#//And I just think a tiny vicious crow is so funny. | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

kanri-tea · 3 years

Text

Demon Slayer! AU (Part 2 - Meeting Old Friends)

Ramuda, Ichiro, and Samatoki finally reunite. Jakurai sleeps away for now.

~~~

For Ichiro, waking up in the past was disorienting. He looked maybe eleven or twelve for some reason, and more importantly, he was a l o n e.

Where were his siblings?

Where were the others?

He’s an orphan again, but this time, there’s no Jiro or Saburo. There’s no Kuko or Samatoki. As he lives his life again, Ichiro finds that he’s alone. (Of course it’s adults that let him down, Ichiro thinks bitterly.)

In the end, it came down to pure luck, Ichiro thinks, that he ended meeting Kuwajima Jigoro.

In the end, it was thanks to the elderly man that Ichiro hadn’t lost his mind, hadn’t given up hope.

So Ichiro trains. He trains and he trains and he trains. It’s difficult and Kuwagima is a harsh taskmaster, but Ichiro tries and tries for the man he’d come to call “jii-chan.”

It’s frustrating too, for all that he tries and he tries, he can’t learn Thunder Breathing. Not completely. The first form, Thunderclap and Flash, is the only one he ever manages.

Ichiro hates himself for being so weak, but he’s not a failure no matter what Kaigaku says, so he works even harder. Like jii-chan says, if he couldn’t manage the other forms, then he sure as hell was going to master the one he did know.

Time comes and goes; the peach trees continue to whither and blossom as each year passes. By the time Ichiro heads off to the final selection – carrying the well-wishes of Kuwajima with him – the longing and pain has mostly faded to the background. Sure, he still missed Jiro and Saburo and spent countless nights worrying over what happened to them, but in the end, there was nothing he could do. What he could do instead was pass this exam and become a demon slayer to protect humanity.

There’s only four people who end up passing the exam. As Ichiro looks around, he sees a girl with a butterfly hairpin and an empty smile, he sees a boy whose faced is scarred and anger in his eyes.

He sees Ramuda.

But. There’s no way. How many years had it been since he’d woken up in this strange world all alone? Four years? Five? Even as the almost identical children speak to them, even as a sparrow lands on him instead of a crow, even as the angry boy tries to strangle the white-haired child, Ichiro is frozen.

When the Ramuda look-alike steps up and protects the child, Ichiro wonders briefly if his Ramuda would’ve ever done that. Would the childish man ever put himself in the middle of violent situation he couldn’t talk himself out of?

Ichiro doesn’t know anymore. Hell, he’s not even sure if he even remembers Ramuda’s face accurately anymore.

In the end, the four newly named Demon Slayers go their separate ways without ever speaking to each other. In the end, Ichiro doesn’t manage to scrounge up the courage to ask the pick-haired boy who he was, and Ichiro couldn’t help but hate himself even more.

Ghosts, Ramuda thinks, are still scary as fuck, but he supposed Sabito and Makomo could be the exceptions. But if he ever saw another ghost in his life again, he was going to go ballistic. Ugh, ghosts, he thinks as a shiver goes down his spine.

But… for Sabito and Makomo, for the other children who were killed… You can be at ease now. Even though you’re all spirits now, you can return now. Return back to your beloved Urokodaki-sensei’s side, back to your home at the base of the Mist Mountain.

Ramuda wondered where his spirit would go after his death. Maybe his spirit would go back to the modern age, where Dice and Gentaro was along with Jakurai.

Selecting an alloy for his nichirin blade should’ve been an easy, well-deserved task, especially after fighting so many ugly demons in the forest, but noooo, this one asshole just had to try and bully a little kid! Geez, what a barbarian – even worse than Samatoki.

Carefully making his way back to the Mist Mountain, Ramuda spent most of it distracted by his thoughts, thoughts of spirits and of the living and the dead, and of the demons and human. Speaking of demons…

“Welcome back,” Jakurai evenly breaths, arms wrapping around Ramuda like a warm blanket. How many years had it been since they’d been transported to this cruel, yet kind world? Six years? Seven? He didn’t know, but maybe it was for the better. Had they been in the modern era, in a time of hypnosis microphones and humans that could be even worse than demons, Ramuda would’ve never accepted this, not after the TDD split up.

Another pair of hands wraps around them, bigger and broader than either Jakurai or Ramuda’s current body. It doesn’t take a genius to know that it’s Urokodaki-sensei, but the flowing tears, Ramuda mind slowly processes, is new.

“You finally came back alive,” the tengu-masked man sobs, and Ramuda understands. He understands. Pushing back memories of the many Ramuda clones that never came back, he lets himself slip. Emotions weren’t punished here, they weren’t disregarded. For the first time in a long, long time, Ramuda lets himself cry, sinking into Urokodaki-sensei’s embrace, soaking in Jakurai’s warmth.

For the first time in a long, long time, Ramuda felt free.

Fifteen days later, a hyottoko-masked man – Haganezuka – shows up with Ramuda’s nichirin blade. And man, what a weirdo, Ramuda thinks. Even as he’s being shaken by the weirdo – Jakurai peeking out from under the futon, disapproval written all over his tiny face – Ramuda contemplates his black blade. Damn, he thinks, he was really hoping it’d turn pink or yellow or something cute. Black kinda felt… ominous.

“Caww!!! Amemura Ramuda,” the Kasugai crow flies in, loudly cawing, “Hurry and go to the northeast town, caww!!”

“What the fuck,” Ramuda asks no one in particular from beneath Haganezuka, “Is that crow talking?”

The crow pears down at him, vicious eyes boring into Ramuda’s confused ones, conveying how unimpressed it was, which, how the fuck was a talking crow even conveying facial expressions?? Ramuda had so, somany questions.

“Hurry up and go hunt demons,” the crow yells at him, “This is your first assignment! Remember this well, in the northeast town, young girls are constantly disappearing every night! Every night! There are girls! There are girls constantly disappearing!!”

When Samatoki wakes up, it's in the middle of a forest. He doesn’t know how old he is – early teens maybe even younger. But more importantly…

What.

The.

Hell??!!

The last thing he could remember was fighting an illegal microphone user alongside fucking Ichiro, Ramuda, and sensei. So what the fuck was he doing in a forest? With a boar’s head mask on his head to, Samatoki thinks repulsively, and it looked pretty fucking real.

Maybe this was a joke, he thinks to himself, getting more and more hysterical as each day passed without any signs of people. Maybe Jyuto dumped his ass in the middle of a forest to see if he’d learn anything from Rio’s “survival cooking” lessons. Fuck if it wasn’t the stupidest idea ever, but Samatoki was getting desperate.

But, as years pass, he gives up hope. What’s the point? All around him was nothing but wilderness. Maybe it was desperation, though, that made Samatoki do his very best to survive, pulling out all his deepest knowledge of whatever survival shit Rio had passed on to him.

It’s not until he meets a so-called ‘demon slayer’ and beats them up and steals receives the guy’s admittedly kinda cool sword as a reward, that Samatoki finally feels like he’s going in the right direction. If it meant getting out of this damn forest and maybe doing something with this life, even if it was something stupidly noble like Jakurai, then Samatoki didn’t find that he minded.

So he fights and he learns. Samatoki learns about demons, learns their weaknesses and strengths, learns about the Wisteria houses. He accepts that there is no one else. That he’s alone.

It’s not until Tsuzumi Mansion, though, that everything Samatoki had come to learn and accept about this world turns on its head.

“There’s a demon around here,” Ichiro hears Samatoki growl. The man is as violent as ever, and while Ichiro could never stand with someone like him ever again, this world was different. This was a world of demons and monsters, where fighting wasn’t only for survival, but to protect humanity.

Maybe it’s because Ichiro hasn’t seen Samatoki since they’d been thrown into this world, but Ichiro follows Samatoki as the man rampages through the mansion and out the front door. It’s not until he sees the white-haired man heading straight towards the wooden box that Ramuda had been carrying that Ichiro acts.

(“So, what’s with the box?”

“Hmm~ This box… I’ll tell you later! But this box isn’t just any box! It’s my most very precious possession, so don’t try anything funny with it, m’kay?”)

“Stop –! I won’t let you lay your hands on this box. This is Ramuda’s most precious possession!”

Samatoki comes to halt in front of Ichiro crouching over the box, protecting it with his body. It’s times like these that Ichiro is reminded how terrifying Samatoki could be, and the gleam of violence in the man’s – boy’s? – eye promises even more violence.

“The hell, Ichiro? There’s a demon in there,” Samatoki yells at him, “And why the fuck is Ramuda carrying around a demon?!”

“I… I knew that from the very beginning!”

When Ichiro had woken up in this world, one of the first things he’d noticed was how good his hearing was. It wasn’t just being able to hear things from a long distance or even just really quiet sounds. He could hear heartbeats, could practically hear the thoughts of others. It was a hearing of an unnatural degree.

The sound of a demon and the sound of a human were fundamentally different to each other, but�� it was Ramuda. It was Ramuda who laughed and played cheerfully during their TDD days; it was Ramuda who popped by every once in a while to check on Ichiro and his brothers after the split.

It was Ramuda whose sounds was so fierce, yet kind.

(The demon’s sound was kind too. It was so, so kind and soft that it made Ichiro want to cry. Maybe this was what pushed Ichiro to the edge, the thing that made Ichiro trust Ramuda on this matter. Sure, Ramuda was someone precious to him, but even Ichiro knew Ramuda was hiding secrets – dangerous secrets.)

“I’m going to ask Ramuda face-to-face,” Ichiro informs Samatoki, eyes unwavering. Ichiro had conceded to Samatoki many times in the past, but today, he wasn’t going to do that. He wasn’t going to give in.

“Tch,” Samatoki lowers his sword, “If the demon attacks us, it’ll be all yours and the stupid gremlin’s fault. Actually, where the fuck is he?”

“Samatoki, you stupid barbarian,” Ichiro hears Ramuda squawk and moments later, he comes in to view with Shoichi, Teruko, and another boy who Ichiro assumed was the older brother.

It’s not until Ramuda headbutts Samatoki in the middle of their squabbling and Samatoki falls unconscious, most likely concussed that the surrealism of the situation really catches up to Ichiro.

What the hell is my life now?

“So, if the three of us are all in this world since we all got caught up in the illegal microphone, where’s sensei?”

After burying the bodies, because Jakurai would’ve been hella disappointed in them if they hadn’t, Ramuda was finally back on the road with Jakurai on his back. But man, Jakurai was heavy. The box was supposed to be made out of some extremely light wood according to Haganezuka, but that was a fat lie. Maybe Jakurai was just fat, Ramuda snickers quietly in his mind.

Focusing back to the present, Ramuda’s mind stuttered to a halt at the question. Fuck. How the hell was he supposed to answer that?

So everyone we knew got killed by the demon king and then turned Jakurai in to a demon and know here we are, with me being a demon slayer and looking for a way to turn Jakurai back and Jakurai now sleeps in a box most of the time and is also toddler-sized! Buy hey! We’re alive at least!

Yeah, that wasn’t going to go over too well.

