#i just hate the truth being drowned in a sea of irrelevance | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

theoscout · 3 years ago

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There's a channel called misha miraculous who uploads ancient film reels about a character named Whirl, who looks like a fantasy version of an anglerfish. He's a MASSIVE JERK for a cartoon, and I'd say he was made in around 194x (AFTER wwii). Acts like Woody Woodpecker does. According to his creator (Paul), he's a berberoka. Paul was originally aiming to be a horror artist to try and put the trauma he's suffered through life into artwork, however at the time most publishers only published horror comics of a particular style. Paul couldn't make his drawings that style, but he tried very hard and was left with a series of drawings that looked the same. Realising he could get into animation instead of horror comics, he repurposed the stories he had written about Whirl (real name Whirlpool but no one aside from Paul knows that) and began to make short films about Whirl.

Whirl is obviously a villian protagonist that people aren't intended to sympathise with. Instead, according to Paul, they are intended to sympathise with the people he hurts along the way. Paul said in interviews in the reels that sometimes there are villians in life that you can't escape from no matter how much you hate them or wish you could, and he wanted his work to show that. But he also wanted to show that said villians could be beaten and weren't invincible. Paul explains that berberoka in mythology are cryptids that would suck the water out of swamps and let all the dead fish lie at the bottom, to lure in fishermen to collect the fish. Once they were within range the berberoka would release all the water and attack and eat the fishermen while they were struggling with the influx of water. He designed Whirl to look like an anglerfish because they too lure in their prey before eating them. Whirl was never seen directly killing anyone in the cartoons, but he was a tricky kind of sadist who liked to pull people into playing awful kinds of games. (Whirl is magic and goes by whatever gender suits him at the time btw) She would do things like make miraculous inventions that in secret would make the lives of the person she sold them to far worse.

Whirl's inventions were like Wile.E.Coyote in terms of absurdity, but the difference was that they almost always worked perfectly until the victim figured out a way to turn them against her and escape his influence. So Whirl was quite a bit darker than most cartoon protagonists at the time.

Paul said that he had based Whirl off many people he actually knew, and that he didn't feel confident enough to write other central characters. He had anxiety which gave him self confidence issues and often led to him thinking of only the worst case scenarios which he would then fuel for his cartoon series. He argued against people who thought that having a berberoka as a character in a cartoon would be too dark for audiences by saying that the brothers Grimm would write tales far darker than what he did, and people tell them to their children all the time anyway.

Now for more on Paul and his family. Paul Fernsby was the middle child of a pair we shall call Mr and Mrs Fernsby. Their oldest child, Sean Fernsby, passed away around 5 years ago due to organ failure caused by severe stress and alcoholism. Their youngest child, Carrie Fernsby, is a mechanic. She struggled frequently in her job and school due to the stronger gender discrimination there, and as a result had to share a home with Paul in order to be more financially stable. Mr and Mrs Fernsby are AWFUL people. They aren't evil, they're the kind of insufferable pricks that think they're morally above everyone and that they're always right. Sean always wanted to be a dancer, for instance, but Mr and Mrs thought that was a job unsuitable for a man and refused to let him dance, instead forcing him to cut contact with all of his friends and force him to study to become a mechanic. Carrie and Paul both strongly believe that this played a major role in Sean's fall into alcoholism, but Mr and Mrs are still in denial. They insist that they *extended* Sean's life, and that Sean was just unhealthy to begin with and that a life on the stage would have killed him quicker. So they haven't learned anything about his death. What's more, despite opposing Carrie's early attempts to be a mechanic and trying to force her into being an obedient housewife for a future husband, when she finally got successful they took all the credit for her success and said that she was delusional and complained too much.

As for Paul? Well, Paul's a special case.

From a young age he had a special gift. The ability to see and hear things that no one else could. As a child he would frequently point out ghosts and fey that he occasionally saw in gardens or staring from nature reserves from a distance away, but no one else saw them so he kept his mouth shut. Originally his parents would yell at him for drawing when he could have been studying, so as a teenager he left offerings for the fey and asked for advice. And one day... something ancient and powerful began to answer him.

The creature identified itself as a pelagic god, but more specifically a ghost of one. According to the creature, it was once extremely powerful and was a tyrant of the land with it's powers thriving off the spread of fear. but eventually the people who once knew about it moved or passed away and it faded into weakness and irrelevency. So in exhange for making people fear it again, the god would grant Paul the power to live life as he pleased. Paul knew enough about fey to keep himself safe, and he kept the god a secret from everyone. The god didn't care what was going on in the cartoons, only provided that people feared her avatar. And Paul could provide for that just fine.

Eventually, Paul felt safe enough to confide in Carrie about the existence of the god, and Carrie built a special machine that would allow the god to communicate easier with people. They set very strict rules about how much communication there was, because neither of them trusted the god enough to let it close to them. Plus, with the success from the cartoons, the god was growins stronger.

The god granted Paul with massive viewer success the stronger it grew, and a lot of luck. No one knew about its existence, but the fear and awe from the cartoons would be enough to sustain it. Though they worked for each other in a mutually beneficial way, they still held a great deal of mistrust. Paul did not trust the god and some of her suggestions to problems he had were extremely disturbing. Plus, she had threatened to curse a number of people who 'got in the way' of Paul, and Paul had retaliated by threatening to stop producing the cartoon if she did that. Meanwhile, the god had been asking for Paul to reveal its existence so that more fear would be caused, or commit a crime, which he obviously refused.

Actually you know what? Forget the stuff I wrote about the pelagic god earlier, I got something that makes more sense.

Paul nicknames the deity the Unsiren because sirens are mythological creatures who sing to lure people onto rocks to drown, and the deity is a creature that screams from a cave to frighten away people and warn of dangerous currents. Unsiren was the deitiy who lived by the sea and was associated with fear, loud noises and the ocean. The tribe who lived there were constantly in danger from the sea, which they relied on for food but was too unpredictable for them to approach safely. Due to the geography of the underwater coastline, the tides were extremely unpredictable at random times of the day with little to no pattern. Think of the Bolten Strid from Britan- an innocuous looking stream which is actually a massive canyon filled with rapids that sucks you under and kills you the moment you set foot in it. That was how dangerous the water around the coast was.

But there was one way to tell about the danger. There was a cave in the side of the cliff, and at certain points when water would rush through it a certain way, the sounds produced sounded like whispering or roaring from some terrifying beast. At first the tribespeople feared the unseen creature, but eventually they learned to intrepret the noises of the ocean into ways that would lead them to fish safely. Their explanation for the sounds was that a massive creature who was too frightening to look at was trapped behind the raging rapids by some malicious fey, but then learned to use its frightening voice for good by warning people of the dangerous tide. So they prayed to the sea cave and the monster murmering behind the rocks to be there to warn of any changes in the tide, and would throw offerings of food into the sea in order to earn its favor.

But centuries of erosion meant that eventually, the sea cliffs that mutilated the dangerous currents and gave the sea cave its voice no longer existed. So with that, the stories of the great beast hiding beyond the rapids began to fade away, and so did their desire for the Unsiren to speak for them. The stories began to grow increasingly obscure, until one day the tribe went to war with invaders and suffered heavy losses. The few who still retained knowledge of the beast beyond the cave no longer existed to spread the story, and the creature faded into a strange purgatory.

The Unsiren isn't evil, but she is frightening by nature. She will go for the hard truth over any sugarcoated encouragement any day, and isn't afraid to speak up. Paul's ability to see into her realm and speak with the inhabitence there interested her greatly, and so did his desire to create. She made a deal with him to prevent herself from dying completely: provided that he could create a series that carried on her life's work, she would reward him with safety and stability whenever she could.

Her life's work was simply warning people about danger. More specifically water related dangers, but she could adapt to that. Paul designed Whirl in mind as a personified representation of the dangerous currents which now no longer existed, choosing him to be a berberoka because that seemed like the best fit. And Whirl's cartoons were made to warn about a variety of dangers, to children and adults. Abusive relationships, kidnappers, dangerous situations, peer pressure etc. The Unsiren had an avatar within the cartoon series, but that wasn't Whirl as the audience might be lead to believe at first. Instead, she's the narrator character. The voice of reason that usually goes unlistened to until the very end. The one who existed in title cards, and as a kind of voiceover narrating the episodes sometimes while using Paul as a medium. No one figured out how Paul was able to make himself sound like that, not even him.

