#i sat down to draw this and exorcised it from myself in one sitting last monday evening after finishing work at 8 pm

[luckycl0ve]

so here we are

[eternalsimp]

Cursed Fears (pt 2)

Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Smut

Word Count: 3703

Warnings: NSFW 18+, Aged up Megumi, mentions of violence, character death, swearing, use of female pronouns and anatomy, angst, slight praise kink, oral sex (f. receiving) Minors DNI.

Author Note: This is a sequel but it can be read as a stand-alone. pt 1 is up on my blog and pt 3 will be posted soon.

Megumi’s POV

Everything was dark and the smell of blood was overwhelming. I couldn’t tell where I was exactly, I knew I was in the domain of a special grade but I was sure I had gone home to y/n. Nobara, Yuji, and I had exorcised a second-grade curse and had called it a night. So where did this domain come from? How did I get here? I could swear I could hear thunder crack every now and then, but I can’t even remember if there was a storm when I was here with Yuji and Nobara. Where was Gojo when I needed him? I stumbled through the darkness blindly before I was met with a sight that made my heart drop.

Sukuna sat lazily on his throne, his red eyes trained on me in a predatory glare, sharp nails tapping impatiently on his temple. “It's about time you showed up, I thought I was going to have my fun without you. Now that you’re here, we can continue.” Sukuna’s mouth pulled into a sinister grin as I stared at the limp figure at the foot of his throne.

“Y/n…” her name came out as barely a whisper, my throat felt like it was closing up. She was at home studying for her statistics class, I know she was. I shook my head violently before pressing the heels of my hands to my eyes. This isn’t real.

“What’s wrong little sorcerer? Not feeling so tough anymore are you? You were so confident you could take me on earlier, so come on, take her back. Until you do I may have to play with her a little bit more, show her that she was never safe from me.” Sukuna reached down and pulled her unconscious body up into his lap. He held her jaw with one hand and turned her face so I could see. I wanted to scream at him not to touch her, or to hurt me instead, but nothing came out. Every part of my body was frozen in place at the sight of her tortured body. Sukuna could see me struggling in his domain and smirked down at me. He slowly dragged his mouth up her throat and to the shell of her ear. “Time to wake up princess, our guest is here.” Sukuna squeezed her throat at the same time he nipped her ear and her eyes flew open to immediately fall on me.

“No, please let her go.” The words finally came but I still couldn’t move. She looked so scared, the person I love most is in danger and I couldn’t do anything about it. I forced myself forward a single step but it felt like I was sinking into the ground. Why can’t I move? “I’ll do anything you want, but please don’t hurt her.”

“I told you what I wanted, I told you to come and get her. Show me just how strong you are.” Sukuna taunted. With a firm grip on my girlfriend's jaw and his other hand traveling down her body, Sukuna was in complete control. I know I can’t use cursed energy or shikigami here or I would risk her becoming collateral damage, but I couldn’t stand still and do nothing.

“‘Gumi, help me.” Her voice was shaking, her entire body trembling. I wanted nothing more than to whisk her away to safety. Her eyes squeezed shut as Sukunas mouth attacked her neck and left dark bruises in its wake.

“Time’s running out kid, I’m starting to get bored.” Sukuna’s free hand began to snake over her legs, dragging his razor-sharp nails over the soft skin there, leaving angry red scratches behind. Tears began to fall freely from her eyes and I tried to force myself forward again to no avail. Whimpers and cries for help begin to fall from her lips faster, and god I feel like I’m in hell. All I can do is watch as she cries out in fear, heart cracking at every sound she makes. Finally, she says something that makes me feel like my heart has been ripped out of my chest

“You did this to me, this is your fault.” My body felt numb at the sound of her broken words. All I can do is shake my head and beg, beg Sukuna for mercy, and beg her for forgiveness.

“Baby it’ll be okay, you’ll be okay. I’m so sorry.”

“You said you would protect me, why did you do this to me?”

“I’m sorry, I’m gonna get you out of here. Please believe me, my love.” I was on my knees before the king of curses now. So close I could pick up on her perfume that smells sickly sweet of roses, but the smell I adore so much was tainted with something else now.

Sukuna clicked his tongue and shook his head. “You know better than to make promises you can’t keep, right?” My whole body was shaking with fear and rage at the curse, but all I could do was bargain.

“Please, I swear I will do anything, just let her go.” I couldn’t tear my eyes away from her, pleading to just see her leave here alive. Sukuna’s nails dug deeper into her throat, drawing blood as it trickled down her neck and chest in small streams.

“I think I’d rather punish you and the brat for trapping me in this vessel. You get to watch as I kill her, and then I’ll switch out with him so he can see what he’s done.” Sukuna leaned down to face me. “This is what happens when self-righteous sorcerers need to learn their place, so don’t blame me for what happens next.”

Fear shot through my entire body at those words. I couldn’t help but scream loudly as Sukuna jerked her head and a loud, sickening crack filled my ears.

I shot straight up in bed as a crack of thunder rumbled through the apartment. My eyes were unfocused as I dragged myself towards the bathroom and a wave of nausea washed over me. I barely made it to the toilet before I was vomiting into it. My knees burned from where they hit the tile but all I can think about was the sound of her whimpers and begs for help ringing in my ears. I was vaguely aware of the shirt sticking to me with sweat as I tried to control my erratic breathing. Thunder cracked again, sounding eerily like the way her neck snapped in my nightmare and I was retching again.

The cycle continued for what felt like hours until I was left coughing and dry heaving. As the panic started to ebb away I noticed the presence of my girlfriend on the floor behind me, running her hands soothingly over my back, and lightly pressing her thumbs into my spine. She had her knees on either side of my waist and was resting her head between my shoulder blades. I reached up to flush the toilet before gently squeezing her knee to let her know I was okay. She wordlessly pulled my sweaty shirt over my head to let the cool air hit my back before lifting herself off of the floor and out of the bathroom.

I shifted my body so I could press my forehead against the hard plastic of the bathtub. After a couple minutes, she handed me a bottle of water and pressed a cold, damp cloth to the back of my neck. “I’m sorry I woke you up,” voice raspy from coughing and throwing up. This wasn’t the first time I had woken her with my nightmares, and I doubt it would be the last. She reclaims her spot on the floor behind me and continues rubbing my back.

“Don’t be sorry, I prefer to be woken up by you going to the bathroom than you throwing up in the bed anyway.” I can’t help but laugh at her teasing and we could both feel the unease begin to fade.

“Yeah, that's a good point. You’re too good to me, you know that?” I moved so that I was leaning back against her chest and she wrapped her arms around my shoulders protectively.

“Nope, I refuse to accept that statement because we are the perfect amount of goodness to each other.” I tilted my head back to rest it on her shoulder before pressing a quick kiss to her neck. I couldn’t help but wonder how I was lucky enough for Nobara to introduce the two of us. It was in the small, intimate moments like these that I knew I would happily go to my grave protecting her.

Reader’s POV

“Okay you know the drill,” you said to him as you held out your hands expectantly. He smiled as he placed both his hands in yours, palm up. You pressed one of his hands to your chest and the other to his so he could feel both of your heartbeats under his fingertips. The first time you did this he scoffed at how cheesy it was, but over the two years of living together, it became common practice for when he was trying to calm down after a nightmare. You didn’t like to press him about the horrors that plagued his dreams, knowing how reserved he was with his emotions, so you found your own ways to comfort him.

“See, we’re both okay. Do you wanna get up to go lay back down or do you need a second?” He shook his head and pulled himself up to sit in front of you again.

“No, I’m okay, but can we do the other thing too?” he asked sheepishly. He turned pleading eyes towards you, and how could you refuse him when he asked so nicely.

“Of course, whatever you need. You or me?”

He took a shuddering breath before whispering “you” so softly you almost didn’t hear it. Your shoulders slumped as that one word told you everything you needed to know. The other practice that became a common occurrence after his chronic nightmares was kissing the other person's phantom injuries. More often than not it was him kissing you, as you were usually the object of his nightmares, like tonight. He liked being able to physically see and feel that the wounds inflicted on you were in fact not real. This nighttime routine often led to some heavy makeout sessions, which then led to very soft and intimate sex.

“Okay baby,” You stand up and move to sit on the side of the bed while he brushes his teeth quickly to get rid of the gross taste in his mouth. While you wait, you find yourself tugging at the bottom of your shorts self-consciously as you shiver in anticipation. After a moment your boyfriend waltzed out of the bathroom and rested his hands on either side of your waist. He bent his head to capture your lips in a slow kiss. His tongue swipes at your bottom lip, silently asking permission to deepen the kiss and you happily oblige him. Your mouths move in a small fight for dominance but a firm hand on your thigh has him easily winning. Your hands trailed up to rest on his shoulders as he took your bottom lip between his teeth and bit down gently.

You gasp softly into his mouth and he brings one hand up to rest at the nape of your neck as he cradles your head protectively. He draws his lips down the side of your jaw, paying special attention to the spot behind your ear that never fails to have you melting into his hands. You tilt your head to give him better access to your throat, allowing him to deliver individual kisses to the spots where you likely had been hurt.

In a swift, fluid motion, he is pulling your tank top off of you and trailing sloppy kisses down your chest and stomach. You lean back onto your elbows as he runs his hands over your thighs, leaving goosebumps in their wake. You let out a shaky breath as he begins to kiss his way up the inside of your legs. “Just relax baby. I’m gonna take care of you.” He punctuated each word with a kiss or nip to the inside of your thighs, and you could feel the arousal pool at the pit of your stomach.

You forced yourself to make eye contact just in time to see a devious smirk grace his features. Before you could question it he is yanking down your shorts and blowing cool air onto your core. You yelp and instinctively try to snap your knees shut. He chuckles lowly to himself before tossing your shorts somewhere behind him. He brings his face back between your thighs to lick a long, hot stripe up your core. You gasp loudly and let your arms give out behind you. He reaches one hand up to where you are clawing at the sheets to intertwine your fingers together.

“My pretty baby is already so worked up and I’ve barely touched you. What a good girl.” He lowers himself back down to lap up the arousal dripping onto your legs before sucking your clit into his mouth. You arch into him and groan loudly which prompts him to hum triumphantly around the bundle of nerves. He moves his free hand down to expertly curl two fingers into you and starts pumping in and out at a steady pace. After a few pumps of his hand, he curls his fingers to find the spot inside you that has you seeing stars.

The combination of his mouth and fingers working you is dizzying and you can feel it pushing you closer to the edge of your climax. He could feel how close you were and began to move with more purpose, determined to make you cum more than once in the night. With the hand that isn’t intertwined with his, you reach down to tangle in his soft hair. “Wait, I- oh shit- I’m gonna cum.”

He removes the hand that was holding yours from you and brings his thumb down to rub circles into your sensitive clit. “Come on baby, I got you. You can cum for me.” He moves his mouth to rejoin his fingers at your slit to bring you closer to your high. A particularly hard press of his thumb has you crying out in pleasure and grinding desperately against his face. He removes his fingers from you and replaces them with his tongue to help you ride out your high. He greedily drinks up your release until you are weakly nudging him away.

“Do you want me to stop?” He looked up at you innocently, which was contradicting when you remembered the things he was doing mere seconds prior.

“No, I just want to feel more of you.” You could feel a hot blush creep up your body at the realization that he was still halfway clothed, while you laid completely naked in front of him. His brain seemed to process this at the same time because he was quickly ridding himself of his sweatpants and grey boxers.

His hard cock thumps softly against his toned stomach when he stood again and you were having a hard time not staring at the man in front of you. He wasn’t bulky, but the muscles that rippled underneath taut skin were nothing to sneeze at. He glanced up and caught your stare, and returned it with a cocky smirk. “See something you like?”

“I sure do,” you flashed an innocent smile as you sat up and palmed his erection. He gasped at your sudden boldness and leaned onto the bed for support. At this proximity, you were able to tug his earlobe between your teeth and bite down gently. “Please baby, I want you so bad.” Those words snap him back into action and he’s crashing his lips against yours again.

He moves you back up the bed and crawls over your body. He braces his forearms on either side of your head and experimentally grinds his hip against yours. You let out a soft “please” that comes out whinier than you intend. You lean your face up to give him a soft kiss before he reaches down to line himself up with you and slowly presses the tip inside. He shallowly thrusts to slowly work into you, mumbling praises against your skin as he moves deeper.

You can’t help but wince at the stretch his cock always brings you, which would border on outright painful if he didn’t feel so good. Your head falls back against the bed, clawing at his back to try to find something to ground yourself. He glances down to where he is buried deep inside you before pressing his forehead to yours. “I know sweetheart, it's almost there. You’re- fuck- doing so good for me,” he reassures as he presses a soothing kiss to your temple.

When he finally bottoms out he stills his hips to let you get comfortable and adjust to him. He takes this opportunity to pepper your face and chest in kisses and returns one of his hands to your neck where it cradles your head. You bring one of your hands to his hair to tug gently before rolling your hips against him, eliciting a breathy moan from him. “You can move baby, I’m okay.”

He nods and gives a couple of slower thrusts before setting a steady pace. He opted for slower deep strokes which made you feel every inch of him as he thrust into you. His thrusts have his cock brushing all the right spots inside you, and all you can do is gasp and moan for him while clinging to his shoulders. “Megumi, please,” you aren’t even sure what you were asking for. The pleasure has your head spinning and unable to make complete thoughts.

You can tell he is getting closer to his own climax because his thrusts are getting progressively faster and he is getting more vocal. “God, baby you’re taking me so well.” He hooks one of your legs around his waist and the new angle lets him hit your sweet spot with every roll of his hips. Your nails dig into his shoulders as you feel another climax approaching, and Megumi picks up his pace again.

“Is my pretty girl gonna cum for me again?” You bury your face into his shoulder and nod. He moves one of his hands to play with your clit to push you over the edge. You arch into him and let out a strangled moan as your orgasm washes over you. You’re sure you’re leaving deep scratches across his back as you grip him tighter. His hips stutter as you clench around him and he gives a few more sloppy thrusts before he’s cumming too with a loud groan. He unconsciously rocks into you lazily as you both come down from your highs.

“Are you okay baby?” He kisses your forehead and strokes your side to try and bring you back to reality. You nod again, not quite trusting your voice yet. He chuckles and slowly pulls out to not overstimulate you. You squirm at the uncomfortable stickiness between your legs but he’s already moving to the bathroom to grab stuff to clean you up.

When he comes back out he runs a warm cloth along the inside of your thighs and quickly over your center, which has you wincing at the sensitivity. When he's done he pulls out a pair of your pajama shorts and one of his loose shirts for you to wear. He helps you slip the clothes on and tugs his boxers back up before climbing back into bed with you.

