#multiimuse

[blackjacketmuses]

@multiimuse

It’s been maybe a month or so since Dante (and Vergil, thank god) had gotten out of the Underworld. Not that Dante was ever going to admit to any of them that the only reason that they’d taken that long at all (about a month or two down there) is because both of them had been too busy fighting to remember Yamato could just open a rift and they could go home that easily. Nah, better to just pretend it really had taken them that long. They’d both already been shouted at enough by anyone with lungs to shout, they didn’t need more of that.

Besides, it was...nice. This new normal everyone was adjusting to was nice. The others could probably all tell as much. Dante’s personally not at all sure he’s smiled this much or this widely in decades. Vergil’s here. Vergil’s home. He’s not ashamed to admit the two of them had spent the first few nights tangled up with each other, unwilling to go far from their twin’s side. And even if he knows Vergil is antsy, wanting to get out of this mundane quiet, his brother has stayed. It does help that they’d managed to actually talk like adults once or twice, and--- and begun to work out their shit. His brother finally knowing Mom had looked, Mom had loved him...it was going a long way to repair the thirty years of damage their relationship had taken. Well, okay, so they were never gonna stop harassing each other or trying to kick the crap out of each other, but that was just a brothers thing. And it was fun. Dante wasn’t gonna complain about that. But there was a softness to it now, an edge that was absent, a...fondness even to the insults that hadn’t been there before. They were healing, finally, after so long broken. Almost kind of a family again, him and his brother and the girls and Nero and Kyrie. 

It’s another day, no jobs, and Dante is napping on the couch --- he thinks Vergil is upstairs trying to make a dent in cleaning or just trying to avoid any potential company --- when there is a very loud thud against the door. Nothing that breaks it, really, just some kind of solid, fleshy noise, and Dante blinks. He rolls off the couch and pads over, almost glad that his sword is part of him now since his coat and guns are on the hook by his desk, and opens the door to....blink again. “What?” He asks no one in particular, realizing to his shock that it’s...a bird. A black owl, he notes, and he picks it up. It’s warm, he notes, and its eyes are closed, and--- he makes a noise, then, recognizing it like a bolt of lightning from the blue. “Howly?!” He remembers it, the stuffed owl he’d all but clung to constantly as a little kid, obsessed with the thing for years until it disappeared around the same time Dad had left. He wouldn’t...it’s the same damn thing, he knows it, he recognizes the white marks on its face, and--- it’s alive. No, it’s more than that--- he’s old enough now, powerful enough, to sense what he never could as a child. This is a demon. No, it’s...it’s an Arm. He recognizes....oh.

Oh.

“Vergil!” He shouts, maybe a just a little--- there’s something in his voice, almost slightly panicked. “Vergil, get down here! Now!” If this is--- if he was--- and he’s alive, then...then--- then is Dad...?

[multiplanetarysystem]

The stage was set. Well, maybe that was a little overdramatic, but they were getting very tired of Maigo's obvious pining and Vergil's complete obliviousness. So in a final attempt to get her cousin to say something herself, Mana had conspired with the rest of Strange Aeons and a couple others. Vergil had been invited for dinner, with the promise of quiet [since Rune and Ni were both out on jobs, leaving Maigo, Mana, and Corbeau] and Lord of the Rings afterwards. Dinner had involved Mana introducing Maigo to the fruity alcoholic beverage that the darker-haired woman preferred with dinner, and Mana was proven right; her cousin was a lightweight. By the time they started the movie, Maigo was more easy to giggle, more easy to coax into conversation. And she'd gone from just curled up next to Vergil, like usual, to leaning against him, giggling at hobbit antics.

Corbeau excused himself early on, yawning and claiming he was bound for bed. Mana waited until halfway through, when her phone vibrates with a [planned] call from Ni.

"Sorry guys, I gotta take this. You keep enjoying." She slipped out, Maigo watching before giggling again.

"And they keep saying I'm obvious."

@multiimuse

[ashadowatthefork]

❛ What are you doing? ❜ (u know what verse and who from but time point is up to you C: )

"Making up the guest room for you. Can’t have you just wandering the streets before you all take another shot at the....situation, V.” Maigo looked up at him from where she’d dropped a comforter on the bed she was making up. “Nor can you run on just energy drinks alone. I’m certain even the Devil May Cry folks know that.”

