#I must find out what ink she used to allow her to erase so soon

[mysticdragon3md3]

"Watch the creator of Witch Hat Atelier draw Coco in 30 seconds"

[rotworld]

3: Salamander

The apprentices of Magister Hezethril seem to be dying of horrific accidents with suspicious frequency.

->contains gore, murder, non-consensual touching, yandere, threats, and extreme power imbalance (basically teacher/student).

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There’s a commotion in the hallway. A crowd of apprentices, swarming together in a sea of black cloaks, have gathered in the open doorway of the alchemy laboratory. But there’s no excitement among them, no jovial anticipation. They’re whispering and weeping, clinging to one another anxiously. Your heart skips a beat. It can’t be. Not again. You push your way through the crowd, refusing to believe it until you see it with your own eyes, ignoring the voices all around you.

“...looks like Bianca…”

“...the third this week…”

“...couldn’t have done this to herself…”

“Excuse me,” you mutter, shouldering past a pair of gawking boys. You’re hardly a step into the room when the stench hits you, sharp and unnatural, rust and ozone. Something pale green and foul-smelling is spilled across the stone floor, dripping from an upended cauldron, but what’s worse is the blood. You can follow a trail of pain and slow suffering; a bloody handprint on the glass case in the back of the room. A smear across the table. A spattered drag across the floor, all the way to the lifeless body of an apprentice, her hands frozen in rigor mortis claws in front of her face. Her mouth is still open in a silent scream.

“What in the seven hells is going on in here?” 

The words crack like a whip through the tense air, cold and razor sharp. The crowd parts silently, allowing Magister Hezethril into the laboratory. You make way for him, scrambling out of his path. The Magister is imposing in his long red robes, towering above the apprentices and pushing them aside with webbed hands. His bronze skin turns ink black halfway down his extremities, his nails lacquered with gold. He sweeps forward wordlessly, tendrils of long black hair waving in his wake. His frightening eyes, spots of gold in black sclera, fall upon the dead apprentice. He scowls in distaste. “Who was in the room when this happened?” he asks.

A trembling apprentice steps forward, a young man with blood on his hands. “I was,” he says hoarsely. “I came in to use the lab. Bianca was already here, working on something. She dropped something into the cauldron, I didn’t see what. But all of the sudden, she was gasping and convulsing. She started,” he swallows hard, his hands trembling, “scratching. At her own throat. I tried to stop her, but she fought me. She just kept scratching. There was this awful, wet noise, and then she…” One of the other apprentices puts an arm around him as he begins to sob.

“I see,” Magister Hezethril says. He turns on his heel and walks away. “Clean this up,” he orders, leaving shaken apprentices in his wake. Some scatter, eager to be far away from the gruesome mess, but you stay with a handful of others. The young man who saw Bianca die sits, unresponsive, against the wall. He’s going to need all the help he can get. Several apprentices cover Bianca with a white sheet and take the body away. You and a few of your peers begin scrubbing blood from the floor. You wince at the fleshy chunks of tissue among the mess.

Luca finds something in the bottom of the cauldron that makes him wrinkle his nose. “She was poisoned,” he mutters. “This brew was extremely toxic. No one in their right mind would have brewed it, but there’s some kind of residue in the bottom. I think she was sabotaged.” He pinches a fine, ashy dust between his fingers. You can’t recognize it anymore, singed as it is, but you believe him. The smell in the room leaves a distinct burning sensation in your throat.

Beside you, Sheila squeaks, “Sabotage?” She’s had to leave the room twice to vomit, and she looks like she might need to again.

“It’s not unheard of,” Phoebe says, shrugging. She wipes Bianca’s bloodied handprints from the cabinets. “Lots of mage apprentices die under suspicious circumstances. It’s new apprentices, usually. Young, impulsive, trying to compete. They just want to get ahead.”

“I don’t want to think about it,” Sheila insists. “What’s there to compete over, anyway? The Magister hates all of us.” 

That gets a bitter chuckle from everyone in the room. Working together, you get the laboratory cleaned up in no time, every trace of blood and poison mopped up and disposed of. It leaves an empty feeling within you. It feels like you do this more and more often lately, erasing all traces of your fellow apprentices. Memorial services, if there are any, happen in the distant hamlets and villages where the apprentices came from. Life in the Magister’s tower goes on uninterrupted and you’re expected to behave as though the sudden holes opened up at certain desks and in certain dormitories simply do not exist. 

The others are thinking about it now. You can feel that heaviness in the air even with the body gone and all traces of death washed away. Accidents happen anywhere you gather inexperienced mages, but not nearly this many, not so close together. There’s a field south of the tower full of fresh graves and wooden crosses. “Why isn’t the Magister doing anything?” Sheila whimpers. “Is this what he wants? Are we all supposed to kill each other until only one of us is left?”

“Of course not,” you insist. You give her the water pail you were going to use to rinse your hands, letting her take it first. She sniffles as she scrubs Bianca from beneath her nails. “The Magister must know something’s happening. Maybe he’s just being careful. He doesn’t want to say anything until he’s certain he knows who’s responsible.”

“Are you kidding? Magisters get off on things like this,” Phoebe says, rolling her eyes. “It’s a power trip for them. You saw how he looked at Bianca, right? Like she was an insect. He only cares about his favorites. Bet you get extra credit for offing somebody.” 

“That’s awful,” you tell her. 

She shrugs. “That’s life.” 

“I assume you’re done in here if you have time to gossip.” 

The Magister’s voice is like ice down your back. Sheila practically sprints from the room. Phoebe sheepishly greets him and keeps her head down as she leaves. Luca eyes the Magister suspiciously but passes without a word. “Magister,” you address him, bowing your head. He holds out his arm when you try to step past him. 

“Just a moment, apprentice,” he says. You’ve heard him speak to your peers, reducing them to tears with nothing but his hard gaze alone. But when he looks at you, his strange gaze softens with affection. He says “apprentice” as though it’s a term of endearment. You shift uneasily, peering into the hallway behind him in search of your friends, but they’re long gone. A sinking feeling overtakes you when he bumps the laboratory door with his elbow, shutting it behind him. “I won’t keep you long,” he assures you. “Solstice preparations will begin soon. Could I persuade you to assist me?”

Could I persuade you, he says. A phrase unheard of, coming from the mouth of an elder mage. They don’t ask favors. They don’t plead or beg. They give orders, and apprentices jump to follow them. Magister Hezethril is no different, but for you, he will dress up the truth in pretty language, will say it sweetly so it scares you less. But you know better. You hear the threat unspoken. His hand hooks beneath your chin, demanding eye contact. The webbing between his fingers is soft and damp, slick against your skin. “Yes, Magister,” you say quietly. “I would be happy to assist you.”

The Magister’s smiles are uncomfortable, too wide and hungry, too inhuman. “Excellent,” he says. “See to it that your schedule is open, I’ll need you the next few evenings for preliminary research.”

“Of course,” you say. “But, ah, I will need tomorrow evening to myself.”

“Oh?” the Magister says, sounding so unconcerned and casual that you almost slip up, forget who you’re talking to. “And why is that?” You try, subtly, to slip out of his grasp. A mistake, you realize too late, Magister Hezethril’s pupils narrow into slits and he corners you against the back cabinets, slamming his hand against the wooden panels beside your head. You hear the cabinet door splinter, feel it shaking and collapsing inward. You hold your breath. The Magister bends slightly from his great height, his gaze piercing and heated. “Where are you going, apprentice?” he hisses. “Why the rush? Are you hiding something from me?” 

“I’m not, I swear I’m not,” you insist, too weak and hesitant to convince him. You can never lie to him. He always drags the truth out, one way or another. “I just...I promised one of the others that I’d tutor them in incantation.”

The Magister makes a frightening, inhuman sound, somewhere between a hiss and a growl, flashing fangs and a black, forked tongue. “This again?” he mutters. “How many times must I tell you that you are above them? They do not deserve your attention. How could you possibly learn everything I have to teach you when you are too busy with these wastrels you call your peers?” He doesn’t give you time to answer, nor the space to breathe. His sharp nails trace your jaw, titling your face towards him when you try to turn away. He looms so close you can smell the fire in his lungs, magic that could reduce you to ash if he so desired. 

“It would be such a shame, wouldn’t it, if another apprentice were to die,” he murmurs, looming inches from you, his breath warming your lips. “Such a terrible waste. So many accidents these last few months. So many dead.” 

“Please,” you whisper, clutching his shoulders. His robes bunch up beneath your grip but it’s worthless. He’s so much older and stronger than you. “Please don’t hurt anyone else.” 

Magister Hezethril tilts his head, drinking in your fear and submission. He traces your lips with the sharp tip of one nail. “Are you available tomorrow, apprentice?” he asks. 

“Yes,” you say shakily. “Yes, I swear, I’m all yours.”

It’s just what he wants to hear. Smiling, he pulls you into his chest. Gently, he smooths down your hair where it ruffled against the cupboards, pushing the creases from your cloak. But he pauses as he does this, catching sight of the thick turtleneck fabric you’re wearing beneath. He toys with it, peeling it down to expose tender flesh. You shiver under the attention, the careful stroke of his fingers along your pulse. “You aren’t just yet,” he says. “But that’s alright. I can be very, very patient.”

You wince when he slices into you, just enough to break the skin. He rolls your turtleneck back up. The wound throbs hot underneath. “See you tomorrow, apprentice,” he purrs. You nod numbly. The laboratory opens and slams the shut, the sound echoing off the stone walls.

[lilflowerpot]

Soulmate AU where the marks on one person's skin show up on the other, but obviously they can't understand each other's writing, so Keith mostly just tries to express himself through art instead. So naturally, when he starts investigating the Blue Lion he starts drawing THAT too. Which is why, when Voltron shows up, Lotor is Dead Certain that the blue paladin is his soulmate, and he desperately tries to force himself to fall in love with Lance even while he's like "... Really? THIS guy?"

Lotor’s soulmate is not illiterate, but they may as well be. He’s compared their careless scrawl against every language in the Imperial data banks - thrice! - and it’s simply... not there.

“They’re a primitive,” Ezor nods sagely from where she’s half draped over his shoulder, eyeing the illegible lettering on his wrist with an entertained curl to her lips, “must be. Guess the universe wanted to counterbalance all your insufferable braininess.”

When Lotor shrugs her off with a snarl, she has the audacity to laugh.

Acxa’s kinder, or she tries to be, comforting him with the notion that if his soulmate is a primitive, they’re at the very least an educated one, or better yet of a more evolved society wherein knowledge of scripture is commonplace, so... they’re not feral.

Zethrid seems to half wish that they were, if only for the thrill of it.

“And the sex,” Ezor tacks on with an evil little grin, “the sex would have been fantastic.”

Her soulmate’s raucous glee drowns out any further discussion of the topic.

-

So they can’t communicate, not with words, but if Lotor’s soulmate is anything it’s tenacious (and the Prince can’t help but admire that). They come to the conclusion that pictures are the way to go, painting Lotor’s forearms with a veritable rainbow of quadrilaterals, each containing varying stripes and symbols, and then a series of dotted squiggles that Lotor is beginning to recognise as their approximation of a question.

The problem being he doesn’t actually know what it is that they’re asking.

There’s one rectangle - the majority of which is striped red and white, with a one contrasting quarter of stars in a blue sky - that his soulmate keeps coming back to, and Lotor realises it must be a clan symbol of a sort, indicative of their own people and culture, but... once again scouring Imperial logs turns up nothing of import. Frustrated, Lotor practically carves the hateful Imperial emblem into his palm with jagged lines of ink - Vrepit Sa - and turns in for the night.

In the morning, his arms are wiped clean.

They stay that way for a quintent.

Two.

On the third, he hears back, and it rocks his entire world view.

Kraliept Sa.

The lines are careful, deliberate, as if someone unfamiliar with the old scripture had taken great pains to transcribe that singular character, and Lotor quite simply can’t believe his eyes, because that would mean... that would mean that the only two things he knows of his soulmate are in direct contrast with one another: the first being that they are completely isolated from the Empire, and the second more impossible yet, that they have ties to the Blade of Marmora.

-

They continue this way for almost a decaphoeb, and it’s not perfect, but it’s something.

Lotor sends renderings of the stars, his ship, Kova, and in return his soulmate replies with sketches of the animals and sunsets and vast expanses of desert on an alien world.

One evening, they blur blues and greens into a perfect little marble on the inside of Lotor’s knee, an arrow pointing to one of the green patches labeled with a sequence of characters that the galra Prince is beginning to recognise as his soulmate’s name - though he can’t so much as begin to guess at how they might be pronounced - and so on the opposite knee Lotor paints Daibazaal, and then, because that feels inadequate, smears his thumb through the centre of the planet he no longer calls home, doodling a battalion of ships leaving the wreckage in a mass exodus, the children of an orphaned world.

And once more, his soulmate falls quiet.

-

It’s almost a full phoeb until they reach out again, and when they do Lotor finds them franctic, frightened, their little blue-green marble only the beginning; an entire solar system follows, complete with details such as what Lotor assumes must be an accurate number of moons on each planet for how deliberately they’re marked out, and then-

A ship.

It’s small and unassuming and positively archaic in design, but it’s a ship nonetheless, and as Lotor watches, his soulmate draws and erases and re-draws that same design until it’s traveled the length of his leg - thigh to ankle - and ‘lands’ on an unassuming moon of the most distant planet. They circle it with agitation, jabbing whatever implement they’re using to mark their own skin so violently that Lotor’s quite sure they must bleed under the force of it, but he doesn’t know what to say, let alone know how to say it if he did.

The next morning, his soulmate’s mural has gone.

The phantom ache of it remains.

-

They call him Champion.

Lotor only takes interest because of the timing, because of the circumstance, because it’s Sendak’s fleet that located these new lifeforms on a desolate moon in some distant corner of the universe, and of all Zarkon’s commanders he most of all has something of a reputation for toeing the line between cruelty and outright sadism.

The odds are one in a million, but that’s not a risk Lotor is willing to take.

He paints an obnoxious criss-cross of colour onto his own face that will be impossible to hide or mistake for anything other than what it is, and sends his generals to ascertain whether the Champion or either of the two lifeforms that accompanied him - soon to be subject to the work camps - share the mark.

They don’t, not one of them, and so Lotor chalks it up to coincidence and moves on.

Finding what could almost be mistaken for the legendary Blue Lion on the back of his hand only for Voltron proper to re-emerge into the universe after thousands of decaphoebs with the Champion himself allegedly at the helm, is not so easily written off.

And this time, when his soulmate abandons him to cold silence, it feels final.

-

Thayserix was very much a spur of the moment decision, but Lotor has never been so glad of such impulsivity as he is now, with the blue Lion of Voltron having been stolen from the thick mists and safely in his grasp.

Though, it’s not the lion that interests him.

Yes she’s a beautiful beast of considerable power, but in this case it is quite literally what’s on the inside that counts, that being of course Lotor’s soulmate... or so he’d thought.

Princess Allura of Altea cannot be them.

At least he certainly hopes not.

She’s lovely, in theory, but they’ve been in a stalemate for the past varga with her sullenly refusing to so much as consider entertaining Lotor’s attempts at hospitality, let alone conversation, and instead quite stubbornly standing with both her guard and weapon raised.

“I really would simply like to speak with-”

“Release me.”

Her end of things has consisted solely of those two words, and the monotony of it all really is growing rather tiresome.

Narti saves him from another repetitive bout, slinking into his mind and whispering that the rest of Voltron have located them far more quickly than Lotor would have thought possible.

The worst part is he’s almost grateful.

“Very well,” he growls, temper wearing thin, “your friends are here to collect you Princess, perhaps they will be more amenable to a little tête-à-tête, hm?”

They are not.

“Release Allura,” is the first thing to pass the dark-haired Paladin’s lips, teeth bared and tongue sharp, and it takes everything Lotor is not to simply concede on the spot.

“Frankly, I would love to,” he spits, gratified by how completely this blindsides the lot of them, every face on the holoscreen struck blank by his immediate compliance. “I do not believe she is the individual I am looking for, nor does she seem inclined to assist me in locating whosoever is. Answer my questions, and you are welcome to her and the blue Lion both.”

“We... We are?” It’s an older gentleman who speaks up, the only other altean among them.

“Absolutely,” Lotor hisses, and then graciously concedes: “the mistake was mine. I simply wished to open a dialogue with who I had assumed to be the blue Paladin, but as she is of a background that would doubtless have allowed us to communicate in galra script, that no longer seems the case.”

Their group look like they’re going to ask him to further explain what must sound to the lot of them nonsense... all except the black Paladin whose eyes have gone wide on some personal revelation, whispering “you,” as if he can’t believe his ears, only to spit out an obscenity before repeating himself with all the fury of an imploding star. “You!”

There are several exclamations of “Keith-!” as those violet eyes narrow to slits, the man smacking his hand down and cutting their com-line dead.

Ezor, helpful as ever, mumbles: “Well that went well,” quiet enough that it’s almost as if she doesn’t mean for everyone in the otherwise silent cockpit to hear her.

-

For the first time in ten thousand decaphoebs, the black Lion is - technically - in Imperial hands.

Lotor couldn’t care less.

The man who strides out of her is a veritable firestorm, all dark brows and snarling lips, and in a heartbeat Lotor knows, he just knows, who he is.

What he is.

Galra, for one, almost certainly a hybrid like Lotor - it’s the eyes that betray him, half luminescent with rage - and there’s a gorgeous poeticism to that.

Reckless for another, and behind him from where she’s been brought to stand witness, Princess Allura is clearly horrified to see her companion step from Voltron’s keystone and leave it completely unprotected, but the Paladin doesn’t seem to care, and neither does Lotor.

“Release Allura,” he growls again, voice like thunder and just as electrifying as he storms across the landing bay without hesitation, not even stopping to glance in his fellow Paladin’s direction and affirm that Zethrid has, in fact, released her as instructed.

No, Lotor’s soulmate simply fists pale fingers into paler hair and hisses, “fuck you,” into his mouth before kissing the Prince senseless.

-

Later - much, much later - Lotor is pleased to report back to Ezor that the sex is, in fact, fantastic.

[ibijau]

Worst engagement AU // on AO3

Lan Xichen puts his new plan into action. Nie Huaisang is unsure how he feels about that.

As soon as he sits down, Nie Huaisang opens his fan and yawns from behind it. A double reminder for Lan Xichen that he doesn't want to be here, even with better tea, and also that some people know how to properly appreciate him, as proven by this perfect fan. 

Lan Xichen doesn't take the bait. He serves tea without even a glance toward the fan even though it annoyed him so much last time. He sits, elegant as ever, and pushes a cup of perfect tea toward Nie Huaisang. 

"Is there any chance we might play Go today?" Lan Xichen inquires in a resigned tone. 

Honestly, Nie Huaisang doesn't know why the other boy still asks. Aside from that one time, they've never played again. His best guess is that it's just a habit at this point, and those Lans are nothing if not fond of their routine. 

"Not in the mood," Nie Huaisang says with another yawn. He doesn't bother with excuses anymore, knowing Lan Xichen just accepts his refusal each time. 

"Then I have another suggestion for a way to pass time," Lan Xichen announces, his usual empty smile a little more nervous than usual. "I'd like Nie gongzi to show me how he paints." 

"I'm not interested in a lesson," Nie Huaisang retorts, fanning himself. 

"I am. I want you to teach me."

That's such an unexpected declaration that Nie Huaisang gapes for a second and stills his hand, certain he must have misheard. When he sees the corner of Lan Xichen's mouth turn up in a more real smile, anger takes over surprise. 

"Lan gongzi is mocking me," he accuses. "I thought that would have been against the rules of Gusu Lan." 

The smile on his fiancé's face drops. 

"Is it so hard to believe that I like the way you paint?" 

Nie Huaisang shrugs. "Lan gongzi paints so perfectly, what does he have to learn from anyone, least of all from me? If you're so desperate for conversation, at least pick something believable."

Lan Xichen frowns. 

"I'm not lying." 

"Of course not. That's against the rules as well, isn't it?" Nie Huaisang taunts with a smirk. 

"I'm not lying," Lan Xichen insists, rising up, "and I can prove it." 

