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ghouljams · 6 months

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Salt In An Old Wound Tags: hurt/comfort, Ghost x F!oc/reader, explicit mentions of Ghost's backstory, panic attacks, body horror, buried alive, fae au Summary: Ghost's wrapped you up so tightly you don't know where you start and he ends. Your feelings are his, and unfortunately his feelings are your as well.

You're somewhere small and dark. Somewhere you have to breathe shallowly to avoid the onset of claustrophobia. A body presses against your back, crawling, swarming, wiggling with life that isn't its own. A coffin and a corpse. You jolt away from the body, slamming yourself against the wooden wall of the coffin. Your breath comes quicker. Your body, your everything hurts. Moving is a new trauma. You broken bones and overworked muscles screaming at you for even the shallow breaths you try to maintain. Why do your ribs hurt like someone tried to pull them from your chest?

You don't know what to do. You don't know where you are, what country you're in or how you got here. The smell of rot squirms in your nose, or maybe that's a maggot. You gag, try not to vomit. You think that might be the only thing that could make this worse, laying in your own sick. You wiggle your arm up to your chest to try and get some leverage, doing your best to avoid the rotting corpse behind you. You bang your fist against the coffin wall with all your strength. It feels pointless, your fist barely makes an indent, not enough wind up.

Your gloved hand clenches, trying to keep the panicked bile from rising in your throat, trying to tamp down the rage. The body behind you shifts, wraps an arm around you and pulls you closer into the wriggling mass of larvae. You scream and thrash against its grip, push against its hold with all your might as broken sobs force their way out of your chest.

You hit the floor and scramble away from the bed, panic grips your chest, you scrub at your arms to try and get rid of the squirming feeling. Your shirt sticks to you, uncomfortably damp with sweat as you cry. Simon stares down at you from the bed, chest heaving and sweat sticking his hair to his forehead. His eyes are wide, mirroring your panic.

Blood pounds in your ears, your vision hazy and disfigured from the tears pouring down your cheeks. You tug at your shirt, Simon's shirt, your skin so itchy it feels raw. Your heart feels like it's about to pop out of your chest, and you can't piece a thought together besides a desperate clawing need to escape. You pull at your tethers, you need help, you need someone to help you.

Simon presses his hands against his face, his eyes glowing with fury in the dim light. Smoke and shadow swirl around him in aggravated spikes of sharp movement. His mask collects in awful darkness around his fingers, his teeth shining dangerously under the darkness. You curl in on yourself, trying to take breaths around the sobs that wrack your body. You can still feel the bone clenched in your hand, the teeth and rotted flesh digging into your palm, the dirt under your nails. Simon is still frozen on the bed, eyes fixed on you but unseeing, unfeeling. He trembles just on the edge of something.

It's him. It's him. He's the one laying with corpses. He's the one feeding you piecemeal panic through your hooks. Each tether between you looping back and doubling the feelings that grip you and won’t let go. You don’t know where you start and Simon ends. It’s your memory, it’s his memory, it’s Roba strapping you down and trying to wrench your skull open, it’s snakes and fire and hooks in your ribs that don’t leave you. There are hooks in you now and you can feel every single one of them as they light up a terrible bloody red.

He’s scaring you. Ghost is scaring you. The way he hunches his shoulders and stares through your soul like a wild animal, saliva dripping from between his teeth, rabid with panic and rage. You press your feet against the floor, pushing yourself further against the wall and away from open air. Open is bad. Wall is good. Safe. Small and safe. Ghost's smoke weighs down the air in the room, cloying at your lungs as you draw in desperate breaths. He moves and you feel all of your muscles freeze, waiting for the inevitable pounce of the predator in your bed. His hand shakes as he grips his chest, mirroring your own pulling, but it’s not your chest that pulls tight under his fingers.

Ghost says a name, his lips moving around consonants and vowels that don’t make their way to you. You hear a noise like the quiet before a storm, the last hiss of air before the sirens start, the dead silence the predicts a tornado. A man grabs the back of Simon's neck, and presses his hand hard against his forehead until he goes boneless. Simon's hands fall from his face as he leans heavily against the man holding onto him. Safe. Safe, Safe, Safe. It hums through your tethers like plucked strings. He shifts his grip to hold Simon's head against his shoulder, turns his own head to speak to him in a low tone you only hear the buzzing after effects of.

He turns his attention to you, and you don't know whether to push yourself further into your corner or hold your arms out to him. You want safe. You want these feelings, these memories, out. The man crouches in front of you in between blinks, his eyes sympathetic, understanding, pitying. His mouth twists into something akin to a smile, it’s comforting. He’s not mad at you. You don’t- you don’t know why that’s important. It’s Simon’s, you think.

You reach for him, he’s sturdy where you grip his shirt. Everything about him seems made to draw you in, to make you want to sit in his lap and be praised. The tears are still coming, still dripping off your jaw. You can still smell the burnt flesh of your family, feel the scars across your skin being cut open again and again. The memories still echo in you, unsure where to go when your connection to Simon is quiet.

"You're not mine sweetheart," he tells you in a low rasping tone, "not sure what I'm allowed to do with you."

"Make it stop," you whisper, the sobs have stopped but your body still shakes like it's been thrown in a blender.

"Dammit," he whispers, and reaches towards you. You close your eyes and feel him tap your forehead.

It’s strange how dreamlessly you sleep. So still and quiet. The gentle drip of water into a shallow pool is a constant lull to keep you deep under whatever spell is being woven over you. You feel wrung out, emotionally drained in a way you’ve never experienced before. But. It’s lonely here. You’re not used to being lonely anymore. You curl up in the darkness, let yourself float with the drip, drip, drip of water. Smoke wraps around your mind, soothes you, sections off the parts that aren’t yours and pulls them like thorns from you.

You squeeze your eyes shut tight against the morning sun that streams through your bedroom window.

“The fuck are you still doin’ here?” Simon grumbles not at you, you feel his arm reach for you, fingers hesitant as they trace over your cheek. It’s enough reason to open your eyes, only to shut them again when Simon rubs some of the sleep from one. You get a glimpse of the bearded man from last night sitting between you and your husband, fully dressed and unbothered by the both of you.

“Keepin’ you two separated,” Price says, flipping the page on one of your manuscripts, “least until you woke up.”

“No shoes on the bed,” You mumble. Price glances down at where you’re cuddling closer against his side. He’s got that nice cool feeling Simon has, and a similar smokey scent. You like it.

“She serious?” He asks Simon.

"Always," Simon hums, thumb rubbing your cheek with open affection. There’s a rustle from the blankets moving, a quiet huff from Price, and then Simon’s lips against your forehead. Wiping away the last of the magic that was worked on you. It’s pleasant, like shaking off a weighted blanket you feel like you’re able to move more freely. If you wanted to. You’re not inclined to do much in the mornings, you leave that chore to Simon.

Simon sighs watching you tug the blankets up, burrowing down to get more comfortable. Something small and needy in the back of his brain scratches at him. He can still see your panicked face in his mind, he needs you safe. Small and safe. He hesitates a moment before moving your head to rest on Price’s lap. That’s about as safe as he can think to make you without locking you up somewhere.

“Just a dream Ghost,” Price reminds him, hardly bothered by the intrusion to his space.

“She shouldn’t have to see that,” Simon shakes his head, drips some extra sleep over your brain as he pushes your hair back.

Price glances down at you, the way you glow with Simon’s affection, “Seems fine to me.”

He sets the manuscript down and grabs Simon’s chin, keeping him close, keeping him teetering over his lap. He squints, searching his gaze for any lingering noise, any anxiety still clinging to Simon. Simon lets him, keeps still for his captain even as his thumb rubs against his cheek. Soothing affection, gone as quick as it came.

“I like ‘er.” Price relents finally, letting Simon go to settle back against the pillows.

“Figured you would,” Simon sighs, rubbing a hand down his face. He needs a shave, and a shower. He can still feel smoke clinging to his skin, shadows shared between him and Price to ground him.

“She’s pretty.”

“And mine,” Simon glares, catching the tail end of Price’s smile.

