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goddessapostle · 9 months

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The Makings of a Mess

Fandom: Genshin Impact Characters: Kaveh, Minor Alhaitahm, still Kavetham Warnings: Violence, Suicide threat/reference, Non-consensual kissing Summary: Mehrak comes to him on day six. No, wait, that's not true. Mehrak comes on day two; it only feels like it's been six days. Alhaitham isn't sure why time has tripled in Kaveh's absence. It never has before. Ah, but then, Kaveh's not just absent, is he? He's missing.

5.8k // AO3 // Masterlist

Kaveh doesn't know when the best years of his life happened.

Was it when he was a child, young and carefree and careless enough to kill his father?

Or was it when he was freshly graduated, hopeful to bring art into an increasingly artless climate?

Or perhaps it was building the Palace of Alcazarzary, despite the fact that it left him broke and homeless.

The weeks following that certainly did not count. Not when he spent every morning trying to gain control over his new Vision and every night deliriously drunk.

It was only Alhaitham that provided him solace in that time — everyone else, save for Lambad, thought he was just living the life accompanied by his title. He's never been sure just how Alhaitham saw through his ruse. But since moving in together, it's been….

Well. It hasn't been great but it hasn't been terrible, either. Alhaitham gives him free reign of the house, whether to live or to decorate, and while his beer seems to 'mysteriously' disappear, other drinks are left to take its place. Not all are alcoholic, and Kaveh's half sure it's meant as a discouragement to drinking. So he makes a promise to himself — no more drinking, save for those nights he's out with Cyno and Tighnari.

He's actually grateful for the chance to sober up when a cup of sake is set in front of him.

"It's imported," says the man — Aizen? Aziz? Something with an 'A' and a 'Z' — before he downs his own cup. "Straight from Inazuma. You should try it." The man gives a cruel grin.

"Mm," hums Kaveh. "I wish I could. But my hands are tied at the moment."

At this, Azia guffaws. "See?" he says, cuffing Kaveh on the shoulder. "I knew it was a good idea to let him keep his Vision. He's a riot!"

Kaveh grits his teeth as he's jostled. He does not want any of these men touching any part of him. Not unless it's to let him go.

Because his hands are tied, not just by the promise — they've been wrenched behind his back and secured with the roughest rope known to man. He wasn't trying to be funny, but maybe Cyno has rubbed off on him without his noticing.

"Here you go, Little Light." Aizik(that will be his name from now on, Kaveh decides) stands and moves to Kaveh's side of the table. One of his hands gingerly picks up the clay cup, the other yanks Kaveh's head back with a fistful of hair. Kaveh cries out, Aizik dumps the sake into his open mouth.

He gasps and it floods his airway.

His scalp burns as he jerks forward. His chest heaves, he coughs and gags. The sake spills from his mouth and nose, pooling on the surface of the table.

"Hey!" Aizik shouts. His hand slams against Kaveh's cheek, splitting the skin where his heavy ring hit. "Do you have any idea how expensive that shit is?"

A rage the likes of which Kaveh has never before felt blooms alongside the blood on his tongue.

He hears one of the other Eremites gulp.

"Hey, boss?" a woman stutters. "Maybe, uh, maybe we should take his Vision."

"Pah!" Aizik waves her off. "We took his weapon already. What's he gonna do? Besides," he sinks onto the bench across from Kaveh, "have you seen that little Rtawahist girl? She can barely swing a sword!"

Wait a damn minute–

Is he talking about Layla?

Now that makes Kaveh's blood begin to boil. Layla may not be the strongest physically, but she's a bright student and dependable ally! The number of times she's saved his life with her quick shielding is immeasurable. He glares at Aizik, letting his rage simmer between them.

Aizik bursts into laughter. "Got a problem, Little Light?" he asks.

"Don't badmouth her!" Kaveh hisses.

Aizik smirks. "Touchy subject, huh? She your little girlfriend? Maybe we ought to go collect her, too."

Kaveh lurches forward as far as the table allows. "Don't you touch her!"

Aizik smiles and forces him back down. He waves his hand to the crowd, and two come forward to tie Kaveh to the bench.

"Don't you worry your pretty little head," Aizik says. "We're not looking for your sidepiece." He takes Kaveh's chin and tilts his head back and forth, studying everything from his red eyes to the blood dripping down his cheek.

"You know," Aizik says, "you'd make a killing in a whorehouse. Everyone would line up for a piece o' you. We could sell you to the highest bidder." He drops his hand back to the jug of sake. "But I have a better idea.

"You're worth a pretty penny on your own, but to the right person, you'd be worth the world, I bet."

Kaveh raises a brow. "And who do you suggest would pay the world for me?"

"You don't know?" Aizik pours himself another cup of sake, this time sipping at it. "We catch you together all the time."

Tighnari or Cyno. It has to be one of them.

"And from the way he looks at you, it's clear just how much you mean to him."

….wait. Tighnari and Cyno are together. And, as much as Kaveh would love to be included in their lives, he knows that is not the case. He frowns at Aizik. "There's no one who looks at me like that."

"He does." Aizik shrugs. "Looks at ya like your worth… oh, say, five million mora? Guess we'll see if he really does value you that much."

Kaveh's mouth drops open. "Five million?!" There is not a single soul in Teyvat who would consider him so highly.

Then again, kidnappers don't really care for that, do they? All they see when they look at people is a pile of mora.

Kaveh wants to slam his head into the table, but his chest has been secured to the backrest of his bench. "You're an idiot," he says instead. "There's no one in Sumeru that even has that kind of money!"

Except for Dori, of course. But Kaveh would much rather be sold to the whorehouse than end up in more debt to her.

"Maybe not individually," Aizik agrees, "but he has access to all of Sumeru's finances. I'm sure he could figure it out."

Someone who has access to all of Sumeru's finances? The only people with that kind of authority are the sages. And considering that most of the sages are still exiled or injured….

"You don't mean Alhaitham?!"

Aizik's smile widens.

Ooooooooh, Kaveh is screwed. Literally, considering the whorehouse is more likely to pay his ransom than Alhaitham.

Kaveh sighs. "You're making a mistake. Alhaitham doesn't like me like… that."

ʚїɞ

Mehrak comes to him on day six.

No, wait, that's not true. Mehrak comes on day two; it only feels like it's been six days. Alhaitham isn't sure why time has tripled in Kaveh's absence. It never has before.

Ah, but then, Kaveh's not just absent, is he?

He's missing.

Alhaitham paces the space between their sofas. One for Kaveh, the other for him.

It was a plain box. It didn't have an address. It didn't even have a name. He must have skipped over it several times.

Because Kaveh was missing.

It was a regular outing. Kaveh, Cyno, Tighnari. At Lambad's. Alhaitham passed because of the book he wanted to read. (The unfinished book is now a pile of ashes in his fireplace.)

Kaveh got very drunk that night. He was barely awake and stumbled every time he tried to move. That's what Lambad said, anyway. It's why he stepped out to send someone for Alhaitham. Kaveh was gone by the time he came back.

As if that wasn't worrying enough, Cyno revealed that Kaveh was only slightly tipsy when he left ten minutes earlier.

So Kaveh was not drunk.

He had been drugged.

ʚїɞ

Kaveh tilts his head as far back as it can go, but Aizik is relentless. He grabs a fistful of Kaveh's hair and forces their lips together. Sake floods his tongue, carried to him by Aizik's mouth and followed by his tongue. A hand pinches his nose, and Kaveh has no choice but to swallow the alcohol to breathe.

Aizik leans back, licking his lips. "Told you it was good. Let me know if you want more." Kaveh thinks he winks, but it's hard to tell behind the ribbon that covers his eyes.

Kaveh wrinkles his nose. "Let me take the whole thing back to Lambad. I'm sure he'd cut a deal with you."

Aizik waves his hand. "Too slow. Kind of like your roomie. It's been, what, a day since we dropped off the ransom note?" He looks around for confirmation.

"Even if," Kaveh begins, "and that's a very big if, Alhaitham did decide to pay, he'd need more than a day to gather the funds. Even the Grand Sage has limits."

"Right," Aizik nods, "like your newly freed god." He plants his chin in his hand. "You have a point, Little Light. We gave him three days. I thought he'd be out looking for you by now, but he hasn't left his house."

Kaveh frowns, tilting his head to the side. That's doesn't sound quite right; if his timing is correct, it's a weekday. Alhaitham should be in his office at the Akademiya.

But then, Kaveh was out for who knows how long. "What day is it?" he asks, just to be sure.

Aizik hums. "Tuesday?" he says after some deliberation. "Yeah, Tuesday."

Kaveh raises a brow in confusion. "He should be at work."

"Nope." Aizik shakes his head. "Hasn't left since we took you.

"He hasn't? But how would you…. Wait, have you been spying on us?!"

"We were spying on the Grand Sage." Aizik swirls the jug of sake around before pouring another cup. "Imagine our surprise when we saw that the Light of Kshrewar shared a life with him.

"Our original plan was to nab the Grand Sage and demand payment from Kusanali. But you know, dealing with humans is much safer than dealing with gods. Gods can kill ya just by looking at you funny."

Kaveh, while he has never personally met Lord Kusanali, knows she is not so cruel. She would let Cyno and his unwavering morals deal with apprehending any criminals, then pass judgment based on evidence and give a fair punishment.

"I don't think you know your Archon very well," Kaveh says.

Aizik shrugs.

Kaveh sighs. How did he get into this? He remembers Cyno escorting Tighnari from the bar, both lightly drunk. And while Kaveh had a bit of a buzz, it wasn't enough to pass out on the way home. His memories turn to fuzz, then, at the juncture of one drink and another. When he woke, he was already bound.

He tests the bonds now, wrists scraping against rope. They were tightened when his torso was bound. No wiggling out.

Aizik stands, lightly tapping Kaveh's cheek. "That's enough chit-chat for now. It's late, and we need some rest."

He motions for the Eremites to leave. Two of them stand back; probable guards appointmented in some way Kaveh didn't catch. "Boss," says the one with long hair, "shouldn't we move him to the steel cage? His Vision is Dendro…"

"Bah!" Aizik smacks him over the back. "You worried about the bench? Thing's wood, not grass. That tree's been dead for ten years! He won't be causing any trouble."

Both guards relax. Aizik begins to leave.

"Wait!" Kaveh shouts. "You're going to leave me tied up? I can't sleep like this!"

"Aww." Aizik walks back over to him and leans down. "If you want," he says, sneaking a hand down the back of Kaveh's shirt, "you can come to bed with me. Give ya a taste of life in the brothel."

Kaveh shivers at the touch, disgust rolling through his stomach. He grits his teeth against the bile that threatens to rise in his throat.

Aizik leans closer until he can shove his tongue into Kaveh's mouth.

Kaveh tries to stop himself. He really, truly does.

He bites. Hard. Hard enough to taste copper from blood that isn't his.

"Son of a bitch!" Aizik falls backwards, landing on his ass. Kaveh spits the blood to the floor between his legs.

Aizik rises and backhands Kaveh. His ring cuts another gash on his cheek. Both of his hands squeeze Kaveh's throat. "Think you're clever?" he seethes.

Kaveh's jaw drops, trying to breathe.

His vision darkens.

He's on the edge of unconscious when the hands pull away. He gasps, letting air fill his lungs. His head is still fuzzy, still unable to process the movement beside him.

It clears at the thunk! of a dagger.

One that's dangerously close to his hand.

He blinks up at Aizik, holding his right hand by the wrist.

Aizik forces his palm flat against the table.

He drives the dagger through the middle.

Kaveh screams.

ʚїɞ

Cyno paces Alhaitham's office.

It's very distracting.

Not that he's been able to focus in the last three days.

"I know you two are stressed," Lord Kusanali begins, "but you must rest. Kaveh cannot be rescued if you are unable to fight."

"We will find him," Alhaitham says, "and we will be well enough to take him back. Trust me." He leans his elbows on his desk, hands clasped before his face. There's a darkness in his expression that Lord Kusanali also finds in Cyno's face.

She sighs. "This is a personal case for both of you. Just… try not to take things too far."

"I do not let personal matters cloud my judgement." Cyno hisses for perhaps the fifth time.

Lord Kusanali doesn't bother looking to Alhaitham. He cannot make such a promise. His fingers burn already with the desire to slit the throats of whoever conspired against him.

The ransom note sits on his desk.

5 million, 3 days written on a scrap of paper, the handwriting rough and unpolished. The other side is a crudely drawn map with an 'X' at the dropoff point.

Alhaitham doesn't have the mora. Nor does he plan to prepare it. He has Cyno. He has the matra. He has his own blade.

And he plans to put them all to good use.

ʚїɞ

The blood is sticky, even after it dries.

Kaveh thought blood flaked if it wasn't absorbed. But his fingers stick to the table.

Or perhaps he just can't lift them.

He's not sure if that's a physical limit or a mental one. The dagger still pins his hand to the table, after all.