It's the first time he wastes some of their oh-so-precious time together by leaving the room. As he watches Lan Xichen hurry to the back of the house, toward the bedroom, Nie Huaisang idly wonders if it's something he could denounce to Lan Qiren. He eventually decides he doesn't want to deal with that old man. Besides, Lan Xichen does still have some blackmail material of his one, so it's best not to annoy him to much. He returns soon enough anyway, and drops a small stack of papers on the table. 

"I like the way you paint," Lan Xichen says, his face red. "And since I cannot figure out how you do it, I wish for you to teach me." 

Rather than to answer, Nie Huaisang gapes at the paintings presented to him, what appears to be a half dozen copies of the rabbits he gave Lan Wangji. He hesitantly grasps one and inspects it closely, a small frown forming on his brow. 

"You made those?" he stutters, looking up at the other boy who's still standing. "But they look like… You paint so well, why would you try to copy me?" 

"I like the way you paint," Lan Xichen repeats with unexpected intensity, his face turning even redder. 

"But you told me I should stop painting, last year. I haven't forgotten that."

"It was… it was wrong of me," Lan Xichen sighs. "I worded things very badly that time, and I thought that it'd be selfish of me to encourage you to paint. If I hurt you, I'm sorry."

Nie Huaisang blinks dumbly, unsure what to make of that. 

"How could it not have hurt me?" he huffs, holding his fan closer to his face to hide better. "Being told to give up the only thing I love, of course it hurt. But… you made these? Really? They're…" he hesitates, and lowers the fan to peek more easily. "Well, they're not bad, but they're not really good either. You're better than that normally." 

At last Lan Xichen sits down on the other side of the table, grabbing one of the paintings to glare at it. 

"I know they're bad, I just can't figure out how you make your lines flow like that. And I know it's not just that one painting, everything you do is like that. That fan you made, with the birds on a branch? I've tried to copy that as well." 

"You guessed I painted that?" Nie Huaisang gasps. 

"Of course. You have a very distinctive style, I'd recognise it anywhere." 

It's Nie Huaisang’s turn to blush, and again he hides behind his fan. It's quite the shock to realise that all this time, Lan Xichen was maybe sincere about wanting to see his work. Since he lacks formal training, he's just assumed that of course his paintings would be seen as inferior and Lan Xichen was mocking him by faking interest.

Nie Huaisang glances toward the incense stick. Surprisingly, there's still a good chunk of it left. 

"Get us paper and ink," he orders. "And… bring those birds as well, then." 

For a second, Lan Xichen is so still that Nie Huaisang fears he offended him, or that he really was being mocked all along. Quickly though, a large smile breaks on Lan Xichen's face, bright and warm and so happy that it sends Nie Huaisang’s heart racing. 

Lan Xichen looks like a different person when he's smiling for real. 

While Lan Xichen prepares some ink for them, Nie Huaisang checks the other paintings he brought back, the one copied from his fan. These are better, which he points out. 

"I think so too," Lan Xichen admits, "but it makes no sense. For those I had to work from memory. They don't even look that much like your fan." 

Sadly, Nie Huaisang doesn't have that fan with him today. He brought the one from his mystery admirer, which for the first time makes him feel a pang of guilt. It is the prettiest fan he's ever owned, and he carries it most of the time these days because it's too beautiful not to show off, but that can't be pleasant for Lan Xichen. 

Not that he cares what's pleasant to Lan Xichen, he has to remind himself. Having his paintings appreciated doesn't erase all the rest. 

"Paint one now," Nie Huaisang orders.

"Wouldn't it be better if you painted one so I'd see how you do it?"

A few moments ago, Nie Huaisang would have bitten off his own tongue and choked on it rather than to give in to any of Lan Xichen’s requests, just to spite him. As it turns out though, it’s a little harder to hate his fiancé when he doesn’t have that stupid fake smile on, and at the moment Lan Xichen looks sincerely earnest and curious. It's not a bad look on him. Nie Huaisang barely needs to consider his options before he grabs a brush and starts painting the first thing that comes to mind. It is not his most refined work, not by far, but considering he’s working from memory and trying to keep this quick so the incense doesn’t run out, it’s not so bad either.

“A nightingale?” Lan Xichen remarks. “It looks very lively. Its wing, though…”

“It was broken when I bought her,” Nie Huaisang explains. “It still has an odd shape, but she can fly mostly fine.”

Realising just how much information he’s allowed himself to share, and knowing how pets are forbidden in the Cloud Recesses, Nie Huaisang braces himself for some negative remark. None comes.

“Nie gongzi has an eye for detail,” Lan Xichen says instead. “And a hand for them, too. You did this so quickly, and yet I’m sure anyone who has seen your bird would recognise it. It's amazing.”

"Careful, excessive flattery is against your rules," Nie Huaisang grumbles.

"I'm not…" 

"Just try to copy it," Nie Huaisang orders, shoving the brush in his hand. "It's a simple one, you should find it easy." 

Lan Xichen pinches his lips before putting on that empty smile again, for which Nie Huaisang is grateful, since it removes any possible confusion. When he looks like an inhuman jade statue, Lan Xichen is easy to hate. 

Not that Nie Huaisang really has time to think about that. All his focus is on Lan Xichen's elegant hand as it holds the brush and tries to copy his little bird. As expected, Lan Xichen's movements are perfectly controlled, slow but well assured, his strokes light and flowing… But not enough. When he lifts his brush, his copy isn't bad, but it looks stilted and heavy, especially compared to the original. 

Nie Huaisang glances at the incense stick. It's still burning, meaning he won't be saved from having to give an honest critique. 

"Are you perhaps unused to drawing animals?" he cautiously asks. 

"I usually do better than this," Lan Xichen replies dejectedly. "I'm only this bad when I try to copy you."

"Hm. Maybe if you went a little faster? Your movement are a lot slower than mine." 

"I wouldn't control the brush as well," Lan Xichen protests. "I'd probably make mistakes." 

"Probably. But that's half the fun, isn't it? Making mistakes and trying to see if they don't look nicer than the proper thing…" 

Lan Xichen stares at Nie Huaisang as if he's gone mad. In turn, Nie Huaisang can't help tensing. Trial and error is how he's learned to paint, since he's never had the advantage of a teacher. That, and copying every piece of art he could get his hands on. But of course that's not the right way to do it, of course that's stupid, of course it's…

"You're the teacher," Lan Xichen says without a hint of mockery in his voice. "I'll try it like that." 

Nie Huaisang’s face grows hot at being called teacher. Thankfully Lan Xichen doesn't appear to notice, too busy starting another copy of the nightingale. It's worse than the first. It's starting to be fun, actually.

"Try to keep your gestures lighter," Nie Huaisang advises, resting his chin onto his hand as he watches Lan Xichen be bad at something. "You're still trying to control it too much." 

"I'm doing my best!" 

"Your best should be better than that. Lighter, more relaxed. Yes, like th… ah, that line was almost good. You'll get there." 

Lan Xichen pouts as he looks down at his disastrous attempts. 

"I think I just can't do it the way you do, Nie gongzi," he sighs wistfully. "I'll have to content myself with admiring your work." 

Hearing Lan Xichen admit that he thinks he's failing at something is more delicious than a sip of Emperor's Smile. That he would be bad in comparison to Nie Huaisang is better than a whole jar of wine. Ascending to godhood wouldn't be half as satisfying. 

Riding that high, Nie Huaisang decides that just this once, he can afford to be kind to Lan Xichen. 

Jumping to his feet, he walks around the table and comes to sit next to Lan Xichen who startles at the sudden proximity. 

"What… what are you doing, Nie gongzi?" 

"Showing you how I do it," Nie Huaisang explains, covering Lan Xichen’s hand with his own so he can guide him, since apparently just explaining isn’t enough.

The reaction to his touch is immediate and intense.

Lan Xichen flinches violently at the contact and drops his brush so suddenly that it rolls on the table, staining both his failed studies and the bottom of Nie Huaisang’s nightingale. They both freeze, equally surprised by what just happened. Lan Xichen recovers first.

“I’m sorry!” he exclaims, tearing a piece of paper from one of his sketches, vainly trying to blot this mess, as if that’s ever going to work. “I didn’t expect… You took me by surprise and…”

Nie Huaisang grinds his teeth and shrugs. “It’s fine. I should have known better.” He glances at the incense stick, and finds that at long last, it is all gone. It feels like it burned an eternity and a half today. “I’ll be going.”

Without a look for his fiancé, Nie Huaisang gets back up on his feet. As he wipes some imaginary dust from his knees, he briefly wonders if he should grab the painting of his nightingale before he leaves. In the end he decides against it. Lan Xichen ruined it, he can keep it and make more bad copies of it, if that pleases him.

“Nie Huaisang, wait!” Lan Xichen orders, although if it were coming from anyone else, it might have sounded like a plea. “I really didn’t mean to…”

“I’ll see you next week,” Nie Huaisang cuts him, stomping toward the door. “Good day, Lan gongzi.”

Ignoring Lan Xichen’s protests, he strides out of the house and heads for his cabin. He had planned to meet up with Jin Zixuan to tell him what a disaster this new meeting with his fiancé had been, but now it doesn’t feel like such a funny idea anymore.

It was stupid of him to lower his guard and forget for a moment that Lan Xichen is what he is. Just because the other boy said a few nice things about his paintings… Nie Huaisang feels pathetic that this was all it took to almost give his fiancé a second chance. In the end, he’s still nothing more than that idiot kid from last year, so desperate for the approval of someone who will never give it.

It was stupid to ever think things could get better.

Lan Xichen might appreciate his paintings, but he still clearly hates everything else about Nie Huaisang.

[drmedicsgamesurgery]

Danganronpa Togami Volume 3 Part 13 (Summary)

Thanks to @enoshima-pyon @shockersalvage​​ @jinjojess​​ @hopeymchope​​

This is the second last part everyone! Sorry for the wait! Part 14 will not take as long as this. Enjoy.

7.

My brain broke. Having said that, this brain is actually not mine. Until today, I have always believed that it was "I". It seems in actuality that it never existed in this world. Then I can't even crash. A ghost, yes, I am a ghost, I don't exist in this world, so I am not qualified to collapse. I also have no way to think about it. However, I am thinking about things as a Togami. This makes me feel unnatural and I have the urge to vomit. I want to find myself back and get back to me as soon as possible. However, if I believe that the Imposter is telling the truth, then I am the ‘Kudan’. I am the "Secret of the Togami Family" and the "pitiful cattle". Despair High School and the WHO are looking for the monster that can do predictions in this world. So, am I not a person?

Shinobu tries to deny this. After all, it was Kazuya who met the Kudan, not her, yes? The Imposter retorts that they read the record of ‘The Biggest, Worst Incident in the History of the Togami Family.’ and that what she’s saying didn't happen. Just another machination by the K2K system. The Imposter applauds Byakuya for erasing the Kudan’s memory in order to protect her. 

When Shinobu begins to wonder whether or not her personality is the one of Shinobu or the Kudan, the Imposter remarks that it's most likely the former. It’s like how one makes changes to a computer’s data file. The changes start out small, but eventually everything will become overwritten to the point even if the file title says ‘Kudan’, by that point, it is a completely different file in its contents. With all this in mind the Imposter asks Shinobu once again ‘who are you’?

My brain broke. Having said that, this brain is actually not mine. I am not a Togami, and the consciousness of the ‘Kudan’ has long since disappeared, and there are no signs of surface. So who am I, and how should I live next? Live as a Togami? Maybe this personality can be maintained, but I am just a fake Togami. To find the original personality? In that case, "I" will disappear. Live as an unnamed "I"? The mind is a fake Togami, the body is the Kudan, which is almost collapsing. I feel that self-awareness is gradually fading and in trying to keep this quoted "I", I began to feel that this behavior is stupid. I want to disappear, I want to disappear, because the existence of "I" is the closest to an imposter in this world…

“Don’t lose to the truth.”

Speaking this sentence was Byakuya who has been watching the situation. 

He pushes up his glasses, putting Shinobu's mindbroken figure into his field of vision. Shinobu can't tell if he is looking at her with encouragement or it is her mind making it up.

"Byakuya-sama... Please answer me, are the things the Impostor is saying really true? Am I really the 'Kudan'?"

"Yes," Byakuya answered without hesitation. "In order to seal up the 'Kudan', I created your personality with the K2K system."

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

"You are the 'Kudan', this is the highest secret, even if you are the Kudan yourself, I couldn’t take the risk of you leaking it"

Byakuya listens to Shinobu’s short outburst about her feelings and then continues.

"No matter what the truth is, you don't have to pay attention to it. Even if everything is false, you have already got the power to make yourself self-established, don’t you? If so, when the truth is in front of you, you should stand up and face it."

"I can’t do it."

"You have to believe."

"Believe in Byakuya-sama?"

"Yes, you must trust me unconditionally, I believe in myself, you must believe me, I will guide you forward."

The Impostor tries to convince her that Byakuya deceived her, lied to her and used her. That her existence is worthless. Byakuya retorts that Shinobu did have worth. After all, she was valuable at one point when she was in the process of writing the ‘Journey Under the Midnight Sun’. The Imposter asks why he’s so cruel, but Byakuya responds that he doesn’t want to say something nice to get someone’s goodwill, and the guilt-tripping is not working on him. He just needs to guide mankind’s advancement and that will be more than enough. The Imposter remarks they’ll keep that in mind when they replace Byakuya. However...

"You’re noisy, shut up, fat pig! Even if my true identity is the 'Kudan', even if my true identity is not Shinobu, It’s still me, I’m still Shinobu. For me, Byakuya-sama is God. I observe him and write a biography for him. This is enough to make me feel happy. This is me, Shinobu Togami, this fact is unchanged. I always believe in Byakuya-sama, and this situation is no different. Your words are not heard by anyone. You are a lonely pig from birth to death."

“Are you kidding me?” the Imposter said, but Shinobu makes her stance clear.

“I will always believe in Byakuya-sama.”

"Oh, you’re finally back. This is my 'Blue Ink'."

Byakuya-sama’s expression looked like he was praising an obedient dog as he nodded with satisfaction. Much like a dog would, I stuck out my tongue obediently.

"Byakuya-sama... It turns out you really are a God after all."

"What?"

"Because I was created by Byakuya-sama."

Creating life is a great undertaking that only God can carry out, only the privilege that God can have.

Therefore, Byakuya-sama really is a God.  

Byakuya and I once again turned to the imposter standing in front of the coffin. The Imposter shook and it was difficult to tell whether the expression on his face was angry or annoyed. He couldn't even destroy such a small existence like me. Has he fallen into despair himself? 

"Imposter, you understand this, no matter what kind of truth, no matter what kind of options, we will spend time beautifully, and bounce off all the bullets you fired, and stake the Togami name on it. Well, this is the turn of us to destroy your fake book. State your purpose. Why did you and Despair High School pursue a stage like this?”

8.

The Imposter agrees to tell what Despair High School is after. Basically, they’re after three objectives. The first? Get rid of the Kudan. They claim that the world rejects it and its prophecy ability. Not even Hope’s Peak has a ‘Super High School Level Prophet’. [1] There is no room for prophecy in this story. Just like how there is no blue rose in nature, it can’t exist. Why? 

“Because prophecy is cheating. If the future is predictable, the game’s system will collapse and the rulebook will be torn. In order to carry on the ‘The Biggest, Most Awful, Most Tragic Event in Human History', we must eliminate all the things that might hinder it."

They ask what it is, but he just repeats that it’s their ultimate goal. The Imposter also admits that the goal of world domination was false in order to stir confusion. Shinobu thinks that it’s a waste of time, since she didn’t even remember she was the Kudan. She also believes that, for example, nuclear weapons are far more dangerous than predicting the future but Byakuya doesn’t agree. Nuclear weapons just make human extinction possible, while predicting the future is far above the physical level. It makes it known ahead of time that the future is impossible to change. It really is like cheating. To have such a talent would only serve to help bring destruction to their world.

"So, Byakuya-sama, are you hiding the 'Kudan' to protect the world?"

"Oh, don't get me wrong, I just want to rely on my own talent to command the Togami family, that's all."

The second motivation, continues the Impostor, was to get rid of the Council of Global Controllers. Since there shouldn’t be a secret organization bigger than them, they decided to kill everyone in it. “An organization like that should only exist in the minds of conspiracy theorists.” Thanks to Sonia they were able to learn about their members and location and thus be able to easily kill them off. However...

"I am still alive," said Byakuya. "I, Byakuya Togami, am the biggest obstacle that hinders your ambitions. However, I still live very comfortably."

Needless to say, the Imposter finds Byakuya’s confidence quite disgusting, but can’t deny he really has been having it easy and remarks the Togami Family is quite inconvenient. Even when Byakuya has been doing nothing by himself, their work in the Despair High School has still been quite difficult. Byakuya states that as long as the name ‘Togami’ exists, it can destroy any hostile forces. This causes the Imposter to state how envious Byakuya’s position is to him. In a story full of fakes, he is the genuine article that has true control.

"Because I am the real deal. I won't lose, I won't die." Byakuya states confidently...but then the Imposter delivers his rebuttal.

"If I said that we deliberately let you go, what would you say?"

"It appears you still got quite the hard mouth.”

"It’s not from a hard mouth. It’s the truth. We never thought about killing you. We planned to let you live from the beginning. We let you escape from the Church of Bones. The reason why you could escape so many times in this battle, it Is because we deliberately let you go. Because this is our plan.”

“What kind of plan is that? Explain it.”

“I’m just acting according to the plan.”

“You aren’t… the Mastermind?”

The Imposter remarks that, no, they are indeed not. The true mastermind is enjoying campus life, and enjoying time with Byakuya. It is because the mastermind likes Byakuya, that they are not allowing him to die.

"The Mastermind is my classmate? Among the 78th batch?"

Even with Mukuro standing right in front of them, it was hard to believe that the Mastermind could have ever come from that class. Just how much has Despair High School infiltrated Hope’s Peak? The Impostor doesn’t answer and continues talking. He says that they were always watching Byakuya’s movements and relates the feeling to watching ants struggle as you smash their nest. You also feel like cheering them on. The reason why they made this entire incident was to deal with Byakuya and with his performance so far they feel despair from his excellence. They now regard Byakuya as their most dangerous enemy. Thus, leading into the third motivation. 

“Third motivation: Get rid of Byakuya Togami.”

Shinobu points out, internally, the contradictory nature of getting rid of Byakuya when they said they had no intentions of killing him. As soon as he says that, the Super High School Level Soldier gets out from the confessional room and wraps her military knife around Shinobu’s neck. Shinobu remarks that her life has no value, but Mukuro tells her she can’t fool her.

"Then let us enter the part of judgement, heheh. However this time, the judgement isn’t over a fake book, but a canon one. My heart is beating so intensely now, probably from all those calories."

The Imposter spoke.

"Mr. Authentic, let's start the last activity. You have to make a choice."

"What's the matter, explain."

"I want you to make a choice: to conquer the world, or not to conquer the world.”

The Impostor explains the two choices. However, regardless of the choice, the story will end, even if it isn’t necessarily a happy ending. Still with no one able to control the spread of Despair Disease, his collusion with the Czech government, his refuge in Prague Castle and the fact the Imposter can’t kill him, everything is quite beneficial for Byakuya at the moment.

If he decides to conquer the world, it’s his win. The deadline is also in less than half an hour, if he fails to act the Imposter will continue on with it. During this time, the Imposter also shows off a pill. It can erase specific memories in people and the Imposter likens it to it being a K2K system of its own. It is the trump card of Despair High School. Byakuya doubts its authenticity, but the Imposter moves on. They will also kill the Kudan if he accepts to conquer the world. When Byakuya asks if he has to take the pill after accepting the choice to conquer the world, the Imposter says it’s the opposite. 

If he decides to not conquer the world, then, obviously, Byakuya loses.  As such, he will have to take the pill that erases his memory, plus it will also limit his talent to some extent in order to let the Despair High School operate more freely. In addition, his classmates who came to the Czech Republic will also have to take the drugs. When Byakuya says that they shouldn’t kill Shinobu, the Imposter responds that there isn’t a need for that. She has no memory of being the Kudan, and isn’t a Togami. However, that being said, they can’t allow her to continue to live her current life. She’ll have to get her memories erased and continue life with a new personality.

"Byakuya-sama!" I cried. "Please choose to conquer the world! My life is not important, and no matter what you choose, I will disappear anyway! Byakuya-sama, this kind of problem is one you don’t have to think about.."

"Yes, I don't even have to think about it," Byakuya nodded, "I’ve decided."