You stand up to crack open the window next to the bed before laying with your back against his chest. The cool air from the rain seeps into the room and he mutters a “thank you” into your shoulder, surprised that you remember he runs hot for the rest of the night when he has a nightmare.

The clock on the bedside table shows that it's about 5:30 in the morning, so you estimate that he woke up roughly at 4. “Do you feel okay enough to go back to sleep?” You feel him shrug behind you and you scoot closer to him, pulling one of his arms over your waist to lace your fingers together.

“I don’t know. I should but…” you hear his voice trail off and nod in understanding. He always has a hard time falling back asleep on nights like these. He warned you about his chronic nightmares shortly before moving in together and confessed that he’s had them since he started high school at Jujustu Tech. However, you take small comfort in the knowledge that since living together they’ve gotten less frequent, and his reactions to them have become far less violent.

“Will you feel better if one of your shikigami sleeps in here? Just so you know that nothing will happen.” He considers it for a minute before tugging his hand out of yours, circling his other arm around your waist, and folding his hands to summon his divine dog. Its head pokes out of the shadows under the window. You pat the empty spot on the bed and it jumps up excitedly before laying down and letting you scratch behind its ears.

Megumi chuckles behind you and shakes his head. “You just wanted the dog on the bed didn’t you?” He reaches over to ruffle its soft fur as it dozes off.

“Checkmate,” you crane your head to place a kiss on his cheek before settling back against him. “Now will you please try to go back to sleep? I don’t want to nag you but realistically you can’t function on only two hours of sleep.”

“I’ll try but I can’t make any promises you know.” He tucks his chin on top of your head and relaxes around you. You hum in acknowledgment before slowly drifting back to sleep.

[sexycraisinthanos]

Therapy in the Netherworld

Just a little fic I wrote because I wanted Lydia to seriously get some therapy. Put it under a readmore because I don’t want it taking up dashboard space.

Words: 2,936

Warnings: mention of suicide

Rating: T, for mention of suicide and death, but other than that no graphic depictions of violence or stuff like that. Just a girl talking about her trauma

They sat in a circle, reading the Handbook. Adam and Barbara sat next to each other, reading silently while Delia, Charles, and Lydia sat across from them.

“Well I’ll be darned. They do have an undead therapist.” Adam said with a chuckle, turning the book to show Barbara.

“That could have been helpful a long time ago.”

“What could there possibly be a therapist for?” Lydia asked skeptically.

“It says,” Adam looked back at the page, adjusting his glasses, “that therapy services are offered for those struggling to cope with their deaths...not exactly the kind of therapist we need.”

“We don’t need a therapist.” Lydia crossed her arms. “Dad’s just freaking out because I had a nightmare.”

“The same nightmare for the last three months, Lydia. And it’s not just a nightmare, it’s a night terror.”

“Same thing.”

“Actually, night terrors are more extreme and mostly for children.” Delia corrected proudly.

“...Well yes. But Lydia you were sleepwalking. You almost walked off the roof.”

“...Well a regular therapist would be a better idea.”

“We just think it’d be best if you had a therapist you could talk to about...stuff without judgment.”

“And the Netherworld is your choice? Delia is a better choice.”

“Aw, thank you.”

Adam sighed and stood, still holding the book. “It doesn’t hurt to try. They’re the only ones who can understand what’s happened. Just try one session.”

Lydia scowled, but didn’t protest.

Adam pulled out a piece of chalk. “Okay, it says to draw a door and knock to the rhythm of...shave and a haircut. Huh, you don’t often hear people refer to it that way.” He drew on the wall and knocked.

A doorway appeared and the door cracked open, emitting pink smoke and glitter. They coughed, backing up.

Adam looked at the book, confused. “Did I do it right?”

Barbara slowly opened the door and more smoke wafted through the air and then dissipated.

When it cleared, they saw a messy office with papers strewn about and an empty old-fashioned chair with holes in the upholstery. 

“...Well it’s certainly the Netherworld.” Adam covered his nose. “Smells like it.”

Barbara carefully stepped inside and looked around. “Hello? Is anyone here?”

“There’s probably no one here. No one would want to go to therapy after they die.” Lydia said. 

A pile of garbage sat up, making indiscernible noises. The noises turned into yawning and pieces fell off, revealing a demon underneath. She stood up, dusting herself off. She straightened her coat and messed up her hair and looked at the open door. “Oh shit. Hi.”

“...Are you the therapist?” Adam asked, almost regretfully.

She looked around and clicked her tongue. “Well I’m the only one here, aren’t I?”

“We were expecting someone more...different I guess.”

“Why were you sleeping under garbage?” Lydia asked.

“You’re looking at a demon and you’re asking about using garbage as a blanket?”

Lydia blinked and shrugged. The demon cleared her throat. “Okay, so what can I do for you?”

“Well, we were hoping you could help Lydia.” Adam answered, motioning to Lydia.

“The vampire?”

“I’m a human.”

“I usually only deal with dead people. And the occasional undead.”

“What’s the difference?”

“Undead people suck. I should know, I am one.”

“Can you just try talking to Lydia?”

The demon sat at her desk, throwing stuff off of it. “Well sit down and tell me what’s going on.”

“There aren’t any-” The trio was pushed onto a set of magically appearing chairs and pulled close to the desk.

Charles and Delia went to go in, but the door shut in front of them and the demon crossed her hands over each other, trying to appear more professional, but only came off as slightly more unsettling than before. It did not help when she gave a smile. “So, tell me what’s going on.”

Adam and Barbara looked at Lydia, putting their hands on her shoulders. Lydia sighed. “I’ve been having trouble adjusting to...something that happened a few months ago. A demon showed up and caused a lot of trouble and they’re just worried about all these nightmares I’ve been having.”

Her eyes lit up. “Ooh, demons. This’ll be fun.”

“...They say I should get some professional help. So here we are. In the Netherworld, talking to a demon about my problems. Cause by another demon.”

“Well good news is I can help.”

“You can? That’s great!” Barbara smiled.

The demon nodded. “Now, you two are dead and since I’m sure you want to not be trapped in the Netherworld, I would suggest you two leave back through the door to your house. Lydia will be safe here while we talk.”

They stood hesitantly, looking at Lydia. “I’ll be fine.” She assured. Accepting that, they sighed and walked through the door.

Lydia yelped as the chair changed into a therapy couch and she was lying on her back. The demon sat across from her, sitting in a large loveseat, holding a notepad and pen with pink unicorn on it. “Okay, so my name is Gem and I’m the unofficial therapist of the Netherworld.”

“Gem?”

“Short for Geminorum.”

“Does every demon have a stupid name?”

“It’s a nickname. My real name’s Ashley, but I go by Gem because I’m both a treasure and a Gemini.”

“...I guess that tracks.”

“So, Lydia, tell me how it all started.”

Lydia took a breath. “Well it started when my mom died. She and I were really close. I went into a really bad depression and my dad moved to get away from our house because...well she died in our house and it was just a lot for him to handle. So we moved into this house that Adam and Barbara died in, so they haunt it. It sucked, but they’re nice. And then I found out that Dad was engaged to Delia, who was/is my life coach. So I tried to kill myself. It obviously didn’t go as planned.”

“How were you gonna kill yourself?”

“What?”

“How?”

“Uh, I was gonna jump off the roof.”

“Classic. Keep going. What happened next?”

“Well, then I met Beetlejuice.”

“Oh, I know him.”

“You do?”

“Yup. Tacky outfit, always singing, cute butt?”

“What?”

“So he was trying to get you to say his name, I’m assuming?”

“...Yeah. Saying he could help me get revenge on my dad. Of course I didn’t listen to him. At first. Then I had to. He scared my dad away and then I was trapped in my house because if I left there’d be a giant monster who’d kill me because I was an ‘honorary ghost’ or whatever. It was fun at first. No one around to tell us what to do. And then I tried to bring my mom back to life and then he turned into a grade A asshole! He tricked me into almost exorcising Barbara and forced me to agree to marry him.”

“Green card thing?”

“...Yeah.”

Gem snorted. “Classic.”

“Of course, I agreed to save Barbara. And then I stabbed him in the chest with Delia’s art.”

“Nice. Always kill creepy old men.” She held her fist up for a fist bump, but Lydia shook her head no. Gem pursed her lips and put her hand down.

“And then his mom tried to kill me because I had escaped into the Netherworld to go find my mom, but then I left before she could catch me. And then he fed her to a sand worm. That all happened months ago.”

“So what are your problems?”

“Night terrors, triggers, angry outbursts, abandonment issues...you know. The typical stuff.”

“Care to elaborate?”

“It’s nothing serious.”

“Humor me. Let’s start with the night terrors.”

“Well it just started out with me waking up screaming. I was having bad dreams about...well, him. Him and his stupid outfit. It’s always the wedding. I’m in the wedding dress, dancing to some distorted music. He’s smiling like this is the best thing in the world. I’m crying. Before I stab him, I wake up with everyone around me. Last week I started sleepwalking. I woke up, standing on the roof.”

“Do you think it’s him? Trying to get you to kill yourself so you’ll be stuck with him?”

She shook her head. “No. Not really. I don’t think he’s making me do it. It doesn’t feel like someone’s forcing me. It’s like a...natural reflex. Like a muscle memory. Like it’s telling me to meet him there.”

“Why would it tell you to meet him there?”

“Well, we met on the roof before I was going to kill myself.”

Gem hummed to herself, taking more notes. 

“I just gotta say that you’re very professional and probably the only demon I’ve met who didn’t immediately make me want to vomit.”

“Aw, thank you. I take my job very seriously. I know I look like a hot mess, but that’s only because I choose to. Not many jobs let you have pink hair.”

“Do all demons have weird colored hair?”

“Yeah. It’s part of the gimmick. So tell me about the triggers and angry outbursts you mentioned.”

Lydia sucked her teeth and sighed, curling up slightly. “I don’t know...it’s kind of stupid.”

“You know what’s stupid? I was considered one of the most feared women’s gang leaders in the 80′s. I got drunk, fell off a bridge, and now I’m a therapist. What’s not stupid is your trauma.”

She smiled a little. “Thanks...Okay...” Lydia took a breath. “My dad and step-mom were planning all the details for their wedding. I was in the living room, kind of listening and then I just...started crying and ran into my room. They decided to hold off on it until I was better.”

“Poor thing.” Gem said sympathetically. 

“I joined a stargazing club at school because in New York I never got to see stars that much. Of course, the first constellation we talked about was Orion.”

Gem nodded understandingly. “Second brightest star in the constellation is Betelgeuse.”

Lydia winced at the mention of the name and Gem tensed up. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize what I was saying...How about whenever we need to bring him up, we can just call him something else.”

“Like what?”

“Buttmunch?”

Lydia snorted. “That works.”

“So what happened?”

“Well, Bertha said...Buttmunch and I just froze up. She told her parents that I tackled her, telling her not to say it, but I don’t remember that.”

Gem hummed to herself. “It sounds like you have a case of PTSD.”

“PTSD?”

“Well from what you’ve told me, whatever he did traumatized you. Even if you don’t think it was that serious. You were depressed and suicidal, he showed up and made your life a living hell, you were forced to kill him, and what 12 year old needs to stab someone for forcing them to marry him, trapping her in her own house, scaring her dad away, and feeling like you’re obligated to hang out with him because he saved your life?”

“First off, I’m not 12. Second of all, he didn’t save my life.”

Gem looked at her clipboard. “Well, actually he did. You said he saved you from his mom.”

“Which she wouldn’t have been there if it wasn’t for him.”

“And you wouldn’t have been alive up to that point if it wasn’t for him.”

Lydia scoffed, crossing her arms. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You said you met him on the roof, right?”

“Yeah.”

“And you were about to jump, right?”

“Yeah.”

“So what happened between you wanting to die and him scaring your dad away?”

“Well...he saw me about to jump and when he realized I could see him, he tried to get me to say his name. But he can’t say his name, which is dumb. Why can’t he say his name? Every other demon can say their name just fine.”

“It’s a thing that happens. If he could say his name, he’d always be saying it to give himself power and he’d never shut up. It really depends on the source material you’re working with.”

“What?”

“Nothing. Anyway, so what happened after that?”

“Well he told me that killing myself is stupid and I should try to get revenge on my dad. I told him to piss off and then I took his advice but had Barbara and Adam help me instead.”

“Poor choice, they look like they think ‘revenge’ is a fancy French dish. Now, from what you just told me, if he hadn’t shown up, you would have jumped, your life would have been over, and you would have been stuck doing civil work. Ergo, he saved your life.”

Lydia scowled, trying to think of a snarky response. 

“So?” 

“You just have a lot of confusing feelings. You want to be mad at him, which you have a right to be. But he did technically save your life. And you know you wouldn’t be here without him. So you’re also partially grateful for him.”

“What does this have to do with my nightmares?”

“Well you said yourself that your brain wanted you to meet him there.”

“That’s dumb. You’re not even a real therapist. Telling you all this won’t help. You won’t understand. None of them do! They just want me to get better, but they don’t know what it’s like! To not be able to sleep because you’re afraid that when you wake up, it’ll all be a dream and you’re still trapped in the house with him. Or that he came and killed my dad in the middle of the night as an act of revenge. Or hate yourself for trusting him in the first place. And I can’t even talk to them about it. It’s not that I don’t want to talk to them about it. They just wouldn’t get it...I guess that’s why they sent me here. Because you’re the only one who would get it.” Lydia wiped her eyes and sniffled. 

Gem sighed, setting the clipboard down. “Lydia.” She summoned a box of tissues and handed them to her. “You’re stressed, restless, you’re scared, you’re angry, you’re a kid who dealt with stuff no grown adult should have dealt with. You have too many thoughts going on now. So what’s going to help?”

“I don’t know.”

“That’s okay...When was the last time you slept? Like actually slept.”

She shrugged. “I don’t know. Couple weeks ago...”

“Tell you what, you can stay here and sleep. It’s perfectly safe in here. Buttmunch won’t get you. You can sleep as long as you want since no one ever needs me. And we can talk whenever you want. That way you have someone who understands what you’re going through. Does that sound good?”

Lydia shrugged again, but this time with a smile. “I guess.”

“It’s not a permanent fix, but it’s a start. And if you have a night terror, I’ll be right here for you. I promise.”

“You do?”

“Of course. Demons have questionable morals, but we never break a promise. And if you ever do get stuck with him again and someone happened to have said his name three times, just say it three times again. That takes all his power away.”

“It does?”

“Well, it varies by which one you’re working with, but yeah. If you say his name three times, it gives him power, if you say it three more, it takes his power away. It’s like that shitty book series says. Fear of a name increases fear of the thing itself. Or whatever. The less you say his name the more scared you are. So the more you say it, the less scary he becomes and the less power he has over you.”

“That actually makes sense.”