Aizik didn't bother to remove it when he left. And that was hours ago. Maybe days? Time has blurred together, marked only by the pain in his hand. (A deep throbbing at this point.)

His head spins. When did he eat last? When was he given any water? His stomach turns, far past the point of grumbling for food. He's not sure he'd be able to keep any down, anyway.

His own blood spreads across the table, puddled where spit-up sake once was.

Gods, is he glad he's ambidextrous. He won't be able to use his right hand to work for quite a while. Maybe never, if he doesn't get medical attention soon.

He won't get it from these mercanaries. He knows that much.

Kaveh finally tilts his head to the door of the chamber. Two guards — different than the ones left before — regard him with cold gazes before turning their backs to him.

What kind of idiot leaves a hostage in a room with an open doorway?

The same kind of idiot that ties a Vision bearer to the element of their Vision.

The wood is dead.

The Dendro inside it isn't.

Kaveh has felt it — small pulses of energy reacting to his Vision — since the moment he woke. It's just a little harder to manipulate than a live tree.

Every moment not spent in agonizing pain was focused on gathering that energy into his fingertips. His blood seeping into the wood helped, actually, to share his own energy with it. He’s managed to create a small blade in his left hand, no bigger than the dagger buried in his right.

The ropes slacken. Slowly, gently, he presses his left hand to the bottom of the table under his right. The wood dissolves, freeing his hand in a more silent, less painful way than pulling the dagger free. It’s still stuck through his palm, rendering his hand useless.

Kaveh wishes now more than ever he had learned to fight with a sword. Alhaitham has often offered, after sparring sessions that left them both winded and bruised, but he’s always declined. His claymore is enough, he’d said, and hits plenty hard.

Just a shame it takes two hands to wield.

Kaveh grabs the handle of the dagger and begins to force his own power into it. It doesn't take much until the dagger is his and he's able to dismiss it to the same space he keeps Mehrak and his claymore.

Blood drips from his hand. He can bend his fingers, but only a tiny bit. His grip is completely gone.

He glances at the door. Both guards ignore him.

His gaze travels the room. It's a plain space, no furniture save for the table and benches, and dimly lit by candles. There are, unfortunately, no windows. He'd been hoping to sneak out, but he has no option except to fight.

He summons the metal dagger and uses it to cut strips from his shirt. He wraps the strips around his right hand, using them to secure the dagger to it as well. Grip won't be a problem if the weapon is tied to him.

He ties the point opposite of his thumb. He doesn't want to give them a chance to use it against him.

He carefully slides the bench back. It makes a single scrape on the ground.

That's enough for one of the guards to turn.

Kaveh jumps over the table and punches him in the face before he can speak. Then he holds the metal blade to his throat.

"Not a word," he says to the other one, pointing his wooden knife at her. "Get the rope."

She lifts her spear and calls for backup.

Kaveh curses. He shoves the other guard at her. They both fall to the ground.

But there are footsteps ringing in the distance, coming from her direction.

Kaveh runs the other way. Eremites surge from every doorway he passes.

He loses count of how many he has to stab.

He only hopes they're not dead.

Kaveh only stops when he slams into a behemoth of a man.

The man lifts Kaveh by his shirt and slams him into the ground. He coughs, spittle flying into the air. There is going to be a huge bruise on his back tomorrow.

Or maybe he won't be covered in bruises tomorrow. Maybe he'll be dead long before then.

The man pins Kaveh with a knee on his chest and a hand on his throat. Kaveh stabs the man's arm with both blades. He only grunts.

Kaveh stabs again. And again. "Let go!" he shouts. "I don't want to kill you!"

"Killing is your only option," says a voice that makes Kaveh's skin crawl. Aizik leans over and pats the man's shoulder. "This one's more scared of me than he is death." He lowers the collar of the man's shirt to reveal a chest full of branding scars.

The man lifts Kaveh by the neck and carries him to a dining hall. A fire blazes against one wall.

Kaveh squirms as the remains of his shirt are ripped away.

"Now," Aizik says, pulling an iron poker from between the burning logs, "I don't have that particular seal here. But this will work just as well."

He jams the pointed red tip into Kaveh's side.

It burns.

Gods it burns!

It's the only thing he feels, the heat spreading up his ribs. He tries to scream, he tries to plead, but his lungs freeze. The best he can manage is a choked cry.

Aizik twists the poker deeper before he removes it. Kaveh hangs limp in the other man's arms. The scent of burning flesh rises to his nose, and it takes more than a moment to recognize it as his.

Aizik stabs his other side.

Somehow, that is worse.

Kaveh gasps when Aizik twists the poker again and throws it back into the fire.

Kaveh can't think. He can't even breathe.

"Come on," Aizik says to the man restraining him. "We'll put him in a proper cell this time. I'll teach him the same things I taught you."

No, Kaveh's addled mind objects. I won't go. The man shifts him, forces him to his feet with one hand around the back of his neck. I won't go!

His claymore appears between his captor's shoulder and elbow. The arm falls to the ground.

Kaveh falls with it. He rips the hand from his throat and dismisses the dagger.

He picks up his claymore, ignoring the pain in his back, his hand, his hips. Then he begins to swing.

Left.

Aizik shouts something.

Right.

He doesn't hear.

Left.

He doesn't see.

Down.

The sun warms his face.

He's out. He got out! He can run, now, run for help—

His feet slip in sand. He falls on his face.

He might as well have never felt hope with how quick it dissipates into the dry desert air.

He has no idea where he is.

He will never make it home.

He leans against his claymore to stand again. His makeshift bandages have fallen from his right hand; his blood makes it difficult to grip. Aizik and his Eremites exit a fortress ruin. Kaveh turns, claymore angled between them.

There are ten, fifteen of them? How is he going to fight?

Two arrows sink into his left arm. His claymore falls.

He grips his left shoulder with his right hand.

"Come now, Little Light," Aizik says. He has a sword in either hand, both leaning against his shoulders. "You can't survive on your own. You don't even know where the closest town is. Come back. I'll even let you join us!" Aizik twirls the blades around. "We have a few sudden openings in our ranks. Oh, but," he smiles with too much teeth, "I will have to punish you for creating them."

Fuck. Fuck! Did he– how many–

Kaveh's hands begin to shake. He shakes his head to distract from them. "I'm not going back."

"You are," Aizik says, "you don't have a choice." He eyes the arrows in Kaveh's arm. "You can't even hold your weapon."

Kaveh frowns.

He can't hold the claymore, true. But it is not his only weapon. He summons the dagger to his right hand.

Aizik laughs. "You can't fight us off with that!" He gestures to the roof of the ruins with his head. Lined across the top are a row of archers, crossbows aimed lazily for Kaveh.

Aizik is right. He can't fight.

But he can bargain.

He holds the point of the dagger to his own throat.

Aizik raises a brow. "What do ya think you'll achieve with that?" he asks. "We get the money either way."

Kaveh grits his teeth before he shouts. "Do you know who I am? Do you know who I know?" His chest heaves; he has to breathe before he can continue. "My best friends are the Head Forest Watcher of the Avidya Forest. The Acting Grand Sage. The General Mahamatra. What do you think happens if I die under your custody?"

He laughs, wild and frantic and half delirious. "It won't end well for you. They will hunt you down until your very last breath. It won't take long, either. Cyno's a master hunter. He will find you."

Kaveh presses the knife into his skin until a thin line of blood trickles down his neck. "Give me food and water, and then let me go. I won't say a word. I'll forget this ever happened."

It's a reach. Gods, is it a reach. But he is not scared if this is how he dies.

He's only scared of what they will do to him after.

Aizik stares. For a long, torturous moment, he stares without saying anything. Then he smirks.

"Let them try."

Aizik lifts a sword from his shoulder to point to the sky. The archers ready their crossbows, hone their aim.

Kaveh shuts his eyes to offer one final, silent prayer.

The result will be the same either way, a voice whispers, soft and sweet inside his head. Please, please, don't do this to yourself.

Yes, Kaveh agrees. Kaveh will die, right here and right now.

But there will be no more debt. There will be no debt, there will be no more drinking himself into a stupor, there will be no more annoying roommates.

Gods, if Alhaitham could see him now. Would he laugh? Would he mourn? Would he try to stop Kaveh, place himself between Kaveh and the thing that threatens his life?

Alhaitham is not here.

Kaveh will die, and his blood will spill across these sands, and his body will be carted off to the depths of the desert, and it will be used to feed vultures and coyotes and foxes.

And he will not give these mercenaries the satisfaction of killing him.

The trickle turns into a flow.

"You idiot!" Kaveh hears. He opens his eyes to green-tipped arrows flying above his head. The archers on the fortress drop their crossbows as their hands are pierced.

The relief is sudden; it takes every ounce of restraint Kaveh has to not collapse.

Aizik's eyes widen. "Run!" he calls out. "Retreat!"

The mercenaries scatter. Some return to the fortress, likely to run from another exit. Others go around, only to run into waiting matra.

Aizik scans the dunes around them — he's been completely surrounded.

Kaveh drops his hand from his throat.

Aizik raises both of his and throws his swords straight at Kaveh.

He has no strength to block or dodge.

He doesn't need it.

A flash of purple fills his vision, and metal clashes against metal as the swords are knocked away. An impressive figure stands before Kaveh, his element dancing along his spear.

If Tighnari came for him, Cyno did as well.

This is when Kaveh allows himself to fall. His knees finally falter, and he crumples to the ground. Cyno spares him half a second — far more than the stoic general would allow any unknown stranger — before he shouts to someone behind them. "Get him out of here!"

Cyno waits until there are hands on Kaveh's waist to follow Aizik into the ruins.

Kaveh is thrown unceremoniously over someone's shoulder. He gasps as something hard and hot digs into the burn on his stomach.

"Wait," he chokes out, "please, stop. It hurts."

The person slows, but doesn't stop. Kaveh grips at the cape swinging from their other shoulder…

Wait…

Wait! He knows that stupid fucking cape!

"Alhaitham?" he asks. Alhaitham turns his head to meet his gaze from the corner of his eye.

Kaveh blinks away tears. He starts laughing.

His vision blanks.

ʚїɞ

The woman above him is beautiful. She has rich dark skin that shines in the candlelight. Her hair is in tight curls, even darker than her skin. Her forehead is adorned with a silver-gold circlet, a crescent moon rising from the back of her head.

And her eyes — her eyes! One a deep blue, the other the color of amber. They are, perhaps, the most unique eyes Kaveh has ever seen.

Kaveh does not know who this woman is, but if he had to guess? One of those terrifyingly beautiful death gods Celestia sends to ease a soul's passing.

She must be able to read minds, because her mismatched eyes crinkle in a smile. "I am no god," she says, smoothing the hair from his forehead, "and you are not dead. Not even close."

He doesn't feel quite alive, though. Just breathing sends tremors of pain through his chest.

"Then who-?" he tries, but his voice rasps from his throat like it's filled with broken glass.

"Ah-ah," the woman says. She helps him sit and brings a glass of water to his lips.

Kaveh hisses at the pressure of her hand on his back. She whispers apologies.

"Well," he asks as she leans him to sit up against the pillows, "where am I?"

"Aaru Village," she answers. She puts a hand on her chest. "My name is Candace. I'm the guardian of this village."

"And what-what happened?"

He asks like he needs to be told. Like it isn't seared into his memory. Like the scars won't last forever. Like his body doesn't ache with the memory of pain.

Candace purses her lips before she answers. "Alhaitham brought you here after you passed out."

Alhaitham? Wait, no, that's right. It's the last thing he remembers, being carried off while thrown over Alhaitham's shoulder.

"How long has it been?" Kaveh asks.

"A day and a half. Your experience with the mercenaries must have worn you out." Candace sets another glass of water on the table beside the bed.

"You could say that." He lifts a hand to the bandages wrapped around his throat. Then he studies the ones around his right hand. He curls a finger, hissing when pain shoots up his arm. "How bad was the damage?"

Candace frowns. "We don't have any healers here, nor do we have proper doctors. I patched you up while Alhaitham went to fetch one. The doctor was able to repair most of the damage, but there will be some lasting effects."

Ah. Great. Just what every artist wants to have: a permanent hand injury.

That's alright. It's okay. He's always drawn better with his left hand anyway. His right hand was always better for fighting. Kaveh isn't a bit close to panic.

(He really hopes Candace can't read minds.)

Candace holds his hand between hers. They blur behind a rush of tears.

"What about the mercenaries?" he asks. "What happened to them?"

At this, Candace gives a small smile. "Cyno is relentless. He found every single one that tried to escape." She rubs her thumb over his knuckles. "They won't be able to hurt you again."

Join us! We have a few sudden openings in our ranks.

"And what of the dead?"

She hesitates. She hesitates, and Kaveh's heart plummets.

"Candace," says a voice by the door. Alhaitham stands, arms folded across his chest as he leans against the doorframe. He is way too relaxed for someone who looked half-panicked a day ago.

Candace stares, and when did Alhaitham ever make friends? She nods and stands, leaving at some sort of silent request that Kaveh didn't think anyone else could read from Alhaitham.