“Yes, decisively, you are the genuine gentleman. Then let us commence Byakuya Togami’s world domination with a small celebration..."

"Hmph, what are you talking about, I am not conquering the world."

9.

> Conquer the World

> Do not conquer the World

10.

"Byakuya-sama?"

"Don't despair. This conquest of the world is a product made entirely in accordance with their plans. I don't intend to accept such things," Byakuya explained in a light tone as usual. "If I choose to conquer the world here, it can indeed stop their actions. However, this is a loss of justice, since it is only temporary. Since the mastermind is another person, it is meaningless to defeat the guy who pretends to be one.”

Shinobu refutes this and says that a world under Byakuya would be one full of hope, but Byauya said it would be the opposite. He wouldn’t be able to stop the Mastermind, but just a few pawns, like the Imposter. The Mastermind would just need to find new ones, and that would be troublesome since it would be hard for Byakuya to find them again. Instead, if he decides to not conquer the world, to keep Despair High School on a limited path and to help usher in hope. Especially, since he isn’t a God after all. Something, Shinobu, tearfully, can’t accept.

Shinobu doesn’t think it’s the right choice, she doesn’t want Byakuya to take the medicine which will limit his talent. That would be true despair for her. Byakuya re-assures her that there is hope and points out these same people working for Despair High School will be guaranteed to be the ones to help bring about the ‘Biggest, Most Awful, Most Tragic Event in Human History’, which should be in the progress of starting soon. When Shinobu asks for proof, Byakuya points out that Despair High School wasn’t worried about the other numerous people that know of Shinobu’s true identity and how willing they were to just wipe the memories of the other 78th class members in Prague. They'll be taking their next event soon. He turns to the Imposter to confirm it. The Imposter makes no response, but his silence says everything. 

Byakuya makes an analogy concerning red tide. As a result of human activity, the nutrients given to plankton is too much thus resulting in abnormal proliferation. Thus, the sea turns red which has a negative impact on humanity. Shinobu wonders why he is going on an environmental lecture, but Byakuya states that it’s exactly what Despair High School is. And just like how plankton can be suppressed, so too can they suppress Despair’s proliferation by using hope. Even if Byakuya isn’t here to do so. Still, he believes that alongside his classmates, he will be able to beat the Mastermind. Course, when Shinobu brings up the fact the Mastermind is among his classmates, he is confident they’ll be able to weed them out, even if he won’t be at his full potential thanks to the medicine.

Shinobu doesn’t want that. She doesn’t want a world where Byakuya will be laughed at because of this. To this, Byakuya responds with:

"If they want to laugh, let them laugh. Even if I really become the four-eyed support character, I can also guide them forward. No matter what I become, I will guide them forward and I will stake the Togami name on it.”

"I don't understand, I don't understand anything..."

What the hell is he talking about ? He is not himself. Byakuya is still saying nothing. I can't understand his thoughts. I will disappear and I will end...is he not afraid?

"The most important thing is that if I don't choose to conquer the world, you can live on."

Shinobu doesn’t understand and says it doesn’t matter. His memories of her will be erased, and her entire memories will be wiped, effectively erasing her existence. The same as death. Byakuya informs her that she can face this. She overcame fiction. She can overcome the truth as well. She begs him not to do this, but he goes forward towards the Imposter, lamenting that he still had more things he wanted to tell her. He tells the Imposter to go ahead, earning his fake’s confusion. The world’s already near his grasp, why not take advantage of it. Byakuya says he was never hungry for world domination. He was satisfied as long as he was there and true to himself, something that the Imposter could never do.

"Because you are still a child," Byakuya smiled. "However, you can't always be a child. Someday you may need to guide others. At that time, you will understand my true intentions and be moved to tears."

"I don't feel like I can win ." 

“Oh, you accidentally said that already when you said you really didn't plan to conquer the world from the beginning."

"........."

"Your plan was to force me to choose not to conquer the world. To torture me right?  But unfortunately, things will not be as you wish. Byakuya Togami will never be so distressed as to scream and panic."

"...Eat the medicine. After a week, you may fall into a person who will be upset and scream and panic."

"Isn't that very cute? It is quite cute compared to the present, and that should be loved by others."

The Impostor says that it will take a few minutes to prepare the medicine, so he leaves them alone. But right before he leaves, the Imposter turns towards Byakuya. 

“This time, the world really was conquered beautifully.”

Mukuro, in a panic, lets Shinobu go and follows him. Shinobu and Byakuya are now alone. They say their final goodbyes to each other. Shinobu, tearfully, says it will be hard imagining a world without Byakuya and that she is grateful that he created her. Under Byakuya’s permission, she continues to talk and asks if he feels afraid. He says no, but admits he does feel lonely and he can’t imagine how it'll be after Shinobu is gone. Shinobu smiles and merely says she’s just his predecessor, that is one of the few things she knows better than Byakuya. Byakuya comments he’s further away from ever being God (something Shinobu denies) and that he has done everything he’s can. He’s sure Despair High School will fall in the future and Shinobu laments she won’t be able to see the world he conquered. Byakuya says he has no regrets for himself so far, as for Shinobu? She only regrets being unable to finish ‘Journey Under the Midnight Sun’ but she won’t complain again in the future. Why?

“Because Byakuya-sama is my God, and I...am your sister."

"Hey, that expression is very good, Blue Ink. It seems that you have got what you wanted."

That sentence made me acquire the last truth.

It’s a simple story. One young man decided to try to take over the world. After many repeated extraordinary adventures, the young man got what he wanted and was able to return home safe and sound. And he lived happily ever after.

This "young man", this “youth” is Byakuya-sama and is also me.

Now...I have to go back. I have to go home, and know that the world will not be conquered before I go home. Having said that, it’s only after I’m reborn will I head back to my destination. What kind of adventure will I go through? Where to go? It feels like I forgot to take the travel brochure before starting a school trip but, surprisingly, this feeling is not as hellishly painful as expected.

Byakuya asks for a change of glasses, since the one he is wearing is a bit deformed. Shinobu takes the deformed glasses and hands him a new pair. This gives her an idea. 

"Byakuya-sama...please accept this."

I handed him my pen.

Byakuya took the pen and put it in his coat’s chest pocket.

"Blue Ink."

"Yes."

"Working hard, you wrote ‘Journey Under the Midnight Sun’."

"Sorry, if the text is very poor. I wrote it with my best efforts."

The Imposter returns, annoying Shinobu since only three minutes have passed. The Imposter ignored it and handed Byakuya a mobile phone connected to all the loudspeakers over the world. “Use it to tell the truth to those fools.” says the Imposter. Byakuya accepts it without hesitation and speaks.

"It's me.

You looked at the boring 'Despair Novel' and enjoyed the taste of 'Despair Disease'. I want to tell you one thing now so let's make a long story short.

I gave up conquering the world.

So you give up, give up destroying the world, and then face the reality. To be moving forward in this world, the most effective thing is not destruction, but construction. Even you should know about that.

You've probably seen the 'Despair Novel', or maybe you were going to, but it doesn't actually trigger a 'Despair Disease'.

It's just an ordinary book.

It's just an ordinary story.

It's just an ordinary fictional work.

It doesn't have any effects whatsoever.

The ‘Despair Novel’ doesn't have the ability to make people crazy, and you know this very well. Although you know it in your heart, you just deceive yourself and think that you really are crazy. You want to destroy this unsatisfactory world and fall into a 'Despair Disease'. In the midst of your enthusiasm, you believe that this is an opportunity to escape the world and join this big riot.

Don't do stupid things again, return to your real self.

Go study, go to work, let people move forward, don't find about some boring excuses to escape, don't get bored with boring thoughts, don't talk about boring complaints, don't worry about it, don't find some boring companions in the status quo, don't yell ‘This is a boring world’ to give up.

The world will continue.

The world will not end.

As long as you can use your heart, your body, your own memory in the right way, live in the right place, the world is driven by you, and don't forget this fact.

Tomorrow is Monday, the beginning of a week. The opportunity to cheer you up is close at hand. Why would you want to escape this opportunity?

Do you really want to do that?

Goodnight." [2]

 This is the truth.

Just looking at that book that can make people crazy, the system of slaughter in human DNA, and the unknown insects that control the human brain. Free-spirited plot developments like those do not exist in this world. A book is a book. A story is a story. Life is life. No more, no less.

I remembered what K said. I remembered that he said that the 'Despair Disease' may be the same type of lie as Borges. The ordinary people who did not install the K2K system, they lied to and completely deceived themselves as an excuse. They did not despair. In this world that advances according to one's own wishes, in order to escape the life that was difficult to move forward, they took the initiative to suffer from the fictional “Despair Disease", and only saw the reality that they wanted to see. One day they will be judged, just like myself. [3]

"Oh, we have long known that the 'Despair Novel' has no effect. Those guys just started to make trouble after reading an ordinary book. This is worthy of being the forerunner of 'The Biggest, Most Awful, Most Tragic Event in Human History’'. I saw it. It was really despairing. They really are a bunch of hopeless fools. However, listen to this Mr. Authentic... this is humanity. Despair is like a virus. [4] Do you believe hope can really stop it?" The Imposter took out two vials. "These are common sleeping pills. To let you fall asleep, and then work after you fall asleep. Do not worry. I promise not to hurt you, because I am your admirer ......heh."

Silently, Byakuya took the vials. After grabbing them, he gave one of them to me. I ended up ingesting the medicine. Although I felt a little lonely, there was nothing to fear. Because I still had hope, so there was nothing to be afraid of. Byakuya and I drank the liquid in the bottle at the same time. I will be another me. Maybe one day I will meet with Byakuya. I hope that I can meet with him, with it being the two of us over the conquered world. I pray in my heart, as if this was a prophecy. With this, I am finished.

Ok, everyone, I wish you a good dream.

Good Night.

           ([Journey Under The Midnight Sun] The End)

//////////////////////////////////////////////

  | This text was written and created by the K2K System ver 2.3 |

 /////////////////////////////////////////////

Translation notes:

[1] Before you ask about Hagakure, his japanese title is more like “Shaman” than “Fortune-teller”, or “Clairvoyant”. Plus his success rate is only 30% not 100%.

[2] Weirdly relevant speech for 2020 IMO.

[3] TLDR: Both the Despair Novel and the Despair Disease were just part of Borges Unreality (basically). Interesting parallel to Junko’s speech in DR3.

[4] “Junko “They have become me, my poison proxy’s waiting to be unleashed, ready to spread despair like a virus, infecting everything.

Mukuro: A Virus?

Junko: It’s a very simple metaphor dumbass.

← cut unneeded dialogue →

Izuru: Despair in Memetic Waves?

Junko: Bingo, everything is a virus. Fashion trends, taste in movies, social media hashtags.

Izuru: Ideas, Philosophy, Art, Culture. They live and die by the Meme. An infection.”

Good to see that Yuya Sato is making use of the speech in a weird fake literal twist.

[Extra] Interesting to note this seems to be the end of a story that Borges was writing. What is fiction? What is the truth? Is the Kudan real, or was that also made up by Borges? (I’ll get back to that that next summary, yes there is still more left in this book)

To Be Continued.

https://drmedicsgamesurgery.tumblr.com/GameSurgeryDRTranslations

[icecubelotr44]

Clear and Present Danger (4/16)

Summary:  Homicide detective Killian Jones has been searching for a way to bring Milah’s murderer to justice. There’s only one small problem: Robert Gold is the captain of the same homicide division. Enter Emma Swan, Internal Affairs investigator, looking into Gold’s shady dealings. Between the two of them, can they unravel the web of deals and lies that have gotten Gold to where he is?

Rated:  T, for violence, some dark themes, angst, and whump (you expected different?

TW: character death, mention of past self-harm, fatal car accident, school hostage situation

Other ships: mentions past Millian in a good light, Outlaw Queen, Snowing

Art credit/link: The totally awesome @cocohook38 made the cover you can see above and on her blog here. Later in the story, she’s illustrated some key points to the fic and I can’t thank her enough for her work! Chapter Four’s art is HERE.  Go show her some love!

Beta reader: @gusenitsaa took on this monster without probably knowing exactly what she was getting into (what do you mean 100,000 words?!) and any mistakes that you find are probably me being stubborn and ignoring her advice!  Thank you!

A/N:  Written as part of the 2018 Captain Swan Big Bang Challenge.  You can catch up with all the other fics that are complete by following @captainswanbigbang and/or subscribing to the Group Collection on AO3 and/or the C2 on FFN. This is complete in 16 parts and will be posted every Sunday from now until its completion.

Take it away, It’s going to be a bumpy ride.

Word count:  ~ 6,250 (100k Total in 16 chapters)

From the beginning: AO3 / FFN

Current Chapter: ao3 | ffn

CHAPTER FOUR: MURDER ONE

“You’re late, Jones,” Locksley grumbled over a cup of coffee that was two sizes larger than he normally ordered.

Killian’s eyebrow rose at the caffeine more than the comment.  It was ungodly early and the chill in the air was more than he wanted to deal with, but Robin was usually more of a morning person.  “Rough night?” he asked anyway.

“Aye, mate,” Robin agreed with a sigh.  “Roland’s been having nightmares.  I don’t think Regina and I have spent a night alone in our bed in over a-”

“La la la la la,” Jones snarked, comically covering his ears.  “I don’t need to know about your love life with the Evil Queen, thanks.  Is Roland all right, though?”

Robin ignored the dig to his wife’s overbearing nature towards Jones in favor of answering about his son.

“I think so.  Regina thinks it’s just a phase he’s going through.”  He shrugged.  “Scarlet had him the other night when we went out and showed him Wizard of Oz.  He keeps waking us up to tell us there’s a flying monkey coming after him.”

Killian muttered, “Bloody flying monkeys; nasty beasts,” under his breath.  He shuddered in spite of himself and resisted the urge to look over his shoulder.  He’d never liked The Wizard of Oz; not after that one home where it had been the only videotape they’d been allowed and one of the other children had insisted on watching it every night.

“Aye, it seems Roland feels the same as you do, mate.  Hopefully it will pass soon or Will’s going to have his own turn with my lovely little munchkin sleeping over.”  Robin smirked over his coffee before he reached into the open window of his car and produced another to-go cup.

Killian nearly snatched it out of his hands, breathing in the scent of Earl Grey that wafted out of the top.  “I love you,” he muttered, not entirely sure if he was talking to the tea or to his partner.

Robin took another few sips of his coffee before leading them down onto the beach towards the caution tape wrapped around the pilings.  The smell of the ocean and the sound of the surf usually calmed him, but today Killian felt the familiar surge of adrenaline that always came with finding a new body.  Who was the victim?  What happened to them?  Why had their killer done it?  When had the motive started to take form?  Where would the evidence take them?

Would he and Robin be able to bring the killer to justice?

He could just see Archie Hopper, the medical examiner, hunched over the body, the small waves from the outgoing tide thankfully nowhere close to his work - yet.  Any homicide near the water was difficult - the evidence needed to be collected quickly before it was washed away or degraded irreparably.  Killian loved the sea, but she could be a fickle beast when she wanted to be and nothing brought out her vindictive side like a death on her shores.

You haven’t had enough sleep, mate, he thought wryly to himself, tearing his eyes from the horizon to duck under the tape and approach Hopper’s side.  

The victim was male, well built and thus not likely to go quietly into the night as it were.  He was facedown in the sand, his hair matted with blood from what looked like a blow to the back of his head.  There were strands of rope tied tightly around his wrists - he’d been bound with his hands behind his back for some time based on the bruising Killian saw there.  Whoever had subdued him hadn’t wanted to take any chances, not with the sheer number of times the rope had been knotted.

“What do you know, Doc?” Robin asked, a camera already plastered to his face as he took pictures from every angle.

“Male victim.  Early thirties.  Caucasian,” was all Hopper said, his voice distracted as he continued to take notes.

Killian sighed to himself.  He hated this part - the waiting for the ME to clear the scene.  Logically, he knew that there were protocols for a reason.  But it didn’t help when he wanted to jump in with both feet and start collecting his own evidence.  To start forming his own theories on what happened.

“Time of death?” he asked instead, flourishing the pen that Liam had given him when he’d graduated the Academy over the small notebook.  A bit old school, perhaps, but he had always preferred the feel of scratching down his notes on paper, just like his brother had. Besides, the tablets that the department provided were far more bulky and able to be hacked.

He hadn’t trusted them since the investigation into Milah’s death had stalled.

Hopper shook his head.  “It’s gonna take me a minute, Lieutenant.  I haven’t gotten to a liver temp yet and the water was cold last night anyway.  Might need to get him back to my table before I have all that for you.”

“All right, just let me know when we can-”

“I know, Jones,” Hopper interrupted him.

Robin snickered under his breath before hastily taking another sip of his coffee, stifling a cough when he swallowed too quickly.  The camera bobbed where it hung around his neck, and Robin’s hand came up automatically to still it.  He waved off Killian’s glare good-naturedly before moving off under the pier.

“Just…” Killian trailed off, thinking.  “Just move quickly, all right?”

There was something about this case that was already prickling at the edge of his consciousness.  He had no reason to suspect that this was more than just another murder - one of dozens he’d investigated in the last year alone - but he’d learned to trust his instincts.  Whoever this man was, he was important.

Killian just wished he knew why already.

“Gaston LeGume.”

“Excuse me?” Killian turned back towards Hopper from where he’d been staring out at the horizon.  It sounded like the man had choked.

Hopper smiled wryly.  “The vic’s name,” he said, waving a wallet at Killian.

Killian practically snatched the leather bifold out of Hopper’s gloved hand, pawing through the cards and receipts inside.  There was a faculty ID for an adjunct professor’s position at Emerson College that the ME had gotten the victim’s name from.  He found it curious that there was no license slipped among the cards and money.  There was, however, a hotel key-card for the Doubletree hotel and a hastily scrawled note that was nearly illegible as the ink had been erased by the tide.  Killian thought he could make out “11PM” in what was left of the ink, but he wasn’t sure.  Forensics would be able to tell him in a few days, but while he was a patient man, he was also chomping at the bit for information.

After what seemed like an eternity, Hopper and his assistant rolled the body into an opened body bag.  If there had been any doubt if this was a premeditated murder beforehand, it was thoroughly erased by the sight of the man’s bruised and lacerated face.  Whoever had killed him had taken their time about it.  Most of the bruising appeared to be a few days old, going yellow around the edges and faded.  There was a gaping wound on his cheek that must have bled profusely.  Killian hoped that the forensics crew would be able to swab the wound for evidence even after the dunking the victim’s body had taken.

“Looks like he was killed elsewhere and dumped here,” Hopper acknowledged the scene around him with a nod.  “The tide might have washed away most of the blood, but it’s still too pristine around him. I’d guess they dumped him off the end of the pier and he washed back up this way.”

Bloody fantastic, Killian thought sourly, turning away from the scene.  “Tell Locksley I’m going up above,” he muttered over his shoulder, already walking away.  A body dump meant two scenes to control, it meant the killer had more time to try and erase evidence at the actual murder scene, it meant more work and dreaded paperwork for Killian.

It also meant more twists and turns to occupy his brain with, and Killian looked forward to that challenge at least.  The longer he spent working on this case and helping Swan, the less time he had alone to think.  To remember. To grieve.

To miss Milah.

The familiar stabbing in his chest caused Killian to pause momentarily, resisting the urge to clench his hand over his heart to feel its steady beat.  God, he missed her.  No matter whether or not he was actively thinking of her, Milah was always there, just waiting for a moment’s distraction to show up in his thoughts.  She’d been like that in life as well, showing up at the station when he’d been on duty for what seemed like months instead of hours or meandering past the ship until he noticed her and nodded her aboard.  He’d never thought that he’d have to think about life without her, but here he was. Alone.

Killian visualized himself putting a lock on those memories again, trying to focus on what was right in front of him so that he could do his job.  LeGume might be dead, but he still deserved his killer be brought to justice.

It was Killian’s job to do just that.

Thankfully, like the sand below, the pier had been cordoned off as well.  It was a good thing, as there was already a small crowd of fishermen and tourists alike crowding around the patrol officers tasked with keeping them from contaminating any evidence.  Killian graced the men with a nod before ducking under the tape, moving quickly away from the pack of gawkers before they could turn their attentions on him.  One of the officers had clearly been down the way already, yellow numbered placards strategically placed along the path.  When Killian bent to see what they’d found, he noticed the trail of blood they were marking. Killian backtracked swiftly to find Graham Humbert waiting patiently near the tape but away from the hoard of onlookers.

