#crowbird's storytime

[crowbird]

Thinking about Jason Todd and the happenstance of the pay what you want bookstore that opens only a block away from the infamous crime alley of Gotham. The store is so very out of place, it looks clean for starters and well kept. He can't seem to enter it either, every time he tries he fails. Both as red hood and Jason Todd. At least the kids are getting something to read now, he's noticed that some of the street kids would use the books for kindling but within a week they would be given coats and mittens and a wood along with the book to avoid such. It is odd and strange.

It isn't until a month or so of trying and failing to get in into the store is he confronted by you, strange is his first thought. Accented tone he thinks he could maybe place but fails to; he stares as your words barely register in his mind.

"I thought it was a ghoul trying to enter my shop, but you seem to alive for that." The words are almost soft and delicate in a way, curious as to what stands before them. Jason finds himself immobile as they step further out into the light. The scaring on their face is so patterned and precise it must have been carved on purpose, the sigil one he cannot name. "Well? Are you here for books or what?"

continuation here

[crowbird]

continuation of this post

Jason was not there for books. He was there for answers and you seemed suspiciously willing to answer. Or maybe that was the paranoia. You hadn't invited him in with eager arms but rather stepped aside and offered to chat over tea.

The bookshop is remarkably ordinary and yet mildly unnerving. Perhaps that's just Jason though, he finds himself, against all reason and judgement sitting across from you. The back of the shop is piled high with boxes and old furniture, a space in the centre cleared for a tea table and accompanying chairs. He stared at the tea in front of him mildly flabbergasted.

"Do you need sugar?"

"No." He croaked.

You nodded sagely, "honey then," and a jar of the stuff was placed on the table before him. He was fairly certain he had never seen honey of that nature before, even if he couldn't explain why. There was no brand label on the mason jar and the honey was rich and golden and yet all the same there was something just a little wrong about it.

Yet he found himself adding it to the tea, a choice that turned out to be a good one.

"What are you doing here?" He finally managed to say, "and how come I couldn't enter before?" The words tumbled out in an embarrassing manner.

"Drinking tea and I have wards up." You shrugged gesturing to your scars, "some use sigils to enhance and in turn others use sigils to guard. I removed them so you could enter."

"Oh, uh, right." Jason took another sip of tea, the honey soothed the frog caught in his throat and he found his voice easier this time. "I didn't mean like right now it's just this isn't exactly the location for a bookshop, I meant what are you doing here as in Gotham. You have to understand how suspicious it is to just appear like this here of all places right?"

You stared at him blankly. Before speaking, "Gotham?"

"Gotham City?" Jason tried, feeling a tad foolish and hoping he didn't come off as mocking.

You paused, contemplated, drank some tea and then shrugged. "Is that the name of this place then?"

Jason looked at you, trying to keep his focus on your eyes and not the curved scars of what he was sure now was some sort of sigil. "Okay, let's try this a different way, where are you from?" He tried again, the absurdity of this situation knocking around his brain as it seemed to eat away at any of his competence.

"Europa, if you want specifics my family is from Bohemia but I've lived in Rondon for the past few years until semi recently due to well... circumstance." You did not elaborate on circumstance but rather said it in a manner that made Jason sure he should know what you were referring to. It was common sense, everyone knew by now, and yet the knowledge eluded him entirely. You had said words and they had meanings he was sure of that much, he just had no idea what those meanings were.

It was Jason's turn to stare. "You mean Europe?"

"No? I mean Europa." There was a confusion then in your tone, the sort found over mispronunciation or a poorly spelled text. "I should assume then this is not said continent but—"

"It's not." Jason said, blunt and a little rude but he was nearing the point of frustration. Frustrated at the state of conversation and how it seemed to be halted so soon after speaking, at the lack of answers, at just, the everything about it all. And despite that he took a deep breath and drank some more tea, and waited for you to speak again.

"Then which is it?"

"America." He said, genuinely and utterly flabbergasted. He knew full well that answer was only partially correct but the technicalities seemed to be lagging in the back of his brain in his attempt to comprehend the conversation at hand. There was a part of him that was positive this was a very very elaborate prank. Or perhaps a scheme to get him unmasked. Even if he didn't particularly hold his secret identity in the sanctity as he once did it was still the principle of the matter.

Yet you were staring at him as if he had suddenly burst into song. Something genuine and serious in your expression.

"What the fuck is America."

crow's note: this is a series now, or a mini series? when I've finished I'll probably compile it into one thing on ao3. also i've decided to refer to the reader in this series as "sigils" so if asked about them in the third person I will address them like such however within the actual story they will remain nameless and exclusively referred to with gender neutral pronouns.

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[crowbird]

original thought/concept, pervious part

The cosmos is much like a forest. One seed, one idea can birth a world, and any alternate timelines branch off as the tree goes but it is still the same base concept. The rules are still the same and the statistical probability one exists on another branch of their tree is never zero. You do not however have that same probability should you look to another tree. A willow cannot grow acorns and a birch does not shed needles.

Worlds can branch on into the infinite levels of plausibility but each remains it's own even if the origin is one in the same. But the chance of someone slipping from their tree and falling into another is, well, not exactly typical. In fact it's so atypical that people often assume the multiverse and alternate timelines are the same thing. But the multiverse is the other timelines, it only becomes another universe entirely when the very rules that govern reality are different. Even the slightest difference of origin or technicality can prove effective but regardless it remains so.

There are entities who plant the trees and worlds who spring from the seeds dropped by others, but the forest is vast and does not end for neither does infinity and if it ever started is beyond even the oldest of gods.

One day, at the peak of a festival in a backwater capital in Europe a part of the world slipped and broke, the power coursing through the area of old gods and new, the birth of those ascended and descended shook the world so greatly that a contest of the festival was knocked from their branch. They did not fall into the void but rather managed to catch themselves on the branch of another tree.

For as much as a birch will not grow needles it can mutate, a new branch can be grafted onto another, one entity can plant multiple trees. And as such it is a gross oversimplification to simply say that you were from another world.

It would not be an oversimplification however to say that communicating such information is beyond your ability. After all the vastness of the forest is beyond human comprehension as are those entities that roam between it. As such the both of you decided it would be more believable to say you were from another world if pressed further.

"That just begs the question then why do you believe me?"

An excellent question, one Jason was still unsure of himself. The thought haunting the back of his mind for the better part of a week now. You'd think that he'd have other things on his mind—you know like patrolling the building that as of late everyone in the narrows had avoided like the plague. As if some festering illness was rooted in the walls, yet black mold it was not. Old floorboards and peeling paint may expose insulation old enough to ensure the presence of asbestos.

You would think he'd be more concerned about potentially falling through the rotten floorboards or getting snagged on a rusty nail. Nope, none of that was present in his mind. Rather the one that lingered was your words as a a pain beyond any other in his left leg shot through his left leg, the source only partially unclear. It was only the influence of the Lazuras that kept him standing long enough to put a bullet through the man's outstretched arm.

The hand once outstretched dropped to his side, limp and bloody not from the bullet but rather the brutal mutilation of a sigil cut into skin. One he recognized even as back at your shop, in between a discussion of intentions, you had drawn out several sigils, explaining their origin with the various old gods of your world. A request that if he comes across the symbols in his to let them know. After all you had said it yourself, who were you to know if you were the only thing that fell through.

He was fairly sure it wasn't the symbol you wore on your flesh but he was a little busy dodging to check the fine details.

The man's smile grew wider, the desert dry skin of his face cracking more with the expression, eyes vacant and bloodshot all at once. The garb was something like a priest but even with the crimes done in the name of religion Jason did not want to believe this thing was a priest.

Raising his other hand the priest let out a laugh, Jason in turn let out a rather embarrassing yelp has his jacket caught fire. Throwing the red leather off, he once again launched himself across the room to put distance between them. This man would kill him. He knew that, instinctively, the fear settling in the depths of his bones as it settled there to fester under his skin.

Call it innate, call it instinctual, call it learned, call it observed, call it a thousand different things but regardless of how he simply knew. Knew that if he did not kill this man this man would kill him, and Jason Todd had no desire to die twice, least of all by whatever this was. So it was with little shame that a bullet found itself in the man's head. Body crumbling to the ground, old floorboards groaning with the sudden weight. The walls sighed a gasp of dust at the effort and Jason lets his shoulders drop.

The body doesn't move. Which is good. It would be very bad if the body moved. Jason let out a sigh, he had barely finished the book he bought a few days ago and looks like he'd be going back for another one within the hour.

crow's note: once i set up the like barebones plot i promise I'll write something silly and fun, alternatively you could drop something in my inbox and i will write something silly and fun as well

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[crowbird]

| LIKE REAL PEOPLE DO ; l. kennedy x gn!reader

| WORD COUNT ; 4.1k | RELATIONSHIP ; leon scott kennedy x gn!reader | PLEASE NOTE ; post-re2 pre-re4, freshly coerced recruited leon kennedy, mention of mold, implied referenced familial alcoholism, reader has a service dog, that's not a warning i just need you to know | CROW’S NOTE ; as promised the credit for the title of this fic lies solely with the love of my life @realdarknesshasloveforaface thank you for beta-reading for a man you don't know jack shit about, there's another note at the end because fic spoilers, wrote this kicking my feet and giggling an shit.