Paul still didn't fully trust Unsiren at first, but she acknowledges that it was wise on his part. After all, it's in her nature to be frightening. Even if she is anything but evil.

#posting for convenience's sake here #my writing

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aveganmermaid · 7 years ago

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Ok so i saw that you read Brave New World and i wanna know your thoughts on it? I read it with my sophomore honors english class & me & many others all agreed we hated it and felt like it was really unrealistic kind of, even for a dystopian?? We compared it with 1984 and i think 1984 is way better and more realistic, maybe because we've already seen communist societies do those kinds of things irl?? Like i get the commentary being made, i just didn't like the way it was done. Idk, thoughts?

Omg I TOTALLY forgot to reply to this!!

Personally, I liked Brave New World and I think it was because it took the idea of 1984 and flipped it around... instead of controlling the masses through fear and punishment they control them through pleasure and happiness. While I definitely agree that it’s pretty unrealistic in the sense that... basically humans are genetically created to serve a very specific purpose in the world so that they never desire anything else, I think that the really important thing to take away from the story is the message: that without other emotions, without beauty in music, poetry, books, etc., without anything that gives life that kind of meaning... then what is the point of even being alive?

I don’t think the book was ever intended to be read as a cautionary manual of how else totalitarian governments can control their people like 1984 is. I think the novel is really meant to cause us to think critically about what makes us human and what is life without suffering? Is there a point to it? I also think there’s a lot of commentary on class systems as well. In the end, there are still class systems in place, there are people who are literally created to be “lower class citizens” who are responsible for doing everything that the upper class won’t. The upper class is created so that they may be the intellectuals... but even then what is intelligence if we don’t have things to study and dissect other than science or math?

It’s been a bit since I read it so I don’t remember all the details but I still thought it was really interesting and near the end raised a lot of really good questions about what the point of life is if there is no suffering in the world.

This quote by Neil Postman from Amusing Ourselves to Death really broke down what I was thinking:

“What Orwell feared were those who would ban books. What Huxley feared was that there would be no reason to ban a book, for there would be no one who wanted to read one. Orwell feared those who would deprive us of information. Huxley feared those who would give us so much that we would be reduced to passivity and egotism. Orwell feared that the truth would be concealed from us. Huxley feared the truth would be drowned in a sea of irrelevance. Orwell feared we would become a captive culture. Huxley feared we would become a trivial culture, preoccupied with some equivalent of the feelies, the orgy porgy, and the centrifugal bumblepuppy. As Huxley remarked in Brave New World Revisited, the civil libertarians and rationalists who are ever on the alert to oppose tyranny "failed to take into account man's almost infinite appetite for distractions." In 1984, Orwell added, people are controlled by inflicting pain. In Brave New World, they are controlled by inflicting pleasure. In short, Orwell feared that our fear will ruin us. Huxley feared that our desire will ruin us.”

I think what I like is that both novels dissect the idea of what drives human nature, pleasure or pain... and both results in their extreme cause negative civilizations that don’t allow for free thought. I hope that kind of helps about where I stand with the novel. I definitely agree it’s not realistic but I think the message is definitely more important than the logistics of the story itself :) We definitely need to be aware of both extremes!

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birdybytheshore · 7 years ago

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Title: Limiter One-Shots - ‘windows to another world’

Pairings: Alpha/Alpha

Warnings: Rape/non-con, knotting, psychological trauma, implied mpreg (i swear this thing is fluffier than it sounds...but it does get explicit)

Summary: A relaxing afternoon takes a turn for the worst when Tōgō, an esper with psychometry, receives a terrible memory from a seemingly innocent children’s toy.

About: apparently I do not know the meaning of the word ‘short’ because this small one-shot ended up being 9,000 words long.

it goes with my ‘Limiter’ verse, which is a bunch of omegaverse stories about people with psychic powers who are forced to live in government-run facilities and work for them for zero pay and a lot of grief. cross-posted to ao3 (where my penname is fenren).

this one is set in Japan, after a bunch of espers broke out of a facility. they fled to the mountains and (kinda) invaded the local villages there.

1. windows to another world

A child’s world is cast in bright, painful bursts of warmth and laughter that bubbles forth from his chest and drowns him in waves of joy. Touching an object as innocent as a doll or book often sends him reeling, blinking through a sea of memories half-formed and half-conceived. The images are aimless, disjointed, as is the nature of childhood. Pushing those irrelevant memories aside, he reaches for the one that contains a familiar shadow.

When he opens his eyes, a little girl’s smiling face is staring up at him expectantly. Other children’s wide-eyed expressions come into focus one-by-one. An older child, twelve-years-old and proud of the task he has asked of her, holds them back with a stern set of her lips.

“What did you see?” says the little girl, leaning forward as she eyes the doll held loosely in his left hand. It is a worn doll made from scraps of old kimono cloth and straw stuffing, its limp limbs meant to resemble a crawling baby.

He closes his eyes for a bit of dramatic flair that the children so love and says, “An omega putting this doll together in front of a warm fire, one stitch at a time. She was very pregnant, but I got the feeling that she wanted finish it before the baby was born no matter what. It was made with a lot of love.”

The little girl’s smile widens as she whirls around to address the other children.

“He’s right! I was born at the end of winter, but I didn’t tell him that!”

“No way!” an older boy of about fifteen exclaims, hopping to his feet. “That had to be a lucky guess!”

He smiles indulgently and hands the girl’s doll back with great care. Not a single inch of his skin touches hers. The girl beams up at him for a second more before returning the boy’s disbelief with a glare and a slight curl of her lips. He is much taller than her, but she doesn’t back down.

“Well, I believe him!”

“Now, now,” he says in his most soothing voice possible. “I really did see a memory of the omega who made this doll. But if you find it difficult to believe me, why don’t you bring me a toy from your own house? I’ll tell you what I see, and you tell me if I got it right.”

With children, he is direct and precise. There is no room for argument in logic that sound and straight-forward, so the boy darts off with one of his brothers following close behind him. Most of the children stay seated and talk amongst each other excitedly. He has no idea what any of their names are, and too many voices are clamoring to be heard at once for him to pick anyone out of the crowd.

“I’m sorry they’re such a bother, Mister Tōgō,” says the twelve-year-old. She shifts her stance as if anticipating one of them might stray from their designated spots.

“It’s no issue,” he assures her. “They’re very lively.”

In truth, they are giving him the beginnings of a headache. Their cheer leeches into the ground, and while the earth absorbs memories and emotion without holding onto them, the children are entirely too close for him to avoid those sensations entirely. He can only count his blessings that he was born with psychometry and not an empath; who knows what he would do with himself if the flood of emotions never stopped.

The two boys return shortly, the older one holding an embroidered handball. Its threads are faded and worn, but hints of the vibrant yellows and oranges of the ginkgo leaf pattern remain. The older boy tosses it between his hands and trots over, then hands it to him with a serious and highly dubious expression.

Tōgō simply smiles and reaches out to take the toy into his hands. He vaguely remembers playing with one of these long ago. His twin brother had wandered off during the game, bored of passing the ball around.

As soon as the skin of his fingers wrap around it, he is sucked into a whirlwind of color.

It is bright, but this time the painful glow of the memories sears his senses. They are streaked with vivid reds that hurt his eyes, with high-pitched sounds that murmur in his ears. It is bright like a sun at midday, but in the shadows, something insidious crawls closer and closer to him with every breath.

He must make a decision now. There are two streams of memories, two types of emotion associated with this object. One burns with the familiar joy of childhood. The other is filled with light, but gives off the cold shine of a moon in deep winter.

If he picks the first, he will see the person who embroidered the ball and, possibly, the message left within it. If he picks the second, who knows what he might see?

Tōgō is used to doing what he is told, no more and no less. Even his name is something another suggested for him. The boy surely expects nothing more than a memory similar to the one he gleaned off the doll.

But, Tōgō is no longer obligated to do that. A tremor of fear, of thrill, runs through him at the thought.

