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thatharringrovehoe · 3 years

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So I've been playing Dishonored which is my favorite game and this popped into my head so now you all have to suffer with me. (ﾉ◕ヮ◕)ﾉ*.✧

He's so fucking cold. Like he’s been plunged into a lake mid winter and can’t find his way to the surface. Hands shaking, Billy sifts clumsily through the box of his mother’s things he keeps hidden in the back of his closet. He's found that if he thinks about the good times, picnics at the beach under the California sun, the thing oozing it's way though his brain losses just a bit of it's grip. Leaves Billy with enough motor function to stumble around his bedroom, trying to find the right pieces. And fucking hell it’s been so long since he's done this. He can remember helping his Ma when he was little, chubby fingers clenched tight in her cotton sundress as she arranged the items on the table just right. Pricked her finger to draw sigils in a language long forgotten, her voice a soft cadence through the bedroom as she hummed Billy’s favorite lullaby. No words, just a beautiful mournful thing. Humming a song of grieving loss. Billy doesn't know why he likes it so much.

“Remember baby. When you offer your gifts they have to be special. Well loved. Something that brings you joy every time you use it.”

His mother kept a pair of earrings on the cloth covered table. She never wore them when his father was home. Took them out and put them back on the little rickety stand in the back of her closet every day before he came back from work. Dangling silver daggers with the onyx beads. Billy shoved one straight through his left earlobe when he turned fifteen and has barely taken it out since.

His Ma told him that everything he built his shrine with had to mean something. Had to be something he treasured. From the fabric to the stand itself. So Billy tried his best. Draped his best leather jacket over the milk crate that held all of his favorite hair products. Placed his Ma's Fleetwood Mac album next to one of his mother's silver earrings (the one he always wears), arranged as neatly as he can manage. He’d had to prick his thumb seven times because to his dawning horror it kept healing over. Just another tally mark towards something being really fucking wrong. And he remembers the warehouse. Can still feel the slimy caustic sludge being pumped down his throat by a fucking tentacle. But he’d hoped it had been a dream, a nightmare from reading to many Lovecraft novels. Billy curses as he slices open his thumb for what feels like the millionth time.

Apparently not.

He's drawn the characters just how he remembers. His mother had made him practice every day, showing him each and every shape and line, drawn in colorful crayon. She gave him a cookie every time he got them right. Never hung them up on the fridge though. Didn't want his father to see.

He can feel the shadow creeping through his blood, dragging it’s claws against his veins. It might not know exactly what he’s doing yet, but it must be able to feel the intention. Billy thinks of ocean waves and a soft hand running through his curls. Fights the pull at the back of his mind to just give in. To sleep. His hands shake harder.

Fuck, where is it?! Billy combs through records and trinkets, a bottle of her perfume. He’s desperately hoping it didn't get lost in the move because his mother never taught him how to make one. Hell, he's pretty certain that he wouldn't be able to find the pieces he needs in Hawkins anyway. Not like Melvalds has a supernatural voodoo isle.

Then finally, finally he finds it. Lifting up his mother’s satin scarf it comes tumbling out to land on the floor with a clatter. Bleached white and beaten smooth by the waves, it's about the size of a sand dollar. Billy picks it up, places it in the palm of his hand. He still remembers the day he found it out on the shore. Washed up between some sea glass, the leather bindings still somehow soft even soaked with salt water. Etched with symbols and shapes Billy will never understand. When Billy showed it to his mother an unreadable expression crossed her face. It was that evening she showed him her shrine.

The rune seems to hum against his skin, an otherworldly song from far away ghosting past his ears. The thing that’s trying to Shanghai Billy’s brain writhes. It's angry, but more than that it’s fucking terrified and Billy has never been more sure of anything in his life. This was a good idea. But his limbs are getting colder, heavier. Whatever this evil piece of shit is it doesn’t like what Billy’s doing. He has to fight against the deadening of his limbs, crawling towards his shitty attempt at a shrine from his place on the floor. His vision is starting to grow dark when he finally clutches on to the milk crate, placing the rune between the earring and his cassette tape. And he knows that there's no guarantee. That whatever his Ma prayed to every night never shielded her from Neil’s fists, didn’t do a damn thing as the cancer slowly drained her down to nothing. That sometimes (most times) when someone would call out to the void the only thing they heard in return was their own disappointment. But he's got no other options. This is his trump card. His last resort. If this hocus pocus bullshit doesn’t work then Billy is up shit creek without a paddle. With a frustrated shout against the nightmare pulling him in, Billy begs.

“Please! Fuck, help me! I'll do anything, c’mon just- please!”

The air in Billy’s bedroom all of a sudden seems to shudder. The shadows flicker and meld together, reaching outwards. The sound of dry fall leaves blowing in the wind, a wail of a thousand dying worlds ricochets off the walls. Then nothing. Billy scrunches his eyes shut against the sting of tears. Fuck, of course it didn’t work. Story of his life. He called for help and just like always it doesn't mean shit. No one is coming to save him.

“Well well well. Certainly been a long time since someone summoned me like that. Very old school.”

Billy’s eyes snap open, the surprise and adrenaline enough to fight the heaving weight of his limbs to raise his head. And there, perched on his shitty milk crate shrine, sits the most beautiful boy he's ever seen. He's got hair the color of soil after it rains. High cheekbones and full lips, milky white skin dotted with a constellation of beauty marks. Billy didn't know what he expected but it certainly wasn't this. The boy god is dressed in a swanky leather coat the color of charcoal with pants to match. Eyes like an oil spill, inky black and endless. With a good look at Billy, they narrow dangerously.

“I thought I fucking told you not to touch this world. You want a repeat of last time?”

Whatever deity he summoned looks pissed as hell. Did he not do it right? Maybe the items weren’t good enough. That would be just his luck. He's so confused he almost doesn’t notice it right away. The shadow slowly working it’s way through his body has stopped, retreated a little even.

“I-... I don't know what you’re talking about. Please, there's something wrong with me. Something got put inside of me and I need it out. Please, help me.”