Claustrophobia clung to the archives. A coffin wherein the corpses of documents best left forgotten lay without wake. A shallow grave dug several stories beneath the ground but not deep enough to be a proper burial. The ghosts of misfiled-paperwork-past hung over his shoulder as he stood in the doorway, breathing down his neck in the form of the artificial chill of air conditioning. The box in his arm, a makeshift urn laden with papers classified to even the highest of persons, ready to join its brethren amongst the shelves. Dust in the place of ashes as it would sit untouched until the day it met a delayed cremation. No words of the archives must be remembered; dust will accumulate but when words are discarded they will leave only ashes.

Leon Kennedy was not sure why he, of every possible errand boy, was asked to run this down to The Archivist. Perhaps it was because he was the rookie. Not a rookie, the rookie, once again, although he liked to think the first time didn’t really count. You can’t exactly be a rookie at one’s job when your place of work has been rendered so… sick, it no longer lives. But he was the newest personnel within the STRATCOM’s office, fresh out of training and newly coerced into a government position he did not want. 

But that was not why he was here, well, it was. But that’s not why he was in the archives. In the archives, making mildly uncomfortable eye contact with a cat barely larger than his foot. The creature, normal and alive by all accounts he could know, let out a yawn. It’s jaw unhinged in the same way only a cat’s can do, displaying a mouth the same size as it’s torso before returning to form. The cat let out a small mewl before blinking up at him, as if indicating it was Leon’s turn. 

Leon’s turn for what? He had absolutely no idea.

Shuffling from further inside the archives drew his attention, “I see you’ve met that one already…” The voice was tired but not unkind, soft but far from gentle. The Archivist came into view, they seemed like the sort of person that no matter their stature looked smaller than they were. Most people fill out space in a room, The Archivist seemed to take up negative space, wherein the air was not there. Unnerving was a good word for it, but there was kindness behind their eyes as they approached him. They held themselves with the sort of careful, tentative control only someone who knows exactly how much space they take up and how much strength is behind them can wield. As if they were worried they would scare him off, crush him like he was the kitten at his feet rather than the man he was.

They made a clicking noise with their tongue against their teeth, gesturing towards the creature as it scampered over to them. 

Leon could only stare for a moment, stare at the place they stood as they scooped the kitten up into their arms and placed them within the pocket of the cardigan that dwarfed them. Everyone he had seen either wore a military uniform or a suit, sometimes both. The exceptions were the occasional secretary in office casual but The Archivist’s attire just seemed homey. Soft, warmer than what they would probably wear if they weren’t spending their working hours in the coldest part of the building.

“Hi,” they said, giving their name, “I’m not overly familiar with everyone upstairs but I assume you’re relatively new if you’ve been condemned to an archival run.” There was no humour in their words but they were neither cruel nor dry. Simply a fact, stated to his face as if it was normal. It must have been, he would later learn it was.

“Yeah,” he coughed, his voice had left his throat embarrassingly choked up. “Yes.” He said again, as if to negate his previous attempt, but The Archivist said nothing after and kept their gaze trained on his, unnerving and full and empty eyes meeting blue stained with the melancholy of a certain sunrise in 1998. “You aren’t going to deny it?”

“Hm?”

Leon swallowed, doing everything in his power to ignore the gaze that shifted from his eyes to his adam’s apple at the action, slowly trailing back to his lips as he spoke again. “I mean the rumors? You said it yourself that I was condemned to come down here,” he tried to laugh, add some brevity to his words, lighten the mood if you will. The Archivist made no change in expression, but moved their focus from his lips as they twisted down into an awkward sort of grimace.

“What do you think?”

“What?”

“The rumours, do you think that they’re true?” The Archivist sounded almost amused now. “I don’t actually know what most of them are but I heard the Marines think I’m some old man who lost his mind in the war and that’s why they keep me down here. Can’t spill any government secrets that way.”

Leon bit back a grin, only mildly successful as he handed them the box of documents, surprised but not displeased when they motioned for him to follow rather than leave. “Why are you down here then? Other than the obvious, the obvious being you took a job as an archivist I mean.” He tacked on the last sentence hurriedly.

The Archivist snorted, “I am down here because people like us do not have the liberty to choose our careers, they get chosen for us.”

The chill that had settled on Leon’s skin must have sunk down into his blood at their words. He licked his lips, he could not see their expression. Their pace did not falter a step or three ahead of him as they led him past a particularly packed shelf of floppy disks. They took a left here and led him to a door, stepping aside and turning to meet his gaze seemingly at last.

“Would you mind?”

“What?” He breathed, barely above a whisper.

“The door, my hands are filled,” they lifted the box they were holding as if to make a point and Leon found himself choking on his own embarrassment for what must have been the third time in the last half-hour.

“Right, of course.” He opened the door, and they nodded inside, telling him with oh so little subtlety to go in before they did. Leon licked his lips, absentmindedly tracing over where they had cracked. “Hey, do you know why they asked me to bring these down here?” The question was a little hurried, a little rushed, not even fully finished before he was cut off.

“Confidentiality risk, you know about BOWs already, if they made an intern do it like they do for marines or air force that might raise some questions. I’m not even the only archivist, the others just don’t work down here, I just handle this specific flavour of work.” They remarked, leading him into the room proper.

“I thought you were The Archivist?” The question sounded stupid, but they seemed to agree with him.

“I don’t know the others, I’m just told they exist by upper management, between you and me I think that’s a load of bullshit. No competent archivist would use whatever filing systems’ the air force has going on out there.” They set the box down on the desk with a huff, offering Leon an unspoken chance to observe the room.

It was an office. A desk older than the building itself, (although not in the antique sort of way) in the almost center of the room pushed back closer to the wall, the chair behind it looked out of place with how obviously it was from IKEA. A large dog blinked lazily up at the man from his corner, a service vest hanging next to him on a hook drilled into the wall. The shelves were filled with trinkets, and while there were no windows, there were enough lamps to make up for it. The overhead fluorescent lights were left untouched and the room felt all the safer for it. 

The Archivist was pulling out one of the standard lanyards all employees were given. A parking pass, an id card for the office as well as any additional access keys if called for. Finding the right one, they placed it between their fingers before pausing, as if contemplating something. Wincing as they remembered whatever it must have been they reached down into their jacket pocket and procured a disgruntled looking kitten who honestly speaking, Leon had forgotten about.

“Would you mind carrying that again? I know this is getting rather convoluted in terms of storage.” They asked, gesturing to the box as they crossed the room to a door he hadn’t noticed. In his defense, a coat rack was placed in front of it and he watched them move it out of the way, careful as to not dislodge any of its inhabitants. The door was then unlocked and he promptly followed them in.

“Any reason why it would be so convoluted?” he asked, not expecting an answer.

“I assume it’s because the United States government didn’t ever consider zombies as a viable threat, psychic soviets? Of course. Corporations funding the creation of the undead? Not so much. So all of the bio-terrorism of this nature ends up back here because there isn’t space in the main archives to be afforded for it, that and another seven layers of confidentiality.”

Leon nodded, it made sense, and then their earlier words caught up to him, “Wait psychic soviets?”

“It was a cold war thing.”

“You’re serious.”

“You are carrying a box of files about how a company named after a house hold object decided to fuck around and find out and the fact that the united states government fell for a ruse from a single USSR broadcast is the part you find hard to believe?”

It was then that the dam broke so to speak, and rather than a floodgate of tears, for the first time since Racoon City, Leon found himself laughing. Genuine honest laughter, not from shock or horror, not a chuckle at a joke but a deep and joyful sound which fell from his lips in waves.

“I fail to see what is so funny.” The Archivist muttered, taking the box from him lest he drop it in his fit. He could see a glint of amusement in their eyes. He made no comment on it.

“Sorry, sorry—”

“Don’t apologize, it’s good to hear someone laugh.”

“I— ahem. Right, well, I actually. Okay.” He took a breath, collecting his thoughts before he finally managed to spit out the words that had been plaguing his curiosity for so long. “What did you mean when you said people like us earlier?”

The Archivist looked at him from where they were, further into the room as they pushed the box onto a shelf, “Umbrella isn’t a company exclusive to the states.”

“You’re not American?”

“I don’t even have American citizenship. It’s complicated.”

“As complicated as Racoon City?” Leon said, taking a shot in the dark, blind and no semblance of a target and yet he still managed to hit it.

“Yes, something like that.” They nodded, “I won’t pry if you don’t. But don’t expect any pity or sympathy from me, I don’t do that sort of thing.”

“I can get behind that.” He folded his arms as he looked at them. When most people found out he had been there, they tiptoed around the issue, making care not to mention it. If they did it was with honey words and strained condolences. But The Archivist glanced back at him and  seemed to flush if only for a moment, an action odd considering he could not see any blood rush to their face. But it was the way they stiffed and straightened before avoiding his gaze, it was endearing he decided. Having someone not tip toe around him was refreshing for sure… but unlike the others who might not talk around the subject, The Archivist did not dismiss it. 

