#we know you love bears too much for it all to be a coincidence

[commiehilfiger]

first it's "you're built like a baby seal" then it's "right in the cleavage".. btw lemme lift some weights in front of you for no reason 😏

they are never beating the evanmarkie allegations

[fushiglow]

Gojo cares a lot, actually

Perspective and empathy in Jujutsu Kaisen

Once again, I see accusations that Gojo only cared about people in relation to their strength. I can't believe that 236 and 261 haven't put this idea to bed already, but let's go over it again for the class. Here are some thoughts on the importance of perspective and empathy in JJK. Spoilers for chapter 266 ahead!

In 236, Gojo tells Geto he loves everyone. This single line, direct from the man's mouth, should be enough. However, moments later, Nanami says, "You never cared about protecting people". So why do some readers only take one of these perspectives at face value?

Perspective matters in JJK. Often, characters and even the narrator state things that are only true from their perspective in a given moment. What you choose to believe says more about you than it does about them — an idea I explored in my analysis of 236.

This is particularly important when it comes to Gojo and Megumi, because the moment they meet is the only (?) scene in the whole of JJK that we get to see from two perspectives.

The second time, the reader understands the emotional weight of it for Gojo — but Megumi doesn't. He's kept in the dark, so of course he thinks about their meeting in different terms.

Once again, whose perspective are we going to take at face value? From Megumi's point of view, he wasn't offered a choice. From Gojo's point of view, he extended to a child the little agency available to him.

Offering a choice is something Gojo does consistently throughout JJK — pick your hell. It's one of the ways he shows care for others that goes unrecognised, so it's ironic that readers and characters alike misinterpret it for a lack of empathy. However, this is no coincidence.

For much of the series, Gege keeps Gojo at a narrative distance from the reader. Most of what we know about Gojo comes from what other characters tell us, and our view of him is therefore coloured by their perspective.

However, while Gojo laments the distance between himself and others, he fails to recognise that he's the one maintaining it — and not because of his strength or his technique. He has admirable goals, but he chooses to work towards them alone.

There are many occasions where characters reach for Gojo, but he refuses to let them past his metaphorical Infinity out of a sense of duty and perhaps misplaced belief that he alone can or should bear this heavy burden.

All of Gojo's actions are about preserving the humanity of others at the expense of his own. That's precisely why he chooses to become the "monster" alone. In this way, Gojo is flawed but he isn't uncaring. Again, it's a matter of perspective.

Gojo sees strength as the solution because it's all he's ever known. However, recognising the strength of others doesn't mean that's all he sees — because Gojo knows that dehumanisation acutely. What's more, 261 also suggests he thinks of "strength" in different terms to others.

When they meet, Gojo tells Megumi not to get left behind. However, he later says he was "left behind" when Geto defected. We know Gojo's physical strength eclipsed Geto's, yet Gojo only refers to himself as "the strongest" alone after Geto dies.

Before that point, there's nothing in the text to suggest that Gojo ever stopped thinking of the pair of them as "the strongest" — as a unit, as a duo. This suggests that strength, for Gojo, is something much more intangible, much more sympathetic, and much more human too.

What do the strongest characters in JJK all have in common? Indomitable will, courage in their convictions, an overwhelming sense of self. Looking at strength through this lens shines a new light on Gojo's goal of raising "strong" allies.

When he forces a third option in Shibuya, Gojo proves that strength doesn't have to come at the expense of compassion. In the later chapters of the Shinjuku Showdown arc, Yuta, Yuji, and the rest of Gojo's allies reinforce that idea ten times over, and I have every belief that Megumi will soon do the same.

To suggest Gojo only saved Megumi for his technique is unfair when he has consistently proven himself committed to protecting the futures of others, even "weak" non-sorcerers who have nothing to offer him. Once again, it's all a matter of perspective.

Gojo's way of caring is still caring, even if it doesn't look familiar to you. His only flaw was closing himself off from others and choosing to care from afar. However, just like Gojo never stopped reaching for Geto after he left, Gojo's allies never stopped reaching for him.

There's a phrase we use to describe looking at things from another perspective: putting yourself in someone else's shoes. I think it's very telling that Gojo's allies have taken that literally — Yuta by stepping into his skin, and Yuji by standing in his place in 266.

TL;DR: Gojo cares a lot, actually. If Gojo talking about his innermost feelings can't make you empathise, and the students he supposedly "doesn't care about" recognising his burdens can't make you empathise?

Well, that says far more about you than it does about him.

Come read my fics about this!

In His Shadow explores the ways Gojo keeps his distance from Megumi, who isn't equipped with the tools he needs to reach him but finds his own ways to show he cares, born from ten years of history together.

Rivers Crossed, Mountains Scaled explores Gojo and Megumi's relationship through the vehicle of SatoSugu — why Gojo took him in, whether Gojo really gave him a choice, how Gojo sees him.

Hope you enjoyed the post! I love you, Gege Akutami ♥️

[serawritesthings]

WHERE THE DEERS REST, first part

Pairing | LowHonor!Arthur Morgan x Fem!Reader Summary | How can we do good when all we were raised to do is bad? A cruel fate, indeed. Yet when your past, and a certain outlaw, finds a way to set its claws in you once more, perhaps you'll soon find there is a way to change fate's design. Tags | sexual content 18+ minors dni, smut, heavy description of violence and wounds, angsty Word Count | 22k A/N | Oh god, I'm so nervous about posting this. First of all, thank you SO much for the love you showed to Our Dear, Green Little Friend. It has completely warmed my heart that so many of you like it, and even though it's taken me very long to post my next fic, it was one of the key motivations for me to continue writing on it. So thank you very, very much! <3 Also, like I said earlier, I'm very nervous about posting this fic since it's very long and perhaps quite different than what I've written before, but I hope to god you like it! I haven't been in the best mindset when writing it since I've dealt with some stress both privately and at work. I will let you know that I will soon go through it once more and edit it slightly, but I felt like I had to get it out to you guys since I feel bad that I haven't posted in a while, and I'm honestly quite sick of rereading the story time and time again. Please let me know if there are any serious misspellings, and I'll fix it directly! Anyway, sorry for the long text, and I hope you like it!<3

For some, it might’ve seemed cowardly, yet you couldn’t bear to unravel some memories, for they hurt too deeply–wounded too far. However, the thought of letting them fade was somehow worse, and while you feared the pain they would surely bring when confronted, you hadn’t been forced to face them until now. So, it turned out to be quite the coincidence they would come to haunt you now that time seemed to be at a standstill; the world around you had never been this calm before.  

“Miss, would you mind taking these back?” A hearty voice broke your thoughts, speaking in a mumbling fashion as the loud sound of books hit the wooden table. Wading through the dust that floated around you that stirred from Eustace’s sudden motion, you found his ageing eyes gazing at you amusedly, chuckling at the sour expression that formed on your otherwise soft features. 

“I don’t mind,” you said, giving him a small smile that turned vicious once the heavy pile of books was cradled in your arms. “If you don’t mind taking a round with the whisk.” You didn’t get the chance to see the irked look on his face, disappearing quickly into the towering bookshelves. 

“Don’t forget to dust the higher places as well!” Chuckling warmly at the man’s miffed mumbling, you walked on carefully, making sure not to stumble on the ratty carpet as his grumbling grew distant.

The bickering that seemed constant when you conversed with the older man was by all means with no ill intent, more so done in jest. And, while your friendship might seem rather unusual, there was no doubt that his presence brought you an undeniable comfort in a world that had done you more wrong than right. Sure, it might sound dreary, but you recently concluded that you grew more and more content with the thought of staying here.

You loved how a sense of calm always seemed to rest over the building, the smell of old books filling your senses, although an ever-so-poignant whiff of hot steel and grease found its way in from the open window as the train chugged to a stop and steam billowed through the surrounding air. Sighing, you took the liberty of closing the window, the sharp whistle making you cringe as it brought you out of your solitude.

Eustace had taken you under his wing when the bearings of your life had become too heavy, giving you a roof over your head and warm food in your stomach. It made you wonder how sparse kind souls like his were in this world, never having met one quite like him. While your compromised situation originally had been the reason for his kindness, he had found your fascination and vast knowledge of books intriguing and, therefore, refused to take no for an answer when he asked you to start helping him around his bookstore. Yet, despite how much you appreciated it, you couldn’t flee from the unease that still hooked its claws in you when you pondered the reason you had ended up here in the first place, the tendrils of it creeping into the sanctuary of the bookshop like ivy upon ancient stone. Despite your dislike of it, you bore the weight of it every second, and although well hidden, you had become tethered to the memories that followed your past. 

Like shattered glass, memories pierced your heart with sharp edges at every twist and turn. Distant echoes of laughter that had long since faded into silence, the faces blurred by time yet etched into your very being passing before you as your pace slowed down, the wooden panels creaking something so terribly under your weight.

With a heavy sigh, you moved among the hundreds of books, fingers deftly tracing the spines as you sought their rightful place amongst their brethren. Arranging them on the shelves, you tried to distract yourself from your thoughts by humming quietly in the otherwise quiet room. The shop had been empty for quite some time now; the townsfolk’s interest in the subtle words on the pages dimmed in their struggle to survive their daily life—only pretentious men stepped inside at times who, by crook or hook, imagined they would leave a mark on this world with their clever words and supposed hierarchy in society. It lessened, though, as they went for bigger–more extraordinary–things than this muck of a town, wherever that might be.

Amidst the quiet rustle of pages and the soft creak of wood–and your less than favourable words, the air suddenly turned congeal, thick with a sudden tension that tickled your senses with its uncertainty. A chill coursed down your spine as you felt an ominous presence looming behind you, casting you in its shadow as the weight of something cold and unyielding pressed against the tender flesh of your temple. With a tremble, you froze, the books once held tightly against your chest cascading to the ground in a tumble.

Your heart was hammering against your chest, beating against your ribs like a caged bird as its frantic beat drowned out the world around you. You grew too fearful to move, the clicking sound of a gun daring you to resist. 

“Easy there, miss,” a gravelly voice spoke, vibrating dangerously in your ear as warm breaths turned cold on the bare skin of your neck. “No sudden moves, and I won’t have to hurt you.”

You remembered that voice, feeling it dance just beyond the reaches of your consciousness, its familiarity almost touchable. How could you not voice it when the name lingered on your tongue, teasing and beckoning you? There had to be a mistake; there was no other conclusion to be made, for if it happened to be someone you had known, they might be less agreeable than the common bypasser.

“What do you want?” you managed to whisper, voice barely above a breath.

“Money, jewels. Whatever you got,” the voice replied, words heavy with a certain kind of roughness only a man holding a gun to a woman’s head could possess. “Just keep quiet and do as you’re told, and we’ll be on our way.”

Your mind raced in a jumbled mess of fear and uncertainty at the sudden intrusion you should have known was a high possibility in such a city as Blackwater. Yet, the thought only made your heart heavier against your chest, knowing all too well what kind of men hid in the darker corners of the alleyways. For one to threaten a woman in broad daylight, though, seemed very daring yet not an ounce less terrifying.

Summoning every bit of courage you possessed, you tilted your head to glimpse at the man pushing his head against the side of your face, opposite where the cold metal touched your temple dauntingly. As you did, you met the eyes of the man who held your fate in his hands–and in that fleeting moment, as your gazes met, you saw something flicker behind the hardened exterior of the outlaw.

Recognition dawned like a bolt of lightning. What stared back at you was not the face of a stranger but the familiar features of a man you had once known—a man whose presence had once held the promise of escape amidst the terrible deeds that clouded your life. Arthur Morgan, that’s who was standing behind you. His name echoed in your mind like from a long-forgotten dream, memories hidden so well you could barely remember them. 

Two broken souls, trying to find what others seemed to have handed to them on a silver platter: warmth and solace, the comforting thought of finding a home–somewhere to belong. Yet, the relationship wasn’t made to be perfect, and in your despair, nothing good could’ve come from it. As many things go, it became too fragile. It couldn’t—didn’t—last, and what you once saw as a light beyond the heavy curtains of darkness was quickly swallowed up.

Instead of the kind ones you remember, dark, dangerous eyes stared into yours, the swirls of blue coated in a rich black that ran like coal through his acidic gaze. So harsh and cold were they, burning through yours as thick brows fell like a shield over the dark pools, hiding behind his squint and hostile snarl. Almost unrecognizable, he was seemingly both older and larger as the lines on his face were more defined and wrinkles on his nose nearly etched onto his face. 

As your fearful eyes stared into his stoic yet calculating ones, you felt your body shiver in fright, every bell of alarm that once sounded so clearly in your mind turning quiet, now only the clock ticking discernible as blood rushed in your ears like a flood. The gun cocked dangerously, dread creeping through you at the wordless threat when you stayed quiet for longer than he had the patience for.

 “You deaf?” His growling voice burned deep in his throat. A warm breath brushed against your cheek as he kept your gaze wholly, completely disregarding the unmistakable fear in your expression. 

“I-”

You stumbled over your words, voice thick before a gasp left you. Between the disbelief of seeing Arthur’s face once again, although more weathered than you remember, and the thought of having a gun pressed to your temple, there was not a single word you could utter that would seem sensible.

Suddenly, you were turned around, hands pushing you against the bookshelves in a hasty motion, never minding their grip on you. Your head craned as the gun now found your neck, trying desperately to get away from it but instead having it digging harder into your skin. 

“Now, are you going to do as I say?” You could feel the tendrils of disgust burn through you, face contorting as you twisted in his arms, proving futile against his leverage. 

“Nah, none of that. You hear me?” His grumbling could be heard from deep within his chest while his face soured, the sharp lines of his frown growing darker under the shadow of his hat. Tightening the grip he had on you, his arms wound themselves like vices around you, daring you to make another move. 

He was close now, his hot breath chilling the skin on your face as the smell of sweat and leather filled your senses–tears almost welled up in your eyes from the stinging feel of smoke emitted from his clothing. Every calm yet strained breath that left him was audible, contrasting heavily with your hectic breathing that filled the now-empty room. 

It was daunting yet all too familiar as memories clouded your mind of the same man who was now threatening your life. Did he even recognize you? Or was he too far gone? Had the devil set its claws so deep inside him that he couldn’t longer differentiate friend from foe? It would seem so, you concluded, gazing again at his hardened face, which only recognized a stranger before him–a puppet to get what he desired the most.

“We ain’t got much.” Your voice strained against your throat, thick with unshed tears that lingered in the corners of your eyes. All you got in return was a faint squint of his eyes, gazing at you cautiously as he looked behind him calmly before returning his eyes to you. 

“Do as I say.” Not a word left you, and whether it was from stubbornness or fear, you couldn’t be sure, but the look you were given made sure to convey that crossing him would not end well for you. 

That was until it changed. Arthur’s features softened after he observed your face, running his eyes over your eyes and the slope of your nose until they reached your lips, quickly averting his gaze as he turned his head away momentarily. Did he remember you, you wondered, finding no other explanation to make sense.

It was a long time ago, too long for you to consider the shadow of a man standing before you a friend, yet you had never remembered him to be quite so harsh. So, brutal, perhaps? You had undoubtedly missed a few chapters, but the years were far apart, and time had a funny way of doing its worst to those who deserved it the least. Like wet paint, it spreads, leaching onto good people like a virus–just like bad fosters bad, and good fosters good. 

“Please…” You pleaded with him, fright seeping like syrup into your shaking voice, pathetic and childish. “I-”

There was no time to finish your sentence. The loud thundering of hooves broke through the room’s tension, audible even through the closed window. Loud calls could be heard, as well as swear words further into the building that you did not recognize as Eustace. Worry filled you when you realized Arthur hadn’t come alone in his business to rob you blind, and now you were fearful that your companion might be in an even worse predicament.

The frown on his face deepened, the hold on his gun softening just enough as he pushed you hastily back towards the bookshelf, your legs weakening underneath you as you fell towards the ground. In long strides, he marched towards the window, hiding behind the wall as he peered out, almost blending into the shadows as the light from outside shone brightly. You could see people running past it, in too much of a hurry to peer inside as the shouts grew louder.

“Arthur!” A voice called out, recognizable as the rich timbre echoed through the corridor, gravelly yet smooth. “We have to leave!” As the last syllable left his mouth, you jerked as the first sound of a gun going off could be heard, hands quick to cover your ears as the noise punched a hole in your gut. “Now, Arthur!” 

Everything after that became a blur, your whole body growing rigid as the world turned into chaos. Bullets could be heard going off left and right, rather like a thunderstorm than a gunfight echoing outside the room that now held you in prison. Your body stiffened, muscles tensing as you were brought back to the sounds that filled you with dread, memories flooding you, both unbidden and unwelcome. 

Faces twisted in fear, the acrid smell of burning flesh, rising smoke, and gunpowder–sounds of screams echoing in your ears. You wished for it to cease, for the images to disappear, searching every corner of the room for an escape, somewhere you could go to to rid yourself of the horrid thoughts.

Momentarily, amidst your glancing around in stress, you found a pair of calculating eyes boring into yours, seemingly undecided as they stayed planted beside the window. Your breath came out in ragged gasps, the staccato rhythm of gunfire echoing through the building, mingling with shouts of panic and the sound of breaking glass.

Arthur’s gaze was fixated intensely on you, and a sense of uneasiness settled when you realized. It was heavy, and your heart raced as your eyes stayed plastered to the others–the urgent shouts from outside pierced through the silence as danger lurked outside the room’s walls. Yet, you couldn’t help but feel as if he was searching for something in the depths of your soul, piercing you with a scrutiny that left you barer than if he were to strip you of all your clothes and examine you naked. You found yourself unable to look away, moved by the indescribable way he didn’t seem to be either.

“Arthur!” 

Barreling through the door in a flash of binges breaking loose and dust clouding your vision, a pair of men fell roughly onto the ground a few meters before you, blood seeping through their clothes like a rich, red paint. Splattering on the ground, it almost reached your clothes as bullets rained after them, shooting holes in the walls the few times it missed their targets. 

Frantic eyes searched the now corpses in front of you, expecting to see Eustace's body among them. Yet, you found none–and hadn’t you been too preoccupied with the currants of relief coursing through you, you would have seen the young faces of the poor boys who had found their doom that day only because their perpetrators wanted to fill their pockets.

It didn’t seem that Arthur paid any mind to the mess that transpired in front of your very eyes, more so, still focusing on you like you were the only one in the room. Visibly distressed, it didn’t seem to deter him, his fingers flexing as his gaze burned dangerously under the shadow of his hat. 

That was until he suddenly tore his attention from you in annoyance, seemingly finding the dead bodies in front of you a menace, a simple block in the road. That was until a faint grunt seemed to leave one of them, a grunt filled with pain as frantic eyes flickered around while the rest of his limbs appeared paralyzed, only able to stare at the roof.

Rounding him immediately, Arthur stepped around the man, walking with his dirty boots and rattling spurs into the blood that loitered the floor as the sound of the thick, wet fluid reverberated in your ears. Without a single word, he gave you one last glance. You stayed on the floor, clutching your shoulders with your hands as he bent over the man and stared him unapologetically in the eyes–the only sound after being the loud bang of his gun. 

The sight was gruesome, and to think a man could do something like that without a blink of an eye, you considered even more cruel. You had seen your fair share of malice and anger, anger that turned even the kindest of men into herds of both sheep and wolves, meaning you couldn’t possibly be surprised. Yet, it reminded you too terribly of a time you thought you now would get the chance to lay behind you, never more having to stare these horrible men in the eyes any longer but instead keep them closed.

And you did keep your eyes closed this time, waiting for the moment pain would fill your chest. Yet, it didn’t come since only silence followed, and when you opened them again, the room was devoid of any life except your own; Arthur now only seemed to have been a figment of your imagination if it weren't for the poor victim, his blue eyes staring lifelessly into yous, wide open and terrified, seemingly having turned to you in the last second, hoping you would save him from his terrible fate.

—

Some would say you were of the quiet sort, choosing the words that fell from your lips carefully, both pondering and cautious. It came from a life where those assets were vital, a simple way to keep your tongue in check and do what you had to survive –which you would like to say wasn’t easy when it felt like your mind ran a thousand miles a second, never resting and finding it troublesome to make sense of the world that unveiled itself before you. 

With your mother gone, you found yourself thrust into a world of uncertainty, your father's callousness only serving to worsen the fate you seemed to have been handed as he appeared indifferent to your loss, attention consumed by the demands of those around him. But alas, he was affected too, and you had come to learn that different people react differently to whatever hardships they come by–and those who don’t respond at all seem to be the ones that eventually act the harshest.

That was at least how your father had acted; you perceived his anger as something only a daughter could experience from a father. It was brutal and sudden, only appearing after a silence that rang like sirens in your ears–then grappling and choking. What could possess a man to harbor such anger, you couldn’t say, and while you knew he had it worse when he was little, you wondered if the thought of you only being a child ever crossed his mind.

You should be filled with anger and resentment, so much it could consume your life, fuel every action, and affect every choice you make. You should’ve been immersed in sadness, crying until your voice gave out and tears dried up, yet you couldn’t. They were inside of you; you could feel them leaking into your chest, and as you stared into your own dry eyes, you could only see the malice of your father reflected in them–the malice that seemed to be reflected in most eyes these days.

 It didn’t matter if it was the ladies who sometimes passed by the dusty town of Blackwater or the lone man begging for coins in the corner of some run-down store. Deep-seated anger was in them all, rooted so gravely it felt like the air blackened when you stepped outside. Like a curse, it seeped into the very bones and festered there. 

Why? Perhaps that’s just how humans work, always needing something to prove that the inhabited anger they felt had a cause, always searching to direct it to someone else less deserving of it. So, perhaps there wasn’t anyone to blame for the whole thing—maybe it was just the nature of humans–just like happiness or sadness is a natural way of expressing oneself. It seemed more manageable for you to grapple with it when thought of that way, for it became more of a fact than somewhere to cast your blame. 

That’s why, when the bodies being dragged out the door left their track of dark, red blood, you could only gaze at Eustace, who spoke to one of the officers, refusing to look at the bloodshed around you. It turned out that your old man had been fine, answering in irritation while he told the sheriff that the outlaws probably hadn’t found him big enough of a threat as they searched every cabinet and shelf, taking no care to be careful of the things around them as it tumbled in heaps to the floor.

You couldn’t be sure if you felt relieved or not to have been further away from Eustace than you had been, wondering how your fate would have been decided if the lot of them had found you instead. Perhaps it had been your saving grace to see that the man from your past reached you first, but you couldn’t possibly say. Or maybe your saving grace was the officers who reached you just in time, for there was no telling what Arthur would have done with you had they not arrived when they did.

When you thought about it,  he’d always been unpredictable. While his face was familiar to you, he was unrecognizable in many ways. His movements had been calculating and menacing, and his eyes looked right through you as if it didn’t matter who was standing before him. The only thought reflected in his eyes was the hope of shiny gold and glittering diamonds. But there was also greed–greed and hunger.

You could tell, for you had seen it before. There was a time when that was all you saw, and for a long while, you wondered how far a man could go to satiate his needs–if greed only could grow, worsen like a drug. The more you got, the more you needed, the high never enough, and the thought of gaining more pleasurable to the point of doing anything to receive it.

 However, it was never a look you had seen coming from Arthur when you’d known him, as he’d been more prone to emit a childish want for justice and righteousness, pride, and a strong sense of doing what was right though the act was considered wrong. But it was a long time ago, and you realized that your vision might be clouded by a young girl's naivety that the world was a good place–that people could be wholeheartedly good.

“Dear girl.” Your thoughts were broken by Eustace’s low, seemingly now more careful voice, walking over to where you stood amidst the rushing forms of lawmen. “Are you alright?”

Were you? It was hard to tell, so you had no straight answer to give him. It was too crowded, and since you had nowhere to gather yourself, you weren’t in the right mind to devise a sensible response. So, instead, you answered in a way that would get you the least amount of questions–even though it might have been considered lying.

“Oh, I’m alright, Eustace; they never got the chance to find me.” Giving him a tight-knit smile, you touched his arm, grateful for his concern. “They didn’t hurt you, did they?” 

You glanced up at him, finding his sharp eyes doubtful. You should have known. He never took kindly to lying and had an incredible knack for noticing when someone did. It would indeed be your doom one day–and many others, no doubt. 

“No, I suspect they didn’t find the old man much of a threat.” 

“Well, I’m glad they didn’t.” His eyes softened, and he heard your words despite your mumbling. Your gaze stayed stuck on his shoulder, deep in thought. 

Even though the danger had passed for some time, it still felt like your heart resided somewhere deep in your stomach. Your thoughts and the looming dread–the slightly metallic smell of blood filling your nose—were heavy. It didn’t help that Arthur’s face became more prone to showing up after that incident, his grim expression wearing a sharp nose and piercing eyes cutting through the yellowed paper plastered on the city walls, surrounded by his unlawful friends that didn’t look any less menacingly. 

5000§. That was the price for a man taking what he deemed his own, countless murders and robberies on his hands, blood heavy on his mind, and dollars flooding his pockets. It didn’t help your case that the poor boy selling newspapers in the corner outside the bookstore had pipes to last for days, reminding both you and the townspeople of their latest misfortune of having a gang hiding in the shadows. 

Since trouble always seemed to find you, there wasn’t much for you to chastise yourself with, all too familiar with the thought of being at the deep end of one conflict or another. It was laughable, really, that one person could be doomed with such a case of bad luck and an increasing magnetism towards people who fought with bloodied knuckles for power and status. But, in the end, maybe the weak belonged to the strong—just like flies sought feed from the skin of rotting corpses to consume the waste left by those who always strived forward, no matter their intentions or values. Perhaps it was an unspoken law of nature, an inevitable dance between vulnerability and dominance, where the fragile were snared in its horrid embrace. 

What could you possibly do against nature’s firm grip on the world? It wasn’t as if it was an imagined force you could call upon when needed—it was just how it was, and no amount of will or strength could make that fact undeniable. You came to terms with that realization long ago, but the gnawing feeling in your chest was more stomach-twisting than anything you had felt before. What you were scared of, you possibly couldn’t say. Perhaps it was the leftover tremors that still coursed through you or the dampening feeling of nausea that persisted, yet somehow, it was something else, a faint sense that the danger wasn’t over yet.

Could Arthur be the one causing the cold sweat to run down your back even though the room was boiling from the heat outside, making you twist and turn in your bed as you prayed that the wind that sometimes passed through the slightly open window would carry an ounce of coldness so you could feel anything but the enclosing heat that now seemed to warm you to the bone? Your eyes closed tight as if you pressed them hard enough; you would fool your mind that you were asleep, the gnawing voices in your head ceasing so you could, perhaps, finally rest.

There was no doubt about it—you were frightened. It was unusual, this feeling, since while you’ve had many instances in your life where fear was the key factor, after some time, your body—or mind perhaps— grows familiar with it, so familiar that it washes away with the wind. Some fare well when scared, responding automatically as if their minds grow clearer when faced with the means to survive. In others, which is the category where you fit in, grow blank, like a heavy fog settles, keeping you from sensing left and right. A perfect prey, indeed.

And a perfect prey you were, the open window inviting anyone who happened to pass by, and in excellent condition for someone to climb the two stories to reach the wooden frames and then slink into the room with their grubby fingers and glinting eyes—stupid girl, to think so carelessly as if the streets were safe and people were kind. 

Clothes rustling into the quiet night could be heard if you focused your ears hard enough, the floorboards creaking under the soles of muddy boots and clinking metal. Whoever could it be, one might wonder—and you grew paralyzed as the thought hit you, only able to stare at the tapestry that covered the wall in intricate patterns. The room’s darkness lets you hear every slight sound that would otherwise blend into the background, your senses heightened.

Perhaps the perpetrator thought you were asleep, your dreams already taking you to a land where you were dancing among clouds, not a single thought of the fright that would soon take over and turn the clouds so dark you couldn’t differentiate them from reality. Then, you thought, maybe you had been asleep as the sounds disappeared, all too familiar with waking up along the frantic beating of your heart, wide awake as horrible nightmares chased you till morning.

Your laboured breaths were the only thing that could be heard now, only a fool mistaking them for sleeping as you tried to steady your erratic heart. But you would soon find that the cold chill that ran up your clothed arm wasn’t the wind from the window caressing you but the hand of something more foul, riddled with scars that seemed insignificant in contrast to its owner’s sin.

Creaking under you, the bed groaned from the sudden weight, bedsheets rustling slightly as you closed your eyes tightly shut. The figure loomed over you, its large hand carefully moving further down your arm. You wondered, perhaps, if you stayed still long enough, you would be left alone or maybe dismissed as dead if you held your breath long enough. The thought seemed more appealing when you felt the cold skin burn through the garment, the smell of smoke so strong it felt as if you took a drag of the tobacco and let it scald its way to your lungs. It was vile, and in the presence of the sweat that bit its way through your nose, your eyes watered, your body begging to escape the horrid stench.

That was until the pressure lessened, and the room stayed quiet for a while, your heart beating so heavily it felt like someone held it right up to your ear, breath shaking with every small intake. But then, as the silence continued, you felt a warmth spread slowly down your arms, the substance thick like syrup as it made its way through the cotton of your shirt, spreading til the white fabric darkened to a deep, unsettling red. The scent of iron filled the air, subtle yet unmistakable as the shirt clung tighter to the skin beneath. 

You shot your squinting eyes wide open just in time to feel a heavy weight falling over you, unmoving and grim as what you now saw was a man gasping for air. Your first instinct was to scream, but you didn’t get the chance as a hand roughly placed its palm against your mouth, leaving the terrified noise that escaped you muted while your eyes flickered around wildly, trying to make sense of what was going on.