"Uhhh... Yeeeah... About that... The old man is kinda, uh." Ramuda sweats his way through the conversation, "I'll tell you guys when we get have time to rest, 'kay?"

Thankfully, both Ichiro and Samatoki let the issue rest, but Ramuda could tell that neither were too satisfied with Ramuda putting off the conversation. It doesn’t take too much longer though, before they reach a mansion with a wisteria printed on the door.

“Caww – Rest! Rest!” Ramuda’s crow calls, “The injured will rest until fully healed!”

“Eh,” Ramuda questions, “We get to rest now, even though I had to fight while injured,” he asks, mildly ticked off.

“Coming…”

“A monster?!” He hears Ichiro whisper to himself. Ichiro seriously watched too much anime, Ramuda thinks to himself as he rolled his eyes.

“You are the demon slayers, right?” The old lady who answered the door asks. She bows, “Please, come in.”

Ramuda steps into the wisteria house. This world was so, sostrange, but, even as Samatoki snarls suspiciously at everything and Ichiro freaks out over the littlest of things, it’s a bit better with friends.

By the way Jakurai knocks the back of the box, Ramuda was pretty sure the old man agreed too.

"So, about the old man. We kinda ended up together," Ramuda starts explaining, "Like he ran a clinic and everything and I lived there for a while."

"Eh, did he stay behind?" Ichiro questioned, confused to where this conversation was going. Samatoki is nodding next to him, confused.

"About two years back, we... the clinic got attacked by a demon. Muzan," Ramuda breaths, "And the old man..."

Ichiro and Samatoki's eyes widen. Was Jakurai dead?

"... Jakurai got turned into a demon," Ramuda finally admits. He turns towards the box and raps his knuckles on it.

"Yo, old man. Are you coming out or not? You've been asleep in there for ages!"

The door of the box swings open, a tiny hand revealing itself before its owner crawls out, purple hair splayed everywhere.

"What," Samatoki breathlessly stares, "the fuck."

A toddler-sized Jinguji Jakurai stares back, muzzled mouth quirking down and an unimpressed look plastered on his child-like face.

#hypnosis mic #jinguji jakurai #amemura ramuda #yamada ichiro #aohitsugi samatoki #demon slayer! au #demon slayer #kimetsu no yaiba #urokodaki sakonji

17 notes · View notes

the-mountainsflame · 5 years

Text

((A battle is fought in the Ghimlyt Dark.))

It was strange, what one’s mind could focus on even at the prospect of a battle.

Doe knew that they were on the lookout for a signal, from the Alliance...some indication that they could and should start. But all she could think about was the darkness of the sky above, and how strange it all was, roiling overhead in aetherial turmoil like a living thing. What had this place looked like, before it had been ravaged by combat?

There was a curse from behind her, and her attention was drawn to the black-skinned Roegadyn half-buried in some bizarre piece of magitek. “Um...” Doe hesitated, but mustered up enough courage to continue when the woman she had been staring at looked up at her with brilliantly-silver eyes. “Do you need help?”

Iron Sights always just appeared unimpressed and unamused with everything, of course; now was no exception. But it intensified as she turned her head to bury it back in the bowels of the machine. “Unless you know something about technology that you conveniently forgot to mention, no.”

“Ah...s-sorry.”

The older Roegadyn’s back heaved with a sigh. “You do know you don’t have to apologize for literally everything, don’t you?”

“Sor—“ But Doe immediately cut herself short with an awkward cough. “I mean...okay. It’s just...a hard habit to break?” she continued with a fidgeting at her bowstring. “I don’t wanna make any of you mad at me, that’s all.”

“Hah!” Iron didn’t so much as pause at her work, though. “I would ask if you were taking the piss, but you’re far too pleasant for that nonsense. Hells... If anything, we shouldn’t be making you mad, given what you did not that long ago—“

“Enough, Iron.” Bull had been silent up until then, but his deep voice cut across her lighter one. (Doe’s shoulders sagged with relief, no more wanting to retread the subject than anyone else.)

“Well, you’re no fun, are you?”

“Focus,” Crow hissed from her perch on top of one of the fragments of Imperial dropship, though the hunter didn’t so much as turn her head from scanning the near horizons. “We need to be ready when we get this ‘all-clear’ signal they told us about.”

“Yes, yes, thank you, Miss Leader, I’m aware,” Iron shot back, though it seemed she was backing out more and more from her machinery’s innards now, muttering to herself. “Ah, almost. Come on, behave.”

“I have a name, thank you, please use it.”

“There!” Instead of dignifying the request with an answer, Iron just straightened up, bolting one last cover-plate on as the insides of the magitek started to hum and whir. “Just needs to charge up, and then we are positively golden.”

“Sights!”

“...Then we are positively golden, Tiny.”

Not that it was terribly uncommon for the two to be sniping at each other, even with Iron being one of the newer Swarstral members, but the tension on top of that that the endless waiting had already induced was getting to Doe more than she wanted to admit, and so she spoke up right to Crow herself. “Any signs of the others from up there...?”

Crow had been bristling, about to turn on the impudent woman provoking her, but the question provided enough of a distraction to keep her from lunging at the other...for now. “Not a thing. Think they haven’t been called out there yet either.” “What’s takin’ them so long?”

Crow shrugged, but the lines of tension in her shoulders and back betrayed her own nerves more than Crow probably thought...Not that Doe would ever be so rude as to say anything about it out loud, though. (She had heard about how the battle in Ala Mhigo, before her arrival, had been...unkind to the Swarstral, and she could sympathize with someone traumatized so being thrown into such a similar situation once more.)

“The Alliance has their own battle plans,” Bull noted quietly, still seated cross-legged on the dark earth with a war-hammer lying across his lap. “They will call us when they are ready—no earlier, no later. And we will fulfill our dread purpose only then.”

Iron gave him a wry grin at that, muttering something unflattering about ‘dread purpose’ as she did. But when Doe sent her a look for it, the larger woman just clicked her tongue and shifted, fidgeting with the grip of the strange bladed gun slung across her back. “Aah, none of you have a sense of humor.”

“We have senses of humor,” Crow noted with steel in her voice, “for things that are actually funny...” But she trailed off, as her gaze snapped to something bright and glowing arcing in the distance, colored bright gold that almost hurt Doe’s eyes to look at...

“There!” Crow did, however, crouch down to scratch some arcane geometries into the dirt and debris covering the hulk she had settled herself on. “Bull? Doe? Do it, the peashooter and I’ll keep ‘em off your back if they try to come after us.” “Are you calling this a peashooter?” Iron brandished the blade-barreled gun as she scrambled up right with Crow, the magitek she had left behind starting to whir louder and pull itself from the earth. “Hah, I’ve punched holes in Reapers with this, mage! Reapers!”

“Aah, like I haven’t, and besides, I know that’s not your best weapon--”

“I’m not exposing Baby to this and you know it!”

But the rest of their...banter or argument, whichever it was...was lost on Doe under a wave of apprehension, the small one-handed staff trembling in her two-handed grip. She knew what Daeyona--war-leader, she silently corrected herself--had asked her to do, but...even though she had agreed, agreeing and actually doing it were two completely different things, and no amount of being in combat before was making her any less nervous.

(But not about killing people. She had no compunction against it, not in these cases; she knew firsthand what the Empire did to anyone they deemed lesser, deemed outsiders, and bore the scars of it all over her body. She did not relish killing, but she did not oppose it either, with their guns and their horrors pointed so squarely at them all. But about performing a magic she had so little practice in? That she shouldn’t have been able to do, from the outset, if her parents hadn’t done what they did? That was something else.)

(What if she couldn’t--?)

But a sudden crunch from her side, as Bull stood back up once more, threw her out of the train of thought, even if it about made her jump out of her skin in doing so.

“I’m sorry...” He was focused, however, on the ground ahead of him, hefting the war-hammer in both hands. “But we must focus.” It was not an unkindly remark, but a firm one that brooked no argument, as the varied marks and tattoos etched into his skin began to faintly glow. “We are entrusted to this task and must complete it.”

He was right, wasn’t he? But still, she just felt comically small next to him and the quiet power radiating from him, and she swallowed. “I...I know, but...”

But the smile he gave her was genuine, exaggerated by his beard and crinkling the corners of his eyes. “I have faith you’ll help fine in defending us against this scourge.”

Doe swallowed down the multitude of responses that came to mind--can’t can’t can’t--in the face of such confidence, but...all the same, her hand kept shaking as she finally held out the little stave in a casting stance. “I have to.” There was no doubt about that; letting the Imperial airships through their lines to do Twelve knew what to those behind them was something that she couldn’t possibly stomach. She knew what she had to do, even if she didn’t know if she could. “I can’t let anything else happen to the rest of us. Or to the Alliance. Or the Resistance...” She trailed off. “We have to stop them.”

And she would just have to dig into a magic she didn’t know much of anything about in order to do it. The thought daunted her and yet the constant seething sea of wild aether in the back of her mind reached for her at the thought, clamoring wildly to get out, too...too much like before. She shuddered, and had to shove down the flood of memories of blood and fire that were all too recent. But...

She knew better now, didn’t she? She hadn’t known that it was even there before but now she did and she had even tested herself whenever she thought she could handle it.

The ground in front of them crunched, now, and a startlingly-large chunk of earth rose to follow Bull’s slow, careful gesturing with one hand.

She closed her eyes, hearing him ask her to make the marks--

(She knew that he had more than enough trouble with magic lately, and that this had to be straining even his formidable capabilities.)

--and she cast her thoughts towards the inner mass of souls trapped in the stone trapped inside her body, instead of flinching away from it.

They lunged.

It disoriented her so much that she staggered and gasped, and someone was trying to say something to her, but her hearing muffled itself under the roar of so many things howling and grabbing at the lone living thought in their midst in a desperate bid to escape. It could have been overwhelming just like it had been the first time, but now she knew what to expect and met it with as much focus as she could muster, searching pointedly for the quieter spots in the storm of fury surrounding her--where she knew that the spirits of the more explosive creatures resided...

I’m sorry.

She never liked being reminded of just how many souls there were here; she never liked being reminded that her family had done this to so many things over so many centuries, siphoning their souls from their bodies and trapping their aether in the stone that resided now in her body where she couldn’t get it out without killing her.

I’m so sorry...She fought off some of the angrier and more vicious thoughts trying to rip her mind from its socket to join them, and finally, reached out to grasp the smoldering threat that was the grenade ashkin—

It thankfully didn’t resist, even as it tried to lean away—

And in the physical plane, she pointed her staff at the boulder that Bull was levitating, focusing all her intent to a single point and a single purpose...to imbue it with the very power she was drawing on and mimicking with her own aether.

It surged more sharply than she had anticipated, however, and the arcane marks etched themselves deep and glowing into the stone, hissing in the air with the faint promise of power just waiting to be set loose. Thankfully, Bull caught on quickly and sent it flying with a swing of his hammer and a flare of manipulating magics, but as it soared through the dark skies towards the even darker forms of the Empire’s airships, the marks grew brighter and brighter—

And on impact, they ruptured and exploded outward with horrific force, tearing through shrieking metal and man and air alike with a brutal impartiality and a roar of blasting aether that had been far greater than she had intended.