[fortunegambled-a]

“ several bad choices have led me to this moment ” (from dilan/xaldin)

@multiimuse​ / unsolved starters

“Oh, certainly,” Luxord teases, a smirk on his lips with no attempt at concealing it. “Shall I list them all? The first was ever thinking you could beat me at cards, and the second was agreeing to such a gamble. And those are only your two biggest mistakes—omitting the smaller ones in-between.”

A hand rises, a finger lightly tracing the shell of one of Xaldin’s ears. “Still, I can’t help but notice that they’re quite fitting.” It’s flirtatious, but teasing—ultimately harmless and playful rather than any serious attempt at seduction. It’s Xaldin’s fault for losing, after all, and now he must pay the price. His hand withdraws, the smile widening. “You look good.” He can’t wait for the rest of the poker league to see this.

[crimeperfected]

@multiimuse / continued from x

Oguri's first thought is that, somehow, he's been tricked into babysitting. The problem is that the one who tricked him into it was himself. Agreeing to spend the day with Ranpo (and Poe, who, unfortunately, seems like he’ll be stuck waiting for them a while longer, what with Ranpo getting his way) was a set up for failure, and that failure has so far taken the form of: getting lost because Ranpo has ignored his every direction, coping with a wet right shoe because Ranpo practically guided him into a puddle, getting called stupid (in various ways) four times now, and now being dragged along to a restaurant and being threatened with carrying him.

He still refuses to believe that this man is the same age as him.

“Alright, alright!” he says, pulling his arm out of Ranpo’s grip so he can smooth out his sleeve before it wrinkles. “We’ll go eat! But—and I’m stressing this!—I am not carrying you if you get tired. I’ll leave you lying on the sidewalk if I have to.”

[movedtovervainbrokemyheart]

a multifandom multimuse containing many muses including andy barber of the television adaptation of defending jacob. semi-selective but not mutuals only. prefers writers at least over 18. but 21 plus is even better. blog. rules. muses.

[blackjacketmuses]

multiimuse‌:

Vergil’s mind is still whirling with thoughts and realizations; with his attempts to process everything that’s fallen back into place in his memory and his soul, when he hears motion and feels someone sit next to him. It’s — perhaps a little surprising to feel an  arm go around his shoulders, but with his memories all burning brightly in his mind it’s a very old instinct to lean into that offered comfort, to rest his head against the bony shoulder he knows belongs to his brother. It’s a comfort he wasn’t expecting, one he’s still not sure he wants — he shouldn’t need it, he’d made himself capable of standing on his own — but nonetheless he lets himself lean there for a moment, accepting it for what it is and trying to use his brother’s presence as an anchor to pull his scattered focus together.

It’s Dante who breaks the silence, voice catching even as he makes an attempt to tease, but Vergil finds himself following, a weak huff of a laugh escaping him at the old (not very nice, but accurate) nickname. “Believe me,” he says, and his own voice wavers. “I’m trying.” There’s something so normal about the exchange, something so close to what brothers should be like — what they should have been like — that Vergil’s heart aches from it, and he can’t bring himself to pull away and sit up. If he does, it’s possible that neither one of them will get this again. Why couldn’t it have been like this when they were first reunited? (He knows why; Dante didn’t remember, and he had locked away everything familiar about him that could have helped him remember on his own. He’d been so focused on his goal that his original desire, the thing that had started everything — to find his brother — had turned into just another aspect of his plans, something (someone) he could use. He’d wanted his brother in his life, yes, but he’d wanted … he’d wanted control more, had assumed Dante would stand with him no matter what, and had made his choice.)

He remembers what he’d hunted his twin down to do, and finds himself feeling sick. Ruthlessness to enemies was one thing; what he’d done to his brother, even if it was just in his own mind — what he’d wanted to do to him, out here… maybe that’s a sign that he had taken his manipulations too far, that he’d gone too far into his trigger. Maybe it’s a good thing he can’t reach it now. Vergil pulls his hands away from his face, letting them drop into his lap as he sighs. (He needs to change his gloves soon; he’s been wearing this pair for too long.) The more he thinks about it, the more he’s certain that whatever was right or wrong about his plans (and… maybe there was something wrong with them, he doesn’t know; though he’ll have to revisit that when his head is clearer), they won’t be coming to fruition here — this isn’t their world; it’s one he knows nothing about, and the odds of getting to go back are slim, all things considered. He has no resources, no organization, no power — and right now, he’s well aware that he doesn’t even have mental stability. So what does he have?