“I tracked the blood as far back as it went, Jones,” he began before Killian could even ask the question.  “Either the perp drove halfway onto the pier, or the vic didn’t start leaking until that first mark.  It didn’t rain last night or anything.”

Killian nodded, not quite meeting Humbert’s eyes, but not letting on to the idle observer that he was committing the crowd to memory either.  “What else do you know, Graham?” he asked conversationally, his mind running a mile a minute ahead of him.   Surveillance cameras, witness statements, there had to be some trace of how the victim had ended up over the side of the pier.

“The vic went over about two thirds of the way down,” Graham pointed out where another officer was talking to Robin.  Killian realized that he had no idea when his partner had come up, but was glad to see him already taking pictures.

Leaving Graham to his own work, Killian moved down the pier with an eye out for anything the patrol officers might have missed.  He trusted them, of course, but what might be commonplace to one man - especially one who didn’t spend so much time near the sea - might stick out to him.

Blood stained the metal railing where they surmised the body had been dumped.  There was an odd discoloration underneath the area that hadn’t been marked as evidence.  Killian didn’t know why it caught his eye, but he drew Robin’s attention to it, bending down to prod at it with a gloved hand after the camera stopped clicking.

The discoloration wasn’t dry, wasn’t old staining from a random fisherman’s tackle or catch.  Whatever had caused the mark was greasy on his gloves.  He rubbed it between his fingers for a moment, lost in thought as he stared out over the cresting waves.

“Hopper take the body?” Robin asked with a look on his face that told Killian he’d been lost in the sea for too long.

He nodded, pushing himself upright and biting back a grimace when both knees popped.  He was getting too old for this.

“Aye, they were loading it up when I came up here.”  Killian shrugged.  “I don’t know how much else we’ll get down there before the tide rolls back in.  There’s men moving in now to pick up any evidence.  I thought you were still down there, to be honest, mate.”

Robin shook his head.  “Nottingham told me that you were going to clear that scene and that I should come up here.  Guess he must have seen you with Archie and assumed.”

That seemed odd to Killian, but he waved it off.  “We’re clear down there anyway; unless you want to get your boots wet,” he said as he gestured to the waves beneath them.  They could both hear the crash of water against the pilings.

“Did you get anything off the body before Hopper spirited him away?” Robin asked, moving further down the pier away from the dump site.

“Gaston LeGume,” Killian remarked, biting back a laugh when Robin whirled around.

“Gesundheit?” he asked incredulously.

Killian snorted this time, unable to tamp down the humor.  Thankfully, the only beings around to get upset were a flock of perturbed seagulls who took off with shrill cries of disgust.  “The man’s name was Gaston LeGume, according to his identification.  He’s got a Mass license, but was staying at a hotel. Either he’s not a local or, if he is, he’s got an irate wife at home.”

That got a pained smile out of Robin.  He looked like he wanted to say something, but refrained.  Killian cocked an eyebrow but his partner didn’t take the invitation, turning instead towards the railing.  “What are you thinking?” he asked.

Killian shook his head.  “Dunno yet.  A body dump, for sure, but beyond that…” he trailed off with a shrug.

Robin nodded his agreement.  “A pier this big, someone must have seen something.”

“Aye, you’d think someone would have noticed a car driving out here.  Who called it in?”  Killian looked back down the pier towards the increasing crowd that Graham was holding back.  He was pleased to see that one of the other officers was surreptitiously taking photos of the crowd.  More than once, Killian had found his murderer watching them work.

“One of the apparent regulars who fish here every morning.  Will took his statement before Anna and Kristoff took him to MGH to get checked out.  They guy looked like he was about to have a heart attack, I guess.  Will said that this…” - he trailed off, looking at his notes - “Marco Gepetto got here earlier than his buddies and was walking down to his spot when his tackle box busted open.  He kicked one of his Hogy lures over the side, I guess, and went down to see if he could find it.  That’s when he found our vic.”

“Gepetto all right, do we know?” Killian asked offhandedly, watching Nottingham shmooze with Humbert now.

“I don’t know yet.  It’s on my list. Scarlet’s with him just in case.”

Killian nodded again, squatting down again to place another yellow marker in front of the railing where he’d found the grease.  He heard Robin snapping photos of the unknown substance and the area immediately surrounding it, but they both left it alone for the Forensic techs to sample.  It might be nothing, for all Killian knew it had been tracked down the pier days ago, but it could be everything as well.

Methodically, he and Robin cleared the rest of the scene before packing it in.  They’d found a handful of detritus, but nothing of real note.  With the body long gone, the tide rolled in, and the sun far higher in the sky than when they’d met there, Killian trudged back towards his car.  They were going to head back to the station to log their evidence before taking one car over to the hospital.

LET THIS GO IF YOU KNOW WHAT’S GOOD FOR YOU.

Killian blinked at the exquisite penmanship scrawled in ink across a torn off strip of what looked like the Mother Goose & Grimm comic he’d read in the Globe on Sunday.  The note was stuck under his windshield wiper and flapping in the light breeze off the ocean.  One eyebrow rose as he looked around slowly, trying to gauge if anyone was watching him discover the veiled threat.

Cowards, he thought derisively, slipping on another pair of gloves and plucking the shred of newspaper off the glass.  Killian flipped over the paper but there was nothing of note on the other side.  Shaking out an evidence bag, he slid the threat inside before sealing it and labeling it.  He slipped it into his pocket as he pulled out his keys and finally sat down in the car.

Killian’s head hit the headrest with an audible thunk and he shut his eyes.  Evidence collection was far more exhausting than it had any right to be.  Without looking, he jammed the key into the ignition and started up the engine.  It clicked for a few seconds and a chill ran down his spine.  His hand snapped open on pure instinct and Killian scrambled out of the car.  He was probably being silly, but the morning’s murder along with the ominous note had left him more than a little keyed up.

He stood on the sidewalk, trembling a little as he huffed out a breath and mentally shook himself.  He was being ridiculous.

He thought.

In spite of himself, Killian popped the hood of the car and looked at the organized chaos beneath.  He laughed in relief when he noticed the loose wire coming off the battery.  You’re being an idiot, Jones, he thought angrily as he remembered Liam harping at him about getting the car looked at before its next inspection.  It had been getting more and more finicky over the years, but he wouldn’t part with it for the world.  He and Liam had bought it after Killian graduated from the Academy.

“All right, mate?” Robin asked as he pulled up in the sleek SUV he’d purchased only a few months ago.

Killian sighed and slammed the hood.  Truth be told it was an easy enough fix, but it would take longer than he had the patience for at the moment.  Instead of rummaging through the trunk for his toolkit, Killian locked the doors and jogged around to the passenger side of Robin’s car.  “Nothing that can’t be fixed later,” he replied when he slammed the door shut.

Robin’s eyebrows rose, but he pulled away from the dead car and headed back towards the highway without comment.

Killian waited until they were cruising at speed before he called Liam.

“Are you all right?” was how his brother answered the phone.

Killian rolled his eyes.  “Good morning, brother. It’s a beautiful day.  And how are you this fine morning?”

He could hear Liam’s growl through the line.  “Are you okay?” his brother asked again with punctuated words.

“Yes, Liam, I’m fine,” he allowed.  Killian remembered the phone call Liam must have gotten from David that day in the alley and understood the worry even if he didn’t fully appreciate it.  “My car broke down and I wasn’t sure if you-”

“Where are you?” Liam interrupted and Killian could hear the sound of keys jangling.

Killian pinched the bridge of his nose.  “With Robin on the way back to the station.  I didn’t know if you wanted to take a look at it before I called for a tow.”

He knew the answer before he heard the sound of keys clattering on the table.  Liam muttered that he’d see what he could do after lunch.  Killian’s stomach grumbled at the mention of food.  How long had they been out at the crime scene?  

As if in answer to his unspoken question, Robin pulled to a stop in front of Subway.  Killian looked at him in askance, but Locksley just shrugged.  “Will said that Gepetto is still being evaluated, so I figure we have a couple minutes now or I can deal with your crankiness later when you haven’t had food in too long.”

Killian grumbled under his breath, but he didn’t disagree.  The box of protein bars in his bottom drawer only did so much and he wasn’t sure he wanted to look at the expiration date, anyway.  He had a distant memory of stealing that box out of Liam’s desk when his brother wasn’t looking.  Pushing that thought back into the tightly locked box of memories, he got out of the car and trailed after Robin into Subway.

“And then I said, ‘I’ll do whatever it takes’ but I didn’t think that he’d really go for it.”  Moe finally admitted.  “I just thought he was humoring my daughter - they dated for awhile.  I didn’t like it, but what can you do?”

It had been a long conversation already, so this bit of news had Emma perking up.  “What did he do for you?”

Moe looked around, fear written clearly across his face.  “N-nothing,” he stuttered and Emma saw the walls slam down on whatever progress she thought she’d made.

She ducked her head a bit, trying to catch Moe’s eye.  “If you’re worried that-”

“No!  No, no of course not.  Captain Gold was perfectly by the book and I was lucky enough to have him investigating my case,” he argued.

Emma resisted the urge to roll her eyes only by pinching the bridge of her nose hard enough that she could feel her pulse beating against her fingers.  She wasn’t a doctor, but she was pretty sure that the staccato rhythm wasn’t exactly healthy.

“So this ‘whatever it takes’ that you agreed to?”  Emma barely managed to keep her hands in her lap, wanting to use sarcastic air quotes but knowing it would only make him backpedal even further into Gold’s pocket.

Moe just shrugged, eyes wild even though his face was otherwise calm.  “Patience and trusting that he’d take care of it,” was all he answered.  This, at least, was pure truth.  Whatever deal that Moe and Gold had made, it had required trust.

Emma just needed to know what the terms of that deal actually were.  She wasn’t going to get that here, today, however.  That was becoming increasingly obvious as he continued to assure her that Captain Gold had done everything to the letter of the law.  It was only pure happenstance, of course, that he had been cleared of any wrongdoing.

Continuing to beat this dead horse was only going to send her pulse further through the roof and give her a migraine.

“Thank you for your time, Mr. French.  I may have a few more questions for you later; I assume I can reach you if I need to?”

He nodded.  “Of course, I’m always happy to help.”

Emma had her own ideas of exactly what he could do with his help.  She thought Elsa would be proud of her for not spitting them at Moe before she rose and shook his hand.  Emma handed him a business card before showing herself out of the small house.  She managed to avoid sighing audibly until she got behind the wheel of the Bug, but only just.  

Emma wasn’t getting anywhere.  Every one of the cases she and Killian had flagged over the past few weeks as suspicious was a bust.  Either there was no one alive to question about Gold’s involvement in the case or they were on the wrong end of the law, willing to say anything and everything Emma wanted to hear if it got them a lighter sentence.  Or, as happened with French, the men and women Emma talked to were too afraid of what Gold would do to admit he’d done anything but read them the letter of the law.

Scrubbing her hands over her face, Emma tried to remember that it was a marathon, not a sprint.  She and Killian had found some evidence of Gold’s corruption; it just wasn’t enough.  Not yet.

Emma turned the key in the ignition, pleasantly surprised when there were no strange noises, flickering lights, or worse - the dreaded click and silence.  The engine turned over on command and the car pulled smoothly away from the curb.  Emma drove off, watching Moe in the rearview mirror staring at her tail lights until she turned the corner.  It was nearly four in the afternoon; Emma could go back to the station and pull more files.  Or she could head towards the marina and get in a few more hours of work in blissful silence.

It wasn’t a hard decision.

Smee waved her in with a smile before she could even roll down the crank window.  Emma nodded with a smile that she hoped didn’t look as stressed as she felt and wound her way around to her parking space.

Not your parking space, Emma, she thought warily, it’s just a visitor’s parking space.  Don’t get comfortable here.

The fact of the matter was, to her chagrin, she was getting comfortable using Jones’s boat as a home base.  So much so that she’d hardly thought about bringing her work home with her in weeks.  Killian was right; it made going back to her apartment that much sweeter when she didn’t take a mountain of case files filled with murder and deception home with her.

With a resigned sigh - she did hate when Jones was right - Emma trudged down the dock to the Jolly Roger and below deck.  Post it notes and index cards were taped to nearly every surface, files and documents scattered haphazardly on the bed topped by a note that made her nose wrinkle in annoyance.

Bloody hell, how do you find anything, lass?

Emma grumbled under her breath about neat-freak tendencies and tossed the newest file on top of the lot.  It slid a bit further than she’d intended, sending both it and the folder beneath it fluttering to the floor.  Emma shot a piercing glare first at the note and then at the papers scattered about.  Somehow, she was sure, this was all Jones’s fault.

Emma stooped down and began stuffing the papers into their respective folders, not really paying attention to the subject matter.  She was already making a mental map of what files she wanted to look at next.  It wasn’t until she was nearly done that Emma noticed whose file it was.

MILAH GOLD

Emma’s fingers shook, rattling the pages, and she didn’t understand why.  She had long since memorized the information in the woman’s file and suspected that Killian had done the same.  The papers were wrinkled with use, some of them stained with coffee or other liquids that Emma didn’t examine too closely, and spelled out the story exactly as Jones had told it to her.

And yet, Emma abandoned her original plan for the evening in favor of pouring over the evidence and the testimonies again.

And again.

At some point she had moved from her hands and knees to sitting, propped against the bunk, as she poured over Milah’s file and then Killian’s employee file.  From all accounts, he’d been a star coming out of the Academy.  There wasn’t a single black mark on his record before Gold had found out about Milah’s indiscretion.

That was when the reprimands had started.  Those escalated into suspensions for insubordination and the like.  The deleted report for drunk and disorderly stood out like a sore thumb only in that it had been redacted from Killian’s file completely.  It had taken all of Emma’s skills to find it in the first place and Killian told her repeatedly that he wasn’t positive how it had been deleted, though the look in his eyes told her he thought that he knew but wasn’t saying.

She hadn’t met Liam Jones yet, but she had a feeling that he was a force to be reckoned with - if his younger brother’s loyalty to him was anything to go by.  She had his file here, too, buried in the middle of witness statements and the timeline of Gold’s arrests.  Emma hoped that Killian didn’t find it; she had no illusions as to how he’d take finding his brother’s file among the links to their investigation into Gold.

Her investigation into Gold.  She had to remind herself that Killian was just a source more and more often these days.  He was not her partner.  Emma Swan didn’t need a partner.  She didn’t want one.  Even if - were she to admit it to herself - the long hours of paperwork had gone much less tediously with someone around to share in the misery.

Jones was charming, maybe too much for his own good and certainly too much for hers.  Half the time she wanted to wring his neck and the other half… well, the other half was being silently but firmly beaten back into submission.  This was a job.  It was only a job and once it was done, she’d be back to takeout in her apartment surrounded by her next case.

Maybe she should get a cat.

Emma sighed for the… she’d lost track of how many times, and kneaded the muscles at the back of her neck.  There was a headache brewing there, just waiting for the right time to blossom and put a stop to her productivity, limited as it was.  She dropped her head back onto the mattress behind her and closed her eyes.  The bobbing of the boat on the tide was soothing and Emma let herself go completely limp, relaxing into the soft motion.

She never even noticed when she started to drift off to sleep.

Killian rubbed the sleep out of his eyes as he turned into the marina’s parking area.  He’d woken before sunrise, unable to sleep for risk of giving the nightmares more hold over his rest.  After an hour of tossing and turning, he gave up the fight and slipped out of the apartment.  The sun was just breaking the horizon when he pulled off Storrow Drive.  Fifteen minutes later and here he was, thankful for the absolute lack of traffic this early on a weekday morning.

“Jones!” Smee sounded surprised.  “I thought you were… well…”

Killian cocked his head in question, still waiting for the caffeine to kick in.  To his surprise, Smee’s ears went a little pink before he answered.

“I just figured that I missed you coming in last night.  I saw your girl’s car in the lot and just assumed that… well, you know.”  He shrugged with a leering smirk.

Killian blinked.  His girl?  Emma?  His eyes drifted across the lot towards visitor’s parking and, sure enough, there was the yellow Bug.  His head swiveled back to Smee and he was chagrined to see the man wink at him.

“Anything else I need to know about, Mr. Smee?” he asked impatiently.

Smee blinked, taken aback for a moment before he grinned.  “Ah, I see,” he said, touching his finger to the side of his nose.

Just go with it, Killian thought in a moment of realization.  He smirked at Smee and winked back at him, both eyes closing despite his intentions.  “I’m sure I can count on your discretion in the matter, aye?” he asked with a wag of his eyebrows.

“Oh, yes sir.  You know you can count on me,” Smee crowed, stepping back from the car.

Killian nodded conspiratorially at him before settling back in his seat and pulling the car around to his own spot.  Thankfully, Liam had been able to fix the battery with only a modicum of fuss (and a lot more grousing when he got home) and the car was running smoothly again.

A few minutes later and he was stepping over the rail onto the Jolly’s deck.  Almost instantly, the rocking of the boat under his feet calmed his thoughts.  Milah had featured prominently in his nightmares, some twisted tale his subconscious had conjured up where he was a pirate captain and she was his lady.  Gold had been there, too, twisted and strange and… shiny?  Killian shook his head at the absurdity of it all.

The details hadn’t mattered anyway.  Milah had died in his arms, a morbidly better fate than the real story, and he still hadn’t told her he loved her before she took her last breath.  Even now, her breathy “I love you” from the dream echoed in his ears.

God did he miss her.

Killian bit the inside of his lip before he headed below deck, trying to wrestle his emotions back into the box he kept them safe in.  They had no place here.

He eased open the hatch to the aft cabin, the light from inside spilling across his feet before he peeked in.

Emma was sound asleep on the floor, several open files scattered around her.

A small smile broke out on Killian’s face before he could bite it back.  He didn’t understand the feeling in his chest and he didn’t want to look too closely at it.  Instead, he stood in the doorway awhile and watched her sleep, surprised to see how different she looked without the mask she so often wore at the precinct.  It was as if she were younger somehow, more serene.  Killian understood that: he'd donned his own armor since Milah's death and then Liam's forced retirement.  He didn't like realizing that Emma had done the same, however, and he wanted to know more about what had created her walls.  He wanted to know more about her beginnings.

No, you bloody fool, he thought angrily.  No, you bloody well don't want to know a damned thing about her beginnings.  She's just a means to destroy Gold.

Whatever it was that compelled him, Killian knelt down silently and began to clean up the mess of files she had spread around her.  God, but she was a mess when she worked.  He didn't know how she did it, but every time he asked for a file, Emma knew right where it was.  It baffled him every time.

Once that was done, Killian reached for Milah's file, intent on combing through the information yet again.  He knew it all by rote by now, but he found comfort in the repetition.  It was almost as though Milah was still alive within the pages of her file, as if she wasn't truly gone as long as he was still fighting for her.

"What time's it?" Emma slurred some time later.  She'd pushed herself up so she was sitting back against the bunk with her eyes still closed.  Killian smiled at the grimace on her face as if she were dreading the answer.

"Still early, I expect," he muttered quietly from across the room.  "You've time if you want to sleep some more.  Although, I'd wager that the bed is far more comfortable than the floor."

Emma's eyes shot open and her head whipped around as she took in her surroundings.  "Wha?  Where?" she asked before her eyes settled on Killian.

"Expecting someone else, lass?" he asked jovially.

She blinked at him for a few minutes and Killian could see the plates of armor being woven around her once more.  "No, of course not," she answered shortly.

"Of course not," he parroted dryly, one eyebrow rising of its own volition.

Before Killian could say anything else, Emma launched herself to her feet, swaying a bit due to the moving deck beneath her feet, then looked around.  "Where are my files?" she asked in alarm.

Killian jutted his chin towards the bunk behind her.  "I didn't know where in this mess you call organization they belonged, so I just closed them and stacked them there," he replied defensively and very nearly crossed his arms petulantly.

Emma had the good graces to look sheepish as she turned and rifled through the different folders.  He thought he saw her breathe a sigh of relief and rolled his eyes.

"I've done this before, lass.  I do know how to deal with a case file," he paused, looking around the cabin, "a sight better than you do, if this is any indication."