“Okay one last question, what’s with the cat? Also the dog?” Leon was grinning now.

“That was two questions, Agent Kennedy.”

“Humour me?”

“Fine, but let’s get back to my office, I hate being back here, it always smells vaguely of mold.”

“I don’t smell anything?”

“Probably because there isn’t any mold.”

“Why do you smell it then?”

The Archivist hesitated, he could see it as they passed him swiftly that they hadn’t meant to make note of the smell out loud. Leon guessed they must have driven themselves into a corner, gotten too comfortable and let something slip. He’d done it once before, when sparing he’d made a joke if Krauser’s favourite colour was also red after he had his ass handed to him by the man. Krauser had proceeded to grill him on what he meant by that, and Leon shut down, not wanting to think about his infatuation withfor the stranger from Racoon City that fell with her down into the pit.

So he didn’t let them speak about it and instead offered a door, figuratively and literally as he held the door for them to their office, “Seriously, are you even allowed to have pets down here?”

The Archivist relaxed, striding past him into their office with a shrug, “would you like something to drink? Also Link isn’t a pet he’s a working boy thank you very much, he’s just on his break.” They said, gesturing to their dog.

“He’s a service dog then?”

“Yeah, there’s a reason I’m down here and not being forced to play pet for the higher ups.” They froze, winced and coughed, “no offense.”

“None-taken,” amused more than offended, Leon took another glance around the room. On the top left corner of the book shelf a cactus was bathing under a led lamp and a poorly carved wooden statuette next to it. The statue might have been a bird, if he squinted, when he didn’t it looked rather like a fish.

“Hot chocolate or tea.” The question tore him away from the not-fish-but-in-fact-bird-maybe statue. “To drink I mean.”

“No coffee?”

“I despise coffee.”

Leon took note of  that for later. Why? He hadn’t quite decided yet.

“So if Link is a service dog, what’s with the cat?”

“She has separation anxiety.”

He blinked, looked at them again from where they stood next to an electric burner, avoiding his gaze. A cartoon of milk was taken from the mini-fridge and he grinned, “the good stuff then? Not just water?”

“Hot chocolate made with water is an abomination.”

“Do you keep a burner and pot in your office exclusively for that?”

“All the staff rooms are above the main floor. I don't want to have to trek all the way up there every time, I can just rinse it in the bathroom sink when I’m done. I am the only one down here.”

“Wait, it's just you down here? You said there are other archivists supposedly but aren’t there also like assistants or something?”

“I can’t spill any government secrets if I’m too busy to even spill a drink. Do you have a mug preference?”

“Er, no. Also sorry for asking.”

“You don’t set my shifts, you have nothing to apologize for.”

“Right, sorry.”

“Leon.”

He looked up, they were holding two mugs, one of which had “hey listen” painted on in fancy text next to a blue pall of light wearing insect wings, the other mug was covered in text too small for him to read where he stood. “Yes?” His voice almost cracked, thank god it didn’t, he might have died, curled up in the only room of the archives that wasn’t a coffin and melted into the space in between the floorboards to rot if it had.

“You don’t have to apologize for everything, if you can’t think of anything to say that’s fine. I’m not normally this chatty anyways, you aren’t the only one in unfamiliar territory.”

Leon took the mug, the one with the strange little insect, (maybe it was supposed to be an artistic rendition of a fairy?) from them, sipping the rich sweet drink inside. “I haven’t been around people properly much.” He admitted, “I used to be good at talking to them but…”

“It’s been hard?”

“Yeah.”

“If you ever want practice you’re welcome down here.” The words surprised The Archivist as much as they did him. He watched as they looked away from him, hiding behind their mug as they took a long drink, before immediately making their way to the desk. “But it might also be in your best interest to get a companion, someone to keep you company, for example,” they rambled on, “this little guy.”

They pointed at the cat and he stared at them, swallowing quickly to prevent his hot chocolate from dribbling back into his cup from the shock. Only to end up choking on it. Recovering he frowned, looking at The Archivist, then at the cat and then The Archivist again. “I’m not much of a cat person?”

They looked at him over the rim of their mug, eyes digging past his excuses to scrutinize his very soul. It was a lie, obviously. Leon wasn’t a bad liar persay, but in the presence of The Archivist he might as well have been Pinocchio for his cues were quite obvious. All in all, he was neither a cat or a dog person, but he liked them both fine. He had enjoyed the brief amount of training he did with police dogs and had grown up cat-sitting for an elderly lady down the street. He was never quite sure where she went when he was watching her old ginger tom but the pay was decent enough to prevent any complaints. Besides, it made sense, the poor creature not only had its head filled with rocks and screwed on backwards but it might as well have been a comedy act with how stupid it could be. Leon could not remember that cat’s name for the life of him, but he liked to tell himself that it made those years of his childhood worth it. 

“You’re going to have to get better at lying if you want to stay in this line of work, Agent.” they said, something like a smile twitching at their expression.

“I’m normally a fine liar,” he defended.

“Normally?”

“Uh…”

“Do I make you nervous, agent Kennedy? I’m flattered.”

Leon took a page out of their book then, choosing to hide any proof of how flustered he was with a long swig from his mug. The chocolate was sweet and warm and flooded him with a comfort he hadn’t felt in quite some time. The feeling could have been mistaken for nostalgia if he had anything to miss.

“I told you not to call me that.”

“What should I call you then?”

“Leon.”

“Alright Leon.”

Okay maybe that was a mistake, he thought to himself. There was nothing special about The Archivist like there had been about the stranger in red (who’s name was probably a lie but he did not want to remember regardless). That person had been perfect, so inhumanly perfect that he found infatuation born of the trauma the situation had given birth to, was projected onto her from their first meeting. It was a high, he’d never done drugs but he was sure that’s what it must feel like. That rush of endorphins that flooded him.

Yet when he came down from that high and things were so much worse and he was left to contemplate the consequences of actions taken with a mind not fully there from stress. If drugs were anything like that high he decided he would never do them as long as he lived.

(Although he would lie to himself that alcohol didn’t count, some habits are in people’s blood after all).

 But The Archivist offered the company of someone who knew that high, although he did not know how, they all but confirmed it if only in a different place or a different time. It was reassuring. For starters, there was something about the sheer normalcy they offered, they did not treat him as special, or a hero, or anything but another person.

He had wanted to be a hero once, and in some ways he still did. Giving up one’s freedom to save a little girl they barely knew could be considered quite the heroic act. 

(Between him, the bottle and eventually his grave, he regretted that decision sometimes. Only to drink all the more if only to drown out the self hatred that stirred.) 

The kitten at his feet, when had the kitten gotten back to his feet? He didn’t know. Regardless, the kitten at his feet let out a mewl as she stretched, paws placed on his overly polished shoes. When she retraced her paws Leon could make out the slightest of intents from where her claws had flexed into the leather.

“I think you should try it, it seems like she likes you after all.” He didn't need to look at The Archivist to know they were grinning now, he could hear it in their voice as he heard them take their seats. 

“I can’t look after a cat, I’m expected to be out of the country on missions half the time and in here working my ass off the other quarter.” Leon said, squatting down to scratch behind the creature’s ears as she purred affectionately, practically rolling into his hand at the action.

“I can cat sit while you’re away.”

“Is no an option?”

“Of course it’s an option, you just look like you need the company. Not in a bad way.”

If anyone else had told him that he thinks he would be insulted, rightfully so as well, but there was no mocking tone. There was no scathing look. There was no judgment. There was simply, a sad comradery shared between two people in that moment. If he had gone to the weekly therapy sessions like he was supposed to he might have had a stronger foundation to refuse. But the walls of an argument made of wet paper had long since caved in.

“If, if I did adopt her, when would I be able to take her home.” He asked, words soft and far more vulnerable than he was comfortable with.

“Whenever it works for you, sooner rather than later, preferably. When you have away missions just let me know and I can let her stay at my place, she’ll be down here with me whenever you want to pick her up.” The Archivist said, they didn’t look at him, eyes fixed on the papers strewn across their desk. He was grateful for the privacy that action offered.

He nodded, remembered they weren’t looking at him and made a sound of affirmation. Straightening his posture, Leon took a final drink from the mug, his question as to where he should place it cut off as The Archivist simply gestured for him to set it down off to the side of their desk. He did, a little guiltily, before clearing his throat, as he readied himself to leave. “Thank you for the drink.”

“Of course, it was my pleasure.”

“I’ll pick her up tomorrow after work, does that work for you?” 

“Yes, just come down here before you leave.”

“When do you get off?”

“I promise you I will still be here when you leave.” they looked up, amusement and a wry smile painted their face before they did a double take at Leon's own expression.

“That’s not the only reason why I was asking,” he shrugged, doing his best to play it off, as he backed out of their office, hand fumbling for their door knob behind him. Leon didn’t turn away to open the door, no, he wanted to meet their eyes one more time.

“We’re friends now, right?” The Archivist asked.

“I think so.”

Leon was in the elevator, three floors above ground level when his brain finally processed everything. He had a cat, and he had a friend. Maybe? He wasn’t sure that was how friendships worked, none of his past ones had come about like that. Maybe that was fine though. 