“I’m a pro at handling demon shit. Now, lie down and get some rest.”

Lydia nodded and adjusted herself, lying on her back. “I actually was wondering...what happened to him and his mom?”

“Hm?”

“Well, his mom got eaten by a sand worm and...well, I stabbed him. He went to the Netherworld.”

“Well, since Juno died, Miss Argentina is in charge. I’d let her boss me around...”

Lydia raised an eyebrow. 

“I mean Juno is technically still a demon, but sand worms take about 1,000 years to digest their food so she’s probably gonna be there for a while, so she’s listed as dead.”

“Whoa...I feel sorry for her...even if she did deserve it. What about him?”

Gem shrugged. “I haven’t really seen him around. He’s probably hiding from his responsibilities like normal.”

Lydia laughed a little. “Well, you seem relatively normal for a demon. What’s the deal?”

“I just talk to people daily. There are actually a LOT of people who don’t read the Handbook, and thank God/Satan for that. Do you know how many people die a day? 55 million. Only about 2% actually read the Handbook in its entirety, which is still over 1 million people, but holy shit is it hard to see 1 million people a year.”

Gem snapped her fingers and a blanket and pillow landed on Lydia.

Lydia grunted, grabbing the pillow off her face and scowling. “Hey!”

“Now get some sleep, kiddo. You need it.”

Lydia tucked the pillow under her head and wrapped herself in the blanket. 

It was surprisingly comfortable and devoid of any terrible smells. She smiled, pulling it close. “Thanks, Gem...”

“One step at a time.”

Lydia nodded and closed her eyes, dreaming about much nicer demons with stupid hair.

[sincerelybluevase]

Careful, Madam (Chapter Two)

A/N: The sequel to ‘Careful, Madam’. Is this self-indulgent angsty smut? Yes it is. Did I have a blast writing it? Yes indeed! Thanks to @alice1nwond3rland, @need-not and @thegirlisuedtobe for supporting me during the writing of this, and to everyone who left comments <3

 Maxim did not look at me during the fancy dress party, not even once. I stood next to him for the entire evening, smiling at our guests until my jaws quivered. All the while I looked at my husband from the tail of my eye. No one would have known that something was wrong, for he held his head high, flung quips to the occasional guest, laughed. Only I saw the faint lines around his mouth and eyes, thin like gossamer, and the peculiar way he smiled, more like a twisting of the lips, a baring of the teeth, than a genuine expression of mirth.

And it was all my fault.

I felt small and desperate, sick with shame. If only he would glance at me, or find my hand and clutch it into his, then I’d know things could become all right between us again. If only I had the courage to link my arm with his and draw him away from the party into that little room that could be accessed from the hallway, where the shears and mackintoshes were kept. It would be cool there, and private, and I could tell him that my choice of costume had been wretched and vile, but not intentionally so. I could cry there, and through my tears beg his forgiveness. He might take me in his arms then, and the feel of the long, hard lines that made up his body would blot out the feel of that other one, who had bruised and pleasured me before humiliating me, who had left me sore…

But I dared not move, and Maxim never reached for me. He kept swallowing, as if something had gotten stuck in his throat and he wished to dislodge it. It harped on my nerves, that soft, sucking motion inside his throat, and for one fierce, dreadful moment, I thought how much I would like to crush the bulge of his Adam’s apple with my fist. I imagined the cartilage bending against my knuckles, the soft, wet sounds that would accompany it. The rage I felt and the satisfaction at the image of my hand compressing his throat frightened me more than my growing fear that our marriage was a failure.

I had to walk away then. I locked myself into a bathroom and threw up. The bitter bile splashing into the toilet bowl brought no relief. I went to the sink to wash my hands. I ran the tap till the water was cold and drank from it to rinse my mouth, but the taste of sick lingered. I wiped my mouth on a bit of toilet paper, then peered into the mirror. Mrs Danvers had done an impeccable job with my makeup.

Don’t think of her.

I sat down on the lip of the tub, my hands like melting ice, all wet and cold. I had a nagging little pain in the pit of my stomach that throbbed in time with my heartbeat. It was good to sit there in the soft overhead light and nurse that pain, to try and feel it to the exclusion of all else. But as I sat shivering on the hard rim of the bathtub, I could not stop feeling the soreness between my legs, or the ghost of long, lean fingers tracing patterns at the nape of my neck. I could not stop thinking, either, could not help spinning one scenario after another, until they formed a bleak tapestry in my mind big enough to smother me with.

I went back to the sink and washed my hands. The soap had a hair on it. I should tell Mrs Danvers about that. How she’d hate for Manderley standards to slip, I thought, and then I remembered what she had done, and the pain made me flinch.

I wiped my hands on my skirt. Then, I went back to the party.

…

By the time the final guests had left, I was so bone-weary I might have curled up on the carpet and slept like a dog. Instead, I dragged myself to my room and crawled into bed without bothering to change my frock for pyjamas.

Sleep would not come. Dawn had broken, but the room stayed dark. Mrs Danvers must have closed the curtains then, folding one end over the other, allowing not a single ray of light to penetrate.

I wished Maxim would come up. I had to talk to him. I lay on my side, staring at his bed. Had Mrs Danvers and I stained the sheets? Perhaps, if Maxim were to come up and crawl into bed, he would catch my scent, a whiff of something so primal it could not help but move him. That is, if Mrs Danvers had not stripped the bed and put on fresh sheets, bunching up the ones we had dirtied between her beautiful hands. No; normally the maids took care of soiled linen and bedding. They were the ones who did the laundry, scrubbing cotton and wool until they were raw-handed and red-knuckled. Unless, of course, the laundry was Rebecca’s. In that case Mrs Danvers did it. She washed her mistress’ blouses, her nightgowns, her slips. She washed her underthings, letting them soak in a bucket of water in her room before taking a bar of soap to them. She mended them, too, when they had holes in them, or stitching that had become undone, or tears from eager hands. Her father had been a tailor. That explained how she could thread her needle with such confidence, wetting the thread with her tongue, all pink and warm…

“Please,” I whispered in the dark, “please, may I stop thinking now?” But the thoughts and memories kept coming, blurring into each other until I thought I’d go mad.

Maxim’s face, tight with anger, his eyes blazing.

Mrs Danvers’ fingers hopping between the dips of my vertebrae.

A figure with a shock of dark hair around her lovely face, smiling triumphant from the shadows of the minstrel’s gallery.

I flung the sheets away from me and got to my feet. I was no Catholic, but even I knew how one ought to rid themselves of a demon that tormented them, even one as insubstantial as the monster that rode me, made up of half-truths and conjectures. You had to exorcise it.

…

I seemed to reach Rebecca’s room in no time at all. One minute I was in my dressing room, and the next I had opened the door to hers. It was dark here, too, the curtains drawn and folded by an expert hand. I fumbled for the light switch and could not find it. I remembered then that there was a lamp near the bed, and I stumbled there, my hands stretched out in front of me as if this was a game of blind man’s buff. The room smelled musty, as rooms that are not used are wont to do, yet I could not help shake the feeling that I was not alone. There was this subtle disturbance of the atmosphere, impossible to describe but sensed nonetheless. I feared that any moment someone might clasp my outstretched hand, or thump me between the shoulder blades to make me stumble. Perspiration trickled down my back.

I bumped into something hard and cried out, thrusting my arms in front of me. My hands sank down into something soft. I was half-crazed by fear then, and it took me a moment to realise I had bumped into the bed and was touching the quilted cover and the mattress underneath. I felt my way from there to the nightstand and found the lamp. I was trembling so much I did not manage to switch it on straight away. When it came on, I had to shield my eyes with my arm. After a little while, when my eyes had gotten used to the light and I was not breathing so hard anymore, I felt strong enough to walk to the dresser with its brushes, its bottles of scent and powder. I sat myself down. My reflection looked back at me. This other self was pale and wan, with uncombed hair that was sweat-darkened at the roots. I sat and looked, the lamp burning softly behind me, the blood beating in my throat.

I had heard of people entrancing themselves by looking into mirrors or, alternatively, a bowl or salver with water. I had never believed it to be possible, but after a while I began to feel quite queer. The nagging pain, that lingering nausea that I had nursed throughout the night, began to fade, and it seemed to me that I was not properly aligned with my body anymore; I was still tethered to it, but floating a little behind. My reflection began to morph and flicker, until it was no longer my own face but that of another, someone tall and lovely, with dark hair.

“You must leave,” I told her.

“Oh, but you have only just conjured me up.”

I licked my lips. They were dry and flaking. “I want you to leave me in peace. I want you to stop haunting me, to stop haunting Maxim.”

She smiled. Soft little shivers shook me. I knew now why men went off their heads around her, why Mrs Danvers would keep these rooms pristine to entomb her memory, why Maxim could not speak of her. “He does not wish me to go. He loves me.”

I gripped my seat hard and bent closer to her. “You do not understand. He’s the only one I have, and I’ll do anything to be the wife he wishes me to be.”

“But what wife would do the things you’ve done with Danny?” she whispered. “Those filthy, sordid things? What wife would want a woman between her thighs, or inside her? What wife would enjoy that?”

I felt very faint then, very weak. “No,” I said, “No!”

“You’ve let your housekeeper fuck you three months into your marriage. Do you truly think people whose marriages are a success would do such a thing?”

I tugged at a flake of skin with my teeth, tearing it away. There was pain, but not at all sharp, not as it should have been. I tasted copper. “I love Maxim,” I choked.

“If you truly loved him, you would leave. You would give him back to me, so that we can be together. You know that’s what he wants.”

I could not deny this. A sob clawed its way up my throat. The sound was oddly muted. Perhaps, I thought, I have ceased to exist. Perhaps Rebecca has conquered me at last, subsumed me, and I am the shadow and the ghost and she the woman of flesh and blood. That is why Maxim has not come to me, and why no one is looking for me; they’ve forgotten me already. Who would remember a person as insignificant, as drab and colourless as me?

She smiled at me. “You know what you have to do,” she said, and her voice was soft now, near fawning.

“Yes,” I said.

“It will be quite painless.”

“Yes.”

“It’ll be quick, not at all like the lingering death of those who drown. There’ll be the snap of your neck, and then it will all be over.”

I stood and smoothed my skirt. “You’ll look after him, won’t you? And he’ll be happy again, won’t he?”

Again that smile, like that of an angel. “Of course.”

“And… and Mrs Danvers? You’ll look after her, too?”

“Like she has looked after me.”

“That’s all right, then.” I went to the window and opened it, struggling with the sash; my hands had gone numb. A sea mist had come rolling in during the night, hiding the sun. The morning light was yellow, filthy, very muted. I licked my lips and tasted bitter salt. I peered down and found I could not see the ground. All I had to do was clamber out of the window and let myself drop, but my arms were weak and I found I could not lift myself. I leaned hard against the window seat, feeling it dig into my belly, just below the ribs. I need only lean forward, and if I bent far enough, the earth would pull me down. It would rush to meet me, and there’d be no pain. I need only…

A hand closed around my arm and yanked me back. The force of it spun me round. My hands scrabbled against black cloth smooth as water, impossible to take a proper hold of. Mrs Danvers grabbed my wrists. Her hands were cold.

It is hard to describe the shock of her touch. To be grabbed by someone when we think ourselves alone is enough to make one’s heart thump painfully; when we are entranced, any touch is almost a violation. Her grip tightened, grinding the bones in my wrist together, and I was corporeal again, no longer the shadow and the ghost I had feared myself to be.

“No!” I screamed, “No, no, no, let me go!”

“I can’t, Madam.”

“Let me go!”

“Hush, Madam, don’t shout so, or the servants will hear,” she murmured. I looked into her face. Her eyes were red-rimmed, swollen. She had a little scab on her jawline from where I had nicked her skin with my teeth the night before.

“What do you care?” I hissed.  “What do you care if they hear? You hate me! And I’ve done nothing to deserve it.”

Her hands quivered, and she began to cry. It was horrible; I felt her body shake, saw the sobs tear through her, yet no tears would come. “Do you think I don’t know I went too far? That it was a low trick to play, vulgar and common? But you tried to take my mistress’ place,” she moaned.

“I never did!” The pain in my belly was sharp now, like a knife scraping my insides. “I changed nothing at Manderley. I let everything go on as it had when she was still alive. I can’t ever take her place.” Those traitorous tears burned behind my eyelids. I tried to blink them away, but they would not be denied. “I can’t compare to her, to Rebecca. I know this. Everyone does; Maxim, you, Frith, they all know I’m nothing like her.” I felt so weak then I could hardly stand. I had to lean against the windowsill. Mrs Danvers must have thought I was trying to break away from her, for she increased her grip. Her hands were warming now.

“You mustn’t shout so,” she repeated.

“You played a vile trick on me, Mrs Danvers,” I went on. “You wished to hurt me, and you have.”

Mrs Danvers shook her head. She had not done up her hair properly; a little lock curled against her temple. “I wanted to hurt him, not you.”

I wished to rub my eyes, but she would not let me. “Has Mr de Winter not suffered enough?”

She began to laugh, and that was worse than her crying. The sound was raw and hollow. It made the hairs on my nape prick up. “He tried to replace her not even a year after she’d gone. He married you, an absolute child. You’re passive and immature, desperate for affection, completely dependent on him, and no one sees it.”

“But they do! I know they talk about me. They compare me to Rebecca, and they find me wanting. They all…”

“Oh, they talk about you all right. They think you seduced him and he married you because he’s a gentleman. They don’t see that he chose himself an impressionable little child-bride to obey and sate him.”

“Stop, Mrs Danvers, please stop!” I cried. “It’s not like that at all.”

“Oh, but it is. He married you, a pretty little girl, because he wants someone to play with, someone to fawn over him, someone…”

“God, Mrs Danvers,” I sobbed, the tears coming hot and fast, my face tight with it, “do you not see that he’s all I have in the whole wide world? That there’s no one else to call my own, no one who loves me? You can’t know what that feels like.”

“But I do, I…”

“I’ll take whatever love he deigns to give me, no matter how small. And it is hard, Mrs Danvers, to know that he does not love me like he loved her, that he finds me wanting whenever he thinks of me because I am second-rate and inferior and insignificant. I have so much love to give, if only people would let me. I’ve only my husband to give it to. I must love, Mrs Danvers, or else be destroyed. I must love. Let me love, let me love…”

I was raving. I knew that I was, but I could not help it. I was clutching Mrs Danvers, feeling her heat, smelling that sweet little scent of hers, and I kept begging her with that stunted little phrase, over and over again. “Let me love you, let me love you, please, let me love you…”

She put her mouth on mine. I could taste bitter tea on her tongue. Her lips were warm and wet. A shock tore through me, and I began to tremble. She tore her mouth away from mine, hugged me close to her, a hand on the back of my head. My nose was pressed against her throat. I began to kiss her there, soft, hungry kisses, reddening her skin.