Billy hasn’t begged since his Ma was takin her last breath in that damn hospice bed. Didn't see the point when it always got you nowhere. But now he can't make himself stop. Cuz he's never been this scared before. The things this monster inside him wants him to do. It's so strong, like he’s fighting a steam roller. He's got no hope on his own.

The boy sitting on his best leather jacket stills. Cocks his head to the side slightly, considering. Then those pretty pink lips are spreading out into a gleeful smirk. Slides off the shrine to settle on his knees in front of Billy. Reaches out his hand to cup Billy’s jaw gentle enough it makes him want to cry.

“You can't get a good enough hold of this one can you? Interesting. Tell me trouble maker, what's your name?”

That voice, deep and ethereal, seems to echo from all around him. He can feel it vibrate in his bones. He wants, no, needs to answer.

“Billy. Billy Hargrove.”

The boy smiles now, all gleaming pearly whites. If Billy looks long enough reality starts to flicker. And for just a second all he can see is teeth sharp like knives in a Cheshire grin. There for a moment and gone in a flash. The hand on his jaw tightens just the slightest fraction.

“Well Billy Hargrove. You seem to find yourself in quite the predicament. That parasite sucking on your soul is an old acquaintance of mine. He's one nasty little shit.”

If a brain washing shadow monster could feel indignant he’s pretty sure that’s what's happening now. Whatever was hijacking Billy's mind has curled up somewhere tight, sunk it’s teeth in deep. Cornered like a threatened animal.

“Please, I’ll do anything you want. I can’t… I can’t fight it. It's too much.”

There’s enough tears leakin down his face that it's soaking the front of his shirt. The boy is giving him this look, almost amused. The longer he holds Billy’s jaw the more the monster losses his grip, and Billy is ready to do anything at this point. Because that thing stuck to his brain wants him to find people. Feed it people. Wants Billy to drink all the chemicals in the supply shed at the pool. Told Billy that if he tried to fight it would take Max first and he can't let that happen.

The boy seems to come to a decision, grabs Billy’s hands to help him shakily to this feet. He doesn’t let go even when they’re both standing.

“You know there’s not many who can fight his hold for this long. I'm impressed.”

He steps forward until his chest is practically pressed up against Billy's. He smells like ozone and smoke, bottomless black eyes trained on stormy blue. Reaches up to tangle his fingers into Billy’s curls, sending tingles across his scalp. Smiles wider at the small noise that escapes Billy's throat.

“I'll help you Billy Hargrove. But in return, you have to do something for me.”

Billy's nodding before he can even really register what’s being said. Anything. He'd do whatever this pretty boy asked as long as he keeps touching Billy like this. Gentle, with a reverence no one has ever bothered to show.

“I need you to kick this little shit back into the hole he crawled out of. Can you do that for me Billy? I wanna see how your story pans out trouble maker. Wanna see what you do when someone gives you a chance.”

Billy nods again, breathless. The boy chuckles, the sound saccharine. Like warm honey dripping down his spine.

“Gunna have to use your words baby.”

Billy swallows, the click of his dry throat loud in the warm personal bubble they’ve created.

“Yes. Yeah. I’ll do it. Whatever you want pretty boy, please.”

It comes out a whisper but the boy hears it all the same. The boy smiles bright, pulls Billy forward. Soft warm lips press against his own and Billy is floating. He's never been kissed like this before. Slow and deep, the boy's tongue pressing in to curl and slide. Stuff him full. Billy's shaking for a whole other reason now. Reaches out to grip the boy's coat, cool to the touch where Billy is burning. Fire rushing through his veins, and he's already so close just from this. Whimpers brokenly into the kiss.

The boy pulls him in impossibly closer, slots his thigh between Billy’s legs, pushes up up up. And Billy is right fucking there, grinds down as he swaps spit with an old god in his shitty bedroom with the peeling yellow paint and the door that locks from the outside. Can feel the tell tale tingle spreading behind his navel.

“ ‘m gunna cum! Fuck, more please!” Billy mumbles curses into the kiss, breath hitching as his balls draw tight. The boy smiles against his mouth, yanks his curls back to bite into the meat of his neck and Billy’s gone, pulsing rope after rope of cum into his underwear.

“Oh my- .. Fuuuuuck. Yes! Uhhhnn!” He's panting like a dog as he slumps forward into the boys shoulder. Gentle fingers card through his hair as aftershocks zap up and down his body. A kiss is pressed behind his ear, a soft warmth flooding his core. He can't feel the shadow anywhere.

“So good for me sweet thing. Makes me want to keep you.”

It's said so quiet, like the boy doesn’t intend for it to be heard. Billy presses his face into his neck. There's no heartbeat under the boy's skin.

“You could. I want you to.” Whoever this is, whatever he is, he came for Billy. Answered his literal cry for help when no one else did. He doesn't know what he has to offer but he wants to give this impossible boy everything.

The boy in question hums. Brings Billy's left hand up to kiss the back of it. His skin feels hot under his lips, bordering on uncomfortable. Like stepping on sun scorched pavement. When the boy pulls back there’s a tattoo on his hand. A strange design that looks vaguely like a compass. It's the same mark as the one on the middle of the rune sitting behind them.

“I haven't given my mark to someone quite so special in a while. Try not to disappoint me Billy Hargrove.”

The boy goes to pull away but Billy still has his hand clenched tight on his coat. Panic wells up in his chest. Doesn't want to end whatever this is quite yet.

“Wait! What’s-…what's your name?” Which is a valid question he thinks. And probably one he should have asked at some point before he started grinding his dick on the guys leg. Oh well.

“I've had many names, none if which would hold any significance for you. Call me what you want trouble maker. I'll be there when you need me.”

Billy believes him. Then between one blink and the next the boy is gone, tendrils of dissipating smoke the only evidence he was ever there. A deep voice whispers from nowhere and everywhere.

“Ask your sister about the monsters in the woods.”

On the shrine the only thing that remains is the rune, both his gifts having apparently been accepted. Billy gives a hysterical bark of laughter at the thought of some higher being listening to Fleetwood Mac somewhere out in the void. It gives him an idea. He drags his lips across the fresh mark on his hand, mumbles into his skin.

“Thanks Stevie.”

