#its kind of a pain when all the dye fades but maybe he finds someone with a quirk to help him out! to keep the color

[bkdk-and-extras]

I just think Kiri deserves to have a flawless fluffy mane of hair. I do. He should have that.

[emotionalsuppork]

⁂Bokuto⁂    Soulmate AU

Okay so I remember seeing a couple of tumblr posts talking about hair soulmate AUs way back whenever - Specifically the whole ‘when you dye your hair the other persons hair changes’, or ‘when you turn a certain age your hair mixes with theirs’, even a ‘your hair colors switch’ - but I totally forgot about it until I read a Bokuto one-shot about it by oreosmama and couldn’t get this thought out of my head.

I wrote this a little differently and I didn’t really explain how any of the soulmate stuff works, but it’s fine. 

Anyways, THIS IS THEIR IDEA! I DON’T TAKE ANY CREDIT FOR THE CONCEPT! I JUST KINDA WROTE THIS AND THOUGHT IT WAS CUTE AND SOMEONE ON THE INTERNET MIGHT GET A KICK OUT OF IT!

❤ their blog  and  their one-shot❤ 

A girl ran into the empty entrance hall of the gym. She probably figured everyone had left since practice had let out a little while ago and, to be fair, everyone had already left.

Well, almost everyone.

Bokuto had stayed behind. He got caught up talking to the coaches, and he was practicing way before any of the others showed up to practice. Of course, he was going to stay late too. And he worked hard; he rightfully deserved the hot shower. 

He went through this rant when he was in his (hard-earned) hot shower.

It was only when Bo walked back into the locker room that he realized he was alone, and nobody actually cared if he stayed late. 

He got dressed and repacked his gym bag, taking out his phone to text Kuroo and ask what time he wanted to meet for lunch.

While waiting on Kuroo's response, he made his way into the main entrance hallway, strolling towards the vending machine. He dumped his gym bag on the bench sitting in between the vending machine, deciding against a snack, and instead fumbling for his wallet to buy himself a drink. That was when the door was flung open, and he watched the girl run in, her jacket held over her head as a makeshift cover from the rain outside. She walked a few feet into the hallway before collapsing against the wall, sliding down to sit on the ground after a few heaving breaths. She whimpered once, a broken sound, then pulled her knees against herself, burying her head into them and hiding her face from view.

Bokuto didn't know what to do. He only came out here to grab a drink from the vending machine.

She didn't even notice him; he could technically leave.

He sighed quietly to himself. Her jacket was completely soaked. It was slowly slipping off her head. Luckily the rest of her clothes, a thin-looking shirt, and skirt paired with (thankfully) thicker looking leggings, seemed more or less dry. He sighed again, defeated, and slid his phone into his hoodie pocket.

He really didn't want to leave her here alone.

He walked over and finally got a good look at her. Then immediately froze and choked on a breath.

Her hair was just like his!

Well, okay, it was styled a little differently but still! He broke out into a wide beaming grin. His soul mate! He found her! and she was....crying?

Oh shit.

His grin slowly faded, and a deep frown crept into its place. Her shoulders were trembling, and he could see her stuttering, uneven breathing, could hear her choking on little sobs. He slowly inched his way closer, and she seemed to be alerted to his presence by the time he got in front of her. When he stopped in front of her, she glanced at his shoes and curled into a tighter ball.

"Hey, uh, are-are you okay?" she sniffled softly and rapidly nodded her head up and down. He hummed and crouched down to try and see her better, with no luck.

"Are you sure?" he tried again. This time she took a moment, then shook her head side to side and back again. He dropped down to sit cross-legged in front of her.

"Do you wanna talk about it?" She didn't respond, and he started to panic a little, "Or-I mean, you don't have to actually, like, talk. Maybe I could guess or-or something?" He shook his head at his own stupidity. He was making a damn fool of himself. But she let out a quiet huff, and he forgave himself. At least he got her to laugh. Sort of.

He opened his mouth, racking his brain for something funny he could say to lift her spirits, but he snapped it shut when she raised a shaky hand to point at her hair. She dropped her hand back on top of her knees, still hiding her face from view. He physically wilted, feeling unbelievably heavy all of a sudden. I made her cry? What did I do!?

"Your soul mate is the problem?" She slowly nodded her head again. He didn't notice his hand reaching out for her until it was hovering over her head. He promptly snatched it back, instead using it to tug the hood of his sweatshirt over his damp hair and pull strings a little tighter. He cleared his throat. I'm not hiding, I swear.

"What happened? Do you know them?" She shook her head again and took a deep breath.

"N-no, but I-" She took another shuddering breath, "I'm sorry. I'm having a bit of a rough day today." He was stunned. Her voice was so pretty, and melodic, and soft, and...and pretty. He shook his head.

"No, don't be sorry! I mean, I'm sorry! For-cause you're crying and it's-that's not....fun." He groaned quietly and dropped his head into his hands. A damn fool. He was so insanely lucky that Kuroo wasn't here. Oh god, he'd have a field day with this.

He sat there like that a few moments, silently swearing at his own anxiety, only snapping out of it when she started giggling softly. He paused and peeked through fingers. Her face was still tilted down, and he couldn't really see her through the veil her monochrome streaked hair had made. But he could tell she was smiling a little, and his heart squeezed just shy of painful. He made her laugh for real!

"Hey, are you cold?" She stopped crying, but she was still shaking. Bokuto just realized how wet her jacket really was. He scrambled over to where he left his gym bag on the bench next to the vending machines, only tripping twice on the way. Tearing through it, he managed to find his other hoodie. He peeked a glance behind him before discreetly smelling it. It wasn't that bad for being stuck inside his gym bag. Miraculously, it didn't smell gross, just a little like his deodorant. He jogged back over to her and prayed she wouldn't think he was creepy for doing this.

"Uh h-here! Why don't you-I mean, do you feel comfortable taking off your jacket for a sec? It's really wet, and you seem kinda cold?" One shining eye looked up at him, face still hidden. He held up the hoodie in front of him. "I thought this might be more comfortable for you? I-if you want! I mean, I won't make you take it or anything." Please don't think I'm creepy, please don't think I'm creepy. please, oh please don't be scared of me.

"Thank you. That's very kind of you, um" she tilted her head to the side, her hair moving with her. Damn it.

"Oh! Bokuto, I mean, Kotaro. Er, I mean, my name is Bokuto Kotaro, but you can call me Kotaro. Please." She nodded and started to peel off her jacket. He sat back down in front of her. Her shirt was only a little damp, luckily, but it did seem pretty thin. She swiftly tugged the hoodie down over her head, pausing to roll up the sleeves when she tried to rub her eyes but found her hands lost in the fabric.

"Thank you, Kotaro, you're very sweet," He stopped breathing when she said his name, and he swore his heart stopped when she finally pushed her hair away from her face to look up at him. She continued speaking, seemly oblivious to his internal meltdown, "My name is (Y/N)."

"You're..." He trailed off and just sort of stared for a minute before she cleared her throat and tilted her head.

"I'm?" she furrowed her brows and almost pouted in confusion. Gorgeous, adorable, driving me crazy, killing me softly.

"Stunning." Is what he settled on. (Y/N) startled at that. Looking at him with wide eyes. He watched a blush wash over the apples of her cheeks, across the bridge of her nose. He sighed. She was so fucking pretty. Not to mention the fact that she was wearing his hoodie, with my name and number on the front and back in big, bold letters.

"Wait, what?" He fell gracelessly back down to earth and realized he was probably freaking her out.

"I mean-fuck, I'm sorry that was creepy I-" she rapidly shook her head and waved her hands in front of her.

"No, no, it's honestly okay. You just surprised me, that's all. Since my hair changed a few weeks ago, people have been a little, um, impolite, about my looks." She wrung her hands together in her lap and looked away. He furrowed his brows.

"People have been bullying you about your hair?" He felt heated anger and fierce frustration bubble up when she admitted it. His hands curled into tight fists and he took a few deep breaths.

Don't scare her.

"Is that why you were crying?" She tilted her head away from him again. Yes.

"They can be quite volatile..." Was all she said.

"Well, maybe you should dye your-actually no, I shou-your soul mate should dye their hair so you-" (Y/N) giggled softly again at his irate tone. He paused, and she took the moment as an opportunity to gently enclose one of his big hands with both of hers. Her hands are freezing! Bokuto unconsciously brought his other hand up to join in, turned his enclosed palm around to warm her skin.

"Honestly, my hair isn't the problem. It's just-I'm usually a little shy. Having that much attention is stressful, plus its negative attention." Bokuto looked up to watch her, but she just stared at their hands resting on her lap with a tiny smile. When had she lowered her knees? He shook his head to shake away the thoughts and focus on their conversation.

"That still sounds like your hair is the problem." He pointed out. She looked up at him. Fucking hell, she was gorgeous.

"Actually I-well, I kind of...like it." She smiled shyly but held his gaze. He tried not to visibly perk up. Instead, he raised his eyes to her monochrome hair. Black and white streaks a little wet and stringy from the rain outside. Bokuto looked into her eyes again and nodded once, resolute.

"You should. I think it suits you!" He paused and decided to finish his thought, "I think anything would suit you."

Her nearly faded blush washed back over her face, and he beamed at her when she stuttered her thanks. His wild grin softened considerably when she continued smiling at his hands, still cradling her cold fingers. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes, trying to prepare himself for his next question. He didn't see her watching him curiously.

"Do you-I mean, If you-er no, are you...?" She just stared at him in amused bewilderment. He closed the one eye he had opened to gauge her reaction and tried again.

"(Y/N), when you meet your soul mate, will you be mad at-" he stopped and bit his tongue at the words that almost escaped his mouth, will you be mad at me?, he soldiered on, "at him-at t-them?"

A moment passed where her gaze wandered, and her lips pursed slightly. Please stop doing that, I can barely think around you as it is.

"No. I don't think I have any reason to be," She said it with such finality. Like that was that, and it would never change.

"Really? But he's the reason why you went through all this. All the attention and the stress, I mean, I just found you crying in a hallway, you can't convince me that this isn't hard for you." Bokuto realizes he's basically giving her permission to hate him, which he can't even think about it hurts so bad. But I made her cry! Sure it was indirectly but still! Shouldn't he be punished or disciplined or something? Should I go run laps? Akaashi made me run fifteen laps around the gym when I accidentally made one of the first years cry.

Her voice broke him from his thoughts.

"I don't think I could ever hate them. No matter what." His heart wrenched, and this time it was painful.

"Are you sure?" She smiled and nodded at him.

"Of course I am. Who am I to judge someone I haven't met yet for having eccentric hair? Maybe they're just an eccentric person." (Y/N) shrugged her shoulders, and Bokuto was desperately fighting the urge to tug her into his lap and kiss her senseless.

Bo gathered his strength. He squeezed her hands tight once, twice, then after a moment a third time.

It still took him another few moments to actually speak.

"(Y/N), I think-I think I'm your soul mate." He had tilted his head up to the ceiling as he spoke, hoping it would help him to not cry if she got mad.

A moment passed quietly before she squeezed his hands once, twice, and a third time. He kept his eyes on the ceiling. Don't get your hopes up. (Y/N) cleared her throat and tried again, he didn't budge. She huffed and took her hands back. He heard her shuffling around. Two warm hands cupped his face and guided his head down so she could see him again. He still wouldn't look at her face.

"Kotaro," She was giggling, "Please look at me."

"Nuh-uh," he murmured. (Y/N) rolled her eyes, almost fondly. Not that he could see it.

"Am I allowed to take off your hood? Please, Kotaro?" He shut his eyes tight but agreed.

Her fingertips lingered on his skin as she pulled her palms away. Nudging under the cinched line of the hood, she gently stretched it out again and let it fall to rest against his back once more. Her hands dropped to his shoulders. For a few heartbeats, It was silent.

"That's why I feel so safe with you." (Y/N) whispered, proceeding to run her fingers through his clean hair. I might have throw out my hair gel and permanently leave it down if she keeps this up. She lightly scratched behind Bo's ears, and he noticeably shuddered. Never again. I will never again put gel in my-

His eyes snapped open, and he stared down at where (Y/N) had shifted onto her knees so she could reach his head.

"D-did you just say that you felt safe? With me?" He didn't make a move to look at her, and she (thankfully) continued brushing through his hair.

"Mhm."

After a sharp intake of breath, Bokuto raised his hands and plucked hers off his head. Running his thumbs over her knuckles, he finally worked up the courage to look at her once more.

He felt like crying. (Y/N) looked so dazzlingly beautiful, kneeling in front of him in his hoodie, wearing my name and number. She was beaming at him, but her happiness quickly turned to panic as she yanked her hands back and flitted between stroking his cheeks and rubbing his shoulders.

"Kotaro! Darling, what happened? What's wrong?" She babbled, sounding alarmed. What?

"What are you talking about?" His voice cracked. Oh shit, I actually started crying.

Bokuto started chuckling, quiet hiccups interrupting him periodically. (Y/N) still just looked panicked, which only made him laugh harder.

"I'm fine, I swear!" He flapped a hand at her to wave off her concerns and then rested it on her hip. "I just-I was so scared." He confessed, and she finally settled on rubbing his shoulders.

"You were scared?" He heard the unspoken 'of what?' and sighed.

"I accidentally made you cry! I didn't know what to do, let alone how to fix it. I was seriously thinking about running laps around the gym as punishment." (Y/N) laughed loudly at that, and Bokuto joined in after admiring her for a second.

"You were going to run laps? Why?" She asked breathless and incredulous.

"I don't know! I panicked and-I don't know!" She was leaning on him heavily at this point, laughing way too hard to hold herself up. Bokuto wrapped his arms around her waist and coaxed her into his lap after she began to tip over. Then he just watched her, brushing her monochrome hair away from her face. She called me darling.

After her giggles faded out, she looked up and watched him right back. She slowly leaned closer, and he followed her lead, letting his eyelids slide shut. He patiently waited for her to lean that last bit closer, trying to respect her boundaries. However, the sentiment flickered out when she changed directions and merely pecked his cheek before attempting to wiggle out of his hold and stand up. He narrowed his eyes at her poorly concealed laughter and held fast. She's fucking with me!

"Oh, so that's how it's gonna be, huh?" Keeping her in place with one strong arm, he used his other hand to tilt her chin towards him, quickly sweeping down to kiss her. At once, she stopped struggling and fell completely pliant, allowing him to further turn her and get a better angle. (Y/N) gasped when he licked at her bottom lip and let out an adorable, soft noise when he nipped the same spot. Bokuto broke the kiss before he got too carried away trying to draw more sweet noises from her lips.

"Do you tease all the boys you kiss this bad?" She stared at him wide-eyed, looking a little dazed, before shaking her head. Bokuto raised an eyebrow.

"No? Why am I getting teased then? Huh darling?" He pouted at her and held her closer. (Y/N) opened her mouth, then closed it. Blushing at the fact he actually caught her pet name she had slipped up with earlier. She pressed her face against his shoulder, mumbling something he couldn't catch.

"Yeah, I got none of that."

"You're the only boy," She trailed off, "My first boy."

Bokuto perked up and crushed her against him so tightly she squealed.

"I'm your first kiss?" She squirmed as she nodded, and he loosened his grip a little. She looked up at him and laughed at the look on his face.

"Why do you look so happy about it?" Bokuto shrugged and tried to look less worked up. He couldn't find it in himself to look the least bit guilty, though.

"I'm sorry for stealing your first kiss. I should've asked. I'll ask next time, promise." (Y/N) looked stunned, then smiled sweetly up at him. It's gonna be so hard to keep my hands off her.

"Don't be sorry. I wanted you to have it. You don't have to ask either," She tilted her head to the floor, "They all belong to you now anyway."

Bokuto guided her lips to his again and stopped when they were a few centimeters apart. (Y/N)'s eyes had fluttered shut as soon as his fingertips pressed against her cheek, but they opened back up when he lightly tapped them against her. One glance into her sparkling irises let him know his advances were definitely welcome. After running his thumb along her soft bottom lip, he decided to make good on his earlier thought of kissing her senseless. She sighed into his mouth as soon as their lips met. Her hands moving from her lap to curl in the fabric around his neck. He pulled her tighter, promised himself to never break these sugared kisses.

Only he did. Suddenly breaking away at the abrupt, loud ringing of his phone. (Y/N) laughed when he groaned and begrudgingly fished it from his hoodie pocket, glancing at the screen. Damn it Kuroo! Leave me alone!

"What?" (Y/N) lightly smacked his shoulder at the rude tone of voice.

"Jeez, sorry for bothering you, your majesty," Bokuto growled into the receiver, "But are you done yet? We were supposed to meet up for lunch thirty minutes ago. Or are we just ignoring my texts now?"

"I'm a little busy right now, Kuroo-" He quickly got cut off.

"Yeah, I can see that. The poor girl's practically getting eaten alive." Bokuto flinched and whipped around to gape at the glass doors of the gym's entrance. Kuroo's smug face stared back at him.

"You son of a-" Kuroo hung up the phone before he could even think of finishing what would most likely be a rather vulgar insult and stepped inside, shaking off his umbrella and wiping off his shoes. Bokuto looked back at (Y/N), but she just looked confused. A little embarrassed once she noticed Kuroo walking towards them. Bokuto scrambled up, carrying (Y/N) with him, and set her down gently on her feet. Kuroo stopped in front of them, and his eyes skimmed over (Y/N)'s hair and Bokuto's hoodie draping over her, nearly covering up her skirt entirely. He spared Bokuto a glance before holding out a hand to (Y/N).

"Kuroo Tetsuro. He's much nicer in person than he is on the phone, hmm?" Bokuto rolled his eyes and stuck out his tongue. (Y/N) laughed as she shook Kuroo's (stupid) hand.

"(Y/N). And I wouldn't know, we uhm, just met a little while ago." Kuroo smirked at Bokuto and clicked his tongue.

"Have you no shame, Kotaro?" Bokuto groaned and pulled at his hair. Kuroo (the bastard) just laughed and turned to (Y/N), "Would you like to join us for lunch? If we're even still going." He grumbled the last part in (mostly) pretend annoyance.

(Y/N) lit up and looked to Bokuto for permission. He brightened once more.

"Yeah! Would you?" Kuroo snorted at his eagerness, but he ignored him.

"Sure! I'd love to tag along, if it's okay with you, Kuroo?" Kuroo nodded and reminded Bokuto to grab another umbrella from the storage cupboard in the locker rooms. At the same time, (Y/N) gathered her forgotten jacket, and the bag Bo didn't even notice her carrying.

When he walked back into the hallway with the largest umbrella he could find, they were already waiting outside. Bokuto grabbed his gym bag and dashed out to follow them. He stopped and watched in pure horror as Kuroo wrapped an arm around (Y/N)'s shoulders and pulled her under his open umbrella. They both laughed at the look on his face, and Bokuto made sure to point out Kuroo's 'demonic' guffaw whenever he stomped over to tug (Y/N) underneath his own umbrella. She simply smacked his shoulder again.

[vesuvianmess]

Second Guessing

・・・・ ・・・・ ・・・・ ・・・・

Character(s): Apprentice Drexxel | Julian Devorak | Asra Alnazar

Rating: Mature - Contains depictions of sickness, bodily fluids, mental illness and mentions of death

The Red Plague had Vesuvia in its grip, ever tightening and refusing to let go. The numbers are rising and time is running out.

I had come to Vesuvia many years ago after my clan had sent me north, a story I will save for another time, and with much resistance I had finally come to call it home. In the beginning of my days here, I spent my spare time hiding away, simply watching the foot traffic flow through the streets through my window. I was a stranger here, an outcast hiding the wrongs they had committed. Hiding the guilt and shame of my past. I wanted nothing more than to see my mother’s face again… But I’m getting off topic. 

At first it was just whispers. Hushed tones and sideways glances. There was talk of an unusual death in the city. Supposedly it had been one of the palace servants. But this was soon forgotten in mere weeks. That is, until another was found. And another. And another. Whispers became buzzing like the thrum of an angry hornet’s nest. The people were uneasy, as was I. It wasn’t long before a dear friend had arranged a meeting at the shop when my aunt was away. They sat me down in my room, pacing in front of me. 

“What’s this about, Asra?” I asked, watching them go from one end of my room to the other. “You’ll wear a rut in the floor at this rate.”

“We need to leave the city.” The magician held their thumb and forefinger to their chin, eyes focused on the floor. “It’s not safe here anymore. I can’t risk you getting hurt.” 

“I can handle myself.” 

“That’s not what I mean. I know you can. But this...this isn’t something you can control Drexxel. We need to go somewhere safe, far away from Vesuvia.” 

“Asra, I’m not going anywhere. I’m not leaving my aunt here to fend for herself.” I shook my head, leaving her alone wouldn’t be right. Too many loved ones left behind already. 

“There’s been another ten down just since morning, Drexxel. People are beginning to drop like flies!” They ceased their pacing, standing instead directly in front of me. “Please, I can’t let you stay here.”

“I said no.”

“Pack your things, don’t leave anything important behind. We must be off as quickly as we can.” The magician insisted. “I’ll help you.” They started for my things, grabbing clothing from my drawers. 

“I said no.”

A steady flickering flame was beginning to build in my chest. I had already said no twice now and they weren’t listening to me. My patience was wearing thin too fast. I had been running the nail of my thumb under the nails on my opposite hand as we talked, a nervous tick I had developed in early childhood. I watched as my friend continued to ignore my words, instead gathering up my belongings. I couldn’t take it anymore. I snapped, standing from my spot on the bed.

“Asra, I said I’m not going!” 

The magician stopped short, eyes locked with mine. The purple hues stained with a solemn heartbreak. It hurt me to see. But I had made up my mind. Heaving a sigh, I sat back down, keeping my eyes trained on the hands shaking in my lap. The hurt in my friend’s eyes was too much to bear. I couldn’t look at those eyes again. It would break me. Without looking up, I broke the silence.

“I think...I think you should leave.” My voice began to shake, a knot forming in my throat. I was losing my friend. “Go without me. I will follow when this is over.” I bit my lip this time, choking back the tears threatening my eyes. “I promise.” 

・・・

The coming weeks were filled with more and more death. The city’s residents had begun to call this the ‘Red Plague’ due to the horrid leeching red veins that weaved spiderwebs across the face, hands, and feet. I sat alone in the tavern, listening to it all. There were somber ones trying to drown the loss of their loved ones in spirits. Others huddled together, chattering in nerve wracking tones about who would be next. Even though I was listening, everything seemed distant, foggy and unclear. My own thoughts began to mix together with their words until eventually everything else didn’t matter. A heavy weight nested itself in my chest, my hands grasping tighter around my cup. 

Not long after Asra had left, the plague pulled my aunt down with it. I watched her collapse on our doorstep, her life fading away as she struggled to breathe. Everything I had come to love now was gone. I ruined my family for the second time. Part of me wished I would just disappear. That way, at the very least, I could put everything I’d done behind me. There would be nothing left to tear myself up over, nothing to lay awake about at night wishing it had gone differently. I wanted out. Out of this life. Out of this crushing sadness and guilt. 

My chance came when I was invited to work under one Dr. Julian Devorak, a tall and lanky man who looked like sleep had evaded him since the day his life began. I was to work under him as his apprentice while he helped research a cure for this plague. This meant I would be up close and personal to this epidemic. If I played my cards right, I could use this as my out. I would simply be another number on the charts, the stroke of a pen on paper. Another body for the fire. 

In our spare time, Dr. Devorak and myself would drink together at the Raven, going over paperwork at first. Before too long though, we would be up on the tables dancing and singing while others looked on with a glimmer of hope. The doctor began to treat me as more of a friend than an underling. I couldn’t fathom why. I was merely pretending to be happy. A thin veil concealing my intentions. But I liked him nonetheless. He was kind, sincere in his own right, and the stories he could tell always got a weary smile from me. In what seemed like no time at all, I would call him my friend. I would almost regret leaving him behind. 

I’d been given a new task. With a leatherbound book in hand, I was to keep a record of those fallen in the streets. Their names, locations, occupations and the like were all written in the book. Each day I went through more pages than the last. I was beginning to fear that Vesuvia would soon run out of names to fill the blank spaces. In these times, Julian and I had less and less free time to spend together. Our times of singing and dancing in the flickering lights of the tavern were quickly becoming fever dreams I wished I could live through forever, never waking to see the light of reality. Instead, I went alone as I had before. I danced by myself, singing songs only I could hear in a language not spoken by locals. My songs were never happy. On this particular night, I found myself far too deep in the grasp of exhaustion to put on my shows. My body ached and my head felt like static. I left for home early. I must have worked myself too hard. Between my daily counts, records, and tavern visits I had surely expended nearly all of my energy. Leaving my mask on the shop counter, I made my way upstairs. I needed rest. I crawled into bed without even changing my clothes. When the sweet embrace of sleep finally took me, I dreamt of my mother and her soft lullaby.

Snapping out of my sleep with a wretched cough, I shot up and immediately doubled over, an arm wrapped around my abdomen, the other covering my mouth with the back of my hand. When the fit finally ceased, I had to take a moment to gather my breath. My joints ached and my head was spinning. I tried to stand, only to fall back among my pillows. From the edge of the bed I felt the eyes of my companion watching me with worry. I turned to look, offering him a weak smile.

 “It’s okay Bentley, I’m just tired.”

Walking to the bath on shaky legs, I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror. I’d never seen myself so pale. My eyes were sunken in with heavy dark circles from top to bottom and they stung in the light. I swallowed hard and put the sight from my mind. I still had work to do. There was something in me that wanted to find this cure now. Call it curiosity. But this didn’t overshadow my goal. Overworked as I was, I clung to the hope that this disease would take me. The pain I had seen those taken already trudge through seemed immense. I thought that maybe somehow this pain would serve as payment for the years of guilt and lies. Lying about being happy. Lying about being okay. I needed this to be my end. 

Three days passed, leaving me worse for wear by each morning. On the morning of the fourth day, I was wracked with another intense coughing fit. My lungs felt like someone had crushed them under the wheel of a carriage. Breathing was a struggle and standing took all of my energy. My sheets were soaked with sweat and I had, once again, not changed my clothing from the day before. Moving to the edge of the bed I was hit with another coughing fit, this one worse than the last. I felt acid rise to my throat. Ignoring the pain the best I could, I rushed to the bin. Nothing but bile came from me. I sputtered and gagged until it stopped. Without care I wiped my mouth on my sleeve and stumbled my way to the bath. My eyes were unfocused, not looking at anything. I slumped against the countertop, trying to straighten out my vision. I blinked hard, holding my eyes shut for a few heartbeats before opening them. When the haze cleared, I felt something in me churn. 

My hands, pale as they had been before, were now painted with red as if they’d been dipped in dye. Crimson red veins ran from my fingertips like cracks in porcelain. I could barely feel them. Bringing a hand to my face, I turned to look myself over in the mirror. My eyes were an eerie shade of red, watery and horrific staring back at me. Those sickly red veins fell from my eyes like lightning bolts. All those days I had felt so sick… I had my wish granted. But then… Why was there this knot in my chest? I had gotten my wish. I had gotten what I wanted, my way out. I could finally escape everything I’d been hiding from. And yet, I stared at my hands, eyes tracing the patterns against reddened skin. I should have been overjoyed, right? This was my goal. I’d wanted this. In an instant my head was swarmed with memories. Meeting Bentley for the first time at the docks, morning tea with Asra, the smell of the baker’s bread in the market, the thrum of the central square...the nights spent with Julian at the Raven.

Was I...was I crying? 

At that moment I knew. 

I’m going to die today.

I had to tell him. I had to see him one more time. I pushed past the pain the best I could, gathering all of my files, all of my own independent research in my bag. Pulling it over my shoulder I made for the door. I stopped short at the end of the stairs. Bentley was on the shop counter, staring me down. I bit my lip, fighting back the urge to scoop him into my arms again and tell him everything would be okay. I couldn’t lie to him. 

“Bentley….I’m dying.” I could feel his pain as I spoke. “Watch the shop for me okay? Tell Asra...tell them I’m sorry.”

