading. 

the sight of pale flesh of young faes, clavicles and arteries pumping, coursing through their necks as they lay limp has his breathing constricted, tense and needy. 

distracting. 

be still, be docile, be good. 

being born calm this aggravation, this anxiousness berates him in the mind, pounds at his ears (you fool, what are you doing here?) his eyes boring into her in her nonchalance, organ harvesting in the dead of the night in the midst of chaos (you fool, what are you doing here?) 

what is he doing here? 

and in the decades of women who have kiss his hands and passed diamonds and affections for- this witch, wicked and cruel in her magic is the most unfathomable. his docility is born from the extreme highs that yield endless blisses that rides some addiction, barren low within himself. her hold on his brutal desire tastes sick in his mouth but his mind flies and such sweet songs sing in the taste of her magic and in the lapping of her blood. her putrid hands have tainted him and the picture of oh sehun is found with hairline cracks.

where was his poise? grace?

even in the call of his name and her voice tickling with malice, edging with such want. she mocks him, her eyes gleam in amusement, tempting the blood ridden air into his veins turning him into want, to wanting and to need. 

he turns to her eyes hungry, pupils dilated and panting. her games are aggravating her arrogance is astonishing. she is sickening, for she is vile and she is desirable. 

“then hurry little witch.” seething, words spitting from his tongue in frustration in his urgency. oh how his hands itch to hold the neck of a sweet fae or curl his fingers around the wicked witch he has succumbed to and let his teeth sink.

romantic isn’t it? 

he’s avoiding her.

the notion itself shouldn’t bother her as much as it does, yet soojung finds herself plagued by an irritable sort going about her day with the knowledge that every creak in the floorboards is oh sehun turning away at the sight of her back and every unanswered knock to the door of his room is him ignoring her attempts to reach out. 

what an asinine sort of imbecile.

had she not been the reason for his injury, soojung doubted she would even care as much (though her heart beats a different tale, twists at the idea of being ignored by that stupid fucking speedster and clenches in the dark of night when the thought returns to her). fucking sehun. fuck sehun. 

it’s with that, along with time and a stubborn, unflinching spine, that her attention deviates from the injured boy to something else entirely. distraction she willingly walks into, open arms, fingers pressed into her hips, bruising the skin there, on her neck, on her collarbones, and all whenever the traitorous organ in her chest cavity dares to even beat over a man adamant on being a child.

but things never truly goes her way, never really goes the way she wants it to—because if it did, she’d never see oh sehun again, never even think about the speedster for a second longer. and yet the flyrokinetic finds herself at the wrong place, wrong time when she rounds the corner—to come face to face with the very person she hadn’t want to see, toppling over and hitting the ground with a none too forgiving sound.

good. her mind thinks—a direct contrast to the way her heart twists disgustingly with concern—lips twisted into a frown as she stills in place, caught between the temptation of leaving and the guilt of deserting him in a situation she put him in in the first place. don’t forget, you’re the one that broke his leg.

slow, though not at all lax, soojung makes her way over to the struggling male, biting her tongue once she stands before him and considers the options of how to go about this; it was best not to say anything “offensive”, maybe. 

“you’re in the way.” she starts, lips pressed into a taut line even as she regards him, fingers curling inward absently. “not dead, are you?” 

she almost wanted to disappear, to slip away unnoticed.  in fact, she just plain didn’t want to see (or be seen by) fucking sehun at all.

no, i’m not avoiding her i just need some time to myself. 

it is as simple as that, he’d like to delude himself so that he can continue running along, merrily, joyfully with the wind kissing his skin as he rushes by. though, such wants are interrupted for our speedy, legs in a cast, rendered useless (mutant to human, human to disabled). 

it had brought him one blessing and it was the attention of slender legs and luscious hips, jung soojung. he’d like to think it was bound to happen sometime, she would’ve caved the longer she stared into his eyes and swooned as hypothetical letters and flowers were to come. 

he’d like to think it wasn’t her breaking his leg to have such a peachy thing like her in his sheets. 

and even then, such a relationship was comfortable. she slipped into his door and their skin sweating, breathing tight and his head always lolling back and hair pressing wildly into his pillows. she tasted sweet and talked dirty and it fit perfectly well with him, all up on his face too... but perhaps it wasn’t enough for her (disabled boy, not so much of a speedy extrodinaire - no?) 