By the time he had arrived back on his floor he had forgotten the rumors he’d heard of the archives and it’s graves-keeper. The tomb and stench of mold were all but forgotten as Leon’s mind flicked back and forth to everything he remembered about various cat food brands and the typical first day anxieties of a new workplace, thankfully not involving the undead this time, mostly.

| SONG ; like real people do by hozier

| TAGLIST ; @lysol1201 @uhlunaro (join my murder of crows here)

| CROW'S NOTE CONT. ; useless information but the reason this part is in third person is because Leon went into the interaction not knowing the archivist, from now on they will be referred to by narration with you/your pronouns since i'm largely aiming to tell it from his pov, i will continue to refer to them with they/them pronouns. if anyone has thoughts or feelings about them send me requests because i will write them for these two. also yes, yes i am in fact implying shit about the reader's backstory. yes i am talking about that mold. yes they are not american, while it will never been specified where they are from yes they do at least have one relative from eastern europe, do with this information as you will :)

all works related to some form of published and copyrighted media showcased on this blog are fanworks and i do not own the source material that being said do not copy, modify, translate, claim, or repost my work to any other social media platform, same goes with using it for asmr audios, please do not use my work or i can and will reformat your anatomy

[crowbird]

| FIC PREVIEW ; l. kennedy x gn!reader

CROW'S EDIT: FULL FIC IS UP HERE

CROW'S NOTE: thank you so much to @uhlunaro for enabling me genuinely I don't think I'd have managed to get around to writing this down with out that. Also the absolute earliest the full fic will be out is this weekend, I make absolutely zero promises.

Claustrophobia clung to the archives. A coffin wherein the corpses of documents best left forgotten lay without wake. A shallow grave dug several stories beneath the ground but not deep enough to be a proper burial. The ghosts of misfiled-paperwork past hung over his shoulder as he stood in the doorway, breathing down his neck in the form of the artificial chill of air conditioning. The box in his arm, a makeshift urn laden with papers classified to even the highest of persons, ready to join its brethren amongst the shelves. Dust in the place of ashes as it would sit untouched until the day it met a delayed cremation. No words of the archives must be remembered after all, dust will accumulate but when words are discarded they will leave only ashes.

Leon Kennedy was not sure why he, of every possible errand boy, was asked to run this down to the archivist. Perhaps it was because he was the rookie. Not a rookie, the rookie, once again, although he liked to think the first time didn’t really count. You can’t exactly be a rookie at one’s job when your place of work has been rendered so… sick, it no longer lives. But he was the newest personnel within the STRATCOM’s office, fresh out of training and newly coerced into a government position he did not want.

But that was not why he was here, well, it was. But that’s not why he was in the archives. In the archives, making mildly uncomfortable eye contact with a cat barely larger than his foot. The creature, normal and alive by all accounts he could know, let out a yawn. It’s jaw unhinged in the same way only a cat’s can do, displaying a mouth the same size as it’s torso before returning to form. The cat let out a small mewl before blinking up at him, as if indicating it was Leon’s turn.

Leon’s turn for what? He had absolutely no idea.

Resident Evil has been added to my taglist form! To join my murder of crows click: here

works related to some form of published and copyrighted media showcased on this blog are fanworks and i do not own the source material that being said do not copy, modify, translate, claim, or repost my work to any other social media platform, same goes with using it for asmr audios, please do not use my work or i can and will reformat your anatomy

[crowbird]

What if I was silly. What if I posted a preview of the Leon Kennedy fic I'm working on, what if I did that...

[crowbird]

I love fantasy aus but I would like to present and alternative to royal!reader as personally it's not really my cup of tea. I think it would be funny to have what looks like to the larger court to be a love triangle but is actually an established relationship and then their supportive friend.

Let's cast erwin as the royal here for simplicities sake because I don't want to get too creative yet, although if I ever write it I'll probably have historia in that position tbh although that would change a fair amount of details so it wouldn't work for this specific plot but I do have a similar one in mind.

You have the reader, his right hand, they're an advisor, perhaps once a diplomat and even a mage or an alchemist, regardless they are the king's silvertongue.

Then you have Levi, his left hand so to speak, his personal guard, an army in one, formerly a distinguished member of the elite guard who worked his way up from nothing.

The court is convinced that Erwin is seeing one or both of you separately, like if he was seeing both of you he'd be cheating because the little shits don't understand what a healthy polyamorous relationship is. Naturally this is not what is happening, you and levi are together, have been for several years at this point, regardless of how long it's been the both of you are in a well established relationship. But the courts sure as hell don't know this. The courts know that both the guard and the advisor are private people in their personal lives. They know that their rooms (jokes on them they've been sharing a living space for a good while them) is in the same hallway as the king's and that there is most likely some attachment between the two in case of emergency. But they still do not know that you and levi are together.

Just the subtle chaos that might ensue. I adore it. Although I will say I need more royal!levi x knight!reader fics in my life so if anyone has suggestions please let me know and if anyone besides myself is interested in this concept maybe I'll finally finish that draft.

[crowbird]

I love having just the most useless information imaginable stored in the back of my brain, including a lot of the cultural history of fanfiction which I will never need except to tell you that in the context of fanfiction which is how it gained modern day notoriety, mpreg was codified around 1998. This is often credited as the first instances of the... concept in literature, however this is off by several centuries, as the first instance of mpreg is more accurately credited to Journey To The West, that once 16th century piece of literature at least half of all media can be traced back too.

If you know then you have an actual understanding of that statement and if you don't you should go read that book, a monkey is born from a rock and is later trapped under a mountain for crimes against heaven, it is very funny. But back to the point, I've been thinking about this for a week straight now and this seems like a reasonable first thing to post before going back to actually writing things, anyways I hope all of you suffer as I have.

[crowbird]

Reading one of them is a vampire au fics like: feed them your blood you bitch I've been waiting for several chapters of a slow burn and they are fucking dying do the romance you bastard

[crowbird]

| I'LL CALL YOU MINE ; c. nakahara

| WORD COUNT ; 1.4k | RELATIONSHIP ; chuuya nakahara x gn!reader | CROW'S NOTE ; this oneshot is a rewrite of a oneshot I originally wrote in early 2019, although it didn't see the light of tumblr until 2020. That blog is no longer up but it was originally posted under the url fyowyn-writes. if you remember me hi, i'm not dead, but i am still using the purple aesthetic, we don't talk about fyodor (in the tune to we don't talk about bruno). i plan to go through majority of my old works and slowly rework and rewrite them if anything just to have the satisfaction to show that i've grown as a writer, the masterlist of all of these works will be up later today (date of posting) and i will update the list as I go. anyways thank you so much to the lovely @mag-writes for aiding with grammar and proofreading!

The cafe smelled like coffee and sugar, hints of chocolate and cream swirled underneath as a dose of cinnamon was dusted on top; overall, perfect. It was an incredibly welcome contrast to the smells that flavoured the air of the rest of the harbour. He honestly wasn’t sure why it was located on the port to begin with. A part of Chuuya suspected that maybe Mori had set up the place as a front for drug or weapons trafficking, he honestly wouldn’t have been in the least surprised had that been the case.

But by all accounts it was an ordinary, completely normal cafe that was in no way connected to the mafia or any other form of gang or group that dealt in less than legal activities. Just a nice small break from the smell of salt fish and iron that seemed perpetually underlined with something like rust (but there was the chance even that was just the rotting stench of human flesh, he did his best not to think on it to hard) that practically haunted Yokohama’s port these days.

But the cafe remained static, the smell warm and soft, the atmosphere light and gentle. It was perfectly and utterly relaxing. Then again, perhaps Chuuya had become a little too accustomed to the smell of blood and scorched skin, gunpowder and broken bones for someone of his age. He was still a kid after all. Or teenager at least. However you wanted to put it, he was not an adult, and even if he was, the violence that was second nature to his surroundings had become almost hauntingly mundane to him.

Either way, it was perfect now wasn’t it? Sunlight painted the scenery golden. There were no bullets, or battles. Simply blissful peace away from everything his life demanded of him. Even better, the place was completely free of mackerels. It’d taken an almost concerningly long time to find a place Dazai couldn’t follow him to, to annoy him and taint his small haven with his presence. But by god it was worth it.

And then of course, there was you.

Chuuya would be lying if he said he didn’t also enjoy this little slice of heaven because of your mere presence. The pretty barista with kind eyes and rough hands. You were taller than him, not that it mattered in any way that is. But he would be lying if he said there wasn’t something about how you’d wear those neat platforms on occasions, raising your height a further inch or more from the ground. Something about it, same with the confidence that you held, a soft sort of thing. It wasn’t loud or brash, but it was very much present; it made his heart swell and something giddy turned in the back of his mind.

It wasn’t a love at first sight sort of situation. You two hadn’t spoken nearly enough for him to confidently say he was in love with you. But your presence was comfortable, immensely so. On the few occasions he’d spoken to you, you’d treated him like he was any other kid your age. And maybe it was his own trauma speaking, but that small action made his heart burst with appreciation and the adamant and seemingly unrelenting urge to befriend you rise from the ashes.