#i don't know what this is but here ya go!#Outsider!Steve #Billy Hargrove #harringrove #dishonored au #yes Billy gets powers but i haven't decided what they are yet #that hoe writes #stranger things #Neil you better watch out my boy has a literal old god for a boyfriend now

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deathbyvalentine · 3 years

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Bad Memories

(TW for abuse, sexual violence and self-harm.)

One

The moment after she stepped from the concrete and before she hit the water was the longest of any of her lives. The air rushed along her goose-pimpled flesh, making her hair stream upwards. Instinctively she closed her eyes, blocking out the unreality of this world, focusing only on the blackness that enveloped her. And she felt... Relief.

Part of her knew this was not embracing her madness. It was not following her divinity. It was giving in to one of the only parts of ‘Violet’ that were left. The part of her that was small, in pain and scared. The frightened animal, the homeless girl, the statistic waiting to happen. It was her that pushed her forwards, that was hoping that when she inhaled the salt water, it would do nothing but kill her. End it all. Let silence take her. Everything was too loud here. Aggressively grey. The type of mundane that swallows you whole.

What had she looked like? Standing on the wall, arms wrapped around her bare skin, shivering. Nobody had seen her. Or rather - nobody had stopped. No coaxing good samaritan, no creepy dude, no concerned citizen. Did she want to be saved? Or did she just want to be noticed?

The water was freezing cold and when she hit it, it hurt. Water rushed into her ears, her nose and her throat from the irresistible inhale. It burnt with cold. She couldn’t tell which way lay the shore or which way was up. Some part of her wanted to keep breathing, sinking to the bottom and disappearing under the silt. But then, she didn’t get a say. Someone pushed her, forced her to start kicking, a survival instinct being wrenched from somewhere deep inside, hidden well by self-harm and suicide attempts. It never let her die.

Her head broke the surface and she gasped, the salt made her throat real raw, like she was breathing broken glass. She might have been crying, it was hard to tell when she was coughing, spitting up sea water.

And then, a moment later, the clawed hand, reaching for her. For a moment, she wished she could be pulled back under, the decision taken from her, her death somebody else’s fault, for a change, for the first time.

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Two

You’re not meant to form attachments in therapy. People come and go and you can’t stake your recovery on somebody else. Trauma bonds were not famed for their steady foundations. They were like sand and could slip away from under you at a moment’s notice. Violet reached across the gulf, until their fingers met in the middle. You could only touch if you worked for it. If you wanted it.

Steph was a puker. Violet would sit on the bathroom sinks, one eye on the door as Steph kneeled at the porcelain, uselessly dry heaving. Violet was thin but Steph was thinner, her elbows sharp and her jaw a razorblade. Violet had never seen a razor blade she didn’t love and Steph was no exception. It wasn’t her usual brand of love, obsessive and damaging, more a forest fire than a love. There was no desperate sex, no screaming arguments in the streets, no break ups. They were best friends. Nothing less.

It was Steph that came to talk Violet down when she didn’t know which way was up, that coaxed her out of bed when depression pinned her there, let her scream and rage or cry and cry and cry. Violet sat with Steph through three hour dinners, helped her eat carrot sticks, told her stories when the muscle aches kept her awake far into the night. Much to the chagrin of their doctors, they were inseparable. They ignored all warnings. How could this be anything but wonderful?

She should have known then really. Good things never lasted.

She woke up at three am and Steph’s bed was empty. The ward was quiet. No blaring tv, no laughter, no arguments. It was not peaceful. It was eerie. For a long moment, she wondered if this was one of those days she woke up in another world. It wasn’t always easy to tell. She swung her legs from the bed, feet meeting sticky linoleum and made her way to the corridor. The nurse’s station was silent and still and a sick feeling curled around the bottom of her stomach, weight like lead. The door to the girl’s bathroom was thrown open, spilling sickly yellow light into the blue of the corridor. She could hear something then, whispers like rustling leaves. She slowed her footsteps, turning her own presence into something ghostlike. In the doorframe, a barrier made of white scrubs met her, facing into the room. They didn’t notice quickly enough as she slipped through between them.

It took her a moment to realise what she was seeing. The screws pried from the bottom of the bathroom sinks, now scattered on the floor like confetti for a macabre wedding. The red that sat in thick pools, forming roads in the cracks between tiles. Then the body. And it was a body. It was not her friend. Because her friend was never so still, so unsmilling. Her friend didn’t have deep gauges along her arms. Her friend was not dead.

She didn’t feel it as someone gripped the top of her arms, steering her out of the room and into the corridor, back to the room that tonight would contain only her and nobody else. She went without a fight. She allowed herself to be tucked in as if she was a child. And she stared at the wall, unsleeping, until the room turned light from the rising sun.

Three

Violet’s mouth felt like an ashtray. The pulsing in her head, a pneumatic drill. Cautiously, she opened one eye. Immediately wanting to close it, she forced herself to face reality. A choice she regretted as soon as she saw exactly what the reality was. First of all, the reality was the dude laying next to her, still sleeping, still smelling of whiskey and whatever they were smoking last night. The room itself was not better. The wooden floor was devoid of polish. The walls only had the reminder of wallpaper on them, hanging in long strips that reminded her of flypaper. There was no door, not even the illusion of privacy. It had been kicked in and never replaced. After all, who was going to pay for it to be? Not the council, not the tenants and certainly not the cheeky fuckers that used it as a halfway house of meth den and squat. She leaned over Derek? Toby? whoever, to retrieve the joint from the top of a can, lighting it and taking a long drag. On the floor, more sleepers lay, in various stages of undress. Like she was. She stood up, her body suddenly aching in a hundred different places. The crook of her elbow from needles. Her knees from scaling the back wall and landing on them, scraping the skin. Her shoulder from someone’s teeth. Her brow from someone’s fist. She couldn’t even remember others, them cloaked in a chemical haze. One step forward and she flinched back - checking the underside of her foot she found a shard of glass, reluctant to be removed.