Alhaitham takes her chair by his bed. Kaveh's heart pounds.

"You came for me," he struggles to say. He struggles to keep it at that, to not ask why he would do such a thing.

Alhaitham pulls an apple from his pocket and summons a small knife. "I did," he answers only after he begins to peel it.

Kaveh has always had a terrible poker face. He knows this, and he knows this is why he often loses games against anyone. Questions burst in his throat, whether out of curiosity or guilt or some unknown aspect of being a scholar.

"Two were killed in battle with the matra," Alhaitham says before they can choke him. "Two more took their own lives to avoid punishment."

“And the others?”

Alhaitham hasn’t broken the peel yet.

“I know there are others, Alhaitham. He said so.”

Alhiatham does not lie. Nor is he cruel. He is simply blunt, and he does not hesitate to deliver bad news. It is best to get it dealt with quickly, if you ask him.

So why, why oh why, has he decided to shave off another three inches of peel before he asnwers?

“They were criminals, Kaveh,” he whispers.

If there is a right thing to say — if, if, if — that is not it. That implies that there were other deaths, that the fleeting hope he had of Aizik lying was false. That there is blood on his hands that he has no hope of washing away.

“How many?” Kaveh asks, hands pressed into his temples.

“They were trying to kill you,” Alhiatham says.

“I have a right to know.”

The peel falls to the floor in one long strip. Alhaitham cuts the apple into slices. His lips thin. He's unsure of his words; a rare sight for a scholar of any kind, much less Haravatat. Much much less Alhaitham.

“Four,” he says finally. “Four were already dead when we arrived,”

Kaveh gasps. “Four?” he chokes out, “Four?”"

He doesn't even remember. All he remembers is blood and pain and the sting of desperation in his veins.

He curls in on himself. His fingers clutch the front of his oversized shirt.

"Hey," a soft voice whispers. There is a weight on the bed beside him, and hands unfurling his fists. Someone shushes him, a gentle thumb running under his eye to catch his tears. He finds his face buried in the dark fabric of that stupid cape. A hand sits on the back of his head, another holds his fingers out straight.

Kaveh curls his left arm around Alhaitham.

And then he sobs.

There are so many things running through his head, his heart, his soul. Relief fights with fear fights with grief. And above it all, looming over him as it has his entire life, guilt.

The guilt of losing his father.

The guilt of selling his childhood home over one stupid mistake.

The guilt of living in Alhaitham's house, wasting Alhaitham's time, ruining Alhaitham's life.

And now that he's ruined four others…

"Please," Alhaitham says, "please don't mourn them."

Do-don't mourn? Them?!

How does Kaveh explain that they are not the cause of his mourning? That, as much guilt as he's felt in his life, he knows it will wash away in time, sculpted into a facet of himself in the same way as all his other attributes:

His blond hair and red eyes.

His genius architecture.

His kind heart, much too large and much too soft, that cares for every being that crosses its path.

Save for four.

He sees nothing when he thinks of them. Not their names, not their faces. Not their deaths. Nor does he feel any remorse for the families his mind would fabricate had they been anyone elase.

There is nothing, not even the spark of relief.

How can he mourn someone he has no feelings for?

How can he explain that he is able to understand that he should be upset, but isn't?

It is not guilt, this time, that causes him to fracture.

It is the absence of it.

#genshin impact #kavetham #haikaveh #genshin kaveh #genshin fanfic

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goddessapostle · 9 months

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The Infallible Falter

Fandom: Genshin Impact Characters: Kazuha, Gorou Summary: "The infirmary is for the wounded." "Are you not wounded?" Again, Gorou shakes his head.

628 // AO3 // Masterlist

He doesn't know when the arrow struck.

All he remembers is rain and blood and adrenaline and a searing pain when he drew back his bow, more akin to an overused muscle than an injury. It's only later, after the battle, when half his men are dead or dying, that he is approached by a stricken Kazuha.

"General," he says, his voice soft and solemn. He lifts an arm to Gorou's right shoulder, turning him around with a gentle press.

It burns enough to make Gorou clench his teeth.

"Apologies, General," Kazuha warns just before there's a snap! at the back of his head. When Kazuha faces him again, the broken shaft of an arrow is clutched in his hand. Gorou has no doubt where the rest of it is.

He curses under his breath and crosses his left arm over his chest to find it. He hisses when his muscles stretch at the movement.

Kazuha drops the arrow to take his hand and pull it back down. "You'll aggravate the wound like that," he chides. Gorou shakes his head.

"I have to get it out."

"Then we'll go to the infirmary." Kazuha steels his voice, ready for whatever argument Gorou cooks up — they have known each other long enough to know how the other will react.

"The infirmary is for the wounded."

"Are you not wounded?"

Again, Gorou shakes his head. "I have suffered worse injuries than this. There are others who need it more."

And yes, this is something Kazuha knows. He's walked in on Gorou patching himself up several times. The positioning on this one, however, is rather difficult. Pain spreads across his shoulders even now.

But he refuses to back down. He can and will fix this himself.

Kazuha raises a brow, unsurprised by his stubbornness. "And if I were to tell Priestess Sangonomiya?"

Gorou's ears drop. It seems Kazuha does not plan on playing fair today. "Her Excellency doesn't need to know." He stalks past Kazuha to kneel by a fallen soldier. He holds the soldier's wrist, fingers wrapped loosely around it, and pulls it up to his chest. He mutters a name with his apology, but it is not one Kazuha recognizes.

But then, there's a reason that Gorou is the general and Kazuha is just a fighter.

His lips thin when Gorou cuts the cape from the man's shoulder and ties it around his own. "Can you stitch a wound?" he asks Kazuha.

Kazuha can do many things in the name of fighting. He has forged swords with blades as sharp as his hearing. He has taken lives with barely a second thought. He's snatched a Vision from the Raiden Shogun's very hands and evaded capture since. And yet, he has only a basic knowledge of first aid.

Kazuha shakes his head. Gorou swears.

Which is not expected, but also… not unwelcome. Gorou forces himself to be the perfect leader — unflappable, infallible. To find that he can lower such harsh standards for himself in front of Kazuha is an honor.

"Why not have Priestess Sangonomiya heal it?" Kazuha asks.

Gorou shakes his head. "Her energy is better spent on those closer to death."

An image pops into his head then: Gorou, fallen, covered in his own blood as it sinks into the dirt below him.

Kazuha presses his lips together. What a horrible, terrible sight that he hopes to never witness. "Tell me how," he says, shifting the cape to better cover the arrowhead, "and I will do my best to assist you."

Gorou doesn't smile — he won't here, never will when surrounded by the bodies of their comrades — but he does sigh. It's a relief, it’s a promise, it's a secret kept secret.

It's something he trusts only Kahuza with.

#genshin impact #kazugorou #kaedehara kazuha #genshin gorou

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goddessapostle · 10 months

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Intro And Navigation

Hello! You may call me CJ or Charm! Thanks for checking out my humble little blog <3

This is a blog for all of my fanworks, whether written or drawn! (Mostly written, though.)

I tend to jump fandoms a lot, so don't expect me to write for just one thing only. On the same hand, I also write for myself. I may open requests at some point, but for the most part, this blog will be filled with things I want to write. I may write mature themes sometimes, but I do not write explicit material.

I would like to apologize if you followed for something specifice. I tend to just write what I want when I want. So... Sorry!!

Now then, on to my Masterlists! Most fanfiction should have a link to the fic on AO3, if you prefer!!

Reader Insert

Simple and easy, fics about Characters I want to date<3

Drabbles

Looking for something short and sweet? These fics are 100 words exactly, mostly Reader Insert as well!

Character Only

Fics that involve characters only. May be introspective, may be platonic, may be romantic.

Art and Edits

Exactly as it says. Will mostly be anime or manga edits with some fanart thrown in.

Self Inserts(Coming soon!)

I have two self insert characters that I use for fanworks: Cass and Charm.

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goddessapostle · 10 months

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Art and Edits

{Back}

A * denotes my personal art, the rest are anime/manga edits

L O V E (i tell c)

Don't you have a heart? (Jujutsu Kaisen)

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goddessapostle · 10 months

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Character Only

{Back}

Obey Me; Beelzebub and Belphegor: Telepathy

It starts as a curling in his stomach and ends with a startling realization.

Obey Me; Satan: Echo

Satan is not Lucifer, and Lucifer isn’t Satan. That is what he tells himself every day. Then what, pray tell, is this feeling in his chest?

Obey Me; Leviathan: Sewing Kit Essentials

The stitches are small and even. An exact centimeter apart. Perfect. Practiced. He could do it in his sleep.

Genshin Impact; Kazuha/Gorou: The Infallible Falter

“The infirmary is for the wounded.” “Are you not wounded?” Again, Gorou shakes his head.

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goddessapostle · 10 months

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Drabbles

{Back}

100 words, no more, no less

Obey Me; Mammon: Interruption // AO3

Genshin Impact; Diluc: Nightmare // AO3

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goddessapostle · 10 months

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Reader Inserts

{Back}

Obey Me; brothers: Reader gets hurt in a mugging

Fairy Tail; Team Natsu: Courting their S/O

Fairy Tail; Team Natsu: Kisses

Obey Me; Beel, Mammon, Belphie: Reader that can play guitar

Obey Me; Satan, Mammon: Reader that is smart, but romantically blind

Obey Me; Beelzebub: Arachnophobia

When a Devildom spider the size of your head scurries across your foot, you decide the best thing to do is scramble to the highest point you can reach. Unfortunately, that just so happens to be Beelzebub’s shoulders.

Obey Me; Leviathan: Henry the V(no, no, no, no!)

You wake when the bed shifts beneath you, the weight of Leviathan settling back into his spot. Rolling over to throw your arm around him, you almost crush the bundle between your bodies.

Bungo Stray Dogs; Chuuya: How to Survive your Haunted House

“You look like an Emma,” you told her after several minutes of staring at each other. This did not please her. Her expression shifted from bored curiosity to ferocious rage. She stomped and ran at you, passing through your body with no more than a cool wind. When you turned around, she was gone. Should you be more concerned about living in a haunted house? Probably. But it’s your house, ghost or no, and nothing’s going to scare you off. Not even when she’s nothing more than a shadow watching you attempt sleep.

Bungo Stray Dogs; Chuuya: Meet (Not) Cute

‘Stay smart, stay safe.’ It’s the most solid advice you’ve received in regards to your move to Yokohama. You’ll survive if you don’t go looking for trouble. Which doesn’t stop trouble from coming for you.

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goddessapostle · 10 months

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Refreshing~

Hello!! I'm am revamping this blog!!

.......sort of. I'm not in a position to change the desktop theme comfortably right now, but I am going to remake the Masterlist and the Introduction posts. I've also switched urls to an old one I missed. It's the same as my AO3 and FFN accounts, actually!! I've really missed it. I don't know why I tried to change it. goddessapostle will always have a special place in my heart.

I'm redoing the Masterlist now, and I'll change the mobile theme later. Then, in the next few days, maybe I'll get around to posting things here that I haven't yet!

Thank you for your patience, if you've stuck around so far.

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goddessapostle · 1 year

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Are you gonna do a part 2 for Meet (Not) Cute?

To be completely honest is the best Chuuya fic I've read in a while and it felt too short 🥺

Whether you do it or not, congrats on the piece! It's amazing

Hehe thank you! I do have a few more ideas I want to do for Chuuya, and I can add them on as sequels to it! It's just... Going to take a while. I write very slowly lol

#ask

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goddessapostle · 1 year

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Hi! I really enjoyed your Fairy Tail works! Can I ask you about Gray x Ethernano Dragon Slayer reader when they have feelings for each other and know about it but can’t confess because of Juvia and everybody’s opinion that water mage would fit Fullbuster perfectly. Sorry for interrupting you) (English isn’t my native language, so hope you can understand me)

Hi! I'm glad you enjoy them ^^

Unfortunately, my requests are closed right now. Sorry!

#ask

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goddessapostle · 1 year

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omfg i loved ur most recent chuuya fic😭😭 will there be a part 2?🙏🙏🙏

Aaaaah tysm!! I'm glad you enjoyed it :)

I don't really plan one-shots past the initial fic, so I don't have any plans for a sequel. That said, I'm not exactly... Happy with how it turned out. So the answer is...

A tentative maybe?

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goddessapostle · 1 year

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In other news, I believe I'll redo some things here

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goddessapostle · 1 year

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Meet (Not) Cute

Fandom: Bungou Stray Dogs Characters: Chuuya, GN!Reader Summary: ‘Stay smart, stay safe.’ It’s the most solid advice you’ve received in regards to your move to Yokohama. You’ll survive if you don’t go looking for trouble. Which doesn’t stop trouble from coming for you.

2.9k // AO3 // Masterlist

A/N: This fic is part of a collab, the New Beginnings collab hosted by @venexus! It's also a couple days late, hehe

Yokohama is a dangerous city.