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cherryredstars · 4 months

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Question about Simon because I was rereading your headcanons for him (sfw and nsfw)

1. I don't think he likes weighted blankets, or them being too tight on the bed, he might feel stuck and like there's too much weight on him and maybe remember being buried alive (was he in a casket? I always thought it was just dirt because idk how effective a rotting jaw would be against wood)

2. On that note, so you think he would like his s/o sleeping on top of him? Again I don't think he would because of being buried with his co

3. I'm not sure if Simon could take a afab's virginity cause if the amen breaks and she bleed he'd lose his mind (also supposedly the hymen can grow back, idk if it's just in the occasion of it breaking without penetration (one my friend's broke hers doing the splits I had unfortunate of trying to walk on top of a beam and falling open leg))

4. Do you think he'd be open for positions where he isn't facing his s/o if they were in front of a mirror?

As for my Simon:

1. Simon does military corners for his bedding when he makes it. When he sleeps in the bed, the covers have to be completely untucked so he can easily get in and out. Simon doesn't use a weighted blanket. He naturally runs warm, so he has no use for one. If you prefer a weighted blanket, he has a separate blanket he uses that is closer to the military grade. Adding on, Simon hates sleeping bags and the military sleeping rolls. It's too constricting and claustrophobic, and he'll end up sleeping on top of it instead of in it most times.

Also, he was buried in a casket, and he used the jawbone to break through the low quality wood and dug up from there. It wasn't those modern, high-quality, and shiny caskets. It's more of a beaten-up crate.

2. Sleeping on top is okay, only if it's not full body. You can throw a loose arm over his chest and a leg over his, but you can't be fully on him. It has to be something he can easily slip out of. He highly discourages it, though, because he can not be held accountable for his instinctual actions if he wakes up from a nightmare replaying the event and he feels another person against his skin. Over time, it gets better as his body recognizes your touch and the differences between your warm, living skin and rotting, maggot- filled leather and bone.

But, he is fine laying on top of you for a quick nap or cuddle, which is surprising considering how he was thrown on top of the corpse. Keep in mind that this is without any blankets or sheets covering him. If you guys nap on the couch and he's on top of you, it's okay. Long term sleep with blankets are a no-go.

3. Some women aren't born with hymens or don't bleed when they lose their virginity. Both bleeding and not bleeding are equally common. Some women, like you mentioned, already have their hymen broken by the time they first have vaginal sex. Bleeding from penetrative sex is also typically not in large amounts and looks different from regular injury-caused bleeding. So I think after long talks, reassurance, and appropriate precautions, Simon would take someone's virginity.

4. Mirror sex is a yes, but it isn't his go-to thing. He mutch prefers more intimate missionary positions. But, he likes mirror sex because instead of being able to just see your face, he can get a whole view of your body that provides him the ability to see your reactions. Gives him peace of mind.

Apologies for any typos or mistakes, I'm on the shuttle to campus LMAO

#cherry's requests🍒#cherry's comments🍒#simon ghost riley x reader #simon riley headcanons #simon riley

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konigsblog · 9 months

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Im litteraly about to start bawling i just learned about Ghosts truama….how the fuck did he survive that and not loose his mind? Tw for the topics im about to talk about

Mans was SA’d by random people, witnessed people die and was forced to laugh at them, had his father and brother scare him all the time, his father would bring dangerous animals in the house (he made Simon kiss a snake), his brother would scare him at night by staring at him while wearing a ghost mask, his father took him to parties and at one party his father killed a hooker and made him laugh at her, his father was abusive, all as a child. And growing up this continued. He joins the military. At one point is captured and tortured for days on end but never cracks, he gets buried alive on top of the body of a rotting corpse for days but somehow escapes. he goes back home and finds out his father is still abusive and cheating on his mother and his brother is a drug addict. He helps his brother and beats the shit out of his dad and kicks him out. He goes back. Someone is sent to kill his family and succeeds. He finds the person and kills them and the man who tortured him. He blows up his house and leaves his dogtags behind to fake his death and then becomes “Ghost”. Link for a better explanation: https://www.tiktok.com/t/ZT88QcDrH/

i feel so bad for him. How did he not loose his mind? Im almost in tears i feel so bad. :(

-🩷

tw; simon's childhood description.

real, i remember looking up his background a few months ago (quite a while) and hearing about his past. it's traumatic, and it's the main reason i believe he wouldn't be rough during sex, due to the fact he'd faced that during his childhood in manchester and at his work, cleaning up enemies and leaving them bloodied.

he prefers softer sex, he goes fast but not aggressively fast, just enough to get the both of you finished and sticky.

and like i said a few weeks back, being locked in a coffin with a dead body, the decomposing smell. decomposition is a scent you will never forget, it's pungent and you'll forever remember it when you smell it. as well as the rotting of the corpse; blue bottles and flies creating maggots, don't forget about the ants. maggots eating away at the flesh and how he had to use the mans jawbone to crack through the coffin and dig his way up, he'd been so lost mentally. he wouldn't know what to think after seeing the light and sun again.

back to his childhood, dealing with his brother's addiction to drugs, helping him get a wife and have a kid (who became simon's nephew) only to find them deceased, just like the man he'd been buried beside. all that to find them dead, gone.

#orla speaks #simon ghost riley #ghost simon riley #simon riley #ghost call of duty #ghost headcanon #ghost cod #ghost mw2 #ghost #ghost mwii #cod ghost #ghos

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seekers-who-are-lovers · 1 year

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What might have been lost

Notes: Thank you once again to @flashfictionfridayofficial for the prompt : #FFF196 Against the Flow. This will serve as the beginning chapter of a fan fiction I am thinking of writing about one of the main characters of “Buddy Daddies.” (I don’t think I have encountered a fic about K’s backstory.)

Fandom: Buddy Daddies

Rating: Mature (for good measure, hints of sexual abuse of a teenager and a bit graphic description of rotting corpses)

Pairing: Kazuki Kurusu/male OC, Kazuki Kurusu/Yuzuko Izumi (pre-Kazurei)

Words: 841

As a half-Japanese orphan, there were some things Kazuki Kurusu didn’t want to think about. Left in an orphanage when he was a toddler, he had no memory of his mother and father. No one knew where his parents came from and the reason they didn’t bother to raise him themselves, or if they were still alive or dead. In the Japanese society, bloodlines are the most important thing, therefore, his existence was unwanted, an embarrassment. Yet despite all these bad occurrences, social workers took a liking on him because of the way he made them feel special. Blonde, armed with tea brown eyes, a countenance so bright he was called their little sunshine. He was taught good manners and proper conduct. His half Western features were a blessing. He’d be a beautiful man someday, the same social worker declared as she combed his blonde hair.

“Maintain that positive attitude of yours and take care of your face, Kazu-kun, you’ll go far and wide.”

(Read more under the cut.)

He tried so hard to believe her. By the time he turned 15, he decided to attend a vocational school. Unfortunately, the school fees and supplies cost so much he was forced to work to make ends meet. Any job that could bring in easy money. Anything.

Once he helped an organization cleaning up tiny apartments whose owners were already dead for days or weeks, months, or worse, years, buried in their own belongings. Maggots and flies feasting on their cadavers their faces barely recognizable. The body fluids blending in on the surface where they were found. If their relatives turned up wondering why they were missing was the only time they were remembered. The number of people who was a shut-in increased every single day. It shattered Kazuki’s innocence and vowed he’d never let anyone he cared about the same fate like these unlucky souls.

During those days funds coming from outside sources never poured easily in an institution like the orphanage. It was not hard to fall through the cracks and be persuaded to do something stupid. Treading the path against the flow, he went off the rails so fast, his downfall was imminent. Youth gangs after youth gangs, he realised that his life was aimless. From petty thievery (stealing bikes) to repeated burglary (many apartment owners left their doors open), it was either him hiding from everyone or serving his prison time, or worse, he’d be dead by hanging already.

One day, he met one of the few people who would change his life. Amusing that there were not a lot of them, but Hideyoshi, a 30-year-old computer engineer, took him under his wing. He taught him computers and programming, and other endless ways to go around with it. Apart from having an average knowledge about firearms, proficiency in hand-to-hand combat courtesy of his time on the streets, he added the power of IT among his talents.

Hideyoshi provided him a quarter to live in too, fed him, even taught him how to dress himself up. But there was also a downside to all of it.

Kazuki was almost 18. A buildup of acne had spared him unlike some of his contemporaries during puberty. Still he reminded himself that he would always be a thug. “A pretty thug,” Hideyoshi said while he caressed his neck down his back.

When they were not busy hacking some government’s or company’s websites, Hideyoshi would show him his antique collections of wood prints of noblemen and their male slaves engaged in sexual trysts in nanshoku teahouses.