Doe was no Daeyona; she didn’t think of herself as relentlessly strong, as vicious--she did not live and breathe battle like her leader did, or even like her Ahtyns did as well. She reeled from the wall of noise slamming into her, startled from the raw force it echoed, but she managed to stay on her feet and just swallowed hard and tried her level best not to tremble at it.

The shrapnel, thankfully, missed them if just because of the sheer distance, but Iron Sights briefly turned her attention from the Imperial soldiers she was steadily picking off with her bladed gun, surprise stamped on her features. “Sweet Twelve—“

“You mind dialing that back a little, Doe?” Crow interrupted, her incredulity significantly more masked, but present all the same, as she rapidly blinked her eyes. “I need to not go blind over here every time you two do that, thank you!”

“Fire’s gonna make light no matter what I do!” Doe’s protest was visibly unexpected, from Crow, but thankfully the older woman just grumbled and turned herself back around, irritably scything rapid-moving crystals of ice at a soldier that had been attempting to creep up on them.

“Doe!” Bull had mostly stayed out of the argument itself but had focused on bringing up another boulder instead, though the effort of his magic left a glinting sheen of sweat on his bared torso. “Magic is...difficult here.”

(It had been difficult in general, she wanted to say. She hadn’t missed how Crow was that much slower on her horrifyingly-fast attacks; she hadn’t missed how their few conjurer-healers had been complaining about their magics fleeing them at the worst possible times. She hadn’t missed how even some of the more intelligent creatures and things locked into her crystal had shied away from the thin aether they apparently saw all around her.)

But now was just not the time.

She raised her staff once more, she focused once more, she plunged into the depths of the sea of souls once more—and she dredged up the explosive forces she wished to command once more, more lines and geometries burning into the rock Bull was hovering in front of him. But it was less ferocious, this time; after the Halonic monk sent it flying with a resounding hammer blow, its explosion through the hull of an approaching war-airship was so much more controlled, punching a hole straight through its bulk instead of shattering against it with raw fury.

She did not relish killing, like some of the others could at times. Quite to the contrary, her stomach turned seeing the massive hulk crashing to the ground in flames. But...

Kill or be killed. Sage’s words to their little splinter group before they left to take up their positions rang in her mind, and she knew the notion to be all too true--possibly better than anyone else. The only course of action was to keep going, and she stood by the huge monk’s side as they continued to lob attacks at any ship that dared to get too close--and even at what footsoldiers dared to try and strike at their perch at the top of the hill.

Kill or be killed. But that was just war, wasn’t it?

She didn’t relish in needing it. But need it, they did, and she’d keep fighting this war until that was true no longer.

#; writing

3 notes · View notes

mythicamagic · 7 years

Text

Diabolik Fairy Tales - Chapter 7

AU - The Diabolik Lovers re-imagined as fairy tale characters. Each chapter will feature a different diaboy, as their dark natures become entwined with the original macabre fairy tales of the past. Includes smut with a nameless heroine (slight reader insert)

Rated M Trailer is here (you can read all my fics here on fanfiction.net or Ao3)

Chapter 1 - Yuma Mukami Chapter 2 - Shuu Sakamaki

Chapter 3 - Kanato Sakamaki Chapter 4 - Ayato Sakamaki

Chapter 5 - Ruki Mukami Chapter 6 - Laito Sakamaki

Chapter 7 - Azusa Mukami Chapter 8 - Reiji Sakamaki

Chapter 9 - Kou Mukami Chapter 10 - Subaru Sakamaki (end)

Warnings: Smut, self harm and implied child abuse

Eye of the Beholder~

The male gaze is something all women have felt, at one point or another. It dawns on them gradually, as they grow older; The feeling, like heady smoke in the air, of eyes following, assessing, desiring.

She didn't know at what point she became aware of it. Perhaps it had been one night on her fifteenth birthday, or even when he'd tutored her on the ways of the kingdom she'd inherit. But the moment it absolutely couldn't be ignored anymore, was a mere few hours after her mother had died.

"Your Mother, and my dear, dear wife..." Her father passed a hand over his face, fingers lingering over his mouth. "She made a request, before she passed."

His daughter barely heard him as she leaned against a window, thinking of the body of the Queen lying just upstairs. A few hours ago she'd been alive, coughing dry, heaving breaths into a blood soaked handkerchief. It'd been awhile since she'd actually lain eyes on Mother, on account of her illness, but she'd heard the coughs from her room every day for months. Now, silence reigned within the halls of the somber castle.

"I gave her my word," her father continued. She looked at him, and rose a silent brow.

He stared at her blank face, masked of emotions. Her eyes were cold, glass-like. "She made me promise that; After she died, I would take another wife, but only one more beautiful than herself."

Dawn broke soft shadows across his face as the princess avoided his gaze. An uncomfortable weight pressed upon her shoulders, gradually easing down into her stomach as it had always done in his presence.

Her limbs slowly tensed, hands tightening around her bent knees as she stiffened. "So then...you'll be holding marriage interviews after the funeral?"

"Yes..." the sound of him scratching his beard filled her ears. "Yes I suppose I will."

Her breaths evened out when he turned and left the room, taking that heavy, considering look with him.

Yet the unease lingered on for two months after the Queens death. In the meantime, the princess lost herself in work, running outside the castle grounds. Volunteering at the shack tucked away on a street corner was something that always quickened her footsteps, lips curving up, just slightly.

The regulars did not comment on the royalty serving them, acknowledging her with a mere tip of the hat. No one in the castle knew of her visits, which she was grateful for. She didn't need to hear the predictable warnings about gypsies. In her experience they were a more honest people than the ones who ate caviar to demonstrate their wealth.

A large woman known simply as 'Cook', ruled over the tiny establishment with a stern eye, and had never once cast judgement on her presence there.

One particular day, however, the princess burst into the kitchen in a flurry, doubling over as she struggled to catch her breath.

"Morn'in lass, what's got you in such a tizzy?" Said Cook, her hand pausing mid-stir as she turned from the boiling pot to glance at the girl. Even those sitting on tables nearby glanced up from their meager meals.

"I-I'm sorry- I didn't know where else to go-" she panted, raising her head.

Cook started in alarm at the sight, dropping the ladle in her hand and motioning another woman to take her place. Ushering the young girl away from prying eyes, she took her around the back.

Large beefy hands then locked onto the girls shoulders. "Out with it. Now."

"M-my father...h-he...has chosen a wife."

"Well that's grand, don't see why you're sniveling over it."

She shook her head, wondering at the putrid, sweet smell clinging to her nostrils. It reminded her so much of him.

Unable to meet Cook's gaze, she raised her trembling hand.

A shiny, woven gold band caught the light in a harsh glare. It shined prettily on her ring finger. She gave a tremulous, broken smile. Hot tears ran down her cheeks as she struggled not to fall apart.

Arms suddenly wrapped around her, bringing her into warmth. She felt a large hand stoke her head gently. "It's alright lass, we'll sort this out. It'll...it'll be fine." Cook muttered in a thick voice.

For the first time since her mother had passed, the princess allowed herself to cry. "I can't- I can't go back there, don't make me, please." She begged, quivering in the woman's arms like a child.

Contrary to her wishes, and with steps laden with dread, she'd made her way back to the castle mere hours later. She went to sleep that night just as she'd always done, but not before staring at the door of her room.

With quick, hurried movements, she pushed a cabinet in front of it. Laying back down in her bed, the gold band on her finger caught her eye.

A creeping, vicious emotion welled up inside her. It cracked beneath the surface of skin, coating her insides in putrid fumes of hatred that softened into a low hum. Dormant, but not forgotten, it festered.

Her lashes fell shut, finally drifting into fretful sleep.

Cook had instructed her to properly think about what she wanted to do. Staying at the castle felt inconceivable now. Her father would not take 'no' for an answer.

But merely running away was foolhardy. As the princess of the kingdom, her face was well known. Hiding under the guise of a cloak would only get her so far before she was captured and returned back to the castle.

"Aye lass, normal clothes won't cut it. If you want to escape out of the kingdom's reach, then you'll need something else." Cook had said, a distant look flitting over her aged face. The crow's feet at the corners of her eyes tightened, an oddly perturbed look crossing her usually stern features.

"I wonder...maybe he'll be of use."

It was this mysterious person that the princess decided to meet with the next day. Cook led the way, passing through the middle class ring and into the lower district. Pushing aside the cover hanging over the entrance of a make-shift door, she beckoned the princess inside.

She tensed as soon as the cover fell back into place behind them, blocking out the sunlight and drenching the old warehouse into shadow. Cook took her arm, leading her through the cluster of gypsies. Some of them scampered inside their shelters at the sight of the stranger. The princess had never been inside the den where some of Cook's family resided before. Other homeless people had also gathered there, forming a community the higher ups would rather ignore. Seeing them living such impoverished lives made the knot tighten in her stomach. She knew her family was responsible for the situation of the slums.

Finally, they stopped before a small hut. Various clothes were hanging outside on a washing line.

"Azusa? Come out. The lass I told you about earlier is here." Cook muttered in a low but stern tone.

There came a rustle, and the sound of feet padding softly, before a pale hand reached through the cover of the hut, pushing it aside slightly.

"Mm? Oh..." murmured a gentle, quiet voice. "Please, come inside..."

Cook sneered. "No way royalty is going to sit themselves inside that grubby-"

The princess stepped forward, giving a reassuring nod to the large woman. "It's fine. I don't mind."

With that said, she followed after the pale hand that retracted behind the cover. Ducking inside the doorway, she blinked, her eyes trying to readjust to the light. A lantern flickered in the corner of the room, bathing a lean figure in orange hues.

He looked to be around her age, with a pale complexion and doleful, tired eyes. Dark hair framed his face, with noticeable mismatched stands at the back, as if he'd tried to cut it himself.

What caught her attention most however, were the scars on the bridge of his nose and lower cheek. Bandages covered his left arm, and she noticed more that had unraveled, peeking out from under his shirt.

Unsure what to make of him, she fell back on her manners for self assurance."Thank you for meeting with me. I don't want to take up too much of you're time, so-"

He cut her off with a faint chuckle, the smoke of a smile lingering on his lips. "That's funny...heh, the thought of me...being busy." Leaning down, he folded his legs underneath him, sitting on the floor. "What do you need...from someone like me?" He said, in a monotonous voice.

At his pointed look, she mimicked his movements and sat. On some level she noticed his speech impediment, but it didn't bother her as she leaned forward seriously. "I was told you're talented at making clothes. Not only that, but you've crafted cloaks made from animal skins before. Cook said they had something about them, almost like a power was woven into the material."

Azusa blinked slowly, gaze shifting to a box at his side, filled with different kinds of threads. "Mm, suppose so. Needles have become...very useful to me."

She hesitated at this, wondering at the heavy look in his eye, before shrugging it off. "Please, Sir. I implore you to make me a cloak. I can buy all the material you need for it and more."

"You're...calling me 'Sir' now? My name...please use...my name." His gaze had shifted back to her, and she tensed. Stuck by a vague realization, she noticed that the sickened feeling in her stomach was absent. She wasn't frightened in this man's presence. Lilac eyes regarded her intently, but the 'male gaze' was no where to be found.

