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cherienymphe · 3 months

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There Will Be Blood

Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen x Reader x Lady Margot Fenring

Summary: Knowing that you are too afraid to ever find yourself alone with the Harkonnen heir, Lady Margot secures his heart's desire for his celebration day.

warnings: Dub-Con (use of the voice), blood, knifeplay, choking, threesome, mentions of cannibalism, non canon ages, spoiler free

➥ banner by @vase-of-lilies

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“She looks almost good enough to eat,” were the words that reached your ears in that low timbre, head tilted as he gazed at you. “I don’t know whether to feed her to my darlings…”

The feeling of his finger underneath your chin was almost nonexistent as he tilted your head up. You were too anxious to look away—his reputation preceding him—and even if you wanted to, you couldn’t. You felt paralyzed, held captive by that dark blue gaze you swore was actually black as night in certain lighting.

“…or make her one of them.”

You swallowed at that, and you didn’t miss the way his eyes followed the subtle movement.

He was referring to his ‘pets’ as you knew he sometimes called them, the three strikingly beautiful Harkonnen women with an appetite for human flesh. The thought of being killed and fed to the women in question made your heart skip a beat…but the thought of being added to his harem made you shudder.

…and you couldn’t tell if the feeling was good or bad.

Hands slid over your shoulders from behind, making you shiver again, and your lashes fluttered at the feeling of soft lips grazing your throat. You faintly tried to remember how and why you ended up here, and you could only recall staring into enticing blue eyes. Her familiar face was all that stood out in your memory, features soft and lips curved into an even softer smile. With all of that being said though, you couldn’t remember your thought process behind following her perfect figure down the hall.

Lady Margot Fenring—golden-haired and willowy with that Bene Gesserit serene repose about her that you found subtly disturbing.

Usually.

In this moment, her calm disposition and quiet authority made your heart race. She was a comforting contrast to the man before you, his intense gaze and sharp features serving to make your imagination run wild with what he was capable of. He was so different from his brother, vastly so from his uncle, but he still possessed similarities with the two that made you nervous all the same.

Especially with his hand so close to your throat.

“This one isn’t for consumption.”

Her lips brushed your skin as her soft and even tone filled your ears.

“Not in the literal sense, at least…” mirth colored her voice at this remark. “I saw you watching her.”

Those words made your heart sink, and you were sure that the brief stab of fear you felt passed through your eyes.

Feyd-Rautha was psychotic. He was the kind of man that would kill someone solely because he felt like it. He had an animalistic stare that made alarm bells go off in your head, telling you to never take your eyes off of him—to always keep him in your line of sight. He was the kind of man you couldn’t let your guard down around.

He was the kind of man you didn’t want watching you.

As if he could read your worrisome thoughts, a glint passed through the man’s eyes, and he leaned in closer. Not one to conceal his feelings in any situation, his expression twisted into one of amusement, a sight that made your hair stand on end. Those soft hands slid over your shoulders and down your arms, gently caressing them.

Don’t be afraid.

A voice that didn’t sound like your own filled your mind, its influence settling into your bones and deep into the crevices of your subconscious. You felt yourself relax, felt the tension leaving you, and her soft hum had you leaning back into her chest. You didn’t want to be afraid, and you felt confident in repeating those words to yourself, confirming that there was nothing to be afraid of.

“You want her,” her fingers grazed your jaw, briefly touching his own. “…but she fears you far too much to ever find yourself alone with her.”

“I like them afraid.”

Those words made you blink, your lips parting at the sincerity in them. By the way he held your gaze, you could tell he wanted you to know he meant it, but that voice in your mind assured you that you had nothing to be afraid of. Not when he leaned in closer, and not when his hand traveled from your chin and down to circle your neck.

“You get too excited,” the blonde woman steadily told him, a hint of authority in her voice. “You would kill her.”

Her fingers on your jaw forced you to turn your head, making you look at her, and when she kissed you, you welcomed it. It was a comforting kiss, one that relaxed you further, and you couldn’t help but to close your eyes and bask in the feel of her lips touching yours. Your skin grew warm, and you touched her arm.