She found a shirt, hers or somebody else’s. She could not find her jeans, not upstairs, not in the bathroom that contained only a bath, not in the living room that had a TV with a smashed in screen and stained carpet. Nor could she find any milk for tea in the kitchen - not that she looked too closely when she opened the fridge and she realised it has been turned off some sometime long before it was emptied. She with more strength than skill managed to pull the bolt across the back door and step into the back garden. It was overgrown, which was exactly what she expected. She just needed to breathe something that wasn’t stagnant air or the deodorant of an unwashed man.

The air was fresh and cold. Her skin shivered into goosebumps and she wiggled her toes against the concrete of the step. The smoke curled upwards towards the sky in delicate ribbons. Inside her head, the Hotel was quiet. It didn’t matter if it was because it was morning or because she had finally managed to drug them into a stupor. For right now, it was just her.

Just her.

She exhaled in a shaking breath. It was only when it was quiet that you could take stock. She wasn’t quite sure how long this latest binge had went on. Her eyes were sore with smeared make up. Hair thick with smoke and unwashed oil. She had lost her ring, her necklace, apparently her jeans. Bruises felt painted all over her. Inside, those people would wake up and move on, like locusts directly after clearing an entire field of crops. They were careless people. Perhaps that was why she had chosen them.

As she finished the joint, she heard an odd noise. She stood, brushing grit from her and hunted inside, following the buzzing into the living room and underneath the couch. Wrinkling her nose at the dirt and dead insects, she managed, just about, to retrieve what was now recognisably her phone. She didn’t get up, crouching as she looked at the screen. An ex-boyfriend, probably calling to scream at her about a missing wallet or a fucked best friend. She pressed to decline without much consideration. But kept the phone in her palm, thumb posed questioningly over a contact. Before she could second-guess herself any further, she pressed it, moving her thumb straight to her mouth to chew on a nail anxiously. A receptionist, a waiting tone and then -

“Hi. Mal? Yeah, no, I’m okay.” She closed her eyes, listening to the voice on the other end. “Yeah. I think..Maybe could I come home now? I know what Zoey said but - oh. Thank you. Yeah, let me just go outside and look at the address.” The voice again and she barked out a laugh, almost surprised at the sound. “Yeah yeah, alright, always a comedian...” It was somehow easier to act okay now she was talking to him, the last reserve of normality able to be wrenched from a store she didn’t know she had. Sounding like your life wasn’t going to absolute shit on a phone was a learnt skill and not one she could always employ. But here it was now, arguably when she needed it least.

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Four

Landing in a hospital for a suicide attempt was fine. Landing in hospital because of self-harm, unintended to be a suicide attempt, was just humiliating. The factoring in that she didn’t actually remember if it was herself or someone else who lived in her head rent free and it was officially a clusterfuck. Her arns were stitched back together, cleaned out and bound up type by the sort of nurse she would have no doubt would later be calling her a drain on the national health service. It was very hard not to think that she had a point.

She wanted to scream. She wanted to rip the ivs out of her arms. She wanted to find a knife and gouge out her own bones, eyes, existence. Cross herself out until she was just a ball of viscera and dead matter. She realised a moment later that she was screaming, even though it hurt her throat, even though it made someone come into her room and whispering soothing words that made no sense, that jumbled up inside her head until it was another language entirely.

She wanted to be normal. Why couldn’t she just be normal?

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Five

She felt her teeth clack together as she was slammed back against the wall, her head hitting it hard enough that for a moment, her vision swam. It had knocked the breath out of her and she couldn’t even think of anything to scream, say, do. It didn’t matter. His hands were tight around her arms, almost able to wrap his hand around them entirely. There was bruising force. She would have purple fingerprints on her arms to match the ones underneath her jaw from where he had gripped it. That was perhaps where she had made a vital error. He had forced her to look at him, to make eye contact and she had done all she could think of. And spat in his face.

She was regretting it now. His shoulder pressed against her chest as he fumbled with his trousers, muttering something about her being a bitch. She knew how this went. She screwed up her eyes tight, that old childhood belief coming back to her. If she couldn’t see it, it couldn’t hurt her.

It didn’t work. It never worked. She bit her own lip so hard her mouth filled with the hard tang of her own blood and she swore she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of crying. She managed to keep that promise to herself. It was something she could hold onto, something she could focus on to blank out what was happening to her. One day, she’d forget this promise. A person can only take so much before the idea of pride, of ‘winning’ mattered at all. Before you accepted you were just losing.

And would keep on losing.

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Six

She was surrounded in fog. Somewhere, she could hear rushing water, loud and until nothing else could be heard. The fog was not cold. It was not much of anything. It left no moisture on her skin, she did not feel it in her lungs. It simply covered her. She moved slowly within it, never getting anywhere.

She blinked and it was night time. The window in her room showed a sprinkling of streetlights, the softer lights switched on in the corridor. Her mouth felt dry and her fingers didn’t work properly when she reached out for the glass. She knocked it off the small table, sending it tumbling to the floor.

She blinked and it was morning. She was sitting up in bed and the the light was crisp and clear. Someone was checking her pulse, making small talk and marking something on the Chalice Foundation’s clipboard. She gently put her arm around Violet’s shoulders, tilting her forwards to help her drink. And placing a pill on her tongue, bitter and hard to swallow.

Another few moments and the fog rolled over her, dragging her under and under, everything faded out. She tried to claw her way out, to blink free the daze that was descending over her. It didn’t work and she stopped trying. Sometimes you just had to let the tide take you. She wasn’t sure how long she drowned for. But when she woke up, actually woke up, the leaves had turned a beautiful golden colour and had started tumbling to the ground in great waves, settling against any surface that would take it.

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Seven

They were talking about her. She had to walk down the corridor naturally. If they knew she had heard them, they would hurt her now, rather than later. Don’t look at them. Don’t think about them. They could hear her thoughts so she had to think of something else. Anything else. Or find a way to keep them out of her head. She got to her room and she closed the door and she blocked it with her desk chair but it wasn’t enough it was never enough they would find a way in so she had to hide.

Underneath the bed was dark and she couldn’t make herself small enough. There was something breathing in the dark, something waiting, something that wanted to gobble her up and break her bones and punish her for all the bad things she had done and thought and thought about doing. Maybe if she got the badness out of her it wouldn’t come so she raked her nails across her skin as much as she could to try and scratch it out but it wasn’t enough it would never be enough.