Wiping red stained tears from my eyes, I left the shop behind me. There was no need for my mask now. I didn’t need it. Not where I was going. I used every ounce of strength in me to break out into a hobbling run. I needed to make it to the palace. I had to say my goodbyes. The further I got, the harder it became to breathe. My body burned as if set aflame and my head throbbed like a jackhammer. I caught my foot on an uneven stone and found myself laying face down on the street. When I tried to get up, my arms gave out underneath me. 

“I have to… I need to see him.” I said aloud, as if saying it would make it happen. “I lied.” The tears wouldn’t stop coming. I drug myself forward on sheer willpower alone, clinging to the foolish idea that I might make it out of this. My lungs were filled with blood and each breath felt like razors clawing their way up my throat. “Please! I don’t want to die….I never…” 

That’s right...dying wouldn’t solve my problems. I knew that from the beginning. And still, I craved it. I thought that maybe, just maybe I could find some solace in it. There was no comfort here. I never wanted to die. Not truly. I only wanted to start over, and I didn’t know how.

I never even made it to the palace gates.

[wingsofkpop]

Hiraeth — I.II: Curosity Killed the Cat

pairing(s):  Hybrid!Im Jaebeom x Reader, Witch!Mark Tuan x Reader, Werewolf!Jackson Wang x Reader, Vampire!Park Jinyoung x Reader, Supernatural!Got7 x Reader

genre:  Supernatual!AU, Dark Magic!AU, Angst, slight Fluff, eventual Smut

warning(s): Mature language, descriptions of death and murder, mentions of blood, mentions of traumatic experiences, mention of reader having an anxiety attack, etc.

word count: 6,6k

synopsis: How far are you willing to go to find out the truth about Moon Dye Bay?…

chapter directory

“Jihyo, please just—OW!” Pain shoots like electricity through your limbs as your hip catches the railing of the stairwell while your ankle rolls dangerously along the edge of the top step. You cling to your roommate’s shoulders, trying to find balance in the midst of her steel-like grip to avoid inevitably breaking a bone… or your entire body.  

“Shit. Sorry, (Y/N).” Jihyo murmurs apologetically, hoisting your arm higher around her shoulders. You bite back a frustrated retort and instead, find the patience to allow your support to haul you toward your shared apartment’s door. There’s honestly no need for Jihyo’s help in scaling the stairways, seeing as somehow, after the incident in the alleyway, you were completely unscathed, but she insisted. And when Jihyo puts her mind to something, there’s no pulling her out. 

Jihyo kicks open the door after unlocking it, and tugs you forward with a proud grin, “Home sweet home. All in one piece.” 

“The bruise on my hips says otherwise,” You groan, breathing a sigh of relief when you finally escape her hold. “I think I’m more hurt than I was in the actual hospital.” 

“Hush, child.” Jihyo drags the warm jacket from your shoulders before bending down to undo the laces of your boots. You sigh, but make no complaint about her fussing—you’d only receive another long lecture anyway. After another minute or two, Jihyo finishes sliding off your boots and guides you into the living room. Your eyes meet the sight of Sana nestled inside the giant, olive beanbag cushion, and two unfamiliar girls settled on the sofa beside her. 

“Look who’s home!” Jihyo calls cheerfully, turning the three sets of eyes away from the Pretty Little Liars rerun playing on the TV screen and in your direction. In the blink of an eye, Sana leaps from her seat and throws herself against your body. You almost lose your balance from the force of impact, but manage to return her hug without fault. 

“I was so worried when Mark called us,” Sana’s arms tighten around your waist. “Don’t scare me like that again, okay?” 

“I’ll try,” You rub her back, “I’m okay, Sana.” 

“You should sit down, (Y/N).” You pull from your friend’s embrace to nod at Jihyo, accepting the spot on the sofa where one of the girls had given up for your benefit. You shoot her a grateful smile, receiving a shy one in return. 

“Oh, that’s right! (Y/N), Jihyo, this is Mina, and Momo—” Sana points to each girl with their respected names, “the friends from my high school in Japan I was telling you guys about. They’re visiting for a few weeks.” 

“Welcome to Moon Dye,” Jihyo nods politely. “Sorry about all this chaos right off the bat. (Y/N), here, managed to land herself in the hospital last night.”

“It’s a long story.” You chuckle, your cheeks growing hot at both Mina and Momo’s concerned stares. “But I’m perfectly fine. Good as new.” 

“What even happened, (Y/N)?” Sana asks curiously while lowering onto the arm of the couch beside you. You open your mouth to answer, but Jihyo’s voice emerges instead: 

“(Y/N)’s already had a rough enough night as it is. Let’s not put her on the spot.” Again, you try to protest your good health, but the girls had already moved to a new subject by the time you open your mouth. 

To be honest, you still don’t believe the story that you fell in that dark alley, hit your head and knocked yourself out—the one that everyone is shoving down your throat. Even Mark didn’t believe you when you tried to explain the details you remember from last night. His words were similar to the very ones that Jinyoung had said: ‘You hit your head, (Y/N). Your memory is probably all sorts of fucked up.’ 

But he’s wrong. Jinyoung is wrong. Everyone else is wrong. You know you were attacked, and maybe you don’t know what it was, but someone—something tried to kill you. And it was pretty damn close… but that just begs another question: How the hell did you survive and come out with not even a scratch? 

“—was just so sudden. I just couldn’t believe it when I heard the news.” You return to reality just in time to see Jihyo shake her head, a pained expression written across her round face. “I mean, how does something like that just happen? You know?” 

“What are you talking about?” 

Four pairs of eyes turn at your voice as Sana answers, “Im Nayeon was found dead in Eclipse Cemetery. My mom said she was killed by an animal.” You heard Mark mention Nayeon’s name a few times in past conversations, but had never spoken to the woman herself. She works in a tiny shop in Poison Square, Moon Dye Bay’s most infamous shopping complex, reading tarot cards and giving fortunes—she worked there, that is. Still, Mark and Nayeon were friends, so he must have known. Is that why he broke down at the hospital? But why wouldn’t he tell you? 

Your eyebrows furrow, “An animal? How is that possible?” 

“What goes around, comes around.” You perk up as one of Sana’s friends, Momo, you believe, speaks up for the first time. She returns your glance with a blank stare, which sends a violent chill up your spine, “It happens to the best of us.” 

“How can you say that?” You scoff, “A girl is dead—” 

“I’m so sorry,” The other friend, the one who relinquished her seat, Mina steps in this time, “My sister can be a little intense sometimes. She didn’t mean it in a condescending way.” 

“You’re sisters?” 

Mina shrugs, “Fostered, actually. We’ve kind of just… stuck together.” 

You nod, “I get it. I was a foster kid too.” Mina nods too, but doesn’t say anything in response. As she’s turning back to the surrounding trio, your eyes catch sight of a shiny, gold necklace tucked into the collar of her shirt. You can’t see the charm on the end, but just by the chain, it looked ancient. Probably a family heirloom of some sorts. 

Your mind returns back to Nayeon before wandering to your own attacker. At the connection, your blood runs cold. Is it possible that whatever monster that attempted to take your life had succeeded in ensnaring Nayeon’s instead? It may explain the reluctance toward your true story, and the attacker’s animal-like behavior… but what of your miraculous recovery? And what does Jinyoung have to do with any of this? 

Something is going on in Moon Dye Bye… and you’re going to find out what. 

“By the way, Momo, I love your tattoo.” You barely catch Jihyo’s comment as you rise from the sofa and begin to make your way toward your bedroom. You hadn’t gotten much sleep at the hospital, partly because of Mark, and partly because you just couldn’t find the will to close your eyes. To be honest, you don’t even know if you’ll be able to catch sleep in your own bed any better. Too lost in your own exhaustion, you don’t catch Sana’s laugh just as you’re shutting your bedroom door: 

“Momo doesn’t have a tattoo, Ji! Are you sure you’re not the one who hit her head!?” 

☽ ☽ ☽ ☽ ☽ ☾ ☾ ☾ ☾ ☾ 

The fogginess of his dreamworld fades as Mark gradually begins to awaken from his slumber. He parts his eyelids, only to immediately shut them with an annoyed hiss as a ray of sunlight stabs into his sensitive pupils. To escape the day’s wrath, he rolls to his opposite side and away from the lone window, reminding himself to invest in a set of curtains in the near future. 

Mark forces his upper body upward on the sofa. He groans, the movement placing a strain on his back, and lifts his arms over his head to alleviate the knots of his muscles. With a sigh, Mark wipes the remnants of a poor night’s sleep from his face before glancing back to the window. Judging by the brightness of the sun, he must have slept through the entire morning and early afternoon. 

Mark sighs again, recalling the gruesome nightmares that plagued his slumber: Nayeon’s loud screams stabbing into his soul as an unfamiliar shadow drove a large knife into her immobile body over and over again until he could feel her blood splattering all across his skin. Then, in the midst of his terror, Nayeon’s face would shift to yours… and he could do nothing but watch as the monster stole the life from your eyes… 

He pushes the thought away, suddenly nauseous, and rises from the sofa, heading toward the small kitchenette in the corner to start up a pot of coffee. As he passes the window, Mark notices a couple figures congregating around an array of chipped, ancient headstones. At first, Mark believes them to be the forensic cleaners finishing up the removal of the crime scene, but he catches the sight of the back of Youngjae’s head… and someone he definitely does not want to see. 

“God fucking damnit—” He curses to himself, abandoning his coffee and stomping outside with the beginnings of a sneer pulling across his face. At the call of his name, both Youngjae and his companion turn to face Mark just as he reaches their meeting place, “What the hell is he doing here!?” 

“I’m sorry, hyung… I thought it’d be better if I didn’t tell you about this…” Mark glares at the younger who seems to shudder beneath its intensity. Youngjae looks down guiltily, before silently mumbling something to himself. 

“Don’t be upset with him,” At the voice, Mark shifts his angry gaze to the vampire. “I came on my own accord. I want to make a proposition.” 

“You’ve got to be kidding, right? Why would we ever want to make a deal with you?” 

“Because I can help you find out who killed your seer.” Jinyoung replies coolly, reaching inside the pocket of his casual, navy blazer to pull out a pocket-sized, leather-bound book with cream colored pages. He offers it to Mark, “This is an old journal that belonged to a powerful witch who was a descendant in a long line of Pagan Witchcraft. It contains thousands of ancient scriptures and symbols dating back to the first century.” 

Mark snatches the book and immediately begins to flip through it. None of the text encrypted along the pages are anything he’d ever seen before, likely being written in a different language. He allows the cover to shut and passes it to Youngjae before narrowing his eyes at Jinyoung, “How did you know we were looking for an old symbol?”  

“I have contacts at the morgue, so I paid her body a visit myself.” Mark bites back a frustrated slur and wills himself to let the vampire finish, “In all the centuries I’ve been alive, I have only seen a symbol like that once—in dark magic.” The loathing Mark feels for Jinyoung completely vanishes at the mention of the dark arts, shifting back into the nausea from before. “I believe whoever killed your seer drew power from something, be it a spell or an object, in order to gain enough strength to overpower her, which means—” 

“Whatever doing this is supernatural.” Youngjae finishes with a grimace, “They must have used dark magic to strip her of her powers before she was killed. I couldn’t trace any magic use from her body.” 

“She’s not the first.” Again, Jinyoung retracts a set of papers from his jacket and hands them to Mark, “I’ve traced hundreds of unexplained deaths in dozens of towns. Each witch had that same symbol carved into their chest.” 

“They’re specifically targeting covens— ” Mark breathes, glancing over the provided documents, “Slaughtering them and… fucking hell.” 

Jinyoung nods, “You and your people need to be careful. Whoever is doing this will try to kill again.” Mark hesitates for a moment before mindlessly closing his hand into a fist, crushing the papers in his grasp. He resumes his glare at the vampire. 

“What’s in it for you? Why are you helping us?” 

Jinyoung’s eyes soften, “This town has already seen enough death. I don’t wish for it to see anymore.” 

Jinyoung’s response delivers a harsh punch to Mark’s gut, leaving him almost breathless. Unwanted memories rush into his head like a parasite—the guilt he had pushed down so long ago beginning to eat away at his soul. Too lost inside his own head, Mark remains silent as Jinyoung and Youngjae exchange a couple final words, before the former gestures toward the book in the younger’s hands.

“I have places to be, but let me know if you manage to find the symbol. I’ll see if I can find more information about the murdered covens.” The vampire offers a nod of farewell and turns to leave, but surprising himself, Mark snaps from his headspace and calls out:

“Jinyoung…!” 

Jinyoung halts to peer over his shoulder, “Yes?” Mark hesitates again, somewhere in between what seems to be long-harbored resentment and mental exhaustion. His eyes glance toward the gravel pathway meters away where Nayeon’s corpse had laid only hours ago, until his mind shifts to thoughts about you: The warmth of your arms… The genuine promise of your voice… The gleam of your eyes… All of his anger immediately dissipates. 

He nods, “I don’t want anyone else to die either.” Jinyoung merely blinks in response before continuing his journey toward the exit of the cemetery. Mark watches his silhouette fade into the glare of the afternoon sun with the documents still tightly grasped in his palms. Only once the vampire is out of sight does he release a sigh and face his younger companion: 

“Call Minho, Jisung and Lia, and get them all here.” Mark combs a hand through his hair with a huff, “No one leaves my sight until we catch this fucker and put them so far underground, they won’t be able to climb back up from Hell.” 

☽ ☽ ☽ ☽ ☽ ☾ ☾ ☾ ☾ ☾ 

Splashes of water splatter across your ankles and wet the bottom of your jeans as you sprint through a massive array of puddles. Although it does little to protect your body from the pouring rain, you tug your jacket tighter around your shoulders. The one evening you choose to take a spur-of-the-moment book run to escape your overdramatic and overbearing roommates, it has to be raining cats and dogs. Luckily, the town’s only bookstore is not too far from your apartment. 

You manage to reach the shop just as the wind begins to pick up and hurriedly push past the door. A sigh falls past your lips, briefly pausing to relish the warm, rain-free atmosphere before receding further into the store. Ever since you moved to Moon Dye, the Bookshop of Lullabies has become one of few places you frequent often. It’s a quaint, little place stuffed from top to bottom with texts of all kinds, and barely enough space for a single person to squeeze through the aisles. If you travel deep enough through the maze of shelves, there’s a tiny nook complete with a window seat and throw cushions softer than a bed of silk—you like to spend a lot of your time cuddled up there with a nice book.  

“Look who finally decided to show up and cure my boredom. Good thing—I was just thinking about chewing my arm off.” Unsurprised, you turn to find a familiar face behind the cashier counter. One that, like the store itself, you have seen quite often. 

You first met Bambam through Mark—the two were friends in high school—at a dinner event his mother, the mayor of Moon Dye, held for his birthday. Aside from the occasional rich kid personality quirks, you’ve found Bambam to be quite a humble and reliable person, especially in providing you discounted books and helpful tips for living in town. 

“Hello to you too, Bam.” You smile. “How are things?” 

Bambam shrugs, “Slow day, and the rain really doesn’t help. Anyway, what are you looking for today? Maybe an edgy dystopian with way too much backstory? Or a sickeningly sweet love story where the simp dies? ” 

“I'll honestly take anything you deem acceptable at this point.” 

“You’re giving me way too much trust there, babygirl.” He chuckles, pilfering through a nearby box of books in order to gratify your request. “Mark told me you had a pretty rough spill last night. You okay?” 

“To be completely honest—not really.” You traipse over to the counter and lay your bag across its surface. Bambam moves aside some books to make room before offering a nearby stool for you to sit, “I just, I’m still confused on what happened.”

“What do you mean?” 

“Everybody says I fell and hit my head, but I don’t think that’s what happened—no—” You shake your head, “I know that’s not what happened, but it’s like everyone is just, I don’t know… hiding something.” Through the corner of your eye, you notice how Bambam’s shoulders tense at your comment, but brush it off as an odd tick. “But I guess what I don’t understand is why they’d want to… I mean, Mark would never keep something that important from me…” Once again, the clerk’s body fidgets uncomfortably—this time, furthering the suspicion brewing in your gut.

Your eyes narrow, “Bam… Do you know something that I don’t?” 

He seems to hesitate, running a hand through his tousled ivory-dyed tresses before peering toward the door, as if expecting someone else to enter. You open your mouth to pry, but Bambam’s answer beats you to it, “There’s a lot of things I know that you don’t…” 

“What the hell is that supposed to mean—?” 

“It means that this town has secrets…” The abrupt change in his tone increases the uneasiness in your stomach, temporarily changing your frustrated mood to one of fear. A violent shiver crawls down your spine at his next words, “...secrets that can get you killed.”

“What secrets?” Your annoyance returns at his ambiguous response, “What does this have to do with what happened to me last night?” 

“Well, you were attacked, weren’t you?” 

Your blood turns cold. “How the fuck do you know that?” 

“I told you, I know a lot of things.” He releases a sigh before bending down to disappear behind the wood of the counter. He returns only seconds later with a seemingly old, leather-bound book clutched in both hands. You watch, wide-eyed like a fish, as he slides the object toward you. 

“This journal belonged to my great-, great-, great-grandmother, the first ever mayor of Moon Dye Bay.” Bambam begins, watching closely as you cautiously grab the text as if it would turn to dust in your grasp. “It contains private information about the town you won’t find anywhere else.” 

“And you’re just giving it to me?” 

“I’m pointing you in the right direction.” He states matter-of-factly, “If you live in this town, you should know what you’re up against.” 

“Why can’t you just tell me?” 

“Because if anyone were to find out, it would be dangerous for the both of us.” 

“But why—?”

“Please just trust me on this, (Y/N).”  You can do nothing but stare at Bambam, your thoughts too much of a jumbled, chaotic mess to come up with another reply. You want to insist—you want to insist over and over again until the clerk eventually spills—but you know it’s hopeless. There are few moments where Bambam is ever this serious, so whatever mess you managed to get yourself into—it’s crucial. 

You finally nod after another eon of silence and tuck the old journal inside your bag, “How much?”

“Consider it a six-month late welcome-to-town gift.” Bambam’s poor attempt at humor does little to lift your spirits, but you still scrounge up a weak smile and an even weaker thank you. As you make your way toward the exit, you can feel his eyes burning into the back of your head, and for once in a lifetime, you can’t wait to head out into the pouring rain. Just as you’re pushing through the door, Bambam calls out: 

“Hey, babygirl?”  

You turn with a sigh, “What is it, Bam?” 

“Just be careful, okay?” He murmurs heavily, “Those monsters that used to hide under our beds when we were kids, well… They grew up too.” You don’t bother to answer, send the clerk a parting nod and take off into the blurriness outside the bookstore. Your lungs welcome the damp air, attempting to soothe the racing of your heart with each breath. Even though you’re all wrapped up in your coat, your hands still tremble.

If what Bambam said is true, and this town is hiding something, and you eventually do find out what that something is, then how badly will it change your life? You moved to Moon Dye Bay to escape the traumas of your past… not to create new demons that will haunt your mind day and night. It’s been so long since you’ve felt what it feels like to belong somewhere, but then… Do you really want a place full of darkness, secrets and lies as a home? 

You quickly dash across the street, barely avoiding an approaching car driving way over the given speed limit. The rain only makes the atmosphere more ominous, both obscuring your vision and deafening your ears. Images from last night pop into your head which fuels the hurriedness of your pace. You can’t seem to control your breathing, or the anxiety swallowing your form. 

What if that monster was following you as you think? Is he aching to finish the job he failed to last night, and take your life as his prize? What if there’s no miracle there to save you this time? What if you die in a wet, dark alleyway where nothing but the rats can—?  

“(Y/N)? Are you alright?” You hadn’t realized somewhere in your rush you’d paused to rest against the building, awakening from your panicked trance at the warm voice that invades your ears like honey. You quickly compose yourself, shove your now vibrating hands in the pocket of your coat, and turn to face the familiar face with a confused expression. 

“Jinyoung? Are you following me?” 

“Where would you get an idea like that?” Jinyoung hurriedly pulls you underneath the awning of a shop and out of the rain. “I just left the police station and saw you out here by yourself. You seem… stressed.” 

“Aside from wet socks, I’m alright.” You shake your head, “Why were you at the police station?” 

“I had some business to take care of,” He answers, obviously not desiring to provide any more details to satiate your curiosity. “Anyway, what brings you out in this weather?” 

“Honestly, I just needed to escape from my crazy, overbearing roommates.” You shake the rain from your hair with a chuckle, “Just left the bookstore actually.” 

“I didn’t take you for the bookworm type.” 

“What? Just because I don’t exude the ‘shy, silent, glasses-wearing’ stereotype?” 

Jinyoung chuckles at your comeback, the sound gritty and amused, before placing a hand over his chest, “My apologies. I didn’t mean to offend you.” 

“Well, choose your words more carefully then.” 

He nods with a smile, “I’ll definitely do that.” The raindrops pelting against the top of the awning creates a comfortable rhythm as you and Jinyoung fall into a heavy silence. Jinyoung continues to wear his tight, close-lipped smile while you continue to stare, not knowing whether to comment on his odd talent in appearing out of nowhere or reminisce in the storminess of his brown irises. You choose neither, and opt to end the conversation where it is: 

“It was really nice to see you again, but I should get back before the weather turns into a full-blown hurricane.” 

“That would probably be best,” Jinyoung steps aside, allowing you the room to pass by, and hums, “It’s always a pleasure, (Y/N).” You shoot him a grateful smile before launching back into the raging of the storm, immediately missing his uniquely charming aura and caramel-like gaze. Just from the interaction with Jinyoung, both your mind and body feel much more relaxed and in a way… almost safe. 

Too deep in your own thoughts, you fail to catch the second shadow that slinks out of a nearby alleyway and behind Jinyoung’s broad body.

☽ ☽ ☽ ☽ ☽ ☾ ☾ ☾ ☾ ☾ 

“Have you lost your goddamn mind!?” Mark pinches the bridge of his nose at the high-pitched wail of the fuming, dark-haired witch, suddenly craving a drink to take the edge off of his nerves. Maybe they have some leftover grey goose in the cupboard— “You must have, cause you just made a deal with the fucking devil!” 

“Can you at least try not to yell?” From the center of a nearby ring of burning candles and sage on the floor, Lia sighs in annoyance, “I’m pretty sure the entire town can hear you at this point.” 

“Shut up!” Minho hisses at the female, before replacing his laser-like glare back on Mark. “I mean, you do understand how utterly stupid this entire thing is, right!? Things suddenly turn to shit and you run to those bloodsucking bastards for help!?” 

“He gave us a book, Minho. It’s not like I signed our souls away.” 

He scoffs, “You might as well have! Didn’t it ever occur to you that the Primes just want an opportunity to pick us off like flies? I mean, how do we know they weren’t the ones that killed Nayeon?”

“Youngjae’s tracking spell would have picked up their trail.” Mark sluggishly walks toward the stove, retrieving the whistling kettle before its volume reaches that of a shrill scream. He sighs and generously refills his coffee cup, “And you know very well that if they wanted us dead, we would have been in the ground months ago.” 

“You’re not listening to me!” Mark takes a sip of the steaming stimulant, the liquid doing nothing to ease the pounding of his head as Minho continues to rant, “We are all going to end up dead! We should have run them out of town when we had the opportunity in the first place—” 

“Oh my fucking god! Can you shut your mouth for a goddamn second!?” Lia’s anger sends chaos throughout the mausoleum. Jisung barely avoids a barrage of books spilling from their shelves while Youngjae ducks in time for a potted plant to fly over his head and shatter against the wall. Lia storms across the room, a trail of hot flames following her steps, and pokes a single finger into Minho’s chest with a sneer, “Nayeon-unnie is dead, okay!? And there is a psycho out there right now with their eyes on another witch in this room!? Mark is doing the best he can so it’s not your moronic ass that’s next on the hit list!” 

Minho remains silent, visibly surprised by the younger witch’s outburst. For a moment, Mark notices a spark of guilt behind his eyes before they shift to their usual cold exterior. 

“I don’t want anyone else to die, okay? But making a truce with one of the oldest vampires in existence is not a good plan—” 

“Well, it’s the only plan we have right now.” Mark sighs, “I do what’s best for my people—to keep you safe.” 

Minho stares coldly at Mark, “Yeah, just like you kept Jackson safe. Right?” 

Stunned by the witch’s sudden question, Mark is both physically and mentally unable to respond. He simply stares back at Minho with his jaw practically dropped to the floor. Minho shamelessly meets his eyes, as if finding joy out of Mark’s shock. 

“Hey, guys…” The brief moment of tension breaks at Youngjae’s call, who all this time, had been stationed behind the lectern flipping through the journal Jinyoung had gifted only hours ago. Mark feels the many cups of coffee sitting in his stomach churn at the absolute terror spread along Youngjae’s face. Though at his next words, Mark almost believes his entire insides turn inside-out,  “I found the symbol that was on Nayeon’s body…

“It means ‘Hunter’.” 

☽ ☽ ☽ ☽ ☽ ☾ ☾ ☾ ☾ ☾ 

Jinyoung watches your silhouette recede into the blur of the rain with a smile. His mind reels back to your conversation, and how prettily your eyes shimmered in the mist. If it were any other person, Jinyoung wouldn’t care much for the spitfire-type of attitude, but with you… He actually enjoys your ferocious nature. It showcases your livelihood—and mortal strength. 

Jinyoung had planned to keep his word to Mark and steer clear, but he couldn’t help himself. Not when he spotted you standing in the midst of the storm. Something inside him is drawn to you, almost like a moth to a flame. It excites him, but startles him all the same. Never before has Jinyoung felt such a magnetic pull to another person—certainly not a human woman. Though, the rational voice in the back of his head still believes some part of you is not all that mortal… 

A wave of chill dampens the cheeriness of his mood, pulling a sigh of annoyance from his lips. He doesn’t have to turn around to feel the stealthy presence behind him. With one last glance toward the direction in which you vanished, and another huff, Jinyoung tugs on the lapels of his blazer and speaks: 

“Following me again, hyung?” 

A deep-set chuckle carries into Jinyoung’s ears, “In all our centuries together, I’ve never quite succeeded in getting anything past you… huh, Jinyoungie?” Jinyoung turns to face his brother, immediately growing more annoyed at his usual, nonchalant stance complete with lazily crossed arms, tilted head and a devious smirk along his lips. “Though, if I knew any better, I’d believe you’re not exactly thrilled to see me?” 

“Well, do you know any better?” 

Jaebeom laughs, “You’re still upset with me. What else is new.” 

“Forgive me if I’m not jumping through the roof because of your erratic behavior.” Jinyoung shoots his brother a glare before shoving his right hand in the respected pocket of his jeans. “Nine bodies all drained of blood, hyung. Do you not understand the concept of remaining inconspicuous?” 

“What can I say? I was rather famished last night.” 

Jinyoung stares at Jaebeom with a blank expression, “Does human life mean that little to you? Truly?” 

Jaebeom releases a heavy sigh, pushes off the brick wall in which he was leaning against, and takes a couple steps forward until he and Jinyoung are only inches from sharing oxygen. He provides his younger brother another smirk and shrugs, “There was a time we used to share the same perspective, brother. And if I remember correctly, you were much, much worse than I am.” 

“That is in the past.” 

“Ah. Of course.” Jaebeom retracts a silver-coated lighter from the pocket of his black, shredded jeans. Jinyoung watches the older play with the tool, repeatedly striking the light over and over again as he continues, “So… Are you going to tell your dear brother about the lovely girl that’s caught your eye?” 

Jinyoung’s patience immediately gives out at your mention. His features pull into a sneer, glaring at the amusement spreading along Jaebeom’s face. 

“Leave it alone.” 

“You do like her then?” Jaebeom’s smirk widens to a grin, “Wow. I’d never thought I’d live to see the day Park Jinyoung falls for a human.” Jinyoung tries to keep his self-control intact as Jaebeom proceeds to laugh, lifting the flame of the lighter up to the level of his eyes—malice visibly flickering in the light of his irises. “She must be very, very special…” 

Jinyoung growls, “I said, leave it alone. I’m not playing your games now, hyung.” 