“Let me love you,” I babbled.

“I will, Madam. Now hush.”

I was feeling very weak. I leaned against her. She held me close with one arm. “Careful for your hands, Madam; I’m going to close the window now,” she said, and with her free hand brought down the sash.

I was still clinging to her. I tried to open the buttons of her collar, but she drew my hands away. She guided me to the bed then and lay me down. The stale scent of azaleas rose to meet us, and with a stab of panic I thought how wrong it was for me to touch these sheets. “The mirror,” I said, clasping Mrs Danvers’ hands, “you must cover up the mirror or she’ll see, and she mustn’t.”

She kissed my forehead, her fingers lingering there for a moment as she checked my temperature. Then, she took the quilt off the bed, went to the mirror, and carefully covered it up. When she came back to me, I was so desperate for the feel of her that I drew her down with me, kissing her lean hands, her veined wrists, her cheeks and chin and nose. I pulled at the pins in her hair and down it came, thick as rope and warm. She looked younger with her hair down, more human, and I found I could imagine her as a girl after all. I twisted on top of her and we were joined again, cleaving together at the hip. She rucked up my skirt and then her own. There was a flash of red, and I saw she was wearing a scarlet slip under her black dress. She wound her legs around my waist. She wore boots that buttoned up over the ankle, their heels digging into my flesh. I saw her in my mind’s eye, sitting on the edge of her simple bed at the end of the day, working away at her boots with a button hook.

I kept kissing her. My lips felt raw, flayed, and still I could not get enough. I knew what would soothe them. The thought made me tremble.

“What is it?” she asked.

“I want to kiss you between your legs,” I confessed.

She trembled then, too. She closed her eyes, passed a hand over her face. When she opened her eyes, she pushed me off of her, and for one terrible moment I thought she’d deny me after all, and the idea of it was so terrible I had to press my hands against my belly to stop the pain there. But no, she was pulling up her skirts to the waist now, revealing her stockinged legs and then the red underwear she wore. It was trimmed with lace, very lovely. Her stockings were real silk. I had never given much thought to Mrs Danvers’ stockings, but had I been pressed, I would have said she wore scratchy, woollen affairs that were wont to give one varicose veins eventually. I would never have guessed she had an appetite for the luxurious, but then I never would have imagined us twining like lovers, either.

The skin between stocking and knickers was white. She had a puckered purple scar on the right thigh, a line the length of my finger. She drew her underwear down. The hair that grew on her mound was dark and strangely soft, very unlike the coarse, bristling hair that grew between my legs. She had trimmed it carefully. I thought of her taking her nail scissors and a hand mirror into the bathroom every other week, folded between her towel so that no one need see. She’d spread out a newspaper on the cold tiles and sit down, the mirror propped up against the wall so she could see herself. I imagined her twisting the hair around her fingers to measure it before she snipped it off. Afterwards, she’d brush the hair into a little heap with her palms, and fold the newspaper around it. She’d turn it into a little package, indistinguishable from the twists of paper the maids used to light the fires, and toss it into the hearth.

She spread her legs for me then, and her skin seemed to split, like a seam unravelling, revealing the pink, damp flesh inside. I smelled her then, that fierce, feminine scent of a woman’s desire, so very different from a man’s. It made my belly clench.

“Mrs Danvers?” I whispered.

“Yes, Madam?”

“You’ll be patient with me, won’t you?”

She worked herself up on her elbows and placed her hand against my cheek. Her palm was warm and slightly calloused. “Of course, Madam.”

I did what she had done to me the night before. I lay down on my belly, put her legs over my shoulder, and kissed her soft flesh.

She hissed.

Startled, I drew back.

“Careful, Madam,” she bade me, stroking my hair, “you must be gentle with me.”

I dared hardly touch her then, until she pressed my mouth against her more firmly. I kissed and licked and sucked as she demanded, changing my rhythm when she asked. All the while her hand was on my head, her fingers stroking my scalp in little stutters. My tongue found this hard little nub of flesh, and my little licks against it made her moan. At one point she began to flow, and the taste of her was rich and sharp, like brine, like vinegar and copper. She’s an oyster, I thought, and I’ve found the pearl inside.

Her thighs trembled against my face. When she came, I felt the twitch of muscle inside her, felt her climax shake through her. Her hips moved against me, smearing my mouth and chin. When she stilled, I crawled up against her. She tucked me under her arm. I put a hand on her chest. Her heart was beating very fast, and she was out of breath.

“Did I do well?” I asked.

She took a lock of hair that lay plastered against my cheek between her fingers and tucked it behind my ear. “Very well indeed, Madam.”

I was calmer now, and very tired. I think I might have fallen asleep, but Mrs Danvers wouldn’t let me. “I’ll run a bath for you,” she said as she wiped my face with her handkerchief. Her cheeks were flushed.

She did not take me into Rebecca’s bathroom, but into one that belonged to a guestroom. It had a claw-footed tub and a spout in the shape of a lion’s head. A pink sheet of glass had been fitted over the lightbulb, bathing the room in a soft, sweet light. Everything was spotlessly clean. I wondered how many hours of work were put into Manderley’s empty rooms, how many pairs of hands scrubbed and dusted and brushed things Maxim and I never used.

Mrs Danvers turned on the taps, placing her sensitive fingers under the stream of water to check its temperature. There was a jar of bath salts in the medicine cabinet. She plunged her dry hand in and sprinkled the grains into the tub. Soon, the water was frothing, smelling like lavender and roses.

I began to undress. My stockings were filthy, and I had torn the heel of one. Mrs Danvers came to me and helped me, her damp fingers quickly opening hooks and buttons. Despite all we had done with each other, I still felt embarrassed for her to see me in any state of undress, and stood hugging myself so she need not see my breasts. They were strangely sensitive. She placed a flat hand on my belly.

“You should try not to lose any more weight, Madam,” she said.

Perhaps she was right. My skirts tended to be too loose around the hips nowadays. My monthlies had become irregular, too.

The bath was scalding hot. I had to lower myself into the water inch by inch. It was good to sit there quietly, hugging my legs to my chest and resting my cheek on my chin, letting the water lap at me. Mrs Danvers had found a porcelain jug somewhere. She dipped it into the bath and poured the water over my neck, my shoulders, my head, shielding my eyes with her free hand. She poured a dram of shampoo in her hand and worked it into my hair. She worked quickly, deftly.

“You used to do this with Rebecca,” I said.

She paused, then filled the jug with water. “Yes, Madam, I did. Close your eyes.” She wiped some foam from my brow, then began to rinse the shampoo out of my hair.

“And what we did before? Did you do that with Rebecca, too?”

She was quiet for a long time, her hands squeezing water and shampoo from my hair. The longer the question between us remained unanswered, the bigger it seemed to grow, like a canker untreated. It pressed down on my stomach and made it hard to breathe. When she finally answered, her voice was soft and slow, not quite the dead thing it often was but not fully alive, either. “Occasionally, when she tired of her men, she’d come to me.”

“Her men?”

“She did not love Mr de Winter exclusively, not my lady, and why should she? Men used to throw themselves at her feet and worship her. It was tiresome, really, to see them sniffing at her heels like dogs. ‘As if I’m a bitch in heat, Danny,’ she used to tell me. She liked to play with them, laugh at them, but sometimes they tired her. She scorned them all, then, and she’d come to me. She had this… this device, made of India rubber, so that we could love one another as a man and a woman, so you see, we were never quite free of men after all.”

I was very tired. I leaned my temple against her arm. She had rolled up her sleeves. Her forearms were as pale as the skin on her thighs. She had a scar on the inside of her elbow, a thin, purple line.

She smoothed my hair against my scalp. “I must fetch you a clean frock, Madam, but I am loath to leave you on your own. Will you manage? I’ll only be a little while.”

“I shall be all right. Please don’t fret about me.”

She gave my arm a little squeeze, and then she was gone.

I sank back in the water, the lip of the tub digging in the tender spot where skull meets vertebrae, chewing over the things Mrs Danvers had just told me.

Rebecca had not been faithful to Maxim.

She had had other men, and she had been intimate with Mrs Danvers, too. Perhaps I was not such a beastly woman after all, then.

When Mrs Danvers came back, she brought me clean clothes as well as a little tray. It had a plate of biscuits on it, an apple, and a glass of milk. I took the glass. It felt peculiar between my pruned-up fingers. The milk smelled strongly. I took a small sip, expecting the ordinary chalky taste of milk, but it was sour, nauseating.

“You do not want it?”

“It’s gone off.”

She sniffed it, then drank. “It tastes fine to me, Madam, but if you do not want it, you don’t need to drink it down.” She gave me a biscuit, then began paring the apple with the knife. She looked up and gave me a little smile. “You must eat.”

To please her I took a bite of biscuit. I chewed on it slowly, swallowed it. My stomach roared to life. I had another biscuit, and a third, then ate the apple. Mrs Danvers washed her hands and wetted a flannel under the tap. She put her foot on the toilet bowl, hoisted up her skirts, and began to scrub between her legs. She had another line on the back of her thigh. It was an angry purple, and quite deep. Had she had an accident at some point that had left her scarred? There could be accidents that left large parts of the body intact but gouged lines in others, like falling through a window and slicing oneself on the glass, or perhaps being thrown by a horse on jagged rocks.

“It was a riding crop,” she said.

I blinked. “I’m sorry?”

She followed the scar on the back of her leg with her finger. “A riding crop did this.” She went back to cleaning herself up.

I’ll never know if I would have asked her why someone had whipped her, had we only been given more time. Before I could decide to ask, the air was rent asunder with a bang that made the tepid water in the tub ripple and shiver, and then another one.

“What was that?” I asked, the biscuit in my hand squeezed into small shards.

Mrs Danvers put her foot down and smoothed her skirts over her legs. “Rockets. A ship in distress. It’s the fog. She must’ve run aground.”

[leonawriter]

Fox-Faced

Read it on AO3

Fandom: Bungo Stray Dogs/Mononoke

Characters: Dazai, the Medicine Seller. Others mentioned. SKK implied.

Summary: Dazai is taking the time to contemplate how much has changed in so short a time, and his bench gets a visitor.

Notes: Dazai-typical suicide references.

(Part five of the “Not All Kitsune Have Nine Tails” ‘verse. Follows “Home Territory.” Contains important context for the previous stories.)

...

The brisk sea air is as familiar and as comforting as it always had been, even if it is deeper, more rich, and full of scents that Dazai had never known to be able to sort through or notice before. It isn't, at least, overwhelming - the city with its streets and cars and hundreds of people and all of its food and perfumes was harder for him to handle on that first night and the following day than this, which is, comparatively, peaceful and calming.

He can hear shouting in the distance, children playing with their parents and tourists from both further inland and far abroad talking about the sights in adequately amazed tones, because it is Yokohama after all, and no matter what else happened, it was still his city. Their city. The city that he and Chuuya and Atsushi had fought to protect, that he had protected even when he'd been in the mafia, that he was proud of.

He closes his eyes to focus on the sound of the waves and the cries of the seagulls, and he loses track of time. Perhaps he'd even started to doze off in the warmth of a bright, sunny day with clear skies. Normally, by this time Kunikida would be wondering where he was. Now that everyone at the Agency knew he was living with Chuuya, he won't have to worry about that... at least for a while yet.

Tap.

Tap, tap, tap.

A breath of air comes out of him in a sigh, and he neither move to create space, nor turns his head to watch, when he hears someone coming close to his bench. Heavy steps, wooden sandals. 

Ah, he thinks instead. You.

There are sounds as if something heavy is being shifted, and then let to drop onto the ground. Then, the rustling of clothes. Only after that, Dazai feels the weight of the bench shift, and a presence actually sat beside him.

If this had been an enemy, they would have had ample time to draw a gun or a knife, and his life would have been over as easily as that. In broad daylight, no less.

But it isn't, and instead of tensing - or relaxing - into the potential threats, he lets his arms drop from behind his head, and opens his eyes to acknowledge the not-quite-stranger.

Dressed in brightly-coloured traditional clothes from head to foot, with a bandana holding back pale hair that didn't - always - quite hide the earrings he wore, and only brought out the likewise pale colour of his face, the bold markings around his eyes, his nose... the man who had introduced himself as only a mere lowly medicine seller looked straight ahead, toward the Yokohama bay.

If the world made any sense, they both would have attracted a lot more attention than the few looks that were aimed their way - Dazai's illusion still held, suggesting to anyone looking their way who didn't know any better to see him as completely human and disregard the ears, the tail, the numerous other small details that marked him out as not human, but the medicine seller next to him simply... was what he was.

In a way, he was entirely on display. There wasn't a single thing about him that wasn't completely true, nothing that was hidden if someone wanted to look and actually see. 

In another sense... Dazai could still remember the other, and looking at him now felt odd, as if everything was still there, but dimmed, somehow.

He wondered, in some distant part of him, if that was how he had seemed to anyone who had seen through him and known.

"So." The world carries on around them, and if Dazai hadn't known that the word had been aimed at him, it could have been aimed at anything. The wind. The sea. Some invisible thing that a form and a reason and a truth, but no unnatural twist to its nature. But he heard it clearly enough, and there is a tilt to the medicine seller's lips. "How is life, Dazai-kun?"

All of his years, and he still doesn't know the answer to that question. He doesn't know how a normal human being should answer something like that-

He stops that train of thought in its tracks. Laughs, and if it comes out sounding odd and a little bit harsh, then it isn't as though anyone else is paying attention to them, is it?

"I woke up to a dog drooling all over me again," he says airily. "There's fur all over the house, and I need to cat-sit again later on."

"And what of Nakajima-dono?" The way that the man says Atsushi's name makes Dazai stop and blink, because he's not used to such a level of respect to his younger protege. "And Nakahara-dono?"

Hearing Chuuya referred to in such a way is only slightly less odd. Executives took respect the way most people expected to be able to breathe, after all. He knew that from personal experience, although it had never been something he had worn with comfort, much the same as the coat he had preferred to shrug off, eventually.

"Atsushi-kun is doing well enough, I think. Sometimes I find myself myself worrying, but..." I think that by this point, he can make up for his mentor's failings. Atsushi isn't so dependant on me that he needs my example, or my praise. He'll do just fine. "Chuuya is - well. We're adjusting."

"Adjustment is only natural. One hardly expects treatment to cure ailments instantly. Just as the body has its own way of healing itself when given a little help, the spirit isn't truly all that much different."

"You think living with Chuuya is like that?" Dazai tilted his head, and made a face. "I'll have to tell him when I get back. He isn't even a dog any more. He's just a medicine that I've been prescribed. One course of Chuuya per day. See how he likes that."

