thsdfnngslnc
& inaudible mayhem
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Latest Posts by thsdfnngslnc
IG : amamiya_shion9
Itagaki Rihito 板垣李光人 (2021) Hair, makeup & styling by Takae Kamikawa
Love like yours will surely come my way
It’s the first of September! The first day of spring, which is my least favourite season on account of its unpredictability.
Anyway, here’s a snippet of a fic request I’m currently filling for @stargazing-enby who submitted it two years ago aaaagh
The office is tucked away in the suburban sprawl of Bexley. It’s an old terrace townhouse; the original staircase, a hefty wooden beast, smells of furniture polish. The floorboards creak beneath Harry’s feet. The reception room is converted from the front parlour, and still has touches of the home that was once there: a lace doily over a dainty hall-table, and faded curtains framing the window. Harry glances at the wall, noticing the vintage brass light switch. This was once a Muggle home, then.
“May I help you?”
There’s an elderly witch he doesn’t recognise at the reception desk. She’s peering at him suspiciously over her spectacles, one hand resting on a typewriter which is furiously tapping out letters by itself.
Harry looks away from the typewriter. “Harry Potter. Here to see Malfoy.” It’s a little petty, he knows, but he won’t use Malfoy’s full title. Cursebreakers love that. They love the showmanship of it. The little flourishes of their wand (completely gratuitous), the dramatic pauses (unnecessary) and of course, their amazed and grateful customers (audiences; the only thing missing is the applause). It’s why Harry won’t see Levinson any more, or Sheldrake, or Vittily. It’s why he ditched Fromer after just one appointment, and why he left Clarkson’s office without even beginning the appointment. One glance into Clarkson’s delighted face — ooh, the great Harry Potter! What fantastic publicity for my little agency — and Harry had turned around and walked wordlessly out the door.
Now he waits for the usual reactions. But the witch doesn’t widen her eyes, or glance at his scar, or nervously smooth her robes. She just keeps squinting at him, and then she says, “Henry Potter…”
“Harry.”
“Harry.” She frowns. “Potter with a P?”
Harry can’t imagine what other letter Potter might begin with: he pauses, then says, “Erm. Yes.”
She picks slowly through a little wooden box filled with small white cards. “Ah. Here you are. Eleven o’clock?”
“That’s right.”
She puts a neat little tick onto the card and then moves it to another box. “Take a seat. Tea and coffee’s across the hallway.”
He sits down on one of the straight-backed wooden chairs next to the dainty hall table. There’s a little magazine rack nearby, with very well-worn copies of Cosy Homes for Country Witches and Enchanting Gardens of Magical Britain. Once Harry thumbs through them and then finds a copy of Knitting Patterns for Thrifty Witches, he begins suspecting the collection has been generously donated by the elderly receptionist. He glances up at her, then at the grandfather clock standing ponderously by the door. It’s only been fifteen minutes, but perhaps Malfoy is sitting somewhere in a comfortable office, laughing at the fact he’s keeping Harry waiting.
The receptionist speaks then, as if sensing his thoughts. “Mr Potter? Mr Malfoy will see you now. Directly up the stairs, second door on the left.”
Harry dutifully goes upstairs. There’s a narrow hallway with a window at the end of it, showing a rather unspectacular view over the grey rooftops of Bexley. He passes by the first door, which looks like a cleaning closet, and then stops at the second.
D. Malfoy
5th Order HCJ (DefM)
Cert HM (C. II)
It’s a faded set of letters printed upon the frosted glass pane. The dark-blue paint of the door is beginning to slowly flake away. Harry’s annoyed, though he can’t pinpoint why. All the other cursebreakers he’s visited have had their name, bright and glossy, upon their doors, with CURSEBREAKER emblazoned in large letters below. They love that word. It’s exciting. Full of action and danger. Curse, and breaker. Destruction and glittering shards. Smashing spells to pieces and then getting called a hero for it. Of course Malfoy would love to call himself cursebreaker.
But instead Harry’s left to decipher 5th Order HCJ (DefM) and Cert. HM, C. II.
The door swings open suddenly, leaving Harry blinking at Draco Malfoy’s face. He’s seen him around in the years following the war — it’s hard not to, really, with the magic community as small as it is — but always a distant glimpse of a blond-haired man disappearing into a shop, or waiting for one of the elevators at the Ministry (and despite Harry firmly telling himself he’d outgrown schoolyard scuffles, he’d always elected to choose a different elevator instead).
Now, however, an awkward meeting seems inevitable.
Malfoy looks down his long nose at Harry and says, “Take a seat.”
Harry won’t give him the satisfaction of pausing. He walks into the office and sits down in the nearest chair; a squeaky relic from the seventies, by the look of the avocado-coloured vinyl and slightly rusted metal legs.