Just this moment, he realizes, squeezing his eyes closed again. Just this, and whatever is offered to him. It burns at his pride and wears away at his nerves, the fear that had driven him to desire control in the first place coming back with a vengeance. Vergil finds himself wishing that he could stay pressed close to his brother and never move from his side again — or at least until he can come up with some new plan, some new goal, now that his chessboard has been upended. But he can’t, and anyway Dante is speaking, so he pulls himself upright and away, only to lean against the back of the couch with a brief groan of discomfort. Ah. Right. Trigger aftereffects. He’s going to be feeling this for days. He listens to his brother, trying to give him his full attention (which is hard, because his mind keeps reminding him that he has many, many things to think about, to remember, to try to sort and parse now that he can’t keep them locked neatly away anymore), then finds himself frowning.

“…You didn’t,” he says slowly, bringing a hand up to run it through his hair as he shakes his head. “You didn’t fuck up, Dante. You made a choice, that’s all. That isn’t a mistake, if… you believe what you stood for.” If he chose them, he chose them for a reason. Thinking more clearly, Vergil can understand that, even if he can’t wrap his mind around why. (Well, alright — Kat. But thinking about her is more painful than anything, the awareness of how he’d hurt her crashing into the feelings he’d run from, and he’s… not ready to face that just yet.) “Anything else… I didn’t have expectations. Not when I first started looking.” By the time he’d found him, maybe, but he’d met them — strong, willing to do as asked, and never, ever looking too closely at him. “What happened… it was never because there was something wrong with you, or that you — weren’t what I wanted. Nothing like that. Believe that much of me, at least.” 

This hurts, Vergil thinks almost idly. This hurts, and he doesn’t want to think about this, doesn’t want to talk about this, doesn’t want to feel this— everything was easier cut away, and now the world… the world is its chaotic disorderly mess of horrors and it can touch him again. He doesn’t have control of it, he doesn’t even have control of his own soul any more. He’s — damn it, he’s not going to cry, crying was never allowed growing up, it’s something he hates doing now, it’s… something he used to do all the time as a child, and apparently that habit’s going to be making a resurgence at least until he can work out how to gather control without suppressing everything. Ugh.

Some tiny petty part of Dante enjoys hearing the swear come out of his brother's mouth. It's a swear, something crude and vulgar, and it runs so counter to the impeccable image he'd presented. He'd done that a couple times and it always gave him the same little flicker of warmth. A crack in the stone, something flawed. Something human, for all that they aren't. And now it's a flicker of the brother he knows is in there beneath the smooth statue he'd become. So he smiles very faintly, very briefly, and then settles to actually listen to what he's saying.

It's a hell of a thing he says, too. Dante's heart jumps, the words he'd longed to hear so very welcome, but at the same time it doesn't feel like it could or would be real. He shifts a little, chewing on his lip and fidgeting with his pendant. "You mean that...?" He asks, unsure and almost hopeful. Him, what he is, what he's become, that's okay? It feels stupid to be grasping at this, at scraps, just to feel like he had something, like someone gave him— it's stupid. He shouldn't want, shouldn't wish for, shouldn't have any of those things when letting hope and dreams and wants override basic survival is a really quick way to die. But then again, he thinks bitterly, it isn't like him to be able to die. Even so he's trained himself well, maybe too well, to survive, it's just...the idea of reaching out has a visceral fear to it, the idea of wanting anything for himself, anything at all that could shape his life beyond the constant violent struggle for the next day, it had... been ground out ages ago.

But even so, here it is flaring in his chest again, a sort of sneaky cautious hopeful thing, and he reaches. Physically, first, his hand darting out like a panicked hummingbird, wrapping around his brother's. The world doesn't end immediately, which is a start, he figures, and he squeezes his brother's hand. He can feel medical gloves, probably an expensive ass brand of the cheap rubbery ones he's seen before, and unconsciously his thumb traces circles on the back of it. He doesn't know what to do from here, doesn't know at all, but he can and has to try. He's the older brother here after all. It's his responsibility to be here and try and take care of Vergil. His dumbass messed up little brother.