Or so you’ve been told. You weren’t born there. You’ve never been there. Your parents lived there only briefly before moving out to a city that’s neither rural nor suburban, but somewhere in between. You grew up among the trees and alongside the town — which has grown considerably more than you in your lifetime. It’s nothing like Yokohama yet, you know, but it’s only a matter of time until it is.

Which is why you accept the promotion that will upheave your entire life to Yokohama. It’ll be good money, good experience, and a good chance to prove yourself.

Oh, but the danger! cried your family.

There’s danger everywhere, you countered.

What about the criminals! cried your friends.

There’s crime everywhere, you countered.

There is nowhere in the world that will keep you completely, one-hundred-percent safe.

But oh , they did not stop. Everyone had something to say about your move to the city, ranging from unhelpful advice to wildly untrue stories. You roll your eyes and toss the unwelcome pepper spray, pocket knives, and portable tasers in the bottom of your luggage.

There’s only one piece of solid advice, given by a friend who was actually raised in Yokohama:

“Keep your head down,” she said with a slap to the back. She knew more about the city than anyone else in your sheltered little life. “There are things far more dangerous than humans in that place. You might return to your apartment one day to find the entire building gone. Just stay smart, and you’ll stay safe.”

Stay smart, stay safe.

Easy enough.

Stay smart, stay safe.

Words to live by.

Stay smart. Stay safe.

Etched into your mind.

And you stick to them with rigidity. You don’t go out after dark, you don’t answer the door for strangers, you stay on everyone’s good side. Nothing you do will result in trouble for you. You make sure of it. Which, unfortunately, is not enough to keep trouble from seeking you out.

It happens while you’re at work one day. You return from your lunch break, park your car in its usual spot at the edge of the lot, and go to work the remainder of your shift. When you exit the building, you miss the usual shine of sun reflecting off the windshield of your car. Which is understandable; you’re about an hour late leaving and the sun has shifted more than normal.

What isn’t understandable is that it’s missing.

You frown at the empty spot. A few other cars are missing, but not in the way yours is. Those other cars belong to coworkers who have left already. It’s just yours that isn’t where it’s meant to be.

There is, however, a bunch of broken glass.

You sigh as you dig around in your pockets for the plate number. Then you head back inside and call the police.

They’re useless, for the most part. They find your car, sure, but it’s smashed halfway into the third story of a building a block and a half away. Their hands are tied, there’s nothing they can do.

Even when someone digs up some grainy surveillance footage from the camera across the street.

You sit with them — the officer on the case and the man with the video — to watch it. The officer and man whisper amongst themselves after they watch, totally ignoring you. Not that you can fault them for that. What you just saw should be impossible.

It was a man(? Woman? Child?? Someone small.) that crashed into the side of your car at what should be a deadly speed. They should have been nothing but blood and broken bones. Yet they stood. They stood, wiped their face, and grabbed the handle of your car.

And ripped the door off. Tore through it like paper to hold in front of them. The window shattered, and sparks flashed against it — were those bullets? Then the person threw the door at something off screen before lifting the car entirely and running away with it.

You are, without a doubt, speechless.

You play the video again. And again. Again again again again, pausing every few frames to try and puzzle together an image of that person in your mind.

Their clothes are dark and flowy. They look kind of fancy. A large jacket that covers their frame when they stand, making them look more androgynous than before. Their hair is… long or short, you can’t tell; a little of both, you think. It’s orange, though. The smudge of darkness on top of their head must be a hat — one that, despite all their movement, doesn’t budge at all.

You frown at the image frozen on the screen. “Isn’t there anything you can do?” you ask.

The cop’s face kind of scrunches. She purses her lips and lowers her brows until she looks like a wrinkly little dog. “We’ll need more evidence,” she starts, “the quality is too low for a positive I.D.”

“But you know who it is,” you say. She has to. Otherwise she wouldn’t have mentioned evidence.

She looks at the man, until she has an answer, then turns her gaze back to you. “It’s no one we can touch, even if this video were crystal clear. Was the car insured?”

“Well, yes, but–”

“Then I suggest looking for a new one. Have a good day.”

And with that she boots you and the man out of her office. You stand in awkward silence until he clears his throat.

“Sorry about your car,” he tells you.

You pinch the bridge of your nose. “Is it always like this?”

“Yes.” He offers you the flash drive with the video saved to it. “Take this to the Armed Detective Agency. They may be able to help.”

You’re positive you’ve been told to avoid them somewhere in the unwarranted advice you received before your move. Should you go to them, or should you just ignore this whole thing?

Stay smart, stay safe. No good would come from messing with them.

You take the flash drive anyway, then thank the man and — ugh — walk home.

A (presumably human) person was able to pick up your car and not just move it, but run away with it, and maybe even throw it into the side of a building. And this is seen as somewhat normal?

What the hell is going on in Yokohama?

The next day brings no answers, nor does the day after that, or the day after that. One week and a lot — a lot — of hassle finds you carless, still. You spoke a lot with your insurance company, and after a hefty amount of back-and-forth-and-back-and-forth-and-back–

Well. Suffice to say they would not help. Apparently theft wasn't covered under your policy. Nevermind that you actually found the car, destroyed or not.

An old friend brings you one to use until you save up enough for a down payment. So you tearfully cut down on your spending as yet another bill looms on the horizon.

And then it’s back to normal. Except for the video.

It eats you alive — who was that person? Why did they take your car? How did they do that?

No answers. No answers at all.

It. Consumed. You.

So you gather your courage and put on your toughest face. Square your shoulders, lift your head, widen your stance. You don something black and business-y and make your way to the Armed Detective Agency.

Your entire tough-guy persona deflates when you’re met by a nervous looking boy with white hair.

“The others are out right now,” he tells you. “I haven’t been here long, so I’m not sure how much help I can be.”

Which…. Figures. You sigh and fish the flash drive from your pocket, fiddling with it in your palm. The boy apologizes and offers you tea; one of the senior detectives should return shortly.

You’ve waited barely ten minutes when the door creaks open and a tall man steps through grumbling about some suicidal idiot.

“Mr. Kunikida!” the boy calls. “We have a guest today!”

You stand to greet him and introduce yourself.

“It’s nice to meet you.” Kunikida nods. “What brings you to our office?”

Straight to the point, then. Admirable. You hold the flash drive up to him.

“There’s a video on here of my car being stolen,” you tell him. “I want to know who did it.”

“That seems like a matter for the police to handle.”

“I went to them. They can't do anything. They won’t even tell me who it is."

“They won’t–” Kunikida stares for a second, one brow raised, then sighs. “Fine. You have a right to know. But I’m not promising anything.”

He takes the flash drive to a computer and watches in silence. You and the young detective stand at his shoulders, watching behind his back. Kunikida waits until the video ends, then sighs.

“I can see why the police wouldn’t take this case,” he says. He pauses the video on its clearest frame. “The person who took your car is a high-ranking member of the Port Mafia.”

“The Port Mafia?” You remember something about them, too, somewhere in the advice. Maybe you should have been paying better attention.

Kunikida nods. “They’re very dangerous, this guy especially, and they practically run the city. I wouldn’t bother with this anymore.”

“But-then–”

You groan. The frustration at having the answers dangled in front of you again builds inside your chest. You pinch the bridge of your nose. “Can you at least give me a name?”

“No. As I said, he’s very dangerous. You won’t be able to confront him–”

“Oh, it’s Chuuya!” says a new voice behind you. You gasp and turn to find another man behind the three of you.

“Dazai,” Kunikida warns.

He doesn’t listen. Instead he rummages around a few of the empty desks. “Aw, I was in such a good mood. I don’t want to think about Chuuya right now.” He finds what he was looking for and makes his way back to you to present a photo.

Kunikida snatches it from his hand, but not before you catch a glimpse of the person on it. It’s hard to tell from the quality of the video, but the general color schemes seem to match. “Chuuya…?” You look at Dazai.

“Nakahara!” he manages before Kunikida shoves his hand over his mouth.

“We don’t need to say anything, Dazai! In fact we shouldn’t– are you licking my hand?! ” Kunikida shoves him away, wiping his palm on his tan jacket. “Fine!” he says, throwing his hands up. “Tell them what they want to know. It’s on you to protect them, though!”

With that he storms out of the office, presumably to wash his hands.

“Mr. Dazai–” starts the boy.

“It’s fine, it’s fine!” Dazai cuts him off. “You won’t do anything stupid, will you?” he asks you. “Not gonna run off and try to take him down?”

“I-of course not!” The dude lifted your car and threw it into the side of a building. You may want to know who did it, but that doesn’t mean you have a death wish. He didn’t look like a bodybuilder in his photo, but if he could lift a car without breaking a sweat, you weren't about to get on his bad side.

Or… were you already? Is that why he stole your car?

The thought must pass over your face, because Dazai busts out laughing. "I wouldn't worry about it. It's a big city. You likely won't ever see him again, even if you went looking."

So. There it is. A name, a face, even an occupation — all things the police refused you. Perhaps to keep you safe, but more likely to keep themselves safe.

Chuuya Nakahara of the Port Mafia.

You wish you could see his picture again. Just one last look, to really study his features. It seems you see him everywhere now — in the flutter of a dark coat, in every flash of orange hair, in all the stupid fancy hats that catch your eye. He's not there, he never is. It's always someone else, something else. But you just can't shake him from your thoughts.

Maybe having your car stolen has you more shaken than you realized. You almost want to thank the police for withholding information, until you realize that without the knowledge the ADA provided, you'd probably be more paranoid.

Two months later, you find a car that won't cut into your paycheck as much as all your saving has. It's old and kind of junk-y, but one you already cherish and plan to park much closer to buildings from now on.

After a (rather bumpy) drive around town, you decide you need a vacation. Not a long one, just a weekend trip home to unwind and get rid of the headache that comes with such a big purchase.

It's on the way back — mind settled and peaceful — that your car gets stolen again.

It didn't start that way, no. You were stuck in the traffic trying to enter Yokohama proper when there was an explosion somewhere on the bridge you hadn't quite reached yet.

The driver in front of you screeched on their brakes and kicked into reverse. (They bump into you trying to turn around, because of course they do. Can't have anything in this godforsaken city.) A few more — Yokohama natives, if you had to guess — simply moved into the farthest lane from the explosion and booked it. Impressively, they made it across. You watch a dingy blue pickup zoom onto the road before another explosion rips through the bridge entirely. A hail of rock and debris pelts your roof in an almost musical rhythm.

Ah. That's probably your cue to get the fuck away.

So you do as the driver in front of you and turn your car around. It's easier for you, since all the other cars are gone. You miiiight have spent a little too much time gawking. Your brain kicks itself on and you punch it back the way you came.

Or, that's what you envisioned, at least. What happens instead is your windshield shattering and the car rocking.

Something lands on your car. Something heavy enough to dent the roof in.

You gasp, checking behind you, but all you see is flames. Sweat drips into your eye. You rub it away. Turn back to the road. Fight the panic that rises in your throat.

Stay smart, stay safe, think.

Can the car still go? Yes. It reacts to your foot on the pedal, engine revving as you hit the gas.

But it doesn't move.

It goes backwards, in fact.

It's not in reverse, is it? No, you already changed gears. You whip around to the back windshield, but there's nothing there.

The door beside you is ripped off. You scream, fumbling the lock to your seatbelt. You tumble through the air as soon as it clicks open.

Which doesn't make sense, does it? You hit asphalt chin-first. Blood fills your mouth — did you bite your tongue when you landed? You lift your head to spit it out.

And watch as a man slams your car in front of him, headlights down. It sticks straight up into the air, forming a barrier between him and… are those gunshots? He turns to glare at you, mouth open to–

Your blood boils .

"You!" you hiss before he can say anything. You scramble to your feet, spitting another mouthful of blood to the road. "You stole my car!"

He has the nerve to look indignant. "To stop the bullets from hitting us!"

"No, not– well, this one too! You stole my other car and slammed it into a wall!"

He narrows his eyes. "I don't remember you."

He doesn't remember you. He doesn't remember you , specifically. Does that mean he remembers the incident? Does that mean he does this often?

"I was working! " you seethe, spreading your arms to the side. "And I have proof, too!"

He raises a brow. "Yeah?"

"Yes!" It's at home, thankfully, and not being shot up like the rest of your stuff. "Do you have any idea what you've put me through?!"

His eyes flicker to your chin and forehead. Something in his gaze shifts, softens. "Shit," he says, "that does look pretty nasty."

It's only then that you realize it wasn't sweat dripping into your eye earlier. You wipe away another trail of blood to glare at him more fiercely. (Or would the blood help with that?)

And then. And then! He has the audacity to laugh. "I like you," he says. " There's a small army trying to gun me down, but you're scarier than them all."

Mission accomplished, sort of. You feel your cheeks heat up. He holds a hand out.

"I'll make it up to you," he promises. "Chuuya Nakahara." His occupation comes crashing back to you.

You shouldn't take his hand, you know. He's a gangster, a criminal. He is currently being shot at by — in his words — a small army. His every breath is danger. His smile is pure chaos.