Someone knocked on her door and it took all she had not to scream but if they heard her scream they would know where she was so she held her breath. There were two people watching her and she didn’t recognise them, they were new and if they were new they were dangerous and they would hurt her and some part of her would always know this and it would spread in her bones and she never forgot not really and neither would Zoey or Wendy or any of the others.

She covered her ears. She closed her eyes. But there were things living in that darkness too. In every darkness.

__________________________________________________________

Eight

There were no words for how it smelt. How it felt. The slickness of decomposition. The dead reduced down to liquid and mush and blackness and oh god she was going to drown in bodies. This was how it was going to happen. She could fall in here forever. Zac couldn’t reach her. Victoria couldn’t reach her. This would be it forever.

She broke the surface a moment later, heavy limbs moving to the side, her blindly reaching out to try and find hands, a surface, anything to drag herself out of the warehouse sized coffin, the bodies of millenia, a fucking metaphysical plague pit. It was in her ears. Her mouth. Her nose. Everything was death and it clung to her and she would never be clean of it, how could she be? You couldn’t wash this off. It would stick. In her mind as well as her body. She could save the world and this still would still exist. This moment. The thing is about time is that it never really ended. And neither would this.

____________________________________________________________

????

The crackling of pain from an injection. The snapping of bone. A parent turning away. Mal not stopping any of it. A break up because she was broken. On and on. On and on. On and on.

#prose #violet #rape tw #abuse tw #self harm tw

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thefinalcinderella · 7 years

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DIVE!! Book 3 Chapter 4-NEXT STAGE COMING

This translation isn’t dead

Fun fact: the title was misspelled with “comming” in the book.

Full list of translations here

Previously on DIVE!!: Youichi gets flowers.

As it turned out, Youichi skipped practice for only one week, not because his headache was completely cured, not because Tomoki gave him moth orchids, not even because the fortunes of Leos had sharply increased.

“You probably have your own plans for yourself. But, stop here.”

The morning on the day when it had been a week since he first started skipping, Keisuke finally got impatient.

Youichi thought that somewhere in his head, he had been waiting for this day. Will he explode, or will he guilt-trip me by crying? But Keisuke spoke as the head coach of the MDC to the last, starting off with a request.

“From my standpoint, I cannot overlook you skipping practice any longer. You don’t even know how out of shape you will be if you neglect muscle training for even one day, and how much time you will need to recover it. Besides, it is now the time when you must adjust for your next competition.”

“Next competition?”

“The JASF has invited four divers to the Sino-Japanese Goodwill Competition that will take place in November. There was an official announcement yesterday.”

Keisuke and Youichi watched each other’s expressions over the breakfast table.

Keisuke still hadn’t dealt all of his cards yet. Having that hunch, Youichi waited for him to continue without changing his expression.

“So…”

Just as he thought, Keisuke turned over his next card.

“So, based on the results of the Sino-Japanese Goodwill Competition, the JASF plans to publicize yours and Teramoto Kenichirou’s Olympic representative decisions after the competition.”

“Based on the results of the competition? How the…I still haven’t done it yet, so there’s no way they can know my results, right?”

“Oh, they don’t know. But they can predict them. President Maebara judged that you can do it. This time, the four Chinese divers that Coach Sun is bringing along are still young rookies, so Teramoto’s certain to win the championship. Now that Kaneda and Kurauchi are out, it would be hard to threaten your second place unless there was a very large upset. Even if you did make a mistake, you can remain at third or fourth place. After that there is only the hope that your career and future prospects will carry you through.”

Keisuke’s tone could be taken as irresponsible, and he pinched the wrinkles between his brows with his fingertips.

“What…”

Ever since he had been informed of the representative decision, something cold had been building up within Youichi. It was like ice, like glass, freezing up a part of him again.

One could not simply think that adults were filthy and children were pure. Up to now he had participated in various diving events, and Youichi had been made aware many times of how adults operated politically, how they worried about their appearances in society and conducted themselves cunningly, and how they used random stopgaps as soon as they thought of them. That might be what it meant to live as a real human being, and even Youichi flew off the stage that they had prepared. But…

“What if I lose? If I lose to a Japanese diver other than Teramoto-san, then what would happen to my right to represent at the Olympics?”

Keisuke’s fingers, still pinching his brow, stiffened to Youichi’s sharp gaze.

“Your selection has been decided. The problem for the JASF is when and how to announce it smoothly. Because there were no formal qualifying trials this time, honestly, the timing of the announcement was difficult. Then Coach Sun suggested a good time would be after the Sino-Japanese Goodwill Competition.”

“So, what if I lost the competition?”

“Therefore, your selection has already been decided.”

The intensity of their locked gazes grew.

“Even if a Japanese diver other than Teramoto beat you at the competition, it is obvious from your overall results up until now that you are better. It is not difficult to infer that you were nominated based on your career, as long as you won within six places.”

“What if I couldn’t win? What if I keep messing up there? Are they still going to push through my selection? What are the other divers at the competition for?”

His voice cracked from being overly agitated. The water in his glass shook, and when he looked he found that it was his own arms that were shaking the table. I want you to race to the top in that usual cool way of yours, he remembered Reiji saying. I came back to dive with you again, he remembered Shibuki saying. He remembered the moth orchids that Tomoki gave him—

“So, shouldn’t they have used that Sino-Japanese Goodwil Competition as the Olympic qualifying trials instead?” Youichi practically gasped out, and Keisuke tilted his head back, then slowly shook his head.

“You might also make a big impression, but you don’t know what will happen at a diving competition. The favorite to win might fall all the way to the bottom, and a no-name newcomer might sweep first place. President Maebara, who is cautious for the sake of winning medals, does not want to take the risk of deciding on the representatives in just one meet…probably. Truthfully, I also don’t know what the organization is doing.”

He sighed, looking tired, but then continued talking as though he was rousing himself up.

“There is just one thing that I know for sure. You…Fujitani Youichi, will never mess up at an important competition.”

Keisuke steadied Youichi’s wobbling focus.