"... I'm not mad at you," he says finally, and he only really knows he's not once he's said it. He swallows, still trying to breathe, and repeats it more certainly. "I'm not mad at you." He's not. That's weird. He has so much anger, even now it burns in his chest, low and like a hungry thing, never satisfied and always wanting more, more blood, more revenge. The demon in him, now that he knows what he is. It wasn't sated even with Mundus, and he doubts it can ever be. It wants nothing but violence, the corpses of demons, fuel for the rage and hate that's been beaten into his bones and branded into his soul. It scares him, it always has, but one good thing about knowing what he is... he's accepted it. And that tamed it, gave him the reins and the key. It's still there, though, but no matter what, it's never burned for his brother's life, never wanted his blood— that first fight hadn't been anger, he can't even remember half of it, lost all control entirely at the shock and pain, but... never after, no matter how he's thought about it.

"It sounds fucking crazy, I know," he admits with a short bark of laughter. "And stupid. And a terrible idea. Not to be mad at you after all this...it's a shit decision. But I'm not the smart one, y'know?" That gets a twist of a smile that isn't quite so bitter anymore. "So I'm not mad. Not saying you didn't do some stupid shit, though. You're gonna apologize to Kat when you're up to it. But I— I'm not mad. You didn't do anything that you can't..." His jaw works for a moment, and his cheeks flush. "...I let you, y'know. I'm just as guilty for not caring enough to say anything until the end." He'd let himself be used, walked into it with open arms, because it was his brother, and he didn't think he was good enough for him to be equals. Being his weapon had been enough. He'd have done anything. And if it weren't for Kat, maybe he'd have gone all the way with him, too. But she'd shown him there was still something good left to care about, something in him that could be more. But...this isn't about her right now. "We stopped you from doing anything you couldn't go back from," he says. "And I..." He swallows and tastes a little copper; did he bite through his lip? Huh. "Well. I'm here. And if you want me to— no, that's not it. I want to be here." It's not about doing whatever his brother asks of him out of a desperate desire to be accepted and allowed to stay.

He turns to look at Vergil. "I made a choice, then. I still stand by it, by humans. But I don't think I want to make that choice again, if it's between you or them. I don't care about much, but I know what I do care about." He doesn't smile, but something certain and steady is in his voice. "So this time I'm choosing both. That's what I'm gonna stand by, what I'm gonna believe in. What I want. And anyone who wants to tell me that's not how it works can go fuck themselves." He feels more sure about this than anything else, and that certainty only grew as he said it. All of him is in agreement; this choice burns just as hot and bright as his own inner demon. He'd chosen to protect humans, then, and now he chooses to protect his brother, too. From himself if he has to, but that's fine. He's never just letting him walk away, alone, again.

[dualtoned]

@multiimuse hey red turn on ur location rq i promise i just wanna talk

[propagates]

honestly fuck @multiimuse i'm crying in the bathroom closet at work (not really but oof i'm having some feelings)

[klngmax]

***DISCLAIMER  This is a zombie apocalypse AU so there WILL be violence, death and very dark subjects. If you are faint of heart or can’t handle angst and/or violence, this group verse is NOT for you! Dark and mature themes are and not limited to cannibalism, graphic violence, alcohol, drug use, suicide mention, mental illness, experimentation etc.

Ambition, obsession to prove one's worth and thirst for knowledge and recognition without doubt absolutely to their actions. But with their recklessness gone unchecked by a watchful eye... results in something catastrophic that tears apart the governments and as the world around us crumbles? The dead rise, the people fall by brothers and sisters hands in desperation as we struggle to survive day to day- with utmost conviction. So that in the future: we the lost children strive in hopes of rebuilding anew as we search for a cure in a race against time.

These are the lost days of our lives.

A discord centered verse for a multi-fandom, OC friendly, Zombie Apocalypse AU!

how to join.

Message @klngmax to reserve a character.

Have a discord account on the ready to join the server.

guidelines.

Duplicates are not accepted, it’s first come first served.

You are allowed to opt in TWO characters in case your character isn’t needed for a scene and/or a character is killed off for plot.

If you absolutely do not want your character killed off or are not okay with your main character being killed off, let us know and we’ll accommodate you.

Dedication to a degree with important characters integral to the plot is required and expected for roles such as Neil. Mainly as the example character isn’t going to be highly liked by a lot of the other characters, so you must be able to handle your muse under a lot of duress in scenarios such as this on a day to day basis IC. Along with having greater significance in staying for the group verse.

Must be able to handle dark themes and potential harm to your character.

No killing off a character without consent from mun’s and admins/mod.