Although it trampled on propriety to speak his name so informally, it fell from her lips easily. "Azusa."

He tilted his head, hazy interest sparking alight within his sad gaze. "There's pain...in your eyes." He trailed off thoughtfully, even as his words dug into her heart.

The princess watched with baited breath as he seemed to think to himself for a moment, before lifting his eyes once more. "I'll make you a cloak. What do you... most want it to do for you? What do...you long for, more than anything in this world?"

She didn't know why it felt important that she answer truthfully. The secret desire in her heart, that had been cradled within her for many years, had never been voiced out loud.

"To be invisible." She murmured, feeling as if a piece of her soul was being bared to him inside those simple words.

Azusa watched her almost plaintively, before he nodded. "Give the money...to Cook. I'll tell her what material I need."

The knot strung tight within her eased as she smiled. "Thank you. Thank you so much."

"Three days. It will be done by then." He stood up with her, the heaviness in the air dispelled by his timid, answering smile. "Good bye...Eve."

Uncertain for the reason of him calling her that so suddenly, she only nodded gratefully and turned, walking out of the hut. Cook met her outside, muttering about how strange the lad was, but the princess barely listened. Hope burned in her heart for the first time in years.

Three days passed slowly. The princess endured a dress fitting session, lips pressed into a thin, grim line as she stood numbly.

No one voiced their disagreement with the marriage. She wondered if the family tree would be changed, making her conveniently unrelated to the royal family. Or perhaps Father would marry her anyway, reveling in the title of incest that would no doubt mar the kingdom's image forever.

On the fateful day however, she raced to Cook's shack, stopping before the entrance with wide eyes. Azusa turned in the doorway, an incredibly large cloak in his hands that spilled down to the floor. Horror silenced her tongue as he unfolded it, showing the full length.

It was made from the pelt of a donkey.

The hide had been crudely stitched together like patchwork to make a heavy cloak. No doubt the worst part was the hood, that retained the face and shape of the donkey.

Azusa's eyes warmed as she stepped closer, feeling the material with a cold, numbed hand. It slid rough and coarse between her fingers.

"Do you...like it?" He asked softly.

Her gaze swept to his fingers, which were newly wrapped in tiny bandages. She shoved the disgust down, crushing it under her feet as she smiled.

"It's perfect."

She wasn't lying. Her wish had been granted. No man would ever lay eyes on her again so long as she wore the grotesque cloak.

Cook enveloped her in a hug a moment later. The princess smiled, a shakiness in her heart as the woman drew back to look at her.

"Don't go gettin' soft on me, lass. You'll be fine out there. There's no one who knows the lay of the land better than the princess, right?"

She nodded mutely, emotion constricting her throat. All she needed to do was head East. She'd pass through two towns before reaching the border of Father's kingdom. Once over the other side, she'd be safe.

Grabbing the cloak, she slipped it on, lowering the hood and feeling the muzzle of the donkey weigh heavily over her head, shadowing all expression. The inside felt surprisingly cool, almost like leather but breezier. Thanking Azusa and Cook once more, the princess steadied the pack on her shoulder, adjusting the cloak so that it fell down to her ankles.

Stepping onto the road which would lead her out of the city, she turned back just once. Cook gave a wave, the crows feet deepening into worried lines around her eyes. Azusa gazed after her expressionlessly, touching his bandaged arm.

Her attention shifted past them to the massive castle laying behind. Her home...had it really been her home? Weren't they usually places where you felt safe? That same sensation of disgust mingled with anger boiled in her heart, and her eyes narrowed.

"Eve..." Azusa was suddenly there, in front of her startled face.

"W-what is it?"

He stared at her, unblinking. "I want...to come with you."

"Are you soft in the head, boy? No way does she want you tagging along." Shouted Cook from behind them.

Azusa ignored her, gazing past the black pits of eyes on the donkey-skin hood and directly into hers. "Eve...I have brothers...that I would like to find again. Take me with you. I don't care...where we go, or what you need...I'll do anything."

"I can't ask you to do that, but...you can come. We'll be travelling companions, how does that sound?"

His eyes widened fractionally, before he slowly nodded. Cook shook her head, but returned the wave that the princess sent her.

Turning on her heel, the girl shut the castle from her mind, walking towards the road that would take her East.

Her first thoughts when entering the new city, was that poverty had affected it badly. Unlike in the main city, were the homeless and poor had been driven into slums, this one was crammed full of the needy. Children with gaunt faces stared up at Azusa as he passed, but didn't even seem to notice her presence.

In fact, all eyes turned away from her whenever she drew close. At first they'd hesitate, before hastily pretending she didn't exist.

"Azusa, how does the cloak work?" She murmured curiously as the crowd gave her a wide berth, but narrowed and bumped into his side.

"Mm, they think it's scary. So they look away. Some ugliness...makes others lash out...but ones like the cloak make them afraid. It bypasses...disgust...and flows right into fear."

Noticing he was being bumped into, some knocking roughly into his shoulder, she stepped close to him. Azusa glanced at her with a surprisingly sour expression. "Why did...you make them stop? They would surely have left...wonderful bruises."

Her eyes widened at the comment, but she just tugged on his arm. "C-come on, don't say such things. Lets find a hotel before dark."

They found a humble hotel tucked away from the bustle of the streets that didn't cost too much for the night. Azusa quietly murmured that she didn't need to spend her money, and that they could've found somewhere else, but she insisted. Though he didn't say anything, she noticed the thinness of his frame, and made sure to buy him a meal.

That night, when she lay down in her bed, she noticed that he seemed to hesitate beside his. It couldn't be helped that they'd had to share a room, but when he turned his eyes on her, she tensed. "What's wrong?"

"I'm...not used to sleeping like this."

Her eyes widened. Of course he probably wasn't used to a plush bed. She sat up and furrowed her brow. "We can arrange the covers onto the floor, if you'd prefer."

When he nodded, she smiled gently.

The covers were spread out onto the wooden floor beside her bed. She didn't know how he'd ended up so close, but as he lay cradling his arm, she couldn't tell him to move after seeing him so comfortable.

As she lay back once more, some time passed where she drifted into a place between sleeping and waking. Something very quiet caused her to stir, the sound of hushed words.

"Important... right, Justin?" Azusa was murmuring to himself.

Turning onto her side, she found him sitting up, legs folded beneath him. His back was turned to her, but she could clearly see him unwrapping the bandage on his left arm. He unwound it with careful motions, until it fluttered to the floor beside him.

Her eyes dropped, threatening to fall closed with tiredness, but the faint sound of metal had them flying wide.

There was a thump of bare feet landing on hard floor, before the sound of a brief scuffle.

The former princess knelt, panting over him, gripping the knife still in his hand, poised over his arm. Azusa stared into her eyes. She dimly noticed that his flesh was covered in large scars, one of them, the largest, began at the crook of his elbow, ending close to his wrist.

"Ah...Eve, did you want...to cut me yourself?" A serene smile lit up his face. "I'd like that...I'd love to...make you happy."

He pushed the knife into her hand eagerly, only to latch onto her wrist, bringing the blade further down.

"What- stop! I don't want to hurt you, Azusa!"

With the wrench of her hand, the knife was sent flying, scattering over the floor with a loud clatter. She breathed heavily, snatching her hand back and staring into sorrowful eyes.

"I see...so Eve...does hate me."

"What? No, I don't." She shook her head. "Why would you...do this though? I heard you muttering someone's name."

Thinking he would be angry for prying, she felt surprised when he smiled. "Ah, Justin." He raised his arm, and motioned to the longest scar. His voice became soft, colored with fond memories. "Justin, Christina and Melissa." He touched each scar reverently. "They were...my good friends, once. But it's alright...because I keep them with me...this way. When I reopen them, my friends stay...a little longer. But they keep healing...fading...leaving..."

Her heart lurched and squeezed at his words. For a breathless moment, they sat in silence, watching each other with an unnamed feeling in the air. When he tilted his head, looking at her soft looking flesh, she shivered. He looked considering, gaze shifting to the knife.

"Do you want...a friend too? You're lonely...aren't you, Eve?"

She raised her head, trying not to think of the pain she'd lain in night after night, fearing soft footfalls approaching her door without really knowing what she was afraid of. "No, Azusa, I'm not alone." She smiled brokenly. "I have you here with me."

Haze filled eyes widened, the expression on his face shuttering. Unbidden, something shifted within his being.

Crossing the border of her kingdom had been strangely surreal in how anti-climatic it'd felt. Since they'd been walking almost non stop, traversing her old lands had taken less than a week. News of her disappearance had yet to even reach her ears.

As Azusa dozed on a forgotten street corner, she went to buy food in the new, exciting city. She noticed less impoverished people, and more smiling faces, which only served to brighten but twist her mood. Her kingdom suffered as this one prospered.

Something on the ground caught her eye as she passed it, and the Donkey-skin girl stopped dead.

"Azusa, look at this." She said sometime later, nudging him awake. A soft noise escaped him as he yawned. Noticing he seemed lucid, she handed him the piece of paper.

When he gazed at it non uncomprehendingly, she winced, not realizing he was illiterate. Acting as if she didn't notice to spare his feelings, she carried on. "It's an invitation to this kingdom's Royal Ball. Someone must have dropped it. This is a wonderful opportunity!"

"It is?" He blinked.

"Of course. Who else would know better where your brothers are than the royal register? They'll have a list of every resident living in the kingdom. If you think they're around these parts, then all we have to do is attend, and ask to see it." She felt an old heavy warmth sharpen her next words. "I need to go there to ask the Prince something too."

"They will not...let us in."

"No, but..." her eyes strayed to his hands, the coins in her pocket weighing heavier. "Maybe there's a way."

Azusa tilted his head.

Sometime later, soft fabric was placed into his arms. He couldn't see her expression under the donkey-skin hood, but Azusa leaned forward to try and capture her gaze. "Eve...you need your money for food and lodgings, why did you..."

"Because I know you'll make a beautiful dress from this. If I make a wish to be able to attend the ball, you'll sew it into the seams, making it real. All you have to do is trust me, Azusa. I'll attend the ball, and find the registry, I promise."

Soulful eyes sharpened, fingers tightening in the fabric. He gave a solemn nod, turning to find a little hovel to work in.

Donkey-skin watched him go, following after him after a moment. Sometimes, his scars, pale complexion, and overall fragile look would melt away, unearthing a resolute, quiet strength.

He worked tirelessly for days, barely stopping to eat unless she forced him to. The Ball was to be held in two weeks time, so one dress hardly seemed difficult at first. However, when they learned that the royal gathering was supposed to take place over the course of two days, they faltered. Propriety dictated that no self respecting woman would attend such an event in the same dress. She would be mocked and scorned if she tried.

Therefore, two dresses needed to be sewn.

Azusa worked his fingers to the bone, his hands moving methodically as he threaded a needle and pulled it through lace.

When she noticed dark shadows under his eyes, she felt her fingers dig into her arm. Lingering around the castle entrance in her cloak, she tried her hand at walking past the castle guards, but they caught her shoulder.