“How do you know that?”

“Your faultless, steady performances. It is your greatest weapon, after all.”

He wasn’t being praised. Those words were by no means compliments. Youichi knew that Keisuke preferred Okitsu Shibuki-style dives, where the soul shone in their wildness, fully exposed, rather than stable dives. But, he still only got the sense that his father was entrusting something to his “faultless, steady performances.”

“If you fully display that weapon, you will win the Sino-Japanese Goodwill Competition and go to Sydney without a doubt. The survival of the MDC is riding on your participation in the Olympics. The futures of the little divers toddling around the poolside are at stake.”

Before his father who was only protecting one thing from only one angle, Youichi said, “Understood,” while enduring the waves of headache pain that had been gradually pressing onto him.

Understood. I had understood that for a long time. That’s why even when I’m talking about whatever, I’ll still return to practice in the end. Even if I’m not fully satisfied with the selection of the representatives, there’s nothing more to dig up, right…?

Thus, the curtain closed on the modest rebellion, and after school on that day, Youichi went to the Sakuragi High School diving club and Tatsumi’s swimming pool. Youichi, who hadn’t shown up once since the practice spot was moved to Tatsumi’s indoor pool after Sakuragi’s outdoor pool closed, had arrived at Tatsumi for the first time since July’s Asia Joint Training Camp qualifying trials almost a month ago.

He had a sullen-looking face as he walked towards the poolside, but right then, he felt like he had betrayed his body, which had refused to practice so much, too easily.

He breathed in the smell of the water for the first time in a long while.

The special, steamy chemical odor peculiar to indoor pools.

Just as Shibuki, raised at the sea, flourished in the scent of salt water, for Youichi, raised at the pool, the scent of his hometown was the artificial chemical odor. His whole body lost its stability after his long absence, and his skin buzzed with the desire to feel the familiar sensation of water. Youichi, his heart lifted like a traveler who discovered an oasis in the desert under a blazing hot sun, swam a few laps in the main pool to cooldown so he wouldn’t risk the danger of standing on the diving platform in that excited state. Then he began his regular practice.

In addition to belonging to the MDC, Youichi was also part of the Sakuragi High School diving club. Usually, he practiced at the pool with the diving club, and did dryland training with the MDC. There were those who suspected that having his father as a coach was hard to deal with, but Youichi simply doubted Keisuke’s coaching. Keisuke, who always said that the most important thing was spirit, turned all failures and setbacks into issues of feelings. Coach Abe of the diving club was still young, and she just said whatever was in the manual, but Youichi chose her bias- and compulsion-free coaching.

On this day also, he performed warm-up exercises according to Coach Abe’s instructions, and when they finished thorough flexibility exercises in pairs, Youichi performed “starting entries” by the poolside several times, before finally climbing the steps of the diving tower.

For the first time in a long time, he looked up at the concrete dragon that was his natural enemy, as well as old friend. From overhead illuminated by the ceiling lights, Tomoki, Reiji and the others had already begun to dive, but it was still too early to join that line.

First, from the three-meter springboard.

Next was the five-meter platform.

Then it was the seven-meter.

And then finally, the ten-meter.

Youichi diligently followed that sequence. That was how much he carefully, steadily ascertained his own condition. Keisuke often said things like, “Be like a bird” and “Dance with the soul,” but if a good performance could be done with such things, nobody would go to practice everyday.

Diving was a precise collaboration between the mind and body. The chest muscles. The springs of the feet. The sharpness of the rotations. The rhythm that controlled the movements from takeoff to entry. They changed everyday as if they were living creatures, disorienting Youichi. When those hard-to-deal-with creatures were bent to his force of will, when he was able to accomplish a performance where everything was perfectly harmonized, he was able to get intoxicated from the ecstasy of the victory that controlled him. It was somewhat similar to the piano tuner tuning the sound of the piano and bringing about a beautiful harmony.

However, this day was a series of dissonances. His mind and body were out of sync, and nothing moved according to his directions. His body grew dull over that one-week break, and he couldn’t prevent the mistakes that he could usually prevent with his strength. The timings of his entries were off, as though his very diving intuition had gone completely out of whack.

Don’t get flustered. You’ll destroy yourself if you do that here. Youichi told himself those things while trying twenty, thirty basic dives, but his intuition never returned, and in the end failed terribly as he violently hit the water.

A shock like lightning ran through his body, numbing him at first, then transforming into pain.

It had been a long time since he had felt this pain—.

While coughing out the water that flowed to the back of his throat, Youichi dragged his confused body onto the poolside, pushing his red-stained body up from the water.

“I never thought that even Fujitani-kun could get struck by the water.”

As he laid completely exhausted on the poolside, Coach Abe came over, looking like she just saw a monkey fall from a tree. (1)

“When I was struck by the water for the first time, I thought about quitting diving, but even now I still think that, the moment I was struck by the water.”

Coach Abe smiled as Youichi grumbled.

“Everyone is like that, only at that moment. But, do you want to think about the reasons for your failure in a constructive way?”

“The rhythm of my takeoff was bad. Because my jump was messed up, I felt like that had an impact on my rotations and entry.”

“That’s the correct answer. But, the normal Fujitani-kun would have been able to fix the jump in midair, even if it was messed up…the cost of one week was too much after all. Well, let’s get you back to form slowly.”

As Coach Abe left, Youichi’s eyes suddenly went to the opposite side of the pool, meeting the eyes of Keisuke, who had his whistle hanging from his neck. Despite Youichi returning to practice like he wanted, he had a bitter look on his face, perhaps because he saw his earlier failure. He might have been thinking that that happened because he hadn’t been thinking like a bird enough, or that his soul wasn’t struggling, or something like that…

Youichi exhaled loudly, his eyes diverting from Keisuke to roam over the pool.

And for the first time, he noticed that Shibuki and Asaki Kayoko weren’t anywhere to be found.

“Oh, Shibuki went with Coach Asaki to do electrotherapy for his back today, and then he’s going to ballet lessons.” Ooshima, Shibuki’s roommate, said that immediately when Youichi asked for Shibuki’s whereabouts during break time.

“What, ballet lessons?”