Hideyoshi loved to rub his rough hands on Kazuki’s smooth cheeks. It didn’t matter if it was day or night, he touched him in places he couldn’t imagine that the only thing Kazuki could do was cry in his sleep.

For the second time he summoned his courage to run away. Once Hideyoshi found out that he was gone, he would be kilometers away from him. But like a moth to a flame he couldn’t resist the lure of the underworld for easy money with the click of a gun or a punch on the face.

One day—bloodied, weary, and lost—the voice of a woman asking how he was felt comic and magical at the same time. Kazuki thought he was dying from a bleeding arm and the woman surrounded in blue, violet and pink hydrangeas was an angel. Her name was Yuzuko Izumi he found out later. Like him, she was an orphan too, who lived with her 17-year-old sister. The courtship was short. He was so elated when she agreed to marry him. But one tragic day, a mission gone awry, the fates intervened taking Yuzu away from him. With his wife and their unborn child gone, his downward spiral was secure.

Still Kazuki decided that he wanted to live so he tried hard to forget all of it. That’s what he learned after years and years of bad luck. He buried them. These secrets should lie deep in the ocean forever that no one should know at all.

#buddy daddies #buddy daddies fan fic #flash fiction friday #fff196 #flashfictionfridayofficial #kazuki kurusu #yuzuko kurusu #original character #buddy daddies head canon #my fan fic stuff #my fic stuff #buddy daddies fan fiction #my fanfic stuff

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hidden-dreamland · 1 year

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Content & warnings: Buried alive, mentions of maggots, implied character death, undead whumpee, fourth wall breaking

DEAD MEN TELL NO TALES

Chapter 1 - Meet the corpse.

This chapter can also be called “the one where you meet the author and learn a bit about his deceit” but that doesn’t make for a snappy title now, does it? I don’t think so.

Oh well. Snappy titles aside, I should begin now.

I'll start off with an apology. Now you, reader, may be asking yourself just why in the world is that needed? Well. For my deceit.

Reader, I apologize for lying.

Oh wait. You don’t know what im lying about, do you?

You don’t. I haven’t told you. I haven’t told anyone. Not yet at least.

I mean I don’t have many people to tell this to right now…

I'll stop rambling.

Well dear reader, I guess it’s time I come clean. This story’s title is nothing more than a bold-faced lie. One that I did believe in life, sure, but a lie nonetheless. You see dear Reader, I'm dead. BUT WAIT, HOLD YOUR HORSES AND THE QUESTIONING AND THE COMMENTS CALLING ME CRAZY. I see those fingers of yours running to the reblog button to bombard me with curious intent and indignant questions and snarky comments and innocent thoughts of “oh what a fun writing style!”- save it. I’m not kidding. This isn’t a gimmick, Reader. I, the author, am very much dead. In fact, I'm six feet under as I write this.

Maybe less than six feet, given the bit of signal I managed to get...

Ah well.

By the time you read this, I may or may not be… attempting to dig myself out of here. It’s difficult. But I can try. I will try

I have to try.

I'm going fucking insane down here.

That is also why I'm writing. Just a little bit of creative work to keep the demons at bay.

Heaven knows I need it.

Ever been stuck in a coffin, reader? Or rather, ever been stuck in your own coffin?

I hope you haven't. I really hope you haven't.

As far as I'm aware, I don't exactly need to breathe, but that doesn't make the stuffy air around me any less unpleasant. You see, reader, I'm a corpse. I reek of fucking rot.

One could expect the scent of formaldehyde, of preserving agents, but it seems I've been buried in natura. Tacky, in my opinion. Way too last century. I'd much rather have the chemical smell than this damp disgusting stench of decomposing flesh.

Sigh. Did I even have a proper burial?

Maybe not.

I don't remember how I died, but i don't think it was an easy death given the bruising and the cuts and the sheer amount of wrong I feel inside me.

There's even something moving.

Wait

Why is there something moving

Wait whfgnlsz##√¢

dAtatta√^5@

WHAT THE FUCJ

Ok. Alright. Yeah. Dear reader, while I don't have to, I definitely can breatge

I can fucking hyperventilwee

And I have the lungs and the throat to scream it seems

i guess im in a much better state than previously thought. oh by the gods

TGEYRE STILL HERE

Fuck, ok, yeah, reader, I'll have to leave for now

my 'get the fuck out of thid goddamn box' plan has been moved from merely Important to ABSOLUTELY URGENT

I'll explain later, once I'm not oOCCUPIED FIGHTINF OFF THESE GODDSMN MAGGOTS

the Corpse shall be coming back soon :33

Void here- i hope you guys enjoyed this little thingy that came to my brain in the middle of the night the other day. I plant to make it into a series because oh the ideas are flowing

if you'd like to be tagged or removed from the taglist, please say so!

taglist: @whumpshaped, @meowsikbox, @wormwriting

#writing #whump writing #insects #maggots #main character death #fourth wall breaking #buried alive #i mean he’s… undead. so buried undead maybe? lol #also yes this will become whump i can’t wait to put this boy through a metaphorical (maybe a literal) meatgrinder #voidy writes

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sharloola · 8 months

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Girl Asks Why I Have Never Been In Love

And I tell her how in endless summers, apples would fall from the tree in my parents’ garden. Sometimes they’d drop suddenly, and you’d think there was someone there with you. We’d be sent out with plastic bags to scoop them up before we pulled the weeds. They had to go quickly, because british heat is a thick, unforgiving wool. We’d find the fruit split by stone and melting, candying the air with their decay.

So maybe I found the truth there, covered in maggots long after the first time I was fractured— that hearts don’t break, they die. They get too soft in the middle because the sun promises warmth. They grow weak and ripe. Then, a broken promise. A hard palm. An apology that never comes. And suddenly, the chambers can’t stand to be near one another. The vessels snap, and a still heart hits your diaphragm with a thud so loud, for a moment you think someone’s in there with you. I tell her that I don’t know heartbreak, I just carry corpses in my chest, sweet as cider.

She laughs, unaware that this is a funeral. Because if you carry enough dead things inside your body, they will mistake you for a coffin. They will bury you alive and tender, too distracted by the stench of sugary rot to hear the screams. Underground, it is damp and cold. Maggots writhe and weeds flourish. Your ribs crack from the growing pressure of hearts blackened and fuzzy with mould. Skin weeps of fermented blood. I have never been in love, only under it.

One of these days I will crawl out, and move the marionette of my bones to the choreography of the living. Trick a poor soul into getting flush-cheeked and glassy-eyed on the sweetened flesh beneath my breast. For now I shrug, and tell the girl something crooked and hollow to distract from the fact that love is for those who can fall without breaking, and I am soft as summer apples.

s.o.

#avoidant and hopeless romantic rolled into one #original poetry #poem #heartbreak #love #sharloola

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porcelain-knighthoods · 12 days

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"That House answers many yearnings remembered in sorrow." house of leaves

"God's a house. Which is not to say that our house is God's house or even a house of God. What I mean to say is that our house is God."

house of leaves

“Prometheus, thief of light, giver of light, bound by the gods, must have been a book.” ― Mark Z. Danielewski, House of

"This haunting is architectural. it is not about you. it is about hwere you are. there are bones in the foundation. this house is a graveyard. this house is a corpse your are inside the corpse. that makes you the maggot."

and if we were to dissect a house, we would find oursepfes a stomach trhoat spine and eyes and eyes /teeth and sinew/ and dreams and memories and a mouth that will bite down terrible house, whose horror i have built the house, heavy with history, is burying the bodies before they eve know they are bodies. do you think haunting is requited? in the right storeis, the house and the haunting are the same. its requited in the same way self-love is requited. or perhaps more accuretly, self-hate. what is haunting but a emmory? A trauumera? the house saw soemthing terrible and now every night it plays it out, again and again, trying to udnertsand when a hhous eis both hungry and awake every room beacomes amouth the house has been a burial site. the hous eis swallowing bodies boefore the blood has dried o ruinous house, withon whose corriodrs None but the wicked and mad go free this house is sick with rot, stinks of decay, brims with every single eivil and cruel sentiment even if it is full of love, all a ghost can do is haunt "Your house shall be not an anchor but a mast. It shall not be a glistening film that covers a wound, but an eyelid that guards the eye." ― Khalil Gibran “What is a ghost? Something dead that seems to be alive. Something dead that doesn't know it's dead.” ― Richard Siken

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robotslenderman · 3 years

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Perry and Elisa headcanons:

Elisa thinks it's weird that a Nosferatu Thinblood has a Hecata-like bite, but it's Dove who, due to her experiences with Modian, immediately realises that Perry is a full blooded Samedi. When Dove raised the possibility that Perry might be Cappadocian to Elisa, she was worried they'd have to protect him from the Hecata (and that Dove would refuse to extend that protection because of the treaty), but Dove said "nah, he's Samedi, he's Hecata. He probably has that bane as the equivalent of a genetic throwback - sometimes that happens." (Dove would know.) Much relief ensues and Elisa helps Perry learn about the Samedi and Hecata, and even gets him in touch with a couple over time.