There was the small part of him that wondered what it would be like to take you on a date, hold hands, maybe go to the arcade with you. Not to mention he wondered what it would feel with your arms wrapped around his, an embrace that was based in safety and love first and foremost. But it would be weird to ask someone out if you barely knew them, right? That would be totally weird. Then again, it wasn’t like he had much reference for what actual romance was like.

Dazai was Dazai and Chuuya did his best not to think about Mori. Though he was fairly certain Koyo had a lover at some point and he knew Hirotsu had a husband. Still, the day he asked either of them for romantic advice would be the same day that he ate his hat. And given that Chuuya was not particular on the taste of the item that was swiftly becoming his signature look; that would not be happening anytime soon.

Yes, that definitely all made sense. He totally wasn’t sitting in his usual seat as he waited for the drink he ordered, mentally stalling in order to delay the inevitable. No, definitely not.

“Here’s your coffee.” Your words cut across his thoughts, as the gentle clink of the coaster and cup met the surface of the table. You weren’t wearing platforms today. Instead your shoes were a pair of worn sneakers, the stitching on the side and come ever so slightly loose from time and the soles had been worn through so thoroughly that the pattern beneath them was almost entirely indistinguishable.

Chuuya tried and failed to swallow, his throat going dry.

“I know it’s not your usual and I’ll be honest I’m not super used to making this kind of drink, but I hope it’s not terrible,” you added sheepishly.

“You, you remembered my order?” The words felt clunky and impractical and gods above the urge to crawl into a hole and allow the earth to swallow him suddenly seemed intensely strong. His words had obviously been too harsh! He’d come off far too abrasive and aggressive! Now you probably think he’s an ass; or worse, some slimy mackerel.

“I mean,” you fighted nervously, the neat hanafuda earrings you always wore swinging gently as you did so, “You’re literally our only regular. And even if you weren’t, you’re still are a regular, so I probably wouldn’t be a very decent barista if I couldn’t remember that.” You smiled, before instantly backtracking, “not that I’m incompitent or anything like that, I know how to make this drink well I just, uh. I think I’m going to stop talking now…” you trailed off, feeling your face burn as the pretty boy in front of you just stared.

Snapping out of his daze of sorts, he blinked owlishly. Before hurriedly turning back to his drink. He did his best to withhold his own blush from how his heart seemed to miss several beats from your flustered nature. It was absolutely adorable.

The thought barely crossed his mind before he found himself flushing furiously, setting down the drink and muttering a response. He mentally slapped himself at the realisation you obviously didn’t hear him.

“It’s really good,” he said, managing to meet your eyes with what felt like more difficulty than it should be.

“I’m glad you think so!” You grinned, nerves seeming to dissipate. “Say um, my break’s in like, five minutes, if you’re still around, would it be alright if I joined you? Maybe we could talk some more? I mean as long as that’s cool with you; I don’t want to intrude or anything,” You said, slapping on your little clarification to avoid any perception that you were pushing yourself onto him.

But Chuuya just grinned, unable to stop his smile from adorning his features. “That sounds nice,” he breathed, “I’d really like that actually.”

“Great!” You opened your mouth to continue, only for the bell above the shop to cut off your next words. Switching paces, you smiled at him, sheepish. “I’ll see you then, in like five minutes. Um, please don’t leave? Cool, cool, cool-cool, cool.”you rambled, half out of nerves half out of glee, before quickly turning back to the counter.

He couldn't tell if it was the warmth the drink emitted or if it was you. He could practically feel the heat settling in his belly; calming any butterflies that remained. It was as though someone had stolen a chunk of the sun, or maybe simply a few stars and placed them within your heart, that warmth illuminating everything around you. And perhaps Chuuya would find he was made of wax and it would end in tragedy, or perhaps he would find that he was the sun all along and you were his moon. Maybe he would discover that the both of you were simply two travellers following the same star. Either way, it wouldn’t matter because in that moment, all thoughts of hesitation seemed to flee from his mind. No longer did the (honestly rather rational) anxiety of the small detail that he was not only part of the mafia, but a murderer, taint his wishes of seeking solance in another. It was beautiful and poetic and by god was it so fucking warm.

Now all Chuuya had to do was learn your name.

| SONG ; i'll call you mine by girl in red

| TAGLIST ; @yashi-desu @mag-writes

all works related to some form of published and copyrighted media showcased on this blog are fanworks and i do not own the source material that being said do not copy, modify, translate, claim, or repost my work to any other social media platform, same goes with using it for asmr audios, please do not use my work or i can and will reformat your anatomy

[crowbird]

Baji's Conclusion Makes Sense Actually And I'm Tired of Pretending It Doesn't

Crow's Note: Okay, this is a bit of a rant, bit of a dump, but I need to get this out of my system here and now and I do actually have a point to make, I haven't seen anyone post this here before so just gonna do it myself and then. But this deals with spoilers from the end of the Valhalla arc onwards, so I'm putting it under the cut.

I've seen some people say that they think that Baji died prematurely in the narrative and to some extent they are correct he died to young, he died to soon because he was a fourteen year old kid and how that's a bad thing but I'd argue if anything it's to the narrative's advantage.

Because baji died young we fundamentally lack the most direct perspective to Manjiro's childhood. We only get to see him through other people's perspective we had enough time to be invested in his character and enough time to care about his character but that was cut short to a certain extent, we will never get to know him as well as we could have because he is dead, he died prematurely and he died and was frozen in time.

It's like how we never know if Emma was even still alive in the future to begin with. Those characters are frozen in time and the only chance we have of knowing them better is inherently unreliable and I think that's a strength of the narrative rather than something to be critiqued.

Call it a personal pet-peeve if you will, but as much as I genuinely love fix-it-fics... I am of the personal opinion that a lot of the ones centred around baji do him a disservice. Not all, but a lot of the ones I have read.

The best way I can explain why I think this bothers me is to use an example of one of my own drafts, though I wouldn't call it a fix-it. Because even if those sort of fics if you are even vaguely trying to follow canon that doesn't mean there aren't consequences and that there isn't still the ever pressing theme of socioeconomics looming over us.

For reference, the entire fix it fic is that two people are stuck in a timeloop within the timeleap and one of those people is Kisaki, not really because I like him but because that's the most interesting option given the sort of story I want to tell but we don't have time to get into that, and the reason they're in the timeloop is because the world has functionally fragmented around them so to their own actions and trauma, it's a fix it fic to some degree but not inherently, because by the nature of one of the protagonists it cannot function fully under that umbrella.

What I feel like a lot of baji fix it fics do, is intentionally or not, water down the impact of baji's place in the narrative.

The point of his story is that he never got to grow up, and that he was the reason for toman's existence in the first place, him and kazutora both and because of the both of them he never got to grow up, the entire purpose of his existence within the story is to illustrate the extent of gang idolization among other aspects of his character, it's not just that oh the soft himbo who likes cat's didn't get to grow up, it's this kid who has hopes and dreams didn't get to grow up due to a chain reaction of events, maybe we should look at what those events are and why they happened and what ideology lead to them happening in the first place, because then we could understand what lead this kid to his death so prematurely.

it doesn't matter if he could have lived in the original timeline, we don't know that and we don't need to know that, and if we did know, and he didn't die, that it would devalue the impact of the Valhalla arc as a whole.

And I'm tired of people acting like the story is worse for it. Your favourite character is dead, it's sad, okay moving on now. Now this could entirely be because the vast majority of Baji fics out there is aged up smut fics which is just a little gross, not that they exist, but that they are the most predominant type of Baji fanfiction because like, I mean he is a child, and before someone starts calling me a Baji-Purist sur the fuck down, no, I am just incredibly sex-repulsed ace and I find it kinda weird due to that fact.

Also the whole Baji-Purist debate is stupid and all of the arguments are made of wet paper, there is a discussion to be had there and yet no one seems to get what the genuine underpinning issue is or if they do they all have different definitions of it.

That's not the point of this post.

I'm just tired of people acting like Baji's Death was detrimental to the story as a whole, if anything it elevated it. I miss him to, but for the love of god can we please acknowledge that sometimes a character's arc ends with them dying.

all works related to some form of published and copyrighted media showcased on this blog are fanworks and i do not own the source material that being said do not copy, modify, translate, claim, or repost my work to any other social media platform, same goes with using it for asmr audios, please do not use my work or i can and will reformat your anatomy

I'll proof read this later

[crowbird]

| OUTSIDERS ; h. sanzu x reader

| WORD COUNT ; 900+ | RELATIONSHIP ; haruchiyo sanzu x gn!reader | PLEASE NOTE ; illusions to the events of 241 | CROW’S NOTE ; i got the idea for this from this post from @ryohell, if anyone wants me too I will gladly elaborate on this concepts

5 Years Old : You disliked the new baby. Things were already cramped at home and Mother and Father were only acting worse because of it. You started spending more time in the garage, maybe you would get carbon monoxide poisoning but the car in there hadn’t worked for a decade. There’s an old piano in the back, sheet music and theory books stuffed away in a long forgotten box. You begin to play in hopes that maybe one day the music would sound like silk rather than gravel.