He selects the second set of memories.

There is a death. The people in the background are mere shadows, crouched over in poses of mourning. Yet he, or rather the subject of this memory, feels round and full like the weight of a full moon hanging in the sky. And the people in the foreground, familiar presences, are little points of light like stars struggling to stand out on a cloudy night.

The memories shift.

In a room filled with the warmth of the summer sun, he hears crying. It’s a soft melody, even and regular. There is a heavy scent in the air. A pair of small hands lifts the ball and it lands in the garden, surrounded by cool grass and shade from the trees. He gleans a myriad of emotions in those few seconds. Pain, shame, horror, anger.

When he sees the blood drip off the side of the porch, he becomes himself again.

“Mister Tōgō, are you okay? Mister Tōgō!”

He doesn’t recognize the name as his own for a few seconds. It has only just become his, after all. It is a complete stranger to him.

“Hey, move over, you brats. Give him some room.”

These voices are familiar, but all he hears is the low roar of memories coursing through this children’s toy. It is a very old possession. Tōgō remembers how much he hates things with a history and wonders why he agreed to take it in the first place.

The mass of warm, bubbling emotions moves away.

The ball in his hands is carefully removed. He panics for a second – he can’t handle another set of memories, this time from a person with much more to offer than a toy – but the hands never touch his own.

Instead, they place something prickly and light in his lap. It’s a pair of woven straw sandals, and not a pair someone has mended over and over again. It still smells fresh. Its memories are limited to a familiar alpha bent over them, sitting on a porch while he weaves them absent-mindedly. They serve a practical function. Yukihiko can use a new pair with how much running he does, and Kantarō owes him for all he has done on his behalf, anyways.

The memories end there. Tōgō looks up.

Kantarō is an alpha just like him, but he is a warm, solid presence like an alpha should be. His eyes are dark and his face, calm and reserved. When he stands close, Tōgō naturally feels some of the emotions and memories trickling from his body like anyone else. What he is feeling now is concern. It isn’t fluttery and panicky, but even and constant.

“Do you need a moment alone?” Kantarō asks, not even mentioning the sandals.

Tōgō breathes. It feels like he hasn't done so in ages.

“Stay,” he says. Even though he might be better off sitting under the tree alone where no one’s spare memories can touch him, he asks the man to stay. Perhaps because he is used to the request, being an alpha and all, Kantarō nods and slowly lowers himself down to the shady grass in front of Tōgō. He doesn’t try to touch him to ground him, nor does he offer his deep alpha scent.

Tōgō can smell it anyway. It settles from a mild hint of worry to a steady, slightly musky scent.

They sit there, Tōgō sorting through the simple memories stored in the sandals until there is nothing left to uncover. Kantarō gazes off into the distance at the houses that have stood in this village for generations, but he doesn’t give off the feeling of loneliness one might expect from a man who has been ostracized by the people he should be calling family.

Tōgō doesn’t know the whole story. His brother saw fit to tell him only the ‘important’ information – namely, to stay far away from the alpha known as Hiraki Kantarō.

“I don’t believe what everyone says about you is true,” Tōgō says suddenly, surprising even himself with how firmly he says it.

“But it is all true, more or less,” Kantarō says with a hint of amusement.

“People say you are manipulative and conniving, but that isn’t the impression I get from you.”

“You’d be right,” Kantarō says mildly. “It doesn’t change what actually happened, what I actually did, though.”

After a pause of hesitation, Tōgō swallows around the unease in his throat and says, “Do you think you’re a bad person?”

It is an incredibly rude thing to ask. No one in their right mind would dare propose such a question in the serious tone Tōgō used, but Kantarō looks unperturbed, maybe even a little amused.

“I don’t,” Kantarō states without an ounce of conviction. He isn’t trying to convince Tōgō, an esper who can read his memories and emotions as easily as seeing a picture. It’s a simple fact. “I did what I had to and I don’t regret it. I did hurt others, Hisako particularly, and I am sorry for that, but I don't think either of us would have been happier pretending to be what we weren’t.”

It doesn’t make much sense without the rest of the story, but Tōgō refuses to reach for those memories. Kantarō is sitting there, almost inviting him to touch his skin and see if he is telling the truth. Tōgō won’t do it. Not unless Kantarō tells him to. The cold touch of the memory from before comes to mind and he shivers.

“My brother told me to stay away from you, but…” Tōgō looks the other alpha in the eyes. They are a dark, warm brown that Tōgō feels the intense need to look away from, but the stirrings of the alpha inside him refuse to break away.

He wonders why. Kantarō won’t attack him, that much is certain. His instincts, when they arise, are often confusing like that. Tōgō ignores them and forces himself to look down.

“But…? You aren’t doing a very good job of listening.”

Tōgō scowls. He knows when he is being teased.

“He’s my younger brother,” he says coolly. “I’m not obligated to follow his every word. And, it’s not as if he understands; he’s not a telepath.”

“What does that have to do with anything?” Kantarō quirks a brow.

Tōgō stares at the sandals.

“Some people give off stronger signals than others,” he explains. “Like children. I’m not good at handling them. Their emotions are too strong, and their memories…Then there are people like you. You don’t feel things as strongly as others around you, do you?”

“Usually, you wouldn’t consider that a good thing, I don’t think.” Kantarō’s silence on the actual question is an answer in and of itself. “Do I really seem that way to you?”

Tōgō nods. “You’re direct with your emotions. You come out and say them. You let them go. It…hurts when they get bottled up and spill over.”

“Like the ball from before,” Kantarō says. He leans closer, narrowing his eyes. There is no concern in his scent, but his eyes are searching as he tries to make contact with Tōgō. “It makes sense. That one belongs to Shirō – he’s the fourth son in his family, but the sixth child overall.”

“It has a lot of history,” Tōgō comments quietly.

That is a huge understatement. He shifts. The memory was old, but not that old. It must have been one of Shirō’s older siblings he saw. Whatever happened back then has come and gone, but Tōgō is left with a sense of unease.

“Don’t you want to know what it was about?”

“I’m curious, yes,” Kantarō says in an even tone. Any other person might assume he doesn’t care despite his words. “But only if you feel like telling.”

Kantarō is telling the truth here – and it doesn’t make sense. Tōgō frowns and turns the sandals over in his hands. He asked out of courtesy, but psychometry is an ability meant to be used for finding out secrets that may have otherwise been lost to time. To keep the information to himself feels even odder than the contents of the memory itself.

“Something terrible happened to whoever owned it last,” he says after a moment. He looks up at the sky peeking through the branches overhead and takes a deep breath. “I saw blood. Someone died in that house. Then there was a funeral. The person holding it felt…happy. No, happy isn’t the right word. Satisfied? Yeah, satisfied.”

Round and full like the moon, a feeling of completeness. Confident he is right, Tōgō brings his gaze back down to Kantarō, who sits there with a pensive look on his face.

“Shirō’s uncle died when Shirō was still very young. Because his mate died not long beforehand, everyone said it was from heartbreak.”

“Was he an older man?” Tōgō inquires.

“Did you see him in your vision?”

Tōgō shakes his head. “No.”

“Well, he wasn’t. He was, what, in his late thirties to early forties? It happened ten years ago.”

Ten years. Tōgō shuts his mouth. Ten years might as well be ancient history. Clearly, no one knows what actually happened. He is sure it wasn’t a simple case of heartbreak. If only he had searched a little further, he might have seen more – enough to sort out what exactly occurred in that house.

No, he scolds himself. He isn’t an esper working for the government anymore. He doesn’t need to draw every ounce of information out of every item he comes across. No one asked him to play detective.

Kantarō is staring. Craning his neck so he can look Tōgō in the face, expression filled with curiosity. Tōgō can’t sense the familiar pressure of insistence in him, though. Kantarō is just that type of person. If Tōgō won’t share or say anything, then it wasn’t meant to be.

Tōgō’s heart pulses quickly in his throat. It’s nice to be around people who don’t push for more, but strange at the same time.

“Do you want to find out more?” Kantarō asks, straightening his back. “I can ask Yuki for you. He can talk to Shirō’s older siblings. If anyone knows what happened in that house, they would be the ones to ask.”