Youichi was hooked, and was on the verge of letting him going on, but a strange feeling was left behind in his ear, and he was a little late to being surprised.

“Ballet…like ‘un, deux, trois’ ballet?”

“Ah, that’s right. Not the ‘serve, receive, attack’ volleyball. (2) Well, of course he’s still only in the beginner’s class.”

“But why…is he going to be a ballerina?”

“No, you dummy. He’s just incorporating it as a part of training.”

“Oh.”

Now that he said it, that was probably the case.

Although it was not heard of much in Japan, all Russian divers learned ballet from childhood, and even the Chinese have actively taken bar lessons and the such. In the United States, there were also diving clubs that include classical ballet into practice every day. Ballet lessons were effective for improving balance, toe extension, instantaneous muscle usage, and other skills when in midair, as well as useful for cultivating the delicate expressiveness of the fingers.

“But, even so…”

That Okitsu Shibuki was doing classical ballet!

Won’t that be like an elephant doing tap dance, a tiger playing the ocarina, or an orangutan learning to use natural dyes?

“Of course, it was Coach Asaki who suggested it, and thought that Shibuki would hate it. But surprisingly, he easily agreed to it.”

As Ooshima said that, he placed his hand on Youichi’s shoulder. “Your body’s a bit cold,” he said, and prompted him to go to the Jacuzzi baths.

“Oh, now he looks like he’s been put through the wringer and he still looks dejected at every lesson, but Coach Asaki is enthusiastic. Because he can’t do new dives with that back of his, he has to make a painful plan to strengthen his expressiveness and polish the skills that he already has.”

When Ooshima opened the door to the bubble baths, the elementary schoolers who were crammed in the tubs during their break all pointed at Youichi and shouted, “It’s Fujitani Youichi!” “It’s the Olympic athlete!” It looked the number of applicants who wished to join had really increased, as his eyes rested on several unfamiliar faces.

“He’s not a panda! Hey, get back to practice now!”

The elementary schoolers scattered in a flash at Ooshima’s scolding, and the two of them submerged themselves into the hot bath, shoulder to shoulder.

“So really, Coach Asaki and Shibuki are doing very well. But honestly, I’d love to see what’ll happen when the art of ballet is added to Shibuki’s dynamism. I’m looking forward to the Sino-Japanese Goodwill Competition in November.”

“The Sino-Japanese Goodwill Competition? Is he going to participate in it?”

“Ah, yes.”

“But, that competition is…”

That competition was for Teramoto Kenichirou and Youichi. No matter how much effort he put forth there, the right to represent at the Olympics will never come around to Shibuki.

“I know what you want to say.”

Hot water flew from Ooshima’s fingers onto Youichi’s bewildered face.

“Even Shibuki knows that. Tomo and Reiji are also aware of that, and are willing to go to that competition.”

“Aren’t they…frustrated?”

“It’s because they are frustrated that they are going. At the competition, they want to show off their strengths in front of those self-important blockheads from the JASF. The energy from that anger isn’t stupid, and recently Tomo and Reiji have been practicing like crazy. Tomo in particular has been shockingly fired up. I think he dived as many as two-hundred times last Sunday.”

“Two hundred times?”

Youichi couldn’t believe his ears.

Certainly, it seemed that before there was a time where increasing the number of times jumping from the diving platform during practice was regarded as good, but nowadays great importance was placed on reasonable numbers, and it was stressed that how one dived is what should be concentrated on. It varied between individuals, but the number of dives that a person could do one day was probably at most a hundred. Even in the hardest adjustment period, one hundred and fifty dives were done at most, so two hundred could be said to qualify as a superhuman amount of practice. He climbed up those tall steps two hundred times, and dived from them two hundred times.

“That’s the strength of Tomo’s competitive spirit.” Ooshima murmured, then turned to face Youichi.

“Tomo is still fourteen years old. If your representative decision provoked him to work so hard like this now, who knows what kind of monster he’ll turn into five years from now. You shouldn’t be shutting yourself up at home, either.”

He grinned, and stood up with a splash.

“If Shibuki knew you came back, he’d definitely be happy. Don’t make your rivals so lonely, okay?”

When Ooshima went back to coaching the elementary schoolers, Youichi, as if to confirm what he had heard just a moment ago, went towards the area where the full view of the diving platform could be seen.

The poolside separated the main pool used for swimming and the diving pool. From that position, where potted plants lined up at even intervals, the towering concrete dragon could be seen directly from the front. When Youichi looked up, Tomoki had just appeared at the tip of the ten-meter.

Ever since Asaki Kayoko took the job as coach seven months ago, that boy, who had no achievements or ambition, had accomplished an astonishing change, and a stability and dignity could be seen in his standing posture as well. His somewhat unreliable body had tightened, and he seemed to have gained some more muscle in these several weeks.

Tomoki’s well-built body floated into the air, and he approached the surface of the water quickly as he traced his usual light circles.

The forward 3½ somersault in tuck position.

Tomoki had already made a skill that he had just mastered this summer completely his own. The speed at which he vigorously absorbed everything was amazing.

As Youichi held his breath and looked on, his body, which should have done 3½ somersaults, made too many extra movements, and Tomoki missed the timing of his entry as he fell at a bad angle.

Failed.

Nevertheless, it was an odd way to fail. He didn’t think that Tomoki had cat-like reflexes when it came to moving in midair.

Before Youichi’s puzzled eyes, Tomoki got out of the water and, without resting for even a moment, went towards the diving tower, ascending the steps untiringly again. There was no wastefulness in that series of movements, and a determination to dive as many times as he could within his limited practice time, where even one minute was long and even one dive was a lot, could be felt. Youichi also got like that when he was extremely focused. He couldn’t see anything. He couldn’t hear anything. Only himself and the dragon and the water. Because Tomoki was in this condition today, he didn’t seem to have noticed that Youichi showed up to practice a long time ago.

However, when Tomoki appeared on the tip of the ten-meter again after waiting for the other divers to go, despite concentrating just as much, he made the same mistake again with the forward 3½ somersault in tuck position. The reason was still the excessive movements just before entry.

What’s going on?