Emma turned around to glare at him.  "There's a system," she retorted with a bit of a sneer, hugging the files to her chest.  She looked less guarded now that she had the folders in her grasp.

Killian took a step back and bowed to her.  “Of course, princess.  I wouldn’t want to buck the system.”  He turned to go back above deck, leaving her to her organization, when he tripped and knocked one of the stacks to the floor.  Emma’s snarl of exasperation went unheard when he caught sight of the name on one of the files.

L.JONES

He blinked, clenched his eyes shut a second time, and looked again.  His brother's name was still written in bold letters on the folder's tab.

Whirling around, Killian glared at Emma, ignoring the wide eyed look of alarm that crossed her features before it was tucked carefully behind her walls, replaced with cool confidence.  Her chin came up in defense and Killian had a feeling that if he were a suspect who'd pulled a weapon, she'd look much the same.

"What the bloody hell are you doing with a file on my brother?"

tagging: @killian-whump, @gilliangrissom, @nothingimpossibleonlyimprobable

[hexwritesfanfics]

Just Like a Cherry Blossom

A/N: So I’m in a Discord for a MHA Roleplay Group where we have canon characters and OC characters and often do some weird shipping thing goings on that usually results in...lemons. So, to one of my darling roleplay buddies, this is that oneshot you wanted me to write but I think I made it too fluffy!

Italics = flashback

Regular text = current story line

Fandom: My Hero Academia

Pairing: Overhaul x OC 

WARNING: Lemon and angst

There were flower petals on her back.

    It had taken him a long time to touch her, even when the urges struck him. He had already gone so far allowing her the most innocent touches--a caress to his face here, a touch of her hand against his there--that only made him hungry for more. In the world they both knew, that they both lived in, she should be as filthy as sin much like he was.

    And yet her lips tasted anything but.

    Gloved hands touched a delicate waist and eased her upon the mattress, exploring her--even with her clothes on, there was a sensual innocence about her. It was something he had to taste for himself. He has to assert dominance, control; to show her that she belonged to him and no one else--

    A gasp of his name left those pale pink lips as his hand slid her shirt up, the milky white softness of her skin unblemished in the front. For a daughter of a Yakuza boss, she ought to have been tattooed in more places. He had expected such a thing. Yet her abdomen was completely unmarked, no ink across the expanse of porcelain. How ironic, she appeared as pure as she tasted.

    He shouldn’t be gentle, shouldn’t even care. She was a rival boss’s daughter, what did he care about what he could do to her? The answer came swiftly on the heels of that question, one that pushed him to wonder where he stood with her. There was something about her, this trembling female, that made his need to dominance surge--and just as equally, to make this be a night she’d remember.

    A night where his body marked hers.

    When she sat up, and only when, that’s when she shed her shirt without a word and he could see it then; a beginning of a tattoo on her shoulder. Was it a branch?

    “Turn around,” he ordered and she did just that.

    Of course the tattoo wouldn’t be on her front. The ink that marked her, that was her, was imprinted on the soft flesh of her back. A thousand petals, a pastel pink against porcelain skin, falling from branches that adorned her shoulders.

    “Cherry blossoms,” he murmured, eyes narrowed just slightly as he worked to remove his mask. “Your favorite flower, aren’t they?”

    “Not just that,” she replied just as softly. “They’re my truth.”

    “Your truth? You’re speaking nonsense.”

    “Am I? Aren’t lives fleeting just like cherry blossoms?”

    Nonsense, he told himself. She was speaking as if she lived long enough to know what she was saying. That wasn’t why she was here.

    His arms wrapped around her, his lips brushing the start of the tattoo, at the base of her neck, while his left hand rest against her hip and the right worked to tug off her front-clasping bind. He wasn’t someone who was kind; after all, he had taken a rival boss’s daughter, someone who would run her family when she was deemed ready, with the idea of just simply killing the girl. And yet when he had her in his grasp…

When his fingers undid the bind, his alias left her lips in a gasp. “Overhaul--”

“Kai.” His response was short, and yet in a soft tone that she had never heard from his lips before. “When we’re alone, you call me by that name.” His hand slid to the column of that slender neck, wrapping his fingers around it. “Do you understand, little apple?”

It was a heartbeat of a moment before she nodded.  

That was a memory he seemed to hold onto. The moment Overhaul took what belonged to him--the absolutely wrong person who allowed him to take her body in all the right ways. This was just an outlet, he tried to tell himself, but even he knew. He was no fool.

She had taken his heart and given him hers in return.

He had touched every inch of her body with his lips; had his fingers tangled in her hair and gripping it tightly; leaving fingertip-shaped bruises on her thighs and hips. In an act he would normally find filthy, he made sure to purify her, to possess her. Never had Overhaul thought that a rival’s daughter would be the one he would take to bed.

Not when he intended to take her life.

And her very being still had its hooks in him…

“K-Kai--!” His name was a gasp on her tongue as he pushed inside of her awaiting body from behind, his fingers clutching the silky, chocolate strands of her hair and pulling it, her head jerking back to follow the motion. His free hand drifted from her hip to her back, his fingers ghosting against the imprinted flower petals etched into her skin. Such a pure image on a pure girl. It suited her. She had fought him for so long that her submission to him was as delectable as the idea of possessing her.

It was that vulnerable expression, the desperate cry of his name every time he slammed inside of her, that only served to spike his lust higher. Touching that place deep within that delicate, trembling body--being the first to do so--spurred the obsession the Yakuza boss had with the brunette, his instinct pushing to make her cry out his name louder so everyone knew who she belonged to.

When Overhaul pushed her hard against the bed, his body pressed against hers as his hips pounded against hers, it tore a breathless gasp from the girl he pinned so deliciously beneath him. “Kai...w-wait! Too much, I--” A startled sound was ripped from her when Overhaul’s fingers drifted beneath her, between her thighs, to rub against her pearl. It made her buckle yet her back arched against him and her reaction made the man heated.

She was of a rival clan and here Overhaul was, indulging in what could be considered such a filthy exchange yet she was the purest creature he has ever touched. His body marking hers, them being one, had him grasping at what control of the situation he had. He had to have absolute control.

And every time she cried out for him in desperation, she took what little thread he had.

“Say my name,” he grunted, applying harder pressure to her bundle of nerves while slamming harder within her. “It should be the only thing coming out of your mouth. Say it.”

When he gave another rough thrust, his name left her lips in a loud cry. “Kai!”

And he wanted to hear it over and over again.

Yakuza should not fall in love.

It was something she and Overhaul knew implicitly. It was part of the world they were raised in. It was the crippling thing they’ve fought against ever since his minions brought her to the estate. It had started with just touches here and there, to rattle her. Yet the closer the became, the more dangerous it was becoming.

“You don’t have to say anything.”

Her voice was soft, her back facing him as she reclined on her side in bed beside Overhaul. Narrowed golden eyes shifted to look at her, her tattoo soon engraved in his retinas, as her words hung in the air. Were they an accusation?

“What did you want me to say?” The question left his lips as he pushed himself upright. This girl was making his head spin, confusing him. He hated it as much as he thoroughly enjoyed possessing her. She turned her head then, not fully laying on her back; yet those hazel eyes burned into him as though he were the one being branded--and he hated that feeling too.

He should have killed her.

“You know what I’m meaning, Kai,” she muttered, almost in resignation. “The one thing our world doesn’t allow because it’s a weakness.”

The male was silent, weighing the brunette’s words in his mind. It only served to irritate him further. He was almost close to using his quirk on her, to erase her from his world, but there was hesitation. Her presence--her consistent, constant presence--was one facet of Overhaul’s obsession with her. As long as she was there, his world was stable. “You’re referring to something as trivial as love?”

“If it was so trivial, why did you take me to bed?” Her voice tinged with a challenge now. “You could hardly handle touching me when I first arrived here and now--”

“You think too much.” It silenced her and Overhaul felt a slight twinge inside of him. Was that regret? Silencing her thoughts when he knew what she meant. Despite her father keeping her like a rare animal in a gilded cage, she was astoundedly sharp. She wasn’t naive. She’d have been a formidable enemy left alone and she was here in his grasp instead.

It was no wonder that he--

No. He would never say those words aloud…

And despite everything he embodied, everything that made him powerful, that made him feared--Overhaul had forced the regret into the recesses of his mind. She may have said that he didn’t have to say anything; but her words and her wants were two completely different things. Even now, when his eyes shut, Overhaul could still see it: the falling cherry blossoms against her skin and her words echoing in his mind.

“Aren’t lives fleeting like cherry blossoms?”

She knew. She must have, for her to say those words on that night. Overhaul hated her for it, enough that he wished he could have used his quirk to disassemble the girl before she had taken hold of him.

He hated it. Despised it. It was filth he is unable to clean off. It coated him like a permanent second skin.

And it was all because of her--

Blood.

The floors were soaked in it, smudges of it smeared on the walls. And her body was mangled almost beyond recognition, but he could recognize her with his eyes closed--all because of that tattoo that marked her existence. He’s traced that image with his lips and fingers countless times that one night they’ve spent together that he’s memorized it. The porcelain skin that had been flushed beneath his gloved hands ran cold, all traces of life gone.

Overhaul was known to kill his expendable minions when he was displeased. Yet the brutality in which he had killed more disposable men hardly testament to “displeasure”, it was too light a word to even use. Someone on the inside had let a member of her family; Overhaul was no fool to not know whom in her clan were a threat. That disgusting, filthy threat, whomever they were, entered Overhaul’s estate and found his little apple to bring her home. Knowing the sentimental girl as she was, with her nonsensical talk,  she refused. Undoubtedly, the foolish girl had claimed that she--

And that was why she was killed.   

Because of that frivolous, unnecessary emotion called love.

So then why…?

Yes, she was right. Life was fleeting, blossoming for a brief moment like the petals of a cherry blossom tree before fading away.

Just as hers had been and Overhaul’s stability--his control--was abruptly taken. She was a spectre that haunted every room, every crevice. Her scent still lingered long after her murder, agitating and soothing him all at once. Her voice still rang in his ears, softly, sweetly.

And every spring when the cherry blossoms bloomed, he was reminded of that tattoo and how she had become just like them.

[latinegro]

Sketchy

I am a brilliant asshole and not in a good way. I’m always putting myself in a situation that sounds great at first, but as it happens, it’s not so great at all. 

I put the pencil on the paper and I begin to outline the basic layout of my model. Myra is laying on the couch in front of me. It’s old couch too, she’s probably the best thing that has happened on that couch in years.

She posed herself in a particular way so that the contours of her curves can be accentuated. I nervously erase the first mistake I make. It’s been a very long time since I’ve drawn a nude model. I’m acting like I’ve never sketched a naked woman before, it’s really not that hard. But, this is absolutely the first time I’ve drawn a woman that I’m acquainted with. It doesn’t help that I find her to be one of the sexiest women I know.

I can feel my heart racing because I know what I’m doing is wrong. I know that I shouldn’t be doing this but an opportunity presented itself and I had to take it. It does sound selfish but in a way, it really isn’t. First of all, the artist in me will not allow me to call this whole thing off. Secondly, I try to tell myself that she’s not a hot woman that I have been attracted to for a while but rather a future portrait for a client. I take a few deep breaths so I can maintain my concentration. Nervousness will only lead to a shaky hand and that’s not good for any sketch.

But, of course, I had to open my big mouth. I’m a writer at heart and by trade. I can describe what she looks like the best way I can use words and adjectives not with this damn pencil that I’m pretending was my hand going down those beautiful thick brown legs of hers. The thing is, I used to draw fairly regularly. I was one of those kids that would be so annoyingly good at drawing anything that I felt I didn’t need those pretentious art classes. I could freehand any comic book cover I see. I could draw anything or anyone if they were standing in front of me. My only weakness was I could never draw anything as I good as I wanted to from memory. My measurements were always wrong, at least that was what I was told.

At the end of the day it wasn’t big deal to me because no matter how good I was at drawing, my heart wasn’t in it. I didn’t love it like other people love it and that’s probably why I didn’t take it as seriously. I felt much more at ease using words to describe anything. I can perfectly describe how beautiful Myra is. She’s like a brown-skinned Athena from Themyscira that Wonder Woman would never talk about. Myra is the reason some would believe that God exists. When scientists talk about how we’re all made from stardust, they had Myra in mind.

I need to focus.

I have the basic shell of her body that fits perfectly on my old couch that should seat three people comfortably. Her black curly hair may be a problem for me. Myra chooses to wear it natural which makes her even more attractive but if I don’t shade it correctly this whole drawing would look like a caricature. But, alas, her big brown eyes look past me. She stares off into space truly hoping that I’m capturing this moment and indeed I am catching this very moment of her looking past me. I will consider that to be my fault. I may be good with writing words but actually speaking them to women is another thing entirely.

I met Myra first but I lacked the basic courage to kick it to her. We ended up being a little less than friends but more than just passing acquaintances. Of course, when Jules met her it was all downhill from there. I was always happy for them but mad at myself. Jules is a decent guy and when they first got together, all they did was fuck. Yes, I know that is normal because if it were me, I would hope that she would break me every damn day.

Another mistake. I may need a better eraser.

I get up and she asks, “Everything OK?”

“Sure, I just have to get another eraser,” I answer. She shrugs her bare shoulders as I walk to the desk and open the drawer. Jules is the real artist in all this. He’s one half of the team behind the independent Black comic book, The Insiders. We met at the NY Comic Con years ago and Jules and I became fast friends. Through the years we created our own comic book universe that has a plethora of characters. The excitement for this project is palpable because we’re building something important. In our universe, there are no meaningless black characters created for the sole purpose of being sidekicks. Together we’ve molded superheroes that matter; superheroes that look like us. There is a true meaning behind every page and we’re ready to take the industry by storm.

Jules has tons of different art supplies in this desk that it’s hard to keep track of all of it. But, at least I know where the erasers are. He stores most of his art supplies in my apartment since it has become our default workspace. It’s just easier this way since both of our day jobs make it hard to be the creators we are. We need a place to work and bounce our ideas off of each other. I pick one a small eraser and close the drawer. Before I walk away from the desk, my eyes focus on one of the sketches he was working on from issue #3. One thing about working with friends is, at times, it’s hard to come to a real agreement on the philosophy of a particular story. I really don’t think that the splash on page 11 is necessary but clearly, he’s working on it anyway.

I walk back to my chair and I smile at Myra before I sit down. I grab my pad and I keep going. My eyes scan slowly scan her from left to right. She’s laying on her right side with her right arm holding up her head and her left arm resting on her hip. Her breasts are a perfect size. They don’t sag at all and her tummy is a result of a lot of gym work. No visible stretch marks and no tattoos. This makes this sketch easier than what I originally anticipated.

I draw carefully. My pencil tries to mimic everything that my eyes absorb. I cannot believe that Julius’ wife is laying on this couch modeling for me. She wants this to be a present for him on their upcoming anniversary. Has it been two years already? It must be. That’s was around the time we decided to build this whole comic book company together. He’s the artist and I’m the writer. Now, look at me, doing a sketch that I may be getting more pleasure from than she is. Granted, this probably a bad idea, but how can I deny her this. I tried to convince her that perhaps it would be a better idea to dress up as a sexy gender bender of Grand Admiral Thrawn and I would make sure to get the colors right. She denied that, but I can, at least, convince myself that I tried to get her to wear the most clothes as possible.

I scan her navel trying to make sure that I can get the correct dimensions and diameter of the belly button ring. It looks like a small little pendant that sparkles from the light coming from the ceiling fan above. I scan further past her navel toward her vagina. Her legs are slightly crossed with her left leg slightly bent downward covering her right. It casts a shadow from the light.

My pencil breaks. Shit, was I pressing down that hard? She chuckles, “Having trouble?”

“Not at all,” I reply as I grab the extra pencil next to me. I want to try to be as emotionless as possible. Mentally I’m shaking my head. How did you get into this Zander? I will tell you how; I was cocky. I thought that I could talk enough shit in hopes to just flirt a little and now... my partner’s wife is my living room, nude.

Did I mention I was a brilliant asshole and not in a good way?

I remember staying over their townhouse in Brooklyn one night and while I have wondered what is that she does that allows her to own such a place, that was the night I got a glance of how skillful she was.

It was a late night of partying and they offered me a room to crash. I was so drunk that night that I just passed out as soon as I hit the bed. It must of been an hour or two later when I really had to use the bathroom. I got up and there was a long hallway that I had to navigate despite my lightheadedness. As I begin to walk down the general direction of what I thought was the bathroom, I hear noises. I slowly passed the room where it coming from and that is when I catch a glimpse of her reverse cowgirl riding Jules in a way that made me realize that twerking needs to a sport. I tried not to voyeur too long and thank God I had to piss, but all I remember was my heart beating so much that I felt it in my dick.

I need to continue on her legs and feet. I really do hate drawing feet. I can never get the right angle. I need to take my time and make sure the curvatures are correct. Shadowing will also be a problem. The lighting is pretty decent in here but I will need to at least need to define her curves with some type of shadow.

I can’t even imagine actually inking this. The good thing is that I can scan this into the computer and work on all the coloring there. I assume she wants it colored. Actually, I never asked. “Did you want this sketch in color?” I do my best to look at her eyes when I converse with her.

“Hm, You know, I think that would be a nice touch. Sure, if you can do it. But I will take one in black and white, just in case,” Myra chuckles a bit. I think she knows that coloring may be a tad difficult for me. Not only do I have to make sure that I color inside the lines, but how do I get her exact skin tone?

Then it hits me. I put the pencil down and I look at her. “So, I have an idea and it’s totally ok if you’re not willing to do it.”

“What would that be?”

I’m nervous to even suggest it. “You know what? Never mind. It’s a dumb idea. I don’t even know why I would even think of such a thing.”

“Just tell me.”

I take a deep breath, “Ok so, I want to get the shade of color just right and once I scan this in into the laptop I will need to..”

Myra laughs, “Zander, just spit it out.”

“I need to take a picture of you so that I can match your skin tone with the RGB color code.” I look down at my unfinished sketch as soon as I said it.

“You sly little devil!” Myra sits up and looks at me with a surprised look on her face as if she caught me red handed.

“What do you mean?” I ask

“Why the fuck you lyin?” She asks in a sing-songy manner. “You just want a nude picture of me!” I honestly can’t tell if she’s being serious or not, but she’s absolutely telling the truth. See how much of a brilliant bastard I am? This is how I get myself into trouble and once again I feel my heart coming through my dick.

“I mean, I would delete it as soon as I got the color correct.” Which is a lie.

“I don’t know about that. In all honesty, you can just take pictures of me with my clothes on and then screen-grab the color.” She was totally right about that. I hadn’t thought about it. Then she continues, “The reason why I am asking you to do this sketch is because I do trust you. That is why I never said anything to Jules when I saw you peeping into our room that night.”

“What are you talking about?” I ask nervously. I was never sure if she actually saw me and I assumed that since no one said anything that perhaps we were all just drunk. Of course, I cannot forget that after I went to the bathroom I returned to continue my voyeurism. Shit.  

Myra gives me a smirk, “Please, do not insult my intelligence. I know you’ve seen me naked before and I am quite comfortable with my body. So I will save you more embarrassment by saying that I do want this drawing to come out correctly. So I will allow you to take a picture but I want you to delete the picture in front of me.”

I pull out my iPhone from my pocket and ask her to return to her original pose. Myra is right about this but I don’t care right now. Even if I delete all the photos from my device and the cloud, I will still have her body burned into my brain. If not, there is always the original copy of this sketch… for portfolio purposes of course. I take a few pictures with and without the flash.

Myra smiles and asks, “How many photos do you plan on taking?” I want to explain lighting and such but then she cuts me off, “I hope you have enough space on the cloud for all of these.”

I freeze, “Um…”

“I am not stupid, Zander. I fully expect you to find a way to try to keep pictures of me. Just know that…”

Bang. Bang.

We both look up. There’s a knock on the door. I look at Myra as she gets up quickly and covers herself with a robe I gave her.

“Who is it?” I ask cautiously.

“It’s Jules. Dude, let me in. We need to talk…about everything.”

Shit. I put my face in my palm. This could be four years and three issues down the drain.

[wayfaringauthorofficial]

To the boy who got away with it all:

I don’t have to be asleep to go back to that day. Those memories can pop up anytime, anywhere. Maybe it’s in the middle of the grocery store when I hear a young boy talk back to his parents. Maybe it’s in the school courtyard, where a tall blond young man saunters around just like you used to. Oh, maybe it’s when someone tells me how I’ve messed up, yet again, that I hear your voice. 