IC does NOT = OOC

No sexism/racism/homophobia/transphobia/pedophilia etc talk whatsoever.

Drama free

contact for more info.

Admin Lydia @klngmax (she/her)

Mod Goopy @pussies4life (she/her)

Mod Danny @campydays (she/her)

Mod Ashe @ofncture (she/her)

***special thanks to @ateloist for the promo banner!!!

taken characters the cut.

Max (CC): @klngmax Jasper (CC): @klngmax Link (WW:LOZ): @klngmax  / @scalonging David (CC): @campydays Ered (CC): @pussies4life QuarterMaster (CC): @pussies4life Nikki (CC): @ofncture  Nurf (CC): @lostbully Harrison (CC): @ateloist Nerris (CC): @ateloist Space Kid (CC): @fcralnaturcd Gwen (CC): @multiimused Dexter (DL): @builtperil Paul (DL): @paul-ite Preston (CC): @multicampers Tobey (WG): @multicampers Barbor (OC): @an-ordinary-roach  Dendy (OK): @fcralnaturcd Pikeman (CC): acnedemicleader Petrol (CC):  acnedemicleader Ness (EB): @purified-little-monster Blues (PM): @purified-little-monster Neil (CC): @klngmax Tiffany (OC): @tracethemaincharacter Bendy (BATIM): @inkmachine Fir (OC): @hopeful-hugz Time Man (MegaMan): @hopeful-hugz Fin (AT): @fleshero

will be updated accordingly!

[blackjacketmuses]

@multiimuse

Two months and six days after Mundus fell, after they lost Vergil. That’s how long it took before he showed up again. Dante’s brother. The boy she’d loved, maybe still did, she wasn’t sure--- she remembered, now, what they’d very nearly had, what he’d run away from (remembered her fire; she doesn’t think he intended to take that much away but he had, and she’s really glad it’s back), and she’s smart enough to know that the Vergil she’d known was broken too. Oh, she couldn’t guess at how, but she could guess that he was a wreck. After all, why run so hard from your own emotions? Why keep everyone else at arms’ length, even your own brother? Why...why do what he did, in the end? And why do this now--- god, it hurt to look at him on the astral level, look at his soul. Torn apart like a bird worrying at its feathers to the point where it was small and shredded, holes dotting it like he’d cut things way, clean sharp edges like Yamato’s work...she’d never looked at it like this before; maybe she’d have been able to do something if she had.

Though even now it’s not like she can do much. She’s still learning how to do any sort of magic, control her projections, she doesn’t know how to heal those wounds. She doesn’t even know a way to get them to stop fighting beyond tossing some bottled incendiary spells, and she doesn’t want to do that to either of the boys. She can only watch as they fight, the broken and torn apart Vergil and Dante, poor Dante, bleeding hurt and pain that he’s so good at masking with anger. Though--- if she tries, maybe--- the worlds are merged, now, like they were at Hellfire---! She reaches, reaches frantically, not wanting to send Vergil away but not sure how else to stop, maybe she can just send him a few feet away, startle them? Where, she needs to find a weakness in the world, just a little---

She is really, really not expecting them all to fall through a rift, the only other sign of it Yamato blazing with light as blue surrounds them. 

It was supposed to be a pretty normal job, demons turning up in a little town just outside the city. Supposed to be. Hell, Dante had figured it was gonna be a fun day trip! Bring Vergil and Dad, and they could all stab some demons and have a good time. Family bonding, Sparda-fam style. But noooo. The first red flag was that none of the demons were any sort he recognized, or any Dad recognized, a little similar to some but just left of center. Still easy to kill, though. Demons were demons, no matter what they looked like.

But then they get to the epicenter, and--- there are kids there (okay, 20-somethings, but they’re kids, damn it, if he’s old enough to be their dad, he’s counting it). At first he thinks they’re stuck in the crossfire, but then he realizes a few things: first, there’s something weird about them, something that prickles his skin; second, the two boys are rolling around on the ground in a pure childish sibling fistfight --- he’s done enough of those himself to recognize it immediately --- and third, they both have white hair, and the girl with them is standing a few feet away clutching a pair of swords to her chest. One’s a longsword, with a twisted looking grip, and the other is a katana. He’s about to say something, maybe, but then Dad pushes past both of them, releasing whichever Arm he’s been using, and holy shit he hasn’t seen Dad pull a Dad since they were six and had been caught planning how best to jump into their kiddie pool from the roof. But he feels that, and he stops and watches.