“I shouldn’t pry,” Tōgō says. “It’s none of my business.”

“You live in village where everyone has known each other since we were crawling around in diapers,” Kantarō says with a deep, gentle laugh. At the slight confusion on Tōgō’s face, he adds, “One person’s business is everyone’s business.”

Ah, Tōgō thinks with a sharp jolt of shame, he would know, wouldn’t he? What should have been a matter between mates became the concern of the entire village. There isn’t a single person native to the area aside from Yukihiko and his younger sister Ishiyo who is willing to speak to Kantarō.

“They won’t believe me,” Tōgō says.

“Maybe not, but you never know.” Kantarō shrugs. “It’s up to you. I’ve got to get going now. Come find me if you change your mind.”

Tōgō holds the sandals out for him. Kantarō takes them with a smile, careful not to touch Tōgō’s fingers, not even a little.

“Do you want a pair?” he asks. “I can make you some for winter. It gets really cold up here in the mountains.”

At first, Tōgō’s instinctive reaction is to stiffen and expect the worst. He is no empath, but it’s usually quite apparent when an alpha is interested – except Kantarō’s expression never wavers. The thin stream of emotion rolling off him doesn’t stink of arousal and suddenly, Tōgō is ducking his head in shame to have attributed such intentions to the man simply because he is an alpha. Tōgō knows plenty of alphas who would never do such a thing – though those have all, up until now, been espers.

This isn’t the facility. He has to keep reminding himself of that. Every morning he wakes in a room that smells faintly of life, of straw mats and wood, not the cold cells he grew up with.

He doesn’t remember having spoken to Kantarō for any length of time in the past, yet the man waits patiently as if he already knows Tōgō’s habits.

“I don’t have anything to give you in return,” Tōgō finally says, pointedly ignoring what his silence on the matter insinuates.

Kantarō shrugs. “It’s fine. This is just a side job I do. Despite what my parents say about me, they won’t let me starve.”

He even says it with a bit of good humor. Tōgō smiles thinly. “Okay, if you don’t mind.”

He’ll just have to find something to give the man before winter comes. The omegas should have some ideas if he goes to visit them, but he probably shouldn’t mention the gift is for Kantarō. But then they might pester him to reveal which ‘lucky omega’ has earned his affections.

Kantarō waves goodbye and leaves, to wherever it is he lives in Momigi village. Tōgō watches him leave just as a hot summer wind blows through the mountains. He looks up at the swath of leaves shading him from the sun and inhales a deep breath of damp, humid air. The kids from before told him it would probably rain soon, but he doesn’t know how they can tell. That isn’t something his psychometry can tell him about.

The children seem convinced that his readings are simply lucky guesses or the result of extensive detective work, but Tōgō isn’t bothered when they give him half-hearted glares and call him a liar. It’s better that they leave him alone and fine one of the omegas to indulge them in play. Tōgō can tell he makes them ill at ease with his clearly alpha scent but complete lack of charismatic dominance the other alphas have.

It’s fine with him, but not so much with his brother.

“Calm down,” Tōgō sighs as they walk down the street to the only store in the entire village. “You’re scaring the children.”

Yūsaku has been glaring at every single one that dares to give Tōgō a sideways glance, having no doubt heard of his utter failure the other day. Everyone nearby can smell the pissed off alpha scent rolling off him in subtle, but definitely present, waves. The kids tend to scatter and hurry along when they smell it, but a few braved the scent. Then Yūsaku bared his teeth at them and that was as far as their courage got them.

“They’re giving you funny looks.”

“They’re not going to hurt me,” Tōgō points out. “I doubt they could do very much damage even if they tried.”

His twin gives him an odd look, but Tōgō’s psychometry only picks up the annoyance in his mood. If he touches him, he’ll receive a plethora of nasty images – memories of all the times Yūsaku failed to save him. He doesn’t have to worry about his brother crossing that line, though. He makes sure they stay far enough away from each other on the road so that even if someone bumps into him, he won’t accidentally brush Tōgō.

“The kids aren’t the ones you have to worry about,” Yūsaku frowns.

Tōgō rolls his eyes. “This is why everyone says you have a brother complex.”

“I don’t have a brother complex!”

Yūsaku certainly has something, but Tōgō doesn’t actually know what it might be, so he keeps his mouth shut and hums in agreement. They reach the store in another ten minutes. It’s a small establishment by modern standards, but the largest building in the village by far. Apparently, it has always served as more of a community center than a store in the true sense of the word.

They stop before going inside to report for their jobs. Yūsaku fixes Tōgō with a steady, if uncertain, gaze. His arms are crossed and he looks like he is about to explode. Tōgō waits for him to find his words with a patient smile.

“I heard you were talking to that Hiraki guy after you did a reading on some children’s toy,” he mumbles. “Did anything happen?”

Tōgō’s lips twitch downward, but he doesn’t let them fall into a frown. “No, nothing. It was just that the toy had an odd memory attached to it, and he snapped me out of it. That’s it.”

“An odd memory?” Yūsaku might not be a telepath, let alone one with psychometry, but there are some aspects of Tōgō’s abilities he does understand after twenty-six years of knowing each other. An ‘odd’ memory is usually bad news for someone involved. “Do you think–”

“I think everyone has their secrets and I shouldn’t pry,” Tōgō interrupts him. Still, the cold satisfaction and the brightness of the shadows in that memory haunt him at night. He isn’t curious, per say. It just – bothers him.

“It bothers you,” Yūsaku says as if he is reading his mind. “What did that alpha have to say about it?”

His brother’s tone of voice is very short and to the point. Not an ounce of emotion remains in his words. It’s on purpose, of course, and Tōgō appreciates it.

“What he knows about the incident doesn’t match up with what I saw,” Tōgō informs him. “But like I said, it’s none of my business. It happened ten years ago.”

Yūsaku flinches. A tremor of a memory flicks through Tōgō’s mind, but it isn’t his psychometry’s fault. His ability just makes the memory more vivid.

“And,” Yūsaku says hesitantly, “you can be sure it won’t happen again?”

“The man involved is dead,” Tōgō says. He lowers his voice to barely above a whisper. Anyone else might not hear him, but he and Yūsaku are accustomed to it from the days when they could do no more than whisper a few snippets of conversation to each other without risking punishment. “Though what I'm not sure of is whether he really died of grief like Hiraki said, or if he was – well, killed.”

His brother grunts in thought. Unlike the non-espers, he knows that Tōgō’s ‘visions’ always tell the truth.

“You think, maybe…”

“I think it might not be worth it to go after a guy who is already dead and gone. Hiraki didn’t make it sound like he was a bad person. Whatever he did, it’s history now.”

Yūsaku nods.

“We’ll give it some thought,” he says. “Try not to let it bother you.”

It’s already too late for that, but Tōgō gives his brother his most convincing smile and they head their separate ways.

He dreams about it later that night.

Telepaths usually have some self-awareness in their dreams, at least enough to identify it as such. At first, Tōgō allows the shadows in his surroundings to swell around him, and for the ball in his hands to glow as bright as the moon in his hands. He accepts that for what it is without complaint.

Then he hears a soft melody, an even rhythm of sobs, and smells the amalgamation of slightly sweet musk and the earthy scent of the summer’s humidity. The scream of the cicada in the garden blares in his ears, drowning out the crying. It is a hot sunny day that threatens to rain, though the sky is quite clear with only a few tufts of clouds floating over the house every now and again.

He knows he is dreaming when that image, which has held constant for the past few nights, shifts and he finds himself laying on his back staring up at the ceiling. It’s the same room. The interior is shrouded in darkness to keep it cool, but his skin feels sticky with sweat. Warm, damp, calloused hands slide up the smooth skin of his inner thighs and part them with a little force. Those should be the cold, starch scented gloves of a trainer or handler, and the contrast jogs his brain just enough to realize his memories and the memory attached to that handball have become a single dream.

Even knowing it is nothing but a dream distorted by the reading he did a few days ago, Tōgō lacks the power to end it like other telepaths do. He has no choice but to endure it.