"What it is or it isn't is something only you can decide for yourself, Dazai-kun. Although you do look a lot better than the last time I saw you," the medicine seller added, a certain glint of amusement in his eyes. "And I would almost like to be there when you do tell him that."

No, not just amusement -  spark of mischief. Dazai went back over his own words, and found himself blushing, hard, and looked away.

For someone who seemed to spend most of his time chasing down and exorcising mononoke looking the way he did, the man next to him was far more down to earth and crude at times than he had any right to be. Perhaps this was what most people felt when they were around him too long.

Not that Dazai was going to change, not at all.

"And there I thought you respected Chuuya," he says, letting a little bit of grumble out.

Not that he minded people making fun of Chuuya. That was Chuuya, and this was- well. If any of their sleeping together had gone further than sleeping then it might not feel as self-conscious of the unspoken potential getting brought up by someone who wasn't, well, him.

The laugh he gets in response is almost startling in its honesty, ringing barks of laughter that remind him of kon kon kon, painfully familiar.

"Too much respect is just as unhealthy as too little," the man says only moments later. There's still a smile lingering on his face.

Dazai thinks of Akutagawa, whose deep respect had never grown into anything capable of seeing his mentor as a fallible person and he's glad, knowing that he hadn't been present or involved in anything to do with either of the mononoke. The first one, or him.

He thinks of Atsushi, who he sometimes worried looked to him with those same eyes, but in the next breath the weretiger would berate him for not working, or fuss over him for not eating.

Atsushi, who had once sat in this exact spot, looking out at this exact view.

"When you look out at them... what do you feel?"

For a moment, Dazai almost feels that those must have been his own words, his own question, thoughts he had wondered about and circled around for so long yet had needed to recontextualise along with so much of his life in the past week.

"Humans..." he leaned back, and thought of his conversations with Fyodor, with Shibusawa. The things that he had lived through, remembered, forgotten. "They are truly destructive, and cruel, and thoughtless creatures. I do not think that I will ever truly understand them, either." He sighed. "And yet..." He thought of Chuuya, who despite his circumstances was so very, very human. Of Atsushi, who'd had his true nature as a tiger hidden from him for so long, and Kunikida. Of others that he had met. Odasaku, even Ango. "The same can be said for even the very best of them... searching for their reason to live, like stray dogs. It is at the same time terrifying, yet awe-inspiring, the feats that they can accomplish." He smiled, wryly. Neither bitter nor sweet. "And I live balanced in the middle. But - I think I'll be able to manage."

In the distance, a child screamed as they ran. Conversations carried on.

"Oh...? I see."

A fog horn blared out at sea, coming into port. A couple not far away shared food over by the railing, with guitars on their backs. A teenager passes them by wearing headphones, and Dazai's newly sensitive ears pick up on the beats of the music.

Human, youkai, hanyou... no matter what any of them were, it was still Yokohama. It was still his city.

"It... truly is a beautiful city. More than anything else... that's what I feel." He closed his eyes, and leaned forward into the breeze coming in from the sea. "Does that answer your questions?"

"You're the one who thought that was what I must have been saying. Do you feel better for having said it?"

I hate them - I hate them, and more than that, I want - I don't understand - why wasn't I-  wasn't I... worth...

Those feelings. He remembered them, and they had been his. 

First, destroy everything that comes close, before it can touch me. Then... destroy me, for having done so.

He had felt the culmination of twenty-two years' worth of an inability to understand, which had its source in something that he had not been able to affect.

You have a choice, Dazai-kun. 

If you wish to die, then it is only a simple matter of choosing to stay. The Mononoke will be slain, and so will you. But-

But, if for any reason you should wish to hold on to even one thing...

It is impossible to both slay the monster and to take it with you.

(Kitsune, Chuuya had said, accepting him even as he stared in shock. Come, love, sleep, Chuuya had said, and his heart had wavered. They had called, and he had answered, because there was too much- he had too much- that he couldn't let go of.)

"I suppose... I simply find it hard to find the words to..."

He feels his heart beat. And another. He breathes in the salty air, and it still feels terrifyingly new. 

And yet, the idea of not being here to experience it, the idea of having vanished without a trace somewhat over a week ago - no trace of fur in Chuuya's house, not having the honour of knowing Ranpo's own secret, or of having felt how relaxing it was to have his own fur stroked as he curled up on the sofa whether he was at home or at the office...

He thinks, perhaps, it might have been a beautiful death.

But at the same time... there is only one thing he can think of, the words catching every time he tries to put them on his tongue, for what he feels about still being alive.

"Me?" He hears and feels more than sees the fact that the man next to him is shaking his head. "There is nothing to thank me for. As a mere medicine seller, there was honestly very little I could do. At the end, I was powerless. You were the one who did all of the work. All I did was give you the ability, and the means." He stood, and Dazai could see the slight smile on his face even before he turned. "If anything," he added, bowing at the waist, "I should be the one owing a debt of gratitude to you. From the moment I understood your Katachi..." The medicine seller turned his face up, eyes closed into the upturned slits of a true smile. "Come now. Kits who are blessed with so many who care for them shouldn't need to make those sorts of faces."

...

AN: There's a stealth crossover (crossover-ception? triple crossover?) near the end. I'm just gonna hope someone catches on to what and where the reference is, haha...

If by the end of reading this it isn't clear - in order for Dazai to still be alive in these stories, he had to make the active choice to live and stay alive in the moments before the Medicine Seller's sword cut. This was inspired by several of the endings of the actual Mononoke storylines, although there are elements that appeared in none of those stories that I had to work out for myself.

What this means for Dazai is not that his suicidal ideation is 'magically cured', but that he is less likely to actively seek out death. It also isn't 'knowing his past' that enables him to move on, but understanding *what* he is, and that his feelings of 'not fitting in as a human being' don't just come from nowhere. In short - he was validated.Does anyone know that one poster with the owls on it, about "I just need a stick"? That's what the Medicine Seller's getting at there.

And do I mean to imply that I see the Medicine Seller himself as a kitsune...? Well if you read it with that in mind, just... imagine being him coming to that moment of realisation of just 'what' he's up against. As said and implied in the previous fics, due to the nature and longevity of kitsune, Dazai's still considered a child at twenty-two by other youkai, more than just being seen as "barely out of his teens", so... have that for a bit of adult fear, and why the Medicine Seller is saying what he does here.

All that said, this [was] my first time writing the Medicine Seller, and I'm still nervous over whether I've got his voice down properly or not. (And given how important he is to it, you see why the previous events aren't written yet.)

[maple-writes]

I don’t think I even want to know exactly how long it’s been since I posted chapter 19... Oof. But finally, here we are! The chapter that holds the record for giving me the most trouble in terms of how long it took to write!

###

Voices. They were focused and muffled. Someone was calling my name over and over, someone I didn’t recognize. I squinted up at her. A nurse? Her mouth moved, and she must have spoke, but I couldn’t make out the words before I closed my eyes again and fell back to the quiet.

#

More voices. Softer, less pointed, growing louder when I woke again. Ginger stood over me. She asked how I felt as if hundreds of miles away. She frowned when I didn’t respond, staring and staring and staring. Someone else came into view, but...

#

Even more voices. Even more blurred bodies and faces. They sounded worried, crowding closer and glancing at each other. I turned my head to try and see them all but the slight movement felt far larger than it should. I cringed against an overhead light. It was bright. So, so bright…

#

I opened my eyes slowly, blinking up at an unfamiliar white ceiling. For a moment I squinted, confused, until I noticed the hospital curtains pulled to one side and the IV line in my hand. Sitting on a chair against the wall, Ginger raised her head. She smiled when she noticed me watching, and slowly stood beside my bed.

           “Hey Asher,” she spoke gently, leaning her elbows against the railing alongside the bed. “You with me this time?”

           I nodded, though heavy eyelids and a head too fuzzy to put together enough words to answer. My eyes drifted from her face to the window behind her back. The sky outside was dark, blue and cold with the setting sun.

           Ginger settled back down on her plain little chair, scooting it closer to the bed side. “How are you feeling?” She asked casually, as if we were just chatting over coffee.

           I turned my head, resting my cheek against the pillow to face her. Everything was heavy, my arms, my legs, my chest… All just a little slower than it should have been, including my thoughts, my words.

           Finally, I took a breath to speak. “Tired.” Part of me thought it would be a good idea to sit up, to speak with her properly, but the other, more overwhelming part quickly crushed that idea. “What time is it?”

           Ginger glanced down at her watch. “About nine PM.” Her eyes flickered back to me. “You’ve been here about a day though.”

           My face scrunched. How? I tried to remember when I’d been admitted, but the last thing I could recall was leaving home as Striker took over my body.

           I gasped, head shooting up from the pillow. “Striker, is he?” I couldn’t remember, couldn’t remember what happened to him. “Did...”

           “Hey, hey,” Ginger cooed. “It’s alright, he’s okay. Dylan helped me find you, well both of you, when I went looking. He stayed put inside you until I brought you to his body, and he made the jump smoothly, albeit with a little coaxing.” She paused, laying a finger along the side of her jaw. “He was released late this afternoon, but I’m almost certain he hasn’t gone far with you here still. He wanted to be here, but we both agreed it was best he wait until you were a little more stable.”

           “Stable?”

           She nodded. “You’ve been in and out of consciousness, periods of heart arrythmia, and something attempted to posses you a few times. Probably wasn’t malicious, but in your state it took hold easily, and it took me a little longer than I’d hoped to exorcise it.” She dropped her hand, draping it over the edge of my bed. “I spoke with Charlotte, and she agreed it would be best if I stayed in order to make sure nothing else took advantage of your vulnerability.”

           She’d been here for hours then… I sighed and let my head fall back down against the pillow. “Thank you.” I said. “Sorry I dragged you into all of this.” She shouldn’t have had to deal with so much because of me.

           But all Ginger did was wave her hand and toss her head. “Asher,” She straightened her back. “Do you realise what you put yourself up against?”

           “He’s my father,” I blinked, frowning. She knew that didn’t she? “He was going to kill Striker.”

           Ginger shook her head. “I know that, but do you know how dangerous he is?” She leaned in. “If Cirrus hadn’t told me his name, I might not have been able to drive him off so cleanly. Maybe not at all by myself.” She reached to touch my arm, but stopped herself short of my skin. “I’m impressed you managed to hold out for that long, but if it happens again I want you to wait for me before engaging. I know you wanted to save your brother, as you should, but don’t go after Vena alone.”

           But what if he took Striker again? Or Cirrus, or Kyra? What if she couldn’t get there fast enough?

           “Asher,” Ginger warned. “Promise me you’ll wait for me next time.”

           Could I honestly promise not to do it again? I stole a glance at the disappointment on Ginger’s face. She was right, and I shouldn’t go after him by myself, but if it was that or watching someone die…

           “I’ll try.” Was the best I could give.

           Ginger’s mouth tightened, but then she sighed. “Fine.” She leaned back in her chair. “I just don’t want to have to find out something horrible has happened to you, understand?” She paused as I nodded. “But I’m glad you’re okay. When I finally got your call I was worried I would be too late.”

Her shoulder’s fell, seeming to think to herself with eyes cast empty towards the curtains. Quiet filled the little space and with every passing heartbeat her eyebrows seemed to furrow just a little bit deeper, creases folding at the corners of her eyes. Unease seeped through the still air from her skin. Slowly, she leaned forward again, apprehension darkening her features.

           “Asher,” she kept her voice low, private. “I have to be honest, I was concerned for you when I first got there. I almost didn’t recognize you until Cirrus filled me in.” She paused, eyes shifting side to side before she continued. “I was relieved that you reverted back to normal so quickly, but you scared me there. I was afraid I…”

           She was thinking about Wendy, wasn’t she? I turned and held her soft stare. There was grief behind her eyes, so subtle I wouldn’t have noticed if I hadn’t known. Maybe she was right. I’d never been that bold before, that heated, but it all turned out okay this time, right?

           Ginger took a deep breath and stood, calm quickly returning to her face. “But anyway, we can talk more about this later if you’d like.” She smiled, small and warm. “Do you want to rest some more, or can I tell the others you’re awake? The doctor will likely want to take a look at you, but after that I’m almost certain no one’s gone home yet and they’d love to see you.”

           I nodded without thinking, a smile creeping across my face as much as my tired muscles would allow.

           “Right on then.” She pulled the curtains to the side and paused. “Be back soon.”

#

The doctor was quick, checking me over and suggesting I stay a bit longer just to be sure I was alright. With how heavy I felt, it was easy to agree.

           But then the doctor was gone, the curtains pulled back and the room quickly filled. In the blink of an eye I was surrounded. Striker, Cirrus, Dylan, Ginger, even Charlotte stood around me, waiting for someone else to speak first. Immediately I turned to Striker, staring wide eyed at the stiffness in his stance, the darkness under his eyes, and the bandages on the side of his face, the rest no doubt hidden under his hoodie. He looked awful.

           But I couldn’t help but smile just a little. “How are you?”

           Striker blinked stunned, then leaned over the bed, gingerly bracing himself on the railing. “Me?” He let his head fall forward, shoulders rounding. “I’m fine, I’m fine.” He paused, but when I didn’t say anything he sighed and lowered his voice. “Okay, to be honest I feel like shit, but that doesn’t matter.” He raised his head just enough to see me. “What about you?”

           I wanted to argue, but before I could even draw a breath I thought against it, too exhausted and slow-minded to fathom what I would even say. I half shrugged. “I’m tired.”

           Striker smiled and gently pushed my hair back away from my face. “That’s nothing we can’t fix. I’m glad you’re alright.” He opened his mouth like he wanted to say something else, but quickly closed it again, instead watching with tired, softened eyes.

           At the foot of the bed, Charlotte took a deep breath and clasped her hands together. “Just so all of you know,” She paused as heads turned. “Due to the fairly public nature of this incident, you may find yourself contacted by media wishing to know more. If so, please direct them to me. None of you deserve to be bothered especially while recovering.” She paused again as we nodded, face breaking with an encouraging smile. “Don’t hesitate to reach out to me or Ginger if you find yourself needing help as well.” She nodded. “Alright? Take care.”

           She dipped out, Ginger on her heels and the curtain shivering in their wake. I watched it quiver, until Cirrus leaned right into my field of vision.

           “Open your hand.”

           I did as he asked, holding my hand palm up. He carefully placed something heavy in my hand: a smooth, flat rock. I ran my thumb over it’s surface, feeling it warm under my touch. He’d probably found this within a block of the hospital, but still, he’d thought of me.

           I smiled up at him. “Thanks Cirrus.”

           He nodded, folding his arms on the railing of the bed and resting his head on top. “Are you comfortable?” He averted his eyes, voice squirrely. “We could go get stuff from home if you like, or something, if you want it.”