“I’m here to keep you in line.”

She spoke the words into your mouth, but she wasn’t talking to you.

Feyd-Rautha’s lack of protest or anger at her words gave you the impression that you were being included in something that already existed. He let her kiss you, the heat of his gaze burning a hole into the side of your face as she drew you in closer. The feeling in your chest was both light and heavy, and you felt as if you couldn’t get close enough to her.

Lady Margot had an aura about her that you’d always been ensnared by—the way she talked, the way she swayed when she walked, and especially the way those attentive eyes watched everyone and everything so closely. She smelled fresh and crisp, an airy feminine aroma filling your nose as her hand rested on the side of your throat, Feyd-Rautha’s arm long falling back at his side.

When she pulled away, only the tip of her nose lightly touched yours.

“He wants you to touch him.”

Her voice reverberated in your mind, influencing your thoughts and movements, and you found yourself turning to look at the man in question. Your advance was slow, hesitant in reaching out to place your hands on the black fabric of his shirt. He visibly shuddered at the contact, and despite the fact that you were clothed, you felt vulnerable and naked underneath his intense gaze.

“This one is fragile, Feyd-Rautha,” amusement danced around her words. “You have to play gentle if you want to keep her.”

Almost as if he wanted to defy her, his hand quickly wrapped itself around your throat, forcing you closer. Your heart stuttered at the action, and despite that brief bout of adrenaline—your body’s way of telling you that you were in danger—that influential voice in your mind told you that you were safe. Your breathing was shallow as you looked at him with wide eyes.

His own gaze traveled over your form, his perusal slow and his hand tightening. You reached up, grabbing his arm, and the noise of protest he made was a cross between a grunt and a hum. His nose touched yours, and when he spoke again, it sounded like there was gravel in his throat.

“Do you fear me?”

The thought settled in your mind that he wanted you to say yes, and so you did, barely whispering it.

That pleased him, and he presented you with a terrifying smile. His fingers were pressing into the skin of your neck, and his blue gaze studied yours, eyes flickering between your own. There was a carnal excitement there that told you he lusted for more than just your body, and when you winced at the grip he had on your throat, it only grew.

“Good,” he praised in a guttural tone.

Kissing Feyd-Rautha was nothing like kissing Lady Margot.

It wasn’t meant to be a gentle and comforting experience, but instead one that forced you to face every one of your discomforts head on. His teeth pressing into your lips, his hand cutting off your airway, the lack of warning as he pushed you back. Every action was designed to make you squirm, and despite that feeling, heat still settled in the pit of your stomach as his weight pressed down on you.

Lady Margot’s gentle touch made your leg tingle. She was pulling on it, making room for him while her other hand grabbed your arm, and you shuddered at the feel of her lips kissing a path to your wrist. The contrast in their efforts made your head spin, and Feyd-Rautha’s constricting grip on your throat only disappeared when his lips replaced his hand instead.

Pain blossomed beneath where his teeth were, and you gasped, chest arching up into his involuntarily. His hands on your frame were tense, like he wanted to twist and tear you apart, but something disallowed him from doing so. When he kissed you again, the pain in your neck lingered, flaring from spot to spot, and you didn’t doubt that bruises would be there.

When you were forced to sit up, the soft and thin fabric of your dress was pulled at by two sets of hands. A feminine touch loosened the back, her lips following behind where his once were, soothing the irritated skin there. He, on the other hand, was yanking your sleeves down, and the sound of a slight tear or two in the fabric could be heard.

The cold air hit you for half a second before a warm mouth covered a sensitive bud before it even had time to harden. The sharp feeling of his teeth pressing into the skin of your breast made you shy away, but with Lady Margot at your back, you had nowhere to go. Her lips along your neck and shoulder was a welcomed feeling, a soothing contrast against the pain the Harkonnen man was inflicting. It almost faded to the background completely when her hand found its way between your thighs.