you would think too that our oh sehun would make him believe he was some alpha male, surpassing insecurity, hyperawareness. speedy was after all, beyond it, he was just and simply, great. 

somewhere, he doesn’t quite know where, this train of thought ran askew from him and settled into his skin as some form of disease, insecurity was it? (maybe it was when he threw his eyes wildly to her as they shared pants, barely breaths together.) 

and it decides to strike him as she appears in the peripheral of his vision and momentarily seems to forget that his quick, fantastic legs are locked in a cast destined for a stark failure. 

onto the floor he was, wincing eyes (pathetic speedy, don’t you think? have you ever hit such a low?) a silky voice he knows so well from his bedroom that mutters things into his ears as his eyes screw shut. 

now patronising, as she always is. 

he’d muster up the courage to look her in the eye when he obviously, cowardly, bitterly or whatever the fuck it was -- was hiding, ignoring her. (oh speedy, you’ve never his such a low before have you?) staring at the cold ground he sat on, he stared hard with grit teeth and a brief remembrance of her slipping into his neighbour’s door with an illicit smile he knew so much about (that for a moment thought was reserved for him). 

“clearly not dead.” the tongue, bitter. 

all men fear death. god built his children to be this way, so-called apex predators, top of the food chain, smartest creatures on the planet—but none of which actually mattered in the face of frailty; of wilting youth, aging flesh and muscle, and weakening bone. but as a near immortal creature of the sea, sehun fears naught. death doesn’t drape himself over his shoulders in any discomfiting manner, doesn’t push down on broad shoulders till he frets over a sort of unknown darkness out there waiting to swallow him up. 

no, he supposes he doesn’t fear what mortals fear, that frailty doesn’t touch him (his skin is tough (durable), sun-kissed and marred only by serrated ivory of his kin, by sins of blood) and death doesn’t nearly come as easy as it does to mortals (in his younger days, he’d try, driven by a crushing sensation humans would refer to as heartbreak over the exile of his kin (exile, being the better way to phrase it—at least, in comparison to being left for dead); a devastating hollowness that youth shouldn’t feel) — and here, on land, he was the apex predator, the scariest thing around. him and only him stood at top of the food chain.

at least, that’s how it had been in the years he’s stayed on land.

but the recent days spells otherwise, spells a certain sweet scent that wafts through the sea air that sehun cannot deny (in that it has his insides churn, stomach quivering in anticipation, greedy for more), spells something that wasn’t human lurking near the shores of incheon.

of course, he wasn’t as sure as to what—didn’t know what to think beyond the peculiar lust for more and looming paranoia about the return of his kin—but stark curiosity alone has him stalking through the beach side near his flat day in and out, unable to shake off the anxiety (he refuses to call it fear, but bone chill easily lodges in his throat at the thought) that something wicked lurks in wait.

and years of living on land (alone, coldly discarded with hopes of having perished) has prompted him with the need to be steps ahead.

even now, with flash flood warnings ringing in his ear, the beating heart (harsh in the way it thumps, unease surging through every busy vein) has him stepping out of the warmth of his flat and into the cold of incheon’s seaside and its unforgiving weather. rain, a sharp merciless downpour that instantly attacks the black canopy over his head like an onslaught of gunshots, greets him haughty with the way it partners with the wind to aim icy cold droplets at his face, threatens to overturn the umbrella in his grasp.

sehun finds this is one of the many downsides of living on land—having to deal with mother nature’s anger.

but for the most part, the male wasn’t deterred—lulled, almost, by the chaos laid out before him; waves crashing against rocks, the pungent scent of a discarded home is stronger than ever, sehun knows that the ocean calls to him—teasing, taunting, beckoning his return—she’s merciless, after all, she’ll have him close to swallow him whole. 

hasn’t it always been that way with the sea?

he’d be lying if he said he hadn’t been tempted. but sehun was no fool (or rather, simply a creature kept at bay by his own fears), he knew well enough what returning meant—the possibilities behind it, the creatures that lie await in her beguiling waves—why would he ever give up being a king on land to go back to living like that in the sea?

no, he supposes has no intentions of ever returning to the sea after settling into a life on land—years, he’s been here, making a life for himself; years he’s not ever willing to give up—he belongs here, he’d tell himself, if only for the fact that he had nowhere else to go.