“Quiet now,” a rough voice spoke, removing its hand from your mouth when you became quiet, too shocked when recognizing who it was that spoke. It only grew heavier when your eyes got more familiar with your surroundings, the heaviness that lingered over you being in the form of a man, the warmth you had felt turning out to be from the deep cut across his neck, blood seeping like a waterfall from the paling flesh.

Another scream left you as you struggled to get the limbs away, squirming and trashing as you pushed the hand off you in the process as you begged for the suffocating smell of iron and sweat to disappear. When it did, you crawled backward, body bathing in the slick, blood-soaked sheets. Pushed to the floor, the man was left in a lifeless heap, eyes staring vacantly into the distance.

Those eyes–the sharp nose and squinting eyes—seemed familiar, reminding you of someone you couldn’t quite put your finger on, not while the room remained dark. However, you didn’t have the chance to ponder any longer as more harshly than before, a hand covered your mouth as you remained pushed up against the bedframe, coddling your hands to your chest.

Wet eyes stared into a pair of dark pools, once blue eyes now appearing black in the obscurity of the night as its facial features bathed in the light from the moon. Even still, it was hard to make out who it was, but his voice alone was enough for the realization to set in, now undoubtedly aware of who held your mouth with one hand and the shining blade of a knife in the other. 

“Keep screaming, and you’ll damn us both.” A familiar, grumbling voice spoke out, hushed, yet the warning of danger lay smoldering underneath the surface. 

“Arthur?” Your voice was hoarse when you spoke, riddled with shock when you realized that the man you had feared was in your bedroom, unwelcomed and unwished for. 

“Wh-” You didn’t get to finish your question before he ripped his hand from you, casting you a dark look as he stepped off the bed, the floorboards groaning awfully at the sudden weight.

“Quiet.” There was no need for him to say anything else as you complied, the rattling anger in his voice only fueling his hasty, rigid movements as he bent down, checking the pulse of the man bleeding out on the floor. 

The sight was gruesome, blank eyes shining in the moonlight as if they were somewhere far away, lost in a dream. A dream, you pondered amidst your shock. Yes, this could all very well be a dream—a bad dream, perhaps, yet the thought of it maybe not being real brought you a sense of comfort. But how could it be? It felt too real, and you could vividly recall every moment as it played out in front of you, feel every touch, and smell every scent.

Lost in a haze, you stared down at your body, the thick, red blood more visible as your eyes got used to your surroundings. Closing your eyes, you cast away the faint memories that grew bolder as the smell of iron crawled up your nose, almost gagged by the sight and the imposing smell that grew stuffier, fuller somehow.

Your eyes shot open, watching the dead body heaved on Arthur’s shoulder being thrown over the window sill, the impact noticeable with a loud thud. You could only stare at him as he leaned over, looking around quickly before turning towards you again, nodding his head towards the window. 

If you had been in the right mindset and not scared witless, you would have laughed at his blatant naivety for thinking you would dive head-first into the darkness of the night, with him no less. There might have been a time when you knew him, but that wasn’t the case anymore—the dark eyes cowering behind his hat were unrecognizable, and the unkind tone of his voice was entirely someone else’s. 

“Shit,” you heard him mumble when you made no motion to move from your spot, only cradling your arms tighter around you. Rubbing his eyes in stress, he glanced at you again, almost scoffing at you when you gave him a blank stare.

“Come on then, I ain’t got all day.” As you made no further movement that would give him the impression you were complying, he sighed and, with heavy steps, stalked towards you as the bed rattled slightly from his movements. You only held out your hands when he grabbed your waist roughly, fingers betraying you as they trembled wildly against his chest.

“What are you doing, Arthur?” His movements halted, his leatherbound hands stopped around your middle, and his eyes twitched when he heard his name being spoken. Along the ridges of harshness, you could see a faint confusion lingering in his stare, blatantly staring deep into your eyes unabashedly as he lifted you from the bed. 

“Wha—” You pushed against his chest, and while it didn’t succeed in making him back off, it only made his brows furrow deeper.

“Listen here,” he said darkly, grabbing your upper arms and shaking you slightly. “Do as I say—follow my every word, and you won’t die.” 

You stopped for a moment, bewildered by his words. You couldn’t make sense of it—none of it. Questions were brewing in your mind, but you couldn’t find the words to speak them, couldn’t find the words to scream for help. It might seem funny to be scared of a man you once knew to have a good heart, but you have known men your whole life, and it never takes much for them to see right from wrong and still do the wrong thing.

“What’s going on, Arthur?” you breathed shakily, glancing at his hands, which gripped your arms when they tightened. It was hard to imagine that they had once been so gentle, the thought seemingly miles away as you returned your gaze to his squinting eyes, so close now that you could feel his breath against your skin. “Why are you here?”

Your voice had grown quiet as the question hung loose in the air. Shuddering, the wind flowed wildly into the room, banging the windows against the wall.

“Come on,” Arthur curtly said as he pushed you in front of him. You quickly realized you could hear footsteps from the stairs behind the shut door—Eustace, you thought, a cold chill running up your back as you gasped. 

When you stopped before Arthur in protest, he only gave you a mean glance when you gazed back in concern, telling you all you needed to know. Disbelief was written on your face when you realized his cruelty, feeling it reverberating in your head a few moments before you could make sense of it. 

“Don’t-” 

“Then do as I say.” He whispered harshly, pushing you forward to make you move, and this time, your feet strode hastily toward the window. Two stories high, the room was, and before you could glance back in protest, Arthur pushed past you quickly, landing with a heavy thud against the dusty ground, clouds of it forming as it danced in the falling glow from the lamppost. 

The street below was bathing in darkness, the sullied street more daunting from this high up and saddening when Eustace’s voice could be heard echoing through the hallway, his worried tone reverberating through the walls. It was hard to leave and listen to him calling out for you, yet you realized there wasn’t a choice for you now, and a big part of you refused to see him come to harm. If Arthur would’ve stayed true to his threat, that is.

You couldn’t say why you were so scared, having faced dangers more bone-chilling than this. But perhaps you feared to once more fall into the wrong arms, the arms of a man who reminded you of a past you’d rather lay behind you. But that might’ve always been the case for people who lived a hard life, feeling it better to put it to rest than reawaken it.

Without casting a glance behind you to see the shadow in the hallway flicker wildly as a stressed cane could be heard audibly hitting the wooden floor; you climbed over the window frame, the chipping paint sticking to your tightly gripping hands. It wasn’t until the trashing of air surrounded you that you fell into a pair of arms that immediately embraced you, hands gripping under your waist to ease your landing. 

Quickly, before his hand could linger, you backed away, relieved when you no longer felt the tight hold he had managed to capture you in. His gaze remained heavy on you, and you did your utmost to avoid him, letting your eyes falter, not daring to meet him. How he could act so carelessly, you couldn’t possibly justify, yet his presence alone made you take a few steps back.

His movements were harsh as he adverted his eyes, and you could see how his body was rigid and tense, as if he’d been bathing in ice-cold water. He glanced towards the window, walking towards you as he motioned you to turn around and walk through the streets until the building disappeared behind tons of others, his grip on your arm tight like he worried you would slip out his grasp—or attempt to. Most likely, you thought, knowing exactly what he would do if you tried when considering his earlier threat.

“Where are you taking me?” You applauded yourself for dampening the tremble in your voice when you spoke, somehow finding the simple thought mildly embarrassing while aware it would be entirely valid if you did. This time, you found yourself getting an answer to your question, and although harsh and hasty, it gave you reason to question its meaning. 

“Somewhere safe,” Arthur grumbled under his breath before pushing your back against the local general’s store wall, your figure hidden behind his large frame in the deserted alley. You made another attempt to question him further, only managing to open your mouth before the leather of his gloves covered it, hushing you as his eyes found yours, a threat lying deep within them. 

A few moments passed in silence, the brick wall against your back cold as the small stones pressed uncomfortably against your shoulder blades. Moving slightly, you turned your head to gaze out towards the street, finding Arthur’s hand turning your face back instantly, shaking his head.

It wasn’t long before loud footsteps could be heard through the streets, metal clanking and murmurs echoing as their shadows grew taller from the orange light of the lamppost.

“Be still,” Arthur whispered under his breath, the sound of his gun cocking slowly as if to make as little noise as possible. Stepping away from you, he motioned you to step further into the alley, where the darkness would almost swallow you whole. “Stay there until l come back, and keep quiet.”

You didn’t get the chance to follow his command, though; the sharp sound of a gun went off, the noise so bone-rattling in the quiet, sleeping town it likened to the sound of thunder—a thunder turning into a full-blown storm as it didn’t even take a millisecond before bullets rained through the air, shooting holes into walls and shattering surrounding windows. 

Your back found the brick wall again, Arthur’s back meeting your front as he shielded you with his body. Peeking from behind the building, the sound of his gun went off booming in your ear, his face growing even more grim, cursing under his breath as a bullet flew right past him. His weight pushed against yours when he once more took cover, taking the chance to reload as you gazed at the small cut on his neck where the bullet had grazed him—happy that it hadn’t been you.

Your hands turned pale as they gripped Arthur’s jacket, eyes screwing shut as the noise around you only grew nearer, each intake of breath shallow and rapid, as if the air in and of itself had turned hostile. Desperation clawed at your mind, begging you to slip away from the man holding you back and make a run for it, but you found that you couldn’t, damning yourself for staying still when all you wanted to do was get away.

Although warmth suddenly enveloped your hand, the rough leather and warm fingers wrapped around your sweaty ones. You opened your eyes, breathing erratically as you were once more met with the familiarity of Arthur’s jacket. As you glanced down, you caught a glimpse of his hand encasing you before the sight disappeared just as the feeling passed. You wondered if the hard, cold man in front of you had been the one to do it or if you’d imagined it.

With no more time to ponder, Arthur hastily stepped out on the streets, wildly looking around him with his gun raised as he turned his body in all directions. All dead, you presumed, as no more shots were being fired, yet you could hear more footsteps coming your way, alarmed voices shouting as doors slammed open in the distance. 

“Shit,” Arthur muttered, a loud whistle cutting through the air before he returned to you, casting a glance your way as you gazed worryingly towards the direction of the loud calls, stumbling towards Arthur, feeling like the ground was tilting beneath your feet. 

“What’s happening?”

“Law,” he stated, grasping your waist and hoisting you up what you discovered was his horse. The strong muscles flexed under your weight as you sat behind the saddle, and the chestnut coat softened under your fingers as you tried to find stability.

“Hold on,” Arthur said after heaving himself onto the saddle, casting a look backward when you took too long to follow his words, only setting off when your hands crawled tentatively around his waist, gripping the material under your hands firmly.

You wanted to ask him where he was taking you, but fear choked up your words and rattled your brain as you tried to comprehend your current predicament. So, instead, you held onto his jacket til your fingers turned a paler shade, closing your eyes as you wished that with it, you could disappear—perhaps wake up in your bed once more and feel the morning sun shine brightly upon you as it had done now for quite some time, instead of the cold, harsh air blowing against you, seeping through every garment you were wearing.

You had happily laid the unknown fate behind you when you found Eustace, not knowing the past from the present—not knowing what lay before you. As a child, it had been everything you’d known. And, being brought up always moving, you’d grown used to a stable home, a far-off dream, if even that, since you had never known that stability existed. Food on the table, clean clothes that didn’t reek of sweat and were stained with dirt, and clean water that would surely do you better than the burning alcohol you often got as a substitute for liquid. 

All in all, finding a home with Eustace had been a blessing, no matter how absurd your situation may have looked to others. Therefore, suddenly, having to leave made everything ten times worse—you didn’t want to go, and you cursed the man in front of you, cursing him for disrupting your peace, for taking you away for—well, you weren’t quite so sure yet. 

Although it itched inside you to ask him, you hadn’t missed the part where Arthur seemingly wasn’t the man you had once known. Therefore, you kept your mouth shut, not daring to speak a word while you gazed behind you as the city lights dimmed with time, buildings replaced with trees, and people with animals that scourged away into the woods surrounding the path when the clacking of hooves grew near. 

You rode for a long while in silence, and with every chance you got, you glanced behind you, expecting to see the sheriff’s men closing in on you despite Arthur’s brutal pace—to see the pistols aimed at you in a way you’d thought you’d laid behind you after all those years on the run. But no, no galloping horses followed you, only darkness engulfing your sight as you looked back, the only noise the huffing of the horse beneath you.

Night turned to day, and you never stopped to regain your breath, to make sense of your surroundings. It was consuming, yet you took the chance to feel the now brisk air of the morning caress your cheeks softly, smell the bracing dew and the carrying of fresh air before the heat would set in a few hours. For a long while, you’d forgotten how good it felt to be outside of the city map with no walls confining you, no bustling crowds jostling for space. Nature’s gentle, soothing sounds replaced the constant hum of urban life—machinery and voices. The rustling leaves, the chirping of birds, and the distant call of wildlife may have once done their best to soothe your rattled nerves, yet it didn’t ease now, and you found yourself only growing more nervous.

—

“We ain’t got no other choice but to stay here tonight,” Arthur said as the horse slowed to a trot, examining the area as he squinted against the sharp evening sun. “Reckon, we’ll be safe enough out here. If they ain’t following us, of course.”

A small sigh left you, almost letting a groan escape you as you moved slightly behind the saddle. Feeling the muscles ache deep within, you were unwilling to face a second longer seated atop the horse. You didn’t even register his last words and their hidden threat, trying to remind you what heap of danger you were in—as if you weren’t aware, as if he didn’t already make you more at edge.

As the horse finally stopped at a place Arthur found agreeable, you didn’t wait a second to glide down towards the ground, feeling your feet planted on firm ground, the grass underneath them heavenly as you stretched with your newly-found freedom. 

“Don’t run away,” Arthur muttered as his gaze stayed on you, warning laying deep in his voice.

“And where would I go?” Raising your arms, you gave him a frustrated look, not understanding how he would even make the assumption that you could, the landscape stretching on for miles with only vegetation and no roads as far as the eye could see, only lurking animals awaiting you with open mouths and greedy arms.

“I don’t know, just don’t do it,” he grumbled, sliding off the saddle before throwing you a blanket. As he crouched down, making you believe he was setting up a fire, you walked closer to him, carefully watching the guns on his back, like devil horns sprouting like bone from his shoulders.

“Arthur,” you began, hugging the blanket to your chest. “Will you tell me who those men were?” His mood was terrible, yet somehow, the words left you before you could stop them. There was, of course, still lingering anger at him inside of you, the underlying tones of sorrow that stung its way through you. Yet, you had to know—had to understand why he had turned his visit into a raging bloodbath and who that man was whose blood had dried up your clothes as the fabric had now grown thick and pasty.

“The law, I already told ya,” 

“I know that,” you sighed, trying again, finding it easier to look at him when his back was turned. “But the men before that, and the man in my bedroom….” you trailed off, recalling the horrid moment and the consuming smell of blood, the lifeless eyes once again staring straight through you, brows still furrowed while the eyes stayed wide open.

He halted slightly in his motions, casting a glance sideways yet not entirely looking at you as he rubbed his eyes. Sweat ran down his face as he lowered his hat to rid himself of the still-blazing sun, cursing under his breath at the damned warmth that almost felt torturous when the wind laid to rest.

“Jesse’s men,” he said, continuing his earlier action. Your stomach plunged, shock traveling through your body as you froze, wishing sincerely he’d said any name but that. 

“And the man in my be-”

“Jesse.”

“Oh.”

Backing slightly, you could feel your throat constricting when the familiar name left Arthur’s mouth. It had been a long time ago, yet now it seemed so near, almost too near, being able to grasp the memories that made your heart lurch and stomach turn, something waxy and cold lining your insides at the thought.

Although, with it being given more thought, wasn’t this just your luck? Had it not always been your luck? To find yourself amid everything terrible, of all that was rancid and chaotic—entangled in the embrace of men who, above all else, desired more, strove towards gaining what they deemed necessary. Because of this, there had been many instances where you had felt greed, the familiarity with currents so strong there was no other explanation than rendering yourself no better than others when it came to it. And, unfortunately, it was consistent, for it appeared in everyone—everywhere—whether consciously or not, there had been no way for you to unsee it. 

“But I don’t understand,” you said, your voice quiet as you spoke to yourself, gaze far off as you absentmindedly stared into thin air. “Jesse already killed Charlie. Why would he go after me, and now of all times? He couldn’t possibly be that greedy?” Silence followed, Arthur’s eyes finally meeting yours with reluctance, as if your question bothered him more than he wanted to let on. “Could he?”

“It ain’t—” he trailed off, eyes flickering as if pondering how best to form the words soon to be said. “Well,” he said more directly this time. “Death ain’t enough for some, I guess.”

As his words sunk in, Arthur avoided your gaze, the silence from you enough to tell him that he’d struck a chord in you with his admittance. Horrifying, yet how could it surprise you when you had faced the inner turmoil of men many times, knowing the ways of honor and respect they so desperately clung to? Although there was an underlying dread to his words—like someone had wrapped a bag over your lungs when you thought of what could’ve been—where you could’ve been if Arthur hadn’t been there that night.

When you were both smaller and much more naive than today, you’d seen the bullet that flew right through your father’s skull with both eyes by the hand of Jesse, wide open and undoubtedly too young to stand witness to such a thing—no less it being a parent. You’d been too little; you simply didn’t understand it, and while you can honestly say it didn’t impact you then, being too used to seeing things like that firsthand and not particularly close to your father, it plastered itself onto you like a stamp whether you liked it or not.

Charlie, your father, had grown too careless and brave to think himself above others, particularly Jesse. All in all, that didn’t sit right with him, and as your father went through the grief of losing your mother, growing both colder and meaner with time—an image of his former self—he didn’t have much to care for except the gluttony that grew more consistent as the years passed. Sometimes, you’d ponder if any man could be blamed for it, for it seemingly was engraved in our bones, perhaps a fundamental part of the human mind. 

You’d concluded you couldn’t cast that blame at your father when he tried to usurp Jesse, for then greed battled greed, and you had to choose which one was more deserving of understanding. Yet, you soon came to realize it didn’t matter who was more deserving, for power played a bigger part, and it didn’t care for either justice or discernment—only in which hands it could grow stronger, in which mind it could spread its dark tendrils until it grew satisfied. The only problem was that it never did, and you deemed it the downfall of many, both great and horrible men, those who deserved it and those who didn’t.

After that, you didn’t have much more to say, continuing the late evening in silence as your mind raced terribly after your conversation. You couldn’t help but stay unsurprised by Arthur’s theory, somewhere deep down knowing they probably did have much more in the plan for their leader’s revenge. Death, all in all, might not be so horrible after all when you’d imagine all the other vile and stomach-wrenching things one could do to deem their revenge agreeable—righteous. 

It was impossible to imagine yourself being the one to endure it. You almost felt lighthearted at the thought of men’s grabby hands and hungry eyes, conjuring up bone-chilling scenarios that would make any sane person’s face pale and skin gray. The slap of a harsh backside of someone’s palm was, of course, humiliating enough for you. Still, with time, it somehow felt less personal, as if the memory healed with the bruise, while someone infringed on the fleshier part of yourself, not quite humiliation, for it stretched farther than that—scarred deeper. Pure rot and filth would surely spread through your body and mind, growing until it became a part of you, your past, and your future. 

Your fright for Arthur did lessen as you pondered, growing thankful when you deemed his company much more preferable than the men who sought after you. It reminded you of a time he’d been the safest point in your life—perhaps the first since you laid in your mother’s arms, the warmth only a child could feel from a parent. Safe and undoubtedly free, his arms around you not encasing you—caging you in—but pushing you forward so you could feel the air of the wild blow through your hair, showing you there was more to life than death and violence, that there could be more to a man than his demons.

Of course, you had known what he was capable of—the brutality he wielded with his hands, the blood that tainted them, tainted him. In some deranged way, that thought had always made him even more comforting than he would be without it. It was what you’d known your whole life, and there was no hiding it. It drew you in, but never once had he made the slightest incantation of hurting you, and that’s what made you stay. 

God, you’d been so alike, you and Arthur, and your childhood likewise. It felt like he’d been explaining your life when he told you of his. It didn’t help, for it glued you together, and you wondered if it could even be undone, knowing the rip of the glue, if you ever did, would strip away both skin and bones—take so much from you you were unsure if it could ever heal again. To think it would be horrifying indeed, and in the end, it was; the bruising went so deep you’d wanted to dry-heave when you left, almost ripping your heart out with everything else as you pushed him away.

You wondered, the saddest smile almost showing on your lips, if he had realized how carefully he had handled you since you first laid eyes on him, thinking not of his threats and harsh demeanor but the thoughts behind his actions. Ever so thoughtful and very unbecoming of him, yet somehow entirely expected of his character. You lowered your head, letting your hair fall around you as you tried hiding how the corners of your lips suddenly turned into a frowning smile like you were in on a sad secret only you knew about. 

As you tried forcing your lips to maintain their straight appearance, you raised your eyes carefully after some time, observing Arthur through your lashes as he gazed into the fire. Leaning against an oak, he sought shade from the sun after providing you with something to eat. He seemed deep in thought as the flames caressed his face in the darkening evening, highlighting his sharp, harsh features. A heavy shadow cast over his eyes, hiding what thoughts lay behind them. 

He looked no doubt like a man to fear, with features just as deadly as he was, like the guns resting on his hips and the twitching of his fingers ready for even the slightest inclination of danger. It looked like he was sleeping, yet he was vibrating with tension, like his mind was resting without his body, as if it ran on auto, already aware of every danger that could occur upon you as if it was plastered in the back of his eyelids. 

You conclude that living the life he did would surely do that to a person. You’re not sure what he’s been through since you last saw him but deem it nothing good. Your eyes wandered over his face, gazing over the slightly suntanned skin, watching how the evening breeze made his roughly cut hair tickle his face. The trail of beard started to form, littering down to his neck, where a cluster of chest hair took over, disappearing invitingly into the unbuttoned part of his shirt.

Lingering over the bare skin that glistened with an inclination of sweat from the still humid air and fading sun, they followed over the expanse of his chest that stretched the fabric of his shirt, rising steadily in harmony with his breathing. The faint feeling of his skin under your fingertips ran through your mind, the slight memory so far away that only the feeling persisted. The sharp, musky smell of smoke was almost burning under your nostrils as the feeling persisted, coupled with a smoldering scent that was hard to word; you could nearly feel the warm skin underneath you—the faint sense of hair tickling your cheek. 

It calmed you to watch him, the slow breaths that left him making your eyes grow heavy as time ticked on, the chilling fog of night settling in, accompanied by the warmth of the fire you so desperately relied on. It wasn’t until you were at the brink of sleep a pair of darkened eyes met yours, bathing in the glow from the fire, that your eyes faltered, a scorching blush fighting its way up the skin of your chest till it covered your cheeks wholly—shit. It grew hotter, the air suddenly turning stuffed as embarrassment from your delirious, wandering eyes had been caught red-handed.

You could only stare at the ground in shame, the small pebbles suddenly turning interesting as your eyes stared in false interest. You blamed it on your worn-out mind, the fatigue that had overtaken your body, trying to justify it to yourself. You felt the brutality of another pair planted on you, unwavering, hoping to higher powers they would dissipate so you could pity yourself without an audience. 

“Cold?” Arthur’s gruff voice broke the silence, the words still quiet, making it sound more like a statement than a question.

Did he mistake your blushing cheeks for you being cold? Or, had your distracted mind kept you from realizing that the cold air had done so when the darkening sky fell upon you, too? Crossing your arms over your chest, you felt a shudder run through you, hairs raising as if on cue. 

“I suppose so,” you mumbled, inching closer to the fire that had begun to falter. The embers around it were glowing red as they crackled loudly into the night, the sudden noise making you jump slightly. 

“Mmh.” 

You stared into the flames as silence followed, refusing to meet his eyes. Your pulse was still pounding quickly, and your mind was caught in the horrible moment. Hell, you’d say it bordered on humiliating, throwing off your facade of irritation directed at Arthur and his actions that you were so dead-set on keeping up as well as your walls—so high he couldn’t peer over them the way you couldn’t look over his.

“Come here.”

Your eyes fitted to his, in an instance, baffled by the words that left his mouth, if even that was what he said and not something your sleep-deprived mind made up.

You could only stare at him for a while, trying to decipher the hidden meaning behind his words. Your face was straight as Arthur stared back at you with an expression that could rival yours, arms crossed over his chest, and he leaned against the tall oak. You damned his ability to keep his face so unreadable, eyes still as sharp as they always seemed. His voice was calmer, perhaps slightly warmer, heating like embers glowing in the hearth.

“What?” you mumbled tiredly, voice laced with a sleepy confusion.

“You’ll die of hypothermia before I even get the chance to get you out of here.” His tone was laced with annoyance, grumbling irritably as if the mere thought of the conversation you had bothered him immensely—as if the words leaving him were reluctant and bothersome. 

He didn’t continue, staring at the flames flickering wildly when the wind suddenly picked up—if it was a means to avoid your now wakened eyes or the nonchalance in his spoken words, you couldn’t tell.

The irritation that had been simmering in your mind grew at his words. Your throat constricted with words you wanted to speak, wanting to tell him that there wasn’t a single fiber of your being wishing to be close to him, to give him such a privilege. Had the world turned his head that daft, or had he simply stopped caring what effect his words and actions had on others, no less you?

A few moments passed, and you stared at him, eyes growing hard and sharp like glass, where confusion and fear were replenished. So, to rid both of you from the onslaught of feelings coursing through you, you turned around on the hard ground, bringing your arms tighter against you for warmth as a shudder ran through you.

“When did you grow so cruel?” you asked quietly into the night, watching the warm air leaving your mouth become clouds when you breathed a shaking breath. You weren’t sure if you were speaking about his sudden audacity or the change in his character that so starkly contrasted the one you had known. Nonetheless, you didn’t expect an answer, but you did get one, and a humorless laugh accompanied it as if the truth was some masochistic joke.

“If you only knew.”

—

The night continued in silence, and you woke between the hours from the cold, staring heedlessly into the darkness, ears taut as every noise made your breath hitch, almost expecting to find prying eyes staring back at you when you got the guts to open them. But, as sunlight found its way to you behind the trees, rising warmly over the cliffs, you could finally feel yourself relaxing against the hard ground, bringing the jacket that lay over you closer as you breathed in the scent of smoke and something warmer, muskier.

Blue orbs, hidden beneath the surface of anger and hatred, gazed at you through squinted eyes as the orange tendrils hit the skin of your cheeks just above ĥis jacket. They followed along the strands of hair that ran down your face, tickling your skin slightly as you shook them away from your face in deep sleep.

For far too long, they had only seen gruesome sights—things that would make even the strongest men empty their stomachs. So they stayed a while longer, feasting their eyes on something lovelier—a forbidden fruit laid out before them. The steady breathing lulled them closer as if calling for them, begging them to stray nearer until skin touched skin.

The skin he had once known so well, so well the mere thought of it had become less of a luxury and more of a second nature, a constant need. You might’ve let time do its part in receding the memories, but not him—not when every thought of you had become his way of finding something good in this world—his world. Whatever was left of it gnawed at him, clawed at the inside of his flesh, the scars with age growing visible, larger to only himself; only the aftermath of anger and resentment was what was shown to the world. 

Embedded in the darkest corners of his mind, you laid like a hidden haven, formless yet shaped by recollection. He rarely touched it, for every time he did, he found the flesh of you that was once so bright, so warm, turned colder and grayer, rot spreading its way up your delicate skin, his disease only managing to span through your body. The eyes had grown too lifeless to be associated with yours, the sunken eyes dull and almost bordering on hateful. He couldn’t stand it, so he let it be after some time, outmost refusing to taint your memory with his cruelty and violence, refusing to cover you any longer with his filthy hands. 

It was a part of his life he’d had to lay behind him, a chapter that he had looked upon so fondly laid to rest, only for the next to take form. Oh, how it was riddled with filth and violence, the edge of the papers burnt and soiled. It was simply how it was, he’d concluded at the time, all too aware that it was what lay before him, what had always been destined to be his life. 

What once was a heroic attempt, a means to do good, had been overtaken by gluttony, the constant want for more. A bare and raw sin was what he had turned into, a hungry wolf, led by his brutality and fear—a fear of realizing what he was, what he had always been.

So, he couldn’t help but just for once take you in now that your watchful eyes weren’t gazing at him in fright—a fright he had grown all too used to when others looked at him, whether it was by the end of his gun or in the final short few breaths of their life. You had turned in your sleep, chin resting against the hard ground, when his eyes fitted over you, resting in the soft curves of your face and lashes that lay delicately on your skin. 

The gentle rise and fall of your chest was a lullaby of sorts, a contrast to the storm inside of him. He wondered what dreams might be drifting through your mind, hoping they were far removed from the darkness that often clouded his own, hoping he wasn’t turning them vile.

Arthur gazed over the plump cheeks that seemed fuller, akin to his memories, a soft glow over them as the morning sun washed over you. You had always looked prettier in the sunlight; it was something he had always thought, for it was like two twins meeting each other again, laden with the same light and warmth. The ghost of a wistful smile begged to tug at the corners of his mouth as he indulged in this rare moment of stillness—the rough edges of his hardened soul seemed to soften, if only for a heartbeat.

He wanted to reach out a hand, rough and scarred, and try to let it hesitate above your cheek as he thought it would break the spell of sleep that enveloped you. He could feel his breath caught in his throat, a mixture of awe and sorrow, for deep down, he was aware that the world he lived in had no place for such beauty and peace. He was a ghost in your serene world, an intruder with no right to stay. Still, he would linger, savoring the moment like a condemned man savoring his last meal. 