Though her cloak made it difficult for people to look at her, it was not infallible.

After her failed attempt, she walked back to Azusa with worried steps, only to find him holding up a dress, standing on shaking legs. "Eve...I made one...for you."

She quickly ran forward, lowering him back to the floor when he weakened. "You didn't eat again." She admonished, frowning at him.

Azusa lowered his gaze, but pushed the dress into her hands. "Do you...like it? I call it 'the daylight dress.' When you look at it...you'll see a blue sky." He smiled weakly.

Donkey-skin busied herself then with fetching food, not stopping until he was sat with a hot meal. While he dug in, she swept her hand over the fabric, gazing at the stunning dress. Clear, cloudless skies flashed in her minds eye.

The question came to her suddenly. "Why do you call me Eve?"

Azusa, blinking languidly at his meal, seemed hesitant. "Eve...when people talk about her, they say...she was cast out of paradise." Melancholy eyes glanced at her. "It doesn't...occur to them that she might have left on her own."

He'd grown desperate.

They'd run low on money, too low to afford proper fabrics for a second dress.

Azusa felt that he knew how to steal. Bear had once told him, back at the orphanage, how to effectively grab and run without being caught. It helped to have larger numbers in a group, to cause a distraction, but he wouldn't involve Eve.

He wondered what his brothers were doing now, and whether he would ever see them again. After being separated running from that hellish place, and then wandering into the gypsy community, he'd longed to meet them once more.

He wasn't certain he'd get the chance to now.

Blood spilled out from the place where his arm used to be.

He'd tried to be quick, but he'd always been slow. Slow to talk, slow to move. His arm had been seized by the merchant he'd tried to steal from.

"Azusa-wh-what? NO!" Eve had cried, catching sight of him from across the courtyard. Her shrieks turned into screams when a sharp blade had swung down on his arm.

She put his good arm around her shoulders, grabbing him around the waist to take the brunt of his weight. They stumbled in a mess of tangled limbs into a back alley. Her heart thundered in her chest, drumming loudly in his ears.

Azusa's broken sobs and cries of pain cut into her like shards of glass. She fought to keep calm, breathing in labored breaths as she muttered false assurances.

"It's okay, it's alright. W-we'll find you a doctor-" there had been a sign for one. She felt certain of it- yes, right around the corne-

She turned, wide eyes searching frantically for a familiar sign, but there was nothing. Another back-alley awaited them.

D-did I take a wrong turn somewhere?

Panic shook her frame as the sound of something wet trailed onto the ground beneath them. She didn't want to look at it, but her eyes swayed down in morbid curiosity. Blood was leaking out of the stump.

Her stomach lurched.

Damp hair slicked with sweat brushed her chin. Hot, shuddering breaths puffed against her skin.

"Azusa?" She murmured, stretched thin. When he didn't respond, she shook him in alarm. "Azusa! Stay with me. W-we just have to keep going a little further." The fear in her heart leaked out into her voice. She urged him on, but his eyes had fallen shut, feet dragging across the floor as she carried him forward.

A maze of walls covered in grime passed by, blurring into one as they struggled on. When she finally lay eyes on the sign she'd been searching for, she didn't hesitate to kick the door open. A woman met her in the entrance, mouth opening to scold her before the sight of them turned her mute.

A doctor was summoned, and from then on Donkey-skin lost track of what happened. The warmth at her side was taken away, but she followed it blindly, lancing her hands in it's pale, quivering fingers. There were shouts, blood, walls of white, someone tugging at her shoulders. When the hand she'd been holding was wrenched from her grip, a scream echoed around the room, but she couldn't tell who it had come from.

The world drifted into grey, then finally, pitch black darkness swallowed her whole.

When she next lay eyes on Azusa, he was unconscious. Bandages were wrapped tightly around his injured form. She noticed that his arm had been severed slightly above where his elbow had used to be. Seeing it wrapped in bandages assured her however, even as a sickly worry and sadness rose up in her chest. She was about to reach out and touch him, when the doctor walked into the room.

After assuaging her fears about infection, and commenting on the mental side effects the trauma would inevitably awaken, the subject of payment came up.

"I don't have much." She murmured, offering the last handful of coins she had.

"I'm afraid that won't be enough to cover the cost."

Alarm flared up inside her. "W-wait! I do have something..."

She begged the doctor to wait, and with a lingering look at the unconscious man, she swept out of the room.

Later, with a steady hand, she handed over the daylight dress. The doctor gave her a strange look. His protest went unsaid however, as he rubbed the fabric between his thumb, finding the material exquisite. As he unfolded it, the image of a beautiful, cloudless sky flashed in his mind.

"My daughter, she will surely love this." He murmured, gazing at the garment with awe.

Donkey-skin nodded tensely. "Will this be enough?"

When the doctor nodded, relief flooded her. She didn't even notice the tears welling up in her eyes. Murmuring a thank you, she sat down heavily in a chair by Azusa's side. Her fingers automatically sought the spaces between his, as she clasped their hands together.

Azusa didn't wake for several days. Keeping vigilance over him, Donkey-skin girl barely ate, so consumed with worry that she barely thought of little else. At times, the Prince's gathering drifted into her mind, but she shook it away. Azusa had stayed by her side, it felt only right to stay by his.

As her mind distracted itself, one very important detail about the man in her charge slipped blissfully away. It was only when he finally cracked his eyes open did it raise it's ugly head, piercing her heart.

"Where...where is Justin?" Were the first words from his lips. He stared down at the empty space where his arm used to be. "Ne... Christina and Melissa are missing too. Eve, Eve...where did they go?"

Donkey-skin stared into his wide, trembling gaze as he turned dazedly around the room. He barely seemed to notice his missing appendage. All he cared about were the scars. Azusa leaned up quickly, swinging his legs over the side of the bed.

"A-azusa! Calm down. You need to rest more." She tried pushing his shoulders back, bidding him to lie down, but he stubbornly tried to stand on quivering legs.

"No, I need them. I need my friends...where are they?" His voice, usually in a monotone, rose higher, panic lacing his words. He stood up, stumbling as his knees threatened to give out. She caught him, trying to sit him back down, but he pushed past her with surprising strength. Sweat broke out on his forehead, breathing becoming labored with every step to the door.

"Azusa! You cant! Please, please just-"

"What's going on in here?" The collected voice of the doctor reached her ears.

A flurry of activity broke out. Pale limbs were ceased as nurses pulled him back. The doctor ushered her from the room, until all she could hear was Azusa's frantic cries from behind the door.

"No, NO! Justin! JUSTIN!"

She pressed fists against her eyes, squeezing them shut as her shoulders dropped, shaking minutely.

"Azusa..."

More days passed. Somehow, everything felt worse with Azusa awake. He wouldn't eat unless forced to, and barely spoke, except to ask where his friends were.

Unable to keep watching him deteriorate, Donkey-skin left the doctors once more. This time, she headed straight for the fabric stand in the middle of a bustling courtyard.

The burly man dressed in orange barely noticed when she sidled up to his stand. When she drew back her hood however, and his eyes snapped on hers, she inwardly flinched even as she remained outwardly indifferent. This was the face Azusa had stared into before losing his arm.

With a repulsed, disgusted feeling, she noticed a single arm had been nailed up behind him on a stand. To any other merchant, it was simply a warning to thieves, an example of what would happen. To her, it looked like a sick trophy.

"Sir, I have an interest in that arm. Please, would you consider giving it to me?"

"T-this arm? Are you sick in the head? This here was cut off a thief, it's a reminder not to steal from honest folk."

"Yes, I understand that, Sir." Her lips thinned into a grim line.

The man scratched his cheek, eyes racking up and down her form. "You don't look like you have much to offer, but if you give me something worth my while, I might reconsider giving it to you."

Cold, sharp rage boiled beneath her skin at the look in his eye. She calmly reached inside her cloak and retrieved something, hesitating to hand it over.

But, if it's for Azusa then...

She slowly put the invitation to the royal ball onto the counter.

"A-amazing. They stopped selling invites a week ago." He breathed.

"Give me the arm now, and you can have it." She gritted out.

He grabbed a hammer, pulling the nail free that pinned the arm to the stand. He then wrapped the limb in a brown cloth and handed it to her. She took it numbly, noticing it weighed almost nothing.

Gritting her teeth, she drew her hood back up, turning and disappearing into the crowd without another word.

Someone's elbow suddenly knocked into her roughly, and she yelped, pain flaring in her side. She fell to the ground, the arm tumbling free from her grip.

"Ha? Oi, watch where you're going next time." A gruff voice muttered.

"Wait, Yuma." Another man suddenly knelt before her, his hand frozen mid-air over Azusa's scarred arm. Blue-grey eyes narrowed, staring at it intently. "It...can't be." He muttered dazedly, gaze turning sharp as flint when they fixed on her.

"Eve..." Azusa murmured in a thin voice as he gazed at the arm she offered him. "Thank you." He took it with thin fingers, touching one of the scars gently.

Donkey-skin nodded silently, her eyes widening in horror at his next words.

"I...should find my needles. If I...stitch my friends back on, then I can keep them with me."

Cold hands latched onto his only arm, drawing his attention to her. Firm, unwavering words left her lips. "No Azusa."

He didn't seem to understand as his gaze slipped back to the pale arm.

Her voice bordered on desperate. "Azusa. It'll get infected. I didn't bring your friends back to you so that you could watch them slowly rot. I brought them for you to say goodbye."

"No..." He shook his head, misted eyes faraway, unstable. "No. I can't."

"Yes you can. You can find proof of your existence in other things, Azusa." A serious voice reached their ears, the tone steady and self assured.

Azusa's head slowly raised, his eyes widening upon seeing the dark haired man in the doorway.

"I see you haven't changed." The man said, a slight warmth in his eyes.

"Ru..ki..." The broken name left Azusa's lips. "How did...why are-?"

"Oi Azusa, the fuck happened to you?" Another, taller man entered the room, his shirt stained with droplets of blood. Blood she knew to be from the merchant.

"Bear..."

"Actually it's Yuma now. Got a new name when we were taken in."

A blond young man pushed past him to wave energetically. "Me too~ You're looking at Kou now."

Donkey-skin watched them all with a faint smile, feeling the anxiousness in her heart easing little by little. A sparkle of life had entered Azusa's eyes as he gazed at his lost brothers.

"You're all here." He murmured, voice thin.

Yuma huffed. "And where were you, little idiot? We looked for ya for years."

"Y-you...did?"

Something squeezed in his chest at those words, and without realizing, his eyes strayed back to the girl beside him. She just smiled warmly, and Azusa felt his grip on the severed arm loosen.

Once he'd recovered enough, Azusa and Donkey-skin traveled with his brothers to their adoptive father's kingdom.

Donkey-skin knew of Karlheinz. Infamous for his scandalous private life, the only thing that made other rulers fear him was his penchant for randomly conquering other lands with the mere caprice of his mood.

She steeled herself for an audience with him.

They'd buried Azusa's arm in the garden at Karlheinz's castle, under a tree with twisting branches. "You have your brothers now, Azusa. You're not alone." She'd murmured, her hand on his shoulder as he'd stared mournfully at the patch of ground.