yet fate has other plans—of course, sehun doesn’t know this yet, doesn’t know anything about what awaits when he stepped out of the house earlier; when he steps now, down empty streets and through a raging storm (perhaps the only calm man in a city with a rapidly rising water level). no, he doesn’t know a thing till he rounds a corner, till something softer (much smaller) bumps into his chest with a considerable amount of strength. 

and yet it isn’t the faint wave of pain that seizes his attention, nor the feminine surprised cry of his “assaulter”, rather it is the overwhelming scent of sweetness piercing through sea salt that has his chest stirring, base of his spine quivering, an animalistic growl rooted at the back of his throat that sehun forcibly swallows, hand reaching out to steady the smaller figure before she topples over.

“are—” he starts, clearing his throat. “are you alright?”

this world is brave, this world is kind and this world has their arms open, this world is welcoming and admirably warm. such things are the thoughts of the delicate, sweet dew dreams our little mermaid has. jung soojung, her scales iridescent that shock beauty into the hearts of those who see her amongst the blue waters. her scales gallant, adventurous -- foolhardy (just almost) for this brave, too big world. 

the sea who loves her, kisses her in the licks of their waves. a nymph for voyagers to open their hearts, for her to sing, for her to touch the very beats in their chests. 

feet padding across fine sand for the very first time sings at her heart, her eyes wide (not wide enough to soak in the shapes of buildings, the speed of rushing cars and colours of people). soojung who once twinkled her eyes to the horizon with ideologies of adventure and dear romance (oh romance!) from mother’s tales-- she stands, toes flexing. 

her heart thumps in her ears, resounding in her body at every step she takes, at every shade of colour her eyes have never seen. this world is a marvel, this world is a beauty. her skin, like her scales, are gallant, adventurous and almost foolhardy for this too wide, too large world. 

despite the still raging storms that exist to wreak havoc upon land. though, there isn’t much of a comparison with a roof over her head, her heart not thundering with fear of crashing waters. 

life on land had an abundance to give. 

though, the abundance hadn’t accounted for such sturdy slits between windows of her shared nymph abode, the waters rush harshly upon the flooring and has the brazen child of the sea in fear of a single gram of salt water upon her human skin. (little does she know salt water doesn’t fall from the sky.) 

fear tingling on her skin lightly, feet bare and out the front door. little does she know it is also raining outside, her feet wet for the very fear of getting her human skin wet (how foolish). 

brazen, brazen, brazen. thats who you’ve always been soojung. look at you, feet bare, not looking where you’re going-- “oh!” and her head in collision, wide eyes and a scrunch to her nose. brazen, brazen, brazen. thats who you’ve always been soojung. 

warm hands on her shoulders, as her head raises slowly to face the wide chest her head found impact with.

and her heart flutters. 

the very first sight of these said young men on land and almost gaping at such beautiful eyes, her chest expanding and collapsing deep within her. 

life on land had an abundance to give, such an intriguing figure such as he was enough of a testament to the abundance of brilliance that sears in her chest. 

she had barely heard him speak, but the rough timbre, the deep tone of his voice stirs in her abdomen. “y-yes. thank you, i am alright.” gasping, barely breathing, barely being able to take her wide eyes away from his. 

“are you-- are you alright?” her eyes not wide enough to comprehend such a marvel. 

AMONG LIFETIMES SPENT across centuries, this is perhaps the most comfortable persephone has lived in a long while. modern day seoul, though paling in comparison to the vast greenery and fertility of sicily, is opulent in what it has to offer—or rather, what the family she bore into had to offer. love, lavishness, persephone matured under the soft, warmth of her mother and her friends, under the korean name written across her birth certificate — she blossoms like such, a carefree youth, unknowing of her true identity, nor of years of history and love etched across her ribs.

she grew up normal, unperturbed by it all, demeter certainly counts her blessings that she doesn’t. but persephone doesn’t tell her of the days spent during winter, the gaps of time where ache settles into her bones and the ghost of another’s lips lingers on her skin.

she dares not tell of the years of teen, spent sympathizing with the god written into textbooks, of his solitude, of the world’s prejudice against the king of the dead—the “monster” they claim him to be.

no, there was no need for her mother to know it — or anything at all.