A dream was all it was, to imagine a different life where you could bask in the sun’s glow without fear and violence. But, as the sun climbed higher, reality would begin to seep back in, and he would reluctantly pull his hand away, the humid air now filling the spaces between you. The weight of his choices and the path he’s walked pressed down on him, so for now,  he’d indulge in the simple act of watching over you as you rested—not sure where to go where the men now seeking your death couldn’t find you yet promising to himself he would keep you far, far away from them.

—

When the sun’s warmth began to cover your skin in a faint layer of sweat, you awoke, being met with the smoking of a dying fire and a soreness in your body that only laying on hard ground could create. You had almost expected to awake in the comfort of your old bed, feeling the soft wind caress your face as it blew through the open window, curtains fluttering in the air as the far-away sound of people chattering could be heard, and the constant chugging of the train.

Homesickness, you thought. It was strange; never before had that feeling grappled you so intensely; never had the thought of being back with Eustace seemed so wishful, so desperate. It pulled something inside of you, and as you sat up, you could only find yourself wishing the feeling away, rubbing your eyes as you set your gaze forward, refusing to ponder over it any longer. 

“No sight of Jesse’s men yet, so I think we’re good,” a voice called out nearby. Looking behind you, you found Arthur going through the saddlebag, his back facing you as you slowly stood up.

“Do you-” You cleared your throat, still riddled with sleep, both rough and quiet. “Do you think they’re still after us?”

“Sure,” he drawled, fastening the bag before patting his horse encouragingly. “We just killed their leader; I don’t think we’re off the hook that easily.”

“You,” you stated, dragging your fingers through your hair as you felt the various knots get stuck in your hand. You tried to sort them out but found your effort unsuccessful. 

“What?” he said.

“You killed their leader, you mean.”

“Yeah, I guess, but they’re still coming for you nonetheless.”

“And the law?”

“If we keep away from Blackwater, we’ll be fine,” he said, turning towards you.

“Then where do we go now?” you asked, staring at the ground as you grieved at the thought of not being able to head back to Blackwater, back to Eustace. He only glanced at you, the slight movement of his shoulders indicating he wasn’t so sure either. 

You walked tentatively towards him, meeting his gaze as he leaned towards the tree where his horse was stabled. He watched you cautiously as if he had any reason to be careful around you.

“How did you know Jesse’s men were after me?”

Arthur shifted uncomfortably, his eyes narrowing as he considered his response. “I have my ways,” he muttered, eyes darting to the horizon. “Words travel fast in these parts, and I keep my ears open.”

You only gazed at him for a while, hearing him sigh when you didn’t let your eyes waver, his eyes narrowing as he studied you, measuring how much truth to reveal. He adjusted his hat, the shadow casting a veil over his expression. “We heard things. Rumors in the towns. Jesse’s men have a way of making themselves known.” You nodded, absorbing the information. It made sense in a twisted way; your past seemed to chase you no matter where you ran or how far you went.

Arthur shifted his weight, his voice dropping lower, more serious. “And when we ran into some of his boys a few days back, well,” He stared at you hard. “They mentioned you.”

“Me?” Your breath got caught in your throat, your voice barely above a whisper.

He nodded.

“How did you know I was in Blackwater?”

Arthur’s eyes darkened slightly, a shadow crossing his face. He took a moment before answering, his voice low and steady. “I’ve been keeping tabs on you,” he admitted tersely.

You blinked in surprise, the revelation catching you off guard. “Why?” you asked, voice barely above a whisper, your tone betraying none of the turmoil. 

He only sighed, glancing away briefly before meeting your questioning eyes again. “Because I had to make sure you weren’t getting yourself killed,” he retorted sharply, his words tinged with frustration. “Especially after everything that happened all those years ago.”

Many emotions flooded through you—confusion riddled with anger, a strange sense of relief you wanted to cast far away. Anger at his presumption, a deep ache for the man he once was when he mentioned the past. “So you’ve been watching me all these years?” you countered, your voice carrying a cutting edge.

Arthur’s jaw clenched, his temper flaring. “I’ve been trying to keep you safe,” he mumbled, his voice growing snappier. 

The reality of his words sank in, and you struggled to process the implications. You met his gaze, trying to keep your composure, refusing to let his anger shake you. “Protecting me by keeping me under surveillance?” you shot back.

“Call it what you want, but I had to make sure you wouldn’t end up lying dead somewhere,” he said gruffly, staring stubbornly at you. “Jesse’s men aren’t exactly known for sending love letters.” 

“And did it ever occur to you that I might’ve been wanting to be left alone?”

“You don’t get it, do you? They’ve been after you this whole time; they still are. You think you can just walk away and be fine?” 

The air hung tense between you and Arthur, his words cutting through the warm air like a sharp blade. “You had no right,” you hissed, your voice low but filled with simmering anger. You knew you were right, and you were sure Arthur knew as he quieted down, grumbling as he strode past you, stepping on the fire’s dying embers to put it out, his movements stiff and rigid.

“We’ll keep moving, get you out of the wild for a bit.” You stayed facing away from him when he spoke, only moving when he extended his hand, motioning you towards the horse. 

“Listen,” he murmured, turning you around before you could sit behind the saddle. “I didn’t—” he turned his head away from you for a moment as if thinking about his following words, hands gripping your shoulders carefully, flexing slightly. “I know how these types of men work, and you would thank me for keeping an eye on you if I told you what they would’ve done to you.”

“And how are you so different from these men you talk of, Arthur?” Your voice was accusing and bitter, and only silence followed from his side. “I used to know a different man,” you murmured. One who was understanding,” you finally said, your voice barely a whisper as your walls crashed, a somber look glazing over your eyes. “Kind.”

You felt him stiffen before you, and he didn’t respond immediately, as if surprised by your words. “Things change,” he replied curtly, his voice devoid of sentiment.

“I can see that,” you said, lifting your hand as if to move his hat out of the way but faltering at the last second. “ I barely recognize you.”

You hadn’t failed to realize it, and it had consumed your thoughts fully since you first discovered it was him when he held that gun toward your head. Never did you imagine he would be the type of man to wield such a dangerous weapon towards a woman—towards you—yet that’s precisely what he’d done.

“You don’t understand the world we live in now,” he said, his tone hardening. “Things aren’t as simple as they used to be.”

“Maybe not,” you replied, feeling the weight of your disappointment settle in your chest. “But I didn’t think you’d let it change like this; I didn’t think you’d become-”

“What? Like them?” he interrupted, his eyes narrowing. “You think I had a choice?

“There’s always a choice,” you shot back. “You used to be a different man.”

“And what good did that ever do me?” he snapped, stepping closer. His breath was warm against your cheek when you lowered your face, staring at the fabric of his shirt. 

“The world is cruel, whether you want to acknowledge it or not, and I had to make sure to keep the gang safe, and I still do.” The last part, he muttered to himself. “And since you decided to leave me-”

“Leave you?!” you gasped, appalled at his choice of words. The familiar stabbing pain gripped your heart when he accused you, and you stepped backward slightly only to find his hands rooting you in place. “I had no choice!”

“No choice, huh?” He said, his lips curling into a bitter smile as if your words were ridiculous and filled with lies.

“I asked-, no begged, you to come with me, but you refused! Talking all sorts of rubbish about loyalty and Dutch this and Dutch that!” It felt like a stone the size of your fist was plunged down your throat while the muscle could only constrict around it, twisting your body slightly so he would let go of you. 

“I realized there wasn’t a place for me there, with you, any longer, so I had to leave before I went insane!” you said. “I couldn’t bear it, living that life anymore. My whole life had been filled with cruelty and violence, and I needed to feel as if I was the one living it instead of watching myself from the sidelines!” Flashes of faces, both grim and cruel, passed your vision, the image of a younger you looking for somewhere to hide but only finding broken souls wandering around you.

Like lost in a maze, you had tried left and right, but with no guidance, it proved useless as you kept wandering, trying to make sense of the world that you grew up in, parentless and abandoned in a gang whose hearts had been ripped out of their chests and feasted on by the devil. His pupils were all that was left, and you, a lost child, were made to endure a world that had been stripped of both kindness and care.

“But you-” your voice was choked up, trembling as your frenzied eyes flickered around you. “You didn’t care enough to see that, and now I can see why.”

“You’re just like them.” As your words ended, the onslaught of feeling simmered underneath your hectic breathing, and you finally felt the pressure loosen on your shoulders. Taking a few steps back, you passed the back of your hands over your eyes, feeling the warm liquid rub into your skin.

Those years felt distant now that they were brought up, and you had done your utmost to keep them far away until one day, you woke up feeling like that life hadn’t been your own; the person you were hadn’t been you and the memories entirely someone else’s. It had become too much, the air around you thick and nauseating when it felt like none of it would stop, like you were in a loop that never ended, only bringing you back to where you first started but with different people this time.

You soon realized that since you managed to remove yourself from Jesse and his men, you’d only wound up sleeping on a hard ground once more, the twigs and sticks poking you through your back like they’d always done. However, the people around you were new, but they were still the same lost souls as you, and the thought terrified you. You couldn’t handle the idea of that being your life, of always following someone who strived towards a goal that, when reached, would only be replaced by another one.

You didn’t dare glance at Arthur, yet you felt his eyes on you. As you tried to calm your breathing, you wondered why he didn’t say anything, defend himself, or retort and fight back like you thought he would. Yet, his lack of words made you second guess your revelations, shame soon filling your body when you realized how much of yourself you’d given a man who no longer cared to understand, who was so far gone your words meant nothing, just like the men he killed in cold-blood—a menace and an obstacle.

“Let’s go,” was all that he replied with after some time, avoiding glancing at you before grabbing your waist carefully to sit you behind the saddle, stomping one last time at the dying fire before sitting before you, no doubt noticing how your hands ghosted around his waist as if touching him alone was a vile and horrid thought.

—

You couldn’t help but ponder over what transpired this morning, all too aware it had to be spoken about sooner or later, but you wished he’d tell you more, explain why he’d acted the way he did and why he’d changed so much even though the words might’ve been said in anger. Yet, perhaps, that is a ridiculous exception, for who can say why they’d change if they even stopped enough to notice they did?  Still, you realized what he had to say might not be what you wanted to hear, and the thought didn’t fail to make your heart sink.

It’s terrible what time can do to one person, but you could not understand how it could wound its way into Arthur so firmly, as if not considering his past self that had been so different from who was before you now. Perhaps being young and in love had made you fail to realize that maybe the man he was now is only an older version of who he’d been then and that he’d only shown the sides he felt deemed to you. Why, you wondered. Had it been shame or fear, knowing very well the cruel place you came from, not wanting to admit that he was a criminal—that he did exactly what every other man would do when following another blindly?

Bringing yourself out of your thoughts, you observed that day had once more turned into night, the familiar setting sun casting its warm gaze over the landscape as the horse huffed underneath you in exhaustion from running all day—tired from the lack of rest and the growing tension that was heavy between its riders. 

Rising your gaze to look at his back for the first time since you set off, you let the follow along the chestnut tone of his hair, trailing over his tense back, eyes focusing on the various scratches and stains on his clothing, the blood that had been rubbed so many times it had turned into a lighter shade, yet the slight pinkness still resided, marking him unknowingly, as if his clothing represented his being. 

It was so unfair, you concluded, yet you felt angry at him, furious at yourself and the world for being unpredictable, for never making anything easy, and more so for laying trouble over minds that from the start were pure, a blank canvas now to be trifled with. But there was also a tinge of sadness over the people you had turned out to be and grieving over the man you seemed to have lost behind smokes of black and anguish.

The pit of darkness that now filled you turned into thunder, and as the rain began to pour, the cold drops doing nothing to wash away the hollowness you felt, you failed to hear the hooves that could be heard from a distance. Arthur, though, had sensed them for some time now, trying to make his abrupt, faster pace less noticeable, hoping to gain some distance before you could see their dark figures form behind you.

Unfortunately, they only gained on you with every minute that passed, reaching out for you with their slinky arms and wild gazes, bullets vibrating in the metal, begging to be released so they could bury themselves into your flesh. Yet, it was hard for them to see, the heavy downpour blurring their vision of you, the fading sun offering them no help, and the galloping of their horses dizzied their sight.

A gasp left you as the horse suddenly stopped abruptly, the reigns held tightly as it skidded across the slippery ground. You didn’t get the chance to be surprised, hastily brought down to the ground, Arthur’s hands almost lifting you with the way he pushed you as you clumsily glided across the ground, grasping onto his arms to find stability as you walked up the small stairs that appeared on front of you.

A small porch, desolated and lonely, spread out around you; from the hasty look you could get, the windows seemed dark and lifeless—not a single light shining through them. The two-story structure seemed to stand on the outskirts of a forgotten, overgrown field, its once-white paint nor a peeling, weather-beaten gray where ivy and wild vines clung to the sides, creeping through the cracks in the wooden boards. The roof sagged precariously, shingles missing in place, revealing patches of rotting wood underneath.

“Shit!” You could hear Arthur shout as the loud weather dampened his voice, grasping the handle as it refused to open. 

“What’s going on, Arthur?!” you said loudly so he could hear you, but you got no answer to your question. He pushed you to the side with one motion, trashing his shoulder into the door, and rusty hinges groaned in protest; the flimsy wood bent slightly before he bolted against it again. With this attempt, he opened it, and it smashed against the wall; the smell of something musty reached your nose as it escaped the house, contrasting heavily with the freshness of the rain. 

“Get inside!” he shouted, and as you hurried inside, you heard the door slam shut. Your back pressed against the wall beside it, and Arthur stood before you, peeking out carefully from the window beside it.

It grew quiet the minute you stepped inside, the rain reduced to a slight humming as it splattered against the one-story house that seemed long abandoned, the faint smell of mold and neglect traveling through the air–the stale, dry air left a metallic tang in your mouth, the taste of dust was ever-present, gritty and unpleasant, seemingly coating your tongue and throat with each short, terrified breath you took.

“Arthur,” you whispered, craning your neck so you could gaze up at him where he leaned against the window, his eyes scanning the storm outside as his hands squeezed your arms gently but firmly.

“I gotta hide you,” he said, his voice low, his throat straining around the words when he finally looked into your eyes.

He pulled you from the wall, leading you deeper into the cabin. The floorboards creaked underfoot, threatening to give away with each step you took. Moving through the tiny parlor, past the broken chairs and sagging sofa, you moved into the kitchen where the cabinets hung open, their contents long since scavenged or rotted away. 

As you gazed back, you found Arthurs’s eyes darting around the place, searching for a place where you would be hidden from the gruesome and horrible event that would soon take place in this already damned building. A small pantry, its doors hanging loosely on its hinges, seemed to be the only hiding place he deemed approvable.

“In here,” he said, guiding you towards it. 

“Why?” you asked, hesitating to enter the small space.

“They caught up to us,” he murmured, watching your hand grasp his shirt. “Jesse’s men.”

“What about you?” you asked, voice barely above a whisper.

“I’ll be fine,” Arthur replied, momentarily passing his hand over yours. “I’ll handle them, just please-” he trailed off, grasping your cheeks between your hands so you would focus entirely on his and his words. “Please don’t come out until I tell you.”

A few moments passed before you tentatively nodded, feeling his hands leave you so you could squeeze into the pantry. The small space was barely big enough to hold you as the doors were closed gently, slightly ajar so you could breathe through the thick, consuming air.

A few moments passed, your eyes wide in the darkness as you took in his words. It surprised you there were still so many, remembering the night in Blackwater where it seemed like bodies littered every corner of the streets when you passed them, lifeless and now soulless. How many, you wondered, were outside now, and how had you not managed to feel their presence before, to catch sight of them behind you, yet Arthur could without a glance?

As the first sign could be heard, you held your breath, the beating of your heart almost audible in the small space as it fought against your chest, your hands covering it as if it would give away your position. That was when the door burst open, and you could only clamp a hand over your mouth to stifle a gasp that escaped against your will, listening tentatively at every noise that could reach you.

You could only make out Arthur’s voice, low and steady, even though you couldn’t make out the words that left him, almost wanting to cover your ears as if it would help against the terror you knew would soon erupt, praying-no begging Arthur would be alright, that you wouldn’t have to be dragged away from there a weeping mess as Arthur lifeless eyes stared into your own, bullets imbedded in his flesh as you awaited your fate.

The sound of struggle filtered through the storm—the clatter of boots, shouts of men that boomed through the cabin, and the crackle of gunfire. Each noise made you cringe, squeezing your eyes shut as you tried to block out the terrifying reality, hands shooting up to cover your ears as the loud sounds lessened; instead, the more vile noise of flesh hitting flesh ensued, the noise bones made when broked and the bloodily smack of skin against skin. 

It ensued for a while, the disgusting sound of grunting and groaning making you remember the many times you had to hide your smaller self and only listen. Listen till the danger was over, examining every sound that could be heard to tell if you’d be alright stepping out or whether it would lead to your death—which had most of the time been the biggest possibility. You felt like you had traveled back in time, with not an ounce more courage than you had lacked back then, quivering like a fool while others fought like madmen around you, wishing you could be somewhere else—for someone to swoop down and save you like in some sad fairytale.

Minutes felt like hours as you waited, heart pounding in your ears as you didn’t dare to peek out from the cracks. Then, amidst the chaos, you heard a voice—Arthur’s voice, calling your name as you heard him breathing heavily, your name strained as he spoke. A sense of relief coursed through you, now knowing he was alright, yet you still lingered for a second, hand hesitating at the door as you feared what sight you’d be presented with. Yet, as you pushed it open, you stepped into the cabin again, taking small steps leading further into the house, trailing over the dark red liquid as you closed your eyes at the bodies it came from.

“They won’t hurt you no more,” Arthur murmured. 

He stood there, hands at his side, his eyes as blood-filled as his hands, the red liquid dripping onto the wooden planks, staining them til they flowed beneath the cracks. Fitting to yours, you could only gasp, taking a step back as you were filled with dread over what he just did, the brutality of his actions, and the lives that now lay devoid of it around you. There had been too much death over the last few days, and although it was either their life or yours, you couldn’t help but detest the constant smell of the deceased resting just under the tip of your nose. 

You gazed over the chaos; the broken glass shattered on the floor, blinding you when the sun was reflected on their surface. The white porcelain was stained red, and the walls had been painted the same color. You felt his eyes stay on you, unmoving and seemingly not bothered by the brutality he just possessed—always had possessed—but not making any attempt to move, as if he was waiting for you to make the first move, speak the first word. 

He looked tense where he stood, and despite his horrible deeds, he looked at you as if he searched for your acceptance, as if trying to convey that he did this for you, that he dirtied his hands only to keep you safe, just like he’d always done. And, as you stared at him, you could almost see his hand flex slightly, as if it wanted to reach out to you, yet was held back, rooting him to the spot.

It might surprise him what you would do next, as the first tentative step towards him—although riddled with a faint fright and shaking hands—never wavered, carefully stepping over the bodies in your way until you stood in front of Arthur, ignoring their deathly, vengeful eyes that almost followed you, rolling into the back of their heads when you went out of sight. 

His hands were still shut tight, knuckles white against the suntanned skin that flexed slightly when your fingers ran over them, bringing them higher as you felt the callousness that bruised his hands. They contrasted so heavily with your own, soft against hard, the veins beneath his skin protruding til the blue shades created valleys, irritated and angry. The warmth of your touch contrasted starkly with the cold reality of his actions, a shiver running down your spine when the blood on his hands painted your untouched skin. Arthur didn’t attempt to push away from your touch but stood like a statue, eyes cautious when you brought his knuckles to your lips, closing your eyes as you ghosted over them.

Every breath you took was heavy; each inhale difficult to make as his gaze remained locked onto yours. The bluish shade grew molten on the edges, warming up the coldness of the otherwise sharp hues, staring into yours like he was waiting for something or perhaps fearing something. It made the ache in your heart settle daftly, staring into the eyes you could now recognize from the ones you had known many years ago, see the man you hadn’t been able to remember till now rightfully.

You pulled away slightly when you realized that man wasn’t standing before you but a figment of him, perhaps a vivid remembrance yet not reality. Your fingers lingered on his skin, though, as if afraid to let go, afraid you might’ve lost him as you’d done before even though he wasn’t whole—the pieces of him scattered wherever he went, falling away like fragments with every step.

Brutally and cold, the devil resided in his eyes, each glance laden with sin and searing pain that engulfed like wildfire, encircling and trapping in its flickering, scorching embrace. It was a warmth that turned cold, caressing with its chilling touch, raising the hairs on your skin in protest—an unwelcome sensation that one dared not wish for. Yet, amidst this, your heart beats heavily–not in fear, but in yearning for his touch to linger.

How could your heart betray you so? How could it stray so far from reason, captivated by a man who made you unable to tell between reason and desire? Traitorously, it thudded heavily within, not out of fear but wishfully. It created an ache that settled so deep in your bones it hurt, a pain born of longing—a desire that scorched like a fever. Every instinct screamed for you to flee, to turn away against your now abandonment of all sense and sensibility—to run far away from the life he reminded you of, a life you’d so desperately feared.

You were caught between shame and confusion as if he could sense your pulse racing against the barriers of cotton and leather. Did he notice your heart’s betrayal and the quivering of your lips as your shaking breath rose like wisps of smoke in the cold air? Maybe he did, for as you closed your eyes, unable to handle the downpour of emotions coursing through you, you suddenly felt his breath against your lips as his presence enveloped you, casting a shadow over the world when he drew closer. Your breath caught in your throat as your eyes opened in protest; the space between you dwindled, narrowing to nothingness until you could feel the heat of his breath mingling with your own. 

His eyes burned like smoldering coal, holding you captive as every voice in your head told you to run, hit, scream–anything to get away from him—only to silence when his lips brushed against yours in a feather-light caress. It was far away and fleeting, the small touch of skin almost ghostly as they moved over your trembling lips. His breath was warm, so warm it made heat crawl up your neck, spreading slowly throughout your body.

His careful touch made you wonder when the world turned him so cold. To carry the burns of his soul, hideous and bare, with not a single kindness seemingly left inside him. Was he ashamed of his skin, which wrapped so harshly around his bones, scarred yet strong–cold but fond? Was it right for you to fear the hands that once fell so delicately on your skin, porcelain never having been touched as carefully as he had touched you? There were days you now could remember so clearly, the warm look in his eyes as they caressed over your skin, the naivety and desperation that shone so bright within them—a want so fundamental it made you wonder if it was even possible. 

The years had passed now, and you were both older and saner, but through the shades of blue in his eyes that were covered with darkness that rested like a veil over them, you thought you could still see the same man you had once known, and as his lips met yours firmer if felt like the past washed over you again. And it was good, so good you felt your knees almost give out, stumbling backward slightly but finding yourself not falling heedlessly towards the ground. Instead, the pressure of standing on the ground disappeared as your felt fingers worm their way under your thigh, lifting you in the air. 

Softly, your back met the planks that creaked audibly when Arthur pushed you against them, the material groaning and protesting when he leaned more of his weight against you as if the pressure was too much to bear. You were trapped in his embrace that spoke only of desperation—desperation so raw you wondered if it spread from his skin to yours like a disease, if it traveled through your body, infecting everything it passed in its way.

A certain rigidness could be felt in the hands that held you, their grip tight yet unmoving as if he battled against letting them touch any other part of you. They were there, yet somehow unwilling, like he needed to touch you but couldn’t bring himself to go any further. Perhaps, you thought, he shouldn’t. Maybe it would be best to end it here, not to get any more pain that would surely hurt more than do good. Yet you missed him, missed Arthur so much it felt like a part of you had returned when he was this close as if you could imagine him being who he once was. 

You chastised yourself for it when his lips caressed you softly, letting them push further against yours. The distant sound of chattering and calls beckoned you from afar, the clanking of pots loud in your ears as he had you pushed up against a tree, far and hidden from curious eyes, all your senses focused on him. It had been so simple then, such a warm, inviting touch, the feeling differing strongly against the violence and pain that had followed you until you met Arthur. It was the only reason you’d stayed with him for as long as you had, for never had hands handled you so carefully, so tender; never before had you stared into a pair of eyes that, without a blink, promised to keep you safe and sane.

It felt different yet the same; for now, those feelings mingled together, the brutality shining so strongly within him. Yet, his hands were so gentle, his means to keep you and cradle you in his arms til no one else could touch you so palpable it made every fear you had for him dissipate with the wind that flew through the cracks in the wall. It felt like you held a giant in your grasp, a lost soul seeking the goodness of his past, wishing to erase the bad and expel the vile, monstrous thoughts that he’d been forced upon—expectations he grew up with. How could you possibly blame him? How unfair was it for you to tell him he was wrong, that he acted wrongfully?

Your hands shook as you brought them up to his cheeks, claiming< them in your grasp, feeling him sigh when your fingertips ghosted over him as if the feeling alone chilled his blazing—scorching—skin. Following that means of human nature, his hands that kept you lifted from the ground raised one, caressed its way over the swell of your hips, letting it feel the warm flesh emitting from under your clothes until it followed the path of your sides til it found the valley which where your waist sunk in, letting fingers grip under the harsh bones of your ribs.

A gasp left you, lips parting as if to speak but only inhaling his warm breath, pushing your head away, yet your grasp on his cheeks making him follow you—ordering him to chase the pink, swollen skin that begged for the sensation of more—demanded it. You realized soon that you didn’t have to, his imposing frame pressing you further into the wall, no longer needing to hold you by the tight to keep you from the ground as his lips sensually now found yours again, a deep, dark rumbling—like thunder brewing—could be heard deep into his chest.

It was sickening, the air thick and pasty, like breathing into sourdough bread, the swelling yeast filling all spaces around you, making it difficult to breathe. When you needed air too much, begged for the oxygen yet displeased with the thought of parting with Arthur, he pulled his head away slightly, eyes opening to gaze at your closed eyes, the warm tint of red rising from your chest to your cheeks.

 Opening them, you’d only be given a moment to stare upon his face until he leaned in again, his lips finding their way to the dip of your collarbone, rising to cover the space where your shoulders dipped up to the slope of your neck. Inhaling, exhaling, he breathed in the dizzying warmth of your neck, groaning when he let his tongue taste the humid skin that was scorching under his wet, slippery touch. 

So divine, yet so dangerous to touch what wasn’t his anymore, what couldn’t be his—but he couldn’t deny he longed for you, couldn’t deny that your smell alone awakened the man he had been, your hands reaching out to him like the gates of heaven shining with its door wide open. A cruel joke was what it was, but he had no want to dispel it, to turn it away. It taunted him, laughed at him, giving him a fair bit of pleasure so the rest of his living days would turn to torture, a small taste of what he could’ve had before dooming him to an eternal defeat—dooming him to live the rest of his days a hollow shell.

Your hands found the back of his head, fingers threading through the strips of hair that felt like velvet under your skin. You couldn’t help but push on the back of his scalp to bring him even closer, dismayed when you realized he was as close as he could be, fingers gripping his hair so tight you feared you would leave tufts of it when you released your grip. You only got a hum of satisfaction in return, the feeling of a wet muscle traveling down your collarbones til they ghosted over the swell of your breasts carefully, like waiting on a signal before they could devour, let their touch consume you.

“Arthur,” you mumbled, lost in what was wholly him, the very fibre of your being begging for him never to stop, wishing he’d never done all those years ago.

You only got a low, appreciating groan in return, only gained the feeling of cold air hitting your legs as he snaked his hands under your skirt, hitching it up as he let them run over the bare skin like a starved man, not even an inch of you left untouched. The wind’s chill lessened when his rough, warm hands caressed you, soothing your aching, quivering legs. Almost, it seemed, he mended every bruise and hurt, internally or externally, replacing them with something that felt so divine you were nearly sure you were dreaming when he returned to your lips, his once guarded eyes bare before you.

He took a few steps back, letting your feet hit the floor as you followed him. You did not let him back away further as you walked with him, rising on your toes and writhing your arms around his neck. You were now the one to cage him in—cage him with your want and desire, your love and hope. It would be a terrible defeat if he stepped away from you, and your stomach twisted at the thought, the familiar pang of sadness only love could create.

“Don’t go,” you whispered, feeling his arms wound around your waist as he stumbled backward, his tall frame big and clumsy in the tiny house. He frantically ran his hands over you before hoisting you up again, seating you on the dark wooden table in the kitchen’s front of the sink. Your mind had grown clouded, his whole being morphing into the man that had once caressed you so gently—and when he did now, it made you dizzy, wondering if they were so unlike as you thought.

“I won’t,” he mumbled against your lips, the words hasty and muted when he didn’t want to waste a second of feeling you against him.

“I won’t,” he spoke once more, this time the words only coming out in nonsensical grumbling as he pushed you softly towards the poorly sawed planks after pushing the various knickknacks of it, plates falling audibly to the floor to join the rest of the mess, burying his face into the nape of your neck to once more take a final breath before standing up.

The mess around you turned vile and filthy compared to the wondrous look on your face as you watched him, the familiar pang of pleasure beating so heavily in his stomach he thought he might puke—coupled with the still warm, wet blood now lining the skin of your legs from his hands. A few moments passed where he stared at you, ignoring your hands that reached out to him as the horrid monster clad in black garments and poisonous fingers got to him first, digging its claws into his back, wrapping its fabric over his mouth till he felt himself suffocating. 

It wasn’t until he felt nimble fingers ghosting over his hands, running along the inside of his wrist until they intertwined with his, that the small, supple kisses on his cheeks became his saving grace. Diminished the cruel and twisted devil that rested on his back, all he could think about was the gentleness of your hands, gazing to watch your furrowed eyes filled with understanding—yet a gracious knowledge at that.

“I know you, Arthur,” you whispered, laying your head on his chest. Listening to his wildly beating heart, you found comfort in his erratic breathing.