But he's gorgeous and strong and seems to know his way around the city. Your fingers clench in the crook of your arm.

Stay smart, stay safe.

Stay smart.

Stay–

Screw it. You take his hand with a grin as wild as his.

#bungou stray dogs #bsd #bsd x reader #chuuya x reader #bsd chuuya nakahara #bsd fanfic

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goddessapostle · 1 year

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Hello! I know I don’t usually post anything but my fics, but I’m thinking of doing a… A-Z of drabbles type event! There’s no set theme list, but I was considering doing 1-word titles based on each letter of the alphabet, like Interruption or Nightmare. It’d be open for requests, if you think of one, for any character I’ve written.

Thoughts?

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goddessapostle · 1 year

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The fluttering of lashes give away his dream.

It’s a bad one, you think, smoothing Diluc’s hair from his forehead to kiss it. He wakes with a sound that makes you stifle a laugh.

“Nightmare?” you ask. He looks at you, then wraps an arm around your waist and flips your positions. He curls around you, pressing kisses to the nape of your neck. “That bad?”

“You’re not to leave the house today,” he grumbles, voice scratching through his throat.

“That’s hardly fair,” you scoff.

He hums. “Then you’re not to leave my side.”

That you think you can manage.

#genshin impact #genshin impact x reader #diluc x reader #new blorbo go brrrrr

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goddessapostle · 1 year

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How to Survive your Haunted House

Fandom: Bungo Stray Dogs Characters: Chuuya, GN!Reader, Elise Summary: “You look like an Emma,” you told her after several minutes of staring at each other. This did not please her. Her expression shifted from bored curiosity to ferocious rage. She stomped and ran at you, passing through your body with no more than a cool wind. When you turned around, she was gone. Should you be more concerned about living in a haunted house? Probably. But it’s your house, ghost or no, and nothing’s going to scare you off. Not even when she’s nothing more than a shadow watching you attempt sleep.

10.7k // AO3 // Masterlist

A/N: This is part of @thecoffeelovingfreak’s halloween collab, Season of the Witch!! I was so excited for this collab, I wrote….. a whole lot. This is the longest one-shot I’ve ever written, coming in at a whopping 10k words!!@_@ Anyway, I hope you enjoy!!

The weight is unusual.

The noise you’re already used to; your keychain is always jingling against whatever else you’ve shoved in your pocket.

But this weight? This is new.

A thrill runs up your spine as your fingers brush the metal, warmed by your body heat. You pull your pocket open to peek inside. You know you have the biggest, goofiest grin spread across your face, but you just can’t help it. You can’t stop. You refuse to stop.

Even when your boss smacks the back of your head as he walks by. Even when your feet ache as you make your way to your car. Even when you find your mailbox half-buried in the roadside weeds for the fourth time this week.

You right your mailbox with a smile and a zip tie. Lets see those kids knock it off this time!

And then you open the gate to your new house.

It’s small and old and, if you’re being honest, kind of ugly. A drab gray in color, except for the lilac window shutters. Situated on a not-quite acre of patchy grass that’s only green-ish, bordered by a tall brick fence that’s only red-ish. It’s a cliché Halloween house, and you’re proud to call it home.

Or maybe that’s just the rush of euphoria brought on by the first taste of freedom since getting your driver’s license.

The rickety steps creak under your weight, and the crooked banister sticks another bunch of splinters in your palm — six in all, one for every day since you moved in.

The key seems to burn when you remove it from your pocket.

The front door takes some jimmying (and a couple kicks) to open fully; the wood must be swollen, you decide, from the morning rain. You walk through the front hall, ignoring both the open doorways to other rooms and the little girl that stands between them, and straight up the staircase to the master suite. There, you shirk your work clothes and take the nicest, longest bubble bath in the enormous tub.

It’s the perfect start to your three-day weekend.

And then your stomach flips into your chest, and you realize you haven’t eaten in hours.

The little girl is at the bottom of the stairs when you reach the top. She glares up at you with the most adorable pout, and you can’t help but smile and wave back to her. It makes her stomp her foot and turn, mouth open to call for… well, you’re not really sure. A parent? A friend? A dog of some kind?

She begins to fade, starting from the tips of her Mary Janes and traveling up her poofy red dress. “See you later, Emma!” you call down to her. You glimpse another sharp glare just before she disappears completely.

Your stomach gives a low rumble, reminding you of why you were on the stairs in the first place.

You’d heard rumors about the ghosts before you moved in. About the house besieged with death. A bloody history filled with everything from murders to suicides to just plain tragedies. Everyone in town had a story. Some personal experiences, other general anecdotes.

The most prominent being the tale of the doctor and his daughter.

Their names have been lost to a game of historical telephone(something with an ‘R’, no, a ‘K’; wait, that was the other one–), but the story persists: one summer day, the doctor left town. He came back a week later with a child in his arms. No one was sure who the mother was — the doctor never told. But he claimed the child as his. All was well, until the doctor lost his hospital and was on the verge of losing his home. So he did the only logical thing he could think of — emphasis on ‘he’.

He killed his daughter and then himself. Their blood stained the walls in a morbid painting.

You don’t know if the story is true; all the newspapers were lost when a fire tore through the old library records around twenty years after the incident. The only thing that survived was a small photograph with a charred bottom corner. It’s hung on the wall of the current library, black and white and grainy, as part of a mural of the town’s history.

While the photo was nearly indecipherable when you first saw it, you can tell now that the girl in it and the girl in your house are the same. They have the same wide-set eyes, the same light and curly hair; they’re even wearing similar dresses — though the one in the photo is a deeper color, not the same dull maroon as the one in the house.

There were no names attached to the photo, so you had no idea what to call her when she just showed up three days after you moved in. “You look like an Emma,” you told her after several minutes of staring at each other. This did not please her. Her expression shifted from bored curiosity to ferocious rage. She stomped and ran at you, passing through your body with no more than a cool wind. When you turned around, she was gone.

Should you be more concerned about living in a haunted house? Probably. But it’s your house, ghost or no, and nothing’s going to scare you off.

Not even when she’s nothing more than a shadow watching you attempt sleep.

You peek open an eye and scan the room.

You don’t see her, at first. She’s crouched in the corner, hidden behind the closet door that just won’t stay closed. You’d probably have to nail it to keep it shut, but what would be the use of a closet you can’t open at all?

She’s not all there, right now, not even a recognizable silhouette. Just a wisp of herself, dark and vague. She doesn’t respond so much when she’s like this. You don’t know if that’s an energy thing or a personality thing. A princess that doesn’t deign to speak with a commoner. She was rather spoiled by her father, after all, before he slit her throat.

“I see you,” you say. She must have liked Hide-and-go-Seek. That closet was probably her favorite hiding spot; she’s behind it a lot.

You feel a gaze crawl across your bed to land on your face. You give her a smile, and she decides to stand–

That’s not Emma.

That is not Emma.

Or maybe it’s just the dark. Maybe it only looks three heads taller than her. Maybe she can fly. Ghosts can fly, right?

The thing in the corner jerks forward.

It doesn’t move like a human.

The closet door slams shut.

You scramble to the opposite side of the bed and fall to the floor. That thing — person? It’s person-shaped. A lithe torso. Two… arms? Maybe? And a head that’s twisted just a touch too far to one side. A person-shaped blob of smoke.

Ha. Ha. That’s funny. That’s funny, right?

You press your back against the wall.

It creeps over your covers.

One smokey tendril reaches out. It brushes the hair above your ear–

And then it’s gone. The room warms without the presence of the whatever-that-thing-was-you’re-getting-some-sage-tomorrow. Except maybe it’s not gone? There’s something heavy in your chest — ah, wait, that’s just your heart, half-exploded.

Okay. So. There are two ghosts in your house.

Emma, who you’ve only ever seen on the first floor, now that you think about it.

And whatever that thing was. It’s not the first time you’ve seen it. You thought it was her. Emma. The doctor’s daughter. It showed up the same night you first saw her.

Why did it decide to move tonight? It usually stays crouched in that corner. What does it do? It watches you, you know, but why?

Is it the doctor? Someone else? Something else?

Your heart slows to its natural beat, but your limbs are still filled with jelly. You reach a hand out on the bed and find it cold where the thing was kneeling on it.

The door slams again, and you jump a foot into the air.

Fuck this. You snatch your pillow and blanket (both still cold) and run downstairs for the living room couch.

Your three-day weekend is spent cleaning up — both physically and spiritually. You light some sage to smolder while you clear out the cobwebs you missed in your first few passes of the house. You dust and sweep and vacuum and mop. You have a housewarming party planned for later that you need a spotless house for. Then you watch Ghost Hunters: International while you wait on a load of clothes to finish washing.

It looks a lot more dramatic than the ghosts you have, but it’s on one of the few channels you get right now and it’s kind of pertinent to your situation. One of the investigators points out a white spot zooming across the frame in one of the cameras and calls it an orb. A different investigator plays back some warbly audio and claims it saying ‘murderer’ over and over. Yet another investigator takes off his vest and shirt to reveal three scratches running the length of his back.

The washing machine beeps. You turn off the tv and go collect your laundry.

Sure, the show had similar experiences — they used thermal cameras to catch shifts in temperature, and they saw an apparition of an old man in the window before they entered the house. But it just wasn’t convincing.

Your ghosts are different. The show claimed they were just leftover memories from when someone was alive. That they can’t interact with living people.

Which simply isn’t true. Emma never spoke to you, but she responded. And then that thing last night touched your hair. You felt that.

So the show is all a bunch of hullabaloo.

The day outside is clear and crisp. A gentle breeze rolls down the hill to you and your laundry. You hum as you walk out to the clothesline, glad that the sun is shining so bright. Your clothes will be dry in no time!

You hang them up and sigh as you take in the view. If the front of the house looks bad, the back looks worse. One of the boarded-up windows is empty of glass — you’ve got someone coming to take a look at that next month — and there are scraps of paint peeling away from the gray wood beneath. The grass is even less green. Two garden beds house dead or dying rose bushes. There’s a shadow in the–

Your blood runs cold. There’s a shadow in your bedroom, looking out the window. Looking at you. It disappears when it catches you staring back.

Isn’t sage supposed to get rid of ghosts? You haven’t seen Emma since you lit it. Maybe because it’s not in the same room? You haven’t been upstairs yet. That must be it! You just need to smudge it separately!

You start towards the back door–

Didn’t you shut it?

You stop a good six feet from the porch. The back door hangs open. Its hinges give the quietest of squeaks as it drifts gently back and forth as you watch.

Just the wind, surely. There’s nothing actively moving the door. And it makes sense that it’s open. You had your hands full when you left. You just couldn’t close it. Yeah. That’s what happened.

Crash!

You land on your ass. A roof tile lays shattered between your legs. It would have landed right on your head had you not fallen back.

A chill runs down your spine. You tear your gaze away from the tile to meet the eyes of the spectre in your window. Pure fear pierces your heart.

You run inside to grab the bowl of burning sage and race up the stairs. You kick the door open and thrust the bowl out in front of you as you enter.

No one is there. The spectre is gone.

Your legs shake as you step into the hall. A flash of blonde catches your eye as you start down the stairs — so Emma isn’t gone, either. You glare at the sage in your hand before tossing it in the trash.

Screw the cleaning. Your clothes are out drying, but you don’t need to be home for that. And everyone has off days; your friends aren’t judgemental and the house is presentable enough.

You leave the danger of your home for the library. The earlier records may have been destroyed, but the house has been standing for a hundred years since. There has to be something out there.

But how to search for such a thing?

You go to the computers first and type in the house’s address. It pulls up twenty years of realtor advertisements. It’s changed hands at least seven times in that period; it ends with the tragic death of a Eugene Davis, hit by a car as he exited for school one morning. The driver was never found, and the family moved out the summer after. It’s been empty since — until you bought it one year later.

Further back you find more.

Dozens of names on the victim list, at least one every two years, but often more. In no particular order: Kouyou Ozaki was shot by an ex-lover. Chuuya Nakahara was found on top of the fence, speared through the chest by the iron spikes. Michizou Tachihara was beheaded by a corrugated metal sheet during a remodel. Ryuunosuke Akutagawa was killed during a home invasion, but not before taking out the three men attempting to assault his sister.

The longest the house has gone without incident is thirty-two years — while Gin Akutagawa, Ryuunosuke’s little sister, lived there. But whatever miracle protected her ran out, because she disappeared one day and is currently presumed dead.

It’s a chilling list. Not just how long it is, but how gruesome as well. You touch your chest where the spike had gone through Chuuya, then rub your neck where it had been separated from Michizou’s head.

Gruesome.

Had they felt any pain?

There’s no way to know, unless…

Maybe the thing in your room is one of them. The people that died on the property. But there’s so many. Is there a cause for it? And why wasn’t it mentioned when you bought the damn house? You pull up the advertisements that led you to it in the first place, but they’re all devoid of any type of warning.

“You don’t want that one.” A deep voice pulls you from your thoughts. A man stands at your shoulder, staring into the computer screen. “It’s cursed.”