"What will...we do now, Eve?" He asked softly, once they were seated on a nearby porch overlooking the gardens.

She thought of what she intended to say to Karlheinz. "My kingdom is in shambles because of my Father's rule. It would be better for everyone if he were overthrown. Karlheinz can do that, if I tell him the right ways to infiltrate the city." It was the same thought she'd planned to share the Prince at the royal ball.

Azusa looked at her. "Will that...bring you happiness?"

"I don't know." She admitted quietly.

She jumped when soft fingers cupped her cheek, turning her face to his.

Depthless emotion stared back at her, so intense it bordered on overwhelming. "Let me...make you happy, Eve. Don't be afraid..."

He bent to capture her lips with a hungry rush. Donkey-skin inhaled sharply, before she felt Azusa's kiss soften. His mouth became a confusing sensation, yielding under hers one moment but then pressing firmly the next. When his tongue slid between her teeth, she tensed, but his hand grabbed hers, raising it to his cheek. Her fingers strayed of their own accord into feather-like hair, the soft wisps brushing her forehead as they pressed close.

She felt his arm wrap around her waist, pulling their bodies taut against each other. When his tongue swept deeper into her mouth, she shuddered all over. Azusa broke away to pant softly, desire darkening his gaze as the fingers at her waist dug in.

The wordless need inside her that sought his comforting strangeness made her muscles shift forward, until she found herself straddling him. The cool surface of the wood under her knees contrasted with the hard, warm body beneath her.

"Ne...can we... become one?" He murmured, his single hand slowly caressing the plains of her back. She gripped his shoulders, breathing out unsteadily when he bent forward to nuzzle her neck, tongue dragging across heated flesh.

The disgust wasn't there. Her heart hammered like a drum, but she didn't feel sickened. Azusa's touches were light, but betrayed a strength beneath them. Something entirely sinful blackened his gaze, completely at odds with his innocent face. And yet, she was not afraid.

"Yes," she murmured, surprising herself with the yearning in her voice.

His hips rolled, rigid length clearly in need of friction as it ground harshly, the heat of it throbbing through multiple layers of clothing. She hissed as it rubbed her sex, and found herself mimicking his movements. His teeth scraped her neck, those soft strands of his hair tickling her chin as he bit down, breaking the skin. A low, embarrassing sound slipped past her mouth. Azusa chuckled as he sucked her flesh, leaving behind a red mark which he touched reverently.

More grinding, moaning, sucking, more shame at how Azusa could make her core clench and ache. Juices slipped down between her thighs.

His hand eased down between them to touch her, rubbing with an almost bruising pressure. It was enough to set off fireworks as she trembled on his lap. Azusa glanced down and then up at her, trying and failing with something. She noticed his frustrated silence, and suddenly understood.

Shifting above him, she reached down, freeing his length with slow movements. Azusa released an unsteady breath, his eyes dark, steeped with sorrow.

She murmured that it was alright, but he leaned forward, cheek brushing hers. "I want...to hold you properly. But I...I..."

Donkey-skin shook her head, grabbing his hand and wrapping his arm around her waist. She leaned up, giving herself enough room to slide her underwear and stockings down, before lowering herself back down. She sank herself slowly onto his aching erection, and he made a noise of surprise. Gritting her teeth at the invasive feeling, her hands tightened on his shoulders.

The foreign sensation sank deeper, until he was buried inside her. They panted, breaths mingling. "You- you can hold me. The arm around me right now is all we'll ever need. I- I don't...I've never felt this good before." She assured him.

Wide, dazed eyes stared into hers, before his face became intent, serious. His hips rammed up, making her cling to his shoulders. Her mouth hung open wordlessly as he began to move, gripping her close with that one arm.

It was messy, heinous and dripping. A palpable mixture of sweet and sin that made her quiver and beg incoherently. Her fingers dug deep rivets into his shoulders.

He groaned, tongue sweeping up her neck to hiss lustily in her ear. "Harder…even…harder…"

Lost in sensation, she didn't know what he meant, but her hips began to move with his, nails sinking deeper, leaving crescent moons. They gasped and clung to each other, heedless of the sounds of their bodies moving.

When she felt something snap within her, she sought his hair, sliding her fingers between the strands. Overwhelmed, she quaked around him, squeezing her eyes shut and trying not to let dark thoughts creep inside her flesh. Azusa groaned and dropped his head to her shoulder, finishing with a quiet, shuddering moan inside her.

They stayed locked together, breathing heavily. "Will you always care for me, Azusa?" She murmured, almost to herself.

"Of course...Eve is...my most precious person."

Her throat constricted, and she squeezed her lashes shut. In the furthermost corners of her mind, she begged his words to be true.

A great, dark plume of smoke rose high, spiraling into the heavens above. The scent of ash and burning flesh infested the air.

Donkey-skin stood before the castle gates. Her old home had been set ablaze during the siege of Karlhienz's armies. With the information she'd given him, he'd made quick work of infiltrating the city and striking at the heart of the kingdom.

She looked at the thing on the ground with glass-like eyes. Her revenge was complete. The dreadful feeling within her should have been purged, but it persisted, festering like a wound.

The hate in Cook's eyes as realization had dawned came back.

"You...this is your fault, isn't it? You brought this on us." Cook had sneered, rage blackening her voice. "And for what? To 'free' us?" She'd spat at the former princess' feet. "Stop kiddin’ yourself, lass. You only did this to get back at your old man. And look how many have died for it."

Donkey-skin barely noticed the damage of the city. Her mind was cast adrift somewhere buried but not forgotten.

His hand touched her hair. His hands...big, strong and familiar. The touch was so comforting it made her smile.

"Father."

The scent of his corpse filled her lungs.

"Eve." Azusa's soft voice reached her ears, just as fingers wrapped around her frozen hand.

Her hood was gently pulled back, revealing a raw, tear stained face. Lips chapped and heart shuddering with the effort it took to smile, she looked at him. "Can you...still care for me now, Azusa?" The ugliness inside her heart now had tangible form, mingling within the ashes.

He didn't hesitate, his ardent gaze not glancing once at the bodies strewn around the courtyard. His eyes reflected her, only her. He stroked the inside of her wrist adoringly, as if she were one of his scars. "Even if Eve is cast out of hell...I will always...be by her side."

#diabolik lovers #azusa mukami #diabolik lovers fanfiction #diahell #more blood

120 notes · View notes

faeriekim-blog · 5 years

Text

P.I.S.T. - Chapter 3

His heart was thumping in his chest as he washed the wound. Never before had he woke up with physical marks following an episode and this was a bad one. His arm was open wide with a long gash from elbow to wrist.

He should probably go to A&E, Andrew reflected as he held the arm under the cold tap in the bathroom. It didn’t seem very deep though even though it hurt like hell. Plus he always felt embarrassed about his condition and would rather talk to his GP about it. After all they had been friends since University and she knew a lot about his episodes already, so that he wouldn’t have to answer any uncomfortable questions about it.

He washed away some of the blood and then towelled it dry. Then he left the bathroom to find the first aid box in the kitchen.

He had rushed straight to the bathroom on his arrival. It was all so strange. It was the day of his episode. Regular as clockwork, they always struck at midday on a new moon. So he had taken the day off work and fallen asleep on a bench in the park.

He had experienced these episodes ever since his early teens and had been on medication all his adult life. Every month he had to go out to a park or somewhere else outside. On the one occasion when he hadn’t he woke up with bumps and bruises all over him and his front room was a mess, with furniture upended and books and papers all over the place. God only knows what he had got up to while he was having the episode.

He never remembered, you see. All he knew was he dreamed of being a crow and then woke up again unaware of what had happened. He had learnt long ago that if he wanted to avoid people looking at him funny and holding on tight to their children around him, then he would have to pick a secluded spot outside when the episode happened. The dreams seemed so real! But it was harmless enough usually.

But this time he had dreamed he got into a vicious fight with another crow. It had pecked and clawed at his wing until the feathers had come off and the flesh was raw. Then he woke up in the park with his arm bleeding.

What was going on? Was he genuinely becoming insane now? Had he deluded himself that his dreams were real somehow?

He sat on the couch in the living room and pulled out a bandage from the first aid box, using some of the antiseptic cream on his wound. Then he found something he didn’t expect to find. There was something stuck to part of the newly forming scab. He thought it was dirt in the cut, so he tried to remove it. Wincing with pain, he picked it out. To his surprise, caked in dried blood and all shrivelled up was a tiny feather, like the downy feather birds have on their bellies. What was that doing in his wound?

Andrew rubbed some more Savlon on the area he had pulled out the feather from and then he applied the bandage. He rang the doctor for an appointment and luckily got one for the following afternoon. Then he went back up to the bathroom to clean the sink.

As he returned to the bathroom sink he found three crow’s feathers, the large stiff ones that birds have on their wings. Two of them were on the ground and one was in the sink. How did they get there? What was going on? Had he really been attacked by a crow? Were the feathers his and the dreams were real?

He shook his head. Don’t be ridiculous, Andrew, he thought. I have a mental condition. I dream I’m a crow and get up to things I don’t remember later. Maybe I fought a crow. But I sure as hell didn’t become one. Start thinking that way and they’ll lock you up for sure.

But as he walked back out of the bathroom, he couldn’t help but wonder to himself. What if he actually did turn into a crow? What if the dreams were real somehow?

The next morning he felt miserable. He had been like this every morning for the past three months. He lay on the couch, watching the television in his pyjamas and eating a bowl of cereal.

“So tell us about your latest book, Marvin,” the TV chat show host was saying.

“Well, it’s all about how astrology can help you in your pursuit of happiness and success,” Marvin Edwards explained.

Andrew wasn’t really listening. TV psychics were largely full of crap. But this had become something of a ritual for him, to watch the Larry Evans show while eating his breakfast. He knew it wasn’t healthy. He knew he should let it go, but he couldn’t.

That was the man who stole his wife. Larry Evans, chat show host, preacher, charming smooth talker, wealthy breadwinner, romantic and virile, everything that Andrew wasn’t. The man his ex-wife was currently in love with.

Why did he do it to himself? Why must he continue to torture himself every day? But his heart was still bruised by the rejection. It had taken him several weeks just to stop checking his phone and his emails constantly for messages. He missed her. He wanted her back. But there was nothing he could do. Every time he tried to talk to her about it, to make things up with her, the more she pushed him away, told him all his failings, made him feel even worse about himself.

Andrew let out a deep sigh and stood up with his empty bowl. He turned away from the TV set and walked into the kitchen. Maybe that was why his episodes had been getting worse, he reasoned as he washed the bowl in the sink. Maybe the misery, the heartbreak, the obsessive inability to let go of the love of his life were causing his episodes to reach new heights of intensity.

It wasn’t his fault. He couldn’t help that his condition meant that he could barely ever hold down a job because he had to take days off every month. He couldn’t help that it meant they barely got to go away on holiday because he had to use his holidays to cover his illness. He couldn’t help that half the time he couldn’t even bear to make love to her because he suffered from vivid memories of dreams in which he had been fucking another crow, and it messed him up and made him go soft.