Elisa is pretty casual about the smell. She mentions it and she doesn't pretend it's not there either. "I'd hug you, Perry, but it's three AM and you smell like shit so I'll hug you first thing tonight." Perry is a bit defensive/standoffish at first but comes to appreciate it over outright hostility and/or when people "politely" pretend it's not there while obviously not wanting to deal with it.

For example, when Elisa gives him a room in her haven she'll be upfront about the fact she's using sheet/pillow protectors to stop him leaking on stuff, a room with no carpet so the smell doesn't get stuck in it, an ensuite so he can clean himself off easily... but unlike most, you know, she's actually offering a bed instead of pretending she doesn't have a place for him to stay, and she's also pretty "yeah you smell like shit in the morning but I'm just gonna have to deal with that." He's not sure what to think about this attitude in the beginning.

Elisa also teaches him to weaponise the smell. "You just met someone? Be considerate. Insist on meeting your contacts outdoors early on in the night, and standing downwind from them. They get difficult? That's when you start visiting them in their office an hour before dawn and sitting in their chairs and leaking on their upholstery. They'll soon get the idea that you're someone they want the goodwill of - and that's invaluable. Most fledglings have to work really, really hard to have that kind of power over somebody and all YOU have to do is change what time you're meeting someone. Use that."

The above point pretty much drove home to him that yeah she hates the smell, but not HIM, and she's willing to work with it. He develops a crush on her after that.

He does make a move when he's more confident, a few years later. She turns him down and at first he's pretty self loathing over it but they have an open discussion about the smell and she's like, "look, if I had feelings for you I'd just work with that - sexy stuff first thing after dusk when you're at your best. But I'm not going to pretend I'm interested when I'm not out of pity because we both deserve better. I'm sorry I hurt you but I can't say yes to this, not when I wouldn't mean it."

He got over it rather quickly, to his own surprise.

He has his own car. He calls it the Corpsemobile. When he gets the opportunity he loves to give people ultimatums - "either I ride with you and stink up your car, or you can ride in mine. And mine smells worse than the state I'd leave your car in."

Elisa helps set him up with a good ghoul - someone who runs a small mortuary. Puts a small mattress in one of the shelves, actually makes a nice comfortable haven out of it. It being a mortuary means the smell isn't suspicious, and he just pretends to the staff that he has a medical condition and its way less hassle to sleep in one of their drawers.

Getting the corpse stink out of his clothes is almost impossible so he's ALWAYS going through fresh clothes. Elisa helps set him up with another ghoul that can give him a steady supply of shirts, underwear and pants.

He hates getting pulled over because the second a cop gets a whiff of the interior of his car they think he's got a body in the trunk. Elisa uses her connection with Dove to get him a third ghoul in the police force, but when he's not in Tucson he's SOOL there.

He has discovered that maggots actually keep the smell down, as they eat away at the rot, so when he starts rotting a few hours after dusk, he applies maggots to the areas he sees are starting to deteriorate and wraps them in bandages. The smell doesn't go away completely but it does make a difference.

When he's outside of Tucson and a cop insists on searching his car, he peels away a bandage and says "actually, that smell is me." He also has a bunch of fake medical paperwork so that they don't insist on taking him to the hospital - he says he's on antibiotics and the maggots prevent the gangrene from killing him, and because of that he doesn't have to stay in hospital.

He knows a lot of facts about maggot therapy to make it convincing. In reality I'm pretty sure that gangrene is not something that you can be an outpatient for but most cops aren't going to know that if he can be convincing enough.

Once, he was travelling with Harley in the front passenger seat when they got pulled over in the early hours. He played dead as Harley desperately tried to get him to wake up to prove to the increasingly freaked out cop that he was alive and just had a "medical condition". After calling for backup and getting Harley on the floor, when the cop opened the side door Perry went "BOO!"

The cop shot him.

They had to kill the cop and bury the body to preserve the Masquerade before backup got there, because while they can cover up Perry's clan bane with "it's a medical condition", it's a lot harder to cover up a bullet through the chest.

Perry thought it was hilarious. Harley, who's a lot more squeamish about killing innocent humans and destroying the lives of their families and loved ones for the lulz, didn't think it was funny at all.

(Elisa backs up Harley but privately also thinks it's hilarious, except for the bit where they had to kill the cop. "It's one thing to kill to protect ourselves, it's one thing to kill because we're hunters eating our prey, but it's completely another to set up a human to die for your own amusement. Don't do that again."

"I didn't kill her for the lols, I just didn't think she'd -"

"SHE WAS A COP OF COURSE SHE WAS GOING TO FUCKING SHOOT YOU, YOU DUMBASS.")

Yeah, that prank did damage his relationship with Harley for a while.

BUT sadistic prank notwithstanding, he actually has a pretty good relationship with Harley. Harley wasn't sure about the stinky Samedi at first, but was too much the southern gentleman to be anything but polite about it. He quickly got used to it and saw Perry for the lost kid he was. Because Harley was in his forties when he was Embraced, he was pretty calm and difficult to faze, so he was able to rub off on Perry and help calm him down over time.

Perry and Harley were both furious at Lettow when Lettow came back to Tucson. The way Harlow saw it, putting Elisa through her First Season was completely unnecessary and Lettow could have properly vetted her, and also a huge risk to the Masquerade. The way Perry saw it, if someone of a different clan can put her own life on the line (due to the Accounting) to take in a complete stranger who'd been a Masquerade issue for nothing in return, the least Lettow could have done was look after his own fucking childe.

They were even less impressed when Elisa got sexually involved with him and then romantically, because they saw it as Elisa wanting the security of having a sire and Lettow exploiting that. Elisa, meanwhile, didn't appreciate being infantilised. She defended Lettow because "he kept an eye on me from a distance", and he left caches for her to discover and arranged for her to have jobs when the courier jobs started drying up. Harley and Perry were like "gee, how generous of him."

Perry was like "if I knew her standards were that fucking low I'd have asked her if she'd changed her mind about not going out with me"

Lettow was on thin fucking ice with the two of them for a while, and it took time for them to realise his feelings for her were sincere and that he wasn't going to abandon her again. In the meantime he rarely took their bait and let their attacks and accusations roll off his back - as an elder he rarely took things personally, understood it was between Elisa and her childer, and wanted to respect that she wanted to maintain some peace. Part of it was also due to guilt and self loathing. But he was also glad she had two very protective childer to watch her back, since he knew that safety and support was very important to her.

Harley and Perry also threatened to Fight Him, which caused Elisa to double facepalm bc one, Men, and two, elder with super strength and fortitude. Lettow just thought it was funny but also took the opportunity to bait them on being young and rash. He didn't resist ALL the time.

Lettow and Perry would never be close, but they came to respect the place the other had in Elisa's life, and even came to rely on each other every now and then.

#VTM #VTMNR #Elisa Mulgrew #VTMOfB #Perry the Samedi #Harley Ross #Lettow Kaminsky

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splat-dragon · 4 years

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For reasons wretched and divine ~Jackie and Wilson, Hozier

Whumptober 2020, alt. #7: Found Family

Charles never regretted burying Arthur. The man deserved a burial, deserved a headstone, deserved more than to be left to rot.

But he’d give anything to be able to close his eyes without seeing Arthur laying on the mountain, without seeing his corpse. To remember Arthur without first seeing him dead on the ground, to remember him living and bright, even if it was angry and cruel, before he’d tried to redeem himself if only because it meant he didn’t first think of him half-rotted on that stone.

INSPIRED BY THIS ART BY @amesegue

@whumptober2020

When they’d said goodbye, when Arthur had tried to come with him, when he’d refused to let him, Charles had known he’d never see him again.

He’d been half right.

He’d never seen him alive again.

And he never regretted burying Arthur. The man deserved a burial, deserved a headstone, deserved more than to be left to rot.