           “Maybe, I mean,” I gave a half shrug. “They don’t seem to want to keep me long…” I trailed off, watching the concern behind his eyes, and unfamiliar softness. “Maybe a phone charger, and some socks?”

           “Got it.” Cirrus stood with a firm nod. “I’ll be back.”

           He slipped through the curtains, chased down by Dylan shouting something about taking his car. Then it was quiet, just me and Striker. He slowly sat on a chair beside my bed, resting his arms against his thighs and leaning all the way forward. His shoulders bunched and he sighed, long and deep.

           I turned towards him. “Hey.”

           He raised his head, curious but silent with blank eyes and a face of worn-down stone.

           “Are you alright?”

           He leaned back, legs stretched all the way forward and arms limp at his sides. A deep sigh swept his chest, head falling back and eyes sliding closed. “No one will tell me what I did.” His voice pulled tight, like a cord about to snap. “I can’t remember anything past…” He swallowed. “Past Kyra’s.”

           Maybe it was for the best. I hadn’t been there to see the most of it but the blood on the playground, the dead dog… It’d been enough to piece together. I’d seen him with blood up to his elbows; he didn’t need to know.

           “I want to pretend none of this happened, but it did,” Striker continued. “Everyone I’ve talked to tells me not to blame myself, but how can I not? Like, maybe if I’d been stronger, more resilient, maybe he wouldn’t have been able to get a hold of me so easily…”

           “Vena, he’s…” I paused, thinking for the words that I should have been able to find so easily. “You held on as long as you could. It’s not your fault.” Ember’s caution echoed through my mind and guilt rose in my chest. “I should have warned you.”

           Striker raised his head. “What do you mean?”

           It was my turn to lower my eyes, staring down at the once sterile sheets bunched around my side. “A little while ago, Ember, she told me…” I quieted voice, so low he could probably barely hear me. “She told me Vena might have been planning to hurt you.”

           “Ember told you this?”

           I nodded. “She did. I should have told you too, but, I don’t know…” He’d already seemed so worried, so stressed, after all that had happened to me. It was a poor excuse, but would anything have been any different if he’d known?

           If he was upset, Striker didn’t show it, leaning back in his chair again and staring up at the ceiling. At this point, he may just not have the energy to be angry. Part of me wished he wasn’t so far away, close enough that I could reach out and touch the back of his hand, to have even a little bit of what he might be feeling. Maybe even what he might be thinking. He’d hate that though, me knowing how he felt. He always did.

           “Hey,” I whispered in the still hospital air. “You should get some rest.” I didn’t think I wanted to know how long it had been since he’d slept. “I’ll still be here in the morning.”

           “I’m not leaving you here Asher.”

           For a second I opened my mouth to argue but thought better of it. There was nothing I could say that would change his mind, was there? Instead, I yawned, soft and quiet, making my body fuzzy with sleepiness. Out of the corner of my eye I could see Striker do the same.

He stretched his legs out again, sinking down in the chair with half closed eyes. “Don’t let me keep you up.” He gave a small smile, probably forced, but kind all the same. “I can wake you up when Cirrus gets back if you like.”

“Thanks,” my face softened. “I’d like that.”

           Striker nodded resting his head against the chair and closing his eyes. I watched him a moment longer before placing Cirrus’ rock out of the way and curling up on my side as best I could on the awkward bed, and IV in my hand. Muffled footsteps and conversations drifted in from out in the hallways, soft enough to start lulling me to sleep. Not that I needed lulling.

[bailesu]

One Day in Paris (Haruka / Michiru Fanfic)

This is for a Haruka / Michiru exchange thing for @amrynth.  

I’ve put the story behind the cut as it’s kind of long for a tumblr post.

One Day in Paris

By John Biles

For the Haruka/Michiru stuff exchange.

*******************

Some days, Haruka loved being a detective. A good, challenging mystery.  High speed chases on high mountain roads where one wrong turn meant going off a cliff.  Shootouts in a Monaco casino.  Romance under the stars.  Finding yourself tied up the next morning and your wallet stolen.  Being arrested as a homeless person and…

Okay, her last job hadn’t *ended* well, but the start had been awesome.

“But Saaaaaam,” Makoto wailed into her cellphone two desks down.  “I’m a detective!  I can’t just let criminals rampage even if we did plan this for a week!”

Detective Minako had legs which wouldn’t quit.  Wouldn’t quite *kicking her desk to a beat*, that is.  Detective Rei, who had the desk behind Haruka, was starting to crumple paper and make grunting noises, and this could not lead to *anything* good.

“So you’re saying it’s Lupin,” Detective Zenigata said, four desks down into his cellphone.

It’s never Lupin, Haruka thought, sighing; she was busy checking her email to make sure she hadn’t missed a summons from their boss. The last time she’d done that, Head Detective Setsuna had somehow gone back in time and wrecked the best date she’d had in high school.

Petty, yet powerful.

I need a mission, Haruka thought as Rei now rose and began heading over to Minako’s desk.

Also, I need to convince Head Detective Setsuna that this open office arrangement is a *bad idea*, she thought as Makoto now babbled to Sam; no one was sure if Sam was male or female; Haruka was pretty sure Sam was a woman, but whatever Sam was, Makoto was headed for another crash and burn.  Haruka would have felt sorry for her but now Clippy rose from the grave, occupying half the screen on her monitor.  ‘Do you want help with your resignation letter?’

‘I want a damn mission to get me out of this office,’ she typed in.  ‘Also, I thought you died.’

‘That is not dead which cannot die, but with strange aeons…’, Clippy began.

Not another cult case, dammit, Haruka thought.

“If it’s a woman, it’s not Lupin, it’s his confederate Fujiko,” Inspector Zenigata said into the phone. “Be very careful; she is nearly as cunning as Carmen Sandiego, who *still* has my Betamax, dammit.”

A coffee mug slid onto the desk, and Haruka started, then saw it was Detective Usagi.  “I thought you were on the Osaka Jewelry case,” she said to Detective Usagi.

There was a crashing sound as half of everything on Detective Minako’s desk (six figurines of Sailor V, five of various idols, four pictures, a baseball signed by Babe Ruth, and a stack of books Minako would never read but claimed she would) all fell off it because Rei and Minako were engaged in either a fight to the death, foreplay, or probably both, Haruka assumed.

It had been kind of sexy the first three times but after Minako had accidentally somehow knocked Haruka’s favorite racing trophy into the toilet (which was fifteen meters away, an act which was *never* clearly explained to Haruka), Haruka now wished they would keep it at home and be professional at work, like *her*.

“I want to explain it to you, but the Kingdom of D was involved and Umino had to pass himself off as the princess and I just don’t want to think about it,” Usagi said, looking haunted.

“If those two weren’t separated at birth, I will be stunned,” Haruka said, then tried her coffee.  She took Usagi’s hand and squeezed it.  Usagi turned a little red. “You are a master of coffee.  Did you catch the thief, then?”

“It was all a trap to kidnap the princess, and we barely rescued Umino from the deathtrap when they realized they had the wrong person,” Detective Usagi said, trying to sit on Haruka’s desk.

Makoto sat at her desk, clutching her head, while Detective Ami patted her shoulder over and over, trying to help but not knowing what to do.

“I think I have to help Makoto,” Usagi said.

“Drop by any time,” Haruka said.

DING.  

Salvation had arrived.  A mission, so she could get out of this madhouse before…

“So is that your gun, or are you happy to…” Minako began.

“It’s my gun,” Rei said irritably as she tried to pin Minako.

“That joke only works with Detective Conan or Inspector Zenigata,” Ami pointed out.

Minako sighed.  “Ami, the straight woman’s job isn’t to ruin my jokes.”

The mission was to investigate the break-in at Renate Jewels in Paris.  Ahh, gay Paris, Haruka thought with satisfaction.  A city of beautiful buildings, great food and drink, love, and… hopefully not another chase through the sewers.

“No one in this place is straight except maybe Conan but he’s too young for us to think about that,” Ami said.

“Ami, you made *me* the straightwoman,” Minako said mournfully.

Haruka fled to get in her car and drive to Paris.

******************* Haruka then remembered it was not in fact possible to drive to Paris, so she got a plane ticket and arranged for a Lamborghini to be waiting for her in Paris.  When she arrived, she got it and… immediately fell asleep from jet lag in the parking lot of the rental place.

The next morning, she woke up, went to her hotel, took a shower and headed off to investigate the case, hoping the trail had not gone cold.  She felt alive; she needed her missions to give her purpose after she’d been banned from racing, even if it was all that freak Dirk Dastardly’s fault!

Then she headed out to Renate’s Jewels, a beautiful boutique near the Seine; a superheroine and a villain were fighting on a roof nearby, but Haruka ignored them; they had no jewels and were not part of her very important mission.

Renate was a middle-aged redhead who looked oddly familiar to Haruka, but Haruka didn’t worry about that, since it probably wasn’t going to be relevant.  “So she seduced you, tied you up, and then stole everything.”

“I wouldn’t have minded being tied up if she hadn’t *stolen* everything,” Renate said, then swooned.  

Haruka caught her and put her up on her feet.  “You should probably loosen your corset so you can breathe properly,” she said very seriously.

Renate said, “I’m going to need your help, detective.  Why don’t we go upstairs and you can help me do it.”

“Sorry, fair lady, but I’m on a *mission*,” she said, kissing Renate’s hand, then quickly adjusting her corset without taking it off.   Soon, Haruka headed for the Regal Arms, as the thief, who Renate had identified as the notorious Jewel Thief Michiru from a photo, had left behind a pack of matches.  The place was huge and grand, exactly the sort of place for an exciting showdown.  Every piece of furniture was worth two years of Haruka’s salary.

That would make her triumph cooler.  

She paused to adjust her suit in the mirror.  When confronting your nemesis, you have to have everything *just right*.  If your tie is out of place, it ruins the moment.

She then went to the front desk, presenting her badge and a photo of Jewel Thief Michiru running out of a shop with a bag full of jewelry.  “Have you seen this woman?”

The clerk adjusted her glasses.  “Yes, she was lounging around… our lounge… all night last night, looking increasingly cranky, then finally her friend dragged her upstairs with the help of the night concierge.”

Friend?

“Can you describe the friend?” she asked.

Hotel security footage showed Michiru, clutching a wine glass in one hand, unconscious and being dragged onto a luggage cart by a dark haired man in the hotel uniform and by a dark haired woman who was ambiguously teenage and wearing a black blouse, black knee-length skirt, black high stockings, black boots, black nailpolish and a pink rose over her heart which looked lost, but certainly stood out.

Haruka said, “Can you get a printout of that?”

After some tech fumbling, she and the desk lady got the footage sent to Detective Ami for analysis.  She also got the desk lady’s phone number, the address of a good chicken place, and the room number of Jewel Thief Michiru.  

And the advice to never eat at Francois’ near the Arc d’Triomphe.  Or however you spell it; Detective Haruka never sweats the details.

The elevator took her to the twenty-third floor and she made her way down the hallway to 2307.  She pulled out the keycard the clerk had given her and unlocked the door.

“I’m going to have to steal the crown jewels,” she heard Michiru say; she flattened herself against the wall inside the little atrium; to her right was the changing area and a hanging closet; beyond that was the bathroom; she pressed herself against the left-wall, then realized it left her visible, so she slipped into the hanging closet, where a half-dozen dresses were hung up.

The burgundy one was the best, but Haruka wasn’t sure if it really matched Jewel Thief Michiru’s hair.  As she contemplated high fashion, she heard a woman she did not know.  “I’m sure she’s coming.  The Fox told us that her plane arrived last night.”

“Then why didn’t she come to the hotel?” a despairing voice said from the bed.

“Why do you *want* her to find you, anyway?  You’re not the Riddler’s sister, right?” the woman asked.  “I need the money to get Father exorcised, but if I go to jail, I can’t help him!”

“What good is stealing things if there is no one to recognize my skill?” Jewel Thief Michiru said.  “I am in this for the sport, to pit myself against the best.”

“Then why are you worried about this bozo?” the other woman asked.

“I am not a bozo!” Haruka said, coming out and throwing the finger of accusation at the other woman, who turned out to be the teenager from the photo, holding a short fighting staff.

Which she now flicked and it somehow extended into a glaive.

“Don’t bring a glaive to a gunfight,” Haruka said, drawing her gun.

“Now, now, Detective Haruka,” Jewel Thief Michiru said, getting up off the bed and striding closer, gracefully. “Point the gun at me and make empty threats.”

“They’re not empty!  I’ll shoot!” Haruka insisted.

“We both know you won’t shoot us,” Jewel Thief Michiru said, gliding closer. “Why didn’t you show up last night?”

“Jet lag,” Haruka grumbled.

Jewel Thief Michiru stopped, then said sympathetically, “I forgot to take that into account.  My apologies.” The other woman, still unnamed, frowned.  “Okay, what is *actually* up with you two?”  She had turned her glaive back into a staff and put it in her black purse.

“Oh yes, Haruka, this is my new assistant, Hotaru.  She’s a cyborg assassin from the future.”

“I’m not a cyborg *or* from the future,” Hotaru insisted.  She pinched her arm. “This time, anyway.”

“I’m from the future!,” another teenage girl said from the balcony; she wore what looked like a Star Trek uniform to Haruka.   But she was armed with something like a lightsaber.  The big heart on the end did make it stand out.

“No!  You’re going to ruin our sexy confrontation,” Michiru said angrily, pointing at her.   The glaive vs. Heartsaber battle began wrecking the hotel room, so Haruka said to Michiru, “How about if we check out this chicken place I know about until they’re done?”

“My plans… in ruins…”

Then the scented oils caught fire from a parried Heartsaber blow and the whole suite went up in flames.  Haruka picked up Michiru and ran.

***************

“So I got docked two weeks pay because Paris caught fire and it wasn’t even my fault,” Haruka groused to Usagi later as they ate okonomiyaki which Makoto had made them since they both had, as usual, no money.  

Makoto flopped down on the other end of the couch with her pork okonomiyaki and put on Netflix.  “Did they riot?”

“Don’t let the boss know or I’ll lose even more pay,” Haruka said, shaking her head.

“He doesn’t know I sunk Atlantis, either,” Usagi said conspiratorily into Haruka’s ear.  Then she began stuffing her face.

I thought *I* sunk Atlantis, Haruka thought.

Makoto would never ever tell them it was the result of her trying to date a brother and a sister at the same time without either finding out about the other.  Never, ever.

So don’t tell Haruka now that you know.

Iris Out.

[iremember]

an essay i submitted

I had never seen the show, but I had heard of it. It was a series worthy of watercolor-esque tattoo trends and hyperrealistic Halloween costume plans. My significant other perched himself eagerly on his red leather armchair, squeezing a smile in between his cheeks, waiting for me to shower him with praise for introducing me to the infamous Stranger Things. Together we sat in the dark under army blankets—he waited for a revelation from me, and I waited for something I couldn’t put my finger on. Science fiction? A likening to The X Files?