above all, mother did not need to know the yearning that becomes clearer by the day—burning hot by the time she ripens into womanhood.

the floral scent that she gives off, the petals of flora that unfurl to greet her fingertips, the divinity that kisses her crown. yes, it isn’t hard to figure out the who’s and what’s by then—who she was, in fact, was just that; persephone, daughter of demeter, goddess of spring, a queen missing her king. 

but to her credit, persephone remains stagnant in her position, stubborn in keeping the life she’s spent the last two decades or so into building and just enough of a filial daughter to keep her mother’s hopes up that she would stay—demeter’s wishes stray nevermore from keeping her to her lonesome—so she stays, attends college and finds an occupation out of tending to flowers and trees in the botanical garden of seoul.

it wasn’t as if there was a rush—though her heart longs to be reunited with her love—persephone stands sure that her king, her hades, would find her.

hasn’t he always?

and as the days pass, as summer gives way to autumn, as mother’s calls persists on the daily for reassurance and she combats the heaviness in her bones, the unease settling in her chest, the yearning she can’t seem to shake—persephone finds herself returning to a flower bed secluded in the corners of the garden, fingers fond in gentle touch over its wilting petals; roses, crocuses, violets and small blue forget me nots. 

admittedly, not even she can prolong their beauty with the oncoming cold, yet the goddess is fond of tending to them anyhow, finding the scents of roses and crocuses reminiscent of their first moment spent together. 

and here, dainty knees pressing into soft dirt, she is careful in her care to plucking the surrounding weeds, stopping only at heavy footsteps that announced the presence of another, beckoning soft brown orbs to lift to meet the stranger’s.

and here’s where her heart tightens.

“o-oh, hello.” it slips out with startling ease despite the slightest bit breathless as she moves to stand, gloved fingers shifting to dust off her knees while her head dips, eyes shying away from the male’s gaze, unable to explain the sudden warmth that seizes her cheeks, the way her heart pounds and head swirls, intoxicated by his presence, fingers twitching to touch move.

“sorry, did you need h-help with anything?”

it was written in history. amongst the slabs of marble, scratched in parchment, printed. born like a shadow of life, skin pale and his red blood being the only testament to his live, living form. hades.

he remembers every single thing. every lifetime, the rushing decades and plethora of chilling summers and warm winters. warm winters and the remnants of grazes, cheek kisses, pomegranate lips. being the king of the dead didn’t grant him floods of company, everyone’s flesh was rotting and his was on the verge of doing so. 

the king’s graveyard parties, just him and the mourning day in and day out. 

keeping the ghosts company when their loved ones slither away year by year. loneliness, a disease sicker, viler than death.

seoul winters too, beg at his body to crumble inducing the same foul lonesome contagion. hollow and harrowing for whatever reason (which he knows, a girl with peonies who holds the strings of his chest). glancing at the flowers by tombstones shrivelling in the sour cold. souls begging him for shots of colour in flowers in these lonely seasons. 

there was always an infatuation with these sprouting beauties and their vivid petals. especially in these last months of the year they remain as figments of a lovely memory. hades won’t pretend he doesn’t know why his body aches on the first chill of autumn or the first snow of winter. he missed his queen before he knew of her, carved in his mind, wired in his heart. (and there had been dozens of flower shops before, dozen of gardens before, magnetism only leaves a king determined.)

like a drunkard, swaying, mind swirling.

pale fingers grazing flower petals he walks amongst crowds of flowers and even the sight of a thick head of hair and a slender neck plagues the mind in a daze. the floral scent clouding a possible thought from expanding, ideas rushing, barely comprehending. magnetism only pulls her to turn and breathing is shallow. head to toe an incessant itch to touch, to want latches onto him. persephone, goddess of rebirth. 

choking, hitched breathing and a shaky breath out. a “hello.”-- barely audible.

years before he swore that once his eyes find themselves upon her, the world would sharpen in clarity and the colours he had known would be displaced in her very gaze. 

and he was right, the king’s eyes doused himself in his queen and his heart stopped for a quick second. 

and the world looked reborn.

winter. there’s something to say about the season, about the bone-chill and fresh snow that brings out the loneliness in most, urges them to reach out and attach themselves to the nearest eager bodies. winter, the loneliest season, the season that churns out the most cookie cutter couples hungry for skin and affection.

lonely winter, of course, was not the reason behind the pandemonium that has all of hogwarts taken by surprise. was not the reason for lingering touches and contagious smiles. was not (definitely, definitely not) the reason for sugar sweet she tastes, heart pounding in the presence of soft touches and nervous smiles.

it wasn’t. because she knew long before winter that she liked charlie kang.