But he’d give anything to be able to close his eyes without seeing Arthur laying on the mountain, without seeing his corpse. To remember Arthur without first seeing him dead on the ground, to remember him first living and bright, even if it was angry and cruel, before he’d tried to redeem himself if only because it meant he didn’t think of him half-rotted on that stone.

He hadn’t found out that the gang had been scattered for a day or so after the fact.

Rains Fall had, face more solemn than usual (which was saying something) stepped into his tent, a newspaper in hand. Pressed it into his palm without a word, and he’d known before opening it what it would say.

He’d been gone by morning, but it took days to reach Beaver Hollow.

Though he’d hated Beaver Hollow, seeing the camp decimated hurt. He’d not run with them long - only a year and a half, maybe a bit longer, they’d been his home, been his family, even towards the end. And though most of it had been reduced to ash, he could still determine what most of it had been - there was Dutch’s tent, there, the remains of the campfire, and there, Arthur’s wagon.

Half tangled in Dutch’s tent, Grimshaw’s body, skull picked near-clean by crows that he chased away.

They had never been particularly close.

She hounded him when he came back bloody from hunting, and more than once had boxed him around the ears when he hadn’t been quick enough to wash clean.

But she’d been like a mother to him, if a poor one. Chased him to his bedroll if he didn’t sleep after taking the night watch duty, shoved ‘dinner’ and ‘breakfast’ into his hands if he didn’t eat. He didn’t remember much of his mother, they’d been separated when he was too young to remember her, but he liked to think she’d be like Miss Grimshaw… if a bit nicer.

So seeing her left to be picked clean by scavengers hurt. He took the time to stoop down, cutting the tent and wrapping it around her carefully, mindful of her exposed skull and keeping it together as best he could, her mandible nearly coming loose, before fastening her to Taima’s rump.

She deserved better, but he didn’t have better, so he gave her the best he had.

The trail wasn’t hard to follow.

Corpses, picked half clean by scavengers, led into the cave. Led to the ladder, and he knew where it led out, so he left the cave and led Taima up to the hole, followed the trail from there - horse carcasses left to rot where their riders had been collected, though he didn’t know why the Pinkertons back at the Hollow had been left behind - until he found Old Boy and Dipper, pain a shearing wound in his chest.

Old Boy had been largely eaten, a gaping wound in his side - a bear, maybe, seeking the nutritious innards - but Dipper had been left to decompose, untouched as though she were something holy, something that would bring sour luck on any who dared touch her, though flesh had begun to slough away from her dark face, baring her gleaming skull, and he took the time to kneel and stroke her mane, hair coming out in chunks caught in his fingers, thanking her and then Old Boy though he hadn’t known the Half-bred half so well.

Up the mountain, and he struggled to keep the trail. Finally found himself clambering up a ledge - then down, and the crunch of breaking bones trickled ice down his spine.

He saw, first, what was easily the largest coyote he’d ever seen. Black as a starless night, it stood impossibly still aside from its head, jerking from side to side and -

though Charles was not one who was quick to anger, or to fault an animal for its instincts, he reached for his gun and fired at the coyote.

But it was quick and, as though it had known what he was going to do, danced back with the grace of a deer, paws so light they didn’t seem to touch the ground, stopping to stand in the middle of the ledge and just barely he was aware of its paw resting on a revolver, but couldn’t look away from its muzzle, dangling open and dripping blood.

His eyes met its - dull yellow, like spoiled egg yolks - and he couldn’t look away. It went still, didn’t seem to even breathe, and then the spell was broken as a drop of blood splattered to the ground and he brought his gun up again, firing over its head. With a nonchalance that no wild animal he'd ever met had, it sauntered away, turning the corner and kicking away the revolver as it went.

He stared after it until long after its paw-steps had faded away, jerked as though coming out of a trance and looked over at the form the coyote had loomed over and

“Oh god, Arthur,”

he’d thought he’d never be unable to see his brother, and he’d been right.

One of his eyes was gone, only a bloody socket left in its place, skull bared, long stolen away by a scavenger, a bird or something precise, looking for an easy meal, something soft that wouldn’t require much fuss to get to. His stomach churned and he fought the urge to gag - he’d dealt with many corpses in his time, but never one of a man he’d call brother, and finally he lost control and turned, emptying his stomach, as a fly crawled out of his nose, fluttering down and crawling into his mouth, dangling open as though he’d been gasping for air when he died (or, some part of him hoped, his face had relaxed in death, he’d seen that happen before.)

Blood and… and other liquids, he didn’t know the name for them, wasn’t much of a learned man in such a way, decomposition fluids he supposed they were called, oozed from his nose, from his eyes and mouth and ears, and he had to turn his head to keep from vomiting on Arthur. Though he hated the sight of it, he prayed that the way his nose was at a wrong angle, looked crushed and shattered, was because he was dead and that it hadn’t happened as he died, though from the bruising on his face - at least, he thought it was bruising, but Arthur’s skin sat odd on his face, those frown lines that once lined his mouth now stretched strange down near his cheekbone and jawline, so who knows what it could be - he had a sinking feeling it was due to how he died.

Charles never did know how he died.

He’d thought Arthur looked beaten in, though he’d been dead long enough that he’d started to look small, skin sliding and falling along his bones, and he’d been sick in the end, losing weight and muscle mass until he’d looked more skeleton than man, so he wasn’t entirely sure.

Hoped, almost, that he’d been shot, that he’d suffered the short death of a well-placed bullet.

But when he’d sat back, unable to look his brother in the face any longer, unable to see that single stony eye staring accusingly back at him, he’d found a mess.

The coyote hadn’t been the first to get there. That, or the coyote had been there for a long time as he was torn open from stem to stern, a mess of torn flesh and bared meat, shredded organs and shattered bone, the flayed remains of his beloved coat, writhing with maggots and he couldn’t unhear the coyote cracking Arthur’s ribs between its teeth.

He lurched to his feet, put his hands on his knees and gasped for breath, tried desperately to ground himself even as he shook apart. Shucked his jacket - wished he had that tent but he’d have to make do, refused to leave Arthur behind for fear the coyote came back, or any other scavenger for that matter - and lifted him carefully, swallowed convulsively, stomach rebelling at the feel of his loose skin shifting beneath his hands. It wasn’t his first time handling a body, even one long rotted, many rotted even more than this one, but it’s different when it’s your brother.

There was a chunk missing from his leg - the coyote, he thought, it fit for its size, and maggots poured from it as he scooped him up, cradling him like a bride, holding his breath against the scent of rot and sick, turning and beginning to walk up the cliff.

He wanted, more than anything, to bury him near the Overlook.

Arthur had been happiest there, he knew. When the gang had been happy, before it had all fallen apart. When they were all alive, before Dutch had well and truly lost his mind. Where Micah had been gone - first in jail, then hiding while he made reparations.

But he feared trying to bring him down the mountain, wasn’t sure he could hold together for even that small trip, much less on the back of a horse that far of a ride, and he didn’t have enough room on Taima if he managed to either way.

So he went up the mountain, cradling Arthur as though he were something precious - which he was - mindful of the open wound in his leg, of the hole in his stomach, painfully aware of the eye staring into him. Looked and looked, determined to find somewhere to bury him - he deserved, at least, that much. Remembered overhearing him talking to Lenny and Tilly and Hosea once, a long time ago—

“Face me to the west, so I can… watch the settin’ sun an’... remember all the fine times we had that way.”

—and Arthur, when he found him, had been facing east, and so Charles was determined to bury him facing west if it was the last thing he did.

He looked up, frowning as he carefully stepped down a small ledge, and the coyote was staring back at him.

If his arms weren’t full, he would have shot the damn thing for the mess it had made of his brother.

It huffed, tilted its head, licked its lips, and trotted away.

Behind where it stood was the perfect spot.

An outcropping, not too far out but long enough for a man of Arthur’s size, a massive rock at the end like some natural headstone. The grass thick and lush, cradling Arthur when he set him down and knelt to feel the dirt, finding it loose enough to be dug with a tool but hard packed enough that an animal would have to work their paws bloody.

It was perfect, almost too perfect, and he looked back, frowning when he didn’t see the coyote anywhere. Felt a chill run down his spine, shook it off.

He moved Arthur so he could keep an eye on him, ready to chase off any birds that might be attracted, not trusting the coyote - clearly brazen, used to humans - not to try its luck.

Charles carried a trowel in his satchel, having found it useful for a great many things, so he pulled it out and set to work.