“No,” he mumbled, resting his head on top of yours. His arms were slack on his sides as your hands passed over the broadness of his back. You gripped the dark leather of his haunches as you slid them down his arms, letting them hang in the stuffy, thick air. “Not anymore, you don’t.”

“Well, you’re still as stubborn as you used to be,” you said softly, the corners of your mouth rising slightly when a grumble left him, acting like you couldn’t feel his slight smile against your head. “Still as warm as you were then,” you mumbled, hands slowly running over his arms that flexed slightly at your touch, mouth opening slightly as they came to rest on the table, trapping you beneath them. “Still as strong,” you gasped when he leaned over you, pressing his weight into you.

He closed his eyes as you spoke, basking in your quiet, warm tone, which he missed hearing. “That don’t matter anymore,” he said, feeling you snake your arms around his neck, arching your body against his, as one of his hands naturally found sanction on your waist. “What I’ve done—” he trailed off. “What I am, it’s not something I can run from.”

You felt your brows furrow, grief finding you at his words that rang so melancholy into the quiet air, the heaviness of his voice alone ripping the tapestry and breaking the windows. As you were about to tell him he was wrong—that although his actions had been so blood-filled and vile, you knew who he was deep down, for you had seen it, seen it in his eyes when he looked at you, seen it in the way he still cared about you—he instead laid you back down on the table carefully, covering you with his body as he hitched your legs around his waist.

Your breath hitched when you felt the rigidness rest against your warmth, feeling it lay heavily under the fabric of his pants. “Yes, you can,” you gasped, hands finding his shirt as you searched for something to hold onto, wishing it away so you could see the skin underneath it and feel it against your own. 

You didn’t gain an answer, only the tugging of your undergarments, the chill from being bare cold against your skin, yet Arthur’s hands warming them straight back up when he tenderly caressed your inner thighs, stabilizing their trembling although never letting his palms stray too far, ignoring the way your legs tightened around him, trying to chase his touch as they attempted to chase his touch but finding his hips pressing into yours further, leaving you no place to go but stay in place.

The motion made a groan, quiet and unprepared, leave him, yet you had heard him. As your hands wound their way beneath his shirt to palm over the broadness of his chest, hips moving against him with the bit of space you had in protest, you looked up to find his gaze planted on you, head raised. Yet, eyes looking down at you, like he was trying to hold himself away, failing to escape from the softness of your touch. 

He was too deep into it now. He felt the restraints that once were so tight around him lessen as he kept staring into your eyes, those deep and fascinating eyes that he didn’t deserve—that no one would ever get the chance to deserve. It was selfish for him to continue, but he wished to feel you one more time so he could restore his memory of you until he turned viler, meaner, the black poison coiling around his heart til he faced its death wrapped up in its grasp.

So, he found himself leaning into you once more, focusing on your hands that now had seen the planes of his back, his muscles flexing involuntarily as you did, his hand hitching your dress up further, letting it go past the delicious curve of your waist, groaning internally when he realized he couldn’t rise it further. So, he let his head rest between your breasts, pulled out from the tightness of the fabric, letting his tongue run over the warm skin. 

You felt the arms of your dress hastily go over your shoulders down your arms, breath hitching when you felt his mouth able to travel lower until it caressed the inside of your breast, his rough stubble like sandpaper against the sensitive flesh. It was addictive, his whole persona making you desperately cling to every bit of him you could manage, grasping wildly as if he was made from thin air, trying to find something that would turn him back into a solid form, something you could touch. 

The slight feeling of him grinding into you made you clasp harder. Your hands found his biceps as the back of your head hit harshly against the table, and your hips wound tighter against his waist. The roof above you blended, the colors of brown and ashen blond mingling as the morning sun shone through the windows, the tendrils of the light casting the room in a way that almost looked ethereal—too good to be true.

And it was, the whole moment was, and you memorized the touch of his hands and traveling mouth, imprinting it in your mind so you could remember it forever. It still, despite his words, felt like he would somehow dissipate, and it turned into your worst nightmare, like the last pages of a book that would send you reeling, biting at the corners in despair and slamming yourself against the wall in anger. It was pitiful, the way you were brought to your knees in front of the man you had not nearly long ago feared—more so wondering if you feared his actuality or feared how long a time had passed, how time changed and ruled people's character, how you didn’t know him anymore.

Or perhaps you feared the way you knew it had been doomed from the start, always known, the very first day he had planted his brisk, blue eyes on you, full of life yet the underlying promise of something that could only be transcribed into pain—of hurt and blame. Perhaps you were afraid of knowing that it didn’t matter how often you’d come upon one another; it would always end the same way, for you were both too broken by the life you laid upon you. The chance of redemption was maybe possible once when you were younger, but you feared that it was lost. And, while Arthur reminded you of a past you’d rather lay behind you, prayed and prayed through years of peril and hurt, wished you could run from it, you perhaps had reminded him of what he’d once had and what he could never deserve to have again.

As Arthur lifted his head, you could see in his eyes that he knew, knew there might not be a time when you could live out your life together, for he too was aware that it might be too late, that the world's grip on the both of you was too firm. Yet you both ignored it, entangled with one another as your limbs melted into the others, your motions becoming erratic and desperate, wishing—no, seeking desperately to bring the other back to life, back to what you once had been. 

“Please, Arthur.” Clawing and almost beating his chest in desperation, the tension so ripe it felt like you might combust, you begged him to let his skin lay upon yours, bare and exposed, as close to each other as was humanly possible. It felt like a border, keeping you apart in a pitiful, almost laughable way. 

“I know, honey,” he murmured, his voice steady, yet the beating of his heart speaking more than his tone ever could. “I know.”

Rising from you for the slightest of seconds, he hoisted his pants down his hips and over his thighs, dark, desirous eyes never taking their gaze off you where you lay breathless on the table that, compared to you, looked like rotting wood. He damned himself for letting you lay upon such misery, to unveil you in such an appalling space that now reeked of death and foulness.

When your hands reached out to him, he let them bring him back down, watching the way your eyes fluttered when he graced upon your pulsating warmth, his own eyes closing for a second before opening again, looking away so he could regain his senses, regain his clouded vision that only flashed with pictures of you beneath him, as if you had surrounded him. That is, only for a short while, not taking long before he had to—needed to— return to you once more, to slip through the warmth of your walls that wrapped around him, the palm of his hands slamming down the table as you clenched around him, the sheer bliss that left your throat burning like embers inside of him.

There was no outlet for him, nowhere to go, so he hitched you further up the table, pressing into you so he could feel you closer. The feeling of your hands in his hair was nauseating, the taste of your skin intoxicating as he kissed the corner of your neck, burying his head into it as he felt your strands tickle his cheek. Slowly pushing out to then enter you once more, he grew greedy, not wanting to spend even the slightest of time away from you.

It was tender the way he moved—careful—and you could only follow his movements as he stayed on top of you, the strokes desperate and short. The small moans that left you rose into the quiet house, your breathing hitching with every thrust of his, almost feeling like the air was being punched out from your chest as you slid further up the table. Arms wound themselves under your shoulders, one hand grasping the back of your head to keep you in place—to avoid letting your head hit the hard surface.

It wasn’t enough; how could it ever be enough? Wrapping your arms around his neck, you gasped audibly when his hips moved faster, now almost grinding into you, his breath shallow and erratic, white knuckles grasping on the end of the table, as if he was controlling himself, unsure what to do with the pleasure that was riding through his body, bleeding into his very bones.

“Come here,” he murmured, gently lifting you so you were seated upon the edge of the table, looking up to meet his eyes. Continuing his tender thrusts, your lips sought him, finding his eyes not closing but planted on you, eyes lidded and chest red from exhaust. A sheen of sweat dripped slowly down his neck to his chest, disappearing through the unbuttoned shirt, the material sticking to his skin like glue. 

Pushing your hips further against his, he groaned, resting his head atop of yours when you placed mindless kisses on his exposed skin, mumbling nonsense as he hugged you closer, his breath hot and ragged. Every movement sent a jolt of pleasure through you, sharply white and burning red, coiling tighter and increasingly tighter within you. The sound of your mingled breaths filled the room, and you could feel his muscles tensing beneath your touch, almost seeming to tremble.

You whispered his name, a plea and a promise all at once, and he responded with a low rumble that resonated deep within his chest—a guttural groan escaping his lips as he pushed deeper, the table beneath you creaking with the force of his movements. The room seemed to fade away, leaving only the two of you, just like you were before, just like you once had been—Arthur guiding your movements as if he was determined to merge his body with yours. 

His arms tightened around you when you straighten your back to reach his lips, capturing them in a kiss that left you more breathless than you had already been as his pace quickened. The friction, heat, and sheer desperation were too much to bear, yet you craved more. His eyes were wild, almost desperate, as he responded to your plea, every thrust, every gasp, every whisper filling up inside you as you begged to god it would never end, hoping and demanding that nothing would take it away from you.

Yet, you knew it wouldn’t last, and therefore, you felt the tears burn at your eyelids, the hot liquid falling slowly down your cheeks as you found your back pushed against the surface of the table once more, Arthur’s hand softly wiping away the tear that fell from your eyes as despair filled his own.

“Don’t cry,” he mumbled, a low groan leaving him when you tightened around him, unable to ignore the way you sucked him back in. “I can’t-” He ground his teeth when the familiar coil spread through his stomach, wrapping itself around every organ and bone. “Please, honey, I don’t want you to cry.”

“I miss you,” you gasped under your breath, words choked up as you focused on the way he dragged himself in and out of you, feeling like someone was twisting your guts inside your stomach when you thought once more about him disappearing from you hold like ash, only leaving faint memories before blowing away with the wind. “God, I missed you, Arthur.”

He struggled to catch his breath, his hand finding your thigh as he pushed it further up the table, the new angle making your breath hitch. “I know,” he groaned. “God, I know-”

Was it all a dream, he wondered, would fade away from him as his evil deeds caught up to him, for once letting karma do its part? Would you vanish right before him, leaving him to face the consequences of his actions alone? He only held you closer as the thoughts passed, keeping you tight in his embrace as his elbows encased your head. Capturing your lips on his own, his eyes shut tightly as he tried to memorize the feel of you—the warmth of your breath, the softness of your lips, the way your body moulded against his. 

The time seemed to stand still, yet it passed too fast, the coil wrung so tight it felt like your stomach would combust, pleasure so raw filling you it felt more like torture than anything else, and as you felt his hips ground themselves into you, one hand stroking so tenderly over your brest it felt like shots of electricity zapped its way through your body, you thought yourself tightening around him, gasping for air.

“You’re alright,” he murmured against your lips, consoling you as your moans left you without your allowance, desperate and bordering on pitiful as your whole body felt like it was burning up—like the very flesh was set afire with gasoline. 

“Please, Arthur,” you gasped, not knowing what you were pleading with him for, yet the words left you involuntarily. Perhaps you wished for him to remove the hollow feeling that resided deep within you, to soothe the pain that never seemed to go. Or, possibly, it was deeper than that as you pleaded for him to return to you, to show that he was the man you’d remembered.

“That’s it,” he cooed at you, kissing your forehead softly as you clenched around him. Your hands found his shoulder as they gripped tightly, head knocked back against the table as a long, drawn-out moan left you. Staring up at the ceiling as the world grew dizzy around you, the bliss that traveled through your body was like no other. 

His movements didn’t slow as you relaxed slightly on the table, now running your hands over his skin soothingly, gazing into his eyes as he groaned audibly, chest heaving heavily as he frowningly stared into yours, observing you like you held something he couldn’t have that he strived for, pushing and pulling you closer to him.

Lost in pleasure, it felt like he was gasping for air, the sound of his skin slapping against yours echoing through the now quiet house, only the splatter of rain still audible from outside, yet his ears were focused on something else entirely as you whispered his name, beckoning him to your as your eyes were tired yet warm in the afterglow, looking like something not quite real—more or less surreal—or perhaps ethereal.

With one final thrust, he buried his head in the nape of your neck, hands grasping the edges of the bale as he grimaced, taking a few seconds before letting a guttural groan leave his chest and travel through his throat, muted into your skin as he gritted his teeth. Pulses of pleasure wound themselves through him in intervals, the warm, wet feeling of your walls encasing him, wrapping around him wholly as he, with one last movement, buried himself deep, so deep there was no way out—and god, he thought as his breathing stayed hectic, god how he wished there wasn’t.

Especially when he rested against you, trying to catch his breath, revelling in how you hugged his head closer to you, pressing small, quiet kisses against his jaw as if you tried not to disturb him, letting him regain his senses. Letting a hand travel down your sides, he caressed your skin, feeling the softness underneath it as it went further down to then rise back up again, finding pleasure in the way your breath hitched from the sensitivity as he passed a thumb over your breast. 

You didn’t speak much, for there was so much you wanted to say that it became overwhelming, leading to you saying nothing. How could you, when you weren’t even sure how to describe your emotions, which seemed still but then everywhere at the same time, running through your mind endlessly with no sense of direction or heading? Where could you go from here that would satisfy you both and let you stay with one another despite your differences? 

You wished you could drag answers out of Arthur, torture his mind and soul until he had no choice but to respond, yet you doubted he could even know what to tell you, for he wasn’t sure, and you could see it in his eyes, feel it in his touch that contradicted his mind starkly. Every motion and caress was soft yet reluctant, and you could hear the slight sway in his voice when he spoke to you as if he battled against his will and obligations. It tore you apart to realize he struggled against himself, struggled against his beliefs and wants.

You realized that whichever hands managed to strangle your relationship before would surely do it again. To be quite honest, it did scare you, more than you dared to admit, for you knew you were two different people now, and when your bond wasn’t strong enough all those years back, how could it be now that you both had your inner anguish that clawed itself inside your walls, thrashing and screaming. More so, changing for someone else is a terrifying thought per se, and there was no mistake in thinking that would be the case for both of you. A cruel, horrendous fate, indeed.

[showtoonzfan]

Now that the episode is out officially, here’s my rant review of Oops!

PROS:

- Fizz and Ozzie were adorable and I honestly love them. Despite the sex jokes, you can tell they love each other for who they are OUTSIDE of sex. While I did wish we would have seen more, (like how Ozzie took him in and fell in love) they’re still adorable to watch. They’re the better version of Stolitz, can the show be about them instead?

- Brandon’s voice acting holy shit, he really knows how to sound like he’s in tears or is broken. As much as I hate the character and feel no sympathy, he displayed genuine and broken emotion very well.

- Alex Brightman Alex Brightman

Okay that’s it. Moving on to the Cons. Bear with me, it’s a lot and I go back and forth a bit. 😭

CONS:

So for a quick short summary, this episode:

- Once again puts more focus on the filler plot rather than actually focusing on the relationships between the characters, so all we're left with is a 10 second clip of Fizz being burned while the rest of the episode is surrounded on sex jokes/petty bickering and Stolas and Ozzie sitting around.

- Completely erases what made Blitz and Fizz's dynamic interesting in the first place because it retcons it with a dumb miscommunication trope about how Fizz actually wanted to see Blitz and Blitz tried reaching out to him. Not only does this feel like a cheap attempt to make Blitz out to be sweet/sympathetic and NOT the one in the wrong so Fizz can suck up to him, but this also makes no sense within the narrative.

- Has Fizz forgive Blitz despite him being the last person anyone would think would forgive him. (So honestly ruins Fizz himself because it turned him into a soft boy who's forgiving compared to the asshole he was in Ozzie's) All because Viv would sell her whole soul before she even remotely considers painting characters like Blitz and Stolas out to be the one's in the wrong.

- Takes Stolas out of the hospital completely, erasing all the drama/tension Western Energy had and proves that that episode was utterly pointless.

- Turns Striker from an interesting complex villain to a Saturday morning cartoon goon.

- Proves to us that Crimson is just a flat tool and gives us more prove that the world building rules Viv set up in season 1 legit don't matter.

-Ruins Blitz/Barbie's feud now because now you're making Barbie look like the one in the wrong since the fire was an accident. God forbid a female characters emotions in this show are justified.

But if you want my more in depth rants, it’s under the cut! (There’s a lot so bear with me lol)

- As usual WAAY too many sex jokes and swearing. It gets annoying and repetitive at times and some of them distract from the main plot. There’s a long and I mean LONNG dragged out joke of Fizz talking about Ozzie’s dick, then later saying he’s hard when Striker has a gun to his head, as well as Blitz making a joke about him and Fizz making out once they hug. Again, Viv can’t be serious for 2 seconds without an unfunny shitty gag. I genuinely wonder if Hazbin is ganna be like this, where a character is in a life threatening situation or a deep dark serious scene happens only for the next scene to be sex related.

- This is one of those “shit happens because the plot demands it” and it shows. Crimson and Striker COINCIDENTLY meet up with each other, and Fizz and Blitz just so HAPPEN to be in the same exact area they are. Viv wonders why we call her shit a fanfic and this is what we mean, when she creates wild wacky plots and focuses more on THAT rather than the actual character writing. This entire episode hinges on a useless poorly last minute planned kidnapping plot that didn’t need to happen. Also way to once again make the characters idiots so the plot can happen, cause Fizz KNOWS Ozzie worries for him and that the Greed Ring is dangerous, yet purposefully puts the spotlight on him.

- Stolas did NOT need to be in this episode. The plot completely ignores the fact that he was in the hospital the last time we saw him, and he’s only here for Stolitz banter. You’d think that a character admitting they have feelings for someone would be a big deal but he just flat out says it and it’s so underwhelming and feels half assed with no weight to it. Fan comics have made more dedication to this than Viv has. We're supposed to believe him too despite the show failing to actually SHOW us this. Same for Blitz ranting about how “nice” Stolas has been to him, laughing at his jokes and liking his posts…hey Viv, can we actually SEE that on screen so it’s more believable? Or are you only determined to show them sexually flirting? 😑

- Once again Viv felt the need to shove a B plot into this episode and this one sucks because it’s just two characters sitting and doing fucking nothing. It felt like Viv had no idea what to do with Stolas and Ozzie, and I refuse to believe that Ozzie just sat there knowing Fizz was in danger. If anything he would have said “fuck the paperwork” and went to save Fizz himself. Way to show that gif of Ozzie getting mad as a sneak peak to get fans excited, only to see that Ozzie spends the rest of the episode sitting in a dark room LMAO what a let down.

- Ozzie is weirdly chill and cool with Stolas and it’s something I don’t get. While he did say that Stolas had the real “spirit of Lust” in S1E7, it still gave you the impression that he was also more poking fun at Stolas rather than respecting him. The whole point of House of Asmodeous was that Ozzie outs him and publicly embarrassed him. Stolas literally was intimidated just by Asmodeous’s mere name, and hid his face around him. It seemed like Stolas certainly didn’t want someone like Ozzie to know about his private life especially since they’re both part of the Ars Goetia. Now here Ozzie is just cool with him and it feels like a missed opportunity for their dynamic.

- Stolas confessing his feelings about Blitz also makes…no sense narrative wise. I thought the whole point of The Circus and the ending to Western Energy was that he was realizing that Blitz didn’t like him that way and was finally waking up. I thought that’s why he was doing this whole crystal deal in the first place, so he can let Blitz go, yet the show keeps flip flopping and insisting that these two love each other and are good for each other. It’s really making you realize how this season and the previous stuff set up is becoming nonsense because the writers retcon EVERY damn episode. Also….why the hell is Stolas telling Ozzie his feelings for Blitz? Out of all people, why is it Ozzie, the person who outed Stolas and embarrassed him. Why is Stolas even respectful of Ozzie? He has no reason to, and he’s not under the impression that he’s dating Fizz either. I get that he needs the crystal but mentioning his love for Blitz makes no sense.

- Striker and Crimson teaming up to kidnap Blitz and Fizz was such an ass puller last minute decision. It feels overwhelming and underwhelming at the same time, more because it feels like Viv has no idea what to do with these two villain characters other than give them something evil to do to start the plot. Also…why…are they working together? It feels so random.

- Striker’s character especially is all over the place. First he’s working for Stella, then he’s painted as the best assassin in hell, and now he’s…looking for more work I guess and working for Crimson? Why? Does this guy even have a motive anymore? It feels like his character is just dangling around until Viv wants to use him for another wattpad kidnap plot and it ESPECIALLY shows when Striker escapes for the THIRD fucking time. Can this character/storyline actually GO somewhere or are you just going to keep introducing him and have him run away. 🤦🏽‍♀️

— How did Crimson not know who Striker is despite him being labeled as “the most popular assassin in hell”, and how the hell does Crimson know Ozzie and know all the information about him being in a relationship with Fizz?? Oh right because we needed the plot to happen somehow. Still, even if Crimson did know that Ozzie was the "weakest" and loved Fizz, (which….what about Beezlebub?)) he still should have known he was playing with fire. I get that he's supposed to be evil and intimidating but how could he have predicted that Ozzie would actually stand down and fill out the paperwork? He could have immediately came there and killed Crimson for all he knew. It's just distracting how..not planned this shit was.

- Fuck this episode for calling Striker a supremacist. It makes no sense?? Viv is trying SO hard to villainize him despite him being the one in the right and it pisses me off. He has every right to be mad at the upper class, he’s part of the lower class that we’re said Hell takes advantage of, but god forbid we call out Rich and powerful Stolas because that would mean he’s a b-bad person and we can’t have that complex morality! This is so not a “eat the rich” story and it shows bc Vivzie is rich as hell. Striker as a character deserves so much better man. Congrats writers, you had an interesting character and motive set up for him, now he’s nothing but a silly goon that you might as well kill off already cause you clearly don’t care about him. Crimson meanwhile is just a piece of paper, a boring plot device I could give less of a shit about. I thought his motive was to go after Moxxie, now he’s just doing fuck whatever because this show desperately wants a bad guy for their filler fanfic plots.

- We get more world building issues, Ozzie and Fizz are so determined to hide their relationship for obvious reasons, but then at the end of the episode just say “fuck it, no one would dare tell anyway”. So now they’re being open about their relationship and lmao I told y’all the newspaper scene of Ozzie being called out for being a hypocrite wouldn’t go anywhere. Even if Ozzie did threaten his workers to not tell, they can’t be so sure that someone wouldn’t see or snitch, it’s kinda a retcon too cause they were pretty lovey dovey in Ozzie’s. Still, it makes the characters look dumb and it makes the rules Viv set up for Hell once again not mean anything.

- We finally get to see Fizz’s backstory in action and it’s executed in the most underwhelming way possible. It’s literally a fucking 10 second clip of what went down, and rather than experiencing the event for ourselves, it’s in flashback mode but with Fizz’s voice talking over it. That’s it. I’ve seen fan comics/fanart that built this shit up better than Viv did, that actually took the slow time and dedication it needed, and here it feels like such an afterthought, like Viv could care less. Maybe if this actually was a character driven show like Viv claims, Stolas, Striker, and Crimson would be taken out of the picture and then that would leave us with PLENTY time to actually explore and develop Blitz/Fizz, bc most of this episode is just them pettily bickering and Stolas and Ozzie sitting around. But nah, we gatta have our fanfic kidnapping plot. Same goes for the reveal of Blitzo’s mom dying in the same fire. Glad to know that she got the same treatment Moxxie’s mom did, where we don’t even know her and yet we’re supposed to feel moved and care about her death. You nailed that one Viv. 👍

- I predicted that this episode would victimize Blitz and have the fire incident be an accident, (because Viv is a pussy writer and can’t make her characters actually do bad things like god forbid) but I never thought they’d actually have the balls to have Fizz forgive Blitz immediately in the same episode and pull the “actually turns out that horrible thing you did to me helped me in a way”- trope. Biggest flaw of the episode, fuck you Viv. I was actually going to applaud Blitz for taking accountability, but then the dialogue reminds you that an abuser wrote this, and he shifts his apology to “okay but I lost something too see so it’s not all about you” as if he’s fucking dismissing Fizz’s trauma and making it about himself. “I love flawed characters” my fucking ass. I would have smacked a bitch if I was Fizz because Blitzo loosing his mother in the fire too isn’t an excuse?? Fizz lost his fucking ARMS AND LEGS, and at the end of the day Blitzo STILL KNEW HE WAS HELPLESS IN THE FIRE BUT LEFT HIM BEHIND. He could have gotten help and came back, but didn’t. If this were a good show Fizz would have threw that apology back in Blitzo’s face and said “I don’t care if it was an accident or not, you still left me there and then proceeded to loathe me for years”. This is why Helluva will never be Bojack cause at least characters in that show who got treated horribly by him knew when to say “no, fuck you.”

- The episode retcons again, this time they make it out to be that Blitz TRIED contacting Fizz the years they were apart but no one would let him see him. Then they say that Fizz actually WANTED to see Blitz but assumed he didn’t want to, so their entire feud was solely because of miscommunication?? Number one, show don’t fucking tell omg. And number two, that makes ZERO sense. Blitz talked badly about Fizz in Loo Loo Land, and when they finally reunited in Ozzie’s, it was clear they fucking loathed each other. You got the impression that Blitz was petty and jealous just because Fizz was more popular, and Fizz not only loathed him for the accident, but liked to rub in his face about how much of a big shot he was. They literally do that in this episode too, so the episode is literally contradicting itself. Blitz and Fizz had multiple chances to meet up with each other, you can’t just say “oh they couldn’t because no one would let them”- So which is it? Did they hate each other because of bad blood, petty drama, or that they thought the other didn’t want to see them? Pick ONE Viv and stick to it, but she never does. Their feud was interesting and now you ruined it just to have some sweet happy ending. “Adult mature show” my ass lol.

-Bottom line is Fizz shouldn’t have forgave Blitz so easily, or forgave him period. I find it funny how he says “it’s hard to just forgive you” and then he literally does lol. I feel so bad for Fizz fans, him and Blitz’s feud was honestly interesting, so to see all of this go down in a half-assed piss poor way as if this was Care Bears is….wow. The fan interpretations had more thought and care put into this storyline but what else is new lol.

- I’m really tired of these shitty annoying songs. If you’re going to get Broadway actors, please put effort into your songwriting and actually have them sing something good, not something that’s literally nonsense. This Fizz song sounds like it took less than a minute to write and Sam Haft was just thinking of anything he could think of at the top of his head. Also Why the fuck are Striker and Crimson just STANDING there while Fizz sings. They look like idiots, just SHOOT them omg. If this were a funny show, Fizz would have started his first note and Crimson just rolls his eyes and pulls his gun out.

- Fizz and Ozzie kill the lawyer but not…Crimson? Despite Fizz knowing what ring he’s in and even Ozzie knowing what he looks like? Same for Blitz, he doesn’t try to make sure Striker is dead. I get that the plot demands for these two to still be around, but there’s a way to keep them alive without making the main characters look like fucking idiots. Also Stolas just leaves without doing or contributing anything to the plot yay.

- Fizz: “Let him have it, you could say he’s earned it”— Uhm….Nope. Blitz did NOT earn shit. He didn’t even earn Fizz’s forgiveness. Last time I checked, the moment Blitz cried and said it was an accident, Fizz forgave him, knowing he didn’t mean it. What effort did Blitz do to “earn” that as well as the crystal? Because he saved Fizz and didn’t leave him behind for the SECOND time near the end?? Cause if so than the bar is extremely low. That’s the bare minimum, just because Blitz cried and felt bad about it doesn’t mean he should be let off the hook Viv. I hate this so much, what a shitty conclusion, it feels forced just so Blitz can have the crystal and just so the writers can once again paint him as the one in the right. It’s almost insulting that they make it seem like Fizz was in the wrong for assuming Blitz starting the fire too, same for Barbie.

God what a shitty day it is to be a Fizz fan, I’m sorry. The episode did NOT do him justice. Fizzarolli deserved better than that half assed gaslighting apology for someone who lost their arms and legs man, and I’m tired of the show letting every character suck up to Blitz and Stolas for their horrible treatment just because they feel bad. Not only that but the episode (as most recent HB episodes) was a huge time waster. Everyone was really hoping for an in depth walkthrough of his character/backstory but again, when he’s not with Ozzie, the rest/most of his screen time is dedicated to him being helpless and pointlessly arguing with Blitz, plus a long dragged out nonsense song that didn’t need to happen. It felt like SO much time was wasted when we could have used the runtime we have to dive deeper and see more, like….again it would have been nice to see Fizz’s life AFTER the accident and how he became well known as well as how he fell in love with Ozzie, but his backstory is briefly scratched upon in a single scene and that’s it, all because Viv wanted this filler plot and wanted to dedicate more time to THAT rather than actual character expansion/development, something we could have got had you took out Stolas and Ozzie’s B plot and Striker and Crimson.

Viv is so on her way to murder/ruin every character that isn’t Blitz and Stolas and I won’t be here to watch further. I’ll check out the Mammon music video thing but that’s it man, this show is going off the rails, Adding Fizz to the character adoption list!

[banjjakz]

Seven Days at Granny Orimoto's Flower Shop ; Yuuta x F!Reader

My name is Okkotsu Yuuta. I am a recent graduate of a martial arts vocational school. I just completed a year-long internship abroad in Africa. Due to my recent re-entry into Japan, I am still in the process of setting up my phone and internet. I apologize for the inconvenience and I am extremely sorry for the burden. As a supervisor and business, you may benefit from the set of skills that I have to offer. I can lift upwards of 25kg. I am neat and detail oriented. Due to past life experiences, I am a fast learner and quick to adapt to new surroundings. I am accustomed to taking orders and delivering results. It is my utmost goal to ensure the comfort and satisfaction of those around me. I am eager to be of service. Please think of me kindly.