Malfoy closes the door and then sits at his desk, ignoring Harry and picking up a file instead. Harry had expected the cold shoulder, and anyway, it gives him time to look around. He’s been in plenty of cursebreaker offices. Large and grand affairs, with ceiling-length windows and bookcases lined with rare tomes, and little gold name-plates on solid-oak desks. And the trophies, of course. Cursed jewellery glittering in the sunlight. Beautiful dresses stained with unicorn blood. Portraits of subjects which whisper just too quietly to decipher the words.
But Malfoy’s office is small and neat and efficient as a Ministry cubicle. There’s two framed certificates on the wall, which give Harry his answer to the riddle on the door — Fifth Order of Defensive Magic specialising in Hexes, Curses, and Jinxes, and Certificate of Healing Magic, Class II. There’s no grand bookcase, but instead a simple row of tattered texts on a shelf above the desk. A filing cabinet, grey and mildly threatening, sits in the corner.
Malfoy says, without looking up from the file, “You’re here today because…” He turns a page, “…you’re not very good at your job.”
“What?” Harry asks incredulously.
Malfoy does look up then. His expression is blandly polite, which somehow only makes Harry more angry. “You don’t currently fill the criteria of your role as an Auror. Is that correct?”
“No, that’s not correct. I’m a fully qualified Auror — ”
“Says here,” Malfoy says, looking down at the page again, “That your supervisor has referred you here on the basis that…” He taps his finger against a line of spindly writing. “Let’s see… ‘Auror Potter requires further training in sensing areas of concentrated magic.’ Says last December, you walked directly into a ward and set off a Caterwauling Charm, which compromised the entire operation.”
“What? Well - what it doesn’t mention is that the ward was very well-hidden in a staircase — ”
“And in February, you tripped a jinx when you opened a door during another operation, which resulted in several minor injuries.”
“Yes, but it was — ”
Malfoy turns a page, somehow managing to do it loudly. The rasp of paper cuts through the air. “February again. Declared a room cleared when in fact it was still armed with a Severing Curse. Your partner suffered a significant injury.”
Harry looks away. That had been a particularly difficult incident, and the guilt still lingers. “I could’ve sworn that room was — ”
“March. Picked up a cursed wand, resulting in moderate burns.”
“I had to, I was trying to disarm — ”
“Which brings us to April,” Malfoy says, closing the file. The pages flutter shut. “Ran straight through a basic security ward, shattering it. Minor injuries sustained.” He finally looks up, his expression indecipherable. “Anything you care to add to these notes?”
“I do my job,” Harry snaps. “And I do it well.”
“Mm,” Malfoy says, and it’s maddening exactly how much condescension he manages to fit into a single syllable. “Well, that particular judgment is up to me, isn’t it?”
If Somin wasn’t the female lead in this drama, I wouldn’t have watched it. Felt like a disappointment when I reached the end. Kinda regretting now. Project Wolf Hunting, come to me fast. And another drama for Somin, please
Yes I want to write this fic. No I don’t want to figure out what happens in it. Also no I don’t want to write it <3
LEE KNOW for BEAUTY+
e.e. cummings, from “because it’s Spring” (in 73 Poems), Complete Poems: 1904-1962
things you don’t know: if he loves you back you think he might
“Sometimes I wonder / if I’m really the best / person for this body.”
— — John Elizabeth Stintzi, from “Salutations From the Storm,” Junebat
Why I stopped writing...
Illustration from Unrequited Love/ 暗恋橘生淮南
“I know pretty much what I like and dislike; but please, don’t ask me who I am.” - Sylvia Plath, The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath
“You look at him like the story of Icarus is a lesson you’re never gonna learn. Oh, but maybe some things were just meant to burn.”
— like he’s the ocean and it’s a goddamn shame that you never learnt to swim | via p.d
This will be one hell of a fucking ride
a.k.a. This was supposed to be hidden / under my bed / along with stories / I refuse to read before I sleep
Standing in front of a mirror / I see myself eyeing every inch of me / the black lace covering / almost nothing / and the music on my back / is glorious
Then there’s a knock / below my feet / as the wind settles behind the curtains of my bedroom window
It takes a second then a minute / blood flowing in a rush / heartbeat flooding my eardrums / as I parade down the stairs
He stands there like a kitten / his shadow touching the back of the door
He’s breathing fire as he enters inside / then our breaths waltz / in the same air-y music / then we feel the same desperate burn on our veins / the same shyness flush on our cheeks
A beat / a whisper / then pants begin travelling in the hope of more / of more bare skin / of more blazing touches / of more sight of swollen lips
I lead him to my room / catching his fingers once inside / placing them on my shoulder blades / I lead him / to have himself kiss me wet
(eusie.)
Music Volume 8.1.12.1
a.k.a. The eight tracks of my life when it comes to you
(1) A recurring dream: you say to me, “It’s always been you. It’ll always be you.” Sometimes, with your mouth; soft bubbles came out of those lips, eyes shaking as if you were afraid that I won’t ever get to know; so I believed it was true. Sometimes, in a note; written in a hurry, tugging all of my fingers and pressing it onto me like a sacred promise; so I believed it won’t be broken.