Hours passed. By the time he was done his clothes were sticking to him with sweat and he was shaking, muscles throbbing and near to giving out. But he had a grave, ten feet deep just to be safe, and so he wiped off the trowel and set it aside, picking up Arthur as carefully as he could with hands that shook with more than just exhaustion, said a prayer and set him down in the grave, making sure to face him west before clambering out of the hole, collapsing onto his side and gasping for breath.

He didn’t dare to rest though, knew that just a hole wouldn’t deter any scavengers, and set about filling the grave. Hated to cover his brother with dirt, wished he could give him the dignity of a coffin but had no way of getting one, so could only offer an apology as the dirt scattered over the side of Arthur’s face.

He doesn’t remember much of burying him. Pouring the dirt back in took hours, he had only his hands and a trowel and he’d dug it deep, but finally he could collapse onto his side after patting it harshly, making sure it was packed down until, aside from the lack of grass and plants, it looked barely different from the rest of the ledge, barely disturbed.

He dozed on and off for the rest of the day, waking as the rising sun cast its light into his eyes. Reached up and wiped his face, was jerked back down to reality when he found himself with a streak of dirt across his face—

—looked up, and found himself staring down the coyote again. It shifted from paw to paw, looked back over its shoulder, and his only warning was the faintest, far-away clattering of hooves before the most golden stag he’d ever seen strode up to stand beside the coyote as though the coyote wouldn’t eat it if given a heartbeat’s chance, peering down at him critically, before turning right back around and walking away, gone as quick as it had come.

The coyote looked down at him for a moment longer, then turned and trotted after the stag.

He shivered, and stood, grabbing his satchel - he’d intended on eating and having a drink, but he wanted to get started on Arthur’s grave marker, could always eat as he worked.

Arthur’s grave marker took him five days. Finding the wood took the better part of the first, breaking down the trees took the second. And then was the matter of carving it, of working the wood into a circle, of making it take the shape he could see in his mind’s eye, of making all the separate pieces come together and, more importantly, stay together.

He intended on taking as long as he needed to make the grave marker. Every time he closed his eyes he saw it, saw it look a certain way, and though he didn’t know why he knew it needed to look as such.

And on the fifth day, every one woken to find the deer and coyote peering down at him, he had the marker, and all he needed to do - though it was no easy undertaking - was engrave it. He was no religious man, but he knew some sermons, knew some verses as any man of his time would, had spent most of his time carving trying to decide, trying to picture them carved into the wood until it fell to rot, and finally he planted the grave marker carefully and stepped back to look it over a final time,

His knees went weak, and he sank to the ground.

The culmination of a week - two days ride, five days taken to bury and make his grave marker, a break taken only to bury Miss Grimshaw - stood before him. He felt… oddly empty, until a tear trickled down his face, and then another, and another, and he’d never been one to cry and his face didn’t twist and he didn’t sob but he couldn’t stop.

Something soft nudged against his face, a warm puff of breath, and he caught a glimpse of golden fur before he was nearly knocked over with the force of the stag’s shove.

Despite himself, he grinned - it was watery, and shaky, and tasted of salt as tears ran over his mouth, but the stag sighed into his face, smelling of sweet-grass and smoke and horse-sweat and familiar and he reached up, tangling his fingers in the thick fur of its neck, bringing their heads together.

ARTHUR MORGAN

BLESSED ARE THOSE WHO HUNGER AND THIRST FOR RIGHTEOUSNESS

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wkngsnds · 4 years

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Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Dangan Ronpa 3: The End of 希望ヶ峰学園 | The End of Kibougamine Gakuen | End of Hope's Peak High School Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: Major Character Death Relationships: Kuzuryuu Fuyuhiko/Pekoyama Peko Characters: Kuzuryuu Fuyuhiko, Pekoyama Peko Additional Tags: With surprise guests at the end, i would tag Natsumi but she isn’t an active character, Angst and Hurt/Comfort Summary:

“I-Is that what you do?”

Peko blinks slowly, facing the ceiling instead of him.

“I don’t feel anything when I do. Not anymore.”

—

Back at it again with my bs; I start class again today, but I haven’t slept so that’s fun. This took me a bit longer to write, so I would enjoy some feedback. This time, I’ve also included a read more so y’all can view it on tumblr if you’d like. I may have left like one or two things unchecked, but it’s the same thing (it’s a format thing, that doesn’t really take away from the story).

Two weeks ago, he never wanted a tool. Tonight, he’s grateful for his hitwoman.

He never blacked out during a fight— savoring every cut and bruise (or as many as she let him get), so he was faster and stronger the next time around. His rage was a fickle thing, and even if it he wasn’t a mafioso, he believed, it would still be consuming, vigorous, and perfervid. Never the petty type, his anger was direct; he only saw point B no matter the obstacles in the way. If he couldn’t move them with words, he thought he could smash through them as he refused to lose sight of his goal. That goal being someone’s else’s tooth, finger, blood, and sometimes all three at once.

Tonight was no different.

She never got hit during a fight— she was fast, strong, and cunning. Most of all, she knew how to hide her wounds from him; one bad day and years of training made her an expert. Her rage was restrained, and even if she wasn’t a tool it would still be kept within bounds, repressed, and leashed. She forced herself to see his point B; points C through Z were closed, because the worst case scenarios could happen if they reached points C through Z. If they didn’t cower before him when they got there, she would make them bow.

Tonight, was no different.

All it took was an oblivious idiot with a weird hairstyle in the class, and they finally put the pieces together. Of course it was that obsessive bitch who clung to his other bitch classmate. Fuyuhiko had half the mind to kill her off as well, just by association (those pictures couldn’t have been anyone else’s work), but, again, that’s what Peko was for: when he didn’t have half the mind to think. Though, to be fair, she did also hesitate in stopping his plan— preventing it if only because a trail of corpses would lead back to them.

So, he would have to make this one count.

And he did.

When the two finally returned to his dorm room (the girls had a louder lock at the entrance), they both collapsed from exhaustion: him at the foot of his bed and her at his closed door. It’s not like they went far to dump the corpse; in fact, it had been one their top priorities for clean up. Peko had suggested a copycat murder, yet Fuyuhiko argued against it. With everyone on high alert, the police (if they even bothered) had 29,998 other people to interview before they would be called in. He didn’t want to hide the body; no, he wanted her to rot— maggots crawling in and out of the holes they made of her. Such morbidity had not been his style, but it would be a lie if he were satisfied with her death alone.

They chose the bank of a nearby river.

Unsurprisingly, she stood before he could; once the adrenaline of his killing passed, his body felt sore and his muscles tensed up again. It felt as though any movement made cracked his joints, while his eyes briefly crossed over. He shook his head— he shouldn’t feel this weak, not when Peko was the one who carried, quite literal, dead weight in her kendo bag when they walked to the river. When they arrived, he waited for her to unwrap the corpse before taking its arms and she took its legs. He can still feel the force it took to swing it back and forth before flinging it down the bank. After that, they walked back to the boys dormitories. Taking public transportation was out of the question, and he couldn’t face his family by asking for a ride even if the deed was done. Perhaps if he had done things the more ‘traditional’ way, he would have been asleep by now, but that didn’t sit right to him. No, Fuyuhiko had to follow through on everything; this whole process was too personal to not get involved (although that in itself is a exact reason why he shouldn’t have been involved). He wouldn’t be able to face Natsumi if he accomplished such a cold hearted, empty revenge.

He forced himself to sit up even if made him want to throw up.

“You need to bathe.”

“It can wait until morning.”

“No, it cannot.” He watched as she reached into a separate duffel bag, “The stenches of blood and death are ones that linger if you do not remove them immediately.”

From the bag, she pulled out an antibacterial liquid body wash and shampoo. She had also brought a roll of black bags, a bottle filled with what he assumed were cleaning chemicals, and a cardboard box.

“Young master, please give me your cap and gloves.” He forgot he even had them on, “Thank you. I will burn these items, so if you have any trash you would like to dispose please place it in this bag.”

Not only were those put in the bag, but her black cap and gloves were tossed in as well; he hears her folding the the aforementioned paper she wrapped Sato in before throwing it away as well.

Sato. Even her name was repugnant and simplistic.

His arm rested on a raised knee, “Do you need to burn my clothes as well?”

Watching her fix the box and line it with another black bag— the way her movements were quick and sharp nearly gave him vertigo, but it’s her calm demeanor (doing everything as if from muscle memory) that gives him chill. This...was truly her speciality, wasn’t it?