It happened forty minutes into the first episode. A character, a young girl clad in a hospital gown, is dragged forcefully down a pristine, blank hallway characterized by its clinical appearance. The audience can tell that the character is being held captive in a medical building, tortured and experimented on. Poked and prodded. The audience, in general, knows that this is part of a television show, that it is all make-believe.

But instead of understanding that what I’m watching is fiction, my entire body hardens beneath me. My skin burns with hot pricks of panic, my teeth grind into each other. I leave handprints outlined with beaded sweat on the sticky armchair. All objects in my field of vision dissolve and mesh together. Suddenly, I’m no longer a twenty-one year old female sitting in the comfort of a living room. I’m still myself of course, but now I am four year-old me, believing my  life is about to end at the hands of clinicians, under the guise of routine procedures—a routine procedure that did not have to be forced, a routine procedure that did not have to mirror sexual violence, for a routine procedure that did not have to happen the way it did, or at all. When a medical professional hurts you as a child, there is rarely any evidence to prove that it was criminal. It needed to be done, they often counter. Or: She’s too young to understand what’s really happening.

Eighteen—or seventeen, from injury to the memory—years later, my skull still swims with nausea at the smell of rubber gloves. I cannot lay onto my back without the image of six biohazard-protected nurses pinning me to a table, outstretching my legs and sealing my arms at my sides—roadkill preparing to be stuffed and displayed; already dead, but positioned to look alive for the rest of my years. I cannot walk into a pediatric medical office without blacking out, becoming years younger than I am, searching frantically for exits, or wishing I was not alive.

Recently, while walking downtown, I heard a young man joke with his friends that he was triggered by the fact that his school’s dining hall ran out of his favorite muffins—blueberry. Everyone laughed. The joke allowed a segue into a string of “triggered” punchlines. “Fat chicks get so-o-o-o triggered when you call ‘em fat,” another one spat out. Laughter.

Yet the world continues to turn. The question, “When did you serve?” pops up whenever the disclosure is, “I have post-traumatic stress disorder”, and that is universal. A friend lamented that she no longer feels she can use the word triggered to describe the experiences that set off recollections of trauma, because the word has transformed into a tool to mock those who need it. In fact, the word itself was introduced in clinical settings for the sole purpose of describing trauma. What is the motive for trivializing an open wound that lives on forever? A relationship “on a break” has become a trauma, a terrible grade on a midterm becomes traumatic. In so many places, the concept of trauma has become casual. An everyday occurrence. The world forgets about those of us who have resorted to bloodletting to cast out said trauma.

The brain, however, remembers.

It remembers because it is most wounded—first physically, then cognitively. Brain scans performed on those with significant trauma highlight the dents in the hippocampus and the amygdala like Christmas lights with burnt-out bulbs. I understand what’s said when I hear that my body has protected me primitively since the incident, but I also understand that it means my body has betrayed me. Relationships have crumbled, one after the other. Long nights were spent in tears, the other person always yelling, “I don’t understand how you can’t have sex, unless you’re defective.” Longer days were spent in gynecological offices—the first time in such a place occurring at age 20—rolled into a ball, dry heaving, and choking over the words that spilled from my mouth and into the air. I can’t do this right now, I’m scared, please wait.

My partner, his body chalk-outlined from the strobing glow of the desktop, swallows down a sharp intake of breath as he feels me stiffen beside him. He knows not to draw significant attention to the trigger, but sometimes, he can’t help himself. I dry heave. Saliva slicks my tongue.

The offending scene has ended. It ended several minutes ago, in fact. I think of how the hippocampus shrinks after developmental trauma occurs. Of how many children repeat nightmares in their play and are sent to time-out, punished for making sense of what happened. I think of how small in size the brain is, how one can easily fit it into both palms and examine the pruned indents and corn-maze pathways.

Trauma is a parasite that laughs in the corner as its host sits bloodletting on a bathroom floor: a practice performed in order to exorcise the sick out from where it festers, semi-dormant under the skin. For me, bloodletting held the goal of a kind of exorcism, a promise that if I continued to do it, I would spill the trauma and the remembering out. In hospital stays, I had the privilege of a staff member wedging their foot in between my door and the hallway to dogwatch my every move, but with kindness. Some nights, I’d talk quietly to them—about how my day was, how theirs was, what their favorite book was. And some nights, I didn’t talk at all. I curled over onto my side and thought of razor blades and serrated knives, how smoothly they could glide over your outstretched skin like scissors on wrapping paper; water over a river stone. I thought of that split second before the blood poured out: how your body prepared for an opening, savored that last moment before it became scarred.

I had always carried with me the notion that when what happened to me happened, I died some sort of death; that my body was disposed of improperly. That I have been either passing through the world as a memory, or that I have been carrying my young ghost on my back, uphill, unable to set her down. Traumatic stress continues to be so commonly associated with war, yet this is a war of its own—a war between living and dying, or dying again, a war between remembering and forgetting. The saying goes that only the dead have seen the end of war. Yet if only the dead have seen the end of war, I wonder if I am alive after all.

I look back at the desktop. The episode has ended and the screen is black, mirroring the blank, glassy expression of my face. The episode has ended, but I still see that little girl. In trauma, when the loss is your own self and existence, the fifth stage of grief is the remainder of your life. The act of mourning stains everything you do.

[dyaz-stories]

Resurrection

Part 1 - Part 2 - Part 3

Word count: 1,549

When Kagome opened her eyes, she felt like she was breathing for the very first time and, like a new-born, she started to weep. She didn’t understand why at first, as, without even looking at her surroundings, she rolled to her side, pressing her hands against her chest and cried out. She was in pain, but that wasn’t the only reason why there were tears rolling on her cheeks. There was… There was something else. Something her mind, too clouded by sensations that should have been familiar, didn’t manage to identify.

Slowly, she propped herself on her elbows, and her eyes fell on a stone, causing her to gasp.

It was a gravestone, against which a bow was leant.

Her gravestone. Her bow.

Oh God, was she…? She managed to slowly stand up, both of her hands grabbing the stone like her life depended on it.

Sesshomaru watched the pathetic human with growing annoyance. First, she had cried, which was ridiculous, and then she had gotten up, and now she was sitting on the stone that Inuyasha had gotten for her. How long exactly did she need to get over the fact that she was dead seconds ago? Humans and their pitiful emotions.

Well, at least she seemed to be functioning correctly, which meant his Tenseiga hadn’t failed him, and filled him with the satisfaction of knowing he could do things Inuyasha couldn’t.

Kagome kept her eyes on the ground. The tears had stopped flowing and she was trying to rearrange her memories. Naraku’s incarnation. Rushing in front of it. Being grabbed.

Excruciating pain.

Darkness.

She shuddered, and that was when feet entered her field of vision. She jumped. She meant to stand up, but her legs were still too weak to carry her, so all she did was raise her head. Her eyes met Sesshomaru’s, and she voiced his name in confusion.

”Sesshomaru? What… Did you…”

”Naraku’s creatures will be here soon,” he simply said, before turning around and starting to walk away.

Kagome’s mind was spinning. She was trying to get everything to make sense, but things were going too fast. If she had died, and if Sesshomaru was here, then could it be that…?

”You brought me back?” she whispered.

”With you out there, it increases the chances to draw Naraku out,” he simply said, not bothering to turn around, nor to stop walking. ”Even if it means you’ll be captured by his minions and I will follow you.”

That did make her gratitude drop. He wasn’t going to help her, so it meant she had to get out of there as quickly as possible.

”Thank you!” she still yelled.

Sesshomaru didn’t stop. In fact, she thought, he was probably grimacing with disgust at the mere thought of having actually helped a human. Or perhaps even that was too much facial expression for him. He disappeared in the forest, and Kagome stood up, her legs at least supporting her. She reached for her bow and looked for arrows, but couldn’t find any. It surprised her. None of her friends would have any use for arrows.

She didn’t have any time to think about it, but the thought bothered her.

She started walking towards the forest, quickly forcing herself to run. She was defenseless right now. Sure, she had already managed to charge her bow with energy, but… That had been once, and she had never tried it again. Would she be able to do it again? Probably. Still, that would mean the enemy would have to get awfully close to her, and she wouldn’t be able to afford the chance to miss.

She kept running through the trees, not knowing where it was she was going, and finally, her brain started working again. Inuyasha. Sango, Miroku, Shippo, Kirara… Where were they? Were they alright? How long had she been — ah, gone? Where did they go? How would she find them again?

She finally allowed herself to stop near a river. She panted, leaning forward, with her hands on her knees. River. Water. If she just followed it, she would be likely find a village, where they would probably be able to direct her towards Kaede’s village, and maybe they would have seen her group. Inuyasha thought she was dead, so he would probably go back to her world to… to tell her family. She really needed to stop him before that, she didn’t want her mom to panic.

Having set an objective, her spirit was renewed. The water was awfully tempting — she had just been buried, after all, but right now, with no one there to look out for her, she decided it wasn’t a good idea.

So she started to walk.

Her mind was full of thoughts of her friends. She was mainly concerned about their safety, and horrified at the thought that Shippo and Inuyasha had to be confronted with loss again. Part of her felt sorry for dying and putting them through that one more time. Of course, she knew Miroku and Sango would be hurt as well, and Sango had also lost so many people, but Kagome had a feeling that Sango would recover. She had Miroku, after all.

Shippo would too, probably. He was still young. But Inuyasha…

Inuyasha!

She walked faster.

It didn’t take her too long to reach a village. At the beginning, she was just walking in the forest, but she soon found herself on a road. Travelling alone in the Feudal Era was not something she had experienced before, and she wasn’t enjoying it. She knew there were bandits around back then, and if she encountered any, there wouldn’t be anything she would be able to do.

She was terribly thankful when she finally entered a village without encountering any problem, but that relief didn’t last long. She had walked in the wrong direction, wasting precious time. It was late, however, and the villagers insisted for her to stay here. The local priestess gave her a few arrows, with which she helped the old woman defeat a powerful demon. It wasn’t a complicated task, but performing it without Inuyasha around felt strange.

She left early in the morning the next day, travelling on a merchant’s cart. She was here to protect him from demons. Nothing happened, actually, but she was starting to understand that the simple fact that she was here probably made him feel reassured. Just like the fact he was there made her feel better, simply because at least, she was not alone.

Two days passed before she heard about Inuyasha’s group again. Her and the merchant had stopped in the village where they would be parting ways, when she asked a priest about it.

”Would you have happened to see a group with a white-haired half-demon, a monk, and…?”

”A slayer, a tanuki and a priestess? They did pass by, actually. That monk helped exorcising one of our houses — although I had never felt any evil there…”

Kagome didn’t smile at the mention of Miroku’s antics, nor did she try to correct Shippo’s description. She felt an icy feeling pour into her entire body, coming from her heart.

”A priestess, you said?” she repeated, feeling a lump form in her throat.

”Yes, a beautiful one, if I do say so myself,” the priest said, chuckling lightly. ”You look a bit like her, actually,” he added after a bit of thought.

Kagome smiled weakly and whispered a thank you. Once more, she felt uneasy, and even more when she remembered her arrows not being on her grave, but she shut all of her concerns down. She couldn’t do that, not now.

”And when did you…?”

”They left just this morning, actually, you barely missed them,” the old man answered.

Kagome’s heart missed a beat. That meant they were going very slowly. It made sense, though, if Kikyô was with them. She probably didn’t want to draw attention to her with her Souls Collectors, after all.

”Did you pay attention to where they were going? Is there any way for me to be faster than them?”

”Well,” the priest said slowly, ”if you got on a boat, given the road they took, you would probably get to the next town before them.”

Kagome was already standing.

”Can you think of anyone who’ll take me?”

”Right now?”

She nodded.

”Right now.”

It was the morning when the priest himself dropped Kagome off at the entrance of the next town. She apologized profusely for bothering him, and thanked him twice as much, but the man seemed truly happy to have helped her, and it made a warm feeling bloom in her chest. They kept fighting such ugly, terrible things, but just as often, she was reminded of how good the world actually was.

She waved to him as he calmly pushed his boat the other way.

She sat down against a stone, watching the road. There were not many people out there, so she didn’t have to worry too much about missing them, but she was still very attentive.

Finally, it happened.

Strangely enough, Miroku was the first person she saw, which wasn’t normal. Inuyasha normally lead the way. Sango was right beside him, with Shippo in her arms.

Behind them, finally, was Inuyasha.

And Kikyô.

There will be a part three, which should be the last part. Hope you’ve enjoyed!

[silvensei]

Chapter 2: The one where our heroes spend the whole time collapsed on the ground, wondering what the hell just happened.

Guess what happens when you like platonic relationships, body swap scenarios, and Mob Psycho 100 a bit too much?? This. This is what happens. Mostly comedy; angst kept to a minimum. Rated T probably

Available above on AO3, [here] on FFnet, and right below the cut 

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4

It was a good thing there wasn’t anyone else at the café anymore. If there were, then they would think a middle schooler and a business man collapsed on the concrete weird.

Hopefully no one else showed up either, because it didn’t seem like they were going to stand anytime soon.

Reigen sat up, holding his hands out in front of him. They were pale, uncalloused; he rubbed the fingertips together, trying to remember the last time his hands felt so soft. Black shirt, black pants, white sneakers, all of which were familiar but shouldn’t be on him, let alone fit him in the first place.

He had experience with the supernatural and knew way more psychic children than the average adult male. However, their powers didn’t usually affect him directly. Sometimes he floated, but that was manageable. This was so different that he didn’t know how to even begin to go about it.

What he did know was sitting in stunned silence was getting him nowhere.

“I’m….” He was caught off-guard again when the syllable was higher than expected. It only helped drive the situation home. “…not in my body.”

“Yeah…,” came the drawn-out agreement to his right. Reigen knew who he would see there. He took a moment to compose himself before looking.

He looked like Reigen Arataka. In some ways, it could be considered that he was Reigen Arataka, in everything but composure: sitting on his knees, hands folded in his lap, back perfectly straight, dark eyes staring in a half-lidded manner that dashed any intensity, and the only hint of emotion being the perspiration beginning to coat his forehead.

He was too stiff and formal and calm and indescribably Mob and so not right.

On reflex, Reigen shied back. “A-ahh, I’m sorry, Shishou!” Mob stammered at the action, innocently holding his hands up, somehow sitting even straighter than before. “I d-don’t think it was my fault, but if it was, then I didn’t mean to!”

Even though it sounded a touch different, that voice was still plenty recognizable. Except his confident silver tongue was instead quiet, shaky, and entirely from the head. Not like him at all, Reigen thought. He managed to catch himself before he wrinkled his nose in unease. After all, he was the adult in this situation, even if it wasn’t entirely literal at the moment.