6 Years Old : You meet a boy in the park. His hair is cut short to his head, it’s fuzzy, almost like a peach. But you don’t like peaches much so you try not to think of it like that, because you do like him. His eyes are lighter than yours the same way his hair is. You are fairly certain his hair should not be that white that young. You make a joke about how only old folk and dying people have white hair. He says he’s not about to cross the river of the dead anytime soon. You start calling him by the same name as the river.

7 Years Old : Sanzu has a brother, and a sister. He thinks you’re lucky to have parents. You think he’s lucky he isn't home much. The both of you elect not to talk about family, instead he starts sitting in the garage with you, fidgeting with the old pieces of the broken car as you play piano.

8 Years Old : You don’t like Mikey much. He’s loud and sticky, but his brother bought you that new book of sheet music after he saw you staring at it one too many times, and Baji is cool and helps you feed the stray cats. You deal with the blonde’s presence for the sake of your friends. Sanzu tells you he wishes he was strong like Mikey, you tell him you’re glad he’s not because then he wouldn’t be Sanzu. Your parents enrol you in formal piano lessons, and your name is listed on the ballet for a contest for children who excel at musical instruments.

9 Years Old : The piano in the garage is thrown away, a new one is brought inside the house. Suddenly piano isn’t as fun anymore.

10 Years Old : You’re too young for this, but you don’t know that as you try desperately to stop the bleeding. Your fingers are stained red and briefly you wonder if it’ll ever come out. Sanzu is somewhere between crying and laughing, or rather attempting to do the latter as he suppresses the former. When he finally goes silently and you’ve managed to sloppily apply bandages, cotton and medical tape to the wounds, neither of you say much, but he holds you when you cry.

11 Years Old : Your brother breaks your glasses, he ran them over by accident with his new bike. You hate him then, and you hate yourself all the more for it. So you attend a regional piano competition for young classical musicians, because the piano is the one thing your brother cannot do to earn your parents’ love. Despite having three broken fingers, you shouldn’t have punched Mikey when you saw him last, you win.

12 Years Old : You teach Sanzu how to braid your hair. You’ve always liked it long. It means you can do different stuff with it, and there’s a satisfaction you get from watching your braids fall almost to your knees. You get a new neighbour that Fall, he’s larger than you, despite your oddly impressive height for a kid your age, older as well. You imagine he’s what brother’s should be like. Not whatever you have sleeping in the twinbed on the other side of what was once your room.

13 Years Old : You practice piano when your parents aren’t home, which is often. They both have more work than they don’t. You don’t think they love each other much anymore. When they are at home, you are with Sanzu visiting the neighbour’s house, Yasuhiro Muto is kind. Or maybe you’re both just desperate. Either way, he’s more family by the mere status of the blood of the covenant than anything you know by the water of the womb.

14 Years Old : You do not go to the same school as your best friend. But calling Sanzu that does not feel right, it feels too cheap. It is not enough to describe the comfort you get from existing with him. He joins Mikey’s gang because Yasuhiro does, you kiss his scars when he tells you this through angry tears. Until you miss and your lips land on his, and he’s suddenly desperate for you to do it again.

15 Years Old : you are walking home from school, you will meet Sanzu at your spot. By the rusted park, that’s now been overtaken by vines and weeds because the city can’t be bothered to maintain a space for children in the part of town where no child should ever live. You do not see the man approach you, you do feel the blow to your head. Your last thought is not of your friends or family, it’s the distinct one that you never thought that you’d see a delinquent wearing glasses.

5 Years Old : There’s an old piano in the back, sheet music and theory books stuffed away in a long forgotten box. You begin to play in an effort not to drown in the nostalgia and deja vu of a different flow of time, in the ocean of the universe.

| SONG ; outsiders by jean-michel blais

| TAGLIST ; @stroberrylite @meena-in-a-nutshell @izuniias @girl-by-the-lake (click here if you want to join)

[crowbird]

| COME OVER (AGAIN) ; r. haitani x reader

| WORD COUNT ; 4.3k | RELATIONSHIP ; ran haitani x aroace!reader, izana kurokawa & reader | PLEASE NOTE ; the following oneshot contains descriptions of depersonalized fairly suggestive content and illusions to sexual attraction | CROW’S NOTE ; you don't need to be aroace to read this, i'd actually really appreciate it if you weren't and did anyways, because honestly i have lot to express on the matter and while this may not do it as much justice as i would like, i do hope it conveys at least some of what i wanted to get across, that being said, if you are allo (not ace) please do not take any of my depiction of sexual indifference and repulsion personally, that is not why this story is being told, thank you very much to @virtue-and-beneviolence for proof-reading my final draft for me

Kakucho was almost certain something was off about his two friends. Well, his only friends. For starters he had caught the whiff of cigarette smoke clinging to your jacket and you don’t smoke. You don’t smoke for the explicit reasoning that you despise the smell, so that was the first flag. The other, of course, was Izana’s sulking. Izana Kurokawa did not sulk… or at least you wouldn’t think he did. Whether or not that was actually true was another story.

But the most egregious sign had been the rather off-putting mixture of hostility and self pity that had been exchanged between Izana and Ran. Rindou had been equally confused as to the cause of his brother’s sudden drop in contentment, which had seemingly been only growing over the past few weeks. He’d told the scarred boy that his brother had been wallowing in self pity since the previous day. Same could be said about Izana’s hostility to him, at least as far as Kakucho was aware.

But the atmosphere of unspoken but subtle tension that he was entirely excluded from knowing the cause of was near suffocating.Whether spontaneously manifested, or not, it was also starting to get annoying.

It would have been so much easier if Izana could have talked about his feelings, obviously. But he was far from the type of person to do so; something he and Mikey had in common much to his insistence they absolutely did not share any traits in the slightest. After all, why should one talk about their emotions when you could simply let them fester and grow until you were left with nothing more than the parasitic amalgamation of all your negativity and distaste? Which is why Kakucho decided it would be best to simply bite the bullet and confront him.

“Izana, what was with you and Ran earlier?” He asked. The response was practically instantaneous. The temperature of the room seemed to plummet. You groaned into your hands and Izana’s expression seemed to darken momentarily.

In lieu of answering the question, you shoved your foot into his side and the boy was left to wheeze in response. Ran, temporarily forgotten as he spun on you with a mixture of betrayal and amusement turning over in his eyes.

“Am I missing something?” Kakucho asked, what little tension had amounted to your silent bickering seemingly evaporating at his only partially-intentional intervention.

Izana, however, was the one who answered. You this opportunity to cover your face in a pillow, whether that be shame or embarrassment he would guess the former

“Turns out that one,” Izana jabbed his thumb at you, “and Ran had been ‘going out’ for about two months before someone dumped him.”

Sitting bolt upright, you tightened your grip on the pillow, “Oh? What, so now I’m the bad guy?”

“I never said that.”

“It sure sounded like it.” You said, not even bothering to try and conceal the words under your breath. Turning over on your side, you ensured you wouldn’t have to meet the judgment lilac stare of your friend.

It was a very simple thing, your relationship with Ran Haitani. Or so you’d like to think, the truth, much like all things in your life, tends to be a tad more convoluted. See, before we can even touch on your relationship, first we must make something clear: you’d always been (morbidly) curious as to why everyone seemed to make such a big deal about romance and sex and all that. Human connection was great, and you’d be lying if you said you didn’t love it. There was a reason you and Izana’s partnership functioned as it did. But no matter how many awful subplots and overly sexual advertisements you were exposed to, you still didn’t really get it.

Even after two months of your… dating? Was it really dating if only one party was committed? Or maybe neither of you were, or maybe you both had been. A tragedy truly, another young love destroyed by the nefarious hands of miscommunication. Perhaps it was better to just be blunt about it all and admit that there had hardly been any good communication to begin with. It didn’t matter much now. You were too open, and yet unlikely to bring up the subject; the sort who wore their heart on their sleeve but often got so tangled in your own thoughts that you seemed almost insultingly blind to the indication that other people existed. Ran was too apprehensive and avoidant; he treated his heart like a well loved stuffed animal from his childhood, though in recent years the stuffing had started to leak and spill from split seems as neglect took its toll.

But to say that only Ran had cheated, would be a bit of a misconstruction of events. If he had done so physically, you’re fairly certain you’d done so emotionally. Then again you’d never even specified the nature of your relationship. You two had not quite been a couple and still could not be considered just friends messing around for a good time. Hell, you weren’t even sure if it could be called friends with benefits because as far as you were concerned, you weren’t exactly friends.

You wouldn’t have minded being friends with him. Being able to sit on his bed as he sat on the floor between your legs, fingers threaded through inky locks woven through with strands of gold, gently braiding his hair. It was a nice image. But it was not one that ever happened, or anything close to that level of intimacy, platonic or otherwise.

So when the older Haitani (the supposed heart-throb or so you were told by a rather cautious Kakucho) asked you out, it took you a moment to even register his question. This was the same boy known for being able to sweep girls right off their feet. You’d frowned at this initially. You couldn’t say your intentions had been noble nor honest from the start either; yet you were fairly certain the only reason he even considered you as a prospect was because of how seemingly out of reach you were.