The heavy scent hanging in the air is an alpha’s deep musk, the slightly sweet scent an omega’s slick. Neither belongs to Tōgō, though he can feel the foreign sensation of wetness coating his insides. His body burns with shame, and he flounders when he cannot immediately identify it as his own or as belonging to whoever’s memory has overlapped with his. A scream is welling in his throat, but a broad palm clamped over his mouth prevents him from doing more than making strangled, warbling cries.

There is pressure at his entrance, a large blunt object pushing insistently forward. It eases into him without stopping, widening his muscles even as they clench to desperately push the intrusion out. He is squirming and crying low in his throat as pain pinches at his nipples and pleasure floods up his abdomen at the same time the head pops into his ass. He convulses, insides fluttering in pain as the alpha above him holds him by the hips and thrusts punishingly hard into his body before he has a chance to adjust.

Tōgō doesn’t know whether this is him or the person in this memory anymore. He remembers how much it hurts to have a thick alpha’s cock spread him, ramming into him without regard for the burning pain or how much he screams. In this dream, however, something stops him from releasing the fullest extent of his voice. He can only whimper and cry. He even tries a broken attempt at a croon to get the alpha to stop.

The alpha’s heavy balls slap against his ass and the head pushes deep inside. He feels so full, so shamefully and uncomfortably full.

The handlers never had him on his back. He looks up through tears and sees nothing but their impersonal expressions as they fuck into him, recording how he reacts to his psychometry reading their arousal and pleasure at hurting him.

Then he feels a gush of something warm sting and stretch his insides and he cries out, knowing it is piss, and that soon he will be filled with urine, cum, and an alpha’s knot. It unbearable for his tight hole that was never meant to take an alpha’s width or semen. He squirms, but a voice growls in his ear to shut up if he doesn’t want his parents, brothers, and sisters to know he is an omega slut.

He isn’t. Tōgō isn’t even an omega. He tries to argue his case, but he feels the alpha’s knot begin to catch on his rim and swell inside his passage until it strains at his walls. It hurts even more as it repeatedly stretches him, and he can feel the urine leaking out around the knot, the acidic burn as it seeps into his torn flesh. He cries and cries as the knot pops in one final time, then swells even more, locking all that liquid in him. The alpha grunts above him and jerks him off as he is filled with cum.

It hurts. It’s so full.

He closes his eyes and whines –

Then he opens them and screams at last.

When he wakes up, he can’t smell anything except the reek of fear and arousal. Hands grab him by the shoulders and, before his psychometry can even react, he shrieks and lashes out. His nails catch on something and a hiss of pain registers, satisfying, in his senses. Every inch of his body crawls and trembles and his lips curl into a snarl.

He’ll bite the dick off anyone who tries to stick theirs in his mouth. He can do that now – now that he is away from that hellhole. Before, they would dangle his brother’s safety over his head. Threaten to send him to another facility, to separate them. No matter how much he pleaded with them, all they saw him as was a whining animal. Less than one, even. As if he was a machine with some very interesting and amusing functions programmed into him.

Something wraps around his shoulders and he cries out, tries to lunge away, but it gets trapped in his limbs and he lands on the futon with a loud thump. As he scrambles to get up, he takes a deep breath of much needed air. It smells – damp, and faintly of the fresh scent of rush straw. His movements slow down as his breathing evens out and the fear pulsing in his gut subsides.

He hears the person in front of him calling a name. Tōgō. His name. He has a name, now, and he is no longer in the facility or trapped in his dreams.

“Yūsaku…?” he says tentatively, afraid to hope it is his brother. What if this is the nightmare, and the dream was his reality? He will wake up back in that room, violated and alone, and he has always wondered how much more of it he can take. They don’t care that he is an alpha. They find it even more amusing and satisfying than abusing omegas, sometimes.

“It’s me,” says the person in his brother’s voice. “Calm down. It’s just me. No one else is here. We’re in Momigi village, remember? We escaped that place along with the others.”

His brother touches his hand, just a brush of his fingers against the back of Tōgō’s palm. A cold, sick rush of worry floods into him, and he sees every time his brother has reached out to him without being able to help in the past. Tōgō squeezes his eyes shut. Beneath those memories, though, are other moments. Frustration at choosing a suitable name, the soothing cordial atmosphere of their first time trying hot pot.

“I’m sorry,” Tōgō says, because it’s familiar and easy to get out even when his mind is a mess of anachronistic memories. “I’ll – I’ll fine in a second.”

“Take your time,” Yūsaku demands, putting a small but barely commanding growl into it. Tōgō sinks into the sheets, the surface of his skin sweaty from all the movement. “I’ll go draw a bath if you want.”

Tōgō shakes his head. “I’m fine. Just – some water, please?”

“Sure.”

When his brother gets up and leaves, Tōgō breathes a sigh of relief. He is alone again, but this time he can hear the soft murmurs of the other alphas waking up around them. He smells fear, his own, and through the thin walls the deep concern of the others. An alpha’s instincts to react and protect can be stronger when they detect the fear of another alpha than an omega, even, under certain circumstances. Anything fierce enough to scare an alpha is a major cause for worry, after all.

But everyone here more or less knows that it is nothing but a nightmare. Tōgō has been drawn out of sleep from catching the scent of the others trapped in their memories. They’ll all be back asleep soon.

He finally gets around to untangling himself from the bedding and sits cross-legged in the middle of the room.

“I suppose I can’t just forget about it,” he says when his brother finally returns. “I’ll ask Hiraki about it in the morning.”

“If you’re sure he can help,” Yūsaku responds. “In the meantime, get up so we can fix these sheets.”

Yukihiko. The cheerful beta who stood at the entrance to the narrow, hidden path up to the village and greeted them when no one else dared approach the strangers with even stranger powers. He is both incredibly easy and difficult to find for the reason that he splits his time between the various villages and hamlets that make up the old Taira clan’s hideaway. His warm, helpful nature is otherwise easy to pick out of a crowd or find in villages as small as these.

It takes Tōgō a few days to corner him and ask where Kantarō lives. No one else will tell him even if he asks and he has looked around, but the lone alpha is nowhere to be seen. According to Yukihiko, his house is a tiny thing on the outskirts, on the side of town closest to the suspension bridge that leads to the next village. It’s an old place that belonged to a doctor from two generations or so ago. That was before the practice was moved closer to the center of the village after a particularly harsh winter.

When Yukihiko asked him why out of curiosity, Tōgō hesitated before saying he wanted to repay Kantarō for helping out the other day. Luckily for him, Yukihiko was already talking about the festival the villages are going to host at the end of the summer, the previous topic forgotten in his enthusiasm.

Tōgō stands outside the alpha’s modest house and already feels the weight of the memories lingering in the air. The place hasn’t served as a clinic in ages, but he can almost smell the cloying scent of sickness in the air. He can’t stay for long.

“Excuse me,” Tōgō says when he walks up to the door. The sliding door is made of wooden panels worn beyond belief, but it still looks sturdy. He hears someone moving around inside and backs up before the door slides open with a little effort on Kantarō’s part.

“It’s you,” Kantarō says rather unnecessarily. He looks over Tōgō’s shoulder, but finding no one there, steps aside to let him walk into the entryway. “I’m sure you didn’t come by just to say hello.”

Tōgō inclines his head and steels himself. He tucks his hands in front of him, ignoring how it makes him look smaller, and follows the other alpha inside.

“It’s about the matter from the other day,” Tōgō says. “The memories I saw from the children’s ball?”

“I figured. Do you want tea? I don’t have anything special, though.”

“No, thank you,” Tōgō says, perhaps a bit too quickly. He can’t afford to touch anything in this house, though. Kantarō leads him to the low table where he was doing his work. Piles of several sizes of straw sandals sit next to it. “I wanted to ask you about that family.”

“Okay,” Kantarō says, sitting down across from him. “I’m not sure how much help I can be, but ask whatever you want. I won’t get offended.”

If it was anyone else, Tōgō might doubt that and grapple with how much information to reveal and how much could be left unsaid. People do get defensive, or doubtful, and he doesn’t really blame them for it. Kantarō really means this, though.

Relieved, even if he is a bit confused still, Tōgō takes a deep breath and continues, “You said Shirō’s uncle died, and so did his mate not long before him. Do you recall how his mate died?”