“Oh, really?” you say. Your sarcasm is either lost on the man, or ignored by him. His lips tighten into a thin line.

“Really. But I have a feeling it’s too late to warn you away.” Ignored, then. He takes a card from his notebook and sets it on the desk in front of you. “If you need any help,” he says by way of explaination.

And then he’s gone, stalked off on his lanky legs to some annoying-looking brunet hiding in the shelves. You examine the card he left behind.

Doppo Kunikida, it reads, Lead Investigator, the Astral Devoiding Agency. Ghost hunters, if you had to guess.

Well. Now you know the house is really dangerous.

That thought in mind, you decide to do a little shopping once you leave the library.

When you return home, your mailbox is gone. You sigh at the empty post and dig around in the weeds, but you can’t find it anywhere. The zip tie you do find, snapped just below the head underneath some… poison ivy, you think.

It can just stay there for now.

The shadows stretch in the evening sun, spreading the spiked tips of the fence across your legs. You frown up at them and wonder where, exactly, Chuuya died. It’s been… fifty years, almost. Though any evidence is long gone, you can’t help but wonder. There are rust-colored splotches all around the top.

Emma is waiting for you when you walk in. She seems to be in a good mood; she smiles and waves at you. You smile back. “What’s up?”

Her mouth moves, but no sound comes out. By the time she stops speaking, she looks excited for something. Footsteps sound above your head.

Emma hops in place.

You stare up at the ceiling. Then you pull your newly-bought pocket knife from its bag.

The footsteps keep moving. You hear them wander down the hall and into your bedroom.

There’s a great clatter, then silence. Emma points up the stairs and places a ghostly hand on your back. Goosebumps rise around it.

You make your way up the stairs, holding the blade of the knife in front of you. Your bedroom door stands open into the hall, and across from it….

Your mailbox. You stop to stare at it. The knife shakes in your hand.

“You should really lock your doors.”

You turn your knife to the man in your doorway. The only thing you see is a flash of teeth that disappear as soon as you look at it.

Later that evening, as you’re changing for the housewarming party, you notice a bruise on your chest. A dark blotch just below your collar, with five thin, spotty growths spreading from it.

It’s a bruise shaped like a damn hand.

The couch isn’t comfy. You don’t want it anymore. It’s old and lumpy and has quite a few questionable stains. (Is that one juice or wine? Or could it be blood? That one is hopefully spaghetti sauce. And, um, that one looks like…. Gross.)

It came with the house, like most of the furniture, and it just needs to be thrown away. You can’t exactly afford a new one, though, so you’re stuck with this one. You just can’t sleep on it.

And that is how you found yourself back in your bed. In your room. With the mysterious shadow-ghost-man.

You hate it. But you have to work tomorrow, so you suck it up like an adult(have you ever mentioned how much you hate being a real adult?) and snuggle deep under your comforter. Hopefully it, or he, or them — how many people died in this house, again? —won’t be able to get you.

Whatever. It’s a well-known fact that monsters can’t get you when you’re tucked up under your covers.

They can, however, make themselves known.

A weight settles in behind you. An arm wraps around your waist.

“I know you’re in there, Sweetheart.”

That’s the voice. The same voice that told you to lock your door(which you totally had). You hold your breath and hope he goes away.

He doesn’t. Instead he shifts closer, close enough to chill you beneath the blanket, to whisper in your ear. “Sorry about the other day,” he says. “Just wanted to get it over with.”

Get what over with?

You give yourself approximately two seconds to think it over, then, “What do you mean?”

“I’d get out if I were you.” Is-is that a threat? In your own home? In your own bed?

“This is my house,” you scoff, “I’m not going anywhere.”

“Your funeral.”

His tone may be mawkish, but was that a hint of sincerity just below that?

His weight shifts away from you, but doesn’t leave the bed. You lower your blanket a smidge — just enough to peek.

Damn, you’re glad the sun hasn’t set yet, or you’d never be able to see how goddamn gorgeous he is. Burnt orange hair curling up to frame his face. A lithe body reclined on your bed. Toned arms spread across your pillows as he cradles his head in his hands. Long, luxurious lashes that rest against his cheeks.

He is, pun intended, drop-dead gorgeous.

“Take a picture,” he says without opening his eyes, “it’ll last longer.”

“Sure,” you say sarcastically, “let me take a picture of the non-physical entity taking up half my bed.” He says nothing, just smiles. “Would you even show up?”

“I don’t know.” He shrugs.

You stare. He opens one storm-gray eye to meet your gaze. “Here.” He reaches over you to pluck your phone from the bedside table and drops it on your half-covered face. “Picture. I’ll even turn to my good side.”

“Would that be the side that’s more or less transparent?” You roll your eyes, but take the phone anyway.

Sure enough, he’s just a smudge of darkness in the photo. If he weren’t still lying there in front of you, you’d just think the lens was dirty. You show him with a triumphant smile. “See? You don’t show up!”

“Guess you have no choice but to stare, eh?” He gives you a wicked grin that sends your heart flying.

And then you realize you’re talking to a ghost and roll over under the covers again. “I have work in the morning,” you tell him, “so be quiet.”

You don’t expect to sleep, but you also don’t hear a peep from him for the entire night. He’s gone when you wake up, but the memory of his smile remains through the day.

The man shows himself here and there, mostly to tease you. A gentle push into a counter that knocks you off balance. Appearing in a corner of the room you’re in. Even crawling into your bed at night for what you can only assume is cuddling. He hasn’t spoken since that first night, but he’s got plenty of personality.

Just another ghost, you guess. Emma and… Hopper, you decide. A dapper name for a dapper man. Emma doesn’t seem to like the name you’ve chosen for her, and there’s no telling if Hopper will, but until they tell you their names, they are stuck with the ones you made up.

It takes a month of calling him that for Hopper to show up again.

“Emma! Hopper! I’m back!” you call into your empty house. A chill crawls up your spine as you shut the door, but there’s no one in the entryway. You take a step toward the stairs.

An arm settles around your waist, pausing you in your tracks and pulling you back into his icy chest.

“Who are you calling for?” Hopper asks.

You shiver in his grasp, either from his cold or his proximity. You aren’t entirely sure.

“You,” you tell him, “and that little blonde girl.” You turn to face him but he’s not even visible. Just pressure on your side and whispers in your ear.

“That’s not our names.” The voice comes from farther away, but the hand still settles on your stomach.

“Well it’s not like I have anything else to go by.” You slip into the light jacket you’ve taken to wearing around the house. “You never gave me your names.”

Hopper is leaning against the counter when you enter the kitchen. Emma runs through you and out the door, presumably to haunt the front hall. Hopper points after her. “Elise.” He tilts his hand so his thumb points to himself. “Chuuya. Haven’t you done any research?”

Chuuya. You remember the name. Just not where it’s from.

“I have.” You start to put your groceries away around him. “But do you know how many have died on the property?”

Chuuya taps his fingers together as he thinks. “Six?”

“More like forty-six,” you correct, “and they didn’t show many pictures.” You shoo him out of the way to reach the cabinet below him. “Which one are you, again?”

“Guess,” he says, and his smile is obvious.

“Hmm…” You think as you push pasta onto the shelf. So many deaths, you have to narrow it down somehow. “Illness?”

“No.”

“Mysterious disappearance?”

“Nope. Keep guessing.”

“Can I get a hint?”

“Sure,” he says, and you can tell you won’t like his answer by the snark in his voice. “The hint is: I died.”

You tilt your head up to glare at him, but he’s completely unphased. It looks like he’s trying to stifle a laugh, actually. That cheeky little shit.

You have half a mind to tell him to keep his secrets. You have no obligation to play this little game of his.

But oh, that smug smile of his drives you up the wall.

So you cross your legs and lean back against the counter’s door to study him. His clothes are old-fashioned — gray slacks, pressed into perfect creases. A white button-up covered by a silky suit vest just a shade or two darker than the pants. Sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and black leather gloves on his hands. Shiny black loafers on his feet, and to top it all off, a fedora resting on his head. All expensive. All designer.

He could have been dressed up for a special occasion. Or, of course, he could simply be an eccentric man dressing in an out-of-date style.

You think you prefer the second option.

It’s still not a very good clue, though. “Murder?” you ask after a bit of self-deliberation.

He clicks his tongue. “Bingo.”

Okay, so. Murdered. How many people were murdered here? You suck on your teeth as you think. “In the house or out?”

“Outside.” His voice is sour. “Still on the property, though. Barely.”

“Does that matter? Whether it was here or not?”

“It does.” Chuuya walks around to lean on the island. “The last kid got lucky. He just missed the threshold.”

Got lucky. The kid still died, but he got lucky. Sure.

“What do you mean by threshold?” you ask after rolling your eyes.

“The house. Anyone who dies on the property is trapped here.”

“No way. That can’t be true.”

Chuuya shrugs. “It is. This land is a spiritual hotspot. The house is the strongest point. They can travel a few feet outside, but that’s all.”

You stare at him.

“It’s true,” is all he says.

“They’re trapped in the house?” Chuuya nods. “But you stole my mailbox. That’s outside the fence.”

He smirks. “Special privilege.” You raise a brow. “Granted by proximity to the border.”

“Okay, so,” you lean back against the cabinet door. “Why isn’t the house overrun with ghosts, then?”

His face doesn’t change much — it barely changes at all, except for a more dangerous tilt to his smile. But that alone is enough to send a sense of dread creeping up your spine.

“We eat them.”

Oh. They eat them.

Eat them.

Eat them?!

Your jaw drops. “‘Eat’ as in…?”

Chuuya’s tongue slides along his upper lip. You think you might throw up.

“What…” What happens to them after? you want to ask. Scared of the answer, you ask instead, “What do they taste like?” and immediately think you should’ve said anything else.

“It depends, really.” He takes no notice of your discomfort, or if he does, he ignores it. “Usually like mud. But there are some that taste immaculate. There’s a certain criteria that makes them beautiful.”

“And what might that be?”

“They’re brave.” He leans forward until he’s floating over the island and in your face. “They don’t seem to mind their undead roommates.” He smiles that shark’s smile and your stomach turns.

You’re listing off realtors in your head when he backs up with a more jovial smile. “Kidding.”

The air leaves your lungs in an audible whoosh and you slump back against the cabinet. You’re not sure what he’s kidding about, but you’re not sure you want to know, either. “I don’t think you count as ‘undead’. Zombies are undead.” You poke a finger through his cheek. "They come with corporeal bodies."

He tilts his head to you. "True. Dead but not gone.”

“Because of the house.”

“Yeah.” He looks away, through the window and into the back yard. He’s lost in something, some memory of his lost life or, perhaps, his new one. You give him the time he needs, studying his profile as he loses himself in his thoughts.

He’s a handsome man, you decide. Had you been born in the same time, there might have been something between you and him.

Could there be something between you now?

Ridiculous. You disregard the flutter in your stomach, choosing to believe it anxiety and not hope. It takes a lot of nerve to live with undead roommates, as Chuuya put it, and surely that nerve can falter every now and then.

He turns his gaze back to you and grins. The flutter kicks up a notch. “So you know I was murdered. What does that mean?”

You frown. “Jack shit. A murder doesn’t really narrow it down much.” The only murders you really remember are…

You eye Chuuya from your position on the floor. “You weren’t one of those guys that broke in to rape that girl, were you?”

“Hell no!” he growls, nose wrinkling with a scowl. Insult flickers across his gaze. “The fuck is wrong with you?!”

“Sorry!” You throw your hands up. “I just wanted to make sure.”

“Trust me, I would’ve done them in if I had the chance. But Akutagawa got to them first. Sometimes I swear he’s not even human.”

“He’s technically not anymore, is he?”

“Guess not.” Chuuya wrinkles a bag on the counter. “He didn’t hesitate to deal with them on this side, either.”

Deal with them?

You hesitate before asking, “You mean he… ate them?”

Chuuya shakes his head. “He ripped them to shreds. There was nothing left afterwards.”

So ghosts can die, or something similar. You stand and finish putting away your groceries. “So what’s the criteria?” Chuuya grunts and raises a brow. “What determines whether someone gets eaten or not?”

“How strong they are, usually. As long as we can fight the others off, we’re safe.”

So the stronger ghosts eat the weaker ghosts. That makes an unfortunate amount of sense. It’s just the same bs that goes one in the world of the living on a more metaphysical(and literal) level. You think of your mortgage and bills and how easy it would be for you to lose everything you’ve worked so hard for.

You start a bag of popcorn in the microwave.

“What about Elise?” you ask as the thought occurs. “She’s a child. Don’t tell me she was able to fight off the strongest person here.”

“She doesn’t have to.” Chuuya stands at the microwave, transfixed by the rotating plate. “Her dad’s the most powerful spirit. He protects her.”

“Her dad? The one that killed her?”

“Oh, so you know their story but not mine?” he jokes.

“Come on, Chuuya.” His smile grows at the use of his name. “It’s been a famous story ever since it happened. I bet even you knew it before you died.”