Or: An odd boy shows up every night begging for a job offer. Did you mention that he gives you handwritten letters? Do you have to report a workplace romance if the only other employee is your boss, who is currently dying? Asking for a friend.

notes: commission for the lovely mielle! thank you very kindly for 1) commissioning me!!!!!! and 2) putting up with my compulsion to surpass any and all word count specifications

warnings: general off-putting vibes, casual discussions of child death, implied stalking (at the very least), unethical(…? maybe ethically gray?) necromancy, etc. y'all know what's about to go down

♡‬ read on ao3 ‪♡‬

Life as a florist is every bit the dream that you’d hoped it would be.

The thought of working from nine to five in some cubicle for the rest of your life was enough to drive you out of university before even completing the feeble attempt you’d half-assedly made at a degree. While the path to your current state of employment had not been linear, easy, or even recommended, you cannot imagine ending up anywhere else.

You’re lucky enough as it is that Granny Orimoto was willing to take you on – perhaps, at first, out of pity – as a shop-hand. That day, all those months, is still as clear as unmarred waters in your mind. What a pitiful image you must have made: underfed, poorly clothed, with roving, vacant eyes.

Nevertheless, you adjusted quickly and gratefully to your new place of employment. Within months, your sense of self and purpose in life had been restored, watered and nurtured underneath the guiding light of Granny Orimoto’s flower shop. Like a corpse risen again, your days were once more filled with hope and aspirations.

Eventually, Granny Orimoto began bestowing upon you more and more responsibilities. You tend to think of your daily tasks as privileges more than anything else. You’ve graduated far beyond merely ringing customers up on the till – at this point, you’re somewhat of a budding horticulturalist. Or, at least, that’s what you’d like to think on your good days.

Recently, Granny Orimoto has even begun to entrust you to manage the shop on your lonesome for several days out of the week. It used to be the case that she would require you to work only hours that coincided with her own availability, so that you might fall under her constant supervision. Of course, this was back when you could barely keep a plant alive. Nowadays, things are quite different.

Quite different, indeed.

On this slow, Monday evening, managerial status finds its way to you once more. Closing the shop used to feel weird, without Granny Orimoto there to lay into you about your posture, or your clumsiness, or your naturally shy, stuttering nature. Now, it’s starting to feel eerily more and more like business as usual.

When the bell above the front door rings, you don’t think too much of it – this town is a bit of a tourist trap, so there are quite a few out-of-towners who aren’t used to respecting closing times. Usually, you’re too nice to shoo them out, but the weight of the day bears heavily upon your apron-clad shoulders.

But when you spin around on your heel, the polite-yet-firm “we closed four minutes ago” withers on your tongue like dead leaves crumbling away upon the unrepentant, earthen ground.

The most disturbing thing is not that he’s exactly your type of handsome: tall, gaunt, malnourished, with a strange, lost look in his wideset eyes. It would be easier, somehow, if your immediate and arresting attraction to the gangly stranger was the most of your worries.

Perhaps what unnerves you so, is the fact that you are powerless to do anything but devote the entirety of your attention to the odd young man. The terra cotta pot once in your grasp has suddenly been placed on the nearest shelf. The gardener’s gloves on your hands have now been stripped away and flung carelessly to the ground, the delicate flesh of your fingers on display for the world to see.

“Are you hiring?” He asks. The lights flicker. Granny Orimoto should really stop fighting you about calling an electrician – they aren’t that expensive.

No, is what you should say, because you don’t have the authority to answer this question and also the thought of having to train someone else when you are just barely getting the hang of your newfound managerial status is a terrifying prospect.

And yet, what ends up leaving your mouth is:

“Yes.”

His black hair is overgrown and in dire need of a trim. The bangs are in a liminal state: too short to part, too long for comfort. It dangles limply in his eyes. Those eyes. Big and glassy and dark, like a dead doe gazing up, unseeingly, at the sky.

“Okay,” he says. “Is there an application that I could fill out?”

Is he not cold? The weather chills significantly at night, and his layers look rather thin. Or maybe that’s just the way the clothes hang off of him. “No, it’s alright. You can just – um, you’re good.”

“I’m…?”

“You’re good,” you repeat and then you have to fight for control over your own body, so that you can turn around and break eye contact before it actually kills you.  “When can you start? Do you have a phone number? Um, so we can get in touch with you about scheduling and training and verify your location and such and so forth.”

Okay, that last sentence was hastily tacked on. You’ll be the first to admit that much. But what kind of girl would you look like, asking a random stranger for his number out of the blue?

You hear more than you see him shuffle his feet, still lingering awkwardly in the doorway. “Um, no, sorry. I don’t have a phone.”

“E-mail?”

“Ah..no…would communication via letter be alright?”

What is his problem?

He shows up, four minutes past closing, poorly dressed and clearly in poor health, as well, to inquire about a job opening, and doesn’t even have a phone or any form of contact to provide other than handwritten correspondence?

Is this a prank? Are you being pranked, right now? You pause your fastidious, frustrated handling of today’s arranged bouquets just to surreptitiously scan your surroundings for any hidden cameras.

It’s like the man of your dreams has walked through the door. It’s almost too good to be true. You know you have eclectic tastes—and this is exactly why you’ve never had a boyfriend, before.

Because what living man could possibly compare to the fictional freakshows you stay up late at night reading about? Who would be worth fawning over, when you are already well equipped with a wealth of off-putting – and, quite frankly, disturbing – characters of ill-repute? Never has there been a living, breathing vessel capable of catching your jaded, heavy eyes.

Until now, that is.

“Sure,” you say, allowing the brain-rot to take control of your faculties. “Give me one second to write down our mailing information.”

But before you can cling desperately to another excuse to evade his magnetic presence, the strange boy speaks up, alluring you with the unsettlingly tranquil timbre of his voice: “That won’t be necessary. I can hand deliver the letters every day, around this time.”

You blink, sizing him up once more. Any normal human being would find this situation incredibly odd and even worth of a police report.

However, you’re comfortable in your own skin and are able to recognize that the screws you’ve knocked loose over time have, for better or worse, permanently altered your threshold for “red” or “green” flag recognition. For all you care, the flag could be purple. You aren’t thinking about flags right now. You’re thinking about his murky bangs, dark and deep, a rich obsidian, metastasizing over the smooth expanse of his alabaster forehead like a natural disaster.

“Okay. I’ll be waiting at this time every night, then.”

For the first time this evening, his gaunt face split into a tender grin, pink lips parting like spliced flesh. Somehow, he’s able to make the act of smiling something gory, something haunting. Your eyes are glued to the bone-white of his teeth. It’s like watching a car crash. You want, desperately, to look away. You cannot.

“I’m glad,” says the strange boy. “I’ll be here every night, right on time.”

A soft breeze stirs outside, just restless enough to tickle teasingly at the windchimes which dangle from the shop’s awning. Usually, the barrier of the front door dulls the melody. Tonight, you can hear the bells loud and clear.

Before you can think to demand (beg) that he reveal additional identifying information about himself – like, say, his name – the boy has all but disappeared from sight. Incredulously, you whirl around on your heel, scanning every visible inch of the shop for any possible clue as to where he went. But your searching is all for naught. It seems that he is, both in presence and absence, a complete mystery to you.

Well. There are certainly worse things that have happened to you. At least you got to chat with a cute, creepy guy for your trouble.

;

The next day, Granny Orimoto abstains from work yet again. Her modest apartment sitting atop the flower shop has kept her out of sight for many days, now. You’re no stranger to her fits and bursts of ill health, but you cannot recall the last time the brusque, full-hearted old lady has been bedridden for such a prolonged length of time.

You almost consider trying to drop by unannounced to bring her some soup and vitamins, but the thought dies immediately upon arrival. Memories of the last time you’d tried to caretake for her and were subsequently thrown out with indignant, irate gusto are enough to curb your momentary sympathy.

This means that you are effectively head of shop, once more. Over time, it gets easier to deal with the random accidents prone to any small, self-run business: leaks, clogs, jams, flickering lights, disappearing items, strange sounds at odd hours with an unlocatable source. All of it, you handle with def improvisational methods.

Even the spontaneously shattering bathroom mirror is no match for your handywoman capabilities! Really, Granny Orimoto should be lucky that it is you who happened to show up on her doorstep just as her health began to take a dive.

These are the kinds of thoughts buzzing around your skull as twilight descends upon the horizon like flies to a carcass. The death of the day is, as usual, a bloody affair: hues of bright vermillion spill across the sky, setting everything in the shop a brilliant, flagrant shade of fresh-burning red. The terracotta pots seem almost to be radiating with internal heat.

Night comes soon enough, bringing with it a brisk chill in the air. The wind rustles the windchimes, a forewarning of what is to come.

And sure enough, at 8:04 P.M., there he is, lingering in the doorway, daring to take not one step past the threshold, just as he’d done yesterday, that first night.

“Good evening.”

Clutched in his fingers is a wrinkled letter, wrapped in plain stationery. He offers it to you with both hands, politely.  

The space between the both of you evaporates in the fraction of a second it takes for you to cross the shop and greet him back, accepting the letter with greedy hands and a greedier heart. “Good evening. Thank you for the correspondence.”

“Thank you for receiving it,” he replies, scratching the back of his head in a stupidly endearing self-conscious gesture. “I know the manner of communication is a bit unconventional… sorry about that…”

“It’s okay.” And it really is. You, of all people, are no stranger to unforeseen and harrowing life circumstances. That the young man does not possess a phone or email address is not so uncommon, anyways – you’ve had time to reflect on the situation, and for all his off-putting looks and strangely formal manner of speaking, he could easily be a country mouse who has recently relocated to a more urban area. Who are you to judge?

“Shall I have a response waiting for you tomorrow night?”

He bows, then, for a bit longer and a bit deeper than what is normally appropriate for two virtual strangers. “I’d be grateful. Thank you for the trouble.”  

Once more, he evaporates seemingly into thin air, leaving behind not even the faintest trace of his existence. He appears to possess an uncanny ability to slip out of sight just as your eyes fall shut in the millisecond it takes to blink, to breathe.

Taken in stride with his dark-circled eyes and general aura of mysterious tragedy, the whole schtick is a little bit sexy, you have to admit. His vibe is that of a haunted family heirloom: beautiful, priceless, stained in generations of blood and cursed to doom those who dare to draw too near.

Your eagerness is almost feral as you tear apart the seal to the envelope in your hands, greedily pawing at the innards. What awaits you is a handwritten letter, complete with smudged pencil marks obscuring some of the more intricate kanji scribbled onto the page. Some of his radicals waver, lines bending or sprawling in odd and abnormal ways, as though he’d been shaking when we wrote it.

 As though he’d been nervous. So nervous, in fact, that upon handing you the thing, he had to immediately abscond from the premises without another word.

Cute.

To Whom it May Concern,

Thank you very kindly for your willingness to take me on as an apprentice to your shop. Please allow me to introduce myself.

My name is Okkotsu Yuuta. I am a recent graduate of a martial arts vocational school. I just completed a year-long internship abroad in Africa. Due to my recent re-entry into Japan, I am still in the process of setting up my phone and internet. I apologize for the inconvenience and I am extremely sorry for the burden.

As a supervisor and business, you may benefit from the set of skills that I have to offer. I can lift upwards of 25kg. I am neat and detail oriented. Due to past life experiences, I am a fast learner and quick to adapt to new surroundings. I am accustomed to taking orders and delivering results. It is my utmost goal to ensure the comfort and satisfaction of those around me. I am eager to be of service.

Please think of me kindly.

Upon reading the very last word of the very last line, you discover that your bottom lip has been bitten so severely that a fine trickle of blood is descending down your chin.

There is no resume or CV in sight – just this handwritten, strangle little letter in which he divulges some most interesting truths.

Is he playing mind games with you? “Accustomed to taking orders”? “Eager to be of service”? Is he trying to tell you something? Outside of the hiring process, that is.

The note itself is perfectly polite and proper. It’s you whose mind succumbs hedonistically to the gutter. Oh, for shame.

 At night, the shop tends to turn into a gnarly jungle of pots and leaves and vines and poorly-placed smatterings of soil; you wade through theses trenches, aided by no more than the moonlight attempting to feebly infiltrate through the shutters – as the lights are out, again. Should probably call someone about that.

In your frantic haste, it’s a miracle your hands aren’t sliced by a spare pair of shears lying forgotten on some counter or another. Before injury occurs, you’ve already located what you’ve been searching for: a usable pen and some clean, uncrumpled paper.

The matchbox in your back pocket proves useful as you strike up a flame and light a nearby candle, paying no mind to the potential danger of the wobbly column of fire in a room full of fauna.

Like a woman possessed, you feverishly scribble away at your reply. It takes you longer to draft this one particular letter than it had to complete your college entrance exams.

But it’s alright – the candle beside you burns throughout the night, neither the wick nor the wax diminishing even a wink.

Dear Okkotsu,

Your eagerness to work hard is clearly evident. Color me impressed.

As fate would have it, I am in dire need of some help with running the shop. The owner has been absent with illness for quite some time and the workload is starting to get unmanageable. The addition of a strong set of arms is more than welcome. Even when it was the two of us putzing around, we still wouldn’t have been able to do some of the heavier lifting.

I’m curious to hear more about your passion to serve. Was this instilled in you during your time at vocational school? What does “being of service” mean to you?

While we are ultimately a public-facing shop, the stream of customers is slow, and your daily tasks will often look like physical labor and horticultural activities. But, from your letter, it sounds like this will pose no object.

Overall, your enthusiasm is appreciated and your hard-working attitude is attractive to future employers.

You could start as early as tomorrow.

Please do respond at your convenience.

It was rather quickly with only a slight bit of panic running through your veins that you tacked on “to future employers.” Even while reading it back, you cringe a little bit. Too forward? Oh well. It’s written in ink and it’s much too late to go for hunting for another clean piece of paper in the shop’s opaque blackness.

Speaking of which… you really should call an electrician. And a plumber. And some sort of handy man, to help you clean up all the broken glass from the shattered bathroom mirror. And maybe it may also me a good idea to get in touch with a security footage company and inquire about their installation rates. It certainly can’t be normal; how many things go missing so frequently. Although you’ve spent most of your waking hours with an aging elderly woman up until very recently, you’re quite sure that dementia isn’t contagious.

Ah, well. These are all things to take care of tomorrow. Sighing, you tuck away the letter into your back pocket for safe keeping before you go about locking up.

You try not to think too hard about the lingering gaze you feel on the back of your neck. If anything, it feels better than being completely alone.

;

The fragrant scent of okayu fills your nose as you climb the stairs to reach Granny Orimoto’s apartment.

Usually, you would not dare to trespass inside her abode, despite it’s close proximity to the shop. She is a grouchy old lady who does not take kindly to meddling. And yet, you couldn’t ignore the seed of worry in the pit of your belly, which had blossomed over the course of the past few weeks into full-blown concern for her wellbeing. Besides her once-daily text message in the evening confirming the status of shop operations, you have not seen or heard from the old woman in what must be almost half a month at this point.

So, you’ve bitten back your pride and prepared a meal to personally deliver to her.

You are moderately concerned when there is no response to your three separate attempts at knocking on the door. Granny Orimoto hadn’t responded to any of your text messages, so you’d naively assumed she’d been asleep and hadn’t seen them. But is it possible to sleep through the ruckus that you’re creating?

The tension in your body only heightens when you try to the doorknob and realize, in shock and slight horror, that it’s open.

“Granny Orimoto?” You call out, haltingly yet loudly – loud enough to reach her wizened ears. “Granny, I’m sorry, I’ll be coming in now! Pardon the intrusion!”

Taking care not to jostle the still-hot bowl of rice porridge in your hands, you slip off your shoes at the Genkan and make your way inside of the apartment. Although you’ve only been here once before – and it had been an extremely brief stay before Granny Orimoto had shooed you off the premises – it still doesn’t feel all that unfamiliar to you.

It’s a traditional set-up, that much is for sure. Not much has changed, either. Same old floral blankets folded in various assortments and piles around the tiny room, same old plastic draining rack laid across the kitchen sink.

And, of course, there is that strange pair of guest slippers by the front door.

A bright, childish pink with the width and depth to accompany the foot of a young girl no older than six, these slippers had given you pause the first time you’d set foot in Granny Orimoto’s apartment. As far as you know, the old lady doesn’t have any living relatives with which she maintains contact. She spends every holiday alone, in her room, and refuses any offers of companionship between the two of you. You’ve always assumed something tragic must have happened, for a woman this advanced in age to have no one to visit or host during the New Year.

So why, then, does she keep a pair of children’s house slippers by the front door?

Although they are neatly placed and carefully aligned, the heels of the slippers face the direction of the household – as though they’ve been recently taken off and exchanged for outside shoes. Like someone has been here and left. Were they in that position when you stopped by before? Perhaps Granny Orimoto set them that way during her last cleaning.

Shaking yourself out of your reverie, you move past the entrance area and towards where you know the bedroom awaits. There is no overt stench of death and decay, so you aren’t afraid of walking in on her corpse. You’re, like, 85% sure that you could mentally recover from handling that situation, but it would be unfortunate and would likely mean an endless night for you and the poor EMTs who would be dispatched to the scene.

The bedroom door, too, is slightly ajar, and when you push it open all the way, you’re greeted by a sight that hits you squarely in the chest, knocking the wind from your lungs, stealing your voice, marring your eyes with shock and sympathy.

Granny Orimoto lies on her back, skin so pale that it is a near perfect match to the futon covers draped around her frail body. Even from this distance, you are able to clearly track the pathway of her veins as they course across her, the deep blues and greens standing out abnormally against the thin, alabaster flesh. Her hair, significantly grayer than the last time you’d seen her, has escaped from it’s usual, customary low-slung bun. You’ve never seen Granny Orimoto in any other kind of style – in fact, you’d begun to think – somewhat mischievously – that her hair had been surgically arranged to the nape of her neck.

But now, it sprawls around her skull in scraggly spirals, spilling across the pillow like leaking liquid. Thin and brittle, you’re sure that if she tried to gather it into a bun as she once had, it would split and break into a million fine pieces of ash.

“So, you’ve come.”

That hoarse voice snaps you out of your trance. You hadn’t even noticed that she was awake. One moment, you’d been gazing at her motionless body – and the next, you find her entirely unchanged except for the fact that her eyes are now open, peering at you. Unblinking. It’s disconcerting.

It looks like the effort pains her, to lift one hand and pat weakly at the comforter. “You came all the way here, silly girl. Might as well sit.”

You aren’t being kicked out?

Wow. She really must be dying.

Gingerly, you fold your legs beneath you and linger at the edge of the futon. “Granny, how are you feeling? I brought okayu. If you are feeling up to it, please eat. You must take care of your health.”

“Alright then,” says Granny Orimoto, mildly. “You’ll have to help me.”

“Of course.”

There is ultimately an insignificant amount of spillage down the front of her shirt, in the end. Still, you take it as an opportunity to encourage her to take a bath and change into fresh clothes, which you expect she has not done in far too long. This, too, requires your assistance. You don’t mind it at all. In fact, it brings you peace – to be able to care for the woman who had most probably saved your life by taking you in, all that time ago.

When it’s all said and done, Granny Orimoto lays back in the bed. The sheets could use some washing and the futon itself should surely be hung out in the sun to dry, but you recognize that this might be a bit too much excitement for her today. Having eaten and bathed, Granny Orimoto appears ready to return to her slumber.

You decide not to push your luck by overstaying your welcome. “Please rest well, Granny Orimoto. I will come back soon.”

It is when you are almost past the threshold of the bedroom door that you hear Granny’s whisper, faint as smoke and so soft it almost doesn’t sound like the stubborn, strong-willed woman you once knew:

“You remind me of my granddaughter.”

As though you’ve been struck by lightning, your body is immediately paralyzed, muscles helpless to do anything but twitch in confusion, overstimulation. “Oh…? I hope she is well…”

“She’s dead,” says Granny Orimoto. “The stench of death follows you.”

Ironic, coming from a woman who is quite obviously preparing to approach the far shore herself. “I see.”

“Whatever is hanging around you, get it taken care of. You’ll stink up the shop and the plants will wither.”

“Yes, Granny.”

“Are you taking care of my zinnias?”

“Yes, Granny.”

“Better be. How can you own a flower shop if you can’t take care of zinnias…”

You want to whip around and ask her what the hell she means by that, but the rumbling of her soft snores fill the space before you can get another word in edgewise.

As you make your way downstairs, Granny’s words continue to marinate in your mind – and not just her implication that the shop would be left to you. That she thought it fit to tell you that you remind her of her dead granddaughter was certainly an event that occurred in your life. But what exactly had she been on about, telling you that you smell like death?

In absentminded thought, your hand fiddles around in your jacket pocket with the latest letter from Okkotsu. You can’t stop thinking about his response to your last letter.

To You, Whom it Concerns,

Are you taking care? The seasons are changing during this time, so I hope your health is faring well.

I’m glad that my enthusiasm comes across as clearly as my physical capabilities.  Sometimes I struggle to convey my intentions and inner thoughts. It seems like we can understand each other well, even while communicating through letters, which makes me happy.

To me, being of service means unobstructed and clear-minded dedication of the self, body and mind, to another’s fulfillment. Not dissimilar to pure love. This “pure” element is important to me. In fact, I believe total service is a form of pure love. Would you agree?

Maybe this is a bit strange to say, and you might hate me for it, but you remind me of a girl I once knew. She is long gone now. It has been nice to see some of her, again. Of course, it has been even nicer to get to know you.

Regretfully, I cannot begin formal employment just yet. The country re-entry procedures are taking longer than expected and things are a bit complicated right now. It is burdensome, but if you could please kindly allow for some additional time I would be very grateful. I’m sorry to trouble you.

In the meantime, it’s fun to chat together, like this. I’d be happy if we could continue.

Take care not to catch a cold.

The first time you’d read it practically had you squealing into your hands like a schoolgirl. Pure love? Expressing concern for your health? Expressing his desire to continue exchanging letters, even if he can’t formally start the training process?

At this rate, you’re on track towards a confession.

Which, of course, is the ultimate goal. You could never forgive yourself for letting the physical manifestation of all your wildest fantasies slip away. No, you’ve got to reel him in. You’ve got to ensnare him in a web of infatuation, so convoluted and intense that he won’t be able to find his way out. You’ve already decided that he is yours. It’s only a matter of time before things fall into place.

As has become customary, Okkotsu drops by the shop at precisely 8:04 p.m. and not one moment sooner or later. You’ve grown to anticipate the tinkling of the windchimes which herald his otherwise soundless arrival. Like an apparition, his visage manifests in the front door.

There’s something different about tonight: uncertain, he chances a foot past the threshold. “Could I trouble you to come inside?”

Oh. Oh! Are you finally past the stage of contactless letter exchange? You could cry tears of joy. “Please come in.”

“Pardon the intrusion…”

When he breaks past the entry area, it’s as though a wave of heat pulses throughout not just your own body, but the entire shop, as well. A light sweat breaks out at the crest of your brow. Is this seasonally appropriate? You aren’t sure if there is any season wherein a heatwave past sundown is normal.

Okkotsu looks at you like a lost puppy, floundering at what to do, what to say next. You yourself are no less awkward, but you take on the burden of breaking the silence first:

“It’s funny, you mentioned in your letter that I remind you of a girl you once knew. Today, my boss said that I remind her of her dead granddaughter. Wouldn’t happen to be the same girl, huh?”

You’re trying for lighthearted, but the joke falls flat when Okkotsu pales, white as a ghost.

Damage control, damage control! “Oh, I’m – I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—”

“No, no, it’s alright,” he cuts you off, raising a hand. “I should’ve been forthright from the beginning. You aren’t too far off from the truth.”

Huh?

Okkotsu continues, “When I was a little boy, Mrs. Orimoto’s granddaughter and I were best friends. Her name was Rika. When she was six, Rika died in a car accident. I was with her at the time and failed to do anything to stop it from happening, or to save her. I’ve always been very sorry to Mrs. Orimoto, who raised Rika from a young age. By working at her shop, I hoped to repay some of that debt…”

You blink once, twice. Time seems to fall apart and reconstruct itself in the space it takes you to conjure up a response. What can you possibly say, to a story like that?

“You don’t, er, have to say anything,” mutters Okkotsu, as though he’s read your mind. “I know it’s heavy. But that’s the truth…”

“Okkotsu,” you say, voice tinny and faraway to your own ears. “You have a good heart.”

His downcast face shoots upwards, wide eyes seeking out your own with a desperate sheen to their dark, bottomless depths. “Huh…?”

“I mean it,” you press on, stepping closer as you do. He doesn’t even flinch or waver. You know this, because your senses are acutely aware of every fiber of his being. “Not many people would be that brave, or honor that sense of duty. You’re an admirable man. Has anyone ever told you that before?”

It seems you’ll be staying well past closing tonight to mop up the puddle that Okkotsu is about to melt into. His ears burn such a bright red that they almost glow in the dim lighting of the shop.

“I- I--!”

“So that’s the depth of your service,” you muse, your toes stopping just shy of his own, “or your ‘pure love’?”

Okkotsu’s eyes flutter shut. The sound of his gulp echoes like a gunshot. “Ah… er, miss manager, I—”

“Call me by my name. I’ve written it to you for a reason.”

Obeying your direct command, he feebly whispers your name, invoking you like he’s scared of what he’s about to summon. It sets a live wire alight at the base of your spine. Sparks fly throughout your body and it’s all you can do not to pounce on him then and there in this very shop, sleeping Granny upstairs be damned.

“Good. It seems you really are skilled at taking direction.”

His eyes are still closed when you nods, face flushed. Cute. You can’t help but want to tease him more, push him further. “Good job.”

His head all but hangs, now, as he resolutely refuses to make eye contact with you. In front of him, his hands are clasped suspiciously in front of his crotch – a detail which you take in ravenously, hungrily.

Curbing the overwhelming desire to do more, you settle with pushing your sealed envelope into his firm, solid chest with both hands, letting your fingernails press lightly into the muscle. “Here’s today’s letter. Read it and respond well.”

“Yes, I understand,” he says, eyes still shut, head still hung.

It requires you to stand on your tiptoes, when you try to lean into his ear and whisper: “You deserve a chance to make things right. Let me help you with this.”

You let him go, then, because you’re sure he’s about ready to burst at the seams. The last thing you throw his way is yet another bit of praise, because you’re a little bit awful: “I admire your idea of pure love, Okkotsu.”

Before tonight, you’ve never seen a grown man walk straight into a windowpane. Okkotsu reels back, nods and bows to you in acknowledgement before hightailing it out of the shop so fast that, as usual, you fail to actually see him go through the motions of stepping out and leaving. He’s always in such a rush. An odd one, he is.

Good thing “odd” just your type.

From that night onwards, Okkotsu starts making himself more available outside of his usual 8:04 p.m. haunting. Now, he’ll drop by early enough in the afternoons for his shadow to be visible against the door. Still, he resolutely avoids any times when current customers are present. You tease him, lightly, for this, asking how he plans to work partially as a sales attendant if he is afraid to interact with the customer base.

His response?

“I want to work here for two reasons,” he’d stated simply. “For you, and for Rika.”

Normal women would probably find an issue with their ideal man likening them to his dead childhood sweetheart. Fortunately, you are not normal. It’s flattering, even.

Clearly, Rika was another manifestation of his pure love. That you can even approach that category, let alone be mentioned in the same breath as her, is, to you, a vibrant green flag. You must be doing something right here.

So you continue intertwining yourself deeper and deeper with Okkotsu Yuuta: the letters are a constant in both of your daily lives, as well as his visits become more frequent. As an interesting development, he’s started to bring you homecooked food. Usually, it is you who does the caregiving. The first time he shows up with an obento made specially for you – complete with a heart made out of specially cut seaweed set atop the fresh rice – you almost start crying.

Admittedly, it’s all moving very fast. Hasn’t it only been four days, now, since he’d first darkened your doorway, pitifully asking for a job with no form of communication? And now, here he is, feeding you the food he’d prepared for you to enjoy as you go about your closing shift.

“Would you ever want to go out?” You blurt, and then pause, mortified at the overtly forward implication to your words. “Like! To a restaurant! Or a café! You always bring me stuff. Let me treat you.”

“Hmmm…”

Okkotsu’s wide, dark eyes roll upwards in thought. “But I really like staying here. I like eating here. No one else gets to see your pleased, comfortable face while eating except me. I don’t think I can share that. Sorry.”

“It’s okay,” you respond, dizzy. “You don’t have to.”

This is the right answer. Despite his soft, youthful features, the ginger grin he offers you is undercut by the ominous glint in his intense gaze. “I don’t have to share?” He gathers some pickled plum in the chopsticks, bringing them to your open, waiting mouth. “It’s all for me?”

“I am,” you say, and accept the bitter, delicious fruit on the tip of your tongue. It is pungent. It is sweet. It is overwhelming. You almost aren’t able to swallow.

Time spent with Okkotsu makes life seem so fantastical that it almost blinds you to the world of the living. That night, you cannot find it within yourself to leave the shop and go home after closing, instead opting to chat with this gaunt, ghoulish boy until you are startled awake in the morning by your phone’s automatic alarm.

When you come to, you discover that you’d all but passed out behind the front desk, where the two of you had sat, talking, for hours into the night. Okkotsu is nowhere to be found, but in his absence is a crisply folded piece of paper lying innocently upon the desk. Hastily, you scrub at your eyes and smack your lips, trying to wake yourself up as much as is possible before you unfurl the letter and dive into its contents.

To You, Whom it Concerns,

Do you have any idea how difficult it is to be apart from you?

If I could have, I would have stayed with you all throughout the night. I’m sorry to have left you by yourself. But you aren’t really alone. If you ever feel lonely, in the shop, please remember that I’m always there with you. Watching over you. Can you feel me?