( oh, her mother would laugh if she knew the circles her daughter danced about — esme rhee, imbecile en mal d'amour, laughable. )

but nevertheless, the season has her aching for more, yearning for more time ( and this the downfall of young lovers, riding the high of un amour débutant — esme simply does not wish to part ). so she seizes the chance to propose the trip, knowing her parents would be preoccupied, christmas break in the rhee villa along the french rivera. him and her. alone.

( didn’t it seem all too apparent as to what was going to happen? )

by the time she’s arrived to the empty villa by floo, her spirits were higher than ever, quick to step out of the fireplace to face it instead, awaiting the arrival of one ( esme’s imagined it’s his default by now ) flustered hufflepuff.

sure enough, in a flurry of brilliant green flames, came her boyfriend shortly after.

“you made it,” esme starts, lips curved coy with a hint of teeth, voice taking up a teasing lilt. “i honestly thought you were going to end up somewhere weird.” like if he had said manor instead and ended up face to face confrontation with her father. 

“stop staring and get out of there already, charlie.” the gryffindor sighs, stepping forward to slide her fingers around the taller boy’s wrist and tug, eyes flicking over his face when he finally budges, apples of her cheeks rising in a manner pleased. 

“there’s no one here but you, me, and some house elves.” her fingers slide downward, lacing with his absently while her eyes travel, drinking in the familiar sight of her childhood vacation villa. “but this is it, this is us for the next few days.” bright eyes turn to him, excitement barely contained in the way her grin flitters across her face, playful. 

“want a tour?”

when winter comes around to tear the frail and final leaves off bare trees, the land is barren and cooped up from the biting, bitter snow winds. the winter season for the meek (and rather weak), like him, would consume him and chill his bones and rattle his core. charlie kang was surely not a brave lionheart with blood like rampant fire and eyes that hold an ember glint. 

but esme rhee is, and she warms him up like so (so incredibly well too).

eyes that turn into crescents that rise thundering beats upon his chest, spreading a wildfire upon his chest. knees brushing, hands clasped together and lashes and nose and lips-- touching. a flood of warmth of tender touches, calls of affection and suddenly, charlie had forgotten the hollow feeling of the some months winter held over him. 

it followed with a blazing red blush touching the cheeks to tips of his ears and of course a gaze startled to the ground. he should’ve known that esme would propose this, 

some time alone, in her french villa, alone, him and her -- did he mention alone yet? 

-- still the answer came with an immediate squeak of a yes, cheeks aflame and a heart racing. the thrill of tiptoeing near the edge no longer choked him harrowingly in his fervent anxiety but now grips to him with an embrace of excitement. esme rhee has a way with him undoubtedly, and by the looks of it, christmas break with this pretty rhee will only have him slipping deeper. 

it was a surprise mother kang had let him -- then again, he has a sneaking suspicion his mother too, wanted him to get his fill with esme (after his mother surely eluded that “especially in december charlie, gift wrap you member!”) as he bursted into green flames.

clammy hands, pink cheeks and green flames evaporating upon the fireplace lies esme rhee. “i did, have faith in me esme.” a peeking smile, almost forgetting he was alone, him and her, alone. 

mother’s words resound in his ear. 

“r-right s-sorry esme” flushed (of course) with cheeks tinted (of course). breathe in one, two. chasing up to her, wrapping his fingers around their clasped hands. “you looked--  i mean look, really pretty today esme.” a proud smile on his lips (no stuttering charlie, good one). 

(there’s no one else but you, me) -- alone, right, how could he forget? “th-thats good.” his smile wavering thin (much like his confidence, always). was it just him wearing the paranoia? oh esme rhee, you do have your way with him (and he knows it). 

but something about oh sehun was different. something about the devil’s smile and enticing timbre has her hesitating, stomach doing flips and fingers coiling tighter around the bucket in her grasp. 

his words, however jokingly, has her curling into herself slightly, cheeks burning brighter as the hufflepuff subtly turns away, careful not to show her distress. the way her heart skips, an erratic drumming song to an already dim future–she’s got no chance.

if anything, she manages a short laugh–awkward and all.