“Yeah, and?”

You give him the flattest look you can, and he busts out laughing. “Y’know, I think I like you. Don’t leave anytime soon.”

With company like him around? “I certainly don’t plan on it.”

You smile wide and ignore the butterflies swarming in your stomach.

Elise waits for you, every time you leave. She bounces around on your return, darts in and out of doors, appears and disappears randomly. She’s happy to play now that you know her name, and you’re happy to entertain her.

Chuuya, on the other hand, often waits for you to settle before he shows himself. He loves to drape himself across you, to make himself comfortable in your presence.

You ask him, one day, as you’re laying on the couch with his head on your chest, why he’s so touchy with you. He closes his eyes when you ask, humming in deep thought.

“You’re warm,” he finally says, and you must have a look, because he cracks a face-splitting grin.

“What?” he asks, “Think I can’t feel it because I’m dead?”

“Kind of,” you say, “I didn’t think you felt things at all.”

He opens his eyes and squishes a finger to your cheek. "Feel me touching you?" You nod. “Well, I can feel you, too. Hard to touch something and not feel it.”

“That’s a fair point,” you admit, “but I do have one question.” He tilts his head, and you poke your fingers into his cheek. They sink through his face, his skin turning more translucent so you can see them beneath it.

He waits a full minute before saying, “That’s not a question.”

“I think it’s a valid argument.”

He considers for a moment. “You don’t feel anything? At all?”

You wiggle your fingers, then pull them out of his face. “Just a little chill.”

And oh, the smug look he gives you–

“Okay, smartass,” you huff, “you’re actually touching me, though. Your hand doesn’t just pass right through me.”

“Well yeah,” he says, and you get this vague feeling that he’s about to say something you won’t quite understand. “I use a lot of energy when I want to touch things.”

Aaaand you were correct. “When you say ‘energy’, what do you mean?”

Chuuya clicks his tongue. “Same way you use energy to walk or talk. Except I feel like I’m running the whole time just to touch you. It would be ten times worse if I made it where you could touch me, too.”

“I wish I could touch you,” you mumble. “Wait,” you sit up, and he slides to the floor, “you have to– like, activate your ability to touch me?”

He hoists himself back onto the couch and turns to face you. “Yeah. It’s not automatic.” He places a hand on your arm, but it travels right through, leaving goosebumps where it hit.

You have to shiver before he pulls away.

You lift one knee onto the couch as you turn to him. “So you expend a lot of energy to touch things. Where do you get it?”

Chuuya shrugs. “It just builds up over time.”

You rest your cheek against the back of the couch. “But it regenerates quickly?” He almost nods, but hesitates.

“For me, it does. I just need a few hours of rest.”

“And for the others?”

“It just depends. Not everyone has the same reserves as me. I saw someone sleep for almost a year after using too much once.”

“Is that how you gather energy again, by sleeping?”

“Sometimes. We can also pull it from things like wind or rain, or even people.”

You furrow your brow at that. “People?”

“I could even take energy from you. It’s kind of da–”

“Show me.”

“What?”

“You say it takes a lot of energy to touch me. Let me repay the favor by giving some to you.”

“You’re reckless.” He shakes his head, but smiles anyway. Then he raises one hand straight up, palm facing you, and nods to it.

You lift your head and stare before setting your palm against his. The leather is soft, but cold where you would expect warmth. You line your fingers up with his, only then realizing that you can feel them. Your eyes widen and you look from your hands to him and back.

“A gift. To thank you for trusting me.”

“Trusting–” you start. Then all the air is sucked from your body. You gasp, trying to breathe, but your lungs are frozen.

Your entire body is frozen.

Ice runs from his hand into yours. It spread through your arm and into your chest. Your breath clouds before you. You can’t–

Why can’t you breathe?!

Chuuya clicks his tongue as he pulls away, and you can finally catch your breath. “I tried to tell you it was dangerous, but I don’t think it would have mattered. You’re dangerous, too.”

You wrap your arms around yourself, trying to hold back the shivers. Your teeth chatter when you speak. “Why didn’t y-you say it felt like that?”

“It was probably worse, since you were freely offering it to me.” He disappears from in front of you. Asshole. You wait before following him, eager to gather more heat first. A blanket drops over you, covering your head and shoulders. By the time you’ve wrapped it more properly around yourself, he’s sitting on the floor facing the couch. His arms rest on the cushion, creating the tiniest indent, and he casts a shadow you’ve never seen from him before.

He looks more alive than you’ve ever seen him.

“You alright?” he whispers. His fingers twitch like he wants to reach out to you, but you both know that will only worsen the chill.

“Yes,” you stammer out, voice as soft as his, “I’ll be alright.”

It takes him a minute to believe you, but he does, and he smiles. It’s a gentle smile, fun of warmth he can’t possess, and you feel your throat tighten again. There’s a glow to his cheeks, some sort of rosy color, and you’re not sure if that’s because of you or the energy you gave him.

“Hey…” you start once your heart slows, “were you the one in my room? Back when I first moved in?”

“I was the one that threw your mailbox from it.”

You shake your head, then pause at the bout of dizziness that causes. “No,” you say, “before that. Almost a week after I moved in. There was– I don’t know, a shadow man, or something.”

He lifts his head from the couch, smile fading. “‘Shadow man’?”

You describe to him the figure in your room. You hadn’t seen it since Chuuya revealed himself, so you thought it was him.

His souring face says otherwise.

“Let me know if it happens again,” he warns. “I don’t know who it was, but I doubt they had good intentions.”

Your face pales and he frowns. He reaches forward, offering his hand but not touching you. You reach forward, and he wraps his fingers around yours. “I won’t let them hurt you,” he promises, pressing a kiss to your knuckles.

You’re sure he can feel your pulse race with the fluttering of your heart.

Chuuya promised to keep the monsters at bay, and he has, for the most part.

Shadows disappear when you turn to look at them. Footsteps creak along the halls when you’re alone. Nightmares haunt your dreams every night. Emma clings to you more, trying to keep you close.

Your house has become more active, that much is obvious.

But whatever Chuuya is doing, it works. None of the other ghosts bother you.

You get comfy, as the days fade from summer into fall into winter. He limits his touches as the weather grows colder(your heating is busted), but still joins you in your bed. He waits until you’re snuggled under the covers to lay beside you, arm slung across your chest. You can tell — by the tone of his voice, the look in his eyes — that he wishes for more. He misses your warmth, but he’s not going to sacrifice your safety for it.

He’s halfway through a sentence, regaling you with tales of his living life, when he disappears mid-word.

“Chuuya?” You turn, but he’s not there. He’s not anywhere, you discover, as you sit up and study the room. You call out for him, increasingly frantic as he doesn’t answer.

The floor is cold on your feet. You ignore it to search for Chuuya.

And then you come to on the rooftop.

You teeter on the edge, a wisp away from falling, chilled completely to the bone. You gasp and fall back, scrambling away from the drop.

Ice wraps around your ankle and yanks you closer.

Your fingers scrape against rain-slick tile.

There is no stopping your fall.

You scream.

And then are pulled up.

Hands beneath your arms move you away from the edge. A leg kicks out against whatever’s holding you. A chill spreads across your back from where it presses into his chest.

“This one’s mine!” Chuuya growls.

It is utterly unhuman.

He pulls you into safety and steps between you and the edge. You can’t see anything there, except in the rapid flash of lightning. A boy, you think, based on the structure of their body. Whispers sound from all around you, and you can’t tell if they’re coming from the figure or from elsewhere.

Chuuya’s shoulders tighten. His snarl loosens into a scowl, and he glances back at you, searching your face.

“What are they saying?” you whisper to him, and his posture relaxes. He glances back and pushes you toward the open window you must have used to get on the roof.

“Tell ya later,” he answers. He helps you through the window. “Stay right here. I’ll come get you when it’s safe.”

“Safe?” you breathe, but he slams the window shut behind you. He’s not behind it when you look.

…safe? Is the house not–

Well, it’s haunted so–

Cursed? Is that what the ghost hunter called it? Is the house really curs–

Of course it’s fucking cursed. Chuuya told you as much. All the deaths should have told you. The house is fucking haunted.

The house is fucking cursed.

But what happened? The only ghosts to even touch you so far are Elise and Chuuya. Why did someone try to-to kill you? And who were they?

You slide down the wall beside the window. He said to stay here, right? In the attic? Or will the rest of the house be safe as well?

Are you really safe here?

Well. Obviously not.

You take a look around the cramped attic. You’ve hardly touched the place; the entrance is in the ceiling of a second floor closet and the ladder consists of half-rotted wood. All the boxes you saw on your first (and only) venture into it contain mysteries, still.

The trapdoor is open. Light leaks in from below.

You crawl closer to it, aware of every creak the floorboards make beneath your knees. Peeking into the opening reveals nothing, just the empty closet. The door to the hallway is open — it’s where the light is coming from — but you can’t see anything past it.

Until a woman pokes her head in. “I’m pretty sure he told you to stay up there, did he not?” she asks. She smiles, though, like she already knows the answer. “I won’t tell if you come down, though. I’d welcome it.”

Her hand lifts towards you with the grace of a ballerina. She stays in that position, an image of perfect beauty; golden hair framing her face, brown eyes wide and innocent. Not quite demure, but something like it.

“Um,” you squeak, “no thanks.” You back up and slam the door shut, plunging yourself into darkness.

Which isn’t any better than the woman, you think. You lift the door a crack and peek into the closet.

Nothing. The corridor is empty.

Who was she? What did she want? The way she looked… she had that same dangerous glint in her eye that Chuuya often wears when discussing the afterlife. What would have happened if you’d taken her hand? Nothing good, you imagine.

Something crashes inside the house.

A weapon. What you need is a weapon.

You search the boxes for something that could work as one. Not that any would, considering what you know of ghosts. But it’s to settle your mind more than anything.

In the third box, you find a pair of soft leather gloves. Petite, sized somewhere between adult and child. You place one in your palm, stretched out, matching your fingers to the ones of the glove, the same way you and Chuuya sometimes hold hands. They have to belong to him.

Where is he?

You hold the gloves to your chest, over your heart.

Is he hurt? Can he get hurt?

He could get eaten.

Oh, god, he could get eaten–

No. No, he has not been eaten yet. You’ve never discussed where he falls in terms of strength, but he’s survived fifty goddamn years in this house, he won’t be overcome so easily.

Another crash comes from below.

You have to get down there.

You cradle his gloves against your chest and make your way to the opening. The first step creaks under your weight, but it holds. It holds.

As does the next step, and the next. It’s the fourth one that cracks, sliding your foot past the fifth, sixth, seventh. You gasp as you slide, butt hitting each step until the bottom. You land face-first on the burgundy carpet. A quick body scan reveals a scraped nose, a sore rump, and — worst of all — a wounded pride. Surely you could have stopped yourself before you ate the rug? What the hell was that poor performance?

Never mind. It’s not important. Not as important as Chuuya, at least.

You peek through the closet door. Nothing. No shadow people, no strange women, no knight in designer armor.

Outside you venture, gloves pressed into your skin as though they were a worthy wooden shield and not soft leather smaller than your own hands.

The entire second floor is empty. You poke your head into each room several times to check, then head toward the staircase. You remember (now, after your fall) that stairs are stronger at the ends, away from the middle, so you walk with one foot pressed against the bannister. It is, perhaps, the quietest you’ve ever been inside the house.

There’s no one on the first floor, either, and you haven’t been able to find a basement. So where the hell–

Voices.

Voices coming through the floorboards.

You kneel down and press your ear against the ground.

The voices are muffled, but you can almost make them out. You hold your breath to hear more clearly.

The only thing you hear is your name, tossed about by several of the voices.

Chuuya’s isn’t one of them.

Someone shouts, crying out for blood. Their single cry turns into a chant, broken occasionally by a chilling shriek of your name.

They’re mine, you make out among chanting. After all…

“I found them first.”

You gasp and jump forward, twisting your body to see the man behind you. He towers above your crouched form, glaring down at you with something like malice. His shadow twists into yours, ignoring the light coming from the front hall. Pure hatred crawls up your spine, chilling to your bones.

There’s something deeply wrong with this man.

His fingers twitch.

Your hand erupts in pain.

You scream and hold it up. An inky black spike runs clean through the middle of your palm. You brace yourself for blood as it dissipates.

There is none, though. Just a cold white circle on your skin.

You look up at the man. More spikes rise around him.

You turn and pull yourself into a run.

They feel like bullets that pierce your legs.

You grunt as you hit the ground. The pain grows the longer the spikes are stuck in you. You don’t know how to pull them out.

Your hair rustles as he kneels and places a hand on your head. “It hurts, doesn’t it? It’s the same thing I felt when I died.” Your body goes numb. “It will be much worse for you.”

You swing backwards, fist making contact with his chest. He’s knocked off balance, and you spare a tiny moment for thoughts as to why.

And then you’re racing for the door again. The man shouts behind you, but you’re through the front door when his shadow spears your stomach.