Your lips parted, and your lashes fluttered, and you couldn’t help but to lift your hips. Her fingers were soft against your skin, the appendages sliding between your folds and stroking you. One of your hands reached down to rest on hers, riding along with her ministrations while the other reached up to grip the arm of the man intent on breaking skin.

The feel of Lady Margot’s fingers pushing into you and curving against your walls made you circle your hips. The pain and pleasure were starting to blend together so closely that you couldn’t tell what you liked and didn’t like. His teeth scraping down your torso had your breath hitching, and the Bene Gesserit woman behind you hummed when you clenched around her fingers. It sounded like a noise of approval, and when she spoke, her tone and words confirmed that suspicion.

“She likes that,” she mused, her free hand coming up to run over your chest. “She’s starting to like the pain.”

She was right.

Almost as if that triggered something in him, the blue-eyed man relinquished control completely, fingers digging into the tops of your thighs as he pulled you forward. The action caused you to collapse, your head resting in Lady Margot’s lap as he finished removing your dress, the fabric falling around you in tatters. There was only a brief bout of alarm when he brandished a small blade from his waist.

There was that voice again, settling and taking up residence in your mind, telling you not to be afraid.

Pain flared along your skin in a singular path as the tip of the blade just barely grazed your flesh. It was so sharp that a thin line of blood followed the weapon’s descent, but it was gone as quickly as it came as his tongue slipped past his lips, ingesting your essence and soothing that sting. Your eyes closed, and you welcomed her kiss as she leaned over.

Feyd-Rautha’s own lips kissed you too…just before he sank his teeth into your skin.

You were given bites and nips between the kisses—along your hip and along your thighs and eventually in between your thighs. Your hips lifted, and your back arched, and you unintentionally bit Lady Margot’s lip. She smiled into the kiss, and you knew that she could taste the same blood you felt on your own tongue.

Feyd-Rautha was a mad man between your legs, tongue and teeth playing with you, the blade in his hand pressed against your thigh. The soles of your feet pressed into the bed, wanting to both run away from the pain and run towards it. Every shallow cut made into your skin was soothed by his tongue almost immediately, and you wanted to be embarrassed by how wet their combined ministrations made you.

When you found yourself on your knees, the blade at your throat and his naked chest at your back, you could see the way Lady Margot’s gaze held his. Her face was serene and thoughtful, almost as if she were having a silent conversation with the man at your back. The sharpness of his blade drew blood, and by the way his free hand smeared it along your skin, you knew that it turned him on.

“Gentle,” she reminded him, standing.

He wasn’t so gentle when he pushed his way into you, making you sharply inhale, but the blade remained light against your throat. You tilted your head back, both to relieve the sting and because the feel of his cock sliding into you had you submitting. His own deep grunts were right at your ear, and his bloody hand trailed down your frame to roughly knead into your skin.

The sound of skin slapping against skin made your ears twitch, and when he roughly pushed you down with a hand on your back, your fingers twisted into the sheets of the luxurious bed. Your head was bowed, forehead grazing the fabric as he fucked you, power and aggression driving every thrust. Lady Margot was right, you were afraid of the Baron’s sole heir, positive that you’d never find yourself alone with him before today.

Even if you doubted it, you would have never guessed this is how he’d choose to spend his birthday celebration. While fireworks were exploding and food and drink was being passed around, Feyd-Rautha was spending his time burying his cock in you. His fingers twisted painfully into your hair, making you yelp, and the sound only made him fuck you harder.

“Are you still afraid of me?” he roughly asked you, and when you started to nod, he pushed your face down into the bed.

Understanding what he wanted, you managed to force out a small affirmation.

“Yes,” you choked out.

The low laugh that he let out was menacing, and he was aggressive in pushing you onto your back. His hand was tight when it found a home on your throat, pinning you in place as he snapped his hips into yours. The force was enough to make you wince, and his brutal treatment didn’t go unnoticed, the blonde woman coming up behind the man.

Her gaze found yours, holding it as she whispered something into his ear that yours weren’t privy to. Her beautiful hands came around to slide along his smooth chest, her lips still brushing against his ear. Her lips traveled to his throat as he pulled away from you, pulling out and allowing