“I only want to know what sweet (Y/N) has done to gain my little brother’s attention. Maybe it’s her spunk? Or her beautiful face? Or just maybe, the delectable taste of her delicious blo—” In the blink of an eye, Jinyoung has Jaebeom pressed against the same wall he was leaning against only moments before with an arm at his throat. Jinyoung can actually see his own rage in the reflection of Jaebeom’s black eyes. 

“You will stay away from her.” Jinyoung murmurs dangerously, relishing proudly in Jaebeom’s stunned expression. “Do not push me on this. Or I will push back.” Jinyoung releases his hold on his brother, pausing to straighten out the wrinkles of his blazer. Jaebeom continues to stare at the younger with bewilderment, unable to say anything in response. 

An annoyed breath leaves Jinyoung’s lips as he peers down at his watch, “I’m late. We will discuss this when I return back to the manor.” He shoots Jaebeom a pointed glance, “Please refrain from getting yourself into any more trouble. If you even can.” Without as much as a goodbye, Jinyoung brushes past Jaebeom and into the rain that’s coming down even heavier. He tries not to think about the paranoia and fear budding in his gut and instead focus the soaked path ahead, but even his own mind betrays him. 

Jinyoung knows Jaebeom. He’s known him for almost a millennium. He knows that if he makes one wrong move, Jaebeom won’t hesitate to retaliate against him—retaliate by using you. Jinyoung shakes his head with a sigh, savoring the chill of the rain against his body. If it comes down to it, he won’t hesitate to to protect you from his brother in any way he has to… 

He should have kept his word, and stayed away. 

 ☽ ☽ ☽ ☽ ☽ ☾ ☾ ☾ ☾ ☾ 

“You sure you don’t need anything else? Water? Another blanket? Some ramen?” You roll your eyes at your roommate’s barrage of questions, unable to help the soft smile that lifts to your lips. As smothering and irritating as Jihyo’s overprotectiveness can be, it’s nice to have someone looking out for your well being—even though she can be a helicopter mom sometimes. 

“It’s not like I’m paralyzed, Ji.” You reach forward to take her hand into your own, “I’m okay.” 

Jihyo squeezes your fingers, “I just… worry about you, you know? You’ve been through a lot.” Though she doesn’t specify, you know for a fact that she isn’t talking about the hospital visit. Your heart aches for as long you allow it to, before pushing the unwanted feelings away. You playfully nudge her shoulder with a chuckle. 

“You worry about everything. Now seriously, clear out.” Jihyo follows your lead to your bedroom door, staying still to allow you to check up on her hair and makeup. When you deem her appearance to be nothing less than perfect, you nod, “Sana won’t let either of us hear the end of it if at least one of us doesn’t go clubbing with her, Momo and Mina.” 

“What will you do, tonight?” 

“I have some stuff to finish for the university. Or I’ll just binge-watch some Sex and the City.” Jihyo accepts your answer, lifting her arms to bring your body into a short, tight hug. When she pulls away, you send her a wink, “Try not to get too trashed, alright? I really don’t want to be picking your drunk ass up at three in the morning.” 

“No promises,” She hums. “Thanks, (Y/N).” 

“Go have fun, gorgeous.” You give Jihyo a thumbs up as she steps from your bedroom. No sooner does Sana pounce on your roommate, and in a matter of seconds, drags her toward the exit with Mina and Momo not far behind. You wait through the girlish giggles and chatter until the slam of the front door carries from the front hallway—you’re finally alone. 

You quickly shut your door, making sure to turn the lock, and hop over to the tiny desk you somehow squeezed in the corner. When you moved in with Sana and Jihyo, they had to convert a storage closet into a bedroom since the apartment only came with one small master, now Sana’s space, and an even smaller office, where Jihyo resides. So your room is basically a shoebox with a single window and enough room for a bed, clothing chest, and a desk and bookshelf set. Even so, you’ve managed to spruce the place up with frilly rugs, decorative succulents and some cheap fairy lights, 

After yanking the curtains above your bed closed and double-checking the door, you retract the journal Bambam had given you from where you hid it earlier underneath your pillow. The leather is shockingly cool against your palm, almost searing into your flesh. Whether it’s the nerves or the excitement that’s making your pulse beat like a racehorse, you’re not so sure. But to be honest, it doesn’t matter to you… not as much as the truth that awaits. You settle back into your desk chair and open to the first page. 

There’s a name scrawled on the inside of the cover in a handwritten font you’ve only seen in historical documents and creative poetry projects. You recognize Bambam’s last name, Bhuwakul. The next page holds a diary entry in the same handwriting, dating back to 1770. Not desiring to wait any longer, you begin to read the entry: 

Day 1 — I have been traveling day and night for many months. My long journey has been filled with hardship, starvation and exhaustion. But my efforts have finally paid off. On a night when the moon was full and bright, I stumbled across a small village only miles from the edge of the sea. The townspeople welcomed me and my brother into their borders. Fed us. Clothed us. And even offered us a home to where we could reside as long as we wished. I believe we will stay here in Moon Dye Bay. For good. 

You flip through the rest of the pages, delving into the story of Bambam’s great-, great-, great-grandmother and her new life on the bay—how she bettered the town and its inhabitants, soon earning her title as the first ever mayor. You find yourself immersed in the personal account of her life, relating to her worries, wants, and wishes. Somewhere in the story, you completely forgot about Bambam’s warning… until you reach an entry that makes your skin crawl: 

Day 196 — There’s a murderer in town. We’ve lost eleven of our people. Three men. Seven women. And one child. I believe this person, no—this monster enjoys it. This monster enjoys draining the blood from their victims like rum, and tearing open their throats like a child opens a gift. This monster enjoys hearing them scream for mercy—watching the fear in their eyes blossom like flowers. But mostly, I believe this monster enjoys the hunt. I spoke to the Wang faction the other night, and some of the ladies said they felt as if they are being watched at night, when they are alone—as if the monster is lurking in the shadows, waiting for the right chance to kill. 

The passage reminds you heavily of what happened last night. Your attacker had done everything in which Bhuwakul described, even the part about tearing your throat open. You don’t bother to acknowledge the spinning of your head and instead, mindlessly flip through the journal. Your lack of attention no longer allows you to fully read the entries, only skim—until you reach another that catches your eye:   

Day 209 — It’s unlike anything I could ever imagine… This pain—this grief… My brother is dead and it’s because of those murderers… Because of those demons… We’ve all been blinded by their charms… but no more… I will expose them to the villagers for what they truly are… so no one else can be victimized by their deceit… 

You almost faint as you read the next sentence that follows: 

—Park Jinyoung and Im Jaebeom are vampires. And they’re coming to kill me next.

[viinas-writes]

“Desert Rose”

Written for the Kiribaku Anthology “Ascent”. Words: 5,211

The weight of Eijirou’s last bullet is both a grim and comforting reminder. It’s locked in the pistol tucked into the waistband of his pants like a soldier at the ready, waiting for its first and last command.

Blood-red clouds race past his vision, blurring into the overcast sky. He feels the ravaged terrain of a city he once called home tilting under the worn soles of boots that have been too small for over a year. His lungs burn. Smoke and debris sting his eyes. His body aches down to his bones but he doesn’t stumble, doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t stop.

A fleeting thought rolls across his mind: I don’t want to die here.

He casts a glance over his shoulder. The hooded man—a dorobou, probably—is still in pursuit. Eijirou can hear the clack of a rifle bouncing against his assailant’s back.

Eijirou is virtually unarmed; his pistol has been empty for months. He keeps only what he calls an “insurance bullet”—to put into his own head if things turn for the worst. If the choice is between dying as himself or having his soul obliterated by a dorobou, there’s no question about how he’d rather go.

He skids to a stop just before the ground plunges straight down. Loose earth scuttles past his feet and falls over the edge. His blood throbs in his ears. Down below, he makes out human remains, grotesquely discolored, emaciated, and half-floating in dark, shallow water. Discarded hosts. When a dorobou’s human body decays from infection, the only way for them to survive is to move onto a new one.

His hand finds his pistol, his trigger finger twitching.

“You stopped.”

Eijirou’s heart skips. Furtively, he looks back. His pursuer stands a safe distance away, rifle in hand but pointed at the ground. He pulls his hood back to reveal a shock of blond hair.

His appearance gives Eijirou pause. The venom in his gaze is discordant to the roundness in his jaw, as if everything he’s seen has yet to catch up with him, physically.

He’s a kid...like me.

“A dorobou wouldn’t have stopped.” His head falls. He pinches the bridge of his nose and lets out a heartfelt, “Fuck.”

Eijirou’s head fills with questions but the only one that forms is: “What are you looking for?”

The boy’s hand drops to his side and he screws his eyes shut, furiously shaking his head. He won’t look up, lest he lower his guard. Eijirou understands that well. Trust can’t be given blindly; altruism was a luxury their world lost.

“You looked like…” He drags a weary hand through his hair. “Same shitty dye job.”

Eijirou raises an eyebrow. “Uh—”

“Whatever,” the boy says. He turns on his heel, slinging his rifle across his back. “I made a mistake.”

“H-hey, wait up!” Eijirou yelps, because to a certain degree all trust is blind and maybe he’s just as angry and tired as anyone unlucky enough to have been born into this hell. “You know, we’ll survive longer with two of us, right? I...I mean,” he pauses, turning his words over in his head. “Unless you’re not alone…”

The boy sneers and the venom in his eyes now drips from his voice. “Like hell. I made it this far on my own.”

Eijirou laughs, which makes the boy turn and glower. He’s got big, rotten pride and an attitude to cut through glass, but if he’s survived this long all by himself, there’s got to be a thing or two they can learn from each other.

“S-shut up!” he stammers, visibly thrown off-kilter. “Give me one good reason why I should let your dumb ass tag along!”

Eijirou’s lips curl into a grin. “Well, I’m not much for offense, but.” He brings his fists together with a satisfying thud. “I’m resilient. I’ll be your unbreakable wall, man. A guard who won’t waver.”

“You are so goddamn weird.” He turns back around. Something like disappointment feels heavy in Eijirou’s chest but before he gets the chance to make a move of his own, the boy calls out, “Fine. But get in my way and I’ll kill you.”

***

Time elapses and once they’ve gotten to know each other—in whatever capacity Katsuki will allow it—it may have been days, weeks, or even months. He learns the idiot is named Kirishima Eijirou and he’s sixteen just like him. Katsuki is able to connect his ink black roots and faded red dye job to his loud, vivacious personality. Who else but someone with a desire to stand out would even bother keeping up such an appearance in this wasteland?

Katsuki also learns that there’s an organized chaos to the way they work together. Everything about Kirishima should make Katsuki hate him; he’s chatty, impulsive, optimistic to a fault, way too touchy…

But he’s also quick on his feet.

Clever in the emotional ways Katsuki is not.

He’s rock solid and dependable where Katsuki is turbulent.

Somehow, it just works.

One night, a storm chases them into the dilapidated remains of a drugstore. They rush in, sopping wet, the soles of their boots squeaking against the tile. Broken glass and empty food wrappers litter the floor. Along the walls, there are dark, empty refrigerators and equally vacant shelves.

It isn’t uncommon for looters to gut places like this. If anything, Katsuki is annoyed he hadn’t thought to do it first.

They find a corner clear of debris to rest their aching feet and Kirishima wastes no time in talking Katsuki’s ear off.

Katsuki supposes he doesn’t mind the sound of Kirishima’s voice. It’s a way to fill the silence he’s has grown uncomfortably used to—protection from his own thoughts. What’s more, as long as the idiot stays yapping, it means Katsuki doesn’t have to talk back.

His secrets don’t define him, but that doesn’t mean he’s about to let any asshole into his head. Some things are sacred. For now, his memories are fragmented moments in the back of his mind. They belong to him in the form of nightmares and fantasies that will become all too real the moment he shares them with anybody else.

So he lets Kirishima talk.

Kirishima’s head tilts back against the wall. He shuts his eyes as if lost in a moment long gone.

“I can’t remember anything before the orphanage,” he admits. His voice has taken on a softer tone, uncharacteristic of the boisterous pain in the ass Katsuki’s come to know. “It wasn’t much, you know. Overcrowded, underfunded...the food was awful.” He brings his hands together and starts to wring them out. “There were never enough beds either. We’d play games to decide who’d have to sleep on the floor for the night.” His lips quirk into a crooked grin. “I’d always let the younger kids win. It sounds pretty shit, but it was home. It was all we knew. Some kids, like me, were orphans of war but a lot of them were abandoned. We didn’t have anybody but each other.”

Kirishima rests his forehead on his joined hands. “When dorobous Thieved our caretakers, I was thirteen. Nobody knew what to do. So many of my siblings died. I was scared and desperate.” He takes in a shuddering breath. “I ran away. Like a coward. I didn’t do anything. Didn’t jump into the fray like a real man should.”

Katsuki tries to picture it, a younger, doe-eyed Kirishima, running without purpose. All his life he had nothing—he was running toward nothing—and yet, he stayed on his feet with love in his heart and a will to live.

How could someone so kind survive in such an unforgiving place? Katsuki tries to wrap his head around it. These days, survival is earned only by the most ruthless.

Katsuki isn’t sure whether it’s Kirishima or the world he’d underestimated. Both of their truths cannot coexist.

“Do you ever regret it?” Katsuki asks, mulling the pieces over, studying the nuances of Kirishima and the broken pieces of his sorry life. He wants it to make sense.

“What, surviving?” Kirishima chuckles. “What kind of question is that?”

Katsuki wonders if he’d have the same optimism if his strength amounted to something other than more time in hell.

A grin that’s at once hopeful and sad touches Kirishima’s lips. He punches Katsuki’s shoulder playfully. “Besides, I met you, didn’t I?”

***

The first time Eijirou sees a dorobou die, the shock leaves him reeling. He’s no stranger to death, but something about the way this body—once so omnipotent—hits the floor is horrifyingly human.

Smoke rises from the barrel of Bakugou’s rifle.

Eijirou’s stomach turns at the sight of the bullet nestled between the host’s eyes. A clean shot. From a distance, he might even look peaceful.

As he steps closer, Eijirou studies the details of his face—close-cropped brown hair, patchy stubble on his chin, thick eyebrows and a hooked nose. The veiny black tinge under his eyelids is the only indication that he was ever anything but human.

Who was he before he was Thieved? Whose life did we just take?

Eijirou’s siblings and caretakers, all Thieved or murdered, flash with gruesome clarity in his head. One by one by one.

“Do you think they felt it?” Eijirou whispers. Lead has settled in his bones. His hands curl into fists to keep them from trembling.

Bakugou snorts, slinging his rifle around his back. “Who gives a shit?”

“Not the dorobou,” Eijirou corrects, his voice steadier than he would have given himself credit for. “I mean the man...do people stay conscious when they’re….Thieved? Are they still there? Do they know they’re being kil—”

“You talk too fucking much.” Bakugou’s voice is like ice. “Let’s go. We don’t know if there were more where he came from.”

The way Bakugou withdraws from hard questions isn’t lost on him. It leaves Eijirou wondering what he’s so afraid of and what he’s seen to make him so cold.

More so...why was it so easy for him to pull the trigger?

***

When Kirishima manages to hotwire a pickup truck, Katsuki supposes he could have done worse in finding a partner. It’s in bad shape, with a cracked windshield and rusty paint job—not to mention the fact that it’s ancient—but it isn’t like they can afford to be choosy.

Methodically, he fiddles with a tangle of blue and red wires, tongue poking out between his sharp teeth, and Katsuki can’t help but study the stern wrinkle in between his brows. He is held captive by the movement of Kirishima’s calloused, dirt-caked fingers looping, tying, pulling, working in such a comfortable motion that Katsuki knows he’s done this many times before.

The truck roars to life; Kirishima sits up and grins. A drop of sweat rolls down his neck, pooling in the hollow of his throat. Katsuki drags his eyes away once he realizes he’d been staring.

“You’re not as dumb as you look,” he remarks.

Kirishima laughs, unapologetically loud. It does something strange to Katsuki’s pulse. He shoves him out of the way and settles into the driver’s side, then looks at the dashboard. The gas meter is a hair away from empty. He sighs.

“You wouldn’t happen to know how to siphon gas too, would you?”

As night rolls in, the two decide it’s best to get some much needed rest. They lay a couple of blankets they stole from a looted shop some weeks ago over the truck bed’s hard ridges and then collapse beneath a threadbare quilt they found in the backseat.

Katsuki’s heavy eyes fall closed as cool air fans across his face. The humble chaos of nighttime has always been so strange to him. Daytime can be so quiet—lonely, when your only company is the terrain. But nighttime rings.

Crickets on the outside.

Memories on the inside.

Kirishima’s breathing so steady and calm...protective in its own inexplicable way and shushing Katsuki’s hurricane of thoughts.

He shifts and Katsuki opens his eyes, transfixed by the way the moonlight drips over Kirishima’s face, delicately tracing his features. He follows the soft silver lines from the ends of his hair, down the slope of his nose, over the curve of his lips, enamored by how they shift and change as he moves.

Kirishima turns on his side and Katsuki can’t breathe for a second. They’re close enough that he could count his eyelashes if he wanted to—long, black, and brushing the top of his cheeks when he blinks.

“Can I ask you something?” Kirishima asks, almost whispering.

Katsuki swallows, something heavy settling in his chest. “What is it?”

“You asked me some time ago...if I ever regretted surviving.” Kirishima wets his lips and the crease between his brows returns, like the question is something he’d considered as carefully as he did the wires in their truck. “Do you?”

He exhales, watching the scar on Kirishima’s eyelid appear and disappear as he blinks. He doesn’t know how to answer that. Survival nowadays is limited only to how desperate you are—more so, how lucky. Katsuki has never been fond of games of chance.

At last, he settles with, “I don’t regret not giving up.” Be it due to luck, skill, selfishness, or a combination of it all, Katsuki doesn’t know how to surrender. He’ll stay alive out of spite if he must. What better way is there to get back at a life that took everything away from him?

Kirishima stares and it makes Katsuki feel naked, like his gaze alone can crack through his armor and sink beneath his skin. He wants to turn away but he’s trapped. Kirishima’s eyes are a deep crimson with sunny flecks of gold—embers that don’t stop burning.

Gooseflesh covers Katsuki’s arms.

He tells himself it’s just the chill.

“My mentor.” The words fall from Katsuki’s tongue. Kirishima’s eyes hold him steady like his own private gravity and it makes Katsuki feel safe.

Maybe secrets whispered in the dark aren’t quite as real.

Kirishima moves closer and their knees bump under the blanket. Electricity sparks in the places they touch.

“I…” Katsuki’s mouth feels dry. He clears his throat and tells him, “My parents and I joined the rebellion when I was a kid. We went out on rescue missions, slaying dorobous and bringing civilians back to the safe house we built. My mentor...he was well-known in our town. A hero, really.” What Katsuki doesn’t say is that Toshinori Yagi was practically his father after his own parents were Thieved and then mercy-killed by their own comrades in action.

He feels Kirishima’s fingertips graze his arm, maybe by accident. Katsuki draws in a swift breath.

“What happened to him?” he asks, gentle and undemanding. Maybe the skeletons in Kirishima’s own closet have given him this specific type of empathy. Or maybe he’s just that kind.

“I went out on my own one night,” he says, curling his trembling hands into fists. Anxiety mangles his words and Katsuki needs a moment to recalibrate. This memory—this confession—isn’t supposed to belong to anybody else.

He keeps talking.

“That fucking safe house felt more like a graveyard than a sanctuary,” he grinds out. “It was full of grief-stricken survivors. I had to get away, just for a bit. Every day felt like a goddamn funeral.”

Kirishima says nothing. His eyes are so damn big, like a puppy’s. It at once throws Katsuki and comforts him.

“I got ambushed by dorobous. Like a dumbass I wasn’t armed so the fight seemed pretty hopeless. I kept thinking to myself that I’d rather die than be Thieved, as if I had the luxury of a choice.” Katsuki grasps the blanket with white knuckles, swallowing the knot in his throat. This fucker will not see him cry.

“Toshinori, my mentor, noticed I was gone so he came looking for me. The idiot was recognized immediately. I mean, people called him All Might. He was their worst nightmare…”

Or at least that had been true before his accident. After a close call with a dorobou some years prior, Toshinori was left walking with a cane and almost blind in his left eye. His aim wasn’t what it once was. He could barely hold his own in a fight. He existed as a symbol, a tactical leader, but he hadn’t been on the frontlines in years.

“I wasn’t as interesting to the dorobous anymore and he saved my life at the cost of his own.” His voice was strangled and he cursed himself for being so weak, even now. “They killed him. And I ran away when I should have died by his side.” Beneath his own anger and grief, he knew why he did. Because if Katsuki had died that night, Toshinori’s sacrifice would have been for nothing.

It still felt like a flimsy excuse.

“It was my fault.” It comes out in a broken whisper that didn’t even sound like himself. “If I hadn’t gone out...if I hadn’t been there…” He shakes his head furiously and curses under his breath.

Kirishima touches his arm, running his thumb across his skin. “Hey...what happened after that?” A soft voice. A steady voice.

Katsuki swallows. “I couldn’t face anyone. I took one of his guns from the weapon closet and ran like hell.” As an afterthought, he adds, “The leader of the attack looked like you from the back. It’s the reason I chased you down that first day. Sorry, I guess.”

“It wasn’t your fault,” Kirishima says.

Katsuki finally averts his eyes.

“It wasn’t your fault,” he says again. His fingers stay on Katsuki’s skin. “Look, this world doesn’t really lend itself much to blame. Shit happens and we just have to get through it as best as we can.”

Katsuki turns away from him because suddenly he can’t stand to be touched. He’s surrounded by the ghosts he just set free. It’s all too much.

He hears Kirishima sigh but then the silence feels all too heavy. It empties his mind of the present and leaves too much room for the memories. He comes to a compromise.

“Hey, idiot,” Katsuki says. “Tell me a story.”

Kirishima tenses beside him. He stammers, “Uh, s-sure. Of what?”

“Anything.” He just needs to hear his voice until sleep pulls him under.

And so he does and his gravity returns. When they wake up the next morning, they’re a tangle of limbs.

***

Sunlight beckons them awake and they extricate themselves from each other without words. For the past few weeks, ever since their first night together on the truck bed, every morning has been this way.

Eijirou tucks his pistol into a proper holster now while Bakugou is bent over his knees, lacing up his boots. Once they’re both ready, they share a glance and then hop into the front seats, off again. Sleepy, laconic conversations have become routine for them and each response brings them closer to some semblance of the energy required to survive.

“You reek,” Bakugou says.

“So do you,” Eijirou says.

“Let’s find a shower.”

“But food first.”

“Food first.”

“And coffee.”

A snort. “Good luck finding that.”

“You really do reek, man.”

“You didn’t think so when you clung to me last night.”

Eijirou laughs, tilting his head back against the seat, listening to the rickety hum of their motor. He catches Bakugou’s smirk out of the corner of his eye.

It’s rare to find an abandoned supermarket stocked up, but when they stumble upon one with its front doors intact, Eijirou suggests they give it a look.

Bakugou grunts an affirmative.

Humid air rolls over them as they step inside. The first thing Eijirou notices is the assaulting stench of rancid meat.

“Eugh,” he half-gags. “That’s ripe.”

“Good sign,” says Bakugou. He stalks past Eijirou. “Means there’s still food here. There’s gotta be something salvageable.”

“Should we split up, then? Cover more ground?”

The faster they’re out of here, the better. If this place has yet to be looted, that means it’s only a matter of time.

“Yeah.” Bakugou cocks his rifle, ever-vigilant. “We’ll meet back at the entrance in ten.”

They part ways and Eijirou combs through the aisles, stocking up on whatever non-perishables he can find. A jar of peanut butter. Saltine crackers. Canned goods. His backpack puts on satisfying weight. But the rotting smell only grows more oppressive the closer he moves toward the back.

He tiptoes forward and the stench sends his stomach lurching. When he turns the corner, fear winds through his stomach.

A girl—no, a corpse—lies at his feet. One yellow-tinted, glassy eye stares straight through Eijirou; the other has been eaten by a festival of maggots that have since found a home in her now-hollow skull.

Infected black veins bulge from her ashen, emaciated hands.

Not just a corpse. A discarded host.

Eijirou draws his gun and calls Bakugou’s name.

Katsuki backs into a wall, aiming his rifle at the horde of enemies closing in on him. He’s limited on bullets and would prefer not to waste any on these lowlife dorobous but if he must, then he will. His eyes dart from left to right, searching for an opening.

Kirishima’s voice falls on deaf ears. It wrenches Katsuki’s heart. Is he alright? Did a dorobou find him? He knows Kirishima is more than capable of taking care of himself.

But still...

The one directly in front of Katsuki cocks his head with amusement. Katsuki’s head spins; something about him sets his nerves on end.

“You know…” His voice is deep and gravelly, grating against Katsuki’s ears like nails on a chalkboard. “You remind me of an old friend. It’s that look in your eyes.”

Katsuki’s blood runs cold but he shows no indication. He narrows his eyes and clicks a bullet into its chute.

“I’ll fucking kill you,” he says, though he’s still careful. Right now, his odds aren’t good.

“Aw, kid, don’t you remember me?” He smiles, displaying a row of decaying teeth. “I wonder if All Might would be proud to know you’re still alive.”

Silence.

Eijirou’s heart sinks.

Without thinking, he breaks into a run.

He keeps his gun drawn as his eyes scan the area, desperately searching for a sign of his partner.

He runs.

Leaping over debris and groceries strewn over the floor.

He runs.

As nightmarish what-ifs fill his head to a point of bursting.

He runs, and runs, and runs.

Because if he doesn’t...

His thoughts and better judgment are so wholly monopolized by adrenaline that he isn’t prepared when he’s tackled. He crashes to the floor, gripping his gun to his chest. Cans of food spill out from his backpack and roll straight into the foot of an adjacent shelf.

Eijirou turns over with a gasp, aiming the gun forward. A dorobou with a nest of blonde hair crushes his legs beneath her weight. Her honey-colored eyes are feral with hunger. A web of black veins blooms from her temple.

Her body has already started to give from the infection; once a host can no longer sustain them, they find their next target.

That insurance bullet flashes in his mind.

She’ll kill him. She’ll take him. The gun throbs in Eijirou’s hand like the heartbeats its bullets are meant to collect.

He should kill her.

He should…

A scream tears through his chest and he jams the butt of his gun into her nose. She shrieks as blood runs over her lips. He wrestles her off and leaps to his feet and he doesn’t hesitate to take off again.

Red floods Katsuki’s vision. Toshinori’s alias falls off the dorobou’s tongue like something poisonous. Visceral familiarity carves into Katsuki’s gut and suddenly the pieces jerk into place. Those smug eyes. The bloodlust that would rather kill than Thieve.

A different host, but it’s him.

“You.” Katsuki abandons logic and self-preservation. He lunges at him. “You son of a bitch!”

He’s shoved to the floor by four or five others and his rifle is wrenched from his grip. It clatters to the floor, out of reach.

“I want the body!”

“Shut up! My host has given way. I need it the most.”

“If you damage it beyond repair, none of us will be able to take it!”

A knee jams into his back and Katsuki’s jaw cracks against the tile. Agony explodes through his body. All of his senses but the ones that register pain begin shutting off. White noise spills into his ears and he feels like his skull is about to burst open.

He can’t breathe.

He can’t see.

He can’t speak.

Why the hell did he let his anger get the better of him? Katsuki tries to curse but pain shoots through his spine.

Maybe this is some kind of penance. To die the same way as Toshinori, the way he should have all those years ago.

Even now, thinking of his mentor’s sacrifice, he’s so selfish.

He’d give anything for more time.

More things to learn. More sunrises to see. More...more nights under the stars and long drives in comfortable silence and more warmth. Warmth under a tender gaze, a familiar voice, a soft touch...

...just...more…

The floor grows warm as pins and needles spread across his back. His heartbeat slows, but so does the pain.