Sparda, for his part, knows exactly what these two children are, if not who exactly --- he’s seen nephilim, and that’s what they are, young and raw and damaged. Their race is rare, but he smells a rift in the air, tainted by strange magic, and he’s fairly sure they aren’t from anywhere close. Their familiarity, it’s...it’s telling, though, and its’ very easy to slip into a paternal sort of anger that lets him storm to them, grabbing the children by their collars (hells, the one in the scruffy leather jacket is damaged enough, soul battered and teeth bared, spitting curses to hide the pain rolling off him in waves, but the other in the tattered blue suit has torn himself to shreds) and yanking them apart. “Quiet down, now,” he snarls, demonic inflection bleeding into his tone as he presses power into them, and the one at least stops immediately, eyes wide and mouth half-open. That done and both of them temporarily quelled, he turns to the girl, staring at them with wide, stunned eyes, flickering from face to face and then lingering overlong on Vergil before she forces herself to look at the man addressing her. “Now,” he says, more gently. “Can you tell us what’s going on, young lady?”

[multiplanetarysystem]

@multiimuse

She was an idiot. A complete idiot. She’d let Mana talk her into drinking [something that was never happening again], she’s made a fool of herself in front of Vergil, and she had a headache that was still persisting. But with the headache at least being manageable after more sleep, she found herself needing to make a call.

She needed to apologize to Vergil, and pray that he hadn’t put her words together into just why he meant so much to her. Of course, that meant she was calling the office. Which meant she prayed that no one but Vergil answered it because she wasn’t sure she could handle the embarrassment that might ensue.

“Hello? This is Maigo...may I speak to Vergil?”

[crimeperfected]

“i don’t like to brag. i LOVE to brag.” [from Ranpo, because I couldn't resist]

@multiimuse / sonic boom startersaccepting

“You sure do,” Oguri says beneath his breath, the words more to himself than to the detective. World’s greatest detective! he’s been reminded more than six times over the course of knowing him (which isn’t long at all, which renders that number impressive).

More audibly, pinching the bridge of his nose, he says, “Go ahead and brag to get it out of the way, then.” A little optimistic of him to expect Ranpo to ever be done bragging, but maybe for a few minutes, at least.

[alandeathweaver]

@multiimuse

It shouldn’t be this easy to take these creatures down. Hajime’s fairly certain he’s never seen them before, never dealt with them - he doesn’t even know what they’re called. (Or… he’s as certain as he can be with his memory as scattered to the winds as it is, anyway.) But it’s barely even a challenge to realize their weak point - the crystal in their eye - and focus on that, utilizing spellwork he doesn’t remember learning, doesn’t remember being capable of doing, all while dodging flailing, disintegrating hands and making more noise than he would like splashing around in the salt water of - Loch Seld, right, that’s what this place is called, the knowledge slotting into his mind like it’s always been there.

Regardless, down they go, and he dusts his hands off on his pants and turns to the eyes he felt on him during the conflict. He hadn’t worried about it in the moment because there didn’t seem to be any hostile intent from his observer, but now that it’s over he’s… not sure what to do. His head is aching again, the world distant and difficult to engage with, and his instinct is to ignore the stranger, to brush her off and go on his way - but…

She’s speaking to him, a voice soft with concern, and— she’s in pain from something, sadness that pierces his own heart and bleeds color back into the world, allowing him to shake off the spell and try to smile instead. “I— yes. I’m… I’m fine, thanks. You didn’t need to worry about me, miss…?”

He’s a mostly-ordinary looking boy, despite the skill he just displayed - dressed in simple traveling clothes, facial structure hinting at heritage from somewhere in the Far East, with messy brown hair that sticks out every which way (including one noticeably-longer cowlick right on top of his head), a decent height for a Hyur but nothing too unusual, and he’s visibly in good health. But his eyes stand out: one hazel green, one bright crimson, and for a moment as he looks over the woman who has been watching him, they almost seem to glow from within.