There isn’t really anyone to tell among the espers even after Tōgō has an approximation he hopes is close to the truth. Most of the espers politely ignore the non-esper villagers, and the feeling is mutual. Tōgō was only approached that day because the kids managed to find his hiding place and wondered if what the adults said about those people with strange powers was true.

Instead, Tōgō pays a visit to the home belonging to Shirō’s elder brother. He had to ask Yukihiko’s younger sister, Ishiyo, about the next day because Yukihiko had already left for Nitao by the time he was finished at Kantarō’s house. The girl had been more than happy to point him in the right direction, but warned him that Shirō’s brother, an omega named Sōjirō, has a young daughter.

What Tōgō knows about omegas is limited to the few he knows from the facility. He hesitates outside the front door, knowing that his status as an alpha will be seen as intrusive and threatening. Once again, he is struck with the strong notion that this is none of his business. What happened ten years ago is done and gone. He is only doing this for himself, to rid himself of those nightmares, and the thought is frightening in its own way.

“Mommy, someone’s here!” He hears a child’s high-pitched voice from around the back where the garden is, and sees a small girl bound to the furthest reaches of the fence while looking over her shoulder.

An omega walks out from the garden wearing work clothes, his hair held back by a handkerchief. He is holding a broom in one hand and wipes his other on his apron before patting the girl on the head. When he looks in Tōgō’s direction, he gives him a faint, shy smile, and a tiny bow in deference to his dynamic.

Tōgō nods his head in return and suddenly, he can’t do this. Whatever happened to Sōjirō in that house is over. He has a daughter, albeit far later than most would expect of a pretty omega like him, and a mate who Tōgō has met before. The woman is a bit loud and fond of drinking, but he has never felt intimidated or that she was ever trying to pick a fight.

“Good afternoon,” Sōjirō greets him warmly. His voice is a bit deep for an omega, but it’s soothing and amicable enough. “Can I help you with something? If you’re looking for Hatsuyo, she’s working at her family’s store. It’s near the teashop in town.”

“Oh, um. I…” Tōgō distinctly remembers one of the nights he went drinking with the other alphas. It’s one of the few times the espers and non-espers share a room without staring at each other suspiciously. One of the village betas teased him for not being alpha-like. He only got a few words in before Yūsaku lunged for him and nearly started a fight, but Tōgō remembers his words clearly.

There is nothing he can say to this omega. Nothing he should say. In the past, it was never his responsibility to decide what to do with the information he pulls from the objects he touches. He only ever spewed whatever he could glean from them and promptly forgot about it.

Sōjirō’s smile falls. “Is something the matter? Are you feeling ill?”

He is polite, holds himself straight, and his eyes express genuine concern.

“It’s nothing, I’m sorry for disturbing you,” Tōgō says hastily as he backs away. That beta would laugh if he saw Tōgō now, running away from a sweet omega like this one. Now he just has to make his excuses and leave. “I saw your younger brother, Shirō, the other day.”

“Oh! I heard about what happened.” Sōjirō smiles down at his daughter and tells her to go find her friends to play with. She pouts, but runs off down the street obediently. Sōjirō himself has a troubled look on his face. “I apologize on his behalf. It upset you greatly, and he hasn’t been around to apologize. I’ll mention it to our mother, I’m sure she’ll–”

“Ah, no, it’s fine,” Tōgō says with a quick shake of his head and a shaky hand gesture. “Please don’t bother. I was just caught off guard.”

Sōjirō has walked up to him to talk, and now that he is so close, Tōgō can smell the hint of concern on his scent. It’s sweet, a little too sweet, and Tōgō realizes that he must either be coming off a heat or entering one in the next few days. He doesn’t seem to take the expensive suppressants that come in monthly shipments from the villagers who go down to the towns and cities for supplies that are difficult to come by in the mountains.

What in the world is Tōgō doing here?

“Just out of curiosity, what did you see that surprised you so much?” Sōjirō asks politely. “I’m not sure how those powers of yours work. Apparently, Hiroe Moritaka from Nitao has them, but I’ve never spoken more than a few words to him personally.”

“I’m a subtype of telepaths who can pick up or ‘read’ emotions and memories from the objects we touch,” Tōgō explains. If the description wasn’t so generic, he would be stuttering right now. He can’t retreat any further without seeming rude, so he stands his ground. “I just – I saw a memory of a funeral when I touched it. It surprised me that a child would bring a handball to a funeral.”

Sōjirō blinks and his lips part, though no sound escapes. His gaze falls to the ground as he responds with an absent smile, “Oh. That is surprising. I didn’t think – it’s really that accurate?”

Tōgō nods. “Sometimes things get a little muddled, but generally, yes.”

“I’m sorry, then,” Sōjirō smiles up at him. “I was the one who brought it to the funeral, you see. That was so long ago, I forgot it even happened until you mentioned it. I’m not sure what got into my head.”

The memory never revealed that reason to Tōgō. All it gave him was that feeling of utter satisfaction. Knowing the truth chills Tōgō more than the memory. Staring down at this petite, charmingly docile omega and knowing what he did to protect himself is even more frightening than facing his nightmares. He decides right then and there that it is best to leave the matter alone. It’s a secret that can stay known only to him, his brother, Kantarō, this omega, that embroidered handball, and the dead.

“I apologize for interrupting you,” Tōgō says again, with a thin expression he hopes resembles a smile. “If you could tell your younger brother not to worry about it…?”

“Of course,” Sōjirō says.

“Have a good day.” Tōgō begins to walk away. He can’t stay around here any longer.

“You, too!” Sōjirō calls out. A pause, and it seems that the matter is settled, until he hears running and looks over his shoulder. Sōjirō jogged a bit to catch up to him enough to call out, “Mister alpha! If you ever want to talk about it, feel free to come over for tea. Hatsuyo won’t mind!”

Tōgō freezes. It’s not often alphas cower before omegas, but a terrible unease sweeps through him as he nods and watches Sōjirō pick his broom up and return to the garden.

He finds himself outside Kantarō’s place again after that harrowing encounter. The sky turned grey and overcast and started to rain as he was walking out of town, but he was too far to turn back.

Now, soaked down to the underclothes, he regrets not ducking into a shopfront to take shelter. There is no telling how long the rain will last, though, and he would rather spend it in good company. He calls out, “Excuse me!” again and waits for the alpha inside to open the door.

Kantarō sees him and shakes his head, then steps aside for him to get in and out of the rain.

“Let me get you a towel. And a change of clothes.” Kantarō disappears into the house’s only other room, the bedroom in the back while Tōgō plucks at his shirt and slacks. They stick to him like a second skin.

Kantarō returns holding a bundle of dark cloth and fabric. He tosses the white towel at him first, then pauses before handing the second bundle over.

“You can change in the other room,” Kantarō says, letting the folds unravel to show off the brown yukata. “If you need help with tying it, let me know.”

He does, in fact, need help tying it. Once he was dried enough, he stepped up onto the worn but clean straw mats and took the change of clothes to the bedroom. He peeled his wet clothes off and held the yukata in front of him, wondering how hard it could be. Plenty of the men and women in these villages still wear traditional clothing in their day to day lives.

He slid his arms into the sleeves and crossed one side over the other, but it was a little long for him as he suspected, and he didn't know how to reproduce the special knot used to tie the sash.

“Um,” he calls out, feeling silly. He’s twenty-seven, not seven, and he can’t even get dressed. “I need a little…”

Kantarō peeks his head in immediately, but that is because his house is the size of two rooms. Tōgō holds the yukata tight around him, well aware of the shallow scars scattered across his body. The other alpha observes him with an analytical eye for a moment. Then he steps inside and walks right up to him.

“Move your hands, I can tie it for you.”

Tōgō draws back. “How do I do it?”

“It’s easier to show you.”

Figuring that he isn’t getting out of this, Tōgō relents and releases the folds of the yukata. Kantarō, like the time with the sandals, doesn’t touch him unnecessarily. He wraps the yukata around, bunches it up around his waist until it isn’t touching the floor, and cinches it there with the sash, which he ties quickly and moves to the small of his back.