In fact, to let you in on a little secret? While it wasn’t and still isn’t necessary for you to know, Ran Haitani, is more self aware than people give him credit for. This could be said about both Haitani brothers… Maybe it runs in the family. (The whole “self-aware to a fault” thing that is.) But if there’s one place where Ran differs from his brother, it’s on the matter of people. Or at least girls. Hell even now he could only be at most half certain you’re a girl, and he hasn’t been with a guy, or maybe he has and maybe he hasn’t. Still, even if you weren’t a girl or a guy or were both and one or the other it didn’t matter, at the end of the day he was sure you were one thing and that thing was simple: you are incredibly attractive so why would it matter?

Ran is more than aware of how much of a piece of shit he is for this. Most people would agree. Why be with someone because you think they’re a challenge, a prize to be won, rather than an actual person? He preferred to leave that detail unanswered for the time being.

Out of everyone he could possibly shoot his shot with, there's a whole list of girls, guys and everything in between and out of it who’d give their kidney to be the target. Of course naturally, by the laws of romantic comedy and cliches this meant he chose to aim for someone he is almost positive is out of his reach. Maybe it was the knowledge that it won’t go anywhere that made it appealing.

That did not stop the part of him that desperately craved human connection. Yes he had Rindou, but Rin was his brother, and sometimes he needed connection beyond familial. And as much as he wanted some sweet semblance or romance or the warm embrace of friendship, it did not negate nor pacify the sick, vile, self-destructive, self-sabotaging, apprehensive and borderline obsessive need to purge all good things from his life, the fact that his brother seemed to be an exception a lifeline he clung to with tired and bruised hands. Because he did not deserve good things as he reminded himself each and every time he let things fall into decay, or simply took a hammer to them to save time. He was almost positive now it had passed the threshold of unhealthy into something else entirely, but the snake coiled around the tree of his heart was hungry and somehow the thing still had fruit left to bare; no matter how hard he tried he could not stop feeding the snake.

It must have been the power, the look of pure anger, heartbreak, the sheer hopelessness that crossed their expressions as he got the satisfaction of walking away. He was an awful person, but at least he was self aware. An arbitrary comfort made up entirely of that odd and twisted propaganda of his own creation.

The same could be said for you of course, and while he was not privy to this, nor aware of it even now to the full extent, perhaps that was why you crossed paths when you did. So maybe that’s why it worked at first. So maybe that’s why he came back. So maybe that’s why he found he wanted to be a better person around you. It was, is, revolting.

You were honest with him, you gave him a chance because for all your dark thoughts and impulsive nature, for all your violent words and sadistic wonders, you were a kind person. Not nice. Not nice by any measurement, but you tried to be kind. You were equal parts kind and cruel, other to all you knew and Ran was not an exception to that fact.

Even when you lay with him in the aftermath, you held true to that philosophy. He was kind and gentle with you, so you didn’t tell him about the internal contemplation on the matter. As you sat with him, wearing one of his shirts, hair wet from the shower and a soothing cream gently applied to the bruises that decorated your collarbone, you only returned his unexpected affection. You could not bring yourself to ask him why on earth other people seem to make such a big deal about bodies.

You could not see what he saw. How he treated you like they were made of honey and silver. No matter how hard you squinted, you couldn’t seem to look at it under the same light, they would not gleam of gold and smell of sugar, they would not taste of the sweetest fruit. And though you had driven your nails into Ran’s back, leaving the canvas red in the wake of your touch as you chased your own pleasure. But they were still only bodies. And the act itself did nothing but make them sticky and gross and you weren’t sure if you liked it or liked him or disliked him and liked it. Maybe you were a bad person for thinking like this, for thinking about how maybe if it had been Izana who laid with you in the sheets you wouldn’t have hated the feeling of their skin on yours so much.

Or maybe it was the simple fact that you knew, for better or for worse, Izana would ever want to touch you like that. You’d seen eachother naked plenty of times, between shared baths as children, his inability to knock, and your own general indifferent comfort in his presence. It wasn’t a big deal, it was just something that happened. And you liked it that way. Because you didn’t want to touch him like that either, and you sure as hell didn’t want him touching you like that.

Maybe that was why the second time it happened you were more aggressive. Because it felt good that way. You felt good that way. You liked the pleasure, but god, if the fact that it meant another person was so fucking close to you didn’t made your skin crawl. Or maybe it was as simple as it would have even been genuinely enjoyable if not for the stench of sweat.

The aftercare was nice. Almost worth the sex. Ran was more attentive than you thought he’d be. And the third time you had sex with the man, he let you take control. You would be lying to say you didn’t get a sadistic thrill from having a powerful man like him under your whims. You would be lying to say that the thrill of power, the thrill and pleasure of watching someone break and beg beneath your touch, to want you so badly, so desperately, even if it was in a manner you could never reciprocate in full.

That didn’t make you any less skittish about the matter or sex, just because you knew why or how you felt didn’t make it any less easy to confront, especially when the anxiety of another person’s pleasure was in your hands. It didn’t make him any more oblivious to something he was already well aware of. Ran didn’t know how to react to the fact that you might not like him for or because of his body. Maybe he was just shocked he actually liked you as a person. Maybe he was too used to casual and mediocre sex. Maybe he was an awful person for that. Though either way it didn’t matter much anymore did it?

He wanted to ask you to be his or at the very least for him to be yours. It broke something in him that evening. When you’d walked up to him a week after the third time you slept together, four days after your last “date” and two months after he asked you out and told him that you couldn’t do this any more and that you wanted to end whatever your relationship was he could not stop the confusion from flooding his expression.

“Why?”

“Because I don’t think I care about you in that way.”

Ran had scoffed, genuinely confused “in what way?”

“Sexually? Romantically? I don’t see you, hell, I don’t think I see anyone like that. I’m sorry, that’s not fair to you and I apologize for that.” He had felt sick when he watched you bend at the waist. The seriousness of your apology was only cemented by the gesture, because you did not bow to anyone. “But as much as I care about you as a person and a friend, I care about myself more, so I can’t keep acting like this isn’t hurting me.”

No. No. This was not how this was supposed to happen. It was always Ran who got the last say, even as you turned away with a sad smile. Did you know then? That after a month together and almost no physical contact of any sort he’d slept with the first girl who looked his way in that rave? Did you know about how they’d fucked each other in the bathroom of some dingy, backwater club? But you weren’t exclusive and you weren’t the sort of person to break up over something like that, right?

“What the hell.” Ran had asked. Maybe he would have been embarrassed at the crack in his voice had he not barely managed to catch your wrist. “What the hell is this about?” He demanded, in full force this time.

“Look, Ran,” your voice was sad, but it was far from heartbroken. “I like you enough as a person. If it matters to you, I can honestly say that you made me feel good physically. You’re a good partner in terms of sex however I cannot reciprocate the emotional needs that are required in even a purely sexual relationship. You made me feel good and I hope I did the same for you, but I do not have the ability to be in any sort of relationship of that nature with you.” Your words were calm, almost scripted, utterly depersonalized.

“What the fuck are you talking about? And why the hell are you being so,” he fumbled for the right term, “uptight and cold about it? It’s just fucking and sex and you can’t do it with me so let me guess you can with Izana or someshit?” Ran had wanted to slap himself the moment venom coated words flew from his lips. But he did not lie, he did not say what he did out of impulse. He knew how you both looked at each other, each gazing into the other as if they had hung the star and gifted it to them.

“No. I don’t see Izana like that, he doesn’t see me like that either and I don’t want him to.”

“Then what is it!?”

“It’s not personal Ran, I just don’t feel that kind of attraction to people.”

“Then why does it sound like you’ve scripted this in order to spare my feelings or some bullshit!?”

“Why do you care so much?”

“Because I care about you!”

The silence was deafening, and the words Ran had bit back, barely concealed the thought of “I think I could love you,” hung in the air. Clear as day, an open book. The stuffed animal presented to you was worn and tired, it might take some stitches to mend the broken seams but he could do that himself if only you let him the tools. But you did not have needle nor thread; you never would.

“But I cannot care about you in that way.”

“If you gave me the chance maybe you could.”

“No, I couldn’t. If you need me to spell it out I just don’t feel romantic attraction and I do not want you or anyone else to fix me because I am not broken for feeling that way, so don’t you dare even go there.” The words, though said at him; it didn't feel as though they were said to him, eyes brimming with tears as your mask cracked. “Please don’t call me again, Ran. You don’t like me, you like the idea of me, if you liked me because I am a person, then we wouldn’t be having this conversation because we would have just been friends from the start. I hope you find someone who could return those feelings but it cannot be me. Because I don’t love people like that, and you’re still people.”

And so, a day or two later, you found yourself explaining this all to Kakucho and to Izana, though the latter was getting all of this for a second time. In the silence, almost awkward but not quite, that followed you expected Kakucho to say more, but only he remarked on how he had been certain that Ran had only liked girls.

“I’m not a girl?” You pointed out, raising an eyebrow as you crossed your hands over your chest, admittedly feeling defensive.