“Alan,” she says by way of introduction --- she’s used to introducing herself the Eorzean way by now, given name first, though it’s still a little awkward. “Alan Shinui. I’m glad to know you’re alright.” And she is. There has been too much in her life that’s gone wrong or tends to go wrong for her to leave something small and good unappreciated. But still, as she looks over the boy, she’s certain something is amiss. She’s not a mage by birth, only by training, so she has little of the sensitivity to certain things that others she knows have, but even so, there is something definitely wrong with his aether. It feels like there’s too much of it, and it’s...not quite right somehow. Manufactured, like the sense she got from Fordola or Zenos, but not exactly.

It’s worrying, especially with the blankness in his expression and the shakiness of his smile and how unnaturally skilled he seemed in combat. “May I ask your name?” She inquires politely. She hopes he can communicate coherently, given how disjointed his greeting seemed...ahh, she might end up asking him to come to the Stones with her. The person she’d want to introduce him to is...he’s...he isn’t available, but Natan is, and he might also be able to help if help is needed. But she would rather assess the situation first. If there is reason to try to aid him, then she will (though she’ll have to figure out a way to convince him without him panicking or bolting or fighting), but...it’s something she needs to be careful of, like handling a skittish animal.

She smiles at him, returning the expression, and looks him over while well aware he’s likely doing the same to her. And she wonders what he puts together from that assessment --- a small, petite Au Ra, dark of scale and faded violet of skin, with short burgundy hair and dark clothing, a katana at her waist, and her eyes, unique and opalescent, pupilless white, not quite like the eyes of the blind but near enough. She’s sure he might sense something in her, but she won’t know what unless he says, and...well, depending, that might help her figure out her answer. Someone who knows too much and can see too much for the unassuming teenage boy he seems to be can’t be natural, and that’s worth worrying about.

[blackjacketmuses]

multiimuse‌:

Something is wrong here. Chuuya thinks that were this at any other time he’d have already gotten angry at what Dazai’s saying and what he’s implying. He’d have him pinned down as playing games again and this would turn into a fight. But— right now, this close together, with both of them vulnerable, he can see in the other man’s eyes that he’s just as confused as he is, just as hurt, and… something about that isn’t right. It drains the anger away before it can form, so all he does is frown and fumbles for Dazai’s fingers with his own. Something is wrong here, something… something about what went wrong back then doesn’t sound like it’s what he’d known it was, at least not in the other man’s eyes, because if he’s being honest — and for once, Chuuya can read that honesty in his eyes, he knows he’s not just being messed with; not here, not when he can see Dazai’s scarring because the bandages are gone. 

“…You were busy,” he says, hunting through his memories for everything that had left him hurting and abandoned long before the other man had actually turned traitor. “There was too much you were in charge of, too many subordinates and operations to manage, and — you know me, Dazai, I was a front-liner, and we were securing so many interests outside of Yokohama that someone had to go and make sure no-one got any stupid ideas about fighting back.” Chuuya pauses, frown growing. “I… asked if we’d be going together, at first, but you were needed here and couldn’t be risked for shit like that, not with the way profits were growing. You were doing things that were too valuable to waste on the kind of work I was good at, anymore, and too busy to do anything fun.” 

Dazai had become truly important; their teamwork wasn’t needed the same way it had once been, and he hadn’t… he hadn’t needed Chuuya any more. If he strains his memory, he can remember when he hadn’t believed that, when he’d thought that idea was stupid, that all he had to do was ask one more time, leave one more message and maybe the stupid mackerel would finally see sense and stop screwing with him, but… he can’t pinpoint a time when he’d become certain that there wasn’t and never had been anything. He can’t — it was too gradual, the teasing and at times vicious (but always trusting, always with that unspoken understanding) partnership fading and dying until they were back at where they had begun and worse, because it had never meant anything to Dazai in he first place…

But here he is, saying that isn’t — and wasn’t — the case. That he did care, from that first glimpse he’d thought he’d seen after that first Corruption. It was real? “…I didn’t hate you,” Chuuya admits in turn, the words coming slowly, the admission almost painful in light of all the vitriol that has shaped and been the main aspect of their relationship for so long. “I wanted to, by the time things fell apart, and I made myself think I did after you left, because— how could I not, you know I hate being jerked around and being played for a fool, and I thought…” That’s all it had ever been, he’d been so sure of that, especially when they’d reunited and Dazai had made it clear he was just there to mess with him in some twisted form of nostalgia. Except— if he had been wrong about that, then… then what’s going on? What had happened to them? “I can’t point to any specific thing to say ‘that’s it, that’s the moment someone fucked up’. I’d give you that if I could, but I can’t, because— because there isn’t anything like that…” 