(2) But I wake up, breathless and sweating, soulless and aching, and... you weren’t here.
(3) When I sit down for a minute and ponder about my decisions, I come back to those times when we have conversations past midnight. I would remember you looking at me like I were a secret you still kept, still deciding if you would let go or keep hold of. Those gentle touches in the soft light, more tender than everything illuminated by the moon.
(4) I wish I would have done something. Anything.
(5) Yet, you’re still a smoke that keeps on dancing through my nostrils I am yet to get out of my system.
(6) I used to love the first few times when you starred in my dreams. But ever since you closed your eyes each time I start to tremble out your name from my lips, I stopped wondering about the crinkles by your eyes. I stopped trying to miss the way you laugh, stopped trying to make you laugh. I stopped whispering prayers. I stopped altogether.
(7) At some nights, I don’t want to sleep anymore; I’m tired of sleeping. I’ll keep having dreams of you anyway. And I’ll keep having dreams of you anyway even if I’m awake.
(8) A recurring thought: I’ll ask you, “Will I keep holding on? Should I still love you?” I’ll ask you if ever get the chance.
i "plant your lips on my body like a flower and let them wither ii “and i’ll paint the color of your eyes anew iii “the midnight moonlight slips through my brittle bones iv “and i fall on my knees; i can’t pretend; i’m falling, and falling v “you are my favorite time of day, my favorite night of sad vii “the warmest the end of my handmade fairytale viii “lay me down on an open road; put me on the end of the rope ix “falling in love is dangerous, but falling for you is chaos x “you are an echo from a dark cave i shouldn't enter xi “you are a hole on my parachute, a fire ready to conquer xii “tie me with your breathless kiss and let me shiver all the pain xiii “the dawn will paint our skies orange but i’ll only love your glinted eyes xiv “and you’re the only one i’ll let to love me to death, to kill me further xv “you are, you are, you are my favorite sin of all” — listening to “trouble i’m in” by twinbed (eusie.)
3,024,000 light-years. across the stretched road silence drove you mouthed against my cheeks 'the universe holds no questions' in your eyes exploded a thousand uncertainties 1,209,600 light-years. it's a one in a million possibility that you feel the same as me i breathed against your skin 'i know i can't have an answer to a question unsaid' flushed across the skies my soul flew chasing my dreams of you 604,800 light-years. a spur of the moment i met your lips with mine resurfaced mantras of 'say my name like a prayer' collapsed once again with your glazed over eyes 172,800 light-years. held everything like a fragile box i gave it to you like a sacrifice 'don't make me your religion' crawled and lingered on my ears now on the finish line you casted me on fire zero light-years. picked up my own broken pieces as i puzzled through you and realize like a poisoned broken glass you never held my heart on the tip of your tongue my name never stepped past
hence, a.k.a. “Here’s to someone, ver. 2″ (eusie.)
“Will you still love me in the morning?”
a.k.a. She says, “Yes,” while he answers, “No.”
She arrives at home a few minutes after five, clutching her heart tightly with her fingers. She looks around for a certain display of messy dark hair, her knuckles turning white every passing second. When her eyes couldn’t see what it sought out but meet a pair of amber orbs, she lunges forward onto its beholder.
He’s wearing his favorite navy blue shirt with gray linings on its sleeves, both of his hands clasping a book. His eyes turns back to it, she presumes, as she settles down in a leathered sofa in front of him. He’s seated on the loveseat, half lying on it even; his back resting on one rolled arm, his feet relaxing on the other.
She looks at his face and straightforwardly asks, “Why did you do it?”
He — who understood the question right away without any needed explanation from her to clear what could be a misinterpreted query — simply supplies, “I don’t like the way you look at it, or the way your fingers last a little more unnecessary than it should when you trace it through. I wanted it off right away the moment I couldn’t take it anymore.”
But you love it, she almost whispers. He used to, her mind takes in on account. “Are you okay?” she chooses to inquire.
He only looks at her, his amber eyes slowly mirroring an ember fire. He stands up and closes the material he was reading. She can hear her fingers tapping on her knees. Or maybe it’s the walls pleading in soft creaks. Or it’s her heart, with its great desire to come off of her chest and run away.
She wants to run away from the burning heat of her lover’s stare.
After a few minutes, she finds herself lost in a blurry surrounding. She focuses her vision and sees herself in the same sofa, her hands bleeding from how tight she was holding the end of her dress. Like how she’s holding her pieces together, just for it to not clutter and break into smaller ones.
But when she raises her gaze and find him at the edge of the stairs, she finally lets go.
And when he quietly murmurs an “I’m okay,” she decides she didn’t want to pick herself up. Her wounds will only cut deeper.
He didn’t even ask if I was, she thinks. Later, she stops thinking.
(eusie.)