#cursemarked

Send me a URL and I’ll rate them! | @cursemarked

URL;  1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 420 Blaze itTheme;  1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 420 Blaze it Posts; 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 420 Blaze it OOC; 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 420 Blaze it IC; 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 420 Blaze it Writing; 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 420 Blaze it Mun – Talk to them; Yes / No (i am… so terrible at messaging omfg i’m so sorry!! but i’m always up for chatting! no matter how awful my slow ass is lmao)Follow; Yes / No

Final Opinion; AHHH WHAT A LOVELY LITTLE HISOKA!!! they’re the second hisoka rper i’ve seen and they write him so well! they have such a great understanding of his character but they’ve also incorporated their own headcanons which is super fun and i love seeing it esp since we all have our own interpretations of canon characters so i find it amazing to get a taste of everyone’s own thoughts and ideas ;u;

“You can hear them too?”

Hisoka steps forward on the old floor, his footsteps clicking loudly.  The church is too big and too dark, like the yawning mouth of a monster.  It’s old and worn, but the age doesn’t bring comfort.  The churches in Nagasaki are alien things, quite unlike the temples that Hisoka prefers.

There are too many figures clad in white in the churches.  Even the windows have images of them.  The voices hit the wooden walls, haunting even the corners of the darkened room.  Hisoka imagines that they’re pleading to the white clad figures to let them go.

Perhaps the spirits can hear them as clearly as they can hear the song.  Hisoka digs his hands into his pockets, waiting for the warmth and security of Tsuzuki’s mind to catch up to his.  His shadow is comfortable to hide in.

“Why would they continue to do this? No one can hear them.“

“I don’t know.”

The sound is eerie and melancholy, worshipful and almost mournful singing that seems to reach straight into his soul. It’s beautiful and heartbreaking all at once. Tsuzuki instinctively reaches back, touching Hisoka’s elbow as a form of reassurance that his partner is still there. They had arrived at the church expecting one lonesome spirit, and instead, they’ve gotten a building full of them, though they haven’t shown their faces yet, if they have faces at all.

“Stay close to me,” he says, knowing that Hisoka can defend himself if need be, and not expecting the spirits to put up too much of a fight; but he’s protective, and having Hisoka nearby assures that he can keep him safe. Around them, the church’s song hums off of the tall windows like a siren luring a sailor out to sea.

“We’re not here to harm you,” Tsuzuki says first and foremost, though knows he has his ofuda in his jacket should he need it. “How many of you are there?”

There’s no response for a moment, but the singing gradually fades and dies, leaving them wrapped in cold and silence. A chill settles on his skin even through his coat. Finally, a very small child’s voice says:

He’s cold.

It’s the only thing his brain can register as he forces his eyes to focus on the windowpane. The glass has built up a fine layer of frost on the outside, with condensation beading on the inside, where it’s marginally warmer than the harsh winter outdoors. It rarely gets so cold, doesn’t it? He can’t recall the last time he saw frost.

But it’s cold. His skin tells him so, prickled with gooseflesh under his thin robe and gown. His breath tells him so in quiet puffs of fog.

The sky outside the window is a saturated purple as the sun begins to peek over the horizon. Tsuzuki watches the colors change from violet, to gold, to clear blue. A starling touches down on the windowsill.

Outside, the world goes on as normal, because Tsuzuki’s place in it is a minimal one, an invisible one, or, at worst, a harmful one. They are better off with Tsuzuki inside these walls. Days turn to nights, weeks into months into years, and Tsuzuki is painfully exhausted but doesn’t let himself sleep.

The doctor thinks it’s a coma of some sort, but he doesn’t realize how much willpower it takes not to simply turn off and let himself drift. He stays anchored to this reality in the hopes of wearing himself down; an old wind-up toy at the end of its journey. Food goes untouched until he can feel the knot in his stomach like he’s swallowed a peach pit. His mouth is sticky and dry. His eyes burn with the need to fall shut.

Just a few more minutes, please, nee-san. Wake me up in a few more minutes.

His place in this world was a mistake. Some cruel joke from God, if there is one, or perhaps a way to punish those around him. Tsuzuki was not meant to exist. The world is brighter when he’s not in it.

“Happy birthday, you old man,” Tsuzuki teases, joyous when he welcomes Hisoka into the office. For once he’d gotten there first -- even arrived early just so he could get the jump on Hisoka’s birthday -- and he’s been waiting excitedly in the swivel chair at his desk for what feels like hours, but in reality has only been less than thirty minutes.

He pushes a plate across the desk toward Hisoka. On the plate is a dusky orange slice of cake.