That wasn’t so bad, Tōgō thinks as he follows Kantarō to the main room. He was careful. The yukata is snug around his waist, but loose elsewhere. Not too suffocating, and there is nothing but mild, pleasant memories contained within it.

“I ended up not asking him about it,” Tōgō informs him as he prepares tea in two steaming cups. Kantarō nods to show he is listening, but makes no comments yet. “Some things are better left alone.”

When the other alpha returns to the table, Tōgō breathes in his scen, which is amplified by the humidity in the air. To his amazement, the storm of memories associated with this place is dulled by that scent, or perhaps just Kantarō’s steady presence.

He closes his eyes and wonders how many more nights he must have that nightmare before it fades away to join his other memories.

“I felt really stupid once I was there,” Tōgō admits, eyes still closed. “It really was none of my business.”

“It was, though,” Kantarō says, quite suddenly and with the same strength of conviction Tōgō heard from him a few days ago when they were talking about the rumors surrounding him. “If you really do experience those memories as if you’re taking part in them, then it does become ‘your’ business.”

“Wait, how do you know…?” Tōgō doesn’t remember telling him that he sees memories from the perspective of the object involved, or the person holding it.

“I asked your brother. He doesn’t like me very much.”

When did that happen? Tōgō shakes his head. “He doesn’t like many non-espers. I can’t believe he actually spoke to you, though.”

Kantarō smiles, and it strikes him as handsome, charming. It’s a shame no one in the villages will even think of talking to him anymore, after what happened with his last mate.

“He came asking me what my ‘intentions’ towards you were. And he threatened to hang me off the side of a cliff if I tried anything.”

Tōgō doesn’t know what to say, suddenly rather embarrassed. He scowls and huffs. “Seriously? I’m sorry about him. He – he’s overprotective.”

“He was just worried about you.” Kantarō shrugs, as if it’s no big deal that Tōgō’s brother threatened to toss him off a cliff. As if it’s justified, somehow, because he was ‘worried’.

“He treats me like I’m a frail, sickly omega, and I’m not,” Tōgō argues. He sweeps a strand of wet hair behind his ear and shakes his head. “And he’s not allowed to harm non-espers with his powers, so don't worry about that.”

“I wasn’t,” Kantarō says simply. It would be more infuriating if not for the fact that his honesty and level emotions are a breath of fresh air to Tōgō, who is used to concentrating his hardest to block the worst out of his environment.

“Why? I know I don’t really classify as the most threatening of espers, but some of us are dangerous.” In other words, have some sense of self-preservation. Then again, if this guy really cared about such a thing, he probably wouldn’t have broken it off with his mate.

“Because he and I both knew you’d be upset if he really did off me like that.”

What? Tōgō, flustered, ducks his head and frowns. He can’t help but feel – pleased, he thinks. Pleased and at ease.

Kantarō leans forward across the table and smiles, though it’s more of a smirk, and less of a smirk than a quirk of his lips in amusement. For once, Tōgō really has no idea what it means. He isn’t an empath. He knows the man isn’t upset, but beyond that is a mystery to him.

Tōgō lifts his arm, noticing for the first time how cold his fingers are despite the summer heat. He wants to – “Can I?” he says, reaching out for the other alpha.

“I thought you said I was easy to read,” Kantarō says evenly, though he doesn’t protest as Tōgō gets closer.

“That’s just the surface.”

“Go ahead,” Kantarō says when he realizes Tōgō isn’t moving for a reason. He reaches out, his hand hesitating before clasping loosely over Tōgō’s wrist to drag him the last bit of distance until he can touch the outer corners of the man’s lips. They’re warm and dry, and Tōgō opens his powers up to the stream of emotions from this man.

If most people are raging rivers surging forth after a long, cold winter, Kantarō is placid like the surface of a lake. Ripples may form on the surface, but Tōgō can wade through those with no issue.

“Thank you,” Tōgō says as he pulls away, his flushed cheeks not abating by any significant amount. “Do you really feel that way? I thought your last mate was a beta.”

“I thought you were never wrong.” Kantarō scoffs, and it stings a bit, more than when Yūsaku makes fun of him or snaps at him in frustration. He knows his brother, after all, perhaps better than he knows himself.

“I–” he hesitates. “Yes. Generally, what I see isn’t wrong…”

“Then you already understand. I don’t know you that well, but I like you. They say there are some people you are meant to spend your life with from the moment you meet, and others are meant to pass through your life just once. I didn’t feel either way with Hisako.”

“But why?” he asks. It’s not that Tōgō doesn’t understand what he felt and saw. It’s not that he doubts the authenticity of it. He simply cannot comprehend.

Kantarō smiles, but it’s a funny thing. As if he indulging Tōgō, and maybe he is. “Apparently, the things I say put you at ease. And that makes me happy. Maybe it’s only because I’m an alpha and that’s in our nature, but…”

Tōgō stares at him, wondering. He shouldn’t feel warm and this pleased, not by an alpha’s flattering words. He is an alpha himself, even if he hasn’t always acted like one. Even if others don't treat him like one.

“Well, no matter how I feel now, we have only just met each other.” He shrugs. It’s fine if you don’t feel the same way, he is saying without words, but Tōgō already knows all of this from that single touch.

“I – I’m not an omega.” It’s a weak argument. That’s the problem with having telepathy or psychometry. It’s impossible to claim he doesn’t understand, but Kantarō doesn’t call him out on it. “I’m sick and tired of being treated like one.”

He says the last bit softly, as if admitting it will make it even more true than it already is, at least to an extent. Kantarō doesn’t know him, and that is a fact. He has no idea of the things Tōgō has done, how much of his pride as an alpha he threw away to protect himself and his brother. And the fact that he can keep this information to himself even while it rages just beneath his skin is somehow unfair.

“I know you’re not an omega,” Kantarō says. “If I wanted an omega, I wouldn’t have mated with a beta. That, at least, was my choice.”

“Oh,” Tōgō says, because that makes sense. He bites back a smile. Then, he decides then and there, “I’d like to try to get to know you without my ability. If you don’t mind waiting, if you don’t mind if I stop by every now and again…”

“As long as you don’t mind being the talk of the town,” Kantarō says with a roll of his eyes. “They’ll gossip. They won’t leave you alone, even if we stay nothing but friends.”

“Don’t worry,” Tōgō laughs. “My brother will have it covered.”

#omegaverse #a/b/o dynamics #a/b/o verse #alpha/alpha #every pairing is a slow burn #.togo.#.kantaro.#.yukihiko.#.ishiyo.#.yusaku.#my fic #limiter verse #limiter oneshots

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ms-erie · 8 years ago

Text

Well, Thank you, No, Really

They always taunted him, he, Sawada Tsunayoshi, but he never listened. When they punched him in the gut and made his everyday life a misery, he ignored it.

A tragedy, that’s what his life was to them.

Why?

Did he care in the first place?

His Mother didn’t care for him. She ignored his very existence and instead catered to his brother. His brother who was younger than him by a year absolutely hated him. He was surprised; they even remember his name and still consider him as a family. Though, with upturned mouths like he didn’t matter.

Did they matter to him?

Pain, was his best friend.

Of course, as a child, he would feel lonely, because why didn’t Mama, Nana love him? Where was Papa, Iemitsu? Why did Otouto hate him? Why can’t they play again? So many questions his old child-self asked.

Then he stopped asking.

He became too numb and empty. Like a shell, forgetting his bright self.

In Junior High, he became known as Dame-Tsuna because he’s so useless.

“No, I’m not. I know I’m not.”

Did he care?

No. Not a damn about it.

He swam in the sea of networks. He became emerged in Hacking. In truth, he was more intelligent than his younger brother. He just didn’t feel the need to show off. He started accumulating money by hacking for information that mafia families wanted. It was dangerous, he knew, but he hid his tracks and it was clean. He was safe.

At least now, he didn’t need to ask for money and get meager pieces of coins.

Through his first year in middle school, he drowned in words. He loved reading books. It was his only positive friend to shield him from his other, negative friends called pain, loneliness, sadness and abandonment.

Books filled his clean room. His mother couldn’t care less for him so there was only a bed, a cabinet and a small table on the floor. The only thing his father left for him was the laptop with an external drive. The books lined themselves on a corner. It raged from classics to teen fiction, he didn’t care; he just wanted to occupy his mind.