Is it over?

It’s so quiet.

And then, a gunshot.

A scream.

A sob.

Bang.

Bang.

Bang.

Bang.

Bang.

A watery voice calls his name, not Bakugou, but Katsuki. It sounds so sweet. Like a lullaby. He wants to hear it again. Warm hands carefully roll him over and take him into their arms.

“Hey.”

It’s so warm.

“Katsuki.”

It’s so safe.

“Godammit, STAY WITH ME!”

A gentle flame flecked with fierce gold embers. It’s so beautiful.

“I took care of them but we need to leave before we’re ambushed by more.”

It’s...

“Katsuki.”

It’s home.

***

And then everything burns white.

Katsuki’s eyes open to what feels like the goddamn sun. Slowly, the stiff gears in his mind begin to turn as shards of reality draw together: the ridges of the truck bed under his body, the throbbing in his head, the smell of grass and gasoline, and the faraway sound of music trickling through static—a radio?

He groans and tries sitting up but the pain knocks him back down. Kirishima is instantly by his side, hands hovering just above Katsuki’s shoulders.

Kirishima.

He takes him in: big doe eyes, razor sharp teeth barely biting down on his bottom lip whenever he’s concentrated or confused, the scar cutting through his eyelid. He’s so soft. Kind. For a dumb moment, Katsuki asks himself how someone like this could possibly fit into a world so cruel.

“The….fuck,” Katsuki says.

Kirishima helps settle him into a sitting position, then gestures sheepishly at Katsuki. “I hope it’s okay. I have, like, the bare minimum of first aid knowledge. They taught us at the orphanage. But, uh, I’ve never properly dressed a stab wound.”

Stab wound?

He glances down at his body and connects the pain with a concentrated area just shy of the small of his back. Threadbare bandages are wound tightly around his torso.

“It’s...fine,” Katsuki manages, still dazed.

Kirishima sits back on his heels and exhales; it looks as if it’s the first time he’s allowed himself to breathe in days. “I’m so glad you’re okay.”

His head is still full of fog, but through the haze of pain, confusion, and whatever memory he has from that night in the supermarket, he’s able to realize one thing.

Kirishima saved him.

Kirishima, with his gentle heart and careful hands pulled the trigger again and again, crying Katsuki’s name—desperate. Kirishima who once asked him if human hosts could still feel the fear and agony of being Thieved, and then being killed. He discarded his own empathy to save Katsuki.

Dorobou or not, his hands are forever stained with blood now.

“You,” Katsuki begins, then stops himself. He doesn’t need to rehash that. Not right now. There will be time to talk about it just like there will be time for Katsuki to return the favor. Instead, he sighs. “It had to be you, didn’t it? No other asshole could have gotten us out of that mess alive.”

Kirishima laughs and the remaining tension bleeds out of him. There’s still something different in his eyes—not broken, but less naive. They’re the eyes of someone who just learned that the only way to survive is to be more ruthless than the world you’re in.

But those fire eyes with their sunny gold flecks are still unequivocally Kirishima Eijirou.

“Is there anything you need?” he asks. “I mean, now that you’re awake.” He jabs a thumb in the direction of the front seat. “I can change the radio station, though, it’s either this or polka.”

Katsuki has half a mind to snap at Kirishima for coddling him. He doesn’t, though. Because it’s Kirishima. Because when everything was slowing to a stop, all he could see was scarlet eyes and a starlit smile.

So he doesn’t curse at him, or move away, or listen to the parts of himself telling him he’s a fool for letting anybody this deep into his heart.

He says, “You called me Katsuki.”

Pink blossoms on Kirishima’s cheeks. He lets out a nervous laugh and scratches the back of his head. “Sorry about that. I, uh, things were...I mean, you know. I don’t kn—”

“God, you talk too fucking much,” says Katsuki. His fingers wind through the fabric of Kirishima’s shirtfront and he pulls him in for a kiss. Butterflies explode in his stomach and his heart feels like it’s about to burst out through his ribs and at first, he thinks Kirishima is going to push him away.

But he melts.

His hands cradle Katsuki’s face, calloused thumbs circling his cheeks. His flushed skin, soft lips, and the rhythm of his pulse intoxicates him like a drug. When they pull apart, Kirishima licks his lips, and then laughs.

Katsuki is taken aback. Defensively, he sputters, “What the hell?”

“You’re so cute when you’re smitten,” he replies, then presses a sweet kiss to the side of his mouth. Katsuki’s face burns. “Man, I’m so glad you didn’t kill me that first day.”

He snorts, then narrows his eyes. “Once again, you talk way too damn much.”

Kirishima cocks an eyebrow. “What are you going to do about it?”

They fall back into each other and Katsuki smiles against Eijirou’s mouth, thankful at the very least for one thing: that all of the anguish leading up until now gave him something so good. Maybe they were unfairly born into a world where the odds are stacked against them. But maybe there’s also something to be said about the way they’ve kicked adversity in the ass. Destiny, fate, or whatever brought hellfire to their home, challenged humanity to a fight to the death.

Every moment up until now has been about trying to conquer the insurmountable. But now, together, there isn’t an odd they won’t beat.

[moonlightwinterdxxix]

Awkward brotherly babysitting or pet sitting with Ichimatsu and Choromatsu for the Bits of my Brothers? (And can I say that I'm LOVING your works so far??? The Ventriloquist Vengeance is a story I never knew I needed ajsdlkasf)

Ahhh! Thank so much for the kind words! It means so much to me and I’m glad you’re enjoying it!