‘You’re stupid. Why do you even try to look good if you’ll never be beautiful? you disgust me. I wish you were dead. Why don’t you just do us a favor and go home and die? Huh? When can you realize that no one needs you? No one wants you. That idea that there is love for you in this world? That’s all in your head. It’s fake. It doesn’t exist. The sooner you realize that the better.’

You may not have said all that, but you didn’t need to. Enough of those words left your mouth often enough, without punishment, to know what you meant. I try to act whole. I try to act like it doesn’t still bother me, but that would be a lie. We both know that. You continue to haunt me, a tenacious demon always looming over my shoulder with all the others.

When do I get a break? When will my mind let up, praising me with a day that I finally cease to remember your merciless ways and their ignorance of them? Perhaps soon, perhaps not in this lifetime. I beg of you, please do not let it be the latter. I can’t bear to see you behind my eyelids every time I go to sleep, or blink, or blackout. I can’t. I don’t want to. I shouldn’t have to. I should be allowed the small gratitude of being able to erase you from my life, just as you so easily did with my own memory from yours.

Did you think it was funny, all the things you did? Is that why you and your gang of demonic boys would stare at me and laugh? ‘She looks like an ape.’ ‘She should have died. Why is she even breathing?’ ‘I wouldn’t want to go out with her if she was dead.’ You may have had the luxury of forgetting me, but I am not so lucky. I wish I was.

Maybe one day, not too long from now, I will wake up and go to bed without thinking about you. Maybe I will get through a twenty-four-hour period without you and your heinous words crossing my mind every second. Maybe. Maybe, I will be so lucky. Maybe I won’t. Only time will tell, we both know that. I hope for the former, but we do not write our own destinies. They are handed to us. I hope you get what you deserve. We both know I didn’t. 

I hope you remember every second of those days as they happened, just like I do. I hope you look back at them and shudder at how cruel you were. I hope you wish you could find me and take it all back, even though it’s crystal clear that’s impossible. The damage is done. You sealed our fate when you told me to die. You made sure I could never forgive you every second you glared at me with those cold, icicle eyes. Every time. Every word, every laugh, every gaze, every ignored form of torment you layered on me is another scar on my mind, my skin, my past, present, and future. Does that make you happy? I wish it didn’t, but you and I both know the truth. 

Do you want to know the worst part? The coldest, most villainous part of all this? You were the lucky one. It makes my stomach churn just to write, to think these words, but they’re true. We both know it. You were able to move on. You got to forget that I existed, while I’m sitting in my room, ten years later, at two in the morning, on the verge of tears, because you are in my head- your voice is in my head. It gets louder and louder by the second. I can’t get it out. I only wish that I could. I only wish I knew how. Every time I think I’ve ridden myself of your memory for good, you keep working your way back into my life in the lest expected, most painful way possible. I hate it. Can’t you just stay gone, just for once?

Maybe that’s the reason behind who I turned into. Maybe you are why I am afraid to go to sleep at night, why I’m afraid to try, to fail, to succeed, to live. It would make sense. After all that you did to me, it’s a miracle I’m still here. It’s a miracle I’m only this damaged on the outside. When you look inside, however, that’s a different story. I don’t want it to be, but it is.

I keep thinking about how my life would be if I had talked back to you... if I had had the courage at the age of twelve to stand up for myself. Maybe, if I had learned that fighting back was good, that retaliation wasn’t always the worst solution, I would be okay right now. Maybe I wouldn’t have tried to do as you said. Maybe, just maybe, I might be okay. I don’t know, but sometimes I wish I did. It might give me a small shred of comfort in these dark hallways, forests, and alleys. 

Your words won’t leave me alone. Why can’t I be as good at forgetting as you are? I only wish that were possible. Instead, I’m stuck with mind tattoos I didn’t ask for, memories I never wanted to relive, and scars I would give anything to erase. I can’t. I only wish I could. 

This is all because of you. Don’t shake your head and lie. You know it’s true, just as I do. All you had to do was leave me alone, but that was no fun, was it? You took pleasure in my misery. Your smile grew as mine diminished. I will never understand what kind of a sick game that is, but I guess you get it. That’s enough, isn’t it? The villain understands, and the damsel is in the dark. That must be fine because that’s how our chapters always ended. You made sure of that. You always made sure.

All the friends, family members, doctors I told about you.... they say they understand, but they don’t. How can they? They weren’t there when you told me to die. They weren’t there when our teachers let you say those things. They weren’t there when you compared me to a monkey, laughed at my pain, rolled your eyes when teachers praised my work. They were never there. They didn’t know me then and they don’t know me now. They never had the unpleasant surprise of dealing with your torture or seeing the games it would play with my mind after ten years. I only wish I could be like them. I only wish I didn’t hear your voice in my room, in the dark. I only wish I didn’t see your ice blue eyes whenever I closed mine, talons gleaming and legs ready to pounce.

Maybe one day I will. Maybe I will finally be able to forget you... but what if I don’t want to? What if that’s why you stay on my mind? What if you are still here to keep anything like that from happening to me ever again? I can’t be sure, but I hope that’s the case. If not, my mind has a sick way of letting me remember ‘the good old days’. 

All the words I write about you can’t change what happened. I understand that, but it gets me a fraction of an inch closer to dealing with everything. It gets me that much closer to moving on completely, even though you remain inked on my mind.

It’s really sad that whenever the good ones come around, the ones who genuinely do care if I get hurt or go away, I don't’ believe them. The second they tell me they love me and make me promise not to let them down, I flash right back to that classroom, that cafeteria, that hallway. I always flash right back to you. All of a sudden, you stand beside me again. You’re right there, with your head just above my shoulder, whispering or screaming those devil-like insults into my ears and making sure they are all I can hear in the middle of the night, sobs quaking through my bones.

You are the one I remember, one of my worst mistakes. Is that what I am in your mind? Am I your worst mistake? Do you regret what you did, when and if I cross your mind in the middle of the night? Do you wake up, shaking in your bed when you dream of me and all the pain you caused? No. You had the easy job. You moved away and forgot I existed. Did you really think I would forget that part, too?

I don’t doubt that you did. I can picture you now, nodding your head as I break into your mind the way you do to mine so effortlessly. That would be a dream. Giving you just a tiny, microscopic sample of what I experience every day.

It’s October now, though. Maybe that’s why you’re on my mind tonight. Don’t you remember? No... of course, you don’t. You were privileged with the joy of moving on. You always are.

You did try to be nice to me. I remember. Why did you do that? Was it to make your knives stick in that much deeper when you turned the tables on me later? I don’t know. Probably. Maybe that’s why I can count on one hand the number of times you were genuinely kind. I don’t know. I hate to think that that’s true, but we both know that it is. It was oh too obvious when those snake-like eyes gleamed on your snow white face. It was then that I knew the truth. Telling the truth wasn’t fun for you. It was the games and the lies that were your specialty.

Oh, I really hope you have changed. I would hate for those days to catch up with you. Karma can be a bitch. Don’t let her bite you too hard.

Most sincerely,

the girl who is still in pieces.

--

Letters I’ll never send #10. 10.16.18. ach.

[crystaiskiess]

Of Souls and Art

Summary: Soulmates are connected through what they write on their hands, and Phil's soulmate does more than just write; they draw the most beautiful things Phil's ever seen. He is the only person with a soulmate that he knows, so how will he find his one and only?

Author’s Notes: This is a soulmate au I have been working on for a while because I absolutely love soulmate aus! I can write more if wanted? A huge thanks to my amazing beta @diamond0604! I couldn't do it without her so thanks for putting up with my endless questions!! I hope you enjoy!!

Also an extra thanks to my friends who I bugged about title ideas and summaries! Thank you for putting up with me you guys are amazing!

AO3 Link

The first time he wrote on his skin was when he was eight. Phil had picked up the pen and wrote down bored in the middle of maths. He had felt a tingle on his hand and when he looked down he gasped so loudly it disturbed the entire class, but nobody minded. In fact, even the teacher was excited to see someone with a soulmate. A person who was a perfect match for them, the ideal someone. Barely anyone had a soulmate, anything you write on your own skin would appear on the other person, a beautiful and strange feat. Phil looked down at his right hand and there, clear as day, was maths? His teacher had got out his phone and taken a photo because “Wow, you don’t see that everyday.” Soulmates were so rare that meeting someone with one in your lifetime was highly unlikely, let alone being one. When he told her his mother had burst into tears. “Oh Phil! I wonder who the lucky girl is!” She had clasped him to her chest and Phil had to say, he had never been happier. He had soon learned that his soulmate was very good at drawing. They doodled flowers that etched their way up his arm. They drew waves that circled his fingers. He on the other hand had no talent in any way so he wrote to them. ‘Hi’ he wrote, ignoring the eye roll from his best friend PJ. There was a pause before Hey “Hey Phil?” PJ poked him. “You mind focusing on your friends?” He snickered. Phil rolled his eyes, “What happened to OMG YOU HAVE A SOULMATE WOW?” Phil teased, remembering his friend’s eager reaction back when they found out that Phil had a soulmate. “We were eight!” PJ groaned, “After nine years I’m used to it by now!” Phil ignored him. What would you like me to draw? They asked in the same scribbling handwriting as ever. PJ looked over Phil’s shoulder and smiled softly. “At least she’s nice.” He shrugged and Phil stifled a giggle, ignoring the small prickle in his chest. “Tell her a dog!” Chris shouted across the table. Both PJ and Phil groaned at the same time. “No! You got a dog yesterday,” Phil pointed out and Chris shrugged. ‘Totoro’ he wrote in reply. “You’re going to get ink poisoning.” PJ warned. Phil rolled his eyes. Nerd <3

~-~-~

Phil slumped in his seat as the teacher’s whiteboard marker squeaked on the board, spelling out one word, ‘Soulmates’. He already knew what would happen, they would talk for an hour about things he had already felt. Then when he thought he was free he would be called up to the front of the class, in order to discuss how he felt and what it was like to “be a soulmate”. Which sounded plain awful in his opinion. Miss Tedium whirled around with a beaming smile, “This is going to be a very exciting class today!” she twittered in an irritating high pitched voice. Easy for you to say Phil wanted to grumble. Maybe he could just pretend to feel sick and spend the rest of the time on his phone in the bathroom. He knew it would be too obvious if he did so, considering he was the only soulmate in the school. In fact he was the only soulmate he knew of. Aside from his counterpart of course. “Firstly let’s talk about names,” she began opening up a Powerpoint onto the board. It displayed an arm held out, on it was written ‘my name is’. Phil huffed, he knew what she was about to say. “Now, soulmates cannot write their name on their arm, it will burn away leaving no trace except for pain.” She explained. He nodded, his soulmate and him had worked this out early into their friendship. When he had tried to say his name it had seared as though burning into his arm, then disappeared and only left the words ‘my name is’. This understandably left his soulmate very confused until they tried to respond with their name.

The class was hanging onto her every word, that was except for a boy named Jack who was sneering at the board as though it had mortally offended him. Miss Tedium was excitably explaining how it felt to write your name, as though she had any idea. Phil cringed as she told the class, “It feels as though you’re being given a chinese burn.” Which was definitely not true, but he let her go with it. The last thing he needed was Jack scoffing at him if he raised his hand to correct her.

The class continued on in much the same pattern, explaining different science theories about why they could see the ink on their soulmate’s skin. Phil wanted to smash his head on the table, everyone knew there was no theory behind it. The explanation was simple, these two humans are perfect for each other and can see what is written on the other’s skin. That’s it. Just as expected the teacher turned to him with a bright smile towards the end of the class, “We are lucky enough to have a Souler in this very room!” She bumbled over to Phil taking his hand and tugging him up to the front of the class. All the students eyes trained on him and he felt his skin flush in embarrassment. Jack glared at him as he stood in front of them all. “Philip would you mind sharing your experiences having a soulmate?” She asked, the way she phrased it made it seem as though Phil had a choice. Which he knew he didn’t. “Erm, first of all it actually feels like you’re being burned if you write your name,” he begun, wishing he could sink through the floor and die. At that moment his soulmate wrote something on his arm and Phil looked down happily. He felt his stomach untie its knots as he read the words inscribed there I’m sick please save me . Below it was a sad face with a thermometer sticking out of it’s mouth. He went to continue with his sentence, a new calm swirling through his mind. However it evaporated as quickly as it had come, “Hey Philip! Show us what they said!” One of Jack’s friends whooped. Despite knowing that the message wasn’t anything private, it felt special. Something he didn’t want to show to the whole class. He shook his head, “Sorry no.” Miss Tedium furrowed her eyebrows, “Philip it would be good for the class to see a real message from a soulmate.” She glared at him in a way that guaranteed this was not an option. He pressed his thumb into the message, forcing it to disappear, something that many people didn’t know soulmates could do. “Sorry,” he mumbled showing his blank hand, “They must have erased it.”

~-~-~

“When’s the party?” Phil asked as he and Chris walked to the bus stop, the same way they did every day. Chris caught a different bus to Phil, but it worked out since they caught it from the same bus stop. “Nine,” Chris pointed at him warningly, “Don’t be late!” Phil nodded, he would have to write it down, “Do you have paper?” He asked. Chris shook his head, an apologetic look on his face. “Don’t worry,” He grabbed a pen from his pocket as they sat down on the bench, “Where is it?” “Jack’s house.” Chris told him, avoiding Phil’s eye contact. Phil felt his stomach drop, the last place he wanted to go was Jack’s house. ‘9pm Jack’s house’ Phil scribbled onto the back of his hand. The bus pulled into the stop with a screech. “I’ll be there!” He exclaimed while climbing onto the bus. “Don’t forget the cake!” Chris yelled back as the doors closed. Phil flopped onto his seat and added ‘Remember cake.’

~-~-~

The familiar tingle startled him out of his daze. There was nothing except a small arrow pointing to his note from earlier. “Shit!” He exclaimed leaping to his feet. He quickly scribbled out a ‘thanks!’ before grabbing the cake and running out the door. If he went fast enough he still might get there in time. You’re welcome :) “You’re here!” Chris exclaimed, not even bothering to hide his clear relief. Phil shrugged, trying to disguise how out of breath he was. He really needed to work out more, “Of course I am! Just got a bit held up.” Chris rolled his eyes, knowing just as well as Phil did that he’d nearly forgotten. “Phil.” Jack, a friend of PJ’s nodded at him curtly. He felt his forearm tingle gently and he forced himself not to check. Aside from Chris, PJ’s friends didn’t really like Phil having a soulmate. They were jealous. Phil could understand that. “Hi Jack, nice to see you.” He forced a smile onto his face, Jack didn’t return it. Leaving Phil standing there awkwardly grinning for no reason, he let it slip off his face. Taking the opportunity to glance at the clock, it read 9:04pm. Suppressing a groan he stared around, waiting for PJ to turn up. One of the other friends glared at him as though it was his choice to have someone who was so perfect for him. He allowed the familiar tingles to calm him, they wrapped around his arms and travelled all the way to his wrist. “Don’t let your filthy Seele hands touch anything,” Jack spat at him and Phil winced at the slur. Seele was a word for someone with a soulmate, it wasn’t popularly used as it was more of a slur than a description. People tended to prefer Souler, a polite term that merely stated that they had a soulmate. Chris walked over with a frown, “Hey! You said you weren’t going to say anything, for PJ remember?” He looked at Jack with a glare and there was a pause before Jack shrugged. “I’m going to go to the bathroom Chris,” Phil mumbled. Chris opened his mouth to say something but Phil was already walking away. He took three deep breaths, staring at himself in the mirror. “You’re ok. You’re doing this for Peej.” He checked the door again to make sure no one was coming in before checking under his sleeve. Sure enough, an intricate tree was curling around his arm, splaying out to his shoulder. The branches curled down his fingers, leaving small leaves and branch patterns on his knuckles. He smiled softly, his soulmate’s art was stunning. Phil loved whenever they got bored enough to do a proper artwork on their arms. The leaves were still being added detail to, small hums tickling the palm of his hand and bubbling on his fingertips. Footsteps approached the door and he yanked his sleeve down as fast as he could. He managed to get it down in time but PJ smiled softly at him, he knew that movement too well for it to be properly hidden. “Hey, Chris told me what happened. You ok?” PJ asked. Phil felt his stomach constrict in guilt. It was PJ’s birthday and he was spending it comforting Phil, “Yeah,” Phil shook his head, “Don’t worry about me. Go have fun, I’ll be out in a sec.” PJ rolled his eyes, “Can you at least show me.” He asked with a comforting smile. Phil rolled up his sleeve to reveal the tree. “Wow… it’s beautiful,” PJ gasped, “They’re improving!” Phil nodded, staring at the branches, allowing the detail being added to untie the knot in his chest. As PJ led him out of the bathroom, Phil didn’t even argue. He let the branches keep him relaxed, the way they tingled their way up his arm.

~-~-~

Phil groaned as his teacher begun to explain the newest assignment. Art, ironically his worst subject considering his soulmate’s skills. “You will be drawing a self portrait,” His teacher exclaimed as though it was something to be excited about. Phil had to restrain himself from smashing his head on the table. Why a self portrait? He bit his lip and wished soulmate’s could harness each other’s traits, since he was definitely going to fail this class. With a sigh of trepidation he picked up a pencil and begun to draw the outline of his face, knowing he was going to make it more blocky than necessary. He practiced on his hand due to lack of paper and couldn’t suppress a grin as a response tingled only moments later.   What is that meant to be? They wrote. Phil wanted to scream both with frustration and exasperation, that wasn’t a good start. Instead he smirked and wrote back ‘What you can’t tell?’ The response was instantaneous, A square? “Phil, you can’t possibly be so crap they can’t even tell what it is?” PJ laughed, reading Phil’s hand with a grin. Phil rolled his eyes, sticking his tongue out, “Apparently so.” ‘Nope, but I don’t blame you.’ He begun to sketch out the face shape on his paper, it turned out almost worse than the first time. OH GOD IT’S A FACE NO STOP PJ actually burst out laughing when he read the message and Phil kicked him so harshly in the leg that he let out a yelp. “Shut up.” He pouted, but it disappeared as his hand tingled softly, a sign that his soulmate was writing something. Instead of words, a perfectly shaped face, similar to the one Phil had been trying to produce was drawn on his wrist. You’re welcome :)

~-~-~

Mrs Danderbury was so boring Phil was sure he would pass out. Science, quite possibly one of the worst subjects there was and Mrs Danderbury most certainly did not make it any better. “Phillip?” She droned and Phil nodded. “What do you get when you combine one Oxygen with two Hydrogen atoms?” Phil refrained from groaning, this was Year Eight stuff! In fact, he was almost positive he had been learning this all his life. “Water.” She nodded, seemingly happy that he had been listening. Even though he hadn’t. A tingle traced itself around his wrist. Phil glanced down at the welcome distraction. A fake watch was drawn on there, time set to exactly 2:58. Only 2 mins to go till my freedom! How about you? Was scribbled underneath. Phil glanced around the room to make sure no one was looking before scribbling a reply. ‘Same’ He wondered if he should write down the thought currently pounding his brain. London? London? London?

Before he could change his mind he added, ‘Does that mean you live in London too?’ There was a small pause where little dots would appear on his arm but nothing else. It seemed as though his soulmate was unsure of how to respond. Phil thought his heart was going to explode from waiting when

YES!

~-~-~

“PJ!” He screamed, running down the hall not caring who stared at him. “PJ!” He didn’t even care when he halted to a stop beside his bewildered best friend who was currently in the middle of talking to Jack. “Hi Jack. Nice to see you.” Phil smiled falsely, “Can I borrow PJ for a minute?” He asked grabbing PJ’s arm and yanking him away before Jack had time to respond, “Thanks!” He called over his shoulder. “Phil what on earth is going on?” PJ gasped when Phil released his arm. Phil didn’t reply but simply pulled up his shirt to reveal the writing. PJ gasped as he read over it. “London?” He asked running a hand through his already messy hair. Phil nodded, heart drumming against his chest with excitement. “London! London PJ! They live in London!” Phil shouted as he danced around the room. “Phil you need to meet up with them!” PJ grabbed his shoulders. Meet up with them? That sounded so much scarier coming out of PJ’s mouth than it had in his head. He opened and closed his mouth like a goldfish, PJ stared at him expectantly. Eventually he swallowed thickly, “That’s so terrifying though.” PJ shook him slightly, “Hello? Phil Lester? You in there?” He slapped his hand to his head. “You can meet your soulmate Phil! Of course it’s scary! But are you really considering not?” Before Phil had a chance to respond his hand tingled yet again. Are you free tomorrow? Was written in the neatest handwriting his soulmate had ever used. Underneath was a small Totoro as they knew Phil loved Totoro. “Say yes Phil.” PJ said while reading over his shoulder. “This is your chance.” Phil nodded, his hand shaking slightly when he wrote down a small ‘Yes.’