“No, that will not be necessary. That is one of your more expensive suits, is it not?” He nodded, “Then I shall send it the manor to have it carefully cleaned.”

“What about your clothes?”

“Please do not worry about that.”

“Do you have anything to change into?”

“Young master.” She looked like she wants to say something, “Please go bathe.”

He grabbed onto the footboard behind him, and stood, albeit struggling, before she could reach to help him. She’s worried about him (always, always worrying about him), that much is obvious by her facial expressions, but he wasn’t in the mood to argue with her. He took both bottles before grabbing his nightwear, and headed towards the shower room.

“There’s a washer-dryer set in this closet. Wash your clothes.”

Normally, it took him 15 minutes to get himself clean, but the falling of hot water on his back kept him in for five minutes longer. For five minutes longer, he mulled over his ambivalent thoughts— remembering how Sato’s face contorted into shock, and then overcame by dread and terror at the sight of him...it elevated him. The way she tried to run from him, but Peko threw her to the ground; kept down by an elbow between the shoulders, yet her head kept up by her hair. He’s never felt that kind of power: having everything and everyone in his control. For once, they feared him and not her. For once, someone begged at the feet for his mercy and not his father.

Did Natsumi beg for her life?

Was she afraid?

Did she call out for him?

Then came the boiling rage once again; the jarring reality that it didn’t matter if he killed one person or left an entire town to die, he still had to bury his little sister. He knew her death wasn’t his fault, he’s not that delusional, but he thinks he could have stopped it. If he stopped running away from being compared to her, would she still be alive? He could have been a better brother if he wasn’t such a fucking child. Would that have developed her talent faster? If he tried to put in a good word for her with the recruiters— persuade them to look into her, would that have kept her safe? If he let Peko go check on her, she would still be here, wouldn’t she?

He watched as the blood from his hand (there’s only a crack on the tiled wall) washed down the drain, and then turned the faucet off altogether. He didn’t need to pass out form all the heat. As he dried himself, he noticed the basket he left in the washroom before the shower had almost been emptied save for his underwear and socks. Well that took care of that.

Exiting the bathroom, he kept a towel draped over his head, and found her meditating on her knees in the same clothes she arrived in. Everything around her had been ‘prepped’, so to speak; the box of his clothes was closed and ready to be shipped out, the ‘burn bag’ kept in her kendo duffel, and her black yukata was folded neatly next to her.

(Strike) That’s what the face of a professional looked like. (Endstrike)

“There’s an extra clean towel in the washroom. ‘Left the soap and shampoo inside the shower for you.”

“Thank you.” He doesn’t miss the way her voice sounded weaker than before. Nor does he miss the redness in the whites of her eyes.

Had Peko been crying?

She cleared her throat, and he had her attention; of course, that itself was the problem.

“Young master...please turn around so that I may undress and place my clothes in the wash. It would be inappropriate otherwise.”

Fuyuhiko didn’t verbally respond, but he complied with her wishes— the blond sat arms crossed on his bed opposite to the small hallway. Though, he only now realizes that the body mirror he used each morning aligned with said area, and created a distorted reflection. Within a second, his golden tired eyes closed to prevent the chance of seeing anything beyond the small of her back.

The gangster relaxes, somewhat, after he heard the sound of his shower for the second time that night. Slowly, he picked his feet up onto his bed and laid his head on his pillow; it felt like his head would explode with all the pulsing in his veins.

He blinked.

2:20 AM.

In three and half more hours, he will be awake for twenty four hours— nothing unusual for him, but worth noting in silence.

He breathed.

He heard his bodyguard shuffle, throwing her wet clothes into the dryer no doubt, and then returned into the shower just as quickly.

2:36 AM

When Peko finished showering, it hadn’t been as hot as when he exited— humid, yes, but he knew she liked to take cool showers. He also knew that despite all her yukatas being black, they had subdued patterns on each of them if one looked closely enough. He had gotten two of them for her birthday and Christmas last year, after all, and nearly had an aneurysm over convincing her to keep each one. For this year, Fuyuhiko had his eye on a specific thin, golden chain— one she could hide under her clothes— sold by a nearby jewelry store. Truth be told, this was only half of his choice, but it was the realistic half.

The other half had been a pendant of a crescent moon with a dragon wrapped around it strike (though he’d give her the world in a heartbeat if she asked for it, statuses be damned). endstrike

He sat up, “That’s the birthday one, right? The one you’re wearing.”

“Yes, it is. Thank you once again.” She switched sides and continued to squeeze the water out of her hair, “The material is incredibly comfortable and breathable.”

He looked he had something to say, all of a sudden.

“Peko when was the last time we bathed together?”

He’s just as surprised to ask her that as she is hear the question,

“Um...” But of course she takes the question seriously, “I believe you had requested we stopped doing so a week before your seventh birthday.” Of course her memory was good like that.

Peko told him to put his worries aside, and to sleep for the rest of the night— that it was advisable to take today off as no one would bother him for it. However, he only half listened as he saw her pack everything together. Without warning, it felt like all the gravity in the room decided to center in his chest, threatening to pull him down if he didn’t keep his head up. Fingers not his own wrapping around his heart, and clutched it as if to have it explode in chest. She’s going to go back to her room, she said.

She’s leaving him.

“H-Hey, it’s the middle of the night, there’s some pretty drunk bastard roaming a out, no doubt.”

“I’ve handled worse.”

“You’re hair is still wet.”

“The air is still warm.” Her shinai is propped onto her back, “Please do not worry me. I will be fine.”

Fucking hypocrite.

“The girls dormitories have a loud lock at the entrance, don’t they?”

“As I said, please do not worry about me. I’ll use my sword to climb over the fence and enter through my window.”

She’s leaving him all alone.

“Then, if there is nothing else you need of me, I shall leave you alone now.” But just as she reached for the handle, she paused.

“What?”

“That Sato deserved to die. No, she deserved a fate worse than death. Even Koizumi should...” Her shaking breath hadn’t gone unnoticed by him, “I digress. You did it; with your strength and your wits, you killed Sato. That being said, accepting the fact you’ve murdered another person is not without trouble. Regardless if they deserved to die or not, regardless of how strong or skilled you are, regardless of premeditation or in the heat of the moment. Someone’s blood is now on your hands.”

“And there’s going to be more in the future.” Of all the times and of all people to be such a miserable asshole towards

“Yes...I suppose that is inevitable. My apologies, young master.” How dare she lecture him, “Please sleep well.”

She’s going to walk out that door, and she’s going to die just like Natsumi.

“Stay with me.”

Fuyuhiko hadn’t been sure if the words left his mouth, and, if they did, he didn’t know if she heard him. Not that he had any right to make demands or give her an order after brushing her off. These mood swings of his were, no doubt, confusing for her. She just wanted to help him with something he truly knew nothing about (despite it being his birthright), and he practically told her to fuck off. She always wanted to help him. Make herself useful to him with no damn regards to her own needs.

Was he so incompetent that she couldn’t rely on him?

In the end, it seemed that she did hear him, but it’s his fault for not communicating properly when she kneels before the door placing her shinai on her lap.

“I don’t mean guard my door. I meant that I want you to stay the night with me.”

Fuck.

“Young master...?”

“That definitely came out the wrong way. Look, what I meant was,” He exhales forcibly, “What I mean is...remember when we were really small? How you stayed in bed with me when I had those horrible nightmares?”

Then, suddenly, it clicked.

“Yes, I do.”

Out came another sigh, but he’s still agitated, “L-Like that, but only if you’re okay with doing so. A-And don’t say yes just because I want it, understand? If not, I’ll take the floor and you sleep on the bed.”

“Please don’t sleep on the floor at my expense. I...I want...to.”

Fuyuhiko should know better than anyone how difficult it has been for Peko to express her desires truthfully. He knew that she thought asking him for something had been forbidden. That requesting something outside their ‘professional’ parameters meant she was an ungrateful miscreant. The fact that she agreed did not shock him, but given that it came from her will did. Still, he wanted to rule out any possibility in which she felt obligated to agree with him.

“Are you absolutely sure?”

“Yes. I want to sleep with you.” Her confidence would have fooled him if not for the blush on her pale face.

“R-Right then.” With a simple push of his arms, Fuyuhiko placed himself to the left side of the bed. The mattress itself had been full sized (yet another benefit of an upgraded dorm room), so it wasn’t as if they had to force themselves into an inappropriate position to fit. At worst, they may have ended up closer than when they fell asleep, but that did not necessarily violate his own morals. He had to remind himself that, puberty aside, they had done this before and it was no different from those times.