This is honestly the first time I’m writing a request, and I hope you like what I’ve managed to make. So without further ado, Nenchuu up the bat!! 💚💜☺️😒

~~~

When Choromatsu lifted the dirty diaper off his face, his eyes went wide. Any horror he would’ve felt beforehand was now a tidal wave of utmost defeat, and he wanted to collapse and freak out and tear each and every strand of hair off his head. But he held back from the sensation, and gulped instead, tossing the diaper to the ground.

The kitten tilted its head at him.

This was a sign, and a bad one. One worse than Osomatsu humiliating him in front of Nyaa-chan, one worse than being identified fapping when he was certain he was alone, one worse than dyeing his hair brown and having everyone see him. No, it was worse than all of that—so much worse. And if anything was worse than that, it was being dead and in heaven, but being discovered having man-woman privacy with one of the guardian angels. Lucifer wasn’t going to be alone there in hell anymore.

No. This dilemma of Choromatsu Matsuno wasn’t that he had a baby’s diaper that spoke and stunk of turd on his face—it was that there was a kitten in front of him. And where cats were involved, so was Ichimatsu.

Putting one-plus-one together, that meant Ichimatsu was home.

And the reason that Choromatsu even had a baby with him was because he was as sure as hell that he was spending his day at home, on his own.

And as if heaven already hated him and his luck couldn’t get any worse, the baby started crying.

Loudly, like a marching band that had been constructed out of chaos. It flailed its small arms so energetically that Jyushimatsu was given competition. It’s wails were higher than Choromatsu’s voice went when he was at an idol concert. The baby cried like its little life depended on it, but as Choromatsu stood there dumbfounded, he couldn’t blame it. He wanted to wail if it meant his life would be saved too.

Choromatsu flinched so hard that every hair in his body stood. He quickly scrambled towards the baby on the couch and cradled it in his arms, trying to calm it down as best as he could before the devil incarnate himself arrived in the room. But with how fruitless his efforts were, and how much louder the baby was becoming, he was only going to be met with failure. He wanted to accompany the baby in its crying, but knowing that it was Ichimatsu that was going to discover the unfortunate corner he had dragged himself towards, he fought for composure.

He continued to sway the baby with a little lullaby that was off-key. It made the baby cry even more.

Then came Ichimatsu’s footsteps. Choromatsu waited for the comment that would run him to the ground, but it never came. A minute or so passed, but it never came. So in his own curiosity and dread, he urged himself to spin his head to the direction of the door, meeting his eyes with Ichimatsu’s.

Ichimatsu merely regarded him with blank eyes, but his lips told a different emotion. And upon meeting CHoromatsu’s gaze, he quickly turned his heels to go.

Oh no, he didn’t.

“Oi! Ichimatsu!” Choromatsu yelled, and cared less if that worsened the baby’s status. To his relief though, Ichimatsu stopped from what might’ve been his beginning trek to the opposite side of their house. “You think you’re getting off free there? Get back here and take the kitten back outside! It’ll disturb the peace of our home.” Oh, as if the baby wasn’t. It was a completely stupid thing to say, especially from someone like him. It was humiliating in a lot of senses, but he had no other option but to accept it.

Dang, Choromatsu just found himself more and more pathetic as the day dragged on.

Ichimatsu’s face reverted to its normal, lackadaisical state. “Are you really the person who has the authority to say that?” he curtly asked.

Cheeks burning, Choromatsu growled, accepting Ichimatsu’s dominance in the situation. “Fine. Do I owe you an explanation if it means you wouldn’t tell the others?”

The baby was still crying. Ichimatsu eyed in silently and nonchalantly before re-entering the room, grabbing the kitten by its black-and-white belly and bringing it to his lap as he sat on the far, opposite side of the sofa. He began to rub his little pet behind its ears, but he was once more focused on Choromatsu in a sense that made Choromatsu curse himself, yet again.

“Go,” Ichimatsu said.

Such bluntness, and it made Choromatsu sick. Of all brothers to be stuck with, it just had to be Ichimatsu. Ichimatsu, who had proved himself as both the darkest man alive and above all, the most awkward companion Choromatsu could ask for. What kind of boundaries would they find themselves sharing this time, huh? What would the record be of how long their silence between conversation would be this time, huh? How long until the rest of the others came home, huh?

Well, he supposed having one was better than five. So for the time being, maybe Ichimatsu wouldn’t be so bad after all. He was quiet, reserved, and he reflected the awkwardness of Choromatsu at a level that was bearable. Plus, he wouldn’t tell the others about this...Would he?

Ichimatsu’s face gave no promises, but no denial either.

Perhaps this was one of those moments when Choromatsu needed to trust his gut.

As a way to begin the explanation, Choromatsu sighed. “Nyaa-chan. I was watching television, and she mentioned in an interview that she liked it when guys were nice to babies. I dunno if it was her speaking or for the sake of her image, but I believed her either way. At first I didn’t care about it, but then I heard crying outside our house. And surprise-surprise, there was a baby on the road, without parents, without anyone or anything. So thinking it was by a miracle of fate that it was from some game-show of some sort where they’re testing the reflexes of the people, I took it in. I didn’t think you’d come home so soon, so I thought I would be spared at least five ‘you’re pathetic’ teases from any of you.”

Ichimatsu snorted without smiling. “You’re pathetic.”

Yes, there it was. It was oddly satisfying as it was painful. “Thank you.” He collapsed at the opposite side of the couch from Ichimatsu, still trying to rock the baby in his arms, and still finding success far, far away from his reach. He tried to rub his index finger in a circle against its stomach, yet nothing changed, as he expected. He sighed. “Ichimatsu, can you do me a favor and get some milk?”

“Hm? For the baby or for the cat?”

“For the baby, of course!” Choromatsu snapped. “Cod, it’s common sense, Darkmatsu!”

“Ah, but this cat is also a baby,” Ichimatsu stated, moving from the ears to the underside of the kitten’s chin. The kitten leaned in to the touch, emitting a small purr that slightly decreased the anxiety in Choromatsu’s heart. Slightly. “The little one would like some milk too, since it's to make his little bones stronger,” Ichimatsu continued, solace evident in him as he petted the small creature. “They say cats have nine lives, but they might as well have one when they’re still this tiny. The world can swallow them whole.”

Letting the words sink in, Choromatsu glanced down at the cat. When he wasn’t seeing it with an image of horror that represented Ichimatsu’s presence, it really was a cute, precious thing that was fragile when set next to the cruelty of the universe. It’s eyes were a wonderful shade of green, and its body was decorated with patches of black that somehow managed to still look clean. But what Choromatsu liked about it most was the heart-shaped piece of black by its neck, so close to where its heart was, beating underneath its pillowy fur.

Translation into reality. Choromatsu was almost touched. Almost.

“Fine, here’s a deal,” Choromatsu stated, extending a fist to the direction of his brother—it wasn’t easy with the squirming mini-human still on his thighs. “Rock-paper-scissors to determine who’s getting the milk.”

“Eh? That childish game?” Ichimatsu huffed, rolling his eyes. “That’s a very idiot eldest-type suggestion, Chorofappyski.”

“It’s fair play,” Choromatsu argued, more from defensiveness than the truth in his phrase. “Just one go.”

Ichimatsu let the cat curl in his lap for a second, then rubbed its furry back so gently that it reminded Choromatsu that Ichimatsu had the ability at all to be gentle. As Ichimatsu brushed it a bit more, his cheeks rosed a little, barely there, but Choromatsu’s eyes were clear enough to notice it. It faded quickly after as Ichimatsu said, “Whatever. One go.”

Ichimatsu extended his own fist, and waved it twice before ending it with two fingers forming scissors.

Choromatsu’s hand was flat as paper.

Ichimatsu leaned back. “Get the milk.”

“Ugh, stupid luck.” Choromatsu lifted himself off the couch, laying the baby on his previous place. His heart nearly skyrocketed when the baby turned and nearly fell off the edge, but it was swift to redeem itself when it rolled over towards the backrest of the sofa. It was as if the weight of the entire world was lifted from his shoulders—his relief.

He tried not to discern the hint of a snicker at Ichimatsu’s side as he stormed out of the shared bedroom and entered the rest of their house, snagging the milk from the fridge with aggression that peaked to a million. Darn their position in the caste system, turning what could’ve been a normal man like him into a NEET...!

When he returned to the room just as grumpy and his attention on the milk, he was saying, “Hey, Ichimatsu, do you know if Mom and Dad have any spare baby bottles from when we were kids left somewhere?” He stopped at the doorway, the carton of milk stilling as he did. “Now, that’s a sight.”

Ichimatsu remained bland, but it was obvious by his lowered brows that his situation was getting to him. “Which one? The fact that the room is an absolute mess, or that your stupid baby is trying to chew off my ear?”

Actually, Choromatsu was distracted by the room, because it was his first time registering what he and his horrible babysitting has done to it. The diapers from earlier were lying discarded on the floor, the stink of it green as it smoked in an unnatural, visible hue. There were mats laid where Choromatsu had tried to change its diapers on the floor, but with no such luck when the naked toddler had stubbornly shoved him away. And everywhere else was tissues. Tissues for its baby-boy bottom, tissues for its tears, tissues for the pee stain that still coated the side of their bookshelf. It was a miracle none of the books were damaged.

Now sending his attention to Ichimatsu, Choromatsu casually said, “I think it likes you.”

“Get it off me,” Ichimatsu ordered lowly, one of his hands already looping around the baby’s naked half. His kitten sat next to him, watching the situation with innocent, naive curiosity. “I don’t want to be touching this thing if it means the cat will run away from me,” Ichimatsu added.

Choromatsu shook his head, pointing. “No, I think that’s better. It’s no longer crying.”

Now the first sign of irritation made itself present in his little brother’s face, and the instinct to kill could be easily traced on him. “Do you want me to kill you first before this baby, Chorofappyski?” he threatened. And with that specific tone of his, they were a word away from the revelation if Ichimatsu was going to carry out his promise or not.

For the sake of his safety, Choromatsu quickly trudged towards his brother, tossing the carton to the floor, and wrapped his hands around the baby’s waist, muttering at it to stop as it continued to clomp its toothless mouth around Ichimatsu’s slobbered ear. It wasn’t too difficult to extract it, but once Ichimatsu was back to his usual, careless self, the baby had reverted back into sobbing that made fatigue sprout in Choromatsu’s form. He slumped down beside Ichimatsu, shutting his eyes and tilting his head back.

But, well, he had to do something else now. He had to feed the baby with this darn milk, if that was going to work, and hopefully, it did. Options were limited at these dark times. That’s why Choromatsu stood—

—but so did Ichimatsu.

“Huh?” they spoke in unison.

Ignoring his brother, Choromatsu took a step closer to the milk on the ground, careful with the baby he had in his arms. He reached out—

—at the same time Ichimatsu did.

Choromatsu retreated—

—and Ichimatsu did too.

They were matching symmetrically, from the motions of their bodies to the youth they had in their arms.

Oh no, here we go again, Choromatsu thought in terror, and by the way Ichimatsu’s features were crumpled, he was thinking the same thing. Neither uttered a whisper as they lingered on their spots, both anticipating movement that they were completely aware was going to be mirrored by the clone in front of them. Choromatsu cringed at the same time Ichimatsu did.

It was just like before. Cod, it was just like before. The awkwardness, the tension, the horror. The only difference was that they had a baby and a kitten to witness their anathema.

“A-Ah, Ichimatsu,” Choromatsu stuttered, the smile plastered all fake and fearful, “would you like to prepare the milk for us? You could if you want—I won’t stop you.”

“No-no-no, I-I’d give the job to you if you wanted,” Ichimatsu answered, the wince in his emotions exposed in his grin. “But it’s fine. If you want me to do it, I won’t mind.”

“No, don’t trouble yourself. I’ll do it.”

It was silence. Silence, and so, so, so much awkwardness.

Cod, it really was going to be like last time. They needed an ice-breaker, now, may it be the arrival of another one of their brothers, or anything that could put an end in the painful awkwardness of their upcoming situation—

The baby vomited.

“Gah!” Choromatsu yelped, staggering backwards and raising the baby away from his body as it continued to release its bile, brown murk that landed as goops on both their floor and Choromatsu’s socks. Choromatsu extended it further, clearing it from killing him more, but not enough for Choromatsu to be safe from the scent of acid that lifted to his nostrils. He turned as green as his track jacket, wanting to puke himself at the horrible-as-crap permutations of food that made up the baby’s bile.

“Hang on!” Ichimatsu called out, running off towards where Choromatsu didn’t bother guessing. He continued to stand there with his arms stretched, one of his sleeves coated in a gross shade matching the current color of the floor. The baby kept going, and Choromatsu wasn’t sure if that was a good thing or not to let it keep going, or if it was a better idea to give it water or its milk to get it to stop.

This. This is why he didn’t care a dang about babies.

“Oh, Cod, that smells so horrible!” Choromatsu gritted out, proceeding to yell, “Ichimatsu! Get some tissues and water or something! Forget about the milk for a bit and help me out here!”

“I got it!” Ichimatsu yelled back, returning a moment later with a bottle of water as he ran towards Choromatsu and the wheezing child. Ichimatsu put a hand underneath the child’s chin, tapping the cleanest spot there with a finger, saying, “Oi, kid! Open your mouth and gargle this dang water, huh?!” His tapping went harder, and the baby found itself irritated by Ichimatsu’s ruthlessness when it began making sounds that symbolized the start of another set of waterworks.

“You idiot!” Choromatsu screamed, yanking the baby away from Ichimatsu. “That’s not how you do it!”

“Are you doing any better?!” he retorted, waving the bottle as its insides smacked against the walls of its container. “You’re covered in its puke! Let me do my thing so that I can help get that abomination of a child away from a fappy loser like you!” He made a grab, but Choromatsu used one of his legs to kick him back. This just made Ichimatsu try to jerk and jostle, shaking the three of them in a hazardous earthquake.

“Are you trying to kill it?!” Choromatsu demanded.

“Not necessarily!” Ichimatsu replied, struggling against Choromatsu’s efforts to keep him off the little boy. He didn’t seem to give any care if he was getting too close to the vomit on Choromatsu’s sleeve. “But admit it! You’d rather have it dead than slobber on you the way it did! Cod, it was biting my ear!”

“Yeah, I would! But that isn’t what we need right now!” Choromatsu scoffed, still using his body as a shield, but not having its effectivity determine positivity for the child as it began whining once again. “Ichimatsu, cut it out! You’re making it worse!”

“So stop being stubborn! Give me the brat!” Ichimatsu yelled, slowing down far from a choice for him.

“No! Are you stupid?!”

“Not as stupid as you!”

“You’re so annoying!”

“You are too! So give me the whiny thing!”

Fed up and unable to take any more of the nonsense, Choromatsu nudged Ichimatsu with all the strength he could muster.

Ichimatsu reeled back, but a high-pitched screech interrupted their banter, and Ichimatsu was spun around so fast that Choromatsu had to remind himself that they were face-to-face just a millisecond ago.

In front of him, Ichimatsu’s anger diminished as a candle would on a windy day. Instead, he was suddenly sympathetic and entirely apologetic, a rare emotion that was emitted from the fourth-born Matsuno son on days that were as abnormally-normal such as this one. “Oh crap, I stepped on its tail!” Ichimatsu cried, kneeling down towards the small kitten so tiny and defenseless on the floor. “I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean—!” But he didn’t get to finish as the kitten hissed at him and scrambled towards their open door.

When Ichimatsu faced Choromatsu again, he was absolutely fuming. “That was all your fault, Choromatsu!”

“Because you kept trying to throttle me and the baby!” Choromatsu snapped, and a second later he realized his mistake too late.

Flames danced in Ichimatsu’s gaze, and without another word he had his fingers spread out like claws, and he was pouncing onto Choromatsu with the feral battle roar of a lion. Choromatsu barely had time to breathe another breath before he was tackled to the floor, nearly dropping the baby and wailing out as punches made imprints on his face and body, Ichimatsu’s screaming a blur of words with the agony that blossomed in his skull.

The shock came first before the retaliation, and Choromatsu went just as mad as he stretched out his arms and grabbed Ichimatsu by his neckline and smacked him off. Both were yelling, and soon both boys were engulfed in a battle cloud as they threw punches and kicks against one another, neither of their sentences registering to the other over their own chaos. Bruises marked their skin, saliva spat out, and bodies were doubling over from the unexpected-expected mercilessness of his brother.

This though was so much better than being stuck in awkwardness, Choromatsu decided, and was so much better than having to care for some stupid, left-on-the-street toddler. The kitten though was far from Choromatsu’s priorities. And with that mindset still stable in his conscience, he and Ichimatsu resumed their brotherly battle of the middle sons.

“Uwa!” the baby suddenly exclaimed, and startled, Choromatsu and Ichimatsu froze as they turned towards it. Choromatsu’s knee was an atom away from Ichimatsu’s gut, and Ichimatsu’s grip was white-knuckle tight in Choromatsu’s hair. Their irritation morphed into confusion when the baby pointed towards its filthy mouth indicatively. Choromatsu, for dealing constantly with Todomatsu’s babyish behavior in high school, was familiar with that gesture—it was hungry.

Choromatsu was first to return to his senses as he finished off his kick on Ichimatsu before heading towards the baby, scooping it from the floor and stretching it out in front of him again. It still drooled colored spit. “Ugh, you little...” He groaned, tucking the baby to his shoulder and coming towards the couch, stopping by the fallen bottle of milk before settling down. He spared no heed towards his brother as he popped the bottle open, too tired to bother searching for a real baby bottle with the way things were going down for him.

Ichimatsu just stood there, arms crossed.

“What?” It was more of a statement than it was a question. “Follow your cat. I’ll handle myself here.”

Ichimatsu made a sound between his teeth. “Are you that stupid? It’s freaking pissed at me.”

“Then redeem yourself with this baby,” Choromatsu said, using the back of his sleeve to rub the mouth of the small boy. He continued to try aligning the mouth of the bottle to the baby’s, relieved flooding him when he matched his target. The throat of the baby bobbed as it swallowed down the milk, shutting its wet eyes and relaxing its tense body. There was no use for Ichimatsu in this situation anymore.

“Or not, since I’m doing well. Acting as your true niisan really does to the job sometimes.” He stopped, letting the baby gulp some more, before letting the baby suck again. The milk was draining fast. “Ichimatsu, you’re just standing there. It’s making me uncomfortable.”

“Well sorry if I’m doing that. You’re making me uncomfortable as well,” Ichimatsu snapped, tone clipped.

“Why? Because I pushed you enough to scare your cat away?”

And that was when he made his second mistake, but unlike earlier, this time he felt bad about it. He watched as Ichimatsu’s nose wrinkled in misery, and he was stomping out of the room before Choromatsu could even apologize. The door slid shut with a mighty clang, and Choromatsu felt the baby flinch in his arms as the last of the milk flicked into nothingness. The baby burped, slumping against Choromatsu’s chest, and shutting its eyes, it yawned.

About a second later it was sleeping, and the sky outside had tinted from blue to gray.

Choromatsu found himself slipping in and out of consciousness as the first drops of a downpour started to approach their hometown. The downpour turned into a pattering that struck against their rooftop, and soon it resorted into a steady rhythm of drumming, the light outside of their window contradicting the time of two-thirty in the afternoon. The cool air that managed to enter the room intertwined itself with Choromatsu’s system, tickling him and allowing drowsiness to climb up him.

He might’ve said that he had successfully fallen asleep when thunder shook him into cautiousness, alerting both himself and the baby that had its scream reverting into wailing. Choromatsu whined and let his back collide against the backrest of the sofa. Was this small creature that hydrated to be able to cry all day? Apparently so, and Choromatsu was too tired to deal with it. But he supposed he had to, since he had given the responsibility to himself.

He prepared to stand—

“Stop. Stay there,” Ichimatsu suddenly ordered, tone low and devoid of all the rage it had carried a few minutes ago. Ichimatsu knelt down on the floor with his brown eyes on the floor, a small redness seeping into his cheeks as he pressed something against the baby’s side. “Here. Take this. Maybe the baby will stop if it hugs this.”

It was a stuffed cat. Specifically, it was a stuffed cat that he had owned for only a few months when Jyushimatsu had won it at the latest spring fair. It was a black cat from a movie Choromatsu had forgotten about over how occupied he was with his latest novel series, but he remembered how often Ichimatsu would hide the toy when any of their brothers was around.

Now it was sitting right in front of him, pressed against the sides of both the baby’s body and Ichimatsu’s palm. Ichimatsu was expectantly silent.

“Ah, thank you, Ichimatsu,” Choromatsu said, taking the plush and inserting it between the nimble fingers of the baby. “Here, hug this. It’ll make you feel so much better.”

Understanding him or not, the baby wrapped itself around the plush, resting its chin on the toy’s neck and finding itself comfortable there. It nestled itself once more against Choromatsu’s chest, gaining its lost slumber as it breathed lightly. Its body rose and fell so steadily in its own harmony, creating dissonance with the pelting of the rain.

“That was nice of you, Ichimatsu,” Choromatsu said quietly as Ichimatsu set himself next to him. “How did you know it would help?”

“I didn’t,” Ichimatsu bluntly stated, bringing his knees to his chest and resting his chin on them. “It was a hunch. Normally a lot of people feel better when they have someo—I mean, something to hug.” Ichimatsu’s face went redder.

“I suppose that’s true,” Choromatsu mused, pretending he didn’t see it. “But that was a nice sacrifice from you, Ichimatsu. I know you really like that cat, but to give it to the baby after it had finished puking and downing milk...” He shuddered, imagining his reaction if one of his personal stuff got into a similar position.

Ichimatsu smirked. “It’s no big deal. I’ll have Shittymatsu wash it when he gets home, or you so the secret stays about our inconvenience.”

Choromatsu scoffed playfully. “I would, but I don’t think so. I’m not touching baby drool.”

“It’s all over your sleeves.”

“Good point.”

They let the rain and the baby’s light snoring be their sound for a while.

“We should get that child to the police station when the rain lightens up,” Ichimatsu said, putting an end to the voiceless session. “Get it to its parents, if it has any. Eh, the police would do it, as long as it isn’t Officer Yatsugashira anymore.”

He chuckled. “Yeah, I agree with you. And before the rest of our brothers get home.” Choromatsu went rigid, his guilt coming back as he said, “Ichimatsu, I’m sorry about what I said earlier, and for pushing you so hard. It was my fault you stepped on the cat. It should’ve been mad at me instead of you.” He let his shame overpower him as he waited for Ichimatsu to answer, to break the chain that had buckled itself in Choromatsu’s stomach.

“I’m sorry too,” Ichimatsu finally said, honesty in his voice. “I was being insensitive about the kid earlier. I suppose that having an ill feeling in his stomach isn’t his fault for vomiting. You were right. I should’ve held back on him.”

Choromatsu smiled at him with his angular smile. “I guess we both get into our own kind of trouble when we’re home alone, aren’t we?”

Ichimatsu dipped his chin with a matching smile of agreement. “Mhm.”

The sky continued to rumble, to weep uncontrollably. To close it out, Choromatsu said, “Did you find your cat after you went out? Is it still mad at you?” He sounded melancholic to his own ears.

“Yup. At the toilet. Managed to get in and shut the door on its own, magnificently. It didn’t let me get close to it at all, so I left it there.” He said it with a bluntness that made his mood indecipherable. Choromatsu deciphered it enough.

“We should get it out of there when we can, and take it back out before Mom or Dad gets back. Do you think it’s as lost as this baby is? Do you think it has a family waiting for it?”

Ichimatsu’s eyes went downcast. “It has to. I wouldn’t want to imagine something like it to be orphaned. But I won’t be surprised. Most of the cats I find in the alleyway are loners anyway, no matter how old. Animal parents just tend to be more neglectful of their offspring than human parents are. Well, some human parents.”

“Yeah. That’s too bad.”

Choromatsu suddenly understood then why babies were so important. Babies signified the creation of a new life, a new mind, a new purposeful thing to enter the world. Some lived to find galaxies in their eyes, to have papers with their names, to have friends and families that made more life that served as hope for thousands of upcoming generations in their cyclical world entitled as life. They grew to become scientists, seeing reality’s codes through intelligence. They grew to become writers, penning lessons that built up the human being into an impenetrable force. They grew to learn love and to give love, when romance, family, and friendship is introduced when they are feeling alone.

Babies became part of the future, and built it.

But not all babies lived long enough to be that. Some parents refused the responsibility of having a child, and killed them off mercilessly with the power of abortion. Some babies entered the world lifeless, miscarriage being the curse that invited them into the breathing world that way they were. Others were unfortunate enough to be caught in nature’s mishaps, fires, storms, and many more calamities taking away their lives before they could be lived. And because of that, there were so many chances of the world’s redemption that bit the dust, letting it flow in its brutal pace.

That’s what made babies special, and why their lives were important. As much as a human he was, so were they, and they held the probabilities to do the impossibilities many people in the present might not be able to accomplish.

And the baby in his arms was part of that crowd.

“Choromatsu-niisan,” Ichimatsu said, bringing him out of his reverie as he got up, “the rain’s lightening up. We should get going before the idiot eldest returns announcing his next Pachinko loss.”

“Right. We should.”

Choromatsu carefully lifted himself from the sofa, careful not to stir the baby from its sleep before accompanying Ichimatsu outside the bedroom. They took a turn towards the bathroom, Ichimatsu flicking the lights on, and Choromatsu saw the cat. It really was a delicate thing, so tiny against the corner of the room. It’s shadow on the wall alone made it look like a monster was looking after it, ready to bite with a single movement. It made Choromatsu’s heart hurt.

“Hey,” Ichimatsu cooed kindly, approaching the kitten with so much compassion that it was barely the Ichimatsu he knew anymore. “We’re going to take you home, okay? We’re going to take you back to your family. Won’t that be great?” Ichimatsu’s hurt from the kitten’s rejection was audible, and Ichimatsu’s forgiveness didn’t do the trick to calm Choromatsu’s shame.

The kitten lifted its vibrant gaze towards them, pulling back.

“Oh Cod...” Ichimatsu whimpered helplessly.

Choromatsu bowed solemnly.

“Uwa?” The baby, awake, shimmied in Choromatsu’s arms. It shook until Choromatsu had to bring it down to the floor, where it crawled towards the direction of the kitten after leaving Ichimatsu’s doll on the ground. Neither Choromatsu nor Ichimatsu made a move to stop it when the baby started petting the kitten’s back with the same kindness and love that Ichimatsu gave it. It was a touching sight as the kitten leaned into the baby’s hands, purring and meowing in a splinter of a pitch.

It was a cute sight that brought the two speechless for a while. Speechless because it was heartwarming, it was adorable, it was unexpected, and it was innocent. The baby laughed as the kitten purred.

“I don’t know what to say,” Choromatsu said, awed. “Only that today I have seen too many things I never thought I would see.”

“Mhm,” Ichimatsu hummed, voicing his agreement.

“Should we wait a little before going, let them play with each other for a little longer?”

Ichimatsu’s answer to that came in variations, and he was stuck without a proper answer. “Won’t we be awkward together?” he asked instead.

Choromatsu smiled at him, placing a hand on his shoulder reassuringly in a solid reply. And Ichimatsu grinned at him in return, placing his own hand on Choromatsu’s back.

Maybe spending the day with each other wasn’t going to be so bad after all.

[twilightknight17]

Goodbyes! Endings! Fish! Yelling!

This ending wraps up better than the original, but still leaves some things.

There is so much in this game that one loop is absolutely not enough to see and do it all.

Where last we left our intrepid idiot, he was buying flowers for his White Day dinner date.

Surely I will be allowed to leave the mall and sell my stuff and visit the Velvet Room. After all, what if I spent every last yen on items to use against the final boss? I would have no money for flowers!

But no. I am imprisoned in the mall and Morgana somehow pays for the flowers. Hanasaki has no comment on this except to wish me luck on my date. Wow.

Sojiro, who the heck do you know that your name got us a table at a fully booked formal restaurant??

Okay so this isn’t the Skytree restaurant, but SOJIRO??

....yep. That’s me. Even when someone else’s wishes mean destroying my heart. Probably hypocritical to say that while I’m on a date, though.

So it feels like there’s more people you can talk to on the last walkaround. Not just your confidants, but random people in the street, and other named characters. Mika’s at Seaside Park, Takakura, from Haru’s social link, is in Kichijoji, Dietman Matsushita is in the Scramble, the little girl from Takemi’s social link is in Yongen with her dad...

.......you’re so poetic, Yusuke. That’s lovely.

Finally, an ad perfectly tailored to me.

Maruki’s friend is in Kichijoji, and wants to know if we’ve heard from him. We have not. We are not friends. But apparently he’s still alive, which... hm.

I’m tired of his crazy stuff, sir. I just want to see my friends and go on a roadtrip in peace, thank you.

I’d never noticed before that Morgana’s eyes glow if you use third eye.

.......

So if you go to the jazz bar, you can basically have the conversation with the manager from Proof of Justice.

He’s surprised when Akira says he doesn’t know, because he never saw Goro with anyone else. He’s also worried, because he hasn’t seen Goro in a while, and wants Akira to tell him to stop by. Akira is briefly melancholy, thinking to himself, “But Akechi is already...” But then he finds Goro’s glove, still safely in his pocket, and reminds himself that their fight isn’t over yet. The jazz manager says he’s looking forward to seeing you both come in together again.

It is, Morgana! I really want this sofa. This is my sofa. It was made for me; just look at it!

ARSENE. IF YOU CAN HEAR ME, I’M SORRY FOR FORGETTING YOU IN LOCKDOWN. IT WOULD TAKE TEN HOURS TO REVERT TO A PRIOR SAVE AND COME BACK. LAVENZA GAVE ME A KEY AS A GIFT BUT WON’T LET ME IN. IT’S NOT MY FAULT.

....is this why Ryoji’s Arcana is Fortune? XD

So you can talk to a random idol singer from a Mementos mission in Akihabara and

what the fuck is this. what bonus does this give me?

Sumire is not present for the final walkaround, which is...weird. No relationship trinket? That’s disappointing. Especially considering I got a gift from some random idol.

And now it’s time for the ending. The kids are worried about being watched/pursued by the suspicious black car, which honestly, I’ve had enough suspicious black cars in relation to Persona to know that whoever this is, is not good news, police or not. ;)

But instead of sabotaging their car, don’t worry, a taxi is here to take Akira to the train station while his friends distract the men in black!

......did you dye your hair??

Anyway Akira has no sense of self-preservation because here he goes getting in a car alone with this guy.

We are not friends. I am not fistbumping you.

He does drop Akira off safely. Akira’s friends swing by for one last speedy goodbye and then are off again on a merry chase, and Akira goes home alone except for Morgana, which I have...several feelings about. The game goes out of its way to demonstrate that Goro is still alive even if Akira misses seeing him, because the whole world is based on what each person sees and feels, and Akira fucking feels in his heart that Goro is still alive and will come back to him one day.

Time to open up the other save and burn two weeks to see the Palace failure condition!

...I still sort of want to do this over and rescue Arsene. It’s not like I have much else to do these days. I just want my unholy powerhouse Arsene for NG+...

Heck.

Anyway, I’ve also learned that having two weeks to burn with no other responsibilities is great for grinding stuff for the awards. I spent like a week straight at the fishing pond and have become a Fishing God. Did you know that there’s an even bigger fish than the Guardian? Fishing pond guy was like, “In this weather, you might see...him.”

Look at this ridiculous fucking fish. XDDDD

I also went to the batting cages and I still suck at batting, but I made it eventually. The home run award is terrifying.

Okay, still a few days left, lets go play billiards, since I never went and did that during the game. I guess I’ll pick up this billiards book this guy recommends, too. I dunno why I need to be better at billiards, though, it just gives everybody social link poi--

....what the fuck is this??? This only unlocks after you read the book? You can guarantee a knockdown if you have max technical rank?? You need at least four days, 2 books, and a really expensive pool cue for this??? Akechi’s only response to you pulling off some ridiculous curved shot is, “That was pretty good”???? I made it through the whole game thinking billiards was just some way to increase everyone’s social link at once????? Aaaaaaaah??????

Morgana gets very upset the closer you get to the deadline. “We HAVE to go to the Palace tomorrow!” Okay, but have you considered...going to the temple for meditation?

...oops. He’s already mad. X’D Meditation?

Now, now, honey, don’t worry, we can technically still go tomorrow afternoon and just send the calling card when we get back. It’s fine. Today I’m gonna hang out with Shinya. Everything is under control.

....Akira, NO.

Anyway, for all of Goro’s grumpiness, he doesn’t turn down an invitation to the jazz club. Hey, it’s only fair, darling, you took me out for drinks the night before the interrogation room.

It’s only right that I return the favor the night before I betray you in return.

You showed me this place, dingus. XD

...I am. Sorry, Goro.

Akira goes to sleep the evening of 2/2 wondering if he made the right decision. That’s the problem, ‘Kira, you didn’t make a decision at all.

“I wanted you to accept my reality of your own free will.”

DON’T LIKE THAT.

Lavenza trying to reach him and just...fading away is painful.

I will say without hesitation that this is the worst ending. To copy-paste what I said elsewhere:

Akira's sleeping in the attic. Presumably for months, given the cobwebs. Where are his friends? Fallen back into their own dreams? Did they just give in without him, forget about him, never wonder where he went, because they have what they wanted? And Goro didn't even have a dream, so he's presumably left alone in a world that he can't stand but can't do anything about because it's permanent now. Maruki can't even give him Akira, because Akira's asleep, and Goro probably feels betrayed anyway. Akira's going to sleep forever, forgotten by everyone who was supposed to care about him. Even if he regrets choosing the dream world in that ending, at least he's there.

I think what's throwing me off is Maruki's absolute insistence on not changing Akira and Goro's cognition without their consent. Putting Akira to sleep feels like a loophole, but if he really believes that Goro is just a creation of his power, maybe Akira's consent is the only one that actually matters to him.

He's only ever really concerned with asking Akira. He even says on 2/2 that he knows Goro's not going to be fazed by the idea of his life being in danger. But if Akira agrees to stay in the fake reality, Goro's happy along with the rest of them, even though there's no way he agreed with Akira's decision. Maybe Maruki's willing to alter Goro to match Akira's wishes because he thinks he's not the real one. As long as Akira wants the real Goro, he doesn't have to worry about being overwritten. But if Akira's sleeping...

Maruki’s so kind, isn’t he?

The true ending feels so much more like it would lead into Scramble than vanilla. Still being chased by the police? Yeah. Everyone splitting up and therefore being out of touch for months? Yep. Seeing Joker in the window? Meta-space is still there and ready to warp into a Jail at the slightest nudge. I don’t understand Atlus’s writing decisions.

That whole thing with Goro does mean they owe us an actual sequel. The game literally says their fight isn’t over.