“that’s funny…” (it wasn’t).

teeth sinking into her lower lip, the hufflepuff does nothing but stare in return perhaps in a bit of awe before snapping out of it, pinching the back of her hand as she scurries after the taller. 

“uhm–” ever meek, the seventh year hesitates on even wording her question, taking care to watch her step into the forest as bright eyes flick upwards to watch looming trees swallow the night sky, unable to suppress the slightest of shivers that runs down her spine.

“i don’t think–he mentioned exactly where we would find them, did he?” she casts the boy beside her a (admittedly) shy look, lips pursed slightly, the following words rolls out in a soft afterthought, cluttered with hints of awkwardness at the ends as her gaze lowers (unable to meet his for too long), lashes fluttering and cheeks slightly flushed in the cool night air.

if she shudders before him, he isn’t surprised and takes such an action for a challenge. but she doesn’t shudder, she blushes at him, now all he can do is revel in his ego (at the obvious silent magnetism). 

“funny? well i wasn’t expecting you to take me asking you for a date as a joke.” even though, he very much did anticipate such a timid reaction from the wide eyed little mouse.  

floundering off into the woods, confidence hoping to tug jung soojungs fluttering anxieties into the deep dark forbiddens of the forest. her voice gentle, frail and light that if sehun’s ears hadn’t picked up on the quiet melody of the melody of her voice it could’ve fluttered and whisked into the wind. 

her words though, come to feed even the slytherin some anxieties. 

however, of course, he doesn’t dare show. how else will he have her flushed and gripping to him? (she calls him ‘sehun-sshi’ he isn’t too worried that it won’t happen anytime soon... oh if the persistent kim jongin could see, if only.) “not to worry now, you and the rest of the jittery puffs always have something to fret about don’t you?” in attempts to throw a charming smile under the moonlight, in the shadows and the unsaid dangers that the wild magic offers. 

“you have me, isn’t that fine enough?” 

can she not look to the ground but instead him? it’s not everyday a slytherin has to tear the appearance of a heroine to become such a character. (in history, were there that many slytherin heroes? not that he knows of.) 

  “ coo–that’s nice. ” admittedly, she is struggling, unable to find a good standing between the awkwardness of easing into talking to an ex and what she was about to ask. but soojung is almost certain that she’s the only one struggling in this endeavor, sure that she shouldn’t have any reason at all to feel awkward when jongin cared so little. nevertheless, she is unable to deny the way her heart flutters in mere response of him–be it because of nerves or otherwise.

  “ uhm. ” she’s always been observant, attentive enough to know just how jongin felt with just a twitch of his brow–much less now, in the hufflepuff is actually watching her former boyfriend’s expression grow all the more sour. should she really go on with this?

  “ i was just wondering if you’ve been talking to him… ” if anything she’s beating around the bush, a thought that makes her cringe. it was, of all things, something jongin despised the most.

  but what can she do? she certainly doesn’t know how to tell him.

why is it that she shows her lose threads first and lets greedy hands to tug her apart? “that is nice.” - shame on her, shouldn’t she know that jongin too, would pull and tug her strings too? (she makes it so easy...) 

however, moving to the taboo word of his supposed best friend, perhaps at times, his only friend. “i suppose we are all a bit busy with upcoming exams...” tone haughty. “but we talk.” if she refers civil conversations tiptoeing into the loss of more than a decade of friendship as talking. 

why does soojung ask? is what floats in his mind with bitter apprehension. 

(there are many other things to be doing than talking to the all pretty puff or talking about the loathsome slick git he once sought as a brave ally. - yes, he could be surpassing him in charms right now couldn’t he?) 

why is it she has to talk of oh sehun, the pretty witch and her pretty mind with her pretty mind and lips of the foul snake. everyone always has their attention on oh sehun huh? 