Thanks for listening to me last night. It was a heavy story to tell, but now that I’ve confessed it, I feel so much lighter. And you accept me! Words can’t express how I feel, so please allow me to keep showing you.

Also, since Mrs. Orimoto isn’t well these days, can I ask that you don’t share with her that I’m here? The shock may worsen her condition. When she is no longer bedridden, I will tell her myself that I wish to remain and work in the shop. You shouldn’t be caught in the middle of my situation.

As always, I can’t wait to see you again. I miss you so much already, and I haven’t even left the shop yet. I’m writing this as I watch you sleep. Did you know that you snore a little bit? It’s cute.

Please think of me often.

On the one hand, you want to bury your face in your hands and scream and cry and maybe roll around and die a little bit. A love note! It’s a proper love note, this time. The thought makes your insides feel as though they’re being set alight with a bright, brilliant, inextinguishable flame.

On the other hand, Okkotsu’s mention of Granny Orimoto has brought to mind the fact that you haven’t heard from her in what is now two days. Usually, she’ll send you a message or two at the end of every day, making sure that things are in order and that you haven’t burned down the shop yet. But the last time you’d spoken to her had been when you brought over the okayu to soothe her sickly stomach…

Inexplicably, a chill overtakes your body.

Operating on autopilot, you pull yourself together – running a hand through your hair, smoothing your wrinkled clothes – and make your way out of the shop, to the external set of stairs running along the west wall.

With haste, you climb the steps, nearly tripping over yourself to reach the front door which has been left, once again, unlocked. The sense of wrongness occupying your faculties only heightens when you realize this must mean that Granny Orimoto has not been up out of bed since you’d last visited.

When you stop to toe off your shoes at the genkan, you notice that the bright pink pair of children’s house slippers are nowhere to be found, absent from their perpetual perch by the front door, as though someone – or something – has stepped inside.

Mind whirling a mile a minute, you push into the apartment and immediately reel back at the offensive scent of pure, unadulterated rot.

Oh.

Oh, no.

It could be the spoiled ingredients in the fridge, you think, desperately, as you hustle towards the bedroom. It could be anything. Anything but what it is you’re most afraid of.

Dazed, confused, scared, and still freshly woken up, your clumsy limbs somehow manage to collide with one of the low-sitting tables filling the living space. The abundance of knick-knacks and keepsakes cluttering the surface clatter in indignation, making an obscene ruckus as they fall over and to the floor. Upon closer inspection, you realize, to your horror, that it is an altar which you’d disturbed.

The only things left unshaken by your blundering blight are two framed photos: one of which displays the portrait of a young girl, no older than six, with long, dark hair and a serene smile. She seems to peer at you through the barriers of the picture frame, through the barrier of time. Her gaze hooks into your soul and invites you to step closer, to look harder. The longer you stare, the higher the gooseflesh on your skin raises in alarm. It’s an uphill battle to slide your gaze over to the picture beside her, which displays the likeness of a young boy close to her in age – presumably unrelated to her, given their distinct features, and yet, he is placed next to her on what is surely a memorial altar meant to honor and house the deceased.

While the personal effects and other supplicating items have all been disrupted and thrown off by your collision, the incense in front of the two picture frames still burns brightly, steadfastly. Oddly, it does nothing to quell the horrid stench of decay in the apartment. If anything, the altar seems to be exasperating the smell, which brings involuntary tears to your eyes and a pucker to your lips.

It's less so that the stench itself is what drives you to such a reaction; rather, the sensation invading your olfactory senses fills you with an abominable concoction of violent emotions: rage, pity, sorrow, envy, despair. You are drawn follow the source of these feelings, and your feet lead you to the bedroom, hands trembling underneath the sheer weight of all that you are experiencing as they push the slightly ajar door all the way open.

A gasp escapes you, unbidden. There, in that same, white futon adorned with layers and layers of her signature floral blankets, lies the corpse of Granny Orimoto. You can tell she’s dead because her skin has started to sag and bloat in strange and inhuman ways. This is the least surprising thing before your eyes.

Next to Granny sits a little girl – the spitting image of the girl in the portrait you’d glimpsed mere moments ago. Her gaze had once been trained steadfastly on Granny’s body, but now she looks up at you, unblinking, all-seeing.

“Hello,” says the girl, with a little girl’s voice.

“Hi,” you respond. “Do you live here?”

“Yes,” says the girl. “This is my granny.”

You remind me of my granddaughter.

She’s dead.

Granny Orimoto’s parting words to you echo in your head, rattling your brain, fizzling your consciousness.

“It’s nice to meet you, Rika. Granny Orimoto told me about you.”

Slowly, cautiously, as though you are approaching a spooked animal (ironic, given the fact that it is you who is shaking like a leaf), you crouch down and kneel on the floor, sitting on your haunches in a polite manner, mirroring the girl before you. Granny Orimoto’s body is the only thing separating you as you both sit, face to face, hands clasped in your laps, peering curiously at one another.

“I know,” says Rika. “Yuuta told you about me, too.”

Of course she would know about the conversations you and Yuuta have. This also might as well happen. At this point, after all you’ve just witnessed – first, the fresh corpse of your former employer, and now, the physical manifestation of a girl who died over ten years ago – there is very little left that could happen which would truly shock you out of your wits.

“Yes, he did. Have you been hanging out in the shop? Have you been lonely?”

The girl sticks out her bottom lip. “Yeah. You guys didn’t pay attention to me. Even when I was really loud, or turned the lights off, or broke the mirror. Sorry for breaking the mirror. I was mad.”

“It’s okay to be mad, but we mustn’t break things, or hurt others. I’m sorry for not noticing you sooner. Do you like plants and gardening? Like your granny?”

Rika nods. “Mhm, yeah. But Granny never lets me into the shop. Granny says all I do is mess things up. Granny says I’m no good. Granny says people died because of me. Did you know my dad is dead, too?”

“I’m sorry,” you say.

“It’s okay,” says Rika. “I wanted him to die.”

You blink. “Did you want Granny Orimoto to die, too?”

She takes a moment to contemplate before answering. “Granny had to die if I was going to play with Yuuta again.”

“What do you mean?” You ask, desperate to understand. When she begins to explain, you lean forward, forgetful of the fact that it is an old woman’s corpse which lies beneath you.

“Granny has already lived for so long. I wanted to come back. I died before my seventh birthday. Yuuta and I were supposed to spend it together. Yuuta never forgot about me. Yuuta talks to me every day. Yuuta went to Africa. Have you ever been to Africa? I went with Yuuta because he made a shrine for me there. Now Yuuta is back in Japan. Yuuta promised that we would play together again. Yuuta said he needed some time to prepare things. Yuuta is good at things like that – Yuuta can fight and do magic. Yuuta does jujutsu. Do you know jujutsu?”

“I know it,” you tell her.

“Yeah, Yuuta has powers. Yuuta knows a lot about dying and things like that. So, anyways, Yuuta said he would use his powers to help me come back so we can play together again. Yuuta said that me and granny have to switch places. I said ‘OK, Yuuta!’ and then Yuuta said he needed seven days. What day is it today?”

Somehow, you know the answer, even without looking at your phone’s calendar. “Monday.”

“Oh, so it’s been seven days. Yay! We can play together again. Do you want to play with us, too?”

“I would like to play together, yes.”

Abruptly, Rika unfurls from her graceful little seated position and makes her way over to you, crawling over Granny Orimoto’s corpse. You try not to think too hard about the graphic squelching that occurs underneath the childish palms of Rika’s tiny hands.

“Yay! Let’s go downstairs. Maybe Yuuta will be there.”

You don’t have the heart to tell her that Yuuta only swings by when the sun is out of sight. Her arms raise, clearly indicating that she’d like to be carried, and you are content to oblige her, as you scoop her up in your arms and make good on her direction. You exit Granny Orimoto’s apartment with Rika in your arms, her little feet dangling from your hip. The bright pink pair of slippers almost fall off as you make your way down the stairs, and you take care to remind her to make sure not to lose them.

When you get back to the shop, you must admit that you were mistaken in thinking Yuuta would not be there. As though he’d been anticipating this – which, you realize, he absolutely was, as this marks seven days from the first time he’d set foot in the shop – Yuuta stands by the front desk, wringing his hands before him nervously, sweat visible at his temples.

The both of you lock eyes, and he smiles, warm and fuzzy and entirely ill-fitting for the increasingly absurd scenario in which you find yourself. But you have little time to interrogate him about what the hell is going on – for Rika leaps from your arms and hits the ground running, screaming at the top of her little lungs, Yuuta!! Yuuta!!!, excited and so full of life, in only the way that children can scream in pure joy. Pure love.

He crouches and readily meets her, scooping the little girl up in his arms and sweeping her into the air, spinning round and round with Rika in his arms. Rika-chan!! Rika-chan!!! he cries – literally cries, that is, as you cannot help but spot the stray tear or two running down the swells of his flushed cheeks.

It is right as you are starting to feel a bit voyeuristic that Yuuta slows to a stop and finds your eyes once more. He comes to you, then, with Rika still perched on his hip, a chafingly tender smile splitting his face into two.

“I knew it was you,” he whispers with charged intensity, voice potent with unspoken feeling. “I knew you were special. I’ve always known. You never judge me. You always listen. You accepted me. And you accepted Rika, too.”

Have you? Accepted them, that is.

You shock yourself when you realize that you really have accepted all that’s transpired. Granny Orimoto saved your life when she’d taken you in and, for that, you must always be grateful. But from what Rika shared with you about how she’d been treated as a small child, and from what you’ve observed from Yuuta’s generally traumatized disposition and extreme reluctance to come face-to-face with the old woman, you realize, now, that there is a reason why Granny Orimoto had no living family to speak to or rely on when she was in her final days.

Whether or not her death had something to do with Yuuta’s apparent preternatural abilities (you remind yourself to ask about that later), it remains clear that she’d been in ill health long before you’d arrived at the flower shop. With no one to talk to. No one to care for her. You’d always felt pity. But, now, you realize that it may have been a situation of her own doing.

How could you argue with the living, breathing testament to that fact, who stand before you in fresh-faced, smiling glee?

“Of course I accept you both,” you say, earnestly, and mean it. “Rika is too cute not to love!” The young girl giggles, bashfully burying her face in Yuuta’s neck.

“And what about me?” Yuuta’s brows are quirked, his smile dipping into something a bit more cutting, a touch more heated than his simple joy from moments ago. “Am I cute enough to love, too?”

The answer is simple and requires no effort on your part: “I love you, Yuuta.”

You had more to say after that, but it proves a bit challenging to monologue your undying devotion to this man while said man is currently enveloping your mouth inside of his own. He kisses like a black hole: devouring, dark, impossibly comprehensive, and providing you without hope for possible escape.

He really is your type.

;

After those first seven days, Yuuta finally begins training at the shop. And Rika joins in, as well.

The three of you make an odd, adorable little family unit. After Yuuta had taken care of cleaning and renovating the apartment space upstairs, the three of you moved in without further delay. Your days are filled with home-cooking, raising Rika, maintaining the shop, and working alongside the man who has quickly made himself to be your life partner in every endeavor.

In fact, so much of your life is consumed with this newfound domesticity that there is little reason for you to leave the shop in the first place. Whenever you stray too far outside, you are prone to headaches, dizziness, fatigue, and even fever. It’s best to stay where is familiar, you reason. And Yuuta’s cooking is too good for you to want to eat anywhere else. He makes sure you eat three times a day, at least, and insists you finish your plate every time. Perhaps this is why you can’t stand life outside of this four, cozy walls – where else could you possibly find contentment such as this?

The business is re-named to “Rika’s Flower Shop,” which all three of you find quite agreeable given the current state of affairs. More customers than ever flow in, attracted by the colorful designs hand-painted by Rika herself on the building exterior. You generate enough revenue for additional renovations to be made on the shop. There is enough room in the budget to hire some part-time shop hands – local university students in the area looking to support themselves.

Everything is coming to fruition. For once, you truly feel as though life is blossoming.

And you can attribute all of it, every last bit of happiness, to them: Granny Orimoto, Rika, and Yuuta. The happiness is so overwhelming that you don’t ever want to leave their side, not even to run to the konbini, or to visit the post office. Why would you need to leave, when everything you’ve ever wanted is right here?

You have a family, a home, a life. You’ll remain in this shop with your loves until the day you grow as old and sickly as Granny Orimoto, and you’ll likely die upstairs, lying next to Yuuta, the both of you wrinkled and gray, curled together atop the futon, exactly where Granny had wheezed her last, bitter breath.

You wonder if Rika was there to watch it happen. You wonder if Rika will be there to see the both of you off, too.

You hope so. You really, really hope so.

You’re sure death will be every bit the dream you’re hoping it will be.

[queerprayers]

Officially, in the western church, today isn't the Annunciation. This is Holy Monday, and the Annunciation is moved to avoid coinciding with Holy Week. I think if it were during the Triduum I would appreciate this, making space to hold both days separately. But it's Monday, and they can't stop me from thinking about Mary during Holy Week. March 25 is a traditional date of both Jesus's death and conception, as well as the Creation—a spring equinox of redemption. Holding space for all these things has always been appropriate. Birth and death coexist; Jesus's beginnings were the beginnings of his mortality. The angel announces the future, and whoever listens must live through all of it.

What did it mean for Mary to say yes to this? We laugh at the "Mary did you know?" lyrics, because we know she knew. But she also didn't have to know the details of God's plan to say yes to what every parent says yes to—witnessing. Acknowledging the bringing into the world of a frail being, perhaps giving your body to make this happen, praying that you will die before they do but knowing that is not promised. And every parent living under a violent state knows what it is to hope it's not your kid that's next (whether you're a Black parent teaching your child how to talk to cops, or a Palestinian parent hiding in rubble, or a Jewish parent under Roman occupation who's seen the crosses outside the city walls).

Do you think, at the foot of the cross, Mary thought of her response, "Let it be unto me according to your word"? After bearing that Word inside her, teaching him how to walk, waiting for God to change his mind, to reveal a ram caught in a thicket so her son wouldn't have to die after all, do you think she remembered her teenage self, magnifying the Lord? "The Almighty has done great things for me"—and to me. Great as in too big to look at all at once, bloodstained things. The power of the Most High is overshadowing her—the shadow of the cross—his flesh broken, and someone (including her perhaps) will take him down and wash him for burial.

What does it mean to hold space for that day when an angel tore into her life, breaking it open for God—during Holy Week? If we desire a feast, we should wait until Easter, I agree. But today I honor a lady of sorrows—I desire an acknowledgement of the violence of agreeing to live and love and create when it will be torn away. The story never ends there, but we must live through this week (and whatever weeks of our lives hold these things) saying yes, witnessing. Judas quit before the miracle happened—he couldn't witness death so he didn't witness the life (on this earth). Mary kept saying yes, even at the end.

We can never know everything we are saying yes to when we surrender to God. She knew in one sense, yes, but no one knows what it's like to lose a son until it happens. And no one but her knows what it's like to be the Mother of God. We already know what God wants us to do, but we don't know until it happens how much it hurts—and what the dawn will bring. What swords will pierce us, what promises will be kept.

When we say the Magnificat, we usually add a Gloria at the end—Mary did not have those words (the Trinity would not be formulated for another couple hundred years), but we have them. When we sing her song, we hold space for the ways we see God exist, and she saw those ways intimately. She held the Son and was surrounded by the Spirit, and now the Father holds her. As we live through Holy Week every year, every year she says yes. God's love continues unfolding. As it was in the beginning, is now, and will be forever. Amen.

Your assigned reading for today (should you choose to accept it) is @tomatobird-blog 's comic "Thirty Years." A blessed Holy Monday (and Annunciation) to you all.

[fateisnotafactor]

Apparently I'm on a writing rampage today.

Pretty sure this is SFW, but if I continue it, it definitely won't be. There's some texting in here and I'll try to reformat it when I get home, just let me know if it's hard to read. (Part 2)

Shouta takes Hizashi out in the wilderness for some survival training and just fucking hunts him. Hizashi is spooked by everything, Shouta moves silently, sticking in the shadows. Hizashi flinches as a twig snaps from across the clearing. Oh, it's just a bunny. He starts to relax only to be wrapped up in Shouta's scarf, dangling upside down from a tree, and Shouta walks up chuckling and just gives him a little spiderman-style kiss before dropping him onto the ground in a tangle of scarf. "You're getting there. We'll try again next year, love."

Next year they bring a pretty little thing and hunt her together. How else is Hizashi going to learn to like the great outdoors?

Hizashi has had his eye on you since that Gala a few months back. You were a fan, so excited to shake his hand and take a picture with him. Shouta noticed how he perked right up, the way his hand slid down your hip as he asked Shouta to take one more, just in case one of you blinked. You blushed of course. Flattered that someone you looked up to was so thoughtful and not just doing the obligatory smile, click, 'move along.'

Shouta bumped into you at the grocery store a couple of weeks later and struck up a conversation. "Marshmallows? Chocolate? Graham crackers? Are you going camping by any chance?"

Well, what a coincidence. So were Shouta and Hizashi. It took a little bit of convincing for you to tell him where you were going, and all by yourself?

"Not to intrude, but would you like some company? It's not safe out there alone. There's been a few bear sightings in that area."

Not to mention that Shouta is an expert at wilderness survival. They had actually been planning on heading to that same park, just a little deeper into the mountains. He has a special permit since they're going to be setting up a summer camp for the students this year. Oh, did he mention that his partner Hizashi was a teacher too? Yeah, that Hizashi. Your favorite radio star.

Now that certainly piqued your interest. Sure, you'll have to make some changes to what you were going to pack, but since your friends backed out a couple weeks ago, well after you could rearrange your time off with your boss, having some company actually sounds like a lot of fun.

Shouta exchanges numbers with you, texting to make sure you had his, and then let you head home. He'll touch base later tonight after he tells Hizashi the good news.

Hizashi remembers you. Of course he does. As soon as you tagged him in the photo, he liked and commented saying that it was always great to meet a fan. He hoped it didn't seem too overly enthusiastic or out of the norm for him. He followed you back and scrolled through your timeline. You don't post much, or if you do, your privacy settings wouldn't let him see everything. Most of it is posts that you've been tagged in, and he has to be extra careful not to accidentally double tap to like any of these posts, especially now that he's a couple years back on your timeline.

You actually seem to enjoy the outdoors. He shudders as he sees you posing next to some beetle on a tree. The thing is absolutely massive. *Fuck.* He accidentally liked the post as he tried to scroll away from the infernal thing. But then you messaged him?

You: Heyyy, so Shouta kind of invited me camping with you. Are you interested in conservation efforts too? I saw you just liked that pic of the rhinoceros beetle. Don't you think it's a shame that people are still trafficking endangered species?

What's he supposed to say to that? He hates bugs, but you're trying to find common ground with him.

Hizashi: Yeah. Smugglers are the worst.

You: Right?! I'm so glad you're so passionate about endangered species too! I really hope we see some so we can add to the national count going on!

You're ... actually excited about bugs? Maybe if he says yes, you'll want to help him too? It's been a while since he and Shouta had a pretty little thing to go "camping" with. If he played his cards right, maybe this year he won't be the prey.

Hizashi: Yeah, I'd like that. Hey, how do you feel about survival games?

You: Like Minecraft? Haha

Hizashi: LOL

Hizashi: No

Hizashi: More like a more adult version of hide and seek tag

Hizashi: Wait not like that

You: Haha like that dangerous game story but for fun?

Hizashi: Yeah! Like that!

You: Can't say I've ever played that.

You: But I'm open to giving it a try

Hizashi feels all fuzzy inside, practically kicking his feet at the idea of you running through the woods, looking back over your shoulder to see him running through the trees after you. He knows he's nowhere near as graceful as he imagines, but for you, he would give it his all.

He looks up to find Shouta looking over his shoulder. "She said she's interested!"

"Mhm."

"Shou, please, please, please? She offered! She said she was open to it!"

Shouta sighs, unable to resist the look on Hizashi's face. "Fine."

"Yes!"

It was like Hizashi was a completely different man, suddenly rushing to pack his things for the trip. Something he had been putting off for the entire week, while Shouta was already fully packed. He pulls out your phone to text you.

Shouta: Sounds like Hizashi is excited that you agreed to come with us.

You: Oh that's great! I hope you guys don't mind me tagging along. I've never actually gone that deep into the park. This is going to be a first for me!

Shouta: Don't worry, we'll make sure you don't wander off and get lost. I've had to work plenty of rescues out there, and it sounds like you have some experience. It'll be fun.

You: I can't wait!!! Is there anything special I should bring? Extra water? Supplies? Heavier gear?

Shouta: Don't worry about all that, we'll have more than enough for the three of us. Just bring what you normally do and let me and Hizashi take care of everything else.

Shouta couldn't help but smile at how excited you seemed to be at joining them on their little annual trip. He'd be sure to keep an extra close eye on you. Figure out your patterns, your habits, your skill level. Hell, if they played their cards right, maybe you could be a recurring guest on their hunting trips.

He wonders how much of a fight you'll put up against them. Will you have to tap out? How long would it take for him to have you tied up all pretty, hanging from a tree? Would you celebrate with them afterward?

He pulls his lower lip between his teeth as he pulls up your social media. Tapping through to a friend's page who had tagged you. Well, well, well. Look at that.

He finds a album from a rock climbing trip you went on a few weeks ago, dangling off the side of a rocky ledge. Smile plastered to your face as you hang, practical upside down with no harness. You can't be far off the ground, but he can already tell that this is going to be more fun than he's had in years.

---

Part 2 (SFW) Masterlist (And where I try to post my fics)

[suuuupernovaaa]

fnu

fnu [fn·u] vin. quiet, be quiet

Anonymous Request: I was wondering if I could get a Neteyam x Metkayina reader where the reader is one of the best gardeners in the clan. She is usually quiet and just spends her time gardening and going swimming. People don’t notice her. That is until Neteyam asks about her and wants to help garden with her. They start to fall in love but the reader can’t understand why Neteyam would fall for someone as quiet, not as beautiful as Tsireya (in her eyes), and unimportant to the clan.

879 words

I rub the dirt off my knees as I stand up, smiling down at my work. Just a few minutes walk from our village lies one of our many vast gardens, and this one in particular is mine.

Not that I own it, per se, but everyone knows that this is the one I take care of - and I come here every day to take care of it. I dug up the dirt, ensured it was fertile, planted the seeds, and I tend to them daily. I harvest what's ready, remove weeds where necessary, and keep pests away.

Of all the gardens, mine bears the most to eat. Multiple times a week, I return with baskets of food, taking many trips to deliver it home. I don't think anyone notices, because I try not to call attention to myself, but I'm extremely proud of the work I've done.

Today, I have four large baskets bearing root vegetables to bring home to my clan, and my heart swells with pride.

"Do you need help with that?" someone asks as I bend down and pick up the first large basket. I turned and see the eldest Sully, Neteyam, approaching.

He's been visiting here lately. Almost every day, he ends up at my garden. Sometimes, he shows up when I take my long evening swims, too. We're running into each other so much.

I smile and thrust a basket into his hands, and he temporarily sags under the weight of it.

"Wow. You got a lot today!" he says, grinning at me, and my heart swells with pride.

As we walk, I talk about the vegetables we're carrying. When the best times are to plant them, how to encourage them to grow, how my people prepare them. Neteyam listens intently, even asking questions.

We return for a second trip, two more baskets to bring bag, and I find no end of information to tell him about my garden.

Only when we've dropped the second load off, do I realize how much I've been talking, and my cheeks grow hot. We're approaching the beach now, where I always go when I'm done for the day.

"Oh, Neteyam, I'm so sorry," I say.

He furrows his brow, looking concerned. "For what?"

"It's just... I don't talk to many people this much and I went on and on. You must be so bored."

His frown deepens and he shakes his head. "You're not only passionate and intelligent, but what you do benefits all your people. You should be proud. I will listen to you talk about it any time. Maybe if I learn, I can help you."

I tilt my head to the side. "You would help me?"

Neteyam reaches out, hesitantly at first, and grabs my hand. My eyes widen in shock. Has it not been a coincidence that Neteyem has visited my garden so frequently, or interrupted my swims so often? Has he been trying to spend time around me?

It's hard to believe. Though I do find value in my quiet days, I didn't think anyone else had noticed. I'm quiet, quite possibly a little shy, nothing like the other women of the clan, especially Tsireya, who I know the Sully boys have been spending time with. If anyone would have caught their eye, it surely would be here, one of my oldest friends.

"I would be honored to learn more about what you do. And just... about you."

The blush in my cheeks deepens, and I turn away, trying not to smile too widely. It's too much to dream that someone like Neteyam could have interest in someone like me.

"I would be honored to teach you," I finally reply, stammering only a little. He reaches out, pressing his fingers against my chin, turning my eyes to meet his.

He is smiling at me, and I can feel it, and see it in his eyes - admiration. Has he always looked at me like this, and I have been too busy staring at the dirt to realize? I feel equal parts flattered and foolish.

"Neteyam, do you actually have an interest in gardening?" I ask, a teasing smile on my face.

He laughs, just a small chuckle, and we grin at each other. "At first... no. But, watching you these past weeks, listening to you talk, I can say safely that I am no longer just interested in the gardener."

I will simply burst if he ever says anything like that again. Unsure of what else to do, I close the gap between us, wrapping my arms around his waist and pressing my head into his firm, broad chest.

"Thank you," I whisper as he tightly wraps his arms around my shoulders, holding me tightly to him.

"For what?" he asks.

I look up at him, my chin on his chest. "Noticing me."

He places a soft, warm kiss on my forehead. "You may be quiet, but you are the most beautiful woman I've ever seen. You were impossible not to notice."

A heat that has been only in my chest spreads through every limb, to my toes and fingertips, and I feel lightheaded. All I can do is cling to this man and thank Ewya for bringing him to my garden.

[sixeyesgojo]

Yoru, my beloved 💕 In honor of Gojo being unsealed, what’s the first thing you do when you see him?

home in your arms

☾ Summary: A bittersweet reunion between two lovers, after Gojo breaks free from the Prison Realm. ☾ Characters: Gojo Satoru x reader ☾ Word count: 1.4k ☾ Content warning: HEAVY manga spoilers underneath the cut, mentions of character death, hurt but more comfort (imo)

“Jacob’s Ladder!!” Kurusu chanted. Just for an instant, a brilliant gleam brightened the sky and hit the Back of the Prison Realm. Then silence followed. The anticipation seemed to electrify the air. With each second, your heart grew heavier with anxiety. “Gojo-sensei? Can we come closer?” Yuuji’s voice boomed as the dust spread all around the area.

However, there was no reply. How could there be one, when no one was there to respond? He wasn’t there. And despite knowing that he wasn’t, your body was desperately searching for any trace of him. It didn’t work, you thought. It didn’t work…

“Did he disappear with the Prison Realm?” Yuuji asked and your body froze. Had Angel destroyed him along with the Back of the Prison Realm? But this would only be possible if he had become evil in his time away… There was no way that happened to him, right? Your knuckles turned white and the bones in your hand cracked from how hard you were clenching your fists. If he was truly gone, you didn’t know what to do with your life.

“Satoru… where are you? I can’t feel you…” you muttered and fell to your knees in defeat. Satoru being sealed, Nobara’s critical condition, Nanami’s passing, Yuuji and Megumi having to fend for their lives on their own… With how the circumstances were in the last few days, the thought of losing another loved one was too much to bear. It was scary and there was no one you could turn to. At least, that was what you thought until a hand soothingly rubbed your back. It was Yuuta, the student Satoru had personally entrusted to you when the former had just joined the Jujutsu world. The emotion in his eyes spoke more than a thousand words: Don’t give up yet, they conveyed.

Without warning, the earth started shaking. Reflexively, Yuuta’s body shielded you from any potential harm. “An earthquake?! This can’t be a coincidence!” someone shouted but your brain didn’t register where it came from or who it was. Your body started moving on its own, breaking out of the boy’s protective embrace and stumbling away, seemingly without any destination. Yet, it was your heart that guided you. I need to hurry, you thought, he is out there somewhere and he needs me. Your mind was void of anything else as your legs moved as fast as possible for your body.

It felt like years passed by until you felt a warm sensation in your chest; your heart knew that it felt Satoru’s energy somewhere. He had to be close. Hurry, it told you.

And then… you stopped. In fact, everything around you seemed to stop. Your eyes darted across the distance, locking onto his silhouette. Standing in front of you was the person you were longing for; his back turned to you. A sense of relief, safety and familiarity washed over you. However, there was a dark spot creeping around in your heart: a primal fear of losing something that was precious to you again. You pushed it back to the depths of your heart, hoping it wouldn’t resurface for the time being. Instead, you let the overwhelming joy push you forward.

Slowly, you started walking towards him. A thousand questions buzzed in your head: Was he okay? How did he feel? What happened in the Prison Realm? Was he aware of what had happened in the outside world? Was he hurt? Was he going to leave again? Were you dreaming?

Something in your core snapped and you ran towards him, heart racing. Right before you touched him, for a split second only, something invisible blocked you from closing the distance. Although it only lasted an instant, it told you stories about the man that was in front of you. Stories about the feelings of defeat he suffered during his confinement. Stories about the pain of blaming himself. He looked at you, something forlorn hid deep inside his glossy gaze. The person in front of him seemed familiar, yet foreign to his dulled senses. Were his senses clouded because he spent so much time confined? Was he shaken up from his discovery? Everything seemed hazy and muffled. The world was indistinct and everything was jumbled together – colors, feelings, senses and thoughts.

Then, as you pulled him in for a hug, a lever was moved inside him – and the world began to become more vibrant, filled with intense colors. “Satoru, you’re back!!” you cried into his chest. Upon hearing your familiar voice, a burst of beauty bloomed within him, as if Satoru’s heart was blessed by Hotei of the Shichi Fukujin personally. His sight suddenly became clear.