The pain is intense, more so than before. A raging hellfire burning inside your abdomen, scraping itself into your chest and lungs. You heave into the grass; bile runs into the pathway.

You cough and look behind you, but the man stopped on the bottom step. There’s barely a foot between you and him, but all he does is glare down at you, teeth bared in a snarl.

He can’t go any farther. He’s at the boundary of the house.

Your trembling arms threaten to drop you face-first into your own vomit, but you manage to scoot away first. Then you’re laying on your back, and your heart pounds a mile a minute, and the rain is cold, and your blood rushes to your head because it’s on the downward slope of the hill, and you can breathe. You can breathe.

And laugh, apparently. Frantic, half-conscious giggles escape your mouth and are carried away on the wind. And then you groan as you sit up — the pain is not nearly as bad as it was a second ago, but still persists as a dull throb.

You shiver in the cold. You don’t have any shoes, or even any socks. You wrap your arms around yourself and feel something pressed into your shoulder.

Chuuya’s gloves. Wrinkled by your fist and dampened by the rain, they glow with a dark red light. You’re not sure what it means, but it scares you.

Where is he?

You make your way down the gravel path and to your car, sitting just inside the gates. Chuuya makes you keep it here so it wouldn’t be too close to the house. You never really understood why until tonight.

The dashboard lights up when you insert the spare key(kept taped to the underside of your seat), and the heat flares to life soon after. You wave your fingers in front of the vent until some feeling returns to them. The air does little to dry you out, but the gloves are dry before you know it. They still glow, faintly, fading, sputtering in and out.

You have to find him.

You’ll drive the car up to the porch, you decide. And you’ll stand just inside the spiritual boundary to lure out a ghost, and then you’ll step back and question them. It’s a sound plan. Probably.

You’re just swinging the car around when the headlights catch on a dark shadow above the brick fence. Your heartbeat kicks up a notch.

Then falls silent in your chest.

“Chuuya!” you scream as you exit the vehicle.

He doesn’t move. You can barely reach his hand to shake him. You pull the car closer, as close as you dare, close enough to fold the passenger side mirror against the side of the car. You hop out and up onto the hood, then the roof, and you’re finally able to reach him.

He’s not breathing–

Which is normal, you remind yourself. He’s dead. Of course he’s not breathing.

“Chuuya,” you whisper, again and again, repeating his name like a prayer. He’s laying on his back on top of the fence. Four iron spikes pierce his chest, stomach, and leg. He looks solid, there, more solid in pain than he ever has before. You have to get him down.

Your hands pass right through him. You can’t touch him.

Tears well up that you refuse to let fall.

Why can’t you touch him? Sure, it takes energy, energy he obviously doesn’t have right now, but you managed to push the other ghost! What was different now? What was–

The gloves. You were holding his gloves when you shoved the other guy.

They creak when you put them on, but do not tear.

And, miraculously, amazingly, gratefully, you grab his shoulder.

You brace your knee on the concrete and pull. His fingers twitch, and his face contorts. You whisper apology after apology as you lift him off the spikes. He grunts as you pull him forward, resting his chest against your shoulder. You’re halfway through freeing his leg when his arms wrap around you and his fists close in the fabric of your nightshirt.

“Told ya to stay… in the attic…” he rasps in your ear.

If a voice could make people drunk, you’re pretty sure that’s what this feels like.

You sob into the air, hugging Chuuya with all your might. He gasps and pushes you away. He cradles your face, studying it.

“You… You’re still alive…” he breathes. “But you…” his hand squeezes yours. “How?”

You squeeze his hand in return, then release it. You hold it in front of his face. “This is yours, right?” The glow is stronger now, emitting a dark red light.

He slides his palm up and laces his fingers between yours.

It’s the first time you’ve properly held hands with him.

He moves his face forward, pressing your foreheads together. “I thought you were dead,” he whispers. “Thought I was never going to see ya again.”

“I’m here,” you whisper back. “I’m here and I’m not going anywhere.”

“You can’t stay. They’ll kill you.”

You know that. You are highly aware of that. Your bones still tremble in the cold from the rooftop, your back still aches where it was stabbed. But you don’t want to leave him. “What about you?” You pull back to look at his face. “What’s going to happen to you if I leave?”

He sucks in a breath through his teeth. “I’ll be fine. I can fight back.”

“What about this?” You grab his thigh where the tip of the spike pokes through. He flinches. “How did this happen?” you whisper.

He looks around before he answers, keeping one hand on your back and the other in yours. You shiver, despite the fact that his touch is no longer cold to you. “You need help, first,” he says, and lowers you to your car.

“What about you?” You grab the spokes to brace yourself against the wind. “You’re still stuck.”

“I’ll be down in a minute,” he tells you, “so just get in the car.” He holds your hand for as long as he can while you slide onto the hood and then the ground. You glance up at him as you open the door, but he waves at you to hurry.

Blessed warmth. You hadn’t realized how cold you were, but now your body aches in the heat blowing from the vents. Your fingers crack when they bend and your cheeks begin to thaw. You’re still shaking, though, despite holding your hands to the vents and rubbing them across your frozen skin.

Thud!

You scream when the car rocks.

“Just me,” Chuuya says, head sticking upside down through the windshield. He crawls onto the ceiling of the car, then plops into the passenger seat. He leans the seat back and places a hand over the wounds on his chest.

It’s not blood that oozes from it, but something darker, something almost black that spreads into the air like smoke. You hover your own hand over his, and he takes it with his free hand. “I’m okay,” he whispers into your palm before kissing it. “I’ll be okay.”

“What can I do?” you ask, but he shakes his head.

“You’re here. That’s enough. I just need sleep.”

You nod, and he drops his hand to the glovebox between you, still wrapped around yours. His head lolls to the side. In the reflection in the mirror, his eyes are slightly closed, his mouth is slightly open.

His body starts to fade. So does the glow from the gloves.

And that is very, very bad, you think.

“Chuuya?” You shake his shoulder. He doesn’t respond. “Chuuya!”

Your hand begins to sink through him, despite the glove.

He’s going to disappear.

You won’t let that happen.

You lean over him, hands pressed into his heart. You don’t know how he took energy from you before, but he did say it felt so bad because you gave it to him. You try to dredge up that feeling again.

It comes to you slowly, or maybe it only feels slow because of how cold you already are. All the warmth you’ve gathered since entering the car leaves you, flowing into Chuuya. His wounds close, and the fabric over them repairs itself. He grows more solid under your touch. His eyes begin to flutter as the ice spreads through your veins.

He shouts your name.

Your vision goes dark.

And then gray.

And then blinding white.

You blink against the light, squinting to see through it. Sitting up takes more effort than it should; your limbs are heavy and your head swims in circles. You raise a hand to massage away the headache that threatens to knock you out again.

“Oh, you’re awake!” A man saunters in, hands in the pockets of his tan overcoat. He calls out the door, “They’re awake! Told you, Kunikida!” He sits down in the chair beside your bed(your hospital bed; you find that appropriate, somehow) and says, as if he’s known you your whole life, “We were so worried about you! How’re you feeling? Hypothermia is nothing to take lightly, you know.”

……..You have no idea who this man is.

Kunikida, on the other hand, sparks a distant memory from almost a year ago. “You’re the ghost hunter!” you say, pointing to him. He grimaces, as does his partner.

“We are paranormal investigators,” he tells you at the same time his partner huffs, “Don’t ignore me like that!”

“What are you doing here?”

Kunikida unfolds a newspaper and offers it to you. You frown as you read over it. The article doesn’t bother you at all; it’s just a short rundown of your house’s morbid history, followed by a few sentences about the mysterious call that led paramedics to you, half frozen in your car. No, what bothers you most are the notes, written in scribbly red ink across the paper.

Your address, the nearest hospital locations, even your own name, which isn’t in the article in the first place.

You eye the two men, holding the paper like a shield between you. “Have you been stalking me?”

“Yep!” says the first man.

“No!” says the other. He sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose beneath his glasses. “We like to keep tabs on the house at this address. But beyond an occasional drive-by, we don’t investigate further.”

Drive-by. Investigate. What.

“I… do not like that.”

“We’re sorry,” Kunikida says, “but it’s a necessary part of our job.”

“It’s a dangerous house, you understand,” the first man says. “I would gladly take your place, but my partner here won’t let me.” H takes your hand and holds it between his. “Unless you want to join me? It would be a beautiful double–”

“Yes, yes, you freak.” Kunikida interrupts, taking one of the man’s hands and holding it. “No one is going to commit suicide wtih you.”

You pull your hand away from his and into your lap. “I still don’t understand why you’re here.”

“We just want to check in with you,” Kunikida says. He sinks into the chair beside the first man(you should really ask his name) and, while still holding his hand, pulls a notebook from his vest pocket. “We also wanted to ask about what happened two nights ago that led to you nearly freezing in your car.”

You…. don’t trust these men. “Why do you want to know?”

“I told you, we like to keep a record of all the incidents that happen there.”

“And why is that?”

“So we know what to expect when we investigate. Ranpo and Dazai have a pretty good idea, but I like to be thorough.”

“Investigate?”

“With your permission, of course.”

Oh. They want to investigate your house.

Wh-

Why?

You narrow your eyes. “What do you expect to find?”

“Ghosts, ghouls, and demons!” the first man exclaims. He swings his and Kunikida’s hands back and forth between the chairs.

“Don’t scare them, Dazai.” Kunikida admonishes. To you, he says, “You won’t have to worry about anything. We’ll do a thorough investigation and clean up all the spirits we find.”

Well. That’s not going to work, is it? Chuuya’s gloves are right there on the bedside table. If all spirits include him and Elise, then….

“We haven’t had a chance to explore it yet. All the owners sold it when the hauntings became too much for them. They didn’t even think to look deeper into it. But we have a whole team of psychics, all of whom have their own method of exorcism. There won’t be a thing to worry about once we’re done.”

Your frown deepens with every word. Dazai has to nudge Kunikida to quiet him. In the following silence, you ask, “Why are you so interested in my house?”

“It is dangerous,” Dazai tells you again, “and it’s host to the most activity in town. It would be an interesting experience, if nothing else.”

“Is that it?” You shake your head. “I don’t feel comfortable letting complete strangers into my house for such a silly reason.”

“I assure you, it’s not silly.” Kunikida opens the notebook and starts reading off the stories he’s collected — stories you are well aware of, after all your research and everything Chuuya’s told you. It’s when he reaches the decade-old murder of a young woman that you interrupt him.

“I know the history of the house, thank you.” Did that sound sarcastic? That totally sounded sarcastic. It just wasn’t sarcastic enough. “I’m still not interested.”

“But this incident was only the first,” Kunkida says. “If you stay, you’re going to have another. And no one will be there to save you next time.”

You’re not so sure about that.

You return home the next day. You stand just outside the gate, staring up the hill to your house. You shiver in the wind that blows fallen leaves into your yard. The gate squeaks as you open it. Your car is still parked against the inner wall. You don’t know what awaits you inside the house, or even just inside the gate, but everything looks fine from the outside.

Except for your missing mailbox.

Your heart pounds as you make your way up the path and to your porch. The doorknob twists under your hand. You peek around the door, but there’s nothing behind it. It’s not even all that dark; sunlight streams through the windows in other rooms and leaks into the front hallway.

You step inside and close the door behind you.

And then are thrown back into it.

You gasp as arms wrap around you.

A face presses into your stomach.

And–

And someone giggles.

You blink down at the head of blonde hair, tied back with a maroon bow. She raises her head to meet your gaze with bright blue eyes.

“Elise,” you breathe, patting her head with a gloved hand.

“You’re back!” she exclaims, and you blink — you’ve never heard her speak before.

“Well, look at that. She likes you.”

You jolt at the new voice. You have no idea who said that, but you do know it doesn’t belong to either of the two ghosts you trust.

Elise turns and huffs. “You promised!” she calls into the hall.

“Yes, yes, of course. I won’t touch them.” You blink, and a man appears at the base of the stairs. He’s tall and lanky, with slicked back hair and a piercing gaze. “I was just making an observation. You don’t usually let people hear you.”

“Well I like this one.”

“Right, right. I won’t take your toy away. Not yet.” He turns his attention to you. Your blood runs cold.

“Um,” you stammer, “you must be the doctor.” Elise’s father and murderer. “I-it’s nice to me-meet you.” You’re not sure if you should offer a handshake or not.

“I am,” he nods, “my name is Ougai Mori. I hope we can get along in the future.”

And just like that, he disappears.

You flinch. Elise huffs. “He won’t bother you,” she says, waving a hand. “He doesn't want to upset me, and he’s always trying to make up for killing me. Besides, I’m not the only one who will be angry if anything happens to you.”

Your eyes widen. “You mean–” you breathe. “How-how is…”

Something crashes upstairs.

Elise hops in place and points, setting a hand on your back.

You race up the stairs and to your bedroom. The door to it is wide open. On the floor across from it is your mailbox.

“You should really lock your door, you know?”

#self rb

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