Eventually, he disappeared. He learned to divert people’s attention from himself and his family just forgot about him. It was bad.

But he didn’t care.

His room was untouched, no one opened it, and no one bothered to.

People from his school forgot he existed, carefully going through the crowd and disappeared. Teachers just called his name and marked him present, then eventually forgetting him the rest of the day. Dame-Tsuna did not exist. Neither did Sawada Tsunayoshi.

He still lived in his house but his mother didn’t cook him breakfast or call him for dinner. Only calling her perfect son to come down and eat. Tsuna just got down and went straight to school. The school population didn’t bother with him anymore and he just did his best to keep his grades on average.

Then on second year of his Junior High, the fact that his father worked in the mafia surfaced. Of course, he knew. He was a Hacker; he knew the insides of the mafia but didn’t show it. A baby, Arcobaleno went to tutor his brother. The baby was a curious being. He has the body of a baby but didn’t seem to think like a baby at all.

Tsuna just ignored him.

The Arcobaleno didn’t bother with him either, just telling him about the mafia with his brother then that’s it, he seemed to always forget him anyway.

It was really easy to erase any trace of rivalry with his brother.

He just disappeared out of the picture and no one wondered why.

Then his brother confessed to Sasagawa Kyoko in his boxers. He looked at the scene impassively and turned away.

A kendo captain challenged him in a fight for Kyoko.

“Wow, just, wow. A round of applause because I don’t care.”

He looked at the fight and knew the Arcobaleno was involved in his brother’s sudden strength.

He knew the Disciplinary Committee would not stand this and looked across the gym to see Hibari Kyoya in a corner. He noted the look of pure blood lust in his eyes and continued his merry way.

His brother won.

“Wow. Congratulations! You won with your boxers on!”

A transfer student from Italy, mmhm, it smelled mafia.

He challenged his brother.

His brother won.

The challenger is a lost puppy. Isn’t that great?

Then his brother said something stupid to the fake Yamamoto Takeshi.

“His smile is fake.”

Yamamoto Takeshi almost committed suicide.

His Brother saved him. Hooray.

Then other people came barging in the house like the kid in cow print suit and the Chinese girl.

“Well,” Tsuna thought. “It’s time to move out. They will need the extra room and I want to get away from all those craziness.”

So he moved out. His mother and brother with his tutor didn’t even notice it. His room that was filled with books was now empty and bare save for the original furniture’s.

He moved to a small apartment in Tokyo, and left entirely for good. He enrolled in another school and sustained himself by writing articles and translating articles, novels and mangas into English online. He left all the hacking in Namimori.

The mafia didn’t need anything from him anyway

Five years have passed, he is now a first year student in college and again, he just moved with the flow of everything and still drowned in words.

Their school allowed them to work in part-time jobs and he worked as a part-time assistant editor in a nearby publishing house.

He was content with his life, going to school, editing books and reading books. He didn’t want to be bothered by mafia anymore.

Not until mafia came knocking at his door.

It was a Thursday night, one of the days where he didn’t have school but he had an editor job. So he came home with his dinner in a plastic bag in the cold autumn breeze behind his back. He’s having a small feast for the success of that book; thankfully, he wasn’t allowed to drink so he wasn’t invited in the celebration.

He fished his keys from his bag and went inside. He took a shower and went to cook his small feast and ate it. He was going about his nightly routines before going to bed when he heard a knock.

Odd.

Who would visit him at 11 in the Evening?

Still, he opened the door slightly, not taking the chains off.

“Who is it?”

The man looked eerily familiar; he had black hair and sad but warm brown eyes.

“This is the house of Sawada Tsunayoshi, isn’t it?”

Cautiously, Tsuna looked around the man and saw a… child?

“Yes, what do you want?” He was blunt but hell, he doesn’t care.

The child spoke to him with a mature voice, “We are friends of you brother, we want to talk with you.”

Brother?

The one who seemed to hate his guts and ignored his existence? The one who’s got their parents attention? The one who is the mafia boss though, technically, he’s the oldest?

Oh, yeah. He remembers now.

This probably got something to do with mafia but none the less, his intuition told him to let them inside.

Once they have settled in the small circular table of Tsuna’s small apartment, silence became thicker than anything else.

Wow. This is awkward.

“So, do you want to tea or coffee?”

“Coffee would be fine.” The man answered while the child remained quiet.

Tsuna stood up to make it. He came back with three cups of black coffee, sugar and creamer on the side.

The two mixed their coffee to their liking while Tsuna silently watched them as he sipped his black coffee.

Once they were finished, he put his coffee down and asked the question he had in mind.

“So, what do you want to say to me about my Brother?”

“Your Brother is dead.” The child said bluntly, his fedora shadowing his eyes.

“Oh.” What?

“He was killed in a feud.”

Okay. What am I supposed to feel now?

Tsuna didn’t know what he was feeling, maybe a bit sad but he was entirely indifferent.

The two watched the Brother of the one they served and searched for some kind of emotion, whatever it is. Some sadness or pain but no, he just looked impassive as if this piece of information was irrelevant.

And that’s it, the man, who was the same age as Tsuna, Yamamoto Takeshi, slammed his fist on the table.

Now, don’t break anything, I’m just a poor student.

“Do you even care that your Brother died?! That-that-”

“Yamamoto.” The child warned the man. Yamamoto seemed to relax and he slumped slightly.

“Your Brother was very important to a lot of people in the mafia.”

Okay, so what am I supposed to do with that?

“And… since, the Decimo is now dead, the only living candidate is you.”

Oh, wow.

Tsuna remained silent and just stared at them.

The child, Reborn, tried to read his emotions but couldn’t.

“If I don’t take that throne, what will happen to the mafia?” The candidate finally answered.

He didn’t hesitate to answer, “It would be torn apart and fall.”

On the inside, Tsuna was frowning and raising his eyebrow, on the outside; his face is very impassive.

Does this kid have any emotions? An unbidden thought from Reborn.

“All of the things your Brother had, the Guardians, the power, the authority, everything will belong to you.” Reborn watched Tsuna with calculating eyes.

When suddenly, Tsuna sighed and looked at them, showing expressive but unreadable eyes.

“So, I’m just going to step-up and take the throne like a substitute because the original is dead.”

His visitor’s eyes widened.

“No-”

“Don’t try to cover it up. You see, mafia came knocking on his life and look at where he is now.” He said that in a very casual voice, it was scary.

“And then you want me to take over because no one’s going to.”

“You have a point but-”

“Look, let’s all be honest, I bet my father, the Young Lion of Vongola said that my brother is the eldest.”

“Yes but how did you know that?”

“Yes well, it was a guess, because in all things, being the eldest counts that you take over the family. It’s an ancient common sense but guess what? I’m the eldest.”

The two looked at him in shock. “Well, well, looks like the cats’ out of the bag.” The candidate looked at them amusedly.

“You could ask him, he’s so easy to read in the first place.” He continued as if daring them.

“And NO,” he said firmly. “I will not take that throne. I’m content where I am, with what I’m doing. No one cared about me in the first place. The mafia didn’t care about me for five years. So why should I?”

He went to the door and opened it, “Get out.”

A firm stare got them walking towards the door and outside of it. “I’d like to say it was nice seeing you after a long time, except it wasn’t.”

“And a warning, if I may, if any of you come to my University or Work, I’m going to castrate all of you. Good bye and don’t come back~” The door closed.

Reborn knew; the one they ignored, the one they put aside, will make the mafia strive. Why didn’t anyone see this?

But no, it seems it will be hard to persuade the candidate.

They stood there for a long time, staring at the door and wondering how they’re going to report this to the aging Ninth Boss of Vongola.

Well, only time will tell what happens; at least mafia will become a bit more interesting.

===========

This takes me waaaaay back when I was so stressed (and I had time) that I needed to write a things. Katekyo Hitman Reborn fandom has always been my calm place. I could take refuge in it and let go of all the thing’s I’ve been bottling up. All the things I could’ve done.

#katekyo hitman reborn #i just wanted to try posting this here old stuff

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