Beating the game means everyone is in the Thieves Den now, so we get some lovely interactions like Sojiro contemplating the Mona copter, and Makoto warning Ann not to tell Goro that she thinks Loki looks like a zebra.

Also that idol CD is some kind of ridiculous bubblegum idol pop song on my music player now. For one coin. Oh my god.

So... I guess the last thing I want to mention is Maruki. Because he’s a great character. I want to punch him more than I got to. But, and I’ve talked about this with a friend, I cannot wrap my head around how powerful he is. Takuto Maruki is a human being with a persona, just like the Thieves, and there is no explanation for how he got that strong. Yes, his persona is an elder god that evolves into some kind of creation deity, but it’s still just his persona. It’s not like Nyarlathotep acting as someone’s persona while still being a separate, ridiculously powerful entity. There’s no indication here that Azathoth or Adam are independent from their user. So I’m expected to believe that this man awoke to his persona and was able to use a power on-par with the God of Control...just from himself? No deity or monster backing him up? Really? I know he made a career studying cognitive psience, but this is...a little much. Having Nyar around would have cleared that up just from his general presence. XD

Anyway, I loved it. I loved absolutely all of it even if Okumura’s boss fight was a bitch. I think I’ve unfortunately made the decision to go back for Arsene, so I’m definitely going to play NG+ after I take a break to play something else first.

There’s three bonus bosses and the Reaper left to fight, after all. ;)

[ladyhallen]

Inverted Fairy Tales: Cinderella

After the funeral of the late Lord Delacroix, the change was so gradual that Ella Delacroix couldn’t pinpoint when things started to happen. 

At one point, she was sure that her step-sisters, Tatyana and Priscilla, protested but were silenced hastily.  

First, it was Jehanne, let go for spilling the tea on carpets and wasting an entire batch of crumpets. Then, it was Marguerite, fired for the accidentally dropping the white linens in a tub of red dye.  

Little by little, the staff was fired until finally, only the housekeeper, the butler and the groom were left.  

Ella had protested the changes loudly and was told to pick up the slack, little things like darning her own stockings to emptying her own chamber pot. She doesn’t notice when she started feeding the chickens and doing the dishes too but she does know that one day, she woke up with callouses in her hands and an acute pain in her back from scrubbing the floor.  

She tried. She honestly tried her best to be kind.  

Ella had forgiven the recently widowed Lady Delacroix her petty cruelties because even if Ella had lost a father, her stepmother had lost her husband.  

But ripping apart her homemade dress just because she didn’t want Ella to get out of the house was just the last straw. She hadn’t done anything to her.  

Ella had lost her father, was slowly losing her home and was also starting to lose her name when her stepmother started calling her Cinderella for having soot on her face.  

Ella was desperate to get out, before she would forget her own self.  

Ella bled on the hearth from the scratch marks of her stepmother’s nails and wept on it with tears of frustration after her dress was torn apart. She did not know the manner of being that came out of the hearthstones that she contracted by accident, only that it was there and promised help. For a price.  

“You want a night out,” the being said, smoke lazily curling around their nude form. It did not detract from its red eyes and the wicked gleam in them. “And you’re willing to pay any price. How fortuitous.” The last word was said with relish.  

She managed to hold back her shivers. “I want to get out from this house for even a moment,” Ella corrected. “I want to see more than the soot in this hearth.”  

The being laughed. “I will grant it. You will have until midnight. The price you will pay, will be worth it. Wet the hearth again with tears and blood, child, and I will answer.”  

She fell asleep with the wealth of smoke breathed on her by the being. And woke up with a start, soft deerskin gloves on her hands and a shimmering, expensive gown on her body the same shade as her eyes.  

It had been ages since Ella last felt anything so rich and she wanted to cry for the birthright that had been denied to her.  

But there was no time. Midnight, the beings whisper repeated, seeming to linger in the air between her and the cold and empty hearth. She was cold, but she had no doubt that it wasn’t a dream and it wasn’t because of the expensive and luxurious things she was wearing, but the unbelievable feeling of dread that weighed her down.  

What sort of creature did she make a deal with?

.

.

Since she had been busy making contracts with beings of dubious morality, Ella was late.  

This was not a good thing, because that meant all the main doors were already closed. The herald was no longer at his post and she had to make do with sneaking into the side door and admiring everything.  

The chandelier, the numerous dancing people, the food.  

Oh the food. If Ella wasn’t so astounded by the noise, she would be eating as much food as she could manage. The table fairly groaned with it and no one so much as glanced at it! 

“First time in a ball?” a young man with a sympathetic smile asked her. He was handsome with lovely eyes. 

“Yes!” she answered with enthusiasm. She was nibbling on a small plate of crepes. She doesn’t let it show that it had actually her thirteenth plate. She had never been so well fed in her life.   

“Are you having fun?” he asked, seemingly amused by her good cheer.   

“Extremely so,” she said brightly. 

“Even if you’re not dancing?" he pressed.   

With a jolt, Ella realized that no, she was not dancing and being one of the very few women not dancing, it was drawing attention to her.  

“Ah,” she said, the crepes suddenly tasting like ash in her mouth. One of those women sitting out was her stepmother and those sharp, cold eyes were watching her conversation partner like a hawk. “No,” she managed to continue. “Dancing. I don’t know anyone and I have no one to introduce me.”  

The man scoffed at the mention of society rules. “You know me. Will you dance with me?” he asked.  

Ella lit up, smiling at the man. “Yes please,” she said, curtsying.  

The plate was removed in short order and both of them arranged themselves at the side while they waited for the next set.  

“What’s your name?” she asked, staring at the whirl of twirling skirts that passed by. “My caretakers call me Ella.”  

“Call me Harry,” he said, a dimple showing up when he smiled. “Everyone does.”  

The name seemed familiar, but Ella was distracted. She was having the time of her life.  

When the refrains for the set ended, everyone clapped and the women on the dance floor curtseyed to their partners.  

“Shall we?” he asked, offering his elbow.  

Ella eagerly looped her arm through his and allowed him to lead her to the center. When the set started, she had a moment’s terror. What if she had forgotten those old lessons in dancing? But no, the moment her partner led her, Ella remembered.   

She laughed in happiness and followed his lead with abandon, every inch of her aware of the lightest pressure of his hands. 

“That’s better,” her dance partner said with that dimpled smile. “Your face seems like it was made for laughter.”  

“I’ve never had a better set,” she said, ignoring the fact that she hadn’t danced in years and therefore had nothing to compare it to but fading memories. “You are a very talented partner, thank you.”  

“I should be saying that,” he said. “You are a very responsive partner. Would you like a walk in the garden with me, my lady?”  

Now that he mentioned it, the room was stifling. “I would be honored,” she said, curtsying. 

.

.

The gardens were magnificent, with rose bushes and hydrangeas blooming everywhere, peppered with the occasional amaranths.  

“These flowers are amazing,” she breathed. It had been a long time since she had seen flowers blooming so abundantly. The gardener had been one of the first ones to be fired and the garden had suffered for it.  

 “Do you know what this ball is about, my lady?” Harry asked her.  

“No!” she said firmly. “And I don’t really care. I only wanted to attend a ball at least once in my life.”  

Her stepmother had done her level best to make sure Ella would not know about the ball. Except Tatyana had told her in secret and tried to give her one of their old dresses and Priscilla helped her sew ribbons to compliment the old lace. It didn’t work of course.   

“That’s refreshing,” he remarked. “But let me enlighten you. This ball is all about Prince Henry. So he can find a wife.”  

“Oh, the poor man,” Ella sighed. “Marriages...can be like shackles. Especially if you choose the wrong person.”  

Ella thought back to her stepmother and her late father. Her father, who had loved to travel. Her stepmother, who wanted someone to be with her all the days of her life.  

It was a very wrong match and both of them had suffered for it.  

“That’s,” he stuttered. “That’s a very different way of thinking about it.”  

“Really?” she asked. It was just common sense. But she was raised better than that and didn’t say it out loud.  

“Marriage,” he explained patiently. “is supposed to be a partnership. Where one person holds another up. Done right, it’s not a shackle, because you’re both moving in the same direction.”  

It made Ella a bit bitter, hearing such idealistic words. But she had promised herself that she would enjoy this night out. There was a price bound to every second she spent outside of her house. If she didn’t enjoy it, what was the point?  

“For some people, maybe,” she sighed, before visibly straightening up with forced cheer. “Let’s go back to the ballroom. The night’s still young, there’s only two hours left until midnight!” 

.

.

Tears and blood, then smoke. When Ella’s vision cleared, the being was there, lounging without care on the hearthstones smeared crimson. 

It was not her imagination that made those teeth look sharp. Perhaps she didn’t look properly the first time.  

“You haven’t gotten it yet,” the being sighed. “I’ll give you one more night. Maybe two. Isn’t this ball supposed to stretch for three nights?”  

Ella didn’t know that the ball would last that long. She didn’t want to know how the being found out.  

“More?” Ella whispered on numb lips. She doesn’t know what price she was going to pay and the prospect of more terrified her. What could she possibly pay for the gift of three nights? “May I know the price? Please?”  

The being laughed, a raspy sound that made her suppress shivers. “You should have thought of what you could pay before you shed your own blood, contractor. Now you are bound and you have made the contract open for me.”  

She shook and didn’t bother to hide it this time.  

“Two more nights,” the being rasped. “Two nights. After that, I will tell you the price I demand. If you don’t. Well.” The being smiled with satisfaction. “There’s a reason these contracts are bound in blood.”  

More smoke, and Ella was sitting alone, in front of the cold fireplace.  

She desperately held back her tears, because the stones were still wet with her blood and she didn’t want another accidental summoning. 

.

.

Her stepsisters gave her tired glances. The bags under her eyes match theirs and no one said anything. She was supposed to be well-rested and the both of them worried why she had not slept. 

“Darn the girl’s stockings and have the cobbler thicken the soles of their dance shoes,” Lady Delacroix instructed. “And be quick about it. The prince danced with that foreign woman all night, but I’m certain my girls can catch his attention tonight.”  

Ella, for the moment, pitied the prince again. Even if her stepsisters were darling, dear girls, marrying one of them would make the prince part of their family. And she would not wish her family on anyone, not even her worst enemy.  

“Of course, stepmother,” Ella murmured, bowing her head, acting extra obedient. It wouldn’t do for her to be suspicious. And besides, her stepmother’s gaze could freeze a lesser person. Ella had learned not to look her in the eyes anymore.  

“And Cinderella, the garden is looking a bit wild. Prune those trees and cut the grass,” she added.  

Ella wanted to sag. That would take the whole day since she still had to cook lunch and feed the chickens.  

She wanted to protest but she just bowed her head lower and said, “Yes, stepmother.” 

.

.

The cobbler had a long line and Ella just sighed at the sight of it. Of course it would have a long line. A lot of women had worn away the lining of their dancing shoes last night and needed them padded to prevent blisters.  

Ella spared a coin to get herself some breakfast while she waited.   

By the time she finished, it was nearing noon and she hadn’t started cooking lunch yet.  

Her stepsisters, the dear girls, were trying to peel the potatoes and doing a terrible job of it.  

“Ella!” Tatyana exclaimed, dropping her potato.  

“Ella!” Priscilla beamed, almost slicing her hand open with her peeling knife.  

She smiled back, hiding a wince at how much potato was with the skin. Still, they tried. That was the important thing. It was a waste though, and she vowed to bake the skins later for her own meal.  

“I’ve gotten your shoes fixed now,” Ella said. “Did you have fun with last night's ball?”  

The two girls giggled. “Yes, we wished you would have been there. The prince was very handsome and he danced like a dream,” Tatyana sighed. Among the three sisters, she had always been the one who loved dancing the most.  

“The cuts of their dresses were very clean,” Priscilla added, always more interested in clothes than in the people wearing them. “I wanted to know their seamstress, except that would be rude, right Ella?”  

“Yes, that would be rude,” Ella agreed. “And how was stepmother?”  

Both of them flinched.  

“Mother was...” Tatyana trailed off uncertainly.  

“Unhappy,” Priscilla completed.  

Ah, no wonder everyone was making themselves scarce. Lady Delacroix in a mood was something frightening.  

“We’ll fix up your stockings and you can rest from your last night. Try to socialize tonight, you need to talk to more people,” she instructed them.  

“So do you,” Tatyana said without tact.  

.

.

This time, Ella knew better and didn’t flinch when the smoke covered her.  

It was even more terrifying this time, because Ella had a few hours of sleep and remembered her mother’s stories. She knew what this creature, this being, was, and she cursed her past self for bleeding. If there had been no blood...  

“Contractor,” the being purred. “What’s this I see in your eyes?”  

Ella couldn’t hide the minute twitch and the demon cackled. “May I please have my second night?” she asked. Her voice trembled but it didn’t break.  

She knew what the demon saw in her eyes this time. Awareness.  

“Of course, contractor," the demon agreed, more frightening for being so obliging. “I wouldn’t dream of depriving you of your second night.”  

Smoke poured out from the demon’s mouth and covered Ella’s tattered working dress. The color this time was of the night sky, and it twinkled like it had the very stars sewn into it. The ends of the dress flared and daringly flashed her ankles if she moved too fast.   

“Thank you,” she said, because being polite was all she had at this point.  

“Midnight is your deadline, contractor. Call me again when you’re finished, I would love to see if my efforts of have borne fruit,” the demon instructed.  

What fruit? Ella wondered. But she knew better to ask and just nodded. 

.

.

She wasn’t as late this time, but Ella still wouldn’t know what name to give to the herald if he asked.   

What name would she give?   

She was no longer Pierre Delacroix’s daughter. She had spent more years of her life being a servant than being her father’s daughter.  

Eleanor Delacroix was long dead. She was just Ella, servant girl who had sneaked out for two nights with the help of a demon. Her mother would cry if she knew Ella had made such a contract. 

So she sneaked in the side entrances again in shame and headed straight for the food. She had only had baked potato skins for lunch and absolutely nothing for dinner.  

Halfway through moving around and pretending that all the other empty plates she’d left behind were from other people, Ella saw Harry again, hiding behind the curtains.  

She couldn’t help the giggles that came out of her and his lovely eyes snapped to hers. He looked terrified.  

“Help,” he mouthed.  

She grabbed another plate, filled it with more sweet crepes and wandered in his direction. She thrust it behind the curtains and, after a moment's hesitation, he took it.  

“What’s so frightening?” she asked with a smile, looking over the dance floor and acting like talking to a curtain was normal. 

“Mother’s with unmarried daughters,” was the answer that almost had her laughing out loud. She muffled it behind one gloved hand.  

“Look pre-occupied and they won’t harass a you,” Ella advised. “You poor, unmarried thing.”  

He finally emerged from behind the curtains, looking aggrieved and amused in equal measure. “Someone, at least, is deriving amusement from my suffering,” he complained.  

Ella’s smile was impish, the sort that polite society ladies don’t show to gentlemen. “You exaggerate. They can’t have been that frightening.”  

He looked a bit dazed before he blinked and shook his head. “You can’t have met Lady Delacroix then,” he said. “And I was waiting for you, Ella.”  

She didn’t flinch at her stepmother’s name and mentally applauded herself.  

“Why?” she asked after a moment. 

He just held out his hand and Ella straightened up, placing her hand on his. “Oh! I will give you one dance then, and another walk in the garden?”  

“Please,” he said. 

Harry was just as wonderful a dance partner as she’d remembered and the gardens just as beautiful. This time, someone followed them from behind, watching from a discreet distance while still remaining in sight. A chaperone, she realized belatedly. Something that she’d forgotten they didn’t have the night before.  

“The garden is just as beautiful as I remember,” she sighed wistfully. “I thought I dreamed this, but if anything, it’s even better than my memories.”  

He smiled at her. “Thank you, it is my mother’s garden,” he said.  

Ella blinked. Took a breath and released it shakily. 

“Your...mother’s?” she asked faintly. “But this is the palace? Home of the royal family?”  

“Ella,” Harry squeezed her fingers. “You couldn’t have been unaware all this time?”  

My God, she had been dancing with the prince. And she had teased him.  

“I didn’t know,” she stammered, voice seemingly coming from so far away. “I. I never hear any news anymore and. And my sisters were the only reason I knew about this. I didn’t even know how you looked like, or your name!”  

He knelt on the ground beside her and pressed her fingers to his mouth. Really touching it and not just kissing the air politely. If she hadn’t been gloved, it would have been really scandalous. As it was, Ella flushed, mouth snapping shut. She could feel the heat of it even through the layers of the lace gloves and it felt like it burned her. 

“My name is Henry,” he told her, voice low and eyes firmly on hers. “And I went to this ball thinking that I wouldn’t find anyone interesting. And there you were, a vision of loveliness, more concerned about enjoying yourself than looking at me. It was fascinating.  

“And you left me last night, wondering if I would ever see you again. And now that you’re here, I can finally ask you. Ella, what’s your real name?”  

Her breath hitched. And just earlier, she had thought her old self to be dead.  

“My name,” she whispered, making him lean forward to hear. “Is Eleanor Delacroix. My stepmother is Lady Delacroix and my late father, Lord Delacroix, is long dead.”  

It was his turn to be shocked.  

“You are the Lady Eleanor,” he said. “The news said that you died with your father.”  

So that’s why. All those years, she had wondered why no one went to their house to call on her. All her old friends never visited again. Because Lady Delacroix told them she was dead. 

Tears gathered in her lashes and she stood up. “Yes, maybe I did,” she said. She wouldn’t cry in front of him.  

“Excuse me, your highness,” she said, curtseying, before picking up her skirts and running.  

Harry scrambled up. “Ella, wait!” he called, but she didn’t stop. If she stopped, she would fall down in front of him and beg for his help, for his protection.

.

.

The demon emerged from the smoke this time with a smile. 

Ella took two steps back but the demon just advanced forward, each step on the hearthstones soundless and threatening.  

“My my,” it purred. “You have reaped the fruits of my labor.” 

“What are you talking about?” she demanded. Normally, she would be wary and careful. After the night she’d just had, she was just heartsore. 

“The prince is in love with you,” the demon announced. “And you ran away, you stupid girl!!” 

Ella didn’t even hide that she was shaking. She sank to the ground, her knees weak. 

“Your price is the Prince?” she asked. “You can’t! He’s so good, so pure!” 

The demon cackled. “No. No, he is not my price. He’s too good, as you said. You’ve dangled my bait though, contractor. Your prince will come and take you away. Once you’ve married him, call me again, we’ll discuss my reward.” 

“And if I don’t call you?” she asked. She didn’t know what possessed her, but she had to ask. 

The demon loomed over her, eyes inches from Ella’s face. “Then I will find you and grant you suffering immeasurable, little contractor,” it snarled. 

Shakily, Ella nodded and the demon left her in her ragged dress.

.

.

The decision on what she would do could wait because Ella fell asleep immediately as soon as her head touched her worn pillow. 

She dreamt of smoke and husky laughter, and blood coating old black stones. 

Ella woke with a start, and her sisters were in her room, desperately trying to shake her awake. 

“You have to wake up,” Priscilla pleaded. “Oh my God, Ella. The Prince and his knights are here. Something about arresting mother.” 

Tatyana helped tie her hair while Ella hurriedly laced her gown. Priscilla fetched her boots and she just about jumped into it, wincing when it tugged the pins Tatyana was putting into her hair. 

“Arresting mother?” she asked breathlessly as they ran down the stairs. It was the curse of living in the attic. Everything interesting happened on the first floor. “On what charges?” 

“Something about appropriating your birthright,” Tatyana said. “And staying in the manor on false pretenses.” 

Ella almost stumbled on the next step. “What??” 

Priscilla tugged her upright and they moved again. “I think I heard one of them say something about the entailment going to Lord Delacroix’s eldest child.” 

She was grateful they arrived in the receiving hall, even if that meant facing all the people, because she had no idea what to say to that. 

“Ella,” someone said. 

She turned and. There he was, a vision in a knights uniform, looking crisp and clean. She felt so dirty compared to him that she flinched from his raised hand. Her sisters pressed their hands to her lower back in support. 

“Prince Henry,” she said, voice low. The three of them curtseyed in unison. 

He looked pained. “Lady Eleanor,” he answered. “May I please speak with you?” 

When she nodded, his knights cleared the room. Tatyana stubbornly picked the corner chair and started embroidering, clearly intent on being the chaperone. Ella had to give Priscilla a look before the youngest girl would agree to leave the three of them. 

“I cannot believe you arrested mother,” she said, because it looked like he had no idea what to say. 

He gave a small smile. “I wanted to speak with you again, and when she kept saying she had no idea who you were, I’m afraid I lost my temper.” The prince somehow looked sheepish without looking awkward. 

Ella covered her hand and giggled. “Harry,” she managed. “Why are you here?” 

He straightened up, looking formal again. “I wanted to ask for your hand in marriage,” he said. In her corner, Tatyana stifled a gasp into her sewing. Thankfully, only Ella heard. Harry added, “I know we’re just friends. But I would rather marry a friend than a complete stranger.” 

She knew what he meant. Love would come later, when they had time.  

“Engagement?” she asked, just to be certain. 

He winced. “Might be a short one. Maybe two weeks,” he said, then hurriedly added, “My father is stepping down in a few weeks and I need to be married to claim the crown.” 

Ella stood up and looked into his eyes, ignoring Tatyana’s huff. His eyes had caught her attention at first, the lovely deep color of blue. It was a royal genetic trait, now that she knew who he was. 

What she was looking for, however, was his kindness. She had had enough of petty and unkind people in her life who ruled over her. If he was her husband, would he treat her well? 

Yes, his eyes answered. Yes, he would treat her well. He would never hurt her. 

“Did you mean it,” she said eventually. “When you believed marriage to be a partnership? That two people moving in one direction meant that it isn’t a shackle but a bond?” 

“Yes,” he said. 

From the first time they met, he had never lied to her. 

“Then yes,” Ella said, the words heavy but lighter than a feather. “I will marry you.” 

.

.

“Your price is the Queen,” the demon declared when she summoned him after the wedding, when Harry was asleep in their shared bedroom. 

“What?” she asked numbly. “But I can’t.” 

“I know you can’t,” the demon said, still wearing that disturbing smile. “That’s why I will do it for you.” 

The demon turned into black smoke that streamed towards her. Ella stumbled back, trying to get away but it was too late. 

The smoke enveloped Ella’s body completely, entering her mouth and choking her breath. Her mind felt another and she flinched, feeling the intrusion like acid. 

Hello, the demon said. Let me gather your price for you, little contractor. 

Ella blacked out, more for self-preservation than fear, her mind curling on itself. 

Cruelly, the demon woke her up. Ella instinctively shied away. 

Thank you, little star. You’ve paid well. Have fun with your little happy ever after, the demon said, before fading away. 

Within a few breaths, she realized that she was herself again. Screaming and blood flashed through her memory and she flinched. 

Shaking with denial and fear, she looked to her hands and found them clean of the blood in her memories. If she concentrated, she could remember her own hands moving of their own will to tear the Queen’s heart out. 

“Ella, why?” the Queen had asked. 

The demon had laughed in her body and the Queen had turned pale. “You are not Ella. It is you. But I have already paid my price,” she had said shakily.

She turned from the memories with a shudder, hurriedly washing her hands. 

The heart, what had the demon done to the heart? She wondered unwillingly, before going as pale as a sheet. Her hands went to her stomach and she rushed to the chamber pot to vomit. 

“Ella, the maids said you are not well,” Harry called out through the bathroom door. 

Harry! Instead of cheering her up, his voice made her dry heave again. She had killed his mother. What had she done?

“My dear, that sounds serious. Can I come in?” he asked. 

He would worry though, if she said no. She couldn’t make him worry. 

“I look terrible,” she managed faintly, voice rough. “If you can bear that, you may enter.” 

Being who he was, Harry entered and immediately rushed to her side, pushing back her hair. His gentle touch made her shudder. She had expected a slap. "You do look terrible,” he announced. There was concern in his expression. “Did you eat anything bad? Did anyone put something in your food? I’ll check the kitchens.” 

She managed a quiet huff, holding fast to his hand to stop him from running off. Of course the first thing he would think about was assassination. “This will pass,” she told him with as much confidence as she could muster. Abruptly, there was the memory of a husky voice whispering in her ear and Ella shuddered again. 

Immediately, his hold on her tightened. “Liar,” he said fondly, looking at her sweaty face. “Rest for the day, I will postpone the carriage ride through the capital.” 

The carriage ride throughout the capital! He did not know yet that the queen was dead. 

Ella fainted and Harry shouted with alarm.

.

.

There was a geas on her tongue that stopped her from speaking about the demon and the contract she made. 

Ella knew this because she had tried to confess once and had choked as her tongue twisted inside her mouth. This was her punishment for making that contract. To live the rest of her life carrying the guilt of that murder. 

Harry changed after that day. He grew sombre and grim. Only Ella could make him smile and she made sure he did smile at least once each day.  

She thought she was finally free of the demon after that, but after she gave birth to the next king, to the heir, there was the flash of black smoke and the raspy chuckle that still haunted her nightmares, making her seize up in the birthing bed and alarming all the doctors around her.  

Ella had screamed and wept, blood loss making her hysterical. Harry clutched her hand desperately and promised to check all corners of the palace for assassins and only then did she calm down. 

Suffice to say, Ella was a very protective mother.

On another note, her sisters each had their marriages. Tatyana to a duke and Priscilla to a foreign prince. By this point, Ella’s reputation as very protective of the people she loved had been cemented after she’d skewered one of Prince Lucas’s would be assassins with a knitting needle and calmly ordered tea afterwards. It was absolutely no surprise that she’d threatened murder on her sisters' husbands should they ever cry. 

It was a credit to their character that they took it in good humor. 

Ella had her happily ever after, but she finally knew the price for that. So she made sure to value every second of every day. Because soon, the wheel would turn, it might be her turn to have her heart eaten. 

[giranswife]

Insert Bio’s: bnha (Villain)

(( I decided to remake my first bio since I had her reference done and I wanted to add a bit more stuff. So here is her official bio I’ll be using from now on! ))

PERSONAL INFORMATION

🐾 Name: Ashley Wolfe (Ash)

🐾 Villain Name/Quirk Name: The Female Werewolf/Were-Bitch, Wolf’s Bane

🐾 Age: 24

🐾 Appearance: She’s rather short with long blonde hair that fades into a dark purple. Eventually she’ll dye her entire hair purple, but for now she keeps it the same. Two wolf ears protrude the top of her head, and she’s got a long and bushy tail. She also can halve very long claws, usually only in battle but her nails do naturally grow longer very quickly. Her face is round and her wavy hair frames her soft cheekbones. Her outfit isn’t too important since it’s usually ripped off of her during battle anyway.

🐾 Personality: She is pretty loud and obnoxious for a villain, but that is natural given her defensive nature. Anything to keep people as far away from her as possible, and contrary to popular belief she’s a bit emotional at times. Sort of impulsive, temperamental, and sarcastic. She can be very vulgar at times and extremely territorial and protective. Her true motivation is never made known, but it could have something to do with her lonely state of living throughout her life.

She’s in a love/hate relationship with her powers. On one hand, she can have the time of her life shifting and showing off what she can do, but on the other hand she hates when people refer to her as a beast or a dog and how the world can see her. Again could be a motivation.

Because of her quirk, she has parts of herself that will forever remain canine. Certain ticks that will bring out the wolf in her, such as her diet, her hyper sense of smell and hearing, and her personality traits. She sometimes will bite or growl if she’s feeling threatened or angry.

QUIRK INFORMATION

🐾 Powers: Her body can morph/transform into a werewolf, and some people have deemed her to be some kind of wolf demon. Probably because she sometimes glows red eyes and has extra long and sharp canine teeth. When she shifts, she resembles a fictional werewolf build, and she stands at about 8 and a half feet tall. She can run at incredibly fasts speeds, and has a powerful bite/scratch. Her strength is impressive, but she definitely has her limits and weaknesses.

She has the ability to howl in a frequency that, if nearby any other wolves, serves as a reinforcement call. When in form she can communicate with other wolves, but in human form she can’t. That isn’t to say that she doesn’t have a way with them, though.

She can shift at any point and isn’t limited to a full moon, though during a full moon her powers are heavily increased. Sometimes at an uncontrollable rate. Any heightened emotions are perfect to enter shifting phase, but the quickest is of course linked to her anger. But she doesn’t necessarily need it in pressing situations, though involuntary shifting can happen. Just hasn’t happened for a long time since she’s learned to get a handle on it.

🐾 Weakness: She doesn’t have many weaknesses, and definitely not the conventional cliches. She is the most powerful during a full moon and sometimes that can influence her control and strength. She gets tired from using her power for long periods of time, so there is definitely a limit to how long she can stay in werewolf form.

The action of shifting itself doesn’t phase her anymore, but there was a time when it was incredibly painful. Mainly in the first few years of her actively trying to control the duration and the flexibility of her time in her form. And while she’s in werewolf form, even though her outer exterior is hardened and her fur keeps her protected as well, she doesn’t have any supernatural protections. She’s no immune to certain elements, but it would take someone with a powerful quirk to knock her down or knock her out or even kill her.

ORIGIN

🐾 Backstory (abuse, bullying, depression warning): Ashley didn’t have the best childhood, growing up with only her uncle to raise her. He was constantly out gambling for money, or doing anything other than having a stable job. He was verbally abusive towards the child, treating her like a burden all of her life. She still isn’t entirely sure what happened to her parents, but she was always led to believe neither of them wanted her.

She was a regular student, given that at the time she only thought she was a wolf girl and nothing else. Which caused her to get bullied by the kids with quirks. Until her powers surfaced, she was known as the “dog” in school. A word she would came to hate, because of it’s intent and memory.

She had wanted to be a hero when she was younger, but slowly as she had come to learn the truth of the world (at least from her eyes), she began to change her mind. She became upset and almost angry and vengeful, but she knew there was something deep inside her that was just clawing its way out. Something that is mentioned in her origin story I wrote here. It lays everything out for you perfectly.

Once her quirk was awakened (the beast that is her quirk she likes to call it), was when she began her vengeful ways. She dropped out of school, turning to a life on the streets. Thanks to her animal instincts, it was rather easy for her. And since she was a loner, she didn’t mind the lifestyle. Since then she has been on her own, and has grown accustomed to it.

🐾 Before The League: Once Ash had turned 18, she started to become noticed more and more as the years had gone by. Even though she tried to keep a low profile, there were those that wanted to use her power for gain. Took advantage of her naive and emotional nature. Using her homelessness as leverage, pretending to give her work when really she was less than that.

At the time she was struggling to find work, doing mainly under the table jobs and only using her quirk whenever she needed to. At the time, she had only planned to use it whenever it was necessary for her survival. Until she found a few jobs that seemed to give her more opportunities if she used her quirk more, and she thought that it would be good for her. Or rather she didn’t have much of a choice.

She became a member of a local, semi-known gang as a secret weapon of sorts. They used her not only for protection but scare tactics, and at first it seemed like a good deal. She has some spending money and was able to get an apartment, had people there to protect her in case things got ugly (as if she really needed it anyway), and she also felt like she finally belonged somewhere. Even if that was with a bunch of gross men. Because to her she hadn’t known anything else.

It wasn’t until the help started to turn into something more. She started dating someone that she met through the gang, and they had been for quite some time. Until people became greedy and forgot just how lucky they had it being on her good side. She was starting to realize just how insignificant she really was in the grand scheme of things, and she started to realize how she was being used. By not only her current boyfriend at the time, but the rest of the gang as well. She never really had any power at all, and was taken advantage of on many occasions.

Eventually, she had enough after she was chained up to keep her from attacking anyone and almost left for dead. She had become a “liability”, but not for the reason that they think. And they definitely weren’t smart enough given the chains broke very easily.

No one really knows what happened to them to this day.

RELATIONSHIPS

🐾 Giran (nsfw mention): They both met whenever he was scouting for more potential villains. It was no secret that there was someone with a werewolf quirk, but they were too quick for anyone to ever see the person behind them. She was curious about joining, but never really made the decision to until they met. He had actually known quite a bit of information about her that was unnerving, but she shrugged it off.

She was a potential maybe, considering that she didn’t work well with others but she was too powerful to overlook. It was overall her decision, and she weighed the options a few times before getting in touch. That’s how she joined the league and also how they started their business relationship.

The relationship pretty much started off as a kind of physical, fwb kind of thing, if you could even call it that. She was very up front about having no feelings and clearly just wanting something casual and physical, since the first time they slept together. Which was incredibly sudden and out of the blue. There was no way that she would actually develop feelings, especially considering she is also very vocal about disliking him.

Although, she did in fact end up having some kind of feeling. At first, she was very insistent on keeping it to herself, and she was very convincing at first. Though, she starts to get a little soft on accident, and she starts caring a little more about how she looks when she’s around him and she goes a little insane. Since she doesn’t know how to properly deal with her feelings, it takes a long time for her to fully commit to the relationship.

But she did, end up falling in love with him through their time together. And she started to realize that she didn’t dislike him after all, it was just her defense mechanism after having so many people abandon and use her. Getting into a serious relationship scared her. But eventually she allowed herself to fall until he became everything to her.