~-~-~

His mother gave him a tight hug, “Are you sure you don’t want me to drive you?” She asked for the third time this morning. He rolled his eyes at her with a grin, “Positive. I want this to be an independent thing that I do.” He told her, not for the first time. She sighed but clearly didn’t seem to mind too much. Her smile was soft as she hugged him once again. “She’ll be great,” she assured him. He felt the familiar prickle in his chest when anyone said she. He assumed it was because you weren’t meant to know their pronouns. Another thing which couldn’t be written on their skin. “I know.” He replied with a bright grin.

~-~-~

“What if they’re awful?” He gasped, chewing his fingernails fearfully. “What do you know about them?” Chris asked as they sat at their usual table at lunch, Phil was much more stressed than usual. “They must be left handed because they always write notes on my right arm. They know enough about nerdy stuff to be able to draw it for me. Although I can’t be sure they don’t search it up obviously. I don’t know really anything about them guys, what if it’s wrong? What if she's some bleach blonde with a bikini body who hates video games and takes one look at me and laughs? What if-” PJ held up a hand at him to stop. “You’re rambling and talking nonsense. These things don’t get it wrong ok?”

Phil took a deep breath. What if I’m the first?” He mumbled. Chris rolled his eyes, “They call you soulmates for a reason Phil. Because you’re perfect for each other. She’ll be great.”

~-~-~

‘Kensington Gardens?’ Phil wrote again, to confirm. As though expecting it, his soulmate replied with Kensington Gardens at 4 :) “You right?” Chris asked as the bus approached down the street. “Definitely.” Phil smiled back before jumping onto the bus. His heart hammering with nerves. ‘Can’t wait’ Phil wrote back. The bus trip was spent stressing. Also chatting to the lady beside him who saw him write can’t wait on his hand and questioned it. “You’ve never met them before?” She asked with a knowing smile, wrinkled hands folded neatly on her lap. Phil considered lying, but there was no point as she could clearly see a conversation written on his two hands. “First time.” He smiled back. She didn’t attack him with questions. Nor did she tell him that there was no such thing as a soulmate. She simply nodded and asked, “How are you feeling?” “I’m so excited,” he stammered and as she raised an eyebrow added, “But also terrified.” “You’ll be perfect for each other. You are very lucky.”

~-~-~

He looked around the gardens, fingers twitching in his pocket.

There were three people there:

A very pretty girl with black hair who would be fine with Phil

A boy with blond messy hair who was approaching the black haired girl

An old man who was feeding pigeons

The blond boy wrapped his arm around black haired girl and basically stuck his tongue down her throat. She seemed fine with that so hopefully it wouldn’t be her. Though Phil wasn’t ok with it being an easily 80 year old man. He glanced around. Had they changed their mind? Just as he pulled out his pen to write a note he saw a boy walk up the path. He had brown chestnut hair which consisted of lots of adorable ringlets. Tanned skin which seemed to glow in the light. Phil watched the boy walk into the gardens before remembering why he was there. Soulmate. Seriously Phil focus. Where was she?

He scribbled onto his hand. ‘Are you on your way?’ He wrote with a badly drawn stick figure beside it. While waiting for the tingle he watched the people already in the park. The blond haired boy and the black haired girl were off in their own world, seemingly only interested in the lips that had been locked to theirs for the last couple of minutes. The old man was leaving having finished feeding the birds. Chestnut boy however was smiling at his hand, deep dimples puncturing each side of his face. He wrote something down. Phil’s heart skipped a beat as his hand began to tingle. Already here! Where are you? They wrote with a small pacman underneath. Phil took a deep breath before writing ‘Do you by any chance have chestnut brown hair and adorable dimples?’ The chestnut boy glanced down at his hand before looking up in shock. Eyes quickly scanning over Phil. He seemed to do a double take as he realised Phil was the only person without his tongue stuck down someone’s throat. Phil raised a hand to wave but the boy was already running towards him. He stopped about a metre away. Phil waited for him to speak. Instead the boy looked down at his hand and wrote. Phil felt the tingle instantaneously. Hi, just checking before I make a fool of myself.

Phil laughed, covering his mouth with his hand. “Hi.” Phil mumbled, cheeks flushed red. “Hi.” The boy responded, staring at his shoes. Phil took a deep breath. “Your art is amazing.” The boy glanced up in shock before laughing softly, “And yours is shit.” Phil covered his chest in mock hurt, “How dare you?”

“I like you anyway.” “Good to know. Or this would be rather awkward.” Phil hadn’t realised they had moved closer until he was only a step away from the boy. “Your name is?” The boy asked with a smile. “Phil.” He replied, “You?” The boy smiled, “Dan.” “Nice to meet you Dan.” He gasped as Dan wrapped his arms around Phil squeezing him tightly. His body warm, a comfortable barrier against the cold air. “You too Phil.” He murmured into Phil’s shoulder.

~-~-~

“Wait wait wait!” Dan held up his hands later that day, smile glittering in the light given off by the street lamps. “You like Muse?” Phil nodded, entranced by the dimple in Dan’s cheek. He couldn’t believe they had been talking all day, but spending time with Dan was just natural. They had clicked comfortably, the awkwardness evaporating after the hug Dan had given out of the blue. “Damn the soulmate thing is right you’re perfect for me.” Dan laughed, laying his head into the crook of Phil’s neck. They both stared up at the branches waving above them, reflecting the moonlight in beautiful patterns across Dan’s face. Phil laughed softly, “I feel obliged to tell you that I don’t like cheese.” Dan shot up from where they were lying down, glaring at Phil as though mortally offended. “What was that?” Dan asked smirking. He started to poke Phil wherever he could reach and Phil attempted to squirm away from him, laughing loudly. “I don’t… AH! Like… cheese!” He gasped between dodging pokes and laughing. Dan giggled finally relenting and wriggling back into Phil’s side. Their legs and arms brushing against each other in a way that made Phil’s insides squirm with happiness. “I still like you, just slightly less.” “Oi!”

~-~-~

“What was she like!” PJ and Chris practically jumped on him. Phil laughed at their eagerness. “ She doesn’t exist.” He said closing his locker and their mouths dropped open. “W-what? That’s not possible she has to exist!” Chris stammered as they walked down the hall. Just at that moment Phil’s hand tingled. “See she’s writing to you now!” PJ held up Phil’s hand and Phil nodded. “She doesn’t exist guys.” He stopped outside his english classroom, “But he does.” He walked into the classroom without another word, leaving them both gaping at him. Dan’s face on Skype was not as beautiful as in person, but the blurry pixels would have to do for now. “Hi!” He exclaimed, blushing a deep shade of red as Phil’s picture came into focus. Phil grinned when he saw the dimple create a crevice in his soulmate’s cheek. He waved back, “Hello! I have two people here who are sending me death glares to meet you.” Phil exclaimed, glancing up at Chris and PJ. Both of whom were bustling with excitement to finally meet Phil’s soulmate. Dan’s mouth dropped open in shock but he nodded, clearly flustered at the lack of warning. “Don’t worry,” Phil assured him as Chris and PJ slipped onto screen. He watched as they both examined Dan, saying their hellos. PJ leaned over to whisper in Phil’s ear, “He’s cute.” Clearly he said it too loudly as Dan turned an even darker shade of red, looking impossibly adorable as he hid behind his sweater paws. “Have you looked at Phil lately?” Dan mumbled sarcastically from behind his hands. This time it was Phil’s turn to turn into a tomato as both PJ and Chris burst out laughing and Dan poked his head out. Meanwhile Phil glared at his soulmate fondly, wishing he could dig a hole and die. Choosing instead to watch as Dan interacted with his two best friends, only days after they had met in real life for the first time. Was there a word that explained the way his chest fluttered every time Dan looked at him, his dimples poked into his cheeks. They continued to talk to each other, Dan slowly relaxing as they chatted about anime. Phil grinned as Dan began ranting about his favourite character from Free! Haru. Who just so happened to look exactly like Phil. “Holy crap you’re perfect for eachother,” Chris mumbled, Phil only just managed to pick it up and clearly so did Dan as he burst out laughing. He placed a hand to his heart in mock offense, “What does that say about me?” He teased Phil. Phil grumbled, having to force a frown on his face as Dan grinned at him, his eyes twinkling even through the shitty webcam. “Shut up.” He pouted and both PJ and Chris poked him teasingly.

~-~-~

They sat hand in hand, legs dangling down from tree in the park next to Phil’s school. Phil watched as Dan spluttered. “No, I haven’t kissed anyone actually. I have a soulmate, or did you forget?” Dan grumbled, his eyes trained at the branches at his feet. Phil felt his heart leap as Dan rubbed his thumb along the edge of Phil’s palm. He followed Dan’s line of gaze, to the branches below them, he remembered the way they had calmed him when he had been stressed. “No I didn’t funnily enough. I got kissed actually, by a girl who stopped when I shoved her off me,” He explained resting his head on Dan’s shoulder. They sat in comfortable silence after that, their arms swinging between their bodies. Linked in the way they always had, but more warm, and solid. Phil closed his eyes, listening to Dan’s breathing.

~-~-~

Jack scoffed as he approached, causing both PJ and Chris to turn and glare at him. “What?” He held up his hands in mock surrender, “It’s just amusing that the Seele hasn’t even kissed his soulmate yet.” Chris growled but PJ looked incredibly shocked at the slur. Jack had been careful up to this point not to use it in front of him. “I will kiss Dan when I want to,” Phil murmured, his voice laced with anger. He was planning to take Dan out on a coffee date today, and the last thing he needed was Jack’s thoughts on the matter. “Enjoy kissing your scum boyfriend, you’re both just a pair of filthy rats.” Jack sneered. Phil was on his feet the second Jack insulted Dan, his chair toppling over behind him with a loud crash. He grabbed Jack by the collar growling right in front of his face, “Say whatever you want about me, but never. Ever. Insult Dan again.” Jack’s eyes were wide in shock, but his mouth was set in a classic smirk. “Protecting the scumbag are we?” He teased and Phil saw red. Connecting his fist with Jack’s face he sent the boy flying across the oval. Chris let out a whoop, pumping his fist in the air. Phil was struggling not to laugh with exhilaration. If it wasn’t for the anger still pulsing in his veins, he might have joined Chris in his little victory dance.

~-~-~

Dan��s head was resting in the crook of his neck, his eyelashes tickling Phil’s skin. Phil was hyperaware of every place their bodies were touching. Every breath Dan took fanned against his chin. They were lying on the soft grass of Kensington Gardens, their coffee cups discarded in the bin down the path. There was barely anyone around due to how late it was, the moon and streetlamps were their only source of light. Phil watched as the tree above them swayed in the light wind, every branch jostling as it did so. It was so peaceful. “I punched someone today,” He told Dan, still looking up at the branches above them. Dan sat up in shock, staring at Phil with wide eyes filled with worry for him. “Why?” He prompted, his lips so close and kissable Phil wanted to cry, or reach up and just kiss him, but he doubted Dan would like him to leave him without an explanation. He shrugged, “They called you a scumbag.” He explained softly, reaching up a hand to brush a curl out of Dan’s warm eyes. Without any other warning Dan leant down and connected their lips softly. His lips saying thank you gently as they brushed against Phil’s. Phil could feel his heart explode with butterflies, his stomach flipping and his head spinning. He leant up into the kiss, turning them around so they were both sitting up straighter. Dan tasted like vanilla and his lips were slightly chapped. Every time they touched Phil’s it filled his body with tingles, exactly like when Dan wrote to him except everywhere, spreading across his body like a warm blanket. “Wow,” Dan murmured when they finally pulled away, his forehead resting against Phil’s, his breath fanning against Phil’s face. “Wow,” Phil agreed with a smile.

~-~-~

How’s my favourite boyfriend?

Phil rolled his eyes. ‘I hope you mean only boyfriend’ He replied with a smirk. The teacher started discussing the novel they were reading and Phil pretended to listen while waiting for a response. Sure sure :)  If it makes you feel better

Jack shot him a look from across the classroom. For once in his life, Phil didn’t care. ‘You’re an idiot’

Love you too xx

[adventk-blog]

                                             — ARE YOU WHO YOU WANT TO BE,

       introducing SHIN HOSEOK, a MUTANT, under the moniker of LUPIN — and currently a believer of SEPARATION. age ( twenty-three ) and gifted with the ability of MNEMOKINESIS, they are currently working as BARISTA.

WE ARE SO MUCH MORE THAN STORIES,

hoseok is born into nothing, as nothing, the son of nothing. he is a bastard — without father, a faceless man he knows nothing about. just that he had fled when his mother’s fingers had needed him most. his mother is without money, penniless and dirt crusted nails. but she is much more than her poverty — she is warm sunlight and beauty and a smile that always catches her eyes. and that is more than enough for hoseok. her lullabies sing the hunger pains away, and his finger never leave her side.

he learns quickly that the word is cruel; though it doesn’t make him unkind. it makes his heart blossom, really. budding into a field of warm flowers. he sees the injustice early on, and he fights to stand against it. ironically, he starts by thieving as a child.

he picks the wealthy men from the crowd — watches  them scream at innocents in their way and see their crooked faces twist and he can’t help himself. his fingers are deft, quick and light — and soon they fill with goodies. watches, wallets, jewelry of arranged sorts. he pawns it, earns a small living and helps his mother and him survive. on the rare occasions there’s anything left over, he donates it to another family struggling. anyone he finds in the streets, and lets his heart soar at their thankful smiles.

he grows and his skill only quicken. he’s bolder now, stealing from cars or homes. he earns more for it, donates what he can, and sometimes buys his mother flowers. he enters school and does well — as well as he can when his mind is on heist plans and the girl in front of him in english who smells like lavender soap.

she becomes a fair distraction in the time to come — she is sweet and soft and wonho treasures that. and she sees the sunlight blooming under the grime of his skin and she loves that. they become a couple, sweethearts in the fray of the high school halls. and they stay that way for as long as time allows.

perhaps it is not time that is cruel, but fate — perhaps she sees what he takes and thinks that he must pay a price. maybe not in money, but elsewhere.

it starts with his mother — her memory failing her. small things like his birthday, did she pick up eggs like he had asked, sometimes stumbling over his name. he thinks nothing of it then, dismisses it as her stress setting in and taking a toll. he merely vows to work harder to provide a safe place for her.

then it takes form of his love. she begins to forget as well. small things too, at first. when had they began to date? where have they meet? when was their first kiss? but then it grows. worsens. who are you?  she asks him one day.

his heart sinks.

she forgets him all together. forgets the years together and the love they shared and the nights with lips locked and fingers entwined. she introduces herself to him every day. “hello, are you new here? what’s your name?”

he introduces himself, thanks her. tells her she’s pretty when she smiles.

restart.

hello, are you new here? what’s your name?

he throws himself into his work, because distraction is the best way to heal the wounds she opens every single day. he’s making money now, figuring out the trade. steal from the rich, give to the poor.

it’s on a heist that he figures out what he is — something beyond human. he breaks into a corrupt official’s home, snatches their priceless antiques and goes to leave. but when he turns he’s face to face with a gun. the owner woke to him and the two stand off; and when the guy goes to shoot, hoseok panics and his mind screams.

ERASE.

and the man stops, glossy eyed. he drops his gun and murmurs to himself — “what was i doing? i should be in bed…” and he does just that. he waddles his way back to bed and leaves hoseok alive and feeling faint in the foyer.

it doesn’t take him long to put two and two together. it doesn’t take him long to put the power to good use too.

how can one catch a thief that no one remembers?

by the time he graduates he’s well off and his mother and him can move from the slums into something more. he starts college, mostly to cover up his nightly activities.

his skills grow and his abilities thrive; his mother, however, is less fortunate. explore to him begins to drain her of her memories. first of him, then of all recollection in general. the doctor’s say it’s alzheimer’s. he knows better, but he does not disagree. they take her into custody and care for her — tell him that this is best, they can help her here more than he could alone at home.

he visits her every day.

( remember me, remember me )

THERE IS FLESH AND BLOOD BEHIND THESE TALES,

/ debonair, intelligent, deft, kind

/ withdrawn, cunning, flippant, secretive

hoseok is withdrawn from humans, heart wounded and chest bleeding liquid love stains against his shirt. he is warmth and summer evenings, kind and generous and always with the best of intent. but he is also shadows, the swift descent of the sun and the reign of the moon against the ink sky. that is where he lives, amongst constellations with tragic tales.

he thrives off the risk of theft, and thrives even more when he succeeds in it. he dances with fate, like well versed lovers who cannot part, their strings always knotted together. his secrets do not harden him, his smile sweet and stunning — and they stay locked there. trapped behind a cage of teeth and bone. oh his secrets are his own, and he never spills.

–and he is suave in many ways. silly, almost, and mostly at the most inappropriate of times. he whispers tales of beauty into the shell of women’s ears, and guides handsome men into his paws. he has so much beauty to spare, and spare he does, charming his way into hearts like thorny vines. he nestles there, pretty and perfect but pricking. he enjoys the attention, the devotion, and the admiration. a gentleman at heart, always taking the lead and acting with kindness.

though gentlemen are never easy to grasp at, their hearts far from reach.

will you reach for his or be caught between his thorns?

AND EVEN MONSTERS CAN LEARN TO WEEP.

MNEMOKINESIS, also known as MEMORY MANIPULATION — the ability to control the memories of others, either through reliving/accessing these memories, altering them, implanting new memories, or erasing memories all together.

          APPLICATIONS :

MEMORY REMOVAL, allows the user to “delete” a collection of memories from the minds of others. whether it be memories pertaining to one event or person, or memories formed within a certain time frame. this may happen upon command, removing all at once, or after a series of long exposures to hoseok it may happen over time.

MEMORY READING, the ability to access or tap into someone’s memories and view them.

🔒 LOCKED — MEMORY SUPPRESSION, allows the user to lock certain memories within others, storing them into the back of their mind to be revisited and opened at another time

🔒 LOCKED —  MEMORY ALTERATION, the ability to alter memories, changing the details or order of occurrence or implanting new parts, objects, or people.

🔒 LOCKED — MEMORY IMPLANTATION, the ability to insert new manifested, or false, memories into a person.

🔒 LOCKED — MEMORY RESTORATION, the ability to restore damaged or forgotten memories.

🔒 LOCKED — RELIVE, the ability to force a person to relive through a series of memories the user selects.

              LIMITATIONS :

memory alterations of any kind can only be done to one person at a time, hoseok cannot alter the memories or anything of that like to a group of people.

those within a long exposure to hoseok naturally begin to lose memory of him selectively

when removing memory from someone, hoseok may only remove memories of himself or memories involving him from the victim.

if removing or accessing memories from someone, they must be within eyesight in order for his ability to work.

he can currently only access memories available to victims, ie no suppressed memories may be accessed.

he may currently only view memories that are current, only viewing memories formed within the last year.

he can only delete memories formed within a year time span currently.

those with mental or psychic abilities are able to nullify his powers and may be immune.

his memories are not protected automatically, so if someone were to share a similar power, he cannot protect himself from them and can also fall to it.

THREAT LEVEL ONE.                           00+ BRWN, 04+ RSLNC, 04+ INTLCT, 00+ WLLPWR, 04+ FGHTNG, 00+ SPD

[a-panda-reads-act-omega]

ACT OMEGA PART 26

THE 04/14/17 UPDATE

OH BOY HOW DO I WORK THIS DOODAD AGAIN BOY HOWDY I SURE FORGOT ABOUT TUMBLR FOR THE LONGEST FUCKING TIME

Whatever Alright so, I really don’t care enough to try and remind myself of what was going on during the last update so I’m just gonna get started on this one and hope for the best.

Alright so I kinda remember. Aranea just explained a ton of stuffs.