He pauses, going quiet as he runs his mind over what Dazai has said, and his mind catches on one thing. “Wait,” he murmurs, frowning. “Dazai. You… make it sound like I asked for those out-of-town missions. I took the first one because I thought it’d let me clear my head to get away, but the others weren’t like that. I went out on orders.” Dazai knows better than anyone that you can’t refuse orders in the mafia, not if you want to survive. Sure, you can piss and moan about them, and if you really hate them you can try to wiggle things around to be more favorable to you, but refusing orders — especially from an executive or from the Boss — is tantamount to asking for an execution, and Chuuya likes living, thank you. “Like I said, I tried to get you involved a few times, but…” He shrugs. “You’d know better than I do why you never came along.” 

Dazai's brow furrows as Chuuya talks, hurt and confusion still there but mingling with something thoughtful. His thinking expression, faint frown on his face --- his eyes haven't gone dark yet, though, still soft and anxious. It was true he'd been busy, and it was true you could pinpoint half of the mafia's profits those last two years solely from him, but... "I would have made time for you," he says slowly. "I had the authority to do whatever I wanted. If you had...if I had thought you wanted to..." Asked if they'd be going together? He'd never been told that. "You asked...?"

He bows his head, pressing it into Chuuya's shoulder to think. His thoughts stop dead, though, when Chuuya speaks again, and his head shoots up to stare at Chuuya like he's started speaking a foreign language. "You didn't hate me...?" He repeats, stunned. He hadn't hated him? He'd wanted to, but he hadn't? Then what had their reunion been? It didn't... "I know you hate being screwed with. You know I know you hate it. I always...after a while I stopped doing it just to annoy you and because your reactions were fun, you would react, you wouldn't be too afraid of me to call me names back. I stopped meaning it just to mess with you, and it was---"

He shakes his head. He really doesn't know how to phrase it. He doesn't even know if it's believable. But it's true. It had started to be different with Chuuya. Everyone else had been scared of him, nameless faces in a sea of suits and sunglasses; they had been toys, playthings, nothing worth valuing because their only reactions were obeisance and fear. But Chuuya had played along, bit back, gave as good as he got. Laughed at him. Treated him like an idiot, like an obnoxious equal. Chuuya had called him mackerel. So it had stopped being like everyone else, stopped being puppets on strings or stupid background cutouts, had started being to get a reaction, to start a fight, to pull Chuuya into fun, into arguments, into warm and lively bickering. It wasn't just to annoy him, though annoying him was fun. It was more than that. It meant something. But he can't out that into words. All he can do is hope it makes sense.

But... Chuuya continues, asking him about the missions out of town, and his face drops into confusion. "What?" He asks. "No. No, I...you didn't? Chuuya, what do you mean you were ordered? I never heard about any of them. You'd be around, but by the time I was able to get away to go pester you you'd left already and I'd find out you'd left days ago. I always waited for you to come back, but I never heard from you when you did. So I stopped looking. I thought...you were avoiding me." He shakes his head. "I never once got a message about going with you. I thought you didn't want me to... that you didn't want to see me." He'd have gone in a second if he had heard. Going out of town with Chuuya would have sounded like a blast. And--- "For that matter, I kept trying to get your help with things on my end," he adds. "I didn't like working alone, it was boring, and as much as I-I liked Odasaku," he has to pause briefly like he's poked a sore spot. "As much as I liked him, there were a lot of things he wouldn't do, and he didn't play the same way you did. I missed you. But every time I tried to get you to help, you were g---"

He stops like he's been slapped, eyes going wide. They'd both tried to communicate with the other, but had been unable to. There was something wrong there. Pushed away from each other, thinking the worst, just when he'd...his eyes narrow and go dark now, and his voice is quiet. "Chuuya," he asks. "Who always gave you your orders to go out of town?" If he's right --- and he thinks he is, because it makes sense both characteristically and strategically --- then he was wrong. He could actually hate Mori more than he did before.

[strangefellows]

multiimuse replied to your post: HERE HE IS HERE’S THE BOY. THE ULTIMATE COCKBLOCK....

//Look at him projecting everywhere

“He took all of my sorrow, my sadness, my pain-- and turned it all into rage.”

gOOD LORD, is he projecting. this is Organization Project Our Issues Onto Others, honestly. 

that or they run away from them at top speed, DEMYX.