“It’s me,” you assured him, hugging him to you even tighter. Inhaling his scent, you noticed that it was mixed with other smells too. “I thought I wouldn’t see you again,” you confessed, “but I am so relieved. I feel like I’m dreaming. Don’t tell me this is a dream. Are you hurt? How do you feel?”

“Definitely not a dream. I’m home,” Satoru uttered softly. “Welcome home,” you greeted him back, eyes glazed with tears of relief. His deep-set blue eyes locked on you and he gingerly stroked your back. Something in his eyes told you that he had witnessed something deeply unsettling – and you had a hunch that it was about Megumi. And yet, he didn’t talk about it. Maybe it was for the better, as you didn’t want to shake him up even more.

“You idiot made me worry so much! I didn’t know what to do; I missed you so much,” you wailed. He chuckled, “I’m sorry. I’m here now, so you don’t need to worry anymore.” I’m here now, hearing those words put you at ease and calmed the storm in your heart a little. “I’m sure you did well in my absence, didn’t you?” His large palm rested on the top of your head. He was the one who was shaken up, so why was it him who was comforting you now?

“If you do that again, I will throw away your stupid custom Cutler and Gross sunglasses. And your Gentle Monster ones. And your Goomba plushy. I swear,” you threatened with a pouty undertone, but obviously he knew that you would never pull through with that. Of course you knew that he didn’t intend to get sealed. Nevertheless, he played along. “Now, now. That would hurt me. You know those are my favorites,” Satoru laughed and hugged you tightly. You buried your face in his chest and murmured, “Seriously… I missed you.”

“I missed you more,” Satoru whispered and planted a tender kiss on the crown of your head. “Don’t turn this into a contest now, Satoru,” you berated him half-heartedly. You broke the hug, but his hands held you steady in his embrace. Your hands moved up to cup his face, eyes searching his tired ones. Slowly, you pulled his face closer to yours. “Then we might have a problem,” you stated warmly. “I don’t see how,” he responded puzzled.

“It’s simple,” you began to explain, “I miss you. I miss your hugs, I miss your kisses and your warmth every second we’re apart. And those 19 days have only reaffirmed that belief. I never want to see you injured or suffering. More than anything, I wish to see a happy ending for you. Therefore I win.” There was hope that your feelings reached him and could help him feel the sense of stability he desperately needed at the moment.

As if a dam in his heart started to break, Satoru laughed. Not because he didn’t take your confession seriously – he very much did – but in realization that he was truly powerless against you and your way with words. The feeling of love was about to engulf him. It was overwhelming and all-encompassing. He was happy that you loved a madman like him, but maybe doing so required a certain level of craziness itself.

Touching his forehead to yours, he grinned, “Jeez, that was cheesy. I’ll do you one better: Wherever you are is where my heart calls home and where my soul is at peace.”

You couldn’t even answer fast enough as his lips captured yours in a searing kiss.

[katyspersonal]

Sort of continuation of previous post regarding SOTE progress because I could not add more pictures anymore gfyjvghj

10) I found this guy in the same catacombs that gave more Godwyn lore:

Messmers' FLIGHT from the Erdtree?? Also Messmer really held and L if his first knight turned on him lol :p Makes me feel like Andreas was "standing with his cancelled mutual" but then appeared that he was cancelles for a good reason? XD He could never be Tanith tho LMAO 😔

11) So, there are also Bell Bearings in the Land of Shadow!

I noticed a pot hanging on a string on that platformer towards Cerulean Shores and of course guessed to shoot it from the bow! So yes, it dropped a Bell Bearing upon breaking!

12) Also found this on my way!!

13) So apparently some bastardisation of Trina's sleep magic exists done by her follower(s?)!

Whereas sleep of Trina is pacifist and peaceful in nature, this sleep appears to be weaponized! Basically, putting people into a coma, unless they have exceptional willpower! I didn't screenshot it but I got a weapon variant of Perfumer's Bottle after crossing the bridge and description said how it was repurposed into flame-throwing weapon since Land of Shadows is ALL about war and "Perfumers were not called here for healing", so it coincides with turning Sleep magic into a dangerous weapon too I think! Damn I want to know more, there was that purple person in the trailer after all!

14) More Formless Mother lore!

I instantly thought about Formless Mother, especially since 'outer' translation liberty and in real Japanese script it just refers to sort of higher gods, to distinguish them from the royal family from Marika/Radagon! So yeah, no wonder that she used to be a person (?). I also felt soooooo clever when I figured it was her because where you find it there are bloody flowers (equivalent of Mohg's roses) and one of the Bloodfiends did mini version of Nihil, when suddenly they dropped...

Damn, let me connect the dots myself, stop explaining me EVERYTHING verbally ;-; (says an autist..... -_- )

Later, I also have the bloody cave:

So yeah... Mohg falls for that consistent Soulsborne games trope where a person picks up traditions/practices/rituals from distant past! Love Soulsborne for 'history repeats itself' tropes so much *looks at Bloodborne a lot*. This makes me happy!!

Also there is a correlation between being very miserable and worshipping her, huh.. But this explains why we can only enter Land of Shadow through Miquella's body that was accelerated with that blood, if Formless Mother originates from it. It was my second version hoooo boy

[melliae]

Refraction Railway Line #2 Abnormalities Part 1 (Analysis)

The Möbius strip. The famous 2D manifold that has only one side, meaning that no matter how much you walk, you will always end up where you started. There’s no other path in front of you beyond that which endlessly repeats itself, forever.

Without escape, without release…

“Be still. Just be still, and do nothing more than breathe. For now, that’s how you must live. You cannot fly.” - ??? (Sang Yi), Chapter 48: Bud, Canto IV.

But only to the extent you allow yourself to be trapped in such a cycle, too afraid of soaring away and getting your wings hurt again.

“This is an adequate place to get off this train without getting lost. The refraction rate is already off the charts. For the first time since we embarked on this journey… I see a signpost. Maybe, this is where this railway line ends. Or maybe...this is where we meet our ends.” - Dante, Terminus: The Garden, Refraction Railway Line 2.

Nobody knows what lies beyond the known, familiar and soothing cycle, if there’s a dead end or true freedom. Nonetheless, you must walk towards it, for your and…

For Everyone’s Sake

“Are the talismans filling the room for a wish? Does this wooden doll wish for anything?” - Abnormality Encounter.

An effigy is, in essence, a sculptural representation of someone or something made with the express purpose of acquiring the dignity of that person/thing: whatever happens to the effigy, it will happen to its “model”. Yet one has to wonder what a stiff, featureless wooden doll represents? What kind of person can even begin to bear that quantity of curses on them?

No one.

No human can hope to be strong and resilient enough to carry all that hatred, despair, and sadness. Only a copy of one can do such a thing, especially crafted to be a faceless caricature that will never amount to anything more than that—no one.

It will be forever trapped in that room, bearing all the evils of the world because someone has to do it, and what better “person” to do it than the one specifically made to do so? It can’t wish to be anything but the nameless scapegoat of humanity, the star that weeps for everyone.

“When we look up at our sky… all we see is a pinch of muddled light. But here… I can see lone stars looking down at us. Since the city I can see from here is filled with cries of pain and despair… I’d rather… gaze down at people from the loneliness up in the sky and shed tears with them…” - Unknown Boy, Blossoming League of Nine Littérateurs, Canto IV.

I implied in my post about the RR3’s Abnormalities that Siltcurrent represents the experiences and memories of Mermaids at some level. Thus, it shouldn’t be surprising that the Tearful Thing, a human monstrosity with a boundless heart that cries for all misfortunes that befall people, can also participate in the creation of an Abnormality.

However, So That No One Will Cry (“STNOWC” from now on) is not only a manifestation of the Tearful Thing’s trauma and wishes; it’s also one for Yi Sang’s past conflict to an extent.

“Those were the kinds of achievements we accomplished in T Corp’s district. Which is why… I became more engrossed in the mirror. Untainted, unadulterated… I wished to immerse myself in the pure exploration of knowledge. So that… I wouldn’t have to take anything from anyone.” - Yi Sang, Blossoming League of Nine Littérateurs, Canto IV.

It isn’t a coincidence that its namesake skill, “So That No One Will Cry”, is Gloom-based: the expression of bottomless despair born from witnessing the evils of the world and those who one has caused. After all, who doesn’t know the bitterness of not wanting to do anything after doing or getting something wrong? The taste of the lies when someone asks you how you are doing? Those countless cases of martyrs for their loved ones? Maybe that’s why its mid-combat Event has Sloth advantage, because it keep things as they are and were, with the burden being too much to bear for the chosen Sinner.

At the end, someone has to cry, to purge all the accumulated pain, and you can't really be bothered with it.

… But as Project Moon does, things aren’t that simple: for some reason, all STNOWC’s remaining skills are Lust-based and give Cursed Talismans on hit. This last effect can be easily attributed to a mere side effect by the Abnormality’s attack or activity in general, as its mid-combat Event and Logs suggest. The Lust affinity, on the other hand, is a bit more tricky, though thankfully I already explained it in my RR4 post: Lust, in its most general form, corresponds to the Sin of love and passion, which is something STNOWC has in spades—an absolutely selfless love that leads it to carry countless curses.

“We start removing every single talisman in the room. The wooden doll paces here and there, uneasy and anxious. We ignore it and continue removing the talismans. As we were almost finished with removing the talismans, the wooden doll stands before the Sinners as though to tell them that enough is enough.” - Abnormality Encounter.

And like a great part of the Sin’s examples in the game, STNOWC is heavily attached to its role as a bearer of pain too, not wanting to abandon it by any means. This situation is repeated somewhat when you choose to remove the Doll’s talismans, despite the final ambiguity presented by Dante at the end. Personally, I think the Abnormality is ultimately afraid of someone else carrying the talismans.

“The wooden doll at the center seemed to be liberated from a binding force. It walked to you, offering an object.” - Abnormality Encounter.

Because even when you give it freedom through choosing to remove the room’s talismans, STNOWC decides to give you a copy of itself, as if to say that you should still use it to carry curses, brushing aside your sacrifice. 

Such stubborn behavior makes the Sin advantages of the previous choice pretty ironic: you either don’t want the Doll to be trapped by your sins out of a slothful refusal to change, or, more importantly, because you hate allowing someone to bear all that suffering alone. And by that matter, the Abnormality’s weakness to Wrath is explained by that last part, because just as well have felt on some level the bitterness of hiding things from others, the frustration that comes from a loved one doing the same surely is familiar; but no matter how much you worry about them, if that loved one keeps ignoring or rejecting any and all help, only a wrathful worry can truly “save” them, and not more (misdirected) love (which in turn explains its resistance to Lust).

At any rate, the main idea should be obvious at this point, about how the answer to suffering isn’t to make someone carry it in complete solitude; that’s nothing but wishful and magical thinking. To stop the pain you must share it, just like the Talismans in both the battle and with Red Sheet Sinclair, lest everything becomes too heavy for anyone to bear.

Only when everyone shares their curses, truly no one will have to cry.

Refusing to Change

“Did the Steam Transport Machine return to when it was first produced? Leaving behind everything it’s gone through. The older the machine gets, the more of itself it will have to reconstruct.” - Mid-Combat Event.

By definition, meaning must exist in our lives. That’s not an idea anyone can argue against, because I’m not even speaking about any sort of metaphysical reality, let alone some kind of deeper, transcendental truth. It’s all a simple psychological fact: the drive to find (or construct, or whatever word you fancy) is an essential fundament of our psyche, of who we are as a species. We are literally programmed to see them anywhere, anytime, and we can’t function without one.

However, just as the outside world keeps on changing, so does our inner reality, and with it what we hold (or held) as true fades away. Thus, when confronted with the reality of our meaning—our life—disappearing to never return, despair sets in and we wonder what we will do. The answer, as most things in life, depends on the individual, but Steam Transport Machine surely shows what a sizable amount of people did and do.

“Hohmm… ‘twasn’t that it released tiny machines to repair itself; it was as though it un—did the damages that had already transpired.” - Don Quixote, Abnormality’s Observation Log #1.

To regress to the past. To act as if things haven't changed, or to try to restore them to what they were. That’s what the Accumulated Past mechanic is all about, being reflective of the work the Machine does and thus the turns the battle is taking, with a higher count indicating an increase in the use and degradation of its body; RR2 follows the same principle, though it was tied to the overall “time” (i.e., turns)  the Sinners took.

Now, since the “past” is “accumulated”, asking where it’s stored is a natural question, and the Logs, the MD Encounter and the mid-combat Event give an obvious answer: Steam Machine’s past is 100% literally gathered in the nixie tubes (incorrectly called “vacuum tube” by Don) in its body. In fact, reducing the number shown by the tubes allows the Abnormality to return to a previous, less damaged state, as seen in its “Returning Past” passive. You can compare it to save scumming in a way.

Accumulated Past is so important for Steam Machine that it literally affects every other part of its kit, including its Poise or, as stated by Don in the Observation Logs, steam generation… or it should in theory.

While Don seems to be pretty sure about the relationship, there’s no gameplay element that reflects such a relation. The closest thing to it are how some of its skills do more damage based on the Machine’s Accumulated Past, and its RR2 exclusive passive, “Overlapping Past”, which grants it 1 Attack Power Up for every 80 Accumulated Past. It’s possible to make the connection between “more steam means more skills used, and more skills used means more turns”, but I don’t think the Logs referred to that…

At any rate, “Overlapping Past” is a curious name, because it implies that Steam Machine is somehow overlapping (duh) its past states within its current one to achieve greater strength in every attack. Something equally interesting happens with its other passive, “Metronome”, named for the instrument used to set a regular tempo by musicians and dancers to help maintain the rhythm in their work, which means the Steam Machine’s Accumulated Past helps it to set the “speed” of the fight, explaining the defenses and attack modifiers acquired through the tube’s numbers.

All of that clearly shows the Accumulated Past is not some sort of abstraction or symbol for something else; it’s an essential part of the Abnormality. Its past is a tangible reality to which it can not only return, but also clearly manifest in the present, and that ultimately controls it. In fact, one may say that the past is the thing that makes up Steam Machine’s own existence, as shown with the story presented through its skill set.

Beginning with the two “oldest” skills as indicated by their names, “853” and “5384”, these are Sloth-based and thus indicate the mindset the Machine had “back there”: a complete lack of zeal for its “work”, mindlessly carrying luggage without any deeper consideration about its existence. Such a state is as soulless and robotic as you get… or maybe not. Maybe that is its soul, its entire being from which its very own sense of self and thus pride grew as defenses against its meaninglessness, as shown with the Pride skills, “6463” and “6753”.

“A purposeless machine is bound to lose the meaning of its existence, even if it is functional.” - Abnormality Encounter

But it doesn’t matter how many swords are used to defend one’s ego, everything inevitably has to change, especially within Steam Machine’s absurd lifespan. Thus, when confronted with that truth, what can it do besides raging against the world, as “6475384” demonstrates? It’s unknown if it was betrayed, abandoned or something along those lines, but its hatred is a real and dangerous thing; we all know the horrifying things people and even we can do in order to make our lives feel meaningful (again).

And finally, at the end lies “974569A”, the only possible destination a being that refuses to change can arrive at: envy for all those who can move beyond a monotonous existence, finding meaning within their selves that change with every step of their journeys. For the first time, the Machine finds itself broken in a way its ability can’t erase, for it has gone through an untold quantity of time trying to hold onto the only thing it has through reliving its past, all the while ignoring that single, insulting fact.

This understanding is reflected in its Sin resistances too, especially to Sloth since it’s touched upon when you choose “order it to do nothing” during its Encounter: because it was made with the purpose of carrying things and do work in general, Steam Machine will simply blow up when confronted against a situation in which it can’t do anything, unable to fulfill its only purpose. That’s to say, the Machine won’t give up on its meaning and core essence by any means, despite its own affinity for inertia and refusal to change, which in turn explains its resistance to both Pride and Gloom—it’s too stubborn and bitter to question its ways, let alone be distracted by the despair of losing its meaning.

Steam Machine will keep doing the same, over and over again, for all eternity. And you, the Player, are the only one who can free it from its self-created cycle.

“It was working ceaselessly. The machine has never stopped working since its pressurized, scalding hot steam turned its first gears. We must break the cycle in which it has long been trapped to continue on our path.” - Dante, Station #2: Servitude, Refraction Railway Line 2.

However, during its Encounter, you are also free to perpetuate it through your own indolence and needs.

“Machines exist for a purpose. You feel like you should give it an order.” - Abnormality Encounter.

That’s the reason behind the Sloth and Gluttony advantages in the “order it to carry luggage” choice, and why Steam Machine kind of “turns off” in case you fail the check: the order lacked a purpose, an actual need behind it. But that leaves the Envy advantage unexplained, because what does a Sinner’s envy has to do with the purpose of an order? The only answer I can come up with is that the advantage reflects a twisted desire to maintain the cycle out of fear the Machine might one day break it, to bring it down along with the chosen Sinner. And considering how susceptible and weak the Abnormality is to Envy, it’s plausible.

But if you, ignoring and tempering your own fears and necessities, decide to help it through destroying the cycle in which it trapped itself, there’s only one thing you must do: to break its nixie tubes. Only there, with its past misplaced and lost, out of the shadow of what happened, Steam Machine can truly begin to live in the present, unbounded by the refusal to let go of its past, creating its own life instead of endlessly repeating all it has done.

Maybe that’s why its mid-combat Event has a Gloom advantage, for it’s hard to suppress that desire to act as if nothing has changed. It’s a path full of despair and anxiety that most people fear. Nonetheless, you must walk towards the future and live in the now, because when you take the first, second, third step forward, you will realize it.

Changing isn’t as painful as you think it is.

Note: For those who still haven’t noticed it, all of the enemy debuffs during RR2 are inspired by the non-history Abnos + Fairy duo. In Steam Transport Machine’s case, the buff corresponds to “Hardening”, with the icon literally being the nixie tubes.

Umbrellas of Love

“There is no way to know why the fox remained buried under the umbrellas, but perhaps removing them all will inspire it to move to a different spot. The fox gently holds the old and worn umbrella in its mouth and yips at us, as though it did not want us to take it away.” - Abnormality Encounter.

Driftig Fox is an interesting Abnormality, because I believe is the only who has an excerpt of the Lobotomy Corp.’s original documents, and four different iterations of its EGO: Sunshower Yi Sang, Sunshower Outis, Lobotomy EGO Heathcliff, and Lobotomy EGO Dongbaek. It has a lot of material to analyze, to the point I really don’t know where to begin… So I think its overall kit is a good place to start.

Unlike the previous two Abnormalities, the Fox lacks any gimmicky status, making its fight quite straightforward. The closest thing to Talismans and Accumulated Past is its Gloom skill, “Cries Seeking Something”, that normally allows it to summon Old Umbrellas, which in turn have access to a single Gloom skill that inflicts both Rupture and Sinking. In RR2, the end result is the same despite the differences in mechanics.

From this, we can obviously deduce that hopelessness, despair, and the like are the core part of its existence, with even its defense skill, “Waiting”, reducing the Sinners’ SP through pity alone (apparently). That much is obvious, mentioned even by the Logs.

“In particular... it sometimes does nothing and waits, but the attack that comes after was especially powerful. ...Huh. The fox... sometimes cries.  Looking at the sky, howling for long... as if it's laying bare some kind of sorrow into the sky.” - Sinclair, Abnormality’s Observation Log #2.

But that’s not all, because, just as the effect of its skill shows, the Fox focuses on its survival too. The RR2 version of the skill demonstrates it better, since it gives it the special status “Protection Umbrellas”, which grants it Protection scaling with the former’s quantity; that’s to say, the Old Umbrellas are meant to shield the Fox from the rain, apparently lodging into its body as answer to its cry. The normal version lacks the mechanic and directly summons the Umbrellas, though the overall meaning is kept the same.

This desperate desire for survival is represented by its two Gluttony skills, “Sorrowful Recoil” and “Sorrowful Torrent”, used only by its umbrella-perforated body: even if they are painful and make contact with others unbearable, causing it to recoil, the Fox “gladly” accepts such mutilations in order to survive. This behavior is reflected perfectly in the excerpt I quoted under the image, from the “take the gathered umbrellas” option, and in a couple of battle mechanics:

Its passive, “Last Struggle”, causes the Abnormality to desperately call for help every turn when it’s on its last legs (less than 15% HP), getting weaker and slower every turn. Naturally, those who answer will do everything they can to protect it (Umbrellas with 30% more HP).

Based on the name and effects, the Umbrellas’ “Scattering Sorrow” skill seems to represent how they try to perforate the Sinners and deflect the rain towards them, despite how tattered they are.

It doesn’t matter if one likes it or not, the Old Umbrellas are the only “shield” the Fox has and knows, and they will try their best to protect it… which makes Sinclair’s conclusion in the Logs much more horrifying.

“I, I see where it's coming from. We have to take away the worn umbrellas on that poor child, and embrace it ourselves. We-” - Sinclair, Abnormality’s Observation Log #3.

At first glance, it sounds perfectly fine and sensible, repeating the information given by the fragment of L Corp.’s document in Dongbaek’s Log. However, we know that Sinclair felt bad for destroying the Fox’s umbrellas (for a reason) thanks to the second log, and that removing them as well would have caused the Fox greater pain, as seen in many parts:

Its “Broken Umbrella” passive grants it 3 Fragile every turn once its umbrella-filled body is broken (during a normal fight; the RR2 version was modified to be harder I believe).

The Umbrellas actively hurt the Fox through applying “Umbrella Splinters” once they are destroyed. This happens with Sunshower Dongbaek too, but through degrading her mind with Sinking instead of applying Rupture to her body.

In the RR2 version, two unique Glooms counters were added to its kit, “Volatile Response” for the body and “Volatile Reaction” for the head. Taking into account their names, the Thorns they grant on use, and the previous mechanics, it’s quite obvious what they represent.

And finally, there’s the “pull out the umbrellas” option in the Encounter

“Those umbrellas seem to be causing it pain. When you pull them out with force, bits of its flesh come off with them. The fox yelped sharply and gave us a glare. Then, it smacked you with the umbrella in its mouth. It seemed to reprimand your attitude of pursuing resolution without forethought.” - Abnormality Encounter.

It’s quite telling that Heathcliff—the one who has the Identity with the Sunshower Lobotomy EGO—was the one that snapped (somewhat literally) Sinclair out of his “panic” state

Don’t misunderstand, though. There's no doubt about how the umbrellas harm and bring pain to the Fox, but living in such a state is much more preferable for it than being in pain and exposed to the rain simultaneously. In fact, this paradoxical, self-destructive drive to survive is also seen in Dongbaek’s kit—with two of her skills aptly named “Self-defense” and “Sink It All”—and Outis’ Sunshower, which, beyond her Gluttony affinity, has an interesting contrast between the Awakening and Corrosion voicelines 

“I don't need... any pointless attention!” - Outis (Sunshower), EGO Awakening.

“Don't—leave me this time…” - Outis (Sunshower), EGO Corrosion.

I normally don’t do this, since EGOs are better reserved for a character analysis. But I’m going to do an exception for this version of Sunshower due to how well it translates the Fox’s ambivalence regarding the “affection” given by people: at its best, the Abnormality knows that the people called by its cry will only hurt it, notwithstanding their good intentions; at its worst, it accepts any and all attention without care of the resulting pain, as long as it can take refuge from the rain, however small it is.

At the end, it doesn’t matter how many people come to its help, Drifting Fox will forever remain out in the open, constantly assaulted by the rain as it wanders in dark and damp alleyways, for the umbrellas are too old and worn to be of any help. That’s why it will always be hungry for more, too scared and distrustful of people to not allow itself to be touched and thus satiated, explaining both its affinity and weakness to Gloom and Gluttony.

… But there’s something else regarding the Fox, something that doesn’t fit with its perpetual hunger for a place to rest: why does it keep on crying for help instead of just moving out of the rain? Why does it insist on roaming the darkest, most humiliating places? Those questions were implied in the first quote of this section (again), and then by the two Lobotomy EGO versions.

“Look. See how she is helplessly caught in the falling rain. She must have no intention of avoiding it. She is simply showering herself and all others in the rain…” - Yi Sang, Dogbaek’s Observation Log.

“But… When I'm done, the chill reminds me that I'm alone. I go back to wandering damp, dark alleys… Now I can hardly sleep anywhere else.” - Heathcliff, Lobotomy EGO Uptie Story.

Due to their circumstances in which they are, both Dongbaek and TLA Heathcliff are stubborn individuals trying to bring great changes to the City, with the latter even planning to “go back [somewhere] with pride” after creating a world without technology—to keep enjoying life. Yet, in the following quotes he states that he has no friends left and rejects all sources of possible comfort, sleeping in the cold streets, akin to how Dongbaek lets herself exposed to the rain without care.

What I’m implying here is that the Fox ultimately doesn’t care about stopping its suffering once and for all. Maybe it’s because it doesn’t know better, or because it finds comfort in the pain; there’s no way for us to know. Even so, it keeps on crying out loud for people as it refuses to move on from the circumstances in which it as abandoned, as seen with its RR2 exclusive passive “Vain Heart”, the source of the Protection Umbrella status and that which allows it to summon Old Umbrellas through its defense skill—through Waiting.

This unwillingness to change and simply move on is the last thing that characterizes Drifting Fox, as seen with Lobotomy EGO Heathcliff’s third skill and Sunshower Yi Sang, with their Sloth affinity. Naturally, it’s also reflected on the remaining skills of the Abnormality, all of them being Sloth-based except for the (RR2 exclusive) Gloom skill, “Pleading Cries”, though the name does fit with the Fox’s “vanity”… or better said, its pity-inducing nature.

That’s why all the Sloth skills inflict Sinking, for they are representations of the dangerous notion that one day the Fox is going to receive what it truly wants if it remains on such poor conditions, instead of more unwanted attention. Its last passive, “Ragged Umbrella”, lends the most on such “tactic”, allowing it to inflict more Sinking once the umbrella in its mouth (i.e., its head) is broken and rendered “useless”.

However, nothing really suggests that Drifting Fox is deliberately manipulating people. By definition it can’t due to its fully animalistic nature. If there’s someone to blame, it would be the people that are unable to stand the sight of ugly and miserable things tainting their day, just like when it rains during sunny days. Nevertheless, such events happen, and the solution isn’t simply to lash out against that ugliness without forethought (likely explaining its Wrath resistance), but to simply celebrate it—to share the love during the “wedding of the fox”.

“Its growl recedes. You stroke it once more, and it closes its eyes, pleased. You stroke it once more, and it settles on the ground, comforted. You stroke it once more, and it shrinks to become a statue.” - Abnormality Encounter.

When it finally finds what it wants, the Fox can rest in peace knowing it’s in good hands. That’s the reason behind the Lust advantage of the “pet the fox” option, with the Sloth advantage being its total opposite—utter apathy and indifference for its surroundings and appearance, lacking any judgment or reaction. The Pride advantage is similar to the Lust one, though much more self-centered for obvious reasons; less sensual and warm, but more confident in a way.

Now, beyond trying to comfort it, there’s also another method to confront the Abnormality, shown with the mid-combat Event, where the chosen Sinner is sent to approach the Fox and its Umbrellas. Since it has Gloom advantage, it’s easy to see how the identities who are most familiar with despair and pain are able to reach the epiphany the Fox lacks easier than any other: that its cries and thus the umbrellas are ultimately unneeded. That revelation is so shocking that it even causes the Old Umbrellas to lose 30% of their HP, representing their loss of meaning.

“The umbrellas look like they've been standing there for Wings know how long trying to protect the fox, but it certainly doesn't seem like they're doing a good job at it.” - Mid-Combat Event.

Although, things are a little more complicated than just “waiting for the rain to stop”, since the Fox is already waiting, isn't it? In fact, that mentality is its main problem, and what led Yi Sang to not do anything when Dongrang began to doubt himself.

“Some considered the assemblage to be mere noise… While some considered the commotion to be growth. As for me… I saw it slantwise as always. As heavy rain might pour for days after a spell of clear skies… I saw no meaning in attempting to fathom the caprices of the weather. Yi Sang: I would simply wait for things to calm, looking out for the day’s arrival.” - Rowdy League of Nine Littérateurs, Canto IV.

And we can’t forget K Corp. eagerly “awaiting” for the Tearful Thing to cry, nor the bitter conclusion of Dongrang right before the Fox’s battle, about how there was no need for him to do anything thanks to K Corp.’s ampules.

Waiting for the end of things you can’t change is good and all, but sometimes doing nothing can actively worsen things. So even if you can’t do much, you still must stand up and brace yourself to fight against misery, unless you want it to consume and rust you like it does with the “little world” that surrounds you.

“I ran off and roamed the Backstreets like a thrown away umbrella until they took me in…” - Heathcliff, Lobotomy EGO Uptie Story.

“We know, however, that the umbrellas piercing its body are not there for the rain. For the fox has not once opened them for itself.” - Dante, Station #3: Rainfall, Refraction Railway Line 2.

And naturally, what better way to confront the rain than through sharing an umbrella~?

Devouring Lives

“The fairy's smile stretches into an eerie grin. The strangeness didn't need to be pointed out for everyone to share the same sentiment. Even though we knew we shouldn't trust things by the looks, we still fell for it. We'll have to pay the price for it.” - Abnormality Encounter.

Everyone should know what kind of being are fairies within the British Isles’ folklore by now. It’s one of “curiosities you must know” repeated ad nauseam in every article, video or media that deals with them in any capacity, no matter how bare-bones the actual explanation is. Thus, there’s no need for me to explain in-depth those aspects, especially when you consider all the other fairy-related Abnormalities that Project Moon has created.