“Young master? You’re trembling.”

Fuck.

“I-It’s fine. Don’t worry about it.”

“Sir, please don’t force yourself to do this. I truly don’t mind sleeping on the floor.”

“Shut up, I told you it’s fine already. Just turn off the lights and come here.”

Within a few seconds the lights were flicked off, and now the soft glow of his small lamp was the only source of light in the room. The mattress dips when she finally sits down, and hears the faint sound Peko fixing her bamboo sword in the small space between the bed frame and the nightstand. Her glasses were the last to leave her body, and joined the lamp on said stand. However, before she could lay down Fuyuhiko stopped her with a jolt; he reached under the pillow to find the tanto knife he always kept hidden. She had lent it to him long before they arrived at Hope’s Peak Academy— when they went to different middle schools, in fact. It hadn’t been taboo to carry a weapon, but no one bothered to give him one; he even had to use part of his allowance to buy his favorite brass knuckles. The clan members assumed with Peko by his side she was the weapon he could use. Nevertheless, the silver hair girl seemed satisfied that he kept it with him for the past few years. It was one of her own, after all, that she had picked specifically for his own skills and strength.

Once he placed the weapon beneath him, their bodies collapsed on top of the blankets— each letting out an exhaustive sigh.

“Hey Peko? My bad for cutting you off like and saying shit like that.”

He hears her hair rustle as she turned her head to him, taking a moment to choose her words carefully (though, it’s his fault she can’t speak comfortably with him).

“It is no bother. In any case, the young master is right: once you ascend to your role as the oyabun, you will have even more enemies.” Her tone becomes more assertive, “Rest assured, I will be the one to dirty my hands and cut them down if they oppose you.”

“I still should let you speak.” He stared back at the ceiling, “You said something like that before, ‘Someone’s blood is my hand now’. What were you gonna say after that?”

“Simply that it would be wise to detach yourself from what you’ve done. Regret is futile, but to associate this with any kind of pleasure is dangerous as well.” In the darkness of his room he can just barely make out her face, “If you let Sato haunt you it will be as if you never killed her at all.”

“I-Is that what you do?”

Peko blinks slowly, facing the ceiling instead of him.

“I don’t feel anything when I do. Not anymore.”

At least now he knew where she was whenever he found her room empty. Or maybe, he always knew and deluded himself into thinking she was staying up late to practice.

“When was the first time,” Why does he keep pushing her about this, “That you killed someone?”

“When those men kidnapped you and I, and brought us to the mountains. Once I realized that you were unharmed, I went and killed them all. It was the only we could escape safely.”

“...” What does he even say to that sort of thing? They were five years old when that happened. At five years of age, the world (his world, their world) turned her into a murderer.

“Young master, I am sorry for not doing a better job that night.”

“Peko, what the hell are you talking about? I only survived that night because of you.”

The swordswoman sat up, feet swinging onto the floor— he couldn’t see the expression she was making, but he didn’t need to know she was blaming herself.

“But I only made things worse. If I wasn’t so afraid that night,” Her fingers grip onto the sheets, inhaling deeply, “If it wasn’t so weak, the young master wouldn’t have been petrified. If I kept my head clear, like I was supposed to, we would have gotten lost!”

“We were five— even grown adults would have been scared out of their fuckin’ heads.”

He doesn’t expect her to turn around so suddenly, and it caused him to sit up as well. Again, he could barely see her face, but he can damn well hear it in her voice.

“That is not an excuse! I am the young master’s tool, protecting the young master...killing for the young master, that is my only purpose. I should never make you doubt the safety of your life! If I were smarter that night, then the young master would not have been afraid. If I were faster, Lady Natsumi would still be alive and the young master wouldn’t have to have had dirty his hands.”

What?

Fuyuhiko’s silence worried her, and the panic sets within; she messed up. She was always messing up. Why couldn’t she just be competent for him? In a second, Peko regained control of her emotions and thinks she removed her expressions. In another second, she was back on the floor performing Dogeza...

The words flowed in and out of his ears, refusing to stay. He thinks— no, he knows she’s apologizing, but he doesn’t understand why.

...

What?

“...Stop.”

“Please do punishment unto me as you see fit for my loose tongue.”

“Stop it, already. Just stop...”

He’s tired.

“Young master...”

“You were just following my orders. I’m her brother, so it was my responsibility to check on her.” It returned again: the heavy feeling in his chest, the one that drags him to the floor and plops him next to her.

She’s tired.

“Sir, you mustn’t blame yourself. If I were a tool capable of being trusted, then I am sure your orders would have been different! If I were more sensible— young master...?”

They’re both so exhausted.

“Don’t you get it? You’re the only one I can trust.” He was suffocating, “You always put your life on the line for me, with no damn regard to your own. You're not invincible, Peko.”

“That is exactly why I intend to fulfill my purpose as your tool until I am corpse at your feet.”

“How many times do I have to tell you?!” (He’s grateful that the room was sound proof), “I don’t want a tool! Tools can’t die. They become dull, they break, and you replace them, but they definitely cannot die. If some fucking rotten cunt smashed your skull in with gravel in a swimsuit you’d die!”

She sat up, “I-I wouldn’t let that happened, I promise!”

“But you can’t know that, you can’t possibly fucking know that! What the point if you’re dead?!”

She can’t do it again to him, not now. She can’t fall apart on him. Not again. That wasn’t fair to him. She has to be strong, she has to be strong, she has to be...

“Natsumi thought she was untouchable, that’s why she was all starting shit with everyone around her. And now what? Now we have to fucking cremate her.” She sees the way his eyes plead with her, his hands desperately grabbing onto her shoulder, “So stop saying you’ll protect me until the day you die, because if I have to bury you too—”

His throated closed on him, and he nearly chokes on himself— as if his body couldn’t finish a thought he never really wanted to have in the first place.

So. This is what it felt like? Breaking their nine and ten year streak of no crying.

“...Young master?”

“Please don’t leave me! I can’t do this on my own, Peko, I need you!”

“Young master! There’s no way I would ever want to leave your side!” She struggles to steady her breathing, her hands clutching onto his arms, “There are so many things in this world that can hurt you, so many things that I cannot protect you from and I hate it. If something fatal were to happen to you...being expected to live on is just too cruel for me.”

“I wouldn’t be able to do it either, you know?” He stopped crying, but his voice still hadn’t recovered, “My little sister died because I failed to protect her, and if you died because of my actions...I seriously couldn’t...”

He couldn’t remember the last time he allowed someone else to touch him so personally— running away even from his mother’s touch. Her hands were warm on his face, and he lets himself fall into them. He knows once they wake up again, once they went home, this closeness between them would have to be forgotten. He presses his hands against hers, and sighs;

So warm.

So human.

“Peko, from now on it’s just you and me. Not as master and tool...just together, okay? We live together and we die together.”

For once, she lets him help her do something: raising her up and leading her to the bed. When they wake up later on, she’s knows this could never be brought up again. An indescribable dream or a sleep deprived hallucination, that’s all she can remember it as. Though, in raw honesty, that seemed better to her than nothing at all.

When their bodies hit the bed for the second, they do so facing each other— much closer than his morals would have allowed. It just felt natural, like how their hands intertwined wish ease.

“Then let us die of old age and nothing else.”

“Sounds like a plan.”

Finally, they fell asleep.

———

A few months later

“Ugh, that’s so totally LAME! Your sister dies and you just move on with your hit-man-squeeze??? Then again, I can totally relate to that. I mean, just being within 100 feet of grosses me the hell out.”

“And you’re high pitched voice gives me a splintering headache,” But it’s said with such a loving tone, “In any case, should we separate them? That might drive one of them over the edge.”

She rolled her eyes so hard that she was afraid her contacts would get stuck behind her eyes.

“Ugh, whatever! That’s too much effort for energy I do not have. Besides, I’m over the ‘murder the lover for the shock value’ trope. It’s done and over with, so out of style!”

Junko continued to watch through her binoculars; their upperclassmen, it seemed, were getting ready to move into the new building. How cute, she thought, after the funeral came a honeymoon.

“Besides, a codependency like theirs has been brewing in the pot for years now. We just need to turn up the heat, upupupupu!”

#kuzupeko #kuzuryuu natsumi #mentioned but not an active character #references to the game

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