“weird as in?” facade drawn, twirling his quill between the index and the middle - don’t be phased now kim jongin, not at the brink of eradicating sehun from his indignant self. 

once again he wonders why jung soojung lets everyone have it easy with her. 

oh sehun is nothing short of amazing. immaturity that is impossible to pinpoint and predict to the point of annoyance — aggravation that teeters further away from the point of endearing the more he acts up. sure, he’s handsome, features molded after aphrodite’s first love, young exhilarating youth that stole the heart of the goddess of love. 

if he had known to keep his mouth shut, soojung is almost certain he could be some sort of god instead of the school’s goddamn perverted idiot.

either way, jung soojung had no interest in an empty shell.

not that oh sehun is deterred. not that the gods are deterred. 

unholy as it was, it was him that she’s paired with to “train”, leaving the flyrokinetic dissatisfied as she stands in the center of the empty gymnasium, waiting for oh sehun to pull together a modicum of focus to actually get started.

“cmon, can you just focus for onc–” she stops, feeling a “breeze” lift her shirt to reveal nothing as her lips tug downward, irritation climbing with the cooling sensation that takes over as jung soojung disappears from sight–surrounding herself instead with a veiled forcefield that he’s bound to run into.

-- perhaps though, our little speedy fails to see instead, the athena like strength and beauty of her character, fails to see her as an admirable mutant than a piece of candy to suck the sweetness out of. -- this, is his downfall. 

poor speedy, he’ll never stop running to take notice what is indeed right in front of him. 

luckily, training with the aphrodite of new xaviers provides another method for oh sehun to flock his prowesses around her ogling eyes (they should be ogling anyways, not that it proves to be a concern- speedy knows she does despite the denials). 

currently, he, is ogling her. 

and time halts, and his eyes feast off a delicious expanse of skin, jung soojung always delivers. you get the gist, speedy is of course, great on his legs and even better when putting a use to it (see: flipping skirts, sending flowers and now, shirt lifting). 

“i am focusing!” (focusing on something important he is ) he swears slowing for his words then picking back up again. “don’t be like that jung, i’m here to have fu-” 

poor speedy, he’ll never stop running to take notice what is indeed right in front of him, and quite literally this time. 

and on the floor he is! right leg surging in pain with a throb of his precious leg swelling. in hindsight though, speedy thinks how fortunate it is to have fallen face up at his culprit.

actually, today, yeri thinks she might just.

lee taeyong is cute. yeri is the first to declare this among her group of friends, first to feel the flutter in the pits of her stomach post-summer at the start of their fifth year. of course, it had been a passing thought then, ravenclaw boys don’t mingle with girls like her, girls without a care in a world for studying. but now, now, yeri figures she can make him care. make him fall.

after all, she was, actually, quite pretty. 

thus begun the devious plan to get close to the likes of lee taeyong. not much of a difficulty, as she had found a chance in a tutoring session with him. mind you, yeri hates studying, but what’s a girl to do when her crush thinks otherwise?

her only choice is to adapt.

and here she was, undoubtedly late ( if she’s honest, she’s forgotten the exact meeting time and is only ever chancing the time now ) in her stride to the library, beelining to the table in which handsome taeyong sat on his little island full of wisdom and other nerd-like attributes. 

god, even when he’s lecturing me he’s cute, she thinks, smile flawless on cherry lips as a small laugh slips pass, bowing her head slightly in apology while the gears in her mind struggles for a good excuse that’ll boost her impression in his eyes. what’s an excusable reason to be late in a ravenclaw’s eyes?

“ sorry! i was talking to a professor about yesterday’s homework assignment. “ yeri fixates doe eyes on his, expression turning sheepish as she takes a seat ( the closest seat ) beside the ravenclaw hunk. what a hunk, indeed, to be able to make parchment paper smell good.

“ you can call me yeri, you know, all my friends call me that. “ she beams, head tilting a bit as her chest puffs up, hand raising to pat it ( proudly, “ but i won’t be late next time, taeyong! “  

this, which, he doesn’t have time for. 

time is always key, which is something he can’t afford with rumoured airheaded gryffindors. 

she’s smiling so foolishly, all wide with the pink lisp stretched and taeyong doesn’t know if he wants to slap her or not. to be frank, he’d give it to her, she’s above average, but not terribly above average where he’d have his quill tossed to the shelves and have longing whispers between the bookcases. (she’s a sweet fool, but taeyong doesn’t flirt with the devil.) 

she says something but he can only comprehend the lack of spacious proximity between the two. with taeyong, there is somewhat of a disconnect in his mind and he almost wants to move a little to the side. far from her. it dawns on him that she has the power to be his downfall. 

he is a little too close. 