So to begin, Faelatern isn’t really that connected to Midsummer Night’s Dream beyond its tricky behavior, despite what the name of its first EGO gift, “Midwinter Nightmare”, may suggest. There’s a complete lack of commentaries regarding the play’s main theme, the fickleness and irony of love (or Lust, in Limbus), which seems to have been replaced by the predatoriness of the “fairy” itself, cunningly acting upon its gluttony instead of… any other goal, really.

However, a parallel with a certain character of the story can still be drawn: Puck, the servant of the fairy king Oberon. This is not solely due to his role as the one who charms and tricks the human characters of the play and queen Titania herself, but also thanks to one of his folkloric sources, the celtic púca/pwca/pooka.

The legends of the púca, as most stories, are varied, but they mostly focus on the fairy’s penchant to trick (mostly drunk) people during the night, shapeshifting into diverse animals to offer them a ride to their homes… just to lead them anywhere but there. Still, there’s a particular version I think is important to the Abnormality, the one that came from “British Goblins: Welsh Folklore, Fairy Mythology, Legends and Traditions” by Wirt Sikes:

“Pwca, or Pooka, is but another name for the Ellylldan, as our Puck is another name for the Will-o’-wisp; but in both cases the shorter term has a more poetic flavour and a wider latitude. [...] This form presents a peasant who is returning home from his work, or from a fair, when he sees a light travelling before him. Looking closer he perceives that it is carried by a dusky little figure, holding a lantern candle at arm’s length over its head. He follows it for several miles, and suddenly finds himself on the brink of a frightful precipice. From far down below there rises to his ears to his ears the sound of a foaming torrent. At the same time the little goblin with the lantern springs across the chasm, alighting on the opposite side; raises the light again high over its head, utters a loud and malicious laugh, blows out its candle and disappears up the opposite hill, leaving the awestruck peasant to get home as best he can.”

As far as I know, the equalization between the púca and the will-o’-wisp isn’t common, but it kinda fits at the end: both entities (commonly) lead astray people that decide to accept their help/follow them. One can even say the play supports this, with Puck claiming that he can appear like “fire” as he leads people through “bogs, bushes, brakes, and briers” during the third act, despite the more well-known domestic nature of the hobgoblin—an aspect that is present at some level in Faelatern’s illusion.

In more than one sense the Abnormality is a distorted mirror of the three fairies: while the púca, the will-o’-wisp and the puck/hobgoblin act during the night, either through helping people or causing (relatively speaking) harmless scares, Faelantern presents itself during the day as a homely and mysterious light that promises rest to people, with its true nature as a voracious abyss lying underneath the “fairy fire”.

If the púca/puck causes all sorts of pranks and tricks that, as the literary Puck said, are no different from dreams, then Faelatern is a nightmare that begins with a hypnotizing beauty whose true nature will soon be learned and never forgotten.

… And yeah, that’s the possible inspiration behind this Abnormality, and the hard part to analyze. The rest of it, like its skills and game mechanic, are quite self-explanatory:

“Snagged Lure”, “Burrowing Roots” and “Encroaching Stems” are all Gluttony skills to represent how survival-driven Faelantern is.

“Expanding Roots” is Sloth-based thanks to its Modus Operandi, resting and waiting in a single place until a prey appears.

The “Leading Lure”, “Evolving Lure” and “Charmed” passives explain how it works, continuously trying to “improve” its Fairy Lure to catch more people.

The “Broken Stump” reinforces the Gluttony affinity, with the Abnormality focusing on stealing the nutrients so it can (apparently) restore its broken body.

Lastly, and as curiosity, the “Fairy Dust” passive is an obvious reference to another fairy, Tinker Bell. But where her dust allows people to fly, Faelantern’s dust only makes them faster and more agile (i.e., Poise).

The only part of its kit that requires a higher level of interpretation is the passive and Pride skill that share the name, “Uncovered Abyss”. In tandem, the two elements likely point that, whatever higher thinking the Abnormality has, it’s more preoccupied with a self-absorbed appreciation of itself as an “abyss” that devours everything in the forest than with meaningfully improving its hunting tactics.

Another element that requires further analysis is, obviously, its weaknesses. While Faelantern’s resistances to Gluttony and Gloom should be obvious, being a monster that fully accepts its hunger and that genuinely doesn’t care about anything else, it being weak to Pride and Lust likely derive from how those dispositions can interfere with the Abnormality’s behavior: a pride that sees the Fairy’s “gift” as useless or irrelevant from the get-go, or maybe messing with its (lack of) love in a no so dissimilar way to Midsummer’s Puck.

And finally, there’s the mid-combat Event with Sloth advantage, implying that one needs to be “guided” by the Lure without question or care to destroy it along with the question given: Who will answer the bait?

I like to think that part shows the underlying meaning of the Abnormality, how it’s a symbol for an all-devouring thing that conceals itself through charm and light. It may be a person, an organization, or even an ideology; it doesn’t matter, because all it smokes and mirrors, a trick, a sick and twisted hoax. Faelantern doesn’t care about anything else but to satisfy the gaping hole of its “stomach”, unlike, say, Siltcurrent and Skin Prophet, who completely believe their own delusions.

You should always take care when you walk the (dark) forest of life, for no matter how bright it may be, disguised predators are bound to appear.

Note: Following the pattern I mentioned in Steam Machine’s section, Faelantern’s buff corresponds to “Inhaling”. The symbol likely represents the Abnormality’s stump/branches forming into a mouth to “steal nutrients”, which is also seen in its EGOs’ healing (beyond its own passives, of course).

Post-Commentary

This time I bring the first four Abnormalities of RR2. I began to write about them a couple of weeks after I finished the RR3 post, before RR4. However, since I only have one of the Abnormalities for the next part done (Shock Centipede), the second post will take some more time. Not much though, considering Wayward Passenger and Sign of Roses are on the easier side to analyze.

Anyway, in regards to some other thoughts I had while writing… I already commented how Steam Machine and Portrait of a Certain Day are similar on how they represent the weight of the past. The difference falls, I suppose, in that one is born out of love and nostalgia, while the other out of fear—Steam Machina lives to work, unable and fearful to imagine any other life beyond what it has done from its birth.

Another thing I wish to note is about Faelantern, since while I’m pretty sure about its meaning, it’s not so in the folkloric inspiration. In the first place I searched about the Will-o’-Wisp since the Lure acted like one in a way, and I found (in wikipedia, naturally) that the púca may be related to it. I lost a couple of days watching videos about it xD I wonder if Fairy Gentleman and Long-Legs will have a similar inspiration…

And since we are speaking about a “fairy”, I think it is funny that Drifting Fox is a trauma-related Abnormality and not a fairy-tale one, despite its EGO name’s origin. So instead of focusing on any folkloric element, I tried to see the meaning behind the colloquial names of sunshowers: the devil beating his wife (or doing anything undevil), or an animal’s wedding. I ultimately reached the conclusion it was because, just like animals or the devil don’t actually get wedded, there shouldn’t be a rain during a sunny day. It’s something that doesn't make sense.

[adrheenaline]

Mainly a post about levihan but I have tried imagining different scenarios wherein Hange did not have to die, where an ending involved them… looking back though, knowing what they're up against, risking any titan shifter really is not an option for the team… they could just not lose any of them to have a big chance of winning against Eren and stopping the rumble. Many have been saying why couldn't it be Jean that battled the wall colossal titans? While it is true he is told to be exemplary at using ODM gear among his class, our Captain Commander Hange would not be able to bear to sacrifice yet another life of their subordinate. I just could not imagine how greatly it would break Hange's heart and will had they deliberately ordered Jean to do so.

This feat, however, was viewed by many as Hange's suicide rather than a sacrifice… both are true whichever way one would put it.

It is a sacrifice for those of their team to not have a heavy burden to carry on their shoulders to decide who will be left behind, because let's face it, then and there all of them knew that in order to delay the wall colossal titans' movement, one of them should and will be left behind. It was a cold, sad, gruesome fact that I believe Hange did not want any of them to live through. BUT, I also saw it as their way out.

They were just tired… the whole truth that unraveled was so disappointing, I was actually surprised they were able to keep such a composure that made them last until Chapter 132. I can only imagine how dumbfounded Hange was when they have learned that titans are once humans, and that the one person they protected and believed to be a new hope would now be the exact opposite. It was heartbreaking… their appointment as the 14th Captain Commander could also not have come at a worse time, and it was actually relatable in a sense where we were somehow forced to have responsibilities at a young age that we did not fully understand. They saw the opportunity. They grabbed it…

But let's delve in with how the conversation went with Levi. Shinzou sasageyo-- spoken only once by the Heichou, but how powerful and cinematic was it to have him speak those words to the only person he has left at such a time. Oh but I knew that Hange knew if Levi stopped them from going, they would have second thoughts. What once an unbreakable commitment to die will be easily thrown out if only Levi said "Stay." consequently telling him to just let them go.

Isayama would not waste 3 panels showing emotions through Levi's eyes before telling Hange to dedicate their heart if the latter was not important to the captain, and what a beautiful moment it was~ I will be forever grateful to Isayama for not cutting short on that moment, for taking the time to draw those 3 panels of Levi's eyes, and Hange's panel showing astonishment, for letting Levi call Hange "Four eyes" for the last time. That moment was excruciatingly heartbreaking, but it was perfect in its own way… because it was not ~cut short~, and to choose to say "See you later, Hange. Please watch over me." instead of goodbye was so symbolic of the love Levi had to let go but did not want to.

Personally, I do not see Levi and Hange as a romantic couple, but more of platonic soulmates, comparable to one's bestfriend whom you can call at 2 in the morning asking if they believe in God, and the one you would give a handmade bracelet and would not be embarrassed to wear it, that type of platonic relationship. It's difficult not to attest to LeviHan ship when Isayama created so many subtle but not meaningless encounters between the two. One great example was the forest scene right after Hange rescued Levi, and let us not forget their complementary eye injuries. Some may say that fans are ridiculously exagerrating the connections, and that we give too much meaning to scenes that happened just because they did, that they are only coincidences… but Isayama, the great artist that he is, would not make coincidences, especially reoccurring ones.

[mudskip-drabbles]

@dragcns-den wanted more Gay Shit

"You are an asshole!" Yelled as the front door was literally kicked open, that poor lock not having a single hope when matched against Giovanni Potage!

Still, despite his strong entrance, it was clear by Gio's tone that he was anything but angry, the shouting being solely for dramatic affect, which was always important. "How dare you start a war of affections with me while I was enacting my most evil of plans!" (IE: Stealing a bear plushie for Molly out of a claw machine that would spurn him no longer!) "There is no room for love in the midst of such vile atrocities!" That didn't stop him from returning the warm feeling of love across their bond though, it seemingly having become one of Rick's favorite pastimes as of late, to bombard his friends whenever he got the urge to let them know just how much he cared for them. Gio still remembers the first time he'd felt it, the sudden feeling of pure, unrestrained affection literally knocking him to his knees as it took his breath from his lungs. It hadn't taken long to put two and two together after that, Rick quickly turning from loving to fearful so suddenly that it too could be felt across their bond, there being no way it could all be chalked up to coincidence.

Rick was mostly unphased, having to push down the initial fear of the sudden entrance despite knowing it was only Giovanni. He met the dramatic shouting with an evil laugh in turn, dark wisps of miasma emitting from his upturned palms most menacingly.

"Fool! You believed yourself free from my grasp simply because you were busy!? The downfall is of your own making!" It didn't matter where any of his friends were or what they were doing, he was going to send them love whenever he pleased! He needed them to know at any given moment when his mind grew cruel, it making him twitchy and unnerved whenever he'd tried to suppress the urge at first.

"You will never know peace so long as we are bound heart and soul! Such is the consequences of-" He cut himself off at the sight of the stuffed bear in Gio's hand, his eyes now shining as a hand came up to his mouth as if to hide a gasp. "Oooooo! What is that adorable little creature? Will it require sustenance? What does such a mighty being endeavor to consume?" Rapid fire questions didn't give Gio a chance to answer until Rick was nose to nose with the stuffed animal that had been held up for him to see more clearly.

"Oh this?" He sounded way too smug about a plushie. "It's a stuffed animal! One that Bear Trap and I tried for hours to win. But I emerged victorious in the end!!" A pause, the theatrics being toned down within the span of a blink. "Oh uh, I'm not allowed at the arcade in the mall anymore. Like that's gonna stop me. Stupid mall cop thinks he can control me."

Setting the bear onto the dining table so Molly would see it upon coming home from school, Rick stayed near nose to nose with the fluffy thing with that shine never dulling for even a moment.

"Fascinating! What is the purpose of these 'stuffed animals'? Is it customary to gift the deceased to a loved one?" A genuine question, one that pulled a laugh from Gio as he settled the little bear to sit up against a couple school books Molly had left there. It wasn't out of malice though, something Gio made sure to tell Rick every now and then so he didn't get the wrong idea. He thought such questions were cute, that puppy dog look of excitement Rick got enough to inadvertently shoot affection across their bond, Gio always felt it so strongly upon seeing it.

"It's just fabric, dude. Made into a little friend! Kinda like...THIS!" Pulled dramatically from his inner coat pocket was another plushie, this one being a stuffed chameleon that was purple and red in color. "I actually paid for this one, saw it while they were escorting me out of the mall. Had to sneak back in to buy it, but I had to! It was too perfect!!"

Those puppy dog eyes quickly switched their excitement to this new reveal, Rick growing so giddy he began to rapidly clap his hands as he bounced in place.

"I LOVE IT!!" Loud, but Gio hardly minded. "Who is this fabric friend for?" A question Giovanni knew to be genuine by the curiosity that skipped across their bond, it bringing a fond smile to his face.

"It's for you, ya goof!" A dramatic gasp at the new new reveal, Rick lighting up like a firework as he nearly plowed into Gio's chest for a tight hug. One that had Gio lifted a good couple inches off the ground, something that had a blush warming up his face with a feeling he didn't quite know how to place.

"I LOVE IT!!!" Somehow even louder than before, Gio was set down in favor of hugging the plushie to his chest, Rick being filled with joy one might expect of a child or a man who hadn't received a gift like this in years.

"Where is your fabric friend?" Asked with that same eager grin as he smooshed his cheek against the plushie, it quickly turned into a loud gasp as Gio shrugged his shoulders.

"UNACCEPTABLE!!" Shouted before Gio could get even a breath into his lungs, Rick hugged the toy to his chest while he pulled a smiling Giovanni towards the door by the hand.

"Uh, I'm kinda banned from the mall, remember?" Not that he would abide by such a thing, but he was curious as to where Rick would go with this.

"Unimportant!! We must procure you a fabric friend as well!!" He didn't want Giovanni to be left out.

Gio could only give a fond laugh as he shook his head, picking up his pace so he was the one pulling rick along.

"Well then what are we waiting for? Pick up the pace Shades, we gotta get home before Bear Trap so we can see her face when we give her that bear!! I bet she's gonna flip and I don't wanna miss it!!"

[gojoslovebot]

LUST

tag list : @pinkraindropsfell @halparkebitch @kazoomas @naoyailoveu @sukunas-cult-leader @yamigoops @yamashiro888

warnings for this chapter: nothing too big.

CHAPTERS

[0] PROLOGUE

[1] RAIN

[2] UNFORTUNATE EVENTS

"oh. I see"

The tension here was so thick I could cut it with a knife to say at least. Gojo looked like he couldn't care that much, but I could see there was something Nobara would love to inform me about this so called stranger when we got alone.

"Anyways, what are you doing here this early y/n?", Nobara asked while turning her head towards me. Obviously trying to ignore that her past teacher was here.

"Oh I was originally going to have maki pick me up, but she kinda hanged up on me so I figured I'll just hang out with you. It's been awhile." I finished with a small smile.

It had been awhile since I've hanged out with Nobara. Last time we've been together was last summer and since then the two of us hadn't had much contact. We still talk with each other tru social media, but there had been no form of social interaction for quite some time

"Yeah it has been awhile hasn't it? let's head inside and catch up shall we, it's pouring out here" Nobara smiled which made me happy knowing it wasn't any weird tension between us.

looking towards the stranger, I had noticed he was no longer there. Rude of him to just vanish like that, I was quite curious of him. Besides the absence of the stranger who I no longer remember the name of, me and Nobara went in to the bakery laughing at old memories.

"I forgot to ask, why were you with gojo of all people?" Nobara asked while setting a cup of coffee on the table.

Greeting her my thanks for the coffee I replied. "It was actually just a coincidence, I was just trying to shelter myself from the rain and he appeared. So we kinda just started talking iguess".

Nobara's muttered a small 'oh' before taking a sip of her coffee. "Why is there something about him that I don't know?" I asked.

Nobara looked quite uncomfortable with me talking to him so it made me curious as to who this 'Gojo' could be.

"uhm yeah. When I was in high school I heard a bunch of rumors that he had some kind of secret relationship with one of the students." She finished.

"secret relationships? huh" I was kinda shocked about the information Nobara's was telling me. He didn't really look like the guy that could commit himself in romance and stuff.

"yeah but I don't think it was romantically, just sexually." figured. Nobara told me while I took another sip of my coffee.

"So a word of advice from me. Don't trust him too much, he's a total fuckboy. Actually the girl he was fucking around with had developed a large crush on him and he rejected her."

"Poor girl, she must had been devastated"

"she was, until she went total freak mode and told him she was bearing his child and all that", Nobara told me with a disgusted face.

"wait, what? for real?", i was shocked.

"not really, I think she just made it up so he would stay, but he saw through it. we all did", she explaind more briefly and took a sip of her coffee.

"still tho, that's pretty fucked up". imagine being so desperate for a person that you would do anything in your power to make them stay. one of the many reasons as to why i don't stay in a relationship, i don't want to have that kind of commitment towards me in any way.

yet.

"yeah well. it's a fucked up world we live in"

word

in the same moment Nobara would place her coffee cup down on the table again, my phone began to ring and looking at the time, it should make sense that Maki had been done with her nonsense and on her way to get me, finally. 

"that should be maki, picking me up. she's probably outside." I said, gathering my things and thanked for the coffee. As i was beginning to leave Nobara followed me to the door, when she stopped me. 

"hey it was nice talking to you after all this time" she said with a smile on her face. 

i returned the gesture and smiled back. "yeah i agree, we should do it more often, I've missed you". as i was stepping in for a hug, maki suddenly honked which made both me and Nobara to yelp. 

"hurry up or i'll leave you again!", maki yelled from her car. 

"yeah yeah i love you too" i yelled back and turned back to Nobara to say goodbye. 

"y/n?", Nobara asked with a concerned face. 

"yeah?”

"just promise me you'll stay away from gojo. he really is bad news", she warned me and by the look on her face she was dead serious with this one. Nobara usually don't tell me who i fuck around with in the first place, and she knows im no better than Gojo, but when she told me to stay away with the serious look on her face, i couldn't help but feel un ease. 

"I will, okay? boys don't get me that easily anyways so don't you worry about me.", i smirked at her and she chuckled a bit. 

"of course y/n, i'll see ya around yeah?", she waved while i walked towards maki's car. 

"yeah cya !" i waved before setting my damp clothes in the car seat. feeling my skin stick to the leather seats. ah just what i needed for sure after a long night. 

"you're literally going to ruin my car, here put this sweater on or you'll catch a cold." maki looked like a pissed of MILF, and i coudn't help but laugh. 

"yeah right, I won't my immune system is a different breed, im good." I say with confidence. 

"suit yourself" maki sighs while taking her eyes on the road.

when maki began averting her focus on the road I averted my gaze towards the busy streets, hoping I would see those familiar white locks of hair somewhere. Even though Nobara told me to stay away from him, it made me want to see him more. like a guilty pleasure kind of thing, but i always keep my promises so i would have to not see him anymore. After only one meeting with this man, it made me curious. Was he all that talk or did he actually have that kind of rumour stick to him. womanizer or what you would call it. 

I was wrong btw. 

I did catch a cold

[tunamayuuu]

“i actually stopped being into bsd for a full ass year and ever since that shin soukoku doodle i made, it comforted a big part of me that felt horrible everytime i'd post bsd onto socmed knowing my more passionate works didn't get as much engagement as shitposts ahaha...”

• Oh yeah I remember you mentioning that somewhere and tbh I get that it happened to me too but with Kny (⁠〒ω〒) It's unfair, and upsetting, the engagement rate on most art posts–that aren't either skk nor a meme–in this fandom, but I'm glad you're getting more love, because you deserve all of it with your work!! You put a lot of care into it and your hard work bears fruit to beautiful art! I can't really blame the people for wanting some relief from the depressive canon through memes and shitposts, but I also can't deny that it does sting.

“the kny-ified bsd au was and still is an au project i want to keep working on!! i have a looong list of the full cast, it's just that i always get side quests and wanting to draw OTHER things and getting into OTHER new medias i wanna draw and yeah that's why it's taken years for me to complete anything orz (i have plenty of files of the au that i never posted because they're all unfinished or uncolored and i thought i won't do my au justice if none of them were colored yk?)”

• I felt that on a spiritual level istg ಥ⁠‿⁠ಥ It's understandable, and imo drawing for a different fandom is a good change of pace and helps avoid burnout since drawing the same fandom all the time could get tiresome, even if you would generally find it fun. (I get it, and I honestly admire your dedication to give the best you have for your works, so take your time with your projects, I know you're working hard and I think I speak for a lot of us when I say we'll never rush you to have anything finished and posted right away.)

“i'm not an inokana fan myself but i'd love to hear your take on them! i just wanted to draw kyokenji at that time ehehei will always say that rengokunikida was def not my idea. it was an idea from a bsd friend! they even explained to me how it could work and i never looked back”

• My take on inokana: They complement each other in many ways. Inosuke is very loud, and Kanao is very quiet, but they've both seen each other in the rare state where they're not. I feel like Inosuke could bring out a little immaturity in Kanao and that she could teach Inosuke a fraction of patience. Inosuke definitely has some form of appreciation for her skills and capabilities, and he'd definitely hold her in high regard in his own mountain king way. I don't know why, but a gut feeling tells me they'd agree on a lot of things for completely different reasons, and I suppose she'd humour him when he wants to go exploring in the forests because why not? Personal hc: they would've stayed by each other's side during recovery where Kanao would tell Inosuke more about Shinobu, and would also tell him the occult stories Shinobu always used to tell while Kanae covered her ears. Anyways yeah I care about them a lot. The bsd friend that suggested rengokunikida is a genius because it's so fitting. The immaculate coincidence of both of them getting impaled in the stomach by an immortal being WHILE SMILING AND LOOKING AT PEACE is too perfect.

“i'm actually not sure who would take murata's role in the au because we know next to nothing about canon tecchou. michizou already takes sabito's role so.....? ALSO I FINALLY GOT TO ANSWER THIS BECAUSE! fukuchi is not urokodaki in this au! fukuchi takes kokushibo's role”

• we'll probably get backstory in the next few chapters when he melts so we'll possibly get an option for murata in the next two months. KOKUSHIBO FUKUCHI??? I'M INSANE OVER THISAAAAAJDJDBD???

“jouno and fukuchi unfortunately do not interact in this au.. i'm so happy to see my au still getting love even after the years i've been on and off in activity! comments like these fill me with so much motivation to upkeep this au!”

• oh well, we can't have it all. I'm glad!! I will keep supporting and I'm excited for what's to come !!!

-anon called Grace

grace we have GOT to stop this yap contest (huge slash joking, i love these thank you)

"the engagement rate on most art posts–that aren't either skk nor a meme"

literally my most popular post on this account is STILL the soukoku memes i made back in 2021. which i'm grateful for! yet at the same time, it's a little ironic i guess because i'm not crazy about soukoku or fukumori anymore :(

"but I'm glad you're getting more love, because you deserve all of it with your work"

i am super grateful for the followers that have stuck with me throughout the years!! (yes i can recognize some of you in my notes haha) and i was honestly really comforted when i saw love for my traditional work in the reblogs and asks.. it genuinely healed a huge insecurity i had about my art...

"drawing for a different fandom is a good change of pace and helps avoid burnout since drawing the same fandom all the time could get tiresome, even if you would generally find it fun"

i have a friend who's crazy abt one pairing in their account and they've kept it up for probably more than half a decade now? i just realized along the way that i can't be like that... i literally joined the community wanting to be a ranpoe acct but ahaha... i get interested in too many things...

"I think I speak for a lot of us when I say we'll never rush you to have anything finished and posted right away"

uuu i've read this sentiment so many times on my account, and i'm always grateful... it brings me so much joy to see love for an au that's basically 2 years old now...

"They complement each other in many ways. Inosuke is very loud, and Kanao is very quiet, but they've both seen each other in the rare state where they're not. I feel like Inosuke could bring out a little immaturity in Kanao and that she could teach Inosuke a fraction of patience."

stop this. you're convincing me. you can't do this to me i'm already attached to too many pairings in kny PLEASE /j but fr though, this is such a sweet interpretation of their relationship! personally, i still see them as more platonic, or even queerplatonic if they're more committed to each other specifically... but that's just because i think inosuke being aroace would be silly...

"The bsd friend that suggested rengokunikida is a genius because it's so fitting. The immaculate coincidence of both of them getting impaled in the stomach by an immortal being WHILE SMILING AND LOOKING AT PEACE is too perfect."

what's crazy to me is the fact that my friend made that comparison two years ago. we never would have known kunikida would've been a donut too......

"KOKUSHIBO FUKUCHI??? I'M INSANE OVER THISAAAAAJDJDBD???"

fantastic! because i think fukuzawa and fukuchi would make for amazing tsukiguni twins

super happy to hear from you again, grace!

[lovemadethemdoit]

Hey there! 😉

For your one-word prompt:

Softie

(That story is so good btw!!!)

Years post-Won't somebody.

Jake scoffs. "I'm not."

Natasha raises one perfectly plucked eyebrow, tilting her head with glee. "You very much are, Seresin. We had you figured out long ago."

"That's basically heresy, Phoenix. We all know I don't have those pesky, squishy feelings."

Natasha laughs. "Tell that to your niece and her big brown eyes. She's got you wrapped around her tiny little fingers."

Jake glares at her. As always, Natasha just holds his gaze until he gives in. He looks down at his glittery pink nails. "Ok, fine. Fine! Maybe I am a softie, Phoenix. Sue me!" He shakes his head, looking around the door jamb at Javy's mini-me who is waiting for him to join her at her tea party, already pouring imaginary liquid into a tiny little tea cup. Her plush tiger is eyeing him with a judgy sneer. He sighs. "She got that from Maria. I am incapable of saying no to a Machado lady."

Phoenix cups his biceps in her hand and squeezes. "I won't tell your secret, Bagman."

Jake meets her eyes. "I know."

Phoenix winks and with a playful shove pushes him over the threshold into Lizzy's bedroom. She laughs as she makes her way downstairs, returning to the party the adults are having downstairs. Jake is not jealous at all. He can stare at his fiancé all day every day if he wants to. Just because Rooster is wearing the black button-down Jake got him for his birthday and looks absolutely delectable doesn't mean he won't give his favorite -and so far only- niece the best tea party hosting experience she's ever had. What little Lizzy Machado wants, she gets. Her uncle will see to that.

"Uncle Jaaaake," Lizzy sighs, patience not a trait she inherited from her dad.

"I'm coming, I'm coming." He plops down on a tiny chair at the tiny table, his knees halfway to his ears. "Now you better have left me some cake, Miss Elizabeth. I'm not sharing with Mr. Tiger again!"

Lizzy giggles. "There's no cake, silly!"

"There's not? I thought this was a proper tea party?" He takes the pink plastic crown Lizzy hands him unasked and puts it on his head.

He watches her pull something out from beneath the table and the next moment she brandishes a silvery sleeve of Oreos at him. "There's these!" she says proudly.

Jake bites down on a laugh and squints down at her. "Did you sneak those from Mommy's sweets reserve again, little lady? You know she gets cravings."

"Nooooo. Uncle Bradley gave them to me."

"Oh, he did. Did he?"

"Uh huh. Now sh!" She shushes him with a finger to her mouth. She can be glad she's cute. "Mr. Tiger wants to tell his story!"

"Oh, alright. What shenanigans has Mr. Tiger gotten into this time?"

"Mr. Tiger and Mr. Bear are engaged!"

"They are?"

"Yes. Mr. Bear proposed and Mr. Tiger said yes."

"That's lovely. They do make a stunning couple."

Lizzy nods enthusiastically. "Mr. Tiger and Mr. Bear say they want to marry on June 17th."

"Is that right."

"Uh huh."

"That happens to be the date Uncle Jake and Uncle Bradley are getting married, too. What a coincidence!"

"I know!"

Jake holds out his little tea cup for her to pour air into.

"Mr. Bear says I can be flower girl at their wedding."

Jake bites down on a grin. "Aw. That's too bad, Liz. Uncle Bradley and I wanted to ask you to be our flower girl." He makes a show of pouting. "Maybe we can ask your brother to take on these important duties?"

Lizzy looks up, eyes wide. "I can be flower girl at both weddings!" she hurries to say.

"Yeah?"

She stands up and comes around the table, nodding her head. Jake receives her into the cuddle she's no doubt aiming for.

"Oh. Phew!" Jake wipes invisible sweat off his forehead. "That's great, Lizzy. You can be flower girl at Mr. Tiger and Mr. Bear's wedding and then at ours."

"I want a pretty dress! Like Mommy!"

"The prettiest dress."

"Pinky promise?" she holds out her little finger and Jake can't refuse a Machado woman's big brown eyes if he tried to, so he hooks his little finger around hers. "Pinky promise."