And Vriska isn’t pleased by it.

VRISKA: W8. VRISKA: So... what are you saying exactly? ARANEA: I thought I was fairly clear, 8ut I understand if this inform8tion is too jarring for you to a8sor8. ARANEA: It means that if nothing is done, everything that we know will cease to 8e. VRISKA: ... Everything. Really. ARANEA: Yes, Vriska. Everything. Every ghost. Every horrorterror. Every dream 8u88le, session, and universe. ARANEA: It will all eventually fall into The Pocket and 8e lost. ARANEA: Of course, this ensures that there is no point in time or space to which Lord English can escape. ARANEA: 8ut then again, the same goes for us.

Oh. Well shit. Apparently I was right.

They better get the fuck to work.

VRISKA: ........ ARANEA: If it is any consol8tion, from the perspective of any universes currently nestled inside of Skaia, this is 8usiness as usual. All universe die, and from the moment of the Vast Croak, they contain every instance of that universe and all of their histories at once. The residents of any given iter8tion have no real way of perceiving anything that occurs in this 8roader scope. They are free to live their mortal lives as they would have otherwise. ARANEA: As they say, ignorance is 8liss--a 8lessing that those of us among the dead cannot afford. 8ut the consequences of what we manage to accomplish will reach 8eyond such individual concerns and matter a gr8 deal to the masses yet to even 8e 8orn.

So, as I said.

They better get the fuck to work.

How do you even stop a black hole though? I mean, there’s like real world theories and shit but fuck real world. I already have sort of a theory. If they use The Tumor. Or, a tumor. I forget if that was a beta kids exclusive though, so really who knows if that’s even possible. But supposedly, the tumor has the capability to destroy the sun, so maybe if they could get some other tumor it could destroy the hole.

Why is everybody bein so J U Dgy. Fuck, just LOOK at Kankri back there. So hateful.

ARANEA: I did everything I could to prevent The Pocket from forming. ARANEA: In fact, I spent considera8le time and effort seeking out the Lost Cheru8 for myself. I planned to attempt reasoning with her, to convince her there must 8e some other way. 8ut she was far too elusive, and no doubt too dedic8ed to her cause to have listened if I HAD found her. ARANEA: So in the end, I failed, just as you did. I’m not too proud to admit that.

Well yeah, there was nothing you could ever do to prevent the worst thing possible from happening, that’s sort of a running theme in homestuck. You just kinda gotta. Find a loophole around the consequences.

Pf i forgot about double eyepatch sollux

Also, Wow Feferi sure is sad

ARADIA: i dont know about calling it a failure ARADIA: its just like you said isnt it? ARADIA: this was always bound to happen ARADIA: as i see it this is simply the story reaching its natural conclusion ARADIA: honestly im kind of excited! ARADIA: i had a hunch that this is how everything would end ARADIA: though the added context definitely makes it a lot more interesting

Goddammit Aradia pls take this seriously

FEFERI: So T)(IS is w)(at the )(orrorterrors meant. 38( FEFERI: T)(ey )(ave been w)(ispering about T)(-E -END for quite a w)(ale now. FEFERI: I t)(oug)(t t)(ey must )(ave been talking about Lord -Englis)( ripping t)(em and t)(eir bubbles apart! FEFERI: But t)(is makes muc)( more sense. FEFERI: It’s so )(ard to )(ear t)(eir sad little glubs now! FEFERI: Soon I t)(ink t)(ey will go quiet for good. 38(((

Oh. Well. I guess that’s bad. Yeah, the horror terrors dying is definitely a bad thing. God every time I take a break from liveblogging I lose so much context.

ARADIA: really? then whatever they have to say right now must be important! FEFERI: RIG)(T?! FEFERI: I am trying to listen carefully, but I must be )(earing t)(em wrong! FEFERI: T)(ere was SOM-ET)(ING about... a door?

Well you have a house. Maybe a door’s gonna pop up soon.

SOLLUX: man i’m glad i’m n0t the 0ne hearing v0ices, for 0nce.

I really just love the sassy stance Meenah’s got over there.

ARANEA: Are you sure that’s what they said? ARANEA: A door? FEFERI: Um well it sure did SOUND like t)(at, but t)(at doesn’t make any sense! Does it? ARANEA: What else did they have to say a8out this door? FEFERI: Glub! Not)(ing I can make out yet, sorry! FEFERI: Just... T)(-E DOOR.

Well. HUHM. I dunno, they’re building this up quite a bunch, so I doubt it’s just gonna pop up and they’re gonna walk through it.

OOH! MAybe they can like, seal the black hole in the house Or something

I don’t know

FEFERI: I can keep listening if it’s important. ARANEA: Yes, please do. It is vitally important. ARANEA: That door is likely our 8est 8et at circumventing our current plight! MEENAH: wait MEENAH: a door MEENAH: they couldnt b talkin about the door that showed up on the weaprawn i mean weapon

I mean that seemed obvious to me

MEENAH: right? ARANEA: Actually, I 8elieve that is exactly what they are talking a8out. MEENAH: how the fuck would a DOOR save our asses exactly ARANEA: It’s not a8out the door. It’s a8out what’s 8EHIND the door. ARANEA: If I am right a8out the nature of the juju, then that door could very well lead to another realm entirely, one completely 8eyond the reach of the ever-expanding Pocket. ARANEA: It is the key to everything--the only logical next step to t8ke! ARANEA: Everything is slotting into pl8ce!

Oh boy. Well this should be interesting. I don’t exactly know how that’s gonna stop the pocket but hey we’ll see.

MEENAH: uh... MEENAH: youre losin me serks ARANEA: THINK, Meenah. The story isn’t over yet! ARANEA: The Lost Cheru8 has done her part. We have done ours in activ8ing the weapon. ARANEA: 8ut what of the warriors? The challengers Lord English trapped inside his juju? Where do they come in? MEENAH: uh?? ARANEA: They are through that door! Them and the higher plane they have 8een trapped within for eons! ARANEA: The warriors could 8e w8ing for us to find and free them so they might do their work in repairing the damage the Lost Cheru8 has done. ARANEA: After residing in what could well 8e a macrocosm of infin8 power, surely they have the means to accomplish anything! ARANEA: What could WE accomplish 8y going there ourselves? MEENAH: uhh??? ARANEA: If nothing else, the juju is the only way we can escape the destruction of reality itself! ARANEA: It is the only path to take that leads somewhere ELSE! MEENAH: arane--

It’s probably true. Probably. I dunno. I mean, I’m really curious to just see what’s behind this door already.

oh fuck

What did le do

MEENAH: what the anglin fuck?! ARANEA: It’s already 8egun. ARANEA: Lord English is as aware as I am of the juju’s potential. 8ut it seems his 8est course of action is to aimlessly attack it. Perhaps a 8yproduct of how unsta8le he has 8ecome.

Daddy Caliborn just needs to take a moment to chill. Enjoy a lil ice cream break maybe.

ARANEA: Instead of fleeing The Pocket, he will stu88ornly try to evade his f8 even while facing certain destruction. And 8arring that, he will do whatever it takes to take doom us all with him. ARANEA: He will not rest until the juju is destroyed. May8e he could even 8e attempting to enter it himself! Either way, we CANNOT allow him to take away our last hope!

So what’s the game plan? How do they plan on getting through there with Lord English goin all fuckin berzerk on this poor house.

 MEENAH: ... MEENAH: yeah MEENAH: sure

Have some faith, Meenah.

O h thats a face.

ARANEA: “Sure”? ARANEA: You sound anything 8ut. ARANEA: Don’t you agree with me?

Call me crazy but I don’t think she does.

MEENAH: i mean yeah i guess MEENAH: all this stuff youve been spouting sounds legit MEENAH: maybe ARANEA: May8e. ARANEA: So, you don’t trust me. Is that it? MEENAH: i dunno! MEENAH: i wanna believe you MEENAH: but somefin just smells fishy MEENAH: mostly cause youre gettin kinda MEENAH: weird

To be fair, she’s always acting weird. I think the most worrying part about her behavior is how excited she is to pull this plan off. I don’t really think she’s gonna try to pull off another suicide plan. Worst case scenario, she tries to steal the glory from Vriska.

ARANEA: Weird? ARANEA: Reality is on the verge of collapse, 8ut I’M 8eing WEIRD? ARANEA: Don’t you realize what’s at st8ke?! MEENAH: Y-EA)( i do MEENAH: im just thinkin maybe we otter clear our heads before we bellyflop into anyfin ok geez MEENAH: wait for angelfish over there to synergize with the horrorglubbers or whatever ARANEA: Do you think we have time for that? At any moment, we could 8e erased forever! ARANEA: Don’t you CARE a8out DYING, Meenah?! MEENAH: i...

Nope. She doesn’t. She’s made this clear in the past (Look who’s been doing their Homestuck rereading. It’s me.)

ARANEA: You used to be so dedic8d to staying alive that you were willing to 8low us all up as a last resort! ARANEA: I know that we are all technically living on 8orrowed time. I am AWARE that every moment we’ve spent with our consciousnesses intact was a gift none of us really deserved. ARANEA: 8ut I’m not DONE YET!! ARANEA: I want to continue to exist! Don’t you?! ARANEA: I’ve 8een here for so long, trying to make the 8est of our situation, reaching new heights in skill and understanding, and yet I still...! MEENAH: 38(

Sorry Aranea, but I’m pretty sure Meenah has stopped giving a shit a while ago. Spending a zillion years alive/dead in the dream bubbles would do that to you.

ARANEA: Don’t you want to MATTER, Meenah? Don’t you want all of this to have meant something?! ARANEA: The fact that we were here, that we existed! If everything that ever was and ever will 8e is just going to disappear, then none of it will have ever meant ANYTHING! ARANEA: So please, just trust me! ARANEA: What scheme could I possi8ly have up my sleeve that would 8e worse than the alternative? What more could any of us have to lose?! ARANEA: All you have to do is listen

Yeah- Aranea you’re desperate ramblings aren’t helping to make you seem more trustworthy. You kinda need to CHILL a bit.

Oh my god. Sad mopey Meenah might be one of the best things I’ve ever seen? I wanna feel bAD because I SHOULD feel bad but it’s just too fuNny to look at for some reason.

MEENAH: ... fine MEENAH: whats ur big plan

And she gives in. All sad about it too. Good job Aranea, you made someone who don’t give a shit about nothing sad. S m h.

Goddammit Aranea she finally gives you the chance to explain your plan and you instantly go back to appearing more dramatic than you’ve earned the right to be.

ARANEA: We need to find a way past Lord English. While it might 8e within our a8ilities to defeat him as he is now, it feels to me like too much of a gam8le when so much rides on our success. We can simply lure him away with a proper distraction and deal with him l8er.

Well he’s not known for his brains so that should be easier than it sounds.

ARANEA: Really, the most sensi8le course of action is for me to call 8ack the remainder of the army. ARANEA: Perhaps it would even 8e 8est if I took control of the entire oper8tion? Surely you agree we don’t have time for any more petty squa88les. So long as I have control of the majority of our attack force, it would simply 8e more efficient for me to 8e calling the shots. Time is of the essence, after all.

Fuck yoooouuuu.  But Yeah.  It probably would be smart if You did that. Ahem.

WElp thats the end of this fucking liveblog what a goddamn miracle its finALLY RELEASED NOW PRAISE ME LIKE THE MESSIAH WHOSE RETURN HAD BEEN FORETOLD IN LEGENDS DATING BACK TO BEFORE MAN

bye

[hexwritesthings]

just like cherry blossoms

Fandom: My Hero Academia

Pairing: Overhaul/OC

Rated: M (for content)

Warning: Lemon mentions, cw violence, cw blood

Genre: Angst

STORY UNDER THE CUT

There were flower petals on her back. 

    It had taken him a long time to touch her, even when the urges struck him. He had already gone so far allowing her the most innocent touches--a caress to his face here, a touch of her hand against his there--that only made him hungry for more. In the world they both knew, that they both lived in, she should be as filthy as sin much like he was. 

    And yet her lips tasted anything but. 

    Gloved hands touched a delicate waist and eased her upon the mattress, exploring her--even with her clothes on, there was a sensual innocence about her. It was something he had to taste for himself. He has to assert dominance, control; to show her that she belonged to him and no one else--

    A gasp of his name left those pale pink lips as his hand slid her shirt up, the milky white softness of her skin unblemished in the front. For a daughter of a Yakuza boss, she ought to have been tattooed in more places. He had expected such a thing. Yet her abdomen was completely unmarked, no ink across the expanse of porcelain. How ironic, she appeared as pure as she tasted. 

    He shouldn’t be gentle, shouldn’t even care. She was a rival boss’s daughter, what did he care about what he could do to her? The answer came swiftly on the heels of that question, one that pushed him to wonder where he stood with her. There was something about her, this trembling female, that made his need to dominance surge--and just as equally, to make this be a night she’d remember.

    A night where his body marked hers. 

    When she sat up, and only when, that’s when she shed her shirt without a word and he could see it then; a beginning of a tattoo on her shoulder. Was it a branch? 

    “Turn around,” he ordered and she did just that. 

    Of course the tattoo wouldn’t be on her front. The ink that marked her, that was her, was imprinted on the soft flesh of her back. A thousand petals, a pastel pink against porcelain skin, falling from branches that adorned her shoulders. 

    “Cherry blossoms,” he murmured, eyes narrowed just slightly as he worked to remove his mask. “Your favorite flower, aren’t they?”

    “Not just that,” she replied just as softly. “They’re my truth.”

    “Your truth? You’re speaking nonsense.”

    “Am I? Aren’t lives fleeting just like cherry blossoms?”

    Nonsense, he told himself. She was speaking as if she lived long enough to know what she was saying. That wasn’t why she was here. 

    His arms wrapped around her, his lips brushing the start of the tattoo, at the base of her neck, while his left hand rest against her hip and the right worked to tug off her front-clasping bind. He wasn’t someone who was kind; after all, he had taken a rival boss’s daughter, someone who would run her family when she was deemed ready, with the idea of just simply killing the girl. And yet when he had her in his grasp…

When his fingers undid the bind, his alias left her lips in a gasp. “Overhaul--”

“Kai.” His response was short, and yet in a soft tone that she had never heard from his lips before. “When we’re alone, you call me by that name.” His hand slid to the column of that slender neck, wrapping his fingers around it. “Do you understand, little apple?”

It was a heartbeat of a moment before she nodded.  

That was a memory he seemed to hold onto. The moment Overhaul took what belonged to him--the absolutely wrong person who allowed him to take her body in all the right ways. This was just an outlet, he tried to tell himself, but even he knew. He was no fool. 

She had taken his heart and given him hers in return. 

He had touched every inch of her body with his lips; had his fingers tangled in her hair and gripping it tightly; leaving fingertip-shaped bruises on her thighs and hips. In an act he would normally find filthy, he made sure to purify her, to possess her. Never had Overhaul thought that a rival’s daughter would be the one he would take to bed. 

Not when he intended to take her life.

And her very being still had its hooks in him…

“K-Kai--!” His name was a gasp on her tongue as he pushed inside of her awaiting body from behind, his fingers clutching the silky, chocolate strands of her hair and pulling it, her head jerking back to follow the motion. His free hand drifted from her hip to her back, his fingers ghosting against the imprinted flower petals etched into her skin. Such a pure image on a pure girl. It suited her. She had fought him for so long that her submission to him was as delectable as the idea of possessing her. 

It was that vulnerable expression, the desperate cry of his name every time he slammed inside of her, that only served to spike his lust higher. Touching that place deep within that delicate, trembling body--being the first to do so--spurred the obsession the Yakuza boss had with the brunette, his instinct pushing to make her cry out his name louder so everyone knew who she belonged to. 

When Overhaul pushed her hard against the bed, his body pressed against hers as his hips pounded against hers, it tore a breathless gasp from the girl he pinned so deliciously beneath him. “Kai...w-wait! Too much, I--” A startled sound was ripped from her when Overhaul’s fingers drifted beneath her, between her thighs, to rub against her pearl. It made her buckle yet her back arched against him and her reaction made the man heated. 

She was of a rival clan and here Overhaul was, indulging in what could be considered such a filthy exchange yet she was the purest creature he has ever touched. His body marking hers, them being one, had him grasping at what control of the situation he had. He had to have absolute control.

And every time she cried out for him in desperation, she took what little thread he had. 

“Say my name,” he grunted, applying harder pressure to her bundle of nerves while slamming harder within her. “It should be the only thing coming out of your mouth. Say it.”

When he gave another rough thrust, his name left her lips in a loud cry. “Kai!”

 And he wanted to hear it over and over again. 

Yakuza should not fall in love.

It was something she and Overhaul knew implicitly. It was part of the world they were raised in. It was the crippling thing they’ve fought against ever since his minions brought her to the estate. It had started with just touches here and there, to rattle her. Yet they closer the became, the more dangerous it was becoming. 

“You don’t have to say anything.” 

Her voice was soft, her back facing him as she reclined on her side in bed beside Overhaul. Narrowed golden eyes shifted to look at her, her tattoo soon engraved in his retinas, as her words hung in the air. Were they an accusation? 

“What did you want me to say?” The question left his lips as he pushed himself upright. This girl was making his head spin, confusing him. He hated it as much as he thoroughly enjoyed possessing her. She turned her head then, not fully laying on her back; yet those hazel eyes burned into him as though he were the one being branded--and he hated that feeling too. 

He should have killed her.

“You know what I’m meaning, Kai,” she muttered, almost in resignation. “The one thing our world doesn’t allow because it’s a weakness.”

The male was silent, weighing the brunette’s words in his mind. It only served to irritate him further. He was almost close to using his quirk on her, to erase her from his world, but there was hesitation. Her presence--her consistent, constant presence--was one facet of Overhaul’s obsession with her. As long as she was there, his world was stable. “You’re referring to something as trivial as love?” 

“If it was so trivial, why did you take me to bed?” Her voice tinged with a challenge now. “You could hardly handle touching me when I first arrived here and now--”

“You think too much.” It silenced her and Overhaul felt a slight twinge inside of him. Was that regret? Silencing her thoughts when he knew what she meant. Despite her father keeping her like a rare animal in a gilded cage, she was astoundedly sharp. She wasn’t naive. She’d have been a formidable enemy left alone and she was here in his grasp instead. 

It was no wonder that he--

No. He would never say those words aloud…

And despite everything he embodied, everything that made him powerful, that made him feared--Overhaul had forced the regret into the recesses of his mind. She may have said that he didn’t have to say anything; but her words and her wants were two completely different things. Even now, when his eyes shut, Overhaul could still see it: the falling cherry blossoms against her skin and her words echoing in his mind.

“Aren’t lives fleeting like cherry blossoms?”

She knew. She must have, for her to say those words on that night. Overhaul hated her for it, enough that he wished he could have used his quirk to disassemble the girl before she had taken hold of him.

He hated it. Despised it. It was filth he is unable to clean off. It coated him like a permanent second skin. 

And it was all because of her--

Blood. 

The floors were soaked in it, smudges of it smeared on the walls. And her body was mangled almost beyond recognition, but he could recognize her with his eyes closed--all because of that tattoo that marked her existence. He’s traced that image with his lips and fingers countless times that one night they’ve spent together that he’s memorized it. The porcelain skin that had been flushed beneath his gloved hands ran cold, all traces of life gone.

Overhaul was known to kill his expendable minions when he was displeased. Yet the brutality in which he had killed more disposable men hardly testament to “displeasure”, it was too light a word to even use. Someone on the inside had let a member of her family; Overhaul was no fool to not know whom in her clan were a threat. That disgusting, filthy threat, whomever they were, entered Overhaul’s estate and found his little apple to bring her home. Knowing the sentimental girl as she was, with her nonsensical talk,  she refused. Undoubtedly, the foolish girl had claimed that she--

And that was why she was killed.   

Because of that frivolous, unnecessary emotion called love.

So then why…?

Yes, she was right. Life was fleeting, blossoming for a brief moment like the petals of a cherry blossom tree before fading away.

Just as hers had been and Overhaul’s stability--his control--was abruptly taken. She was a spectre that haunted every room, every crevice. Her scent still lingered long after her murder, agitating and soothing him all at once. Her voice still rang in his ears, softly, sweetly. 

And every spring when the cherry blossoms bloomed, he was reminded of that tattoo and how she was just like those flowers she loved so.