(if she is his downfall, he’s dragging her down too -- fucking burying her. a career burner he is not, but she could be, she is.) 

“yeri.” he sounds out the two syllables on his lips with apprehension. maybe, in an alternate universe where his mind isn’t full of logistic equations and the perfect recitation of charms then he’d be better with this. less oblivious. 

predicted exceeds expectations in all subjects looks better than this. 

she talks too much, is the first thing he takes note of. “right,” it comes out curt, touching reality again. his startled self rendered quiet, less flustered more in disbelief that such a girl exists. “you better not be late.” (a girl who drowns in her fairy light and breezy dreams too easily.) 

he dismisses her advances as if they never existed. (poor yeri.) 

“if you start coming on time” tone hitting sarcastically. i’m sure we can revise the charms syllabus very well.” -- she should grateful if anything that she has him. “you’re lucky you’ve got me.” 

    “ how are you? “ honestly, she can’t help but fidget a little, awkward in mannerisms as she shifts to daringly take a seat beside him.

     if there was ever a moment for her to be “brave” she supposes this would be one of them. or something like that.

    “ i’m not bothering you, am i? “ soojung questions curiously, attention flicking over to the notes laid out before him. always attentive, she doesn’t miss the familiar signs of jonginpouring himself into schoolwork, doesn’t miss the life long competition all children of noble blood seems to have with each other.

   “ i wanted to ask you something… “ 

    and here’s where she says the “forbidden word”.

“i’m good.” with her awkward glances and all she’s desirable, that’s how she was. and once his.

looking of his notes and sprawled textbooks, he wonders if he’d allow the girl of his once boyish affections be a disturbance. looking back to her now, she’s not too bad to be seen around with – so many whispers, so many comments. “not really…” though the way he says it, drawing out his words in such a tone says other wise.

ears pique, irritation taunting the arch of his brow, his lips not looking too happy either.

indeed it is the ‘forbidden’ word.

“ i’m sorry. “ the apology is earnest, worried tones nipping at the back as she dares a small step closer, hand reaching out toward to inspect any damage before the booming voice of the caretaker interrupts them. 

‘ enough! you brats are here for detention, not a date. ‘ 

and here, she flushes, uttering another quick apology as she turns to face the caretaker, back straight and gaze trained on the staff’s sneering face. the caretaker proceeds to explain their “punishment” for breaking school rules, thrusting empty buckets into their hands with a curl of his lips.

they were to go “berry picking”. moonlight berries, soojung recalls, requested by the potions professor and also, unfortunately, the type of fruit that only ripens in the full moon’s light ( and henceforth best picked then ). the caretaker explains little else after that, barking orders to get started before stomping back toward the castle, leaving the two sevenrh years to their ( what soojung feels like ) ultimate demise.

but oh sehun tends to have that affect on meek, smaller people like her.

“no need to be sorry.” 

not forgetting the fact that her eager hands begging to inspect the scales of the snake before retracting away as if he’s bitten her. ( ‘ enough! you brats are here for detention, not a date. ‘ ) that grin of his, pull with the enticement of such a reaction. 

her head is turned, hopefully she’s blushing. “don’t worry, i wouldn’t take you out to the forbidden forest on our first date.” -- if not, he hope she’s burning now. the wash of smugness rising within him, theres nothing like wooing a girl in the forbidden forest is there? 

and to think he was dreading detention when he can have her all scared and pressed up against him. 

jongin will have a field day with this. (oh if sehun knew what would come next)

bucket in hand, it’s tattered and creaks with age and no lubricant he only huffs, aristocracy didn’t breed farmers. berry picking, how cute. the berries that could get you mauled over by miscreants of the deep forest are the ones he’s taking jung soojung out on a first date with.

looking down to her, the little voice of her’s tempting the snake to the mouse. 

(absolutely delectable, in the moonlight and eyes glinting with her foolish ignorance.) “of course.” still grinning, his unbearable politeness is wearing his facade. sehun’s legs moving on his own accord (stepping with bravado) before turning his head back, “c’mon now, we’ve got the whole night ahead of us.” his eyes dancing with amusement, innuendo leaving his lips deliciously before turning away.