Why must he suffer all his life because of a mental illness that he never chose to have and that nobody ever understood?

He returned to the living room and looked at that big cocky face on the screen. The smooth, dark skin, the big cheesy smile, it made him feel sick in his stomach. He hated that man. He came swanning in with all his ego, all his slimy charm and all his money and he stole Andrew’s wife from under his nose. He wooed her and seduced her and won her heart and Andrew was left all alone.

Tears squeezed their way out of Andrew’s eyes and he switched the TV off in disgust. That did it. He must phone her up. It had only been three weeks since the last time.

He dialled the number, knowing full well that he really should learn to leave her alone now. “Yes, Andrew,” she said in a voice that made it clear that she really didn’t want to talk to him. “What is it?”

“I’ve hurt my arm,” he told her. “I had a really bad episode this time. I wish you were here.”

“I’m sorry you’re injured,” she replied, “but we’ve been over this already. I’m with Larry now. It’s over.”

“I just wish I had someone to confide in when things are tough,” he explained, “and somebody to hug it all better.”

“Then get a girlfriend,” she said, “or go see a therapist. You’ve got to let go, Andrew. I can’t always be there for you.”

“I know,” he said. “I just wish…” She hung up. That was rude. But what did he expect?

He sighed again and sat down in silence. Something had to get better for him soon. It just had to.

Sophie hurriedly closed a window on her computer screen as Andrew arrived but not before he had seen the cute, smiling face of the Chinese girl she had been speaking to.

“Was that Tina?” He asked. “How is she?”

“Oh, you know,” Sophie said, looking slightly embarrassed. “The same old Tina, obsessed with her gadgets and her comic books.” Andrew sat down and Sophie turned to face him. “But don’t tell anyone I’ve been messaging my friends at work.”

“Your secret’s safe with me, Sophie,” Andrew said with a grin. The doctor’s office was clean with white walls. There was a couch and a curtain on one side of the room, several desks and chairs, a computer and printer, much like any other GP office. There were posters on the wall about various medical matters, and some empty specimen vials on one of the desks.

“Please,” she told him, “call me Doctor Chandra when you’re seeing me in my professional capacity. Now, what can I do for you?”

“It’s my arm,” he said. “I injured it yesterday during one of my episodes.”

She unwrapped the bandage and inspected the wound. “You really should have got this checked out at the hospital,” she told him. “Still I can’t see any infection and it doesn’t seem too deep, mostly a surface cut. How did you do this?”

“I don’t remember,” he explained. “I was dreaming that I was fighting with another crow. Then I woke up with my arm bleeding.”

“You’re still getting episodes?” She asked, still touching his arm and tilting her head to examine it. “Are you taking the tablets I prescribed for you?”

“Every day,” he answered. “But the episodes are getting worse if anything.”

She began to clean the wound as she continued to ask him questions.

“Are they occurring with the same regularity as always?” She asked.

“Exactly the same,” he told her. “Regular as clockwork, once a month at midday on the new moon.”

“I’ve never known anyone with a condition like yours,” she explained. “And I can’t find any literature on it either. You appear to be something of an anomaly, Andrew.”

He couldn’t help but feel amused by that. “Thank you,” he said with a grin.

“Well, I’m not too worried about this wound,” she said, applying a new dressing. “Keep it covered and let it heal naturally. But what I am more concerned about is the ineffectiveness of the medication you’ve been taking. Can you explain in more detail why you said that you think the episodes are getting worse?”

“Well,” he explained, “I’ve never experienced anything as violent as this last one. That bird was really pecking and clawing at my wing until the flesh was raw. And then I woke up with this wound!”

“Have you been watching any violent nature documentaries?” She asked.

“Not really, no,” he replied. “I barely watch anything these days apart from Doctor Who and the Larry Evans show.”

She finished redressing his wound. Then she let go of his arm and he let it fall to his side again.

“Larry Evans?” She questioned. Her tone of voice suggesting that she wasn’t impressed. “Isn’t that your ex-wife’s current boyfriend?”

“Well, yes…” Andrew answered sheepishly. “But…”

“And does it make you feel sad, or angry?” She asked.

“Well, yes…”

“I think you should stop obsessing about it and move on,” Sophie explained. “It’s not healthy for you, Andrew. And I think the anger and bitterness you’ve been feeling has contributed to the violent nature of your latest episode.”

“But don’t you think it’s strange,” Andrew argued, “that I dreamed a crow was pecking at my wing until it bled and then woke up with my arm bleeding? It’s as if it really happened!”

“It’s possible that you were acting out your frustration while in a delusional state,” she explained. “Which is why I think it’s very important that we review your medication. You’ve already injured yourself. I don’t want you hurting anyone else.”

“And I found feathers in the wound,” he interjected. “What if it’s actually possible I could be turning into a crow every new moon? You hear stories about werewolves and the like. What if I’m a werecrow? I know it sounds crazy. But I actually had crow feathers in my arm, an arm that had been injured after I experienced myself fighting with another crow! What if my condition isn’t a form of psychosis after all, but an actual event, a physical change?”

Sophie looked at him with a look of scepticism and disbelief. “You’re an intelligent man, Andrew,” she said. “You know there’s no way that a human being could turn into a wild bird. It’s scientifically impossible. Maybe you really did fight with a crow. But as a human in the grips of a psychological episode. Now, I’m going to prescribe you some new tablets. These are powerful antipsychotics, ok? They should hopefully work better in suppressing any delusional beliefs or hallucinations.”

“I’m surprised you have any drugs left that I haven’t tried yet,” Andrew commented. “I’ve lost count of how many times my medication has been changed. Nothing has ever worked. What if you’re treating the wrong kinds of symptoms? What if it’s not psychological at all, but physical?”

Sophie seemed to give this serious thought. She sat back in her chair, put her hands together under her chin and made a pensive noise while staring into space. “Well,” she said at last, shaking herself out of her reverie and looking Andrew in the eye. “Take these new drugs I’m prescribing you. But since you raise the issue of an underlying physical cause, and to put your mind at rest, I will also take a blood sample for analysis.”

“I’ve not fasted,” he told her.

“If we need a fasting test for another sample, I’ll let you know,” she explained. “But for now, let’s see what turns up from this one.”

She got him to roll his sleeve up on his good arm. She placed the tourniquet around his bicep and tapped the skin on the underside of the elbow joint. Then she put the needle in and withdrew some blood into the vial.

It was over very quickly, just a sharp scratch and a few seconds wait, then she removed the needle, put on a tiny plaster and took off the tourniquet.

“If there is anything physical causing your delusions,” she explained, “then I’m sure we’ll find it. In the meantime, keep taking your medication and look after yourself. Not just physically but emotionally too. Stop dwelling on the past and things that make you angry or anxious, ok? And look after that arm.”

“I will do,” Andrew said as he stood up to go. “And thanks as always for the opportunity to talk about what I’m going through.”

“You’re welcome, Andrew,” Sophie replied. “I worry about you. Not just as your doctor, but as your friend.” She smiled. He smiled. They said goodbye and Andrew left the doctor’s office and returned home.

Maybe she was right and it was just a product of his own emotional issues. Maybe he had done something weird like fought with a crow as a human. But as he walked home, the possibility she dismissed still haunted his mind. What if those feathers had been his? What if he really was some kind of shapeshifter?

I’m only posting the first 8 chapters of this story on this blog. You can read all of The Psychic Investigation and Study Team by buying it on Amazon.com or Amazon.co.uk

#fiction #fantasy #supernatural #novel #writing #lgbt

0 notes

aion-rsa · 4 years

Text

Unhinged Review: Russell Crowe Descends to Slasher Shlock

https://ift.tt/3h4huHT

Unhinged opens with Russell Crowe–identified only in the credits as “Man”–sitting in his pick-up truck outside a suburban house, staring at the tiny match he’s lit, his face impassive and his eyes narrowed. Abruptly he gets out of the truck, grabs an axe and a can of accelerant, and breaks down the door, cutting the man and woman inside to death before burning down the house.

The camera watches all this from a slight distance, as if director Derrick Borte (The Joneses) wants us to view these events, at least at first, objectively. We don’t know who this Man is, we don’t know who he’s killed or what has pushed him to commit these horrendous acts we’ve just witnessed, although we’ll learn a bit more later on.

As the opening credits of Unhinged roll out, they do so over a montage of news flashes, TV images, and audio clips of a society in the middle of a breakdown, with civility, empathy, and decency steamrolled by seemingly endless instances of impulsive, rude, aggressive, and even deadly behavior. Clearly the film is saying from the outset that this is the breeding ground which spawns the kinds of actions we’ve just seen.

So when he pulls up in his jumbo SUV next to a car driven by single mom Rachel (Caren Pistorius), who is dealing with personal and financial issues of her own and has honked a little too loudly at him when she is stuck behind the Man at a traffic light, we already know that she should not roll down her window and engage with a person who is, at this moment, the walking embodiment of road rage to the nth degree. Nevertheless, engage she does, and soon enough the Man is launching an onslaught of terror at Rachel, her son, and anyone in her circle.

For most of Unhinged’s 80 minutes (not including credits), Crowe is an unbridled force of nature–his intimidating glower and low, ominous growl (Southern-fried, just to add to the confused messaging) matched by his formidable bulk and still undeniable screen presence. He leaves it all on the field (or in this case, the pavement) in the film, but it’s a pity that his efforts are matched neither by the director, the script, nor the rest of the cast.

Movies

Why Gladiator Continues to Echo Through Eternity

By David Crow

Movies

Russell Crowe’s Unhinged Wants to Break Quarantine in Movie Theaters

By David Crow

Since we’re never really sure whether we should see the Man as a symbol of unbridled white male rage or feel any pity for him, the way we gradually did for Michael Douglas in the far superior Falling Down from decades ago, Unhinged’s attempts to have it both ways as a slice of social commentary and a vicious horror thriller fall flat. As the film goes on, it’s clear where Borte and writer Carl Ellsworth’s instincts really lie: they just want to stage as many nasty kills as possible. The Man doesn’t just come up with creative, painful ways to dispatch people, but becomes almost as invincible as a Jason Voorhees or Michael Myers as he survives gunshot wounds, car crashes, and beatings over the head.

That’s part and parcel of the increasingly ludicrous script, which keeps finding more unbelievable ways to keep Rachel and her son as isolated as possible, even when the Man’s rampage provokes a city-wide manhunt. As for the actors themselves–which include Westworld’s Jimmi Simpson in a brief, over-the-top sequence–they may realize that they’re in a hopeless situation as they respond to each new outrage like they’re under mild sedation.

Unhinged does have its moments of tension and suspense, but they’re countered by the movie’s unrelieved nastiness and overall pointlessness. This is ultimately the kind of movie that wants you to think it’s saying something when it really has nothing insightful to offer. It’s a C-level slasher movie in better clothes, complete with a funny quip at the end to make everything better.

This is being billed as the first film in months to play solely on the big screen as movie theaters sort of reopen around the United States this weekend. You won’t find it on VOD, at least for now. But if you’re worried about congregating in an auditorium, I would recommend you wait a bit longer and not take the risk for Unhinged.