Though Youichi puzzled over it, Tomoki single-mindedly headed for the diving tower without thinking about the reason for his failures, as though he was possessed.

It was when he saw Tomoki enter the water the same way for the third time that he realized what he was doing.

“No way, is he doing 4½…”

The forward 4½ somersault in tuck position—.

Those extra movements after the 3½ somersaults. Those were meant to be an attempt to do an unprecedented final somersault, weren’t they?

As soon as he realized that, even though Youichi already had the right to represent at the Olympics in his hands, somehow, he felt like Tomoki left him behind.

Translation Notes

1. “Monkey that fell from a tree” is also a Japanese idiom that means “person who has lost something they used to rely on,” so there’s a double meaning here

2. Ballet in Japanese is “バレエ” and volleyball here is written as “バリボール,” which is a bit unusual as it’s usually written as “バレーボール”

Next time on DIVE!!: Pretty sure this is the origin of those Youichi/Kayoko fanfics on Pixiv

#DIVE!!#dive novel translation

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josephkitchen0 · 6 years

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A Recipe for the Best Coffee Scrub (or Two or Three)

by Rebecca Sanderson

What makes the best coffee scrub? That depends on what you are specifically using it for. Some people claim the caffeine in a coffee scrub can help reduce cellulite. Others use it purely for the exfoliation factor. My sister claims it was the only cleansing agent that could remove the pig stench after picking up their piglets. A coffee body scrub has many uses and is incredibly simple to make. There are many variations on the basic recipe to tailor the scrub to your needs and desires. You can even add fragrance in the form of essential oils or soap scents.

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The most basic recipe for a coffee scrub is plain coffee grounds and coconut oil. It is easiest if you soften the coconut oil first then stir until everything is well blended. I preferred about one cup of grounds with ¾ cup of coconut oil. It has enough oil to hold everything together without having a lot of extra oil oozing out. You can add more or less coconut oil depending on your own oily preferences. If you add sugar (brown or white, I found white to be a little less abrasive) then you will have much more exfoliation. The best coffee scrub recipe I found had equal parts sugar and coffee grounds with a little less oil, one cup each of grounds and sugar with ¾ cup coconut oil. Salt can be used in place of sugar, but it is much more abrasive. I found a salt and coffee ground scrub to be harsh enough that I only wanted to use it on my feet and elbows. It did work wonderfully on them, though!

While coffee grounds, sugar, and coconut oil do the trick, it’s a little boring to be considered the best coffee scrub. Many people love the smell of coffee, but not all. And even if you do, adding a little more fragrance won’t hurt. You can use anything you would normally find as soap scents such as fragrance oils, essential oils, or absolutes. However, if a person has fragrance sensitivity, they may prefer essential oils or nothing at all. What are essential oils and why would they be preferable for those with sensitivities? They are a pure oil typically distilled from a plant rather than a fragrance synthetically created in a lab. They are one chemical compound instead of several and need no preservatives. Some of the scents I really enjoyed in the coffee scrubs were orange, ginger, and a massage blend. I found that three or four drops were needed to be able to smell the essential oil above the coffee scent. Remember that citrus oils can increase light sensitivity so use skin protection.

Can you make a coffee scrub without coconut oil? Absolutely! Simply substitute your preferred oil instead of the coconut oil, using the same measurements. Even oils that are liquid at room temperature worked fine for holding the scrub together. The scrub may not stick together in your hand as much, but it will still transfer well to your skin and not fly everywhere as if you hadn’t added oil. Whatever oil you add will give different conditioning factors to your skin. Olive oil may not absorb as well and leave you feeling greasy. Sweet almond oil is a favorite substitute for coconut oil because it is odorless and absorbs well without feeling greasy. My favorite, absolute best coffee scrub was actually made with cocoa butter and apricot kernel oil instead of coconut. I melted the cocoa butter with the apricot kernel oil before adding the coffee grounds and white sugar. The proportions were: one cup coffee grounds, one cup white sugar, 1/3 cup cocoa butter, 1/3 cup apricot kernel oil. I didn’t even bother adding fragrance to this one because the cocoa butter already smelled so yummy. I liked this one best not only for the cocoa scent but also how softly it glided on my skin. Yes, apparently something can exfoliate and softly glide at the same time, or at least this did.

Now, why would we want this particular scrub instead of a simple sugar scrub? Well, mostly because of the benefits of coffee. You don’t have to drink it to benefit from it. Coffee is an excellent odor neutralizer. It also contains antioxidants that help fight the signs of aging. The caffeine in coffee is purported to help temporarily tighten skin and is often used in cellulite creams. Plus, exfoliating your skin first makes it softer by rubbing off the dead skin cells then with tiny scratches it tells your skin to kick into gear by increasing blood flow, speeding cell turnover, and even increasing collagen production. Now, if you leave the scrub on your skin for five to 10 minutes to absorb the antioxidants, you will also be absorbing the caffeine into your body. This might not be the best scrub to use right before bed. Also, use caution while pregnant or breastfeeding as that caffeine can pass to your baby. While you technically can put used coffee grounds in this scrub, I recommend against it. Used coffee grounds will have much lower levels of caffeine and antioxidants. Also, if there is any moisture left in the used grounds, it can quickly breed bacteria and mold. You can combat this by using the whole batch in one sitting. Because there is no water added to the scrub, bacteria and mold will not grow in it so you make a larger batch and keep it in an airtight container for a couple weeks as long as the coffee grounds were fresh.

I hope you enjoy making and using your coffee scrub. Try different combinations to find what you like best. We all have different preferences, and the best coffee scrub is the one you like! See below for some of my recipes.

Strictly Simple

1 cup coffee grounds

¾ cup coconut oil

Simple Exfoliation

1 cup coffee grounds

1 cup sugar

¾ cup coconut oil

Feet and Elbows

½ cup coffee grounds

½ cup sea salt

1/3 cup coconut oil

Favorite Luxurious Scrub

1 cup coffee grounds

1 cup white sugar

1/3 cup apricot kernel oil

1/3 cup cocoa butter, melted

A Recipe for the Best Coffee Scrub (or Two or Three) was originally posted by All About Chickens

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