🐾 Dabi: The two of them didn’t really get along at first, but they tolerated each other for the sake of the league. It was a short time after, though, that she began to like him platonically. It was a mixture of mutual respect of their powers, but also the days that they spent silently chatting with each other. He was the only person that she could tolerate anyway, aside from a few others that she mainly just saw as allies.

The two of them hung out rather often, and he was one of the first ones to find out about her conflicting feelings with Giran. Though, his advice was mainly just to either suck it up or tell him. So she never really brought it up again until she finally made a choice.

🐾 Himiko: She was actually a bit of a fan of Ashley, or at least what she’s heard about her. Freaking out a bit whenever they first interacted, so whenever they talked Ash found this quite annoying at first. But she warmed up to her, one being one of the only female’s she knew at the time and they just bonded easily over certain things. Her and Ash get into a bit of mischief together at Tomura’s expense, but also just cause mischief in general mainly with everyone in the league.

It took her a while to trust her, given Ash’s nature but they too became fast friends. And eventually Himiko became like a sister to her. Ash eventually became protective, like she does with all of her friends.

🐾 Tomura: The two of them had a rocky start, especially given her personality and tendency to be a little blunt. Since she was on the fence about joining the league at first, their initial reaction almost turned her away. He didn’t see what was so special about her, given that she just looked like a dog hybrid. Though, he made the mistake of calling her a dog on their initial meeting which almost led to her destroying half the hideout.

Eventually, after she joined, things calmed down a little. She was still a bit impulsive, but she got so used to the gig that she wanted to stay. And that meant being on decent terms with him. She eventually had no grievances with him, and the two only get in small spats every now and then for humors sake. She eventually grows to not mind him, after all, she considers everyone in the league family. Even Tomura.

🐾 Kurogiri: Doesn’t have a close relationship with him in terms of a friendship, but she does consider him to be a type of father figure. She would never admit to this up front, but it’s easy to tell in the way that she talks to him about certain things and trusts him. She also listens to him very easily. If he tells her not to do something, she’ll pretty much shut up in that moment. He’s the only other person who’s opinion matters to her.

Constantly going to him for advice on things, and was very resistant to opening up about her love life. He was one of the last people to find out about a certain someone. Their relationship isn’t really all that easy to tell out front, more in subtle situations. But she cares for him a lot, and vice versa.

🐾 Cannon (my oc): The two of them have a similar relationship in terms of familial. She’s a little closer to him than she is to Kurogiri, and oddly enough she met the man through Giran. At first she didn’t know what to think of him, but as they spent time together they really connected. He found himself being protective of her, especially after hearing of all the things she’s been through.

The two of them bonded over their shared relationship with power and their cautions of the world. Cannon eventually began another place that she went to for advice and is the only one that she listens to (other than Sayeko of course). But they had a little bit of a rocky start since he was one of the ones trying to talk her out of being with Giran in the beginning. Until he warmed up to the idea upon seeing how happy she was.

And not wanting to control her life either. Just a bit of his protective side coming out in all different kinds of ways, including with who she dates. (once his bio is posted I’ll link to it for y’all to understand him better. same one from my quirkless au)

[stillness-in-green]

Salt-Sweet Curse (5/?)

The backstory drops.  (Also, it’s a good thing they’re both immortal, otherwise letting Toga drive would probably be what we’d call a bad idea.)  

They fled west out of Kyoto, avoiding at Shigaraki’s insistence any of the major roads.  The stolen car (and the body in the fields outside the city) might attract some attention eventually, but it was better than being on foot, even if Toga’s knowledge of driving was closer to a memory of having seen it done than anything resembling practical experience.  

Shigaraki sat hunched down in his seat, hood up, stewing in his thoughts while Toga jerkily got the hang of braking and acceleration.  She left him to the brooding, sometimes concentrating on the drive, but more often keeping up a stream of chatter that required no input from him whatsoever.  

He stared out the window, thoughts a black tangle of doubt and dread.  

It wasn’t the first time he’d had his life—if you could call what he had now a life—saved by someone. It wasn’t even the first time someone had saved him from All for One.  But this time felt different, somehow.  Like it was more than some spirit’s whim, or a would-be good Samaritan act.  Like Toga had been with him long enough to know he wouldn’t have done the same for her if their positions had been reversed.  She had to have seen him try to run, had to know that if he could have, he would have, no hesitation.  

She should have known better than to think I was worth it.  She should have known better than to risk him.  But how’s she supposed to know that when I’ve just been fucking around with question and answer games instead of telling her?  

What the hell am I even supposed to tell her?  Dammit. Goddammit.  

The pain at his neck was distant, a sensation so familiar he might as well have been born with it, his violent scratching rote as a habit and ineffectual as an overused drug.  He didn’t even realize he was doing it until Toga reached over and lay her hand over his.  She’d gone silent, eyes narrowed, and when his hand went just a little slack with surprise, she interlocked them all the tighter, fingertips pressed against his palm, her other hand tight on the wheel.  

“…If you want to talk about it, I’ll shut up for a while and let you,” she said at last.  

I’ve never seen her like this before, he realized, the thought numb, an observation more than a realization.  He huffed out a breath, a poor approximation of his usual disdain.  He turned away from her, pulling his legs up into the seat.

“Concentrate on driving,” he whispered.  

She patted him on the shoulder before pulling back her hand, but she didn’t go back to talking.  The silence rolled out like the road, bright and empty and damning.

He closed his eyes—licked his lips, curled in on himself tighter.  

And then he told her everything.  

---   ---        ---   ---          ---          ---   ---        ---   ---        

He found me a few years after I first turned.  There’s not much that’s coincidence with him, but I think that was.  He used to have a manor down on the Inland Sea—maybe he still does.  He likes being able to transform back and forth, so he lives in places that make it easy.  

I hardly knew anything about what I was back then.  He took me in.  Told me he could teach me what I needed to know about—all this.

He’s a criminal. He always has been.  I didn’t care about that—the whole world’s full of criminals, and most of them are running the place.  I just knew at least he wasn’t going to up and die on me.  

I lived with him for a long time.  He used to say he liked having a protégé around.  I don’t know what he even thought he was going to do with me, once he’d decided I’d learned enough.  Maybe try to post me somewhere, expand his influence.  

But then we found out…

Your camouflage thing—the way you change after you do the whole blood-drinking bit.  I can’t do that.  He can’t, either.  That’s just you.  Everyone with this curse has something like that, and they’re all different.  His is his healing.  We all heal, but his is on a different level.  His willpower—no, his sense of self, it’s…  

Eat something’s heart and you gain its power—there’s lots of stories that say that kind of thing.  But him, his power, it…  He can extend his consciousness into people when they drink his blood.  It drives everyone who does crazy in the end.  They always feel like they’re being watched—because they are.  And there’s nothing they can do to get rid of it, to make it stop.  I once watched someone put his head down and run straight into a wall to make it stop.  

…No.  The mermaid curse doesn’t always take with him.  I don’t know why.  His blood’s too greedy to give up its power or something.  

He used to have an enemy, a long time before he met me.  I don’t even know long ago—ancient Japan, maybe.  He never told me who it was; he gets a kick out of being the only one in the room who knows things.  He used to say that an enemy’s not really defeated until no one but you can remember them anymore.

He fought whoever it was for decades.  And the enemy finally beat him—put a sword through his gut and carved out his heart with their bare hands.  They’d tried sealing it, they’d tried burning it, and he always came back from that.  So that time they tried eating it.  

Three days later, he opened his eyes inside his enemy’s own body.  He walked out of his enemy’s house and watched their servants burn his old body. It’d stopped healing, there wasn’t anything left in it—he said it went up like dry paper.  

He’s changed bodies lots of times since then.  There’s all kinds of ways you can get someone to eat your heart, if you lay the groundwork right.  

---   ---        ---   ---          ---          ---   ---        ---   ---      

“So what’s he want with you?” Toga asked, eyes on the road.  

“My power,” Shigaraki answered, empty-voiced, watching telephone poles roll by outside.  “…I don’t have to eat.  He doesn’t, either, not really.  Same as you.  But for you two, if you tried to go for too long without, your bodies would eventually shut down.  You wouldn’t die, since we can’t die, but you’d gradually stop being able to move, even being able to stay awake.”  

It had been another tactic one of Sensei’s enemies had tried, this time when Shigaraki had been with him—still as Tenko back then.  They’d been captured and separated, split up and kept in separate cells, ofuda and clippings from sacred trees hanging up in every corner.  It had gone on for almost half a year; the world Tenko could see outside the tiny slit near the ceiling had turned, slowly, from spring to fall.  

“That doesn’t happen to me. If I don’t eat, I just get used to being hungry.  It doesn’t knock me out.”  

He’d probably gone mostly crazy, feral with first the hunger, then the loneliness.  His memories from back then were some of his patchiest. But then Sensei had come, finally, a satisfied smile on his lips, along with a story about a kind but foolish new housemaid.  

They’d set the enemy’s estate on fire and watched, afterward, from the top of the road as it burned to the ground, all its exits sealed.  And Sensei, breathing in deeply of the smoke and the screams on the wind, had asked Tenko in a cheerful voice who he’d charmed so, that they’d kept feeding him that whole time.

And Tenko—stupid, naïve idiot Tenko—told him that no one had fed him, not once the whole time. Why?  Sensei, were they starving you too?!  

He could still remember the furious indignation in his own voice.  That and the thoughtful look in Sensei’s eyes as they made the long journey home.  

The outside deck, floorboards shining.  The ocean wind teasing salt through his hair.  The far-off screams of the gulls.  Sensei, talking to a servitor on the other side of the door. 

“He will be the next ‘me’.”

Shigaraki bit his tongue against the memory, tasting the salt-iron bitterness of his blood.  “He absorbs the powers of bodies he steals. He wants mine.”  He spat the blood out, a brief dark patch against his jacket that faded quickly into the black.  “One less weakness to spend eternity with.”  

“So you ran away?”  

“Yeah.  Since, before you ask, no, it’s not a viable way of killing myself.”  

He’d run away that very night.  Back then, he still hadn’t been ready to die, but even now…

All for One cried in his sleep.  He wept, sometimes cried out, slurred words in accents different from the one he spoke with in waking hours.  It wasn’t him, wasn’t Sensei, doing the crying; that realization, when it came, had prickled Shigaraki’s skin and twisted his stomach with disquiet.  

Those people that cried in the night were the bodies’ original owners.  They were still watching from behind their own eyes, like the people that Sensei’s blood drove mad, but for years on years, decades on decades, and not even able to escape into death like the others, not until he was finished with them.  

I just wanna die. What he wants to do to me is so much worse.

“Ew.”  Toga’s nose wrinkled.  “I wasn’t gonna ask that; I don’t want you to die, Shikkun.”  

Shigaraki stiffened in his seat at the words, the familiarity.  So easily…  

The silence bloomed back into the car like dye spreading through a glass of water.  His heart hurt.  He curled in on himself again, turning away.  It hurt, and he was so tired of all of this bullshit, and now there was Toga, and she was still so young that she could say things like that, not even knowing that words like those were worse than her knives.  

And unlike him, Toga had to eat, which meant more of a trail.  And All for One had seen her now.  He had a whole other face to track.  

A whole other…

“Toga,” he said into his elbow.  

“Yeah?”  

“Find us a gas station. We need to get a roadmap.”

---   ---        ---   ---          ---          ---   ---        ---   ---      

I'm not going to say that All for One's enemy was All Might, and taking that enemy's body turned All for One into a horrible funhouse mirror of One for All, moving from body to body and absorbing strength as he goes, yet never losing his own malicious will? But I'm not not going to say it, either. *AU jazz hands*

As for Shigaraki, Decay is frankly too OP for this story, which features only sporadically useful supernatural weirdness rather than cool superheroic powers. I still wanted him to have something that tied him to his canon self, though, so I went with a twist on the superhuman levels of endurance that Shigaraki's displaying in the most recent arc of the manga.

I’m nearing the end of the big gotta-write-it-now ideas I had for this AU of @codenamesazanka’s when I first started.  Here’s hoping I can still write my way to an ending!  

[jasecomplex]

Death By Astonishment

The following is a real story about psychedelic drug use, if the subject matter bothers you please refrain from continuing. It’s important that the reader be at least somewhat familiar with what DMT is in order for any of this to make any kind of sense, I realize that in order to have found this report you're likely well acquainted with the subject, but I want for everyone to be able to appreciate this. Dimethyltryptamine, (DMT) is the most powerful class of psychadelics we are currently aware of. It also happens to be endogenously produced, meaning our bodies actually produce the compound, so from the moment you’re born to the moment you die you have the most powerful psychedelic drug in your brain, so do all mammals as far as I know. It is thought to be the cause of dreams, near death experiences and some alien abduction stories. The typical "smoked" freebase DMT trip is very fast in onset and very short lasting, usually around 15 minutes in total. The molecule is destroyed by the monoamine oxidase in your stomach before it's able to pass your blood brain barrier and have the desired effect. Combining DMT with an MAOI (monoamine oxidase inhibitor) allows it to be ingested orally, this is known as ayahuasca, which I'm led to believe has become quite popular among the yuppie class who like to travel to South America to exploit the last remaining vestages of an ancient land, ritual and people before they're all bulldozed over for that sweet sweet palm oil. (I kid, I kid.) My only experience is with DMT freebase. The MAOI in ayahuasca typically leads to severe gastrointestinal distress, pain, diarrhea, and vomiting are typical of the experience, and I'm not all that interested in shitting and puking my brains out as they are simultaneously sucked into the interstellar vacuum. There are multiple “levels” of the DMT trip, the most intense being what’s known as a “breakthough” dose, which is said to be the most powerful experience a person can have, after having been through it, I’m inclined to agree.

I want to note that I did not undertake this experience as a rank amateur. At this point in my psychedelic journey I was smoking DMT at least once a week and had well over dozen trips under my belt, as well as several acid trips, mushroom trips, mdma, and 2cb. You could say I fancied myself a psychonaut who could handle his shit. I have since been humbled.

Like many people who have tried getting into DMT, I was having no luck actually breaking through, I would get close, but never actually to the point of a full breakthrough experience. I thought that maybe I had broken through a couple of times, but one thing I’ve since come to realize is that there is no “maybe” to a breakthrough experience, if you have to ask upon exiting a DMT trip, “Did I break through?” the answer is no. You did not.

One thing that I feel obligated to get out of the way now is that this effort of mine, to describe my experience will be a colossal failure. I will do my best, but I will fall short, language is simply insufficient to convey a breakthrough experience to someone who hasn’t had the experience. I like to think of describing a breakthrough as trying to describe a 3 dimensional object you’ve never seen by a memory of its shadow. That being said, there will be no hyperbole in the following paragraphs, everything will be described to the best of my abilities. The gravity of the situation cannot be overstated, this is an experience that changed me at my core, an experience that shattered my perceptions of the universe and scattered the powdered remnants into the cosmic wind. The report will be split into two parts, the first will entail the experience as I remember it, not necessarily in the exact chronological order in which they occurred, time is a bit strange in the DMT world, and I've pieced what I can remember into a series of events that to me makes sense. The second part will be about how I have processed this experience over the past couple of years (yes, it has taken me that long to finally feel comfortable writing up a report), and how it has changed my core beliefs involving religion, consciousness, and indeed existence itself.

Part One: The Experience

It was a hot summer Saturday, my wife was at work and I was home alone with nothing to do, so I decided dropping some acid would be a good way to spend the day. I had recently gotten some 120μg tabs and I decided 2 would be a good dose, as one never seems to do all that much to me. One thing I love doing while on acid is listening to Terence McKenna, his way of speaking, the lateral thinking he displays and the novel ideas he puts forth are always more entertaining and inspiring to me while on acid. On this fateful day I happened to come across a video in which he describes smoking DMT while peaking on acid, and it seemed to make breaking through much easier, and I happened to have a stash of DMT and was nearing the 4 hour mark of my trip. In hindsight the hubris that follows is almost comical. I nonchalantly got my bong out, spread a layer of cannabis in the bowl, measured out 50mg of DMT, and put another layer of cannabis over the DMT. For any not in the know, the purpose of the cannabis was less to add to the high and more to protect and absorb the DMT, DMT is destroyed by open flames and becomes liquid when heated, so the bottom layer absorbs the liquid and stops it from just running into the water while the top layer keeps the flame from directly contacting your expensive DMT. When you "smoke" DMT you're actually vaporizing it, combustion destroys it.

I looked at the clock on my stove, which I can see from the living room, 4:32. I flicked my bic, placed the flame to the bowl and inhaled as deeply as I could. One hit. One hit is all I was ABLE to do, as before I even remember exhaling I was gone, I don't know if I coughed, I don't know how long I was able to hold it in. Fast is an entirely insufficient adjective to describe how fast freebase DMT hits you, especially when you're already peaking on LSD. It doesn't seem physically possible how fast it hits you, it's as if your brain starts dumping it endogenously in preparation for the freebase that's about to hit it, it's the closest thing to an instantaneous effect I've ever felt. I just messed up, bad. This is something entirely different from the experiences I've known to this point, this was somehow REAL, this combination had done something to alter the very fabric of reality, and I knew immediately that I had made a huge mistake. I remember looking at the purple and orange, sun and moon tie-dye tapestry we have hanging on our wall (yes we're hippies, get over it) and having the colors and spiral shape spread across the entire room, with every piece of furniture taking on orange and purple colors, and then distorting and spiraling upwards as if I were about to receive a visit from the Cat in the Hat. The visitor I actually received was far less pedestrian than a talking cat from a Dr. Seuss story. This orange and purple spiraling was the only open eye visual I managed to see, as immediately after taking the hit I fell back on our old futon and was no longer able to hold my eyes open. Eyes closed, mind opened.

Everything was black and eerily silent at first as I felt myself begin to be pulled/pushed upwards, away from my body. Looking up I saw blackness, with a pinprick of white, this white was what I was floating towards, slowly, and inexorably. I looked down, I could see… myself, my body, the crappy futon that had long outstayed its welcome, there was a hole in my ceiling through which I could see myself getting smaller as I moved upwards towards the waiting unknown. That’s when the real terror began. I knew I was never coming back, that my wife was going to come home and find me comatose, and that old futon that I hated so much would be where I died. I was going to leave my wife alone, forcing her to find me in that condition, scarring her for life because I had thought myself capable of concomitant psychedelic use when nothing was further from the truth. I felt powerless, stupid, selfish, I hated myself in that moment. This was terrifying, because I knew it was real, there was no doubt in my mind. As I continued being pulled from above and pushed from below, getting further and further from my body the layers of myself began peeling away. Slowly, every aspect of me that I could call “me” was being discarded, the last part of myself that I desperately clung to was my wife, the memories of her, both of loving tenderness and bitter arguments, I didn’t want to lose her, she had to be forcibly torn from my grasp, and it wasn’t a pleasant experience. This was ego death, this was me dying, and from this point on I didn’t really consider myself to be myself, there was no ego attached to me with which perceive the event. I will continue to use “I” and “my" but that’s only because that’s how our memory works, I wasn’t me anymore, I understand the confusing, and unintuitive nature of this perspective, of being conscious, of witnessing, participating, thinking, reacting, and feeling without an "I" to be. With the fading of my ego came the fading of my resolve to cling to myself, and with much fear and trepidation of what was to follow, I finally let go of myself completely, I allowed myself to die. Once I let go, and accepted my dying, an overwhelming calm swept across me and the pervasive blackness all around began teeming with activity, light, and voices. These voices, singular in tone and pitch and yet innumerable in repetition and seeming sources were feminine in energy, maternal, and loving. The love I felt from those voices, the care, the worry for me, I’ll forever hold onto that feeling, there was a genuine, unabashedly accepting quality that left no doubt in my mind that the amount of love they felt for me was complete. The voices kept repeating the same mantras “We just don’t know, we don’t know, we just don’t know.” And though the words were vague, the meaning was crystal clear and unambiguous to me. They didn’t know what was on the other side, and they were sending me to find out, they were worried about me, they loved me and didn’t want any harm to befall me, but they were grateful that I was going to find out, that I had volunteered. For some reason I have always attached the name "Gaia" to these voices, they seemed to belong to the earth itself somehow.

As I looked down again I could no longer see myself, instead what presented was ethereal, green, verdant energy in wafting tendrils like a kelp forest composed of light, swaying gently in calm sea. There were spots of light in all colors, photons slowed to crawl so that I could examine them, appreciate them, name them individually. I then turned my attention upwards and the pinprick of white light had grown exponentially and was now a shimmering white wall, pulling me towards it, beckoning me to enter it and behold the majesty within. There was a voice on the other side, masculine, less kind and loving than the one that had ushered me to this point, but far from malicious.

As I came to the wall the light that had surrounded me again faded to blackness and the loving voices stopped. What I could hear now from the wall was a continuous, low humming sound that didn’t grow louder as I neared it, but somehow fuller, more complete, as if it were a frequency that had begun resonating inside of my mind. As I neared the wall I began to feel a tingling sensation from being near it, as if it were composed of a static electric charge. I entered the wall, it didn't open for me, but I was able to pass through with no resistance. As I did there was a crinkling, crackling noise, reminiscent of a potato chip bag crumpling. My vision was entirely white, I passed through it.

The sight I was confronted with directly on the other side should have left me mortified, but it didn’t. There, suspended in space was my own decapitated head, but it wasn’t macabre or gruesome in any sense. My head was being used as a projector, images beaming out of my eyes showing my life playing out, the stresses, pains, and pleasures I’ve enjoyed and endured. Then the voice spoke up, there was no body to this voice, it was a calm, masculine, objective sounding voice, no love, but no malice either, it said to me “This is what it took” and a set of images played out that he seemed to control. These images were my own memories, of times I’ve displayed curiosity in the face of adversity, how I’ve shown courage, made sacrifices and refused to believe what I was told, choosing to find out for myself. Simply in getting here I had to make myself an enemy of the culture in which I live, a criminal, ostracized and having to keep who I truly am under wraps from family and coworkers. I am brave, perhaps a bit foolhardy at times, but I have shown a sense of courage that most are unwilling to match. It should be known that I have severe depression, and don’t often think positively about myself. I considered myself a coward, weak, and deserving of the ostracism I fear. Being shown all of these things that are undeniably true, and also positive, filled me with a heretofore unknown sense of satisfaction with myself, who I am, who I am becoming, how I think, and how I think about my thoughts. I’ve never had myself shown to me in such an objective light. He wasn’t trying to make me feel good, he was simply showing me who I am, who I was in life. Indeed if I were a different person, with a different set of experiences, if I were an abusive, Machiavellian, greedy, and all around shitty person, being shown my life’s actions without the filter of my ego would have been hell. Bad people aren’t bad in their minds, they have justifications for their actions that allows them to hold onto the myth that they are decent people. This entity’s purpose seemed to be to show those who come to him who they are, objectively, without emotion, without justification.

When he was finished there was a loud, echoing snap noise, someone snapping their fingers in a cave. At this sound, I dissolved. Each and every molecule and atom of my being separated and dispersed throughout the universe, I was nothing, I was everything. “I am God.” Just like that, with three tiny, prodigious words, everything I knew as a devout secular atheist vanished. How can I say there is no God when I AM God? What is God? God is existence, God is consciousness, and I am God. Before my eyes was laid infinity, the scope, the scale, the grandeur of the universe, it was too much to handle but I had no choice, it was there and so was I. This is the part of the trip that sadly has lost the most detail, I’m left with more of an absolute impression than the individual details. I recall traveling vast distances, visiting distant worlds and observing alien life. I saw the Mandelbrot of existence in its entirety all at once, viewing every individual fractal spire in intimate, individual detail while simultaneously marveling at the beauty and immensity of the image as a whole. I was pervasive throughout the Universe and could travel wherever I wanted at a whim, instantly. I knew everything, I watched stars go from disparate gas clouds to supernovae, seeing every second of their lives in an instant. This was pure happiness, knowledge on a scale impossible to contain in a human mind. I then began falling, slowly at first, accelerating constantly.

I didn’t pass through any of the “levels” I had crossed when coming, instead I fell into blackness, but I was falling from every direction, the atoms composing my being returning from their cosmic diaspora, coalescing back into myself, and as I fell I became myself again. Piece by piece I began to remember who and what I was, I looked down and I was falling towards the Earth, I could again see my body through a hole in my roof, I was falling towards it with the acceleration of gravity. I passed through my roof, then my ceiling, I landed back inside of myself and immediately opened my eyes and inhaled deeply, awake, aware. I looked around the room, everything was tinted green, the walls were covered in impossible constantly transforming opalescent geometric patterns, I looked at one of my dogs, Spicy, a short, squat bulldog/pitbull mix, someone had clearly been having fun in photoshop with her, colors and contrast altered unnaturally, her brindle pattern fuzzing into the air itself, she was a spectrum of matter fading into nothing at the edges, and I said out loud “Thank God, everything is back to normal.” Compared to where I just was this was normal, this was the reality I know, just altered somewhat. I looked at the clock, 4:37. 5 minutes. All of that happened in the course of 5 minutes, coming out it felt like literal weeks, while I was there time seemed not to exist at all, or at least not in the linear way we know it. But I was back, after knowing for sure that I wouldn’t be, and I was happy, I couldn’t wait for my wife to get home, to hug her, to know for sure that I came back and everything was the same. But nothing has been the same, how could it be after what I’ve experienced? I truly see the world differently, my core beliefs, altered irreparably by a 5 minute experience. This was by far the most terrifying event in my life, I died, that’s not hyperbole, I lost who I was and thought I would never get it back. Scary though it may have been, it was also by far and away the most powerful experience I’ve ever had, this is an experience that redefined the words “power” and “awe” for me, I didn’t know what those words meant, the true definitions aren’t to be found in a dictionary, they must be experienced to be  comprehended. Do I regret my irresponsible actions, putting myself into a situation I wasn’t ready for? Absolutely not, I can’t say this experience was one I necessarily enjoyed in the moment, but I haven’t regretted doing it for even one second. Would I have done it if I had known what I was in for? Absolutely not, I haven’t repeated this combination because every time I think about doing it I’m viciously aware of what I’m likely to go through, that kills the desire outright, it’s scary as hell now that I know. Do I recommend anyone else combine LSD and DMT? Absolutely not, I only say this because of how immensely terrifying the experience was, I’m not going to stop anyone from going down the road I went down. but I cannot in good conscience recommend someone else repeat my actions, this is a decision to be made by mature adults, for themselves, you are the master of your own destiny and will reap what you sow. Will I do it again? I’d like to think yes, but not anytime soon I’m honestly scared of DMT now, it was my favorite drug from the moment I got my first good hit (despite the taste) I’ve now done it 3 times in the past two years, despite it being right there, beckoning. Was this an overall positive experience? Absolutely, no single experience has changed my thought processes and opened my mind more than this one, I really think I learned more about this universe in that single trip than in all my years of school.

If you are thinking of trying this combination, it’s imperative that you have ample experience with both LSD and DMT separately, and remember that it’s not LSD *plus* DMT, it’s LSD *times* DMT. One piece of advice for anyone embarking on this journey, just let go, you will come back, don’t cling to yourself, your loved ones, or anything in this world that you deem important, you’re leaving all of that behind when you agree to take these molecules into your body, it’s not a decision to make lightly.

Part 2: Processing

It’s now been 2 full years since this experience, and I’m not sure if I’ve gone 8 full hours without thinking about it at least once. This was a legitimate religious experience. I didn’t think religious experiences were actually possible until I had one. The term had the same significance to me as the term “fairy tale”. Now it carries more significance than I'm sure it does to 90% of devout Christians, a truly religious experience is far more profound to the individual than anything that can be found in the Bible.

Now, on being God. This whole “I am God” thing really threw me for a loop and I had to think a long, long time about what that meant. Do I think I’m the Christian God? No, I don’t believe in the Christian God, I don’t believe I’m anymore God than anyone else, but I think everyone else is also God. God is existence, consciousness. It’s not some separate entity to be worshipped, because everything is God. I believe Our brains do not generate consciousness, rather consciousness is a dimension and our brains tune into it like radios of sorts. All matter is conscious on some level, everything that exists knows on some level that it exists, what it is, and how it should behave. That "level" is dependent on the level of complexity, a giant boulder is far less complex than the inch worm crawling across its surface, and as a result the inch worm, despite being far smaller, and containing far fewer atoms is on a higher level of consciousness. The reason we are “more” conscious than other animals is that we are more complex than other animals, specifically in our brains. Were we to create a machine or program (or more likely a combination) that is as complex as the human body, with the complexity of our neural network it would be as conscious as we are.

This experience, coupled with the knowledge that DMT is endogenously produced, and there can indeed be endogenous DMT trips, has led me to a rather left field theory concerning religion in general. All religions have their base in endogenous DMT trips. At least all religions concerning religious experiences. Essentially my charge is that religions are just perverse, high stakes versions of the telephone game we played as children. One person had an endogenous DMT trip, told people about it as best they were able, those people then relayed the experience to others, minus or plus certain details, and thus a belief is born and subsequently spread. Then some people gathered many different experiences and beliefs and wove them into a single story, a religion. This of course would require the original stories to be extensively bastardized and warped to fit a specific intent. However genuine the origin, religion seems to draw the very worst type of people to lead them, and within a few generations the true story is lost to a strict set of rules and limitations. I’m not a fan of religion. So many people killed, tortured, persecuted, immolated, exiled and all other manners of brutality and humiliation, for nothing. Since this experience I’ve done more open minded research on religion than I had in my life up to this point, and I’ve come to a pretty unsurprising conclusion; all religions are wrong. Some are less wrong than others, Buddhism, in my opinion (and at my current knowledge level) is the closest to being correct, and much can be learned from the teachings of Buddha, specifically on the psychological implications of his beliefs on happiness and suffering. Regardless of your personal religious beliefs you would benefit from studying Buddhism and incorporating many of the philosophies into your own personal grand unified theory. In fact, based on the reading I've done, I 8think that there are more truths to be found in general with religions based on philosophy moreso than religious experience, wonder why? Now I could be entirely wrong here, and I go through life knowing that at any moment a piece of information could come along that would require a complete rethinking, beliefs should be transient and subject to information. Base the beliefs you accept on the information you have, don’t base the information you accept on the beliefs you have.

One thing that I cannot shake is the similarity between my experience and some stories I’ve heard in some religions. Most notably the entity who showed me my life, if other people have met this entity before, I could very well see him being the origin of the “Peter at the gates of Heaven” story (and every other similar myth, of which there are several) judging your life, determining whether you get into Heaven or Hell. Like I said, if I had been an awful person, this experience would have been hell, and were I the most virtuous, least flawed person on the planet it would have been Heaven. As it is I’m a decent person, I’ve done things I regret, but overall I am a good, kind, just, and honest person, and while I wouldn’t exactly call it Heaven, it was closer to Heaven than Hell.