“Well you aren’t a guy either?” Kakucho amended, “I didn’t know if Ran was into guys.” He silently filed that information a way for latter, both guilty and pleased to learn Ran did not limit himself to the opposite sex.

“No man with that hairstyle is straight.”

“What?”

“Straight people don’t try and dye their roots black only to run out of dye, look in the mirror and say yes, having the ends and roots but not the middle of my hair dyed black while the middle remains bright bleach blonde is a hill I’m willing to die on.”

Izana snorted from his spot laying on your bed, staring at the glow-in-the-dark stars you’d stuck up there when you’d first been adopted. “I don’t want to have sex with you either, for the record. But why even accept anyways?” He did a good job of playing it cool, for him it was almost impressive.

You grinned back, “the feeling’s mutual buddy. But either way I don’t feel that way about him at all, if that’s what you mean. I still don’t really get the whole romance or the whole sex thing, but I’d be lying if I said I looked at that man, or any man, or woman, or people? I’m rambling now, fuck. Look, the point is, that I do not look people and think that, ‘ah yes, sexual reproduction, I wish to partake!’” Your voice turned to a mocking lilt, Izana snorting and Kakucho flushing red at your words.

“You don’t need to be so blunt about it,” the scarred boy said as he tried and failed to hide his blush, sinking further into the pile of blankets and pillows that covered the stitched up bean-bag in the corner of the room.

“Why though? I’m telling you, I don’t get why people make such a big deal about it, they’re just bodies. I mean, I guess it felt nice? Like it felt nice but I can’t tell if that was just the power trip or the actual sex. It was more a hassle than anything else and the clean up isn’t worth the mess.”

Izana agreed, remarking that there was no way such an activity that involved so many bodily fluids could be anything less than a nightmare to deal with, and Kakucho shrugged, doing his best to ignore Izana’s addition to the matter. He watched as you slowly slumped backwards on the bed. Izana immediately repositioned himself to be face down on your stomach, much to your chagrin. He watched as you good naturedly shoved the shorter boy off your lap only for him to cling on even tighter, he grinded, glad the two most important people in his life were happy.

Honestly speaking he was just surprised Ran got the nerve to even approach you. Kakucho wasn’t oblivious to the obvious aesthetic appeal both you and Izana held, despite your own reservations on the matter from time to time. But there was a common misconception amongst the folk of Tenjiku,that the two, maybe even all three of you, were involved in some weird relationship. One that was most certainly beyond the platonic and familial bond that tied you together.

If all those stories of soulmates held even a grain of truth. If there was an invisible scarlet strand of twine that hung from each of your fingers, then there wasn’t anything on the other end. Instead, you merely braided the broken ends together with that of the strings belonging to the boys by your side. Izana and Kakucho: the people who were not quite your brothers and not quite your lovers and not quite something in between. They were merely Izana and Kakucho, and you loved them for it. Though that love was not romantic, it didn’t need to be.

Others did, but this is not a story about that.

“Do you think I was a bad person for using Ran to try and figure it out?”

Izana lifted his face from your gut where he’d reattached himself. “Romance or sex?” He was frowning, not bothering to hide his displeasure. After all, Izana, much like yourself, and to a more subtle degree, Kakucho, was selfish. He disliked sharing what was his. And while he didn’t want you as you didn’t want him in that fashion, something like bile still threatened to rise in his throat at the thought of you wanting someone else in such a manner.

“Both? I don’t really know. I mean, I think he might have cheated on me but we weren’t exclusive, or at least we never clarified that we weren’t seeing other people? So I can’t really be mad about that I don’t think… either way I definitely used him to figure out if I even could like sex.”

“Can you?”

“I don’t think so.”

Kakucho, the most openly vocal about the subject of loyalty, butted in then, “I mean, if you did use him to figure yourself out, at least you broke his heart before he breaks yours.”

“Why would you even choose him anyways?” Izana asked, his judgment staining his tone like blood on white linen.

“Because if I did it with one of you it’d be weird. If I did it with Ran, I mean, I guess I can see why people like him? He’s sorta pretty? I guess. Rindou seems nicer though.” You paused, mind wandering before snapping back to attention. “I guess my case is more so, I know he’s much more experienced than me, and I had a good idea of how I’ll be treated going into this shit, and then I was right. I was able to tell whether or not any of that meant something to me, and besides the fact that I feel kinda bad for using him I really don’t feel anything else otherwise.”

“I don’t think people who experience romance or sex normally think about it like that,” Kakucho remarked from his makeshift cocoon.

“Since when have any of us been normal?”

“Since you pushed Izana off the swingset when you were like six and somehow managed to give him a bloody elbow?”

“Oh yeah that was great.”

“That fucking scarred.”

“Oh gosh! He’s swearing Kaku! I think it’s serious.”

Kakucho stifled a giggle as Izana raised himself off you only to immediately return himself to his previous position, effectively dumping his entire weight onto your unsuspecting stomach.

You swore, laughter peeling from your lips as you devolved into a lump of joy pinned under Izana’s half hearted spite and Kakucho felt warmer than he had in weeks.

And he was glad that you ignored the buzzing of your flip phone from where it’s fallen on the rug. Because you did your best to be kind, and he wasn’t sure what would have happened if you’d answered Ran’s text. But you didn’t. And Kakucho was selfish, because he didn’t want to outlive the people he cared about.

So even as your phone buzzed from the pocket of your jacket, discarded on the floor. It didn't matter. And silently, Kakucho hoped that this happiness would last a little longer.

| SONG ; come over (again) by the crawlers

| COLLAB ; @haruchuiyo's cupid shoots to kill

| TAGLIST ; @stroberrylite @meena-in-a-nutshell @izuniias @girl-by-the-lake (click here if you want to join)

all works related to some form of published and copyrighted media showcased on this blog are fanworks and i do not own the source material that being said do not copy, modify, translate, claim, or repost my work to any other social media platform, same goes with using it for asmr audios, please do not use my work or i can and will reformat your anatomy

[crowbird]

Imagine your significant other, unintentionally gaslighting and confusing his co-workers because he refers to you, his spouse, by inconsistently gendered terms, sometimes he calls you husband, others wife, others partner or spouse but it's never the same within the same sentence, this leads his co-workers to grow gradually concerned because he's a fairly private person and reclusive guy, it get's to the point where they're considering planning intervention and then their boss, who happens to know you, introduces you to them while visiting your partner at work and there's just this smug air about you that yes you are in fact fully aware you had multiple high ranking members of the largest organized crime syndicate in the country stressed out over the mere thought of your existence.

"I thought you said you had a wife not a husband."

"People are gay Ran."

"That does not answer the question..."

Fuck it, I'm writing a Kakucho fic, and it's going to be absolutely lovely.

[crowbird]

You do not remember how long you have been within the confines of the forest. You do not know how long it has been since you’ve seen clear skies, void of any form of obstruction whether that be branches or clouds. You do not remember the smell of diesel, something you know is different from the gasoline drained into the generator each night in a feeble attempt to keep the lights on. You do not remember the stain of grease left from cooked meat; the scent of artificially sweetened chocolate; the steps of a family recipe for a dish whose name evaded you. All of this was important to you once, and yet the knowledge of such seems to have buried itself beneath the undergrowth of memories of the forest. Memories that grew from the seeds of where skin was stained black and blue tainted with something like crimson; the heavy bruises and what might have been blood brought forth by the hands of a man who should have been a doctor, as he robbed you of a key you cherished more than life itself.

Yet even your beginnings in the forest might as well have been a lifetime ago, or perhaps even in another life all together. A different person's body and soul, someone untouched and clean from the hands of the woods you supposed. Not that such a thing even existed. However, none of that particularly mattered, not now, as you sat, gasping for breath in the space between oven and workbench. The air thick with the smell of the substance, both sickly sweet and thick with a rich savour. The workbench was piled high with supplies old and new, some useless others not, the storage beneath the space having finally reached its capacity.

In the doorway, where the splinted barricade lay to invite hell within the thing that was once a man lay dead in the beartrap. A bullet lodged in it’s head between the antlers that had grown from the skull of something that should not exist. But the forest was not kind to men. Well that wasn’t entirely true. The forest was a kind place, yes, but it was not particularly nice. And so when men turned savage and their hair grew too long to tame, when feet twisted themselves into hooves and hands became claws, the horns that might have borne an insult to any stag who saw them sprang from the crown of lost men.

Yet the corpse in the doorway was not your concern. No, as you shifted the rifle and the light of dawn finally managed to fall through the trees your only thought was of the sound of something squelching and squirming in the next room. That sound of something not quite there, that you could not see but rather could only see where it wasn’t. For if you looked too much upon where it was it might spread further until it burned away fabric and flesh, until it found a home in your marrow and spun your nerves into no more than an extension of its roots. that poisonous sludge that crawls out of the rot and seeps through the floorboards, a disgusting reality that can only be burned away by molotov and matches. It smells of foul and decay. It eats away at the old house if you let it sit too long as you had learned with much disdain in the dry meadow. But you had long since said goodbye to that place which, looking back, honestly seemed something almost holy rather than the haunted haven you now referred to as home.

Not that the forest was home.