Unhinged opens in limited theatrical release on Friday, Aug. 21.

The post Unhinged Review: Russell Crowe Descends to Slasher Shlock appeared first on Den of Geek.

from Den of Geek https://ift.tt/315ISjd

#aion-rsa #Den of Geek

0 notes

toibocks · 7 years

Text

Swarm Tactics

He grinned, or at least as much as he could, being an insect. All around him drummed the pitter-patter of hundreds of thousands of tiny feet, tap-tap-tapping up, down, around, and within walls and floors of rotted food and twisted plastic. Castro the mighty stag beetle had to stop himself from dancing with glee as he watched the mass of shimmering chitin pool up like oil around around the base of the old half-gallon milk jug he was perched on (or his “ivory tower,” as he affectionately called it.) The ants marched in lockstep. The gnats flew around and around in their excitement. The flies gathered in corners, rubbing their forelegs together as various evil plots ran through their minds. Everywhere, arachnids, beetles, bugs, wasps, and even some land crustaceans packed together into the crowded space. Arthropods of every shape, size, and color, of every order, family, and genus, of every age, social class, and religion, all uniting for the first time under a common purpose. They took up every available space they could, whether it was among the trash or fluttering in the air. It wouldn’t be long before Castro would be able to harness the power of the nefarious, vicious, but above all else, intelligent mass before him to bring about the inevitable extinction of mankind. Once he had made sure that all of his followers had settled into the dumpster behind Papa Geno’s, Castro silenced the buzzes, songs, and chatters by raising his wing covers. He then leaned closer to the massive funnel affixed to his tower with wire, and began his speech.

“Greetings, my friends,” he boomed, “It truly is a privilege to see the world’s greatest thinkers, artists, and warriors all in one place to discuss the fall of Man. For many years we have suffered under human oppressions, having to watch as our brothers and sisters are –“

SCREE!

A tiny scream sliced apart Castro’s words. The crowd turned and looked at a trapdoor spider, who was currently shifting its wide eyes from side to side and blushing, its fangs deep in a recently dead cricket. She freed her fangs from her meal and let out a nervous laugh.

“Sorry, sorry. I couldn’t help it, it’s a reflex,” she said. Castro rolled his eyes.

“Really, Susan?” he said.

“I can’t help it! When things move too close to me I jump out automatically!” said Susan.

SCREE!

Another screech, this time from the opposite side of the dumpster. A preying mantis raised its arm in guilt.

“Sorry, that was me. There was a mealworm.”

Castro groaned and rubbed the spot where his horn jutted out from between his eyes.

“Alright, fine, um, prey!” he said to the crowd, “please try to be careful around the predators, alright? We need to be sensitive to their needs, let’s just try and be mature-“

SCREE!

“Okay really? Really?” groaned Castro, “alright, prey, go to one side of the dumpster please. Predators go to the other, okay? Some of you may need to step outside momentarily so we can rearrange everything, just hang in there.”

“Hey,” called out a mosquito, “that’s segregation! You said we all need to unite as one to fight the Man Menace!”

“I know what I said, Gary, but we need to practical, alright? This isn’t trying to split you up, we’re still all together on this,” said Castro.

“’One Phylum One Swarm,’ you said,” said Gary, “One Phylum one swarm! One Phylum one swarm!”

The rest of the arthropods began to repeat the chant.

“One Phylum one swarm! One Phylum one swarm!”

Castro rubbed the sides of his little head and yelled into his megaphone.

“Fine! Fine! Everyone can stay where they are, okay? We’ll just…I guess those eaten will get a plaque in their honor or something.” he muttered. The crowd cheered.

SCREE!

Castro tried to pick up where he left off in his speech, but found that he had forgotten in completely in the hullaballoo. He would have to improvise. He raised his wing covers again for silence, tapped the end of his funnel a few times with his foreleg, and spoke.

“Anyway, like I was saying, if we work together, there is no problem we cannot overcome! And as we deal our damage, and as new members are added to our cause, I predict we can have all of humanity eliminated in under a month!” he proclaimed. A pillbug raised his foreleg for a question.

“Yes, but, how can we possibly fight them? We’re much too small!” he said. Castro laughed.

“I’m glad you asked that my spherical companion! Our first order of business is to take out their electricity! Without it, they will be powerless against our advances,” he said.

“Mr. Castro?” asked an adorable parasitic wasp larva, having recently chewed her way out of the abdomen of its still-living spider host, “what’s ee-leck-tristy?” The other arthropods aww’d, except for the spider, which let out more of a gurgle followed by silence.

“That’s a very good question, sweetheart!” said Castro, “you see, unlike us, humans don’t have pheromones for mass communication. Instead, they invented this primitive technology made out of lightning and vines to tell all of their things what to do. All of these vines grow out of things called ‘power plants,’ and by killing these plants the human race will be thrown into a whole host of problems!” He began to make eye contact with individual members of the swarm as he listed off the effects of such a catastrophe, watching as everyone grew more and more excited.

“First, they won’t be able to talk to each other anymore! One of the fake pheromones made out of electricity is called ‘Internet,’ and our spies report it’s responsible for triggering around 75% of their communicative behavior and 90% of their arousal responses. Without it, they will be thrown into mass confusion, with no way to mate or warn other members of their colonies!” he said. The crowed murmured.

“But that’s not all! Without electricity, they won’t even be able to use most of their most powerful weapons! Especially those pesky fake suns!”

“Yeah! Fuck those things!" yelled a charred moth from his wheelchair. The crowd began to grow louder now. Humans were much weaker than they thought.

“And, best of all,” continued Castro, “electricity is a necessary ingredient for their most basic needs! They won’t be able to feed themselves, or wash themselves, or heat themselves…”

“Wait, what was that?” came a voice. The crowd grew quiet again. The speaker, a cockroach wearing a black plastic collar with a white stripe, looked rather concerned. “Oh, my apologies, I’m Father Walter Roach. I’m here representing the cockroachs.”

“Ah, of course, Father Roach,” said Castro, smiling, “please, share your concerns.”

“I’m just wondering about that heat thing,” said the Father.

“Yes, they have these things called ‘heaters,’ and-“

“No, I know what they are,” said the vexed cockroach, “that’s where most of us live.”

“Great! Now you won’t be burned by those men and their dastardly fire clouds!” spoke Castro.

“No, now we’ll all freeze to death in the winter because we won’t be able to stay warm.”

The crowd stared at Castro intently. He began to sweat.

“Come again?” he asked.

“Most of us cockroaches live near radiators to stay warm in the winter. If you shut them off, we’ll all die!” yelled Father, glaring. The crowd began murmuring again.

“Quiet! Everyone calm down, okay?” said Casto. He turned his attention back to the roach, “but you’re cockroaches! You’re a hearty species! You can survive anything!”

“No, see, that’s another thing,” said Father Roach. He started to yell, making sure the crowd at large could hear him. “While we’re on the subject, I’d just like the clear up that, no, cockroaches are not immortal. I don’t know where these rumors keep coming from, but we die pretty easily. Our kids are starting to dive into nuclear waste dumps, thinking they’re invincible, and it’s really tragic every time it happens. We’d appreciate it if you didn’t instill these dangerous ideas in the minds of our children.” Castro started to rock back and forth on his feet.

“Wait, you’re not immune to radiation?” he asked.

“No! I don’t even know how that got started!” shouted the Father.

“So if a group of roaches were to, say, be assigned to infiltrate a nuclear power plant to fiddle around with the fuel rods and cause a shutdown, they’d probably-“

“Die, yes. Likely of cancer. Very painful,” said the Father, “why do you ask?”

“Oh, um, no reason…” said Castro, rubbing the back of his head.

“You were gonna send my people on a suicide mission!” shouted the Father.

“I was not! Okay, let’s stop attacking each other or we’ll never get anything done, alright?” shouted Castro over the restless crowd, “look, do you people want to end the Man Menace or not?”

“Hey, funny you should ask that!” shouted a louse, having entered the dumpster just in time to here Castro’s question. Castro grew pale.

“Oh, hey, Jerry, long time no see…” he stammered.

“Uh, yeah, hi!” said Jerry, furious. “I heard you guys were having a little get-together, and just wanted to know why you didn’t invite me! It’s kinda weird, with me being such an expert on humans! You know, with them being my sole food source and all.”

By this point the swarm was churning with discussion. Castro signaled them with his wing covers again, but even with shouting he was unable to get them to go below a dull hum.

“Jerry, get out of here! I understand your frustrations, but sometimes sacrifices have to be made!”

“Easy for you to say! You don’t have a family to feed! You don’t have to go back to your kids and go ‘sorry guys,we’re gonna be homeless and starve to death because some people are upset that their bee friends are missing!” shouted Jerry.

“Hey! Shut up, crab!” yelled an angry bee, “get out of here!”

“You shut up, pollen jockey!” yelled back Jerry, “besides, I’d rather live off pube blood than dung like Martin Pooper King up there!”

“How dare you!” roared Castro, “I do not eat dung! That is a small minority of us, you racist!”

“Oh, did the crab just stereotype someone?” snapped Jerry. “Go back to the dog park, Scatagories!”

SCREE!

“Hey, that was my girlfriend, punk!” a lovebug screamed at an assassin bug. The entire dumpster became awash in angry arthropod uproar. Predators turned against prey. One of the bees leapt on Jerry, letting out a furious cry of “bushbaby!” and sending him crashing backwards into a precarious straw resting against an empty bottle. The straw teetered over, knocking flying insects out of the sky and sending grounded ones scattering for cover, but bouncing harmlessly off of Father Roach’s carapace.

“This doesn’t mean I’m immortal! Do not go telling people I’m immortal!” he sputtered. At this point, grasshoppers, being forced to rub against each other in the cramped quarters and now agitated even more by the commotion, could suppress their urges no longer and reflexively triggered their swarming behavior, molting and taking to the skies as locusts. The already crowded air was now thick with a green hurricane, slamming others into each other and causing an all-out brawl. Castro watched helplessly from his tower.

“No, stop! Everyone settle down! We can pull through this, I promise!” he screamed, but it was in vain. He put his face in his hands as he watched a millipede gobble up freshly hatched mallets like jellybeans, only to be stung by a scorpion. “Please, calm down everyone! It’s alright, we can keep some alive to power the heaters, and to feed the lice! That’s it! Everyone, I have a solution, if we can find a way to enslave-“

A gigantic dragonfly was knocked out of the typhoon of locusts, and careened into Castro. The stag beetle flailed, trying to regain his balance, but toppled backwards off of his tower. He flipped through the air and landed back-first in the middle of a colony of carpenter ants, crushing hundreds and releasing a cloud of “danger” pheromone from their corpses. Their senses clouded by the chemical signal, the dead’s thousands of sisters turned on their former leader, wrapping him up in a blanket of teeth and stingers.

“No, get off of me you fools! I am your leader! We were so close! The world was almost ours!”

Castro’s protests were silenced quickly, as his body was devoured within seconds by the colony. As the swarm frothed within the dumpster, mankind unknowingly celebrated victory once again. For the 60,000th time, they had managed to avoid overwhelming obliteration under the feet of Arthropoda.

0 notes