Could this have just been a drug induced hallucination with no significance beyond that? Certainly, and I never allow myself to forget that possibility. However, anyone who thinks there is no significance to these experiences beyond interesting, purely chemical alterations of brain chemistry and neural pathways is someone I can almost guarantee hasn't had an experience on this level. You can’t see what I’ve seen and felt what I’ve felt and say it’s just the drugs, you can’t have traveled distances and beheld scales which dwarf everything you thought possible and think “I was just high.” I had no idea that a person could endure an experience so powerful, but I have, I know they exist, and I’m somewhat saddened by how few ever get to see and experience an event so intense so utterly astonishing. Falling in love, marriage, the birth of a child, losing the one most cherished to you, these are are all experiences that are bound to be powerful and have profound effects on a person, none of these hold a candle to a breakthrough. I’m not trying to offend any parents or people who have lost loved ones in saying this, but I’m convinced that there is nothing that can happen in a normal human life that’s as intense, strange, and indescribable as a breakthrough. If there is an experience more powerful, I don’t think I’m interested in having it.

I no longer fear death. Before this experience, being a secular, naturalist atheist, my biggest fear was death, but now that I’ve been on the other side, seen what there is, I no longer fear it. I do think there is more to this universe than we can see before us, and I don’t think oblivion follows this life. If you’re reading this, congratulations, you’re alive, try to enjoy it, and don’t reduce the joy of others. Just try not to live in fear of the end, you’ll be amazed at what’s on the other side, it’s more than you could ever imagine.

@JaseComplex

[dunmerofskyrim]

34

I wake late. What is there to wake me? No light to reach me here where I shelter and sleep. I’m walled in, half-buried, and that too feels like home. Like my hammock in my parents’ warren, off the creak and chime of the Grey Quarter Rigs. But here there’s no city-sounds to wake me either. It’s hunger that does it, thirst, a full bladder…

My eyes come open. Here again. Darkness, three-days-familiar. The scent of old colours, seed-oils, solving-spirits. I shake off the tangle of my bedding and the air outside them is cold. Rub my hands together to warm them but into my joints a brittle chill has found its way. I call a magelight to move by.

Dust beginning to dance as it rises from the mess of bags and sacks, curtains, coat, and rags where I’ve heaped myself to sleep. Here again. The faded colours of what was once a ceiling painted such a lurid blue that the sky creeps into my dreams these days, and I fall then fly then fall, then wake. Here. It was a shop once, I think. The frontroom of some low trader off an alleyway: a dealer in paints and pigments, dyes and mediums.

I make my bed behind the counter, facing the doorway. Shutters on the outside, slatted in chip-lacquered wood. On the inside, my side, a grate of painted metal on a swinging frame. It doesn’t lock – someone has made away with the mechanism – but I swing it to as I sleep even so: its hinges scream with rust as it moves. On the counter itself are mortars, crucibles, scales and pyramidal brass weights. Old stains of magenta, cyan, turmeric yellow stain the grout between the marless grey tiles on its worktop.

The ruins round here are all this way. Vats stained crimson, yellow, black in rooms hung heavy with the scent of crushed minerals. Warehouses, workshops, retailers; hoarders, makers, and sellers of colour. Dyer’s End, says the one legible sign I’ve seen. Spelt out in chips of blue ceramic on a ground of tan tile-shards; a mosaic pressed into each face of a squat skinny obelisk still standing at an intersection between alleys. Characters down its face. Dyer’s End.

Back to the wall, I rise. Hang with my hands to the countertop and heave onto my feet. I slept full-clothed. No sense even in offing my boots. The whole world now is filthy.

My belly cramps with hunger. Blurred shapes like the scales of fish swim silver in front of my eyes. I blink til they leave off but the sharp acid feeling in my stomach remains. The sense that my body is eating itself with every passing day. The least I can give it’s water and the fluid illusion of fullness that it brings. I know where to find that. Ought to count myself lucky but can’t.

I sling my bags. Carry all I own with me, always, and sleep with my luggage around me. This huer’s shop isn’t home, only shelter. What if I find somewhere better? Richer pickings; warmer, safer walls? So I go, a shambling shape of strapping and cloth, a dead mer’s singed and carpetlike coat.

The grate screams as I open it. The shutters spread out onto dim Winter sunlight and the narrow street beyond is hoary with last night’s frost. Weeds dried up from the cold crowd between the cobbles. Every year I suppose they grow and die here, grow and die.

Above the shopfront of my shelter is an awning of stretched leather. It sags down with a liquid weight: dew and melted rime. I ready my waterskin and reach up right-handed to tug at one corner til it becomes a kind of spout. The wound in my side is stiff and tight as I raise my other hand as far as I dare, mouth of the waterskin to the trickle of falling water.

“We don’t talk a lot now.”

Even statements, even-toned, Tammunei could turn into questions. Lines of questioning, not perhaps promising they’d ever say more about it, but starting you off yourself: asks chasing answers round the dark of your head. Simra knew that well enough from when they used to talk.

“Hmmh.” His close-mouthed murmur left his nostrils as mist.

A damp chill morning, and he squat by the ashes of last night’s fire. New place, fire built the same way, and ending in the same cold cinders. Trees dripped dew from bare branches, growing up sparse on the edges of the camp.

Neither forest nor copse, this. Only a wide-ranging statuary of lone trees, fighting what Simra could only reckon was piss-poor soil, fighting each other for rain and sun and whatever else a tree’s roots asked from the ground beneath it. Standing and stillness aboveground, but below those roots searched desperate, pale and hungry. Maybe they didn’t know each other; didn’t see the war they were all fighting over the same thing, but they fought it all the same. Everything gained, taken from someone. Everything won is lost. Simra thought of Old Ebonheart. Had thought of little else these past days.

“Sometimes silence can be something shared,” Tammunei said, asking Simra’s eyes and attention back to them. A shape sitting in the failing grass of these shallow hills. Clothed in the colours of the sea, patterned in the shifting shapes and colours of water. That was the coat Simra had cut from a dead Vereansu for them, the tassels of its hem gone daggy already with dry grass, damp, sitting straight down on any old ground. “Sometimes it’s something worked on by people. Like a blanket whose warmth you both wear. It becomes part of your comfort.”

“And what you’re saying’s this isn’t that? Make you uncomfortable, do I?”

Simra’s eyes flicked up quick as flinching to check Tammunei’s face. See the damage. He’d spoken sharper than he’d meant to. It was hard of late to have much patience with people and less still was left for himself. He caught a shifting something cross Tammunei’s face. Confusion in the way their brow, the corners of their eyes, of a sudden showed their age. Whatever that age was. Another time Simra might have asked. It’d do for a change of topic.

“No?” Tammunei said, slow. “I mean, I don’t mind you. But you’re so filled with words usually. Questions. Why is it? Is something wrong?”

“You know what it is.”

“No.” Tammunei shook their head. A shudder of wet red hair. “If something’s wrong I’d like to help. Can I?”

“You know what it is. Starts with ‘En’ and ends in ‘Or’.”

Tammunei’s frown opened into something so patient as to be frustrating. Their old and listening quiet. Noor was away, tending to whatever deeds and duties carried her away from camp whenever they stopped. Put enough ritual round all that you do, Simra thought, and no-one’ll suspect, when you slip away, that it’s only to piss. Deeds and duties and prayers to the dead; she’s made that what she’s made of.

“I feel…chaperoned.” Simra rose to his full height. His knees griped a moment and then did as told. Turning half away from Tammunei, he began to work the fingers of his right hand, putting feeling back into them, and flex. “Dunno why. Fuck… Maybe cos she’s kin to you. Just…can’t make myself say what I mean. Like everything needs to be something I’m fine having overheard.”

In a way it was the truth. Or a truth at any rate. Only thing that belied what Simra said was that it buried the obvious answer. That it was hard to say on what morning, or else in the depths of what night, but the Grey had found him again. A sickness in all its symptoms, like the winter fever or throat-caul Noor had warned him of, but in how it came – and always came back – it still felt so much more like a curse. Years went by, friends and family came and went, and lovers even, and it was amazing the sheer number of things he found easier to say than this: that sometimes he got sad, and stay sad for a time. Stupid to even think of it now. Everyone does, don’t they? It’s only your weakness, Simra. If that’s your curse, you bear it.

“I understand,” Tammunei said after a pause. An impish curl at the corners of their mouth. “Me too. But d’you know, I don’t know why? When I was small—”

“In the Morayat?”

“—Yes, when I was small in the Morayat, and before too. Back then, she was always the least…something. Rigid. I could say more around her than any of my mothers. She was my sister. She let me ask things, stupid things, because she knew that’s how you really get wise.”

“But?”

“I was afraid of my mothers’ disapproval, disappointment. But with Noor I was scared of…Noor, I think. I don’t know. She gave me less cause. She never raised a hand to me. But in everything but how she was to me, I knew she… I mean, she hated things. The life we lived. The state we’d come into. Blacklight and the Redoran. Skyrim and the Nords. Everything that wasn’t us…”

“Amazed she tolerates me at all.”

Tammunei shrugged. “She owes you.”

“Reckon she hates that too. It does that. Debt.”

“I don’t know.”

“Hm…” Simra glanced to his bags. To the track they’d beat the night before, from the road to where they’d camped. “Tammunei?”

“Yes?”

“This was talking, right?”

“For me. More than I’m used to. But you said almost nothing. If you’re still full of words but not saying any of them, is that why you’re writing so much? To get them out?”

“You make it sound like…something. Lancing an ulcer. Draining a boil.” A clipped rustle of laughter, sounding short then gone.

“Is it not like that? You never seem to enjoy it.”

“Hm. Maybe. But doing it’s better than not.”

Writing so much, they’d said. Strange to have it put that way when it felt so far from true. He was writing, but badly, til it felt like no writing at all. No relief in it. Only stumbling and stumbling, and hoping you were stumbling forward, not just wasting ink and paper.

A poet is a paradox, some poet once said. What poet, Simra couldn’t recall. But a poet is a paradox. Wise in the ways of language, of words, the poet knows enough to know that words are never enough. The only thing the poet knows more about than words is the failure of words. The aphorism, when Simra read it, had made it sound like a good thing…

I was a good climber once. Blight it, a week ago I was a good climber. But here and now I’m hindered. The pain’s gone down to a murmur. Good. Only goes back to hurting as bad as it did sometimes. Only when the nights turn vicious-cold, or when I move my left arm just so. But I keep thinking of my side tearing open, starting up again. The reach and pull of climbing — if anything’d stretch the scab to breaking, it’s that.

Old Ebonheart’s a city made for climbers now. There are streets you can’t leave except upwards, crawling skywards. There are places you can’t go except by chancing yourself down. And that’s familiar to me. Before I ever knew open country, roads or fields, hills or plains, I knew this. The landscape of my childhood, and most of my life thereafter.

In the Grey Quarter things are simple and narrow if you’re grounded. Two choices then. Back and up’s your first. The muddy hillclimb into Northslope, in the shade of holding-cells and crowcages, guard-barracks for the Uptown Watch. A journey into the city’s uptown to the sound of baying dogs; to the creep of white-edged human eyes on your skin as you pass, if they let you pass at all. Or else you press forward, down, through the constant slough and swampen floor of the Grey Quarter’s lowest point. Gulleybottom, skyless, sun-starving. Where no rain falls but flows all the same, to the throwing-and-forgetting pit all Windhelm holds in common. Where beggars sleep on planks and boards, like rafts above the muck, in the shade of the city’s weight as it towers above them; not just Dunmer now but Nords as well, veterans, maimed too thorough to be heroes, and so ignored. Where savage markets spring up and disappear like mushrooms, here one day and gone the next, selling anything you could want if only you have the coin and know on what day to search for it. Sludge and drowning mud in Winter, and biting flies that live out the cold months by hiding in the folds of your clothes. Churning choking dust in Summer. Gulleybottom, then through and into the Morayat…

But if you’ve cunning hands and clever feet. If you’re brave or young or stupid enough –  or wise enough to know those three are all the same thing when you boil them down – to risk a fall. If this, if that, if you’re able and willing to climb and crawl, then your options open wide. The Grey Quarter becomes a maze of possibilities. The Rigs and the hot roofs of Crucible. The crawlspaces and crevices of the Combs as they thread through the gully sides. The Warrens dug beneath the Quarter’s lowest reaches.

And Old Ebonheart’s the same. I’m beginning to learn that through how much it pricks at me to be grounded in a place like this. Mapless, and changed so much from whatever maps might once have been, the streets here make no sense. A labyrinth. When I walk, I walk slow and write every turn in my journal so as not to lose my way. Tall buildings, tall ruins, toppled towers; I’ve got no sense of the wood for I’m too blinded by the trees.

Until I start climbing.

Blight my side and how it hurts and blight my starving belly. I need vantage, perspective, to see what’s to be seen.

I rope my bags together and tie the rope’s end to my belt. I stand at street-level, among the weeds and grasses that overgrow this city, and look up. Who’s to say what the building was before. Now I only see that vines, thick-stemmed and woody, cover one face of its first three storeys and then come balconies, staggered on their way up to its high overhang of roof. And up there is the city as the city sees itself. Up there is the morning light and the sky and the breeze off the sea. A chance of not starving.

I begin to climb. Focus on my hands, the placing of my feet, and not the warning stretch of my side. To better forget the wound, I focus on memories I’d rather ignore. Climbing when I was still Katharas, days after we left Omayni. It came after the triumph of my ascent; defeat in going down. I remember how my hand slipped just so and my foot scrabbled to make up the difference. A rock that gave way or my foot that gave way, not gripping quite right, and I fell. A slow fall, hurting myself to hold on, scrabble, slow my descent. Like a crowd jeers a prisoner to the pillory, to the crowcage, the rocks and crags clawed at me as I passed. And then I was on the ground. And then I was in Tammunei’s arms. And then I was cleaned, skin showed to them and seen at its red and white worst. But I felt their voice all round me, like a warmth laid over my shame as they sang me whole again.

The overhang is the hardest part. A leap of faith. I pry my spearhead dagger, picklike and pointdown, into the tiles til it finds a place it will stick. Don’t think of how I’m blunting it at the time. Then I haul, crab over, lie panting on the blue-black shaley surface of the roof. Untied from my belt now, I take the rope in my hands, lean on my back, and pull my baggage up after.

What I see from the roof is the ocean again, but lit in antique gold. Wincing, clutching my side as it decides whether to start bleeding again, what I see is rooftops on rooftops on caved in rooftops, and a city-that-is overlaying the city-that-was. At street-level, death and dust, but up here is almost the Rigs of my childhood. Structures and spars and scaffolds span between some of the rooftops. Shacks lean against the shattered sides of towers. New brickwork mortared together from old brickwork grows as lichen does on the trunks of long-dead trees.

And writ all across the distance, in Dyer’s End and beyond, I see rising smoke against the grey-sunned sky. Cookfires, forgefires, kilns. Fire for warmth in Winter, when fire alone fosters life.

[lowat-golden-tower]

And Eye Must Scream

AO3 Mirror

@caustic-synishade

Jack woke to the horrid odor of too much bleach and antiseptic, with a steady beeping ringing in his ears. He could hear the sound of old pipes creaking above his head and the intermittent drip of water from somewhere else in the room. Shifting slightly where he sat, he emitted a soft groan. His mouth felt dry as cotton and his head a bit stuffed with the fluff as well; making thinking straight a little difficult. “Augh… fook… what the fook….”

Swaying slightly from left to right, Jack grunted when he found himself unable to move his arms. Or his legs, for that matter. Something rough- rope?- was binding his limbs. His legs were strapped along those of the chair, and his wrists were crossed tightly at his back. A rope around his middle stopped him from twisting his hands around to either side and when he tried to lean forward, more rope wrapped about his chest and the chair’s back kept him in place. He was rendered very much immobile and that was when panic began to bubble inside of him.

Terror licking at the edges of his consciousness, Jack forced his eyes open. Thankfully, the room was dim, so he wasn’t immediately blinded. His eyes required little time to adjust but his vision remained fuzzy a few moments after his prolonged knock out. His head was one of the few parts of his body he could still move, so he blinked rapidly and swiveled it around in some effort to find out just where he was.

Deep greens colored the small room. The walls were tiled, but the floor was sheer cement with a drain centered almost perfectly between Jack’s feet. The ceiling above was chipping paint and only played host to a single, uncovered light bulb. It’s flickering glow cast large, unsettling shadows throughout the room and Jack could feel goosebumps rising on his skin as he took in the furnishings.

Beside his chair, which was in the center of the room, sat a wheeled table. Several medical instruments, beakers and unlabeled jars were scattered across its surface; which was stained with faded blood. On Jack’s other side stood an IV stand and as he followed the trailing tube with his eyes, he belatedly registered the light ache on the back of his hand. Wiggling his fingers, Jack confirmed the IV drip was attached and felt his heart rate skyrocket. There was an acidic green substance in the IV bag that didn’t in any way look remotely healthy. Breaths quickening, he twisted his wrists and stretched his fingers until he managed to dislodge the tube from where the needle had been embedded into his skin. He didn’t dare to rip that part out just yet; bleeding out would get him nowhere.

Swallowing thickly, Jack continued scoping out the room. “What the fook….” He had to twist in his chair and crane his neck to see it, but there was definitely a heart rate monitor behind him. He could see the wires trailing over to where he sat, and when he wiggled against his bonds he felt the light pull of the adhesive pads on his skin beneath his shirt. The steady beeping that had been infiltrating his thoughts since waking up was the measure of his own racing heartbeat.

“O-okay. Okay, Jackaboy, easy does it now. There’s gotta be a door here somewhere. Maybe it’s just a prank! Y’know, like the Scare Pewdiepie thing. Arsehole’s probably gettin’ back ye for bein’ such a badass villain on his show. That’s it, that’s it. Okay. Door. Door, door, door…” Jack looked around again and finally spied the thing; a tall sheet of intimidating metal set into one of the walls. He had to squint just to make it out in the dimness and wasn’t entirely sure if it had a handle or not. Great.

Jack sighed heavily and attempted to jerk his chair forwards; possibly towards the door and near freedom. Yet the chair didn’t budge an inch and it was then he realized it had been bolted down to the floor. “Well. Fook me in the arse, then.” Whoever had put him there, they did not want him to move before they got back.

“Welp. When in doubt, shout it out! Like fook if I’m just gonna sit here and wait fer someone to show up.” Licking at his lips and assured this was still just some kind of elaborate joke, Jack drew a deep breath. “HEY!! HEEEEEY!!! HELLOOOO?!?! ANYBODY OUT THERE?! I’M AWAKE! YE CAN COME AN’ ‘TORTURE’ ME NOW OR WHATEVER!! C’MON, AREN’T YE ARSEHOLES SUPPOSED TO ALREADY BE IN THE ROOM WHEN I WAKE UP, ALL MENACIN’ AN’ SHITE?! LAAAAAME! FELIX, IF THIS IS YOUR DOIN’ I’M GONNA KNOCK YER TEETH INTA NEXT WEEK!! I MEAN, YE STABBED ME WITH A NEEDLE! YER LUCKY I AIN’T SCARED OF NEEDLES!!”

Jack paused to catch his breath and wet his lips again. Lord, he could do with some water. He had no idea how long he was out, or how he’d even gotten to this weird location, so someone had serious explaining to do. For now, he was prepared to scream and shout until something happened. Not like he could do much else.

As soon as he opened his mouth to start screaming again, the heavy metal door abruptly opened. Jack was startled into a slight choke, and then silence as he blinked at the figure stepping calmly into the room. He wasn’t that tall, but he easily towered over Jack in his current sitting position. He bore the white coat of a physician, but it was coupled with jeans. At the moment, his face was hidden almost entirely behind a clipboard as he jotted something down on it; only a surgical cap and the barest tuft of green visible over its top edge. Behind him, the door slid shut with a decisive thud.

“Ah, Mister McLoughlin, zo you are awake. It iz good to hear your pipes are in working order. My, you certainly are a loud little zing aren’t you?” The man had an outrageously bad German accent tinged with something else, and Jack might have laughed were it not for the fact it sounded so familiar. Scarily familiar. Jack recalled personally throwing his own voice into that accent on several occasions.

“What th… Dr. Schneeplestein??” he exclaimed, gawking.

The pen’s scribbling came to a halt, followed up by a soft click. “Zo. It vould seem zat my reputation precedes me.” The doctor drawled while he lowered the clipboard down to waist level. Jack was shocked when he was met with his own blue eyes; the corners crinkled by a grin hidden beneath a large surgical mask. Brilliant green hair, the same shade as his own, poured forth out of the surgical cap atop the doctor’s head. The lookalike was so spot-on Jack had to do a double take. “You look surprised, Sean. Not who you were expecting?” His tone rose in pitch, tinkling with barely subdued laughter; identical to the actual Dr. Schneeplestein Jack liked to portray in his videos.

“Holy shite. Where the heck did they find you, eh? I mean, I hope they didn’t make ye dye yer hair er anythin’. That’d suck. But damn, some of me own brothers don’t look that much like me! This is incredible!” It reminded Jack of the doppelganger myth. Granted, legend went that a person would die if they ever met their doppelganger, so he really hoped it was just an extreme coincidence. Maybe the lower half of the guy’s face looked nothing like Jack.

Dr. Schneeplestein hummed, clearly not enthused with Jack’s ramblings as he turned his attentions back to the clipboard in his hands. “Quite. Now. Let’s zee here…. Sean McLoughlin. It vould zeem you’re having a bit of trouble viz your eye. No problem! I can fix zat right up for you, my dear patient. After all, I am a real doctor.” He reached out to condescendingly pat at Jack’s cheek.

Jack’s nose scrunched up at the gesture and he pulled away from the gloved hand; glowering at the doctor with confusion. “An eye problem? I don’t have any problems! I mean, unless ye count the fact I need glasses, but that’s hardly somethin’ I was lookin’ ta fix. An’ why am I tied down to this chair?? This can’t be up to code, when it comes to the proper treatment of patients! Shouldn’t I be in a hospital bed or somethin’?” Jack was, admittedly, a little unsettled by the suddenness of it all. He would have at least liked a heads up that he was going to be the victim in some gag video, if not some script to go off of. Hopefully his improv would be good enough.

Dr. Schneeplestein clicked his tongue as he walked calmly around to stand at Jack’s back. “Now, now. Who iz ze doctor here? Do you have a bona fide medical degree? I do not zink zo, no. As your doctor, I am ze one who knows vhat iz best for you. And I say chair iz being just fine vor operation… vhat iz zis? Why iz your IV out, you naughty boy?” He tsk’d and bent to grab up the fallen tube. “You need your fluids if zis iz to be a zuccessful zurgery!”

“Fluids my arse! The fook is that green stuff?? It looks like gelatin! Or radioactive goo! I don’t want that in me!!” Jack snapped back, though he could feel Dr. Schneeplestein popping the tube back into place. He immediately attempted to rip it out again, partially out of pettiness, but a sharp pinch near the entry point of the needle made him gasp and jolt in his chair.

“Ah ah ah, naughty naughty, Jackyboy. No touching ze equipment or your IV! Doctor’s orders. Do it again, and I vill be forced to take ze drastic measures.” Patting at the little IV needle, Dr. Schneeplestein moved to the table beside Jack and set down his clipboard. “Now, let me zee…”

Even if the substance in the IV bag looked like a normal solution used in hospitals, Jack still would have wiggled his fingers and popped the IV tube out again. Just to mess with the asshole muttering to himself in heavily accented gibberish over the table. The soft clatter of plastic hitting cement was loud in the otherwise quiet room and Dr. Schneeplestein paused; turning to look at the source. He shifted his gaze to Jack, brows furrowing in obvious consternation, and Jack childishly stuck out his tongue. “Bite me.”

The doctor gave a long suffering sigh and rubbed briefly at his temples. “Oh, no, zere vill be no biting here, Mister McLoughlin.” He moved to pick up the tube once again, popping it back into place. “However, zere vill be pain.” Without any warning, Dr. Schneeplestein grabbed the index finger on Jack’s unaffected hand and bent it sharply backwards. He didn’t stop when it became painful; he pushed straight through until knuckle was popping out and the bone cracked under the pressure.

Jack screamed. He screamed louder than he ever had, back arching up away from the chair much as the ropes would allow as tears welled up in his eyes to stream down his face. It wasn’t fake. It wasn’t a joke. That was his real, attached finger that had just been horribly broken and the pain washing up into his arm was almost enough to make him gag. He choked on his own sobs, coughing and wheezing as his body shook with fresh trembles.

“Oopzie! Oh how clumsy of me, it zeems I have accidentally made ze boo-boo vhile adjusting your IV! How unfortunate. Not to worry, zhough! I vill be zure to fix it, once ve have concluded ze zurgery you are actually here for, hm? Yes. Zere zere now, just try to relax.” Dr. Schneeplestein, satisfied with his results, released Jack’s hand in favor of patting at Jack’s quivering head. He returned to the table and began grouping some items together; including a scalpel, forceps, tweezers and a beaker.

Jack was in too much pain to try and analyze the collection of instruments. His finger was still throbbing wildly behind him as he sniffled and sobbed. In a heartbeat, what appeared to be just a shitty gag video was suddenly, painfully real and Jack had absolutely no idea what to do. He’d apparently been kidnapped by some kind of madman that took his joking doctor role way too seriously and had zero qualms with causing Jack undue harm. Not quite willing to move his hands or arms yet, Jack twisting his legs against the ropes and again attempted to move his chair in some fashion. His panic had returned, and he didn’t want to be there anymore.

“Ze more you struggle, ze vorse it iz going to be~” Dr. Schneeplestein sing-songed from where he was pouring a clear solution into the beaker. He hummed a little tune as he set about preparing, utterly unphased by the sobbing young man beside him or the wild beeping of the heart rate monitor.

“Y-ye sick fook! You crazy person! If ye think I’m j-jus’ gonna sit here after you broke me finger and let ye do who-knows-what the hell ta me, then ye really are insane! Let me go!! I don’t know what the hell is really goin’ on here or who ye think ye are, but let me go!! LET ME GO!!!” Jack outright screamed through his sobs as his struggles redoubled. Fear and panic sent adrenaline rushing through his veins, but Dr. Schneeplestein wasn’t having any of it.

A gloved hand curled into Jack’s hair and jerked his head roughly back. Jack feared the crazed doctor might break his neck next, but this time he stopped before any serious damage could be done. Jack still screamed, terrified and uncomfortable, as his shoulders shook and his mouth gaped with heavy pants. His throat had been bared, and Dr. Schneeplestein stared him down with icy blue eyes as he place a scalpel to the pale skin. “I really do not have time for multiple zurgeries today, Mister McLoughlin. Please do not continue tempting me to mutilate your lovely body in horribly entertaining vaya~ Besides, he vouldn’t be very pleased viz me if I encroached upon his territory….” As if having second thoughts, the doctor pulled away from Jack and released his hair.

Jack’s head rolled forward with a shaky huff and he turned to scowl at the doctor over his shoulder. The man was digging around for something in the pockets of his coat. “Wh-who’s territory?? What’s goin’ on? Answer me! Is someone makin’ ye do this?! Are they the ones that called fer this fookin’ surgery an’ brought me here?! Tell me!! Tell me, you pile of arse, ye ragin’ sack of dimnpffgh!! Mnghhff!!”

“Zat voice of yours really iz zomezing, I’ll give you zat, Mister McLoughlin. But as your doctor, I require concentration for zis very delicate zurgery. I am zertain you understand.” Dr. Schneeplestein knotted off the strip of cloth he’d tugged forcefully between Jack’s teeth at the back of his head, then gave it another pat. Jack, furious and scared out of his wits, screamed against his new gag and thrashed much as the ropes would allow. “Zo fiesty. Do mind your IV, now. I’d hate to accidentally break any more of your fragile leetle bones if I have to plug it back in again.”

Jack didn’t listen, just continued to tug and twist and struggle as the doctor came back around to his front. He pulled a stethoscope from his breast pocket and popped it into his ears. “Now, before we begin, ze heartbeat! We must find ze heartbeat. Do try to hold ztill.” Jack did anything but, knocking the disc of the stethoscope off himself several times and eventually trying the doctor’s patience yet again. Abruptly, he was backhanded.

“I zaid hold ztill!!! I knew more ropes zhould have been applied, zat idiotic nurse! No matter. I vill have a talk viz her once ve are finished here.” A gloved hand gripped violently at Jack’s jaw; squeezing until he thought the joints might pop loose and he whimpered at the newfound pain. “Now, are you going to hold ztill or am I going to have to make you? I am a very buzy man, Mister McLoughlin, and am prepared to take vhatever actions may be necessary to perform zis zurgery. I vill hurt you very badly. Do I make myself clear?”

Cold blue eyes stared into Jack’s teary, frightened ones and he swore it felt like those piercing irises could stab into his brain; down into his very soul. He’d stopped struggling initially due to the pain, but now it felt as if ice had trickled down into his limbs, rendering them immobile. He scarcely breathed as they had their little staredown but then Dr. Schneeplestein’s eyes were narrowing dangerously. “Mister McLoughlin, I asked you a question.” More pressure was applied to Jack’s already aching jaw and he cried out; fresh tears welling up at the corners of his eyes.

“Ynnf! Ynnf! Ey nndrfnd!” Jack choked desperately around his gag. Finally satisfied, Dr. Schneeplestein’s eyes crinkled again with that invisible smile and he released Jack’s jaw.

“Very good! Now hold ztill.”

Jack’s head fell forward now that there was nothing propping it up and his breath hitched with another sob. His jaw was still aching and it throbbed dully in time with the sharp pangs of his finger now, which had no doubt swelled up like a balloon. Tears dripped steadily from his face as Dr. Schneeplestein felt about various places on his body with the stethoscope. It was like some sick mockery of his power hour video, where he’d played up not knowing where the heartbeat was for laughs. Except unlike Peter, he wasn’t just a piece of plastic.

“Hmm… where iz zat heartbeat…? Let me zee… hmm….”

Jack wanted to snap at the man; ask why he even needed to find Jack’s heartbeat when he was hooked up to a monitor, but the “doctor” was clearly insane. He didn’t need reasons or rationality to fuel his actions. Jack was gagged, anyway, so it all would have come out a garbled mess. Eventually, Dr. Schneeplestein shrugged and tossed the stethoscope carelessly over his shoulder.

“Oh well!! I’m zure it isn’t really all zat important, anyvay. After all, if you’re actually dead, zen zis shouldn’t hurt one bit! Wouldn’t zat be vantastic for you!” Dr. Schneeplestein clapped his hands together and grabbed up the scalpel off the nearby table again. “Now, finally, ve can perform ze zurgery!”

Jack’s fear returned in a white hot spike stabbing down into his gut and he jerked back in his chair, away from the mad doctor. Blue eyes wide with terror, Jack wildly shook his head; muffling nonsense against his gag. What had the guy said? He had “issues with his eye”? Jack didn’t like where that was headed- not if it included the use of a scalpel.

However, Dr. Schneeplestein merely sent him another one of those invisible smiles. “Now, now. Calm down. It’ll all be over zoon if you behave like a good leetle patient for ze nice doctor!” A gloved hand dropped onto Jack’s head, forcing it steady, and the doctor leaned in close with scalpel raised. Jack was shaking terribly from head to toe as he found his right eye staring down a razor sharp blade. He whimpered. “Oh, it’s okay, Zean. Just take deep breaths now and don’t move a muscle, or I might zlip~! And my contractor really vanted to keep zis eyeball of yours intact….”

Jack didn’t dare to move as the scalpel was pressed to the skin just beneath his eye. It wouldn’t get him anywhere now but worse injuries. However, he did shout and plead and beg through the gag in his mouth, praying that something, anything would get through to the doctor and stop this madness. There were still tears streaming down his face as he sniffled pathetically.

His efforts fell on deaf ears. With one hand smoothed over Jack’s temple, pushing his fringe out of the way, Dr. Schneeplestein dragged up Jack’s eyelid with his thumb. His other hand shifted the scalpel upwards, pressing the tip smoothly into the inside corner of Jack’s beautiful blue eye and then sliding it forward. As the blade cut between Jack’s sclera and the muscle he screamed; louder and more ragged than ever before. The pain in his finger was nothing compared to this. He screamed and shook and sobbed hoarsely as Dr. Schneeplestein carved around his eye; blood trickling from the wounds to join his tears. He could hear his heart monitor going absolutely crazy in the background but the doctor ignored it all.

Once an incision had been made around the circumference of Jack’s eye, Dr. Schneeplestein traded his bloody scalpel for one of many pairs of forceps lined up at the edge of the table. Jack swore he was grinning as he raised the little tool to Jack’s still bloody eye; half his vision blurred with tears and severed muscles. “Now zis iz ze fun part!”

The doctor clamped the forceps around the incisions he’d made; locking two rows of tiny, fine-tipped teeth into the muscle of Jack’s eyeball. He gave a blood curdling screech that proceeded to jump and hiccup in pitch as Dr. Schneeplestein went about tugging out his eye. The mad doctor laughed with glee as he gently twisted the forceps and pulled; dragging the eyeball out one centimeter at a time. “Hahaha! It iz like playing tug-of-war viz your brain! Except I am vinning~ Stubborn leetle eyeball, come vith me now, Mister McLoughlin von’t be needing you anymore!” The doctor ripped and twisted and pulled until the eyeball itself was free of Jack’s socket, and only the coil of ocular muscles remained to keep it tethered to his body.

He screamed again, though his voice was beginning to fail him, because he could still partially see out of the dangling eyeball. His vision was skewed between a giddy Dr. Schneeplestein and his own bloodied lap. The doctor hummed contently as he grasped Jack’s eyeball with his own gloved fingers; squishing it gently. “Ah yes, very good, very good. A healthy eyeball! He vill be quite pleased viz ze results, I am zure. Now, we just need to finish removing it….”

Rather than make another quick, clean slice with the scalpel, Dr. Schneeplestein grabbed another set of forceps that resembled a pair of very small scissors. The hinge was extremely close to the point, meaning he could only make tiny snips through the fibers behind Jack’s eye. He shouted and cried with every disconnection until he couldn’t scream anymore, and then he just wheezed out quiet sobs as his bloody eye was dropped into the clear solution Dr. Schneeplestein had poured out earlier. Humming again with satisfaction, the man stood and peeled off his bloodied gloves. He tossed them carelessly onto the table and picked up his clipboard as he rounded behind Jack again.

“Vell, Zean, it zeems ze insurance you have doesn’t cover anesthetic.... My, how unfortunate for you. Zat really does look quite painful.” The doctor chuckled to himself as he scribbled on his clipboard.

Jack hiccuped softly, breath hitching as his now empty eye socket took precedence over his other injuries. Blood was still dripping down one side of his face, while tears continued to leak from the other and his body trembled. The beeping from the monitor had settled some, but was still quite erratic. He sat slumped in his chair, peering up perilously at the doctor as he rounded back to stand in front of him again. The man clicked his pen.

“You zeem to be zuffering from ze shock, Mister McLoughlin. Not to vorry; I am zertain it vill vear off in just a bit. Now be a good boy and keep zat IV in vhile I am avay. It iz essential to your health. Try to get zome rest.” Dr. Schneeplestein placed the pen in his breast pocket and leaned down to pat at Jack’s head one more time. However, instead of immediately pulling away, his blue eyes glinted dangerously and he hooked two fingers over his surgical mask. “Oh, and by ze vay…”

Jack would have screamed again in absolute horror if he could manage to get his voice to work. Instead, he could only jerk back and stare with wide eyes as the doctor tugged his mask down to reveal rows of sharp teeth and an acid green tongue. Red slashes curled a few inches up his cheeks from the corners of his mouth, and split completely when he spoke; making his mouth stretch an inhuman amount to show off even more pointed teeth. The beeping in the background skyrocketed.

“Do tell Anti hello vor me.”