“Hey, hey, it’s alright,” he reassured, waving a hand for emphasis. “I believe you. You’re too good with your powers to do something like this on accident, and I doubt you’d want my job enough to resort to body snatching.”

A small frown and a furrow in his brow appeared on Mob’s stolen—borrowed—face, an expression Reigen often saw when the child was attempting to think through a joke. It was such a Mob thing to do. This would be just another everyday interaction between them if Mob wasn’t blond and older and in a suit and him and—

Reigen shook his head and restarted the conversation. “What do you think did happen?”

“Well…,” hummed Mob, eyes drifting upward in recollection. “Even though he seemed pretty angry at Dimple, it didn’t feel like he was using enough power to exorcise him.”

It was too weird. Some kind of morbid curiosity kept him watching, noticing every little movement and having to remind himself that it wasn’t a reflection he was seeing. When Mob looked back at him, it became just too much. His stomach turned uncomfortably, and he looked away, down at his hands, as a slight shiver wracked his frame. His hands were still too soft. “He must’ve been a pretty lame psychic if he couldn’t even exorcise one measly wisp of a ghost,” Reigen said a touch absently, again intrigued by how his thumbs seemed to glide over the pads of his fingers.

“No, he could have done it,” his student assured. How was he so calm right now? Reigen highly doubted this was commonplace, even in the esper community. “Instead, maybe he was just trying to exorcise him from your body. He wouldn’t need as much power for that.”

“Seems like he caught more than he was fishing for,” Reigen mumbled.

“Maybe. Then I remember setting up a barrier, but after his powers hit, I found myself in here.” Mob flexed a hand, using the other to fiddle with the cuff of his suit jacket. “It’s…odd.”

“That’s one word for it.”

“It’s….”

As he searched for the term, Reigen noticed Mob’s hand rotated, drawing small circles in the air. Did Mob always do that? The con man decided that no, no he didn’t; Mob wasn’t expressive in words and definitely not in gestures. “Disconcerting?” Reigen supplied. “Uncomfortable? Perverse? Intrusive?”

“Weightless.”

“Oh…eh?”

“My powers always feel heavy, like there’s too much. Like that’s what’s keeping me on the ground. But now, it’s not overbearing. There’s barely anything.” Mob’s tone changed at the end, the pitch higher. He smiled.

Barely anything? A quick wave of panic hit Reigen. “Wait, do you have any of your powers? Where did they go?”

The psychic lifted his arm. A familiar kaleidoscope of blues and indigos faded into view and washed over the rest of his body, rustling his suit and hair with its unseen force. The table next to their spot on the ground rattled, and their forgotten beverage cups rolled off its surface, spinning and gliding on the shining air between them. “A little,” said Mob. “But it’s hard to direct, like I’m learning how to use them. Your body might still be trying to block psychic powers from earlier.”

“Ah, yeah, that’s a good point. Who knows how much was messed up.” Reigen rubbed the back of his neck. Mob’s hair felt shorter and silkier than his own. He was tempted to run his hand through the longer bowl cut on top of his head.

“What about you, Shishou?”

He snatched his hand back. “What about me?”

“How are your powers?”

“My powers…?” Reigen mused. Would he be able to use psychic powers in Mob’s body? Palm upturned, he tried to recall what he had done back at Claw. It was so intuitive back then for that brief fight that he hadn’t realized what had happened at first. So maybe if he tried to imagine the air around his hand becoming solid, sparkling with energy….

A moment passed where nothing changed; just two men sitting on concrete in silence, floating coffee cups between them. Then his palm prickled. It was subtle, but present enough that if he thought too much about it, it would be unbearable to not scratch it. He held his arm still and imagined that marbled ethereal light blanketing his limb.

Slowly, an aura pulsed into view, but it wasn’t the one he expected. It was a red-orange, a dull burnt sienna. Slicing up the color, jagged and shifting throughout the air, were thin spikes of light pink and pale gold. It moved, rolling over and around his arm like water.

The dull ache in his bones reminded him of its presence, throbbing more than before, but Reigen was too entranced to notice. He did it. It wasn’t quick, and his aura wasn’t all that bright, but he did it. And it was so easy. He flipped his hand out to one suspended cup and pictured the color expanding to cover it. Instead, the cup shot away, missing Mob’s head and flying into the road. But it was still a result.

The ache was getting uncomfortable. The aura disappeared when he willed it to, and he couldn’t help the quiet “Whoa” that escaped with his breath. Is this what it was like for Mob every day?

“Mmm, seems weak, too,” Mob observed, which—even though he’d been a real esper for all of fifteen minutes—prompted Reigen to cross his arms defensively.

“Hey, I’m not exactly in the best shape at the moment. This body was already sore when I got here.”

“Sore?” asked his student, confused. “I don’t think I was that sore. I don’t think I’ll feel today’s workout until tomorrow.”

“Oh great,” the con man groaned sarcastically. “Then maybe I’m sore from hitting that wall. Although….” He glanced around, noting the significant lack of walls. “Maybe it was your barrier I hit?”

Mob blinked. He shrugged, dipping his head down and looking to the side.

The light tinkling of a bell sounded behind them. “Are you two okay out there?” a café employee asked, poking his head out of the door.

“Yes, we’re fine, thanks. Just leaving, actually!” Reigen called back with a wave.

The employee frowned, turning his attention to Mob, the adult male currently somewhat hunched in on himself that he had probably expected to answer instead of the middle schooler. Either way, he nodded and retreated inside, again ringing the bell on the door.

“We should find Dimple,” Mob suggested suddenly. “He might know more than us.”

“Ah, good point. Then let’s try the office first, shall we?” Reigen grinned, out of habit and support more than anything, and pushed himself to his feet.

Everything felt…off. The table seemed a little tall, the surrounding buildings a little too spaced apart. It hit him again: he wasn’t in his 179-centimeter-tall proverbial shoes anymore.

Mob was moving to stand, but Reigen interrupted, pinching the bridge of his nose, “Wait, wait, just give me a second. Need to adjust.”

He paused, half kneeling. Then he rose slowly to his full height. Reigen sighed before looking up at his student. At his fourteen-year-old student stuck in his twenty-seven-year-old body.

Sometimes Reigen Arataka wondered what life would be like if he had a normal job.

Eyebrows raising slightly in realization, Mob looked back, taking in the small pout and narrowed eyes under black bangs, an expression that was almost definitely foreign to the young face. Reigen held their staring contest as if to challenge him to comment. He didn’t.

He cautiously lifted a hand, hesitating before dropping it on top of Reigen’s head. Neither of them moved. Then Mob gave his hair a light ruffle, and a small smile tugged at his mouth.

Reigen tried to stay defiant, showing his rejection of the demeaning gesture, but it didn’t last long. A laugh escaped him, soon dissolving his composure into a bout of snickering. He pushed Mob’s hand away and picked up the boy’s schoolbag from under the table. “C’mon, Shishou, let’s get back to the office.”

[maple-writes]

So this one’s a little shorter than usual, but here we go!

I didn’t remember much of the ride back to the college, nor exactly how we got from the underground parking to Ginger’s office. But here I sat, sinking into a chair across from her desk like every muscle weight twice what they should. My head fell back and I slumped further down the chair’s worn surface. I probably hadn’t said much on the trip back, not with the thick haze filling my head.

           Besides the soft sounds of Ginger rummaging through something in the other room, her office was wonderfully quiet compared to the constant background din of the car’s motor or the ambient conversations throughout the college’s twisting hallways. I took a deep breath and let my heavy eyelids close, shielding my stinging eyes from what little light came from the half-dimmed chandelier. This really was the worst part…

           Footsteps came from the other room and I squinted as Ginger stopped before my chair. She smiled warmly and placed a mug of something steaming on the desk in front of me.

           “Here,” She gestured towards it as she took a seat on her side of the table. “It might make you feel better.”

           Groaning, I forced myself to sit up far enough to take the mug in my hands. It was warm, comforting, but I hesitated when I peered into the mug. Whatever this was it was very dark red.

           Ginger laughed softly. “Oh don’t give it that look, I know what you’re thinking.” She leaned back in her chair, running her hands over the armrests. “There’s no blood in there whatsoever. It’s kind of like a tea, a blend I came up with when I was working with Wendy, another cambion.”

           I nodded, not sure if I spoke the okay that ran through my head, and took a sip of the drink. It was spicier than it looked, but still a little sweet. Sure enough, as I slowly drank, the fog started to lift, taking the heaviness in my limbs with it as it went. By the time I was halfway through I felt almost as alert as I’d been before talking with Janice.

           “Wow,” I raised my head, blinking. “This is… Good.”

           Ginger smiled. “Good to see it’s working on you too.” She leaned forward. “You’re not looking quite so pale and dead anymore, and I take it talking is a good sign.” She paused as I nodded. “If you like I can give you some to take home.”

           I nodded. “Please. That, would be great.” I’d never been able to recover so quickly before. If I could avoid spending at least a day on the couch after each encounter… I never thought there could be another way.

           “Sure thing then.” She wrote something down on a notepad beside her computer. “Before you go though, and now that you’re actually present and here, I’d like to go over what I saw today.”

           Right, she did say something about that earlier, didn’t she? I nodded. “Go ahead.”

           Ginger pulled out her little notebook and laid it open on the desk in front of her, eyes tracing over whatever words she’d written down. “So, overall I’m not worried about your ability to keep a level head or anything like that, so that’s good.” Her eyes flickered upwards, head steady. “In the past I’ve had apprentices get scared or panic when things start to go south but you seemed to keep yourself under control well enough.”

           “Thanks,” I nodded, lifting the mug to take another sip. It made sense though; it wasn’t the worst I’ve ever dealt with.

           “I can tell you’re fairly comfortable with the dead, which is also good.” She continued. “I didn’t expect the female spirit to trust you or even approach you that easily either, and I suspect that there is something about you—maybe pertaining to your cambion situation—that draws spirits towards you.” She paused, tapping her finger against the side of her cheek thoughtfully. “While that might come in handy in situations like this, it may become a challenge if you start attracting the wrong beings. If you draw in the spirits of the dead there’s not reason demons will not feel that same pull, so be careful.”

           Again, I nodded and swallowed the last of the drink. Did others have challenges with getting spirits to talk? The only ones I hadn’t been able to connect with were the ones at the graveyard. But it never occurred to me that demons could feel it too.

           Ginger leaned back, taking her notebook in her hands. “I will say though, that I’m going to want you to move away from letting yourself be possessed so easily, especially as a first resort.” She raised her eyes, making contact with mine. “At least fully, anyway. I’m sure you can understand just how dangerous that kind of strategy can be.”

           I nodded. Striker was always telling me how much he’d rather I didn’t do that. “It’s just what comes most naturally.”

           “And that’s fine.” Ginger made a note of something in her book. “And perhaps we can find a way to make that kind of thing safer, but we’ll have to work on it.” She paused. “My main concern of course is you becoming fully possessed or otherwise injured in the process. If that man’s spirit had managed to enter your body at the same time as the girl that could have been fatal, you know.”

           “Really?”

           She nodded, the room going quiet except the ticking of a Hello Kitty clock on the wall. I swallowed. Maybe Striker was right. Maybe I really did have to be more careful… I cradled my still-warm mug in my lap.

           “Hey,” Ginger leaned back. “Don’t worry about that yet. Like I said, if you already knew everything you wouldn’t be here.” She smiled, sharp teeth glinting ivory white in the low light. “Besides, you’re in good hands. If you had become twice possessed I would have stepped in.” She didn’t give me time to respond before she continued. “Also, it’s not a critique as much as an observation you should probably be aware of, but you, well you look a little different when you’re possessed.”

           I leaned forward, tension slinking it’s way around my throat, sitting heavy on my chest. “What do you mean?”

           Ginger paused, thinking. “Well, it doesn’t seem to manifest right away, but your appearance gradually changed.” She gestured towards her face. “Your eyes went all black and you didn’t blink much, which was odd.” She paused again. “But then you, well you got horns, and possibly a tail.”

           I blinked, mouth opened but no idea what to say. “I…” Worry clenched hard and cold around my chest. Maybe I wasn’t as like my mother as I thought.

           “It was, odd to say the least.” She rested her arms along the sides of her chair, watching me as if trying to figure out how much she should say. “They didn’t appear to be fully corporeal either. I didn’t want to touch, but moving around you they seemed to fade in and out depending on the angle and the light.” She tilted her head. “I don’t yet know what exactly to think about that, and I’m going to look into it for you. Everything did go back to normal as soon as the spirit had left your body, so that’s good.”

           “Thank you.” I sounded small, like I was as scared as I felt. “I…” It seemed it was good I’d gotten in here now instead of later, before something happened . “I didn’t know any of that.” I massaged the back of my neck. “And I’m not really sure what I should do now. Am I in danger?” Was I dangerous?

           Ginger shrugged. “No more in danger than you were before I told you anything. However, if I were you I would be more cautious if I’m not around, in regards to how you communicate with the other worldly. And if you are going to invite them in, maybe warn those around you. Don’t opt to do it alone though if you can avoid it.” She stood from her chair, the creak echoing softly through the room. “Most of all, don’t worry too much about it. Nothing bad happened today, and we don’t know if the appearance thing is even a big deal yet.” She smiled again, soft and encouraging. “And hey, you did manage to successfully exorcise that spirit in the end. Cling to that if you start worrying.”

I sighed, letting my shoulders sag into the chair. “Thanks, Ginger.” As much as I wanted to believe her, I couldn’t help but worry.

           “No problem kiddo.” She held out her hand. “Done with the cup?” She let me hand it to her, careful not to let her fingers brush mine as she took the mug into her grip. “I’ll grab you some of this to bring home, okay?”

           I nodded, and she turned to disappear back into the little room at the other end of her office. I got up from my own chair, shifting from foot to foot. How much should I tell Striker? Surely he was going to ask how it went today. I sighed. Maybe he would be happy with only some of the facts…

           “Alright, here you go!” Ginger stepped back in the room with a little jar filled with a mixture of something that looked a little bit like tea. “About a spoonful per cup, steep for a few minutes and you should be good to go. If it doesn’t work right, steep longer and it should help more.” She set it on the table in front of me, then slipped her hands into her pockets. “Are you alright to find your way back?”

           I took the little jar, turning it over in my hand. “I think so.” I started to turn towards the door. “Thanks again.”

           Ginger waved her hand dismissively. “Don’t mention it.” She hopped up on the edge of her desk, legs dangling in the empty space in front of her. “See you Wednesday.”

           “Right.” I nodded, pulling the door open just enough to slip through. “See you then.” Nothing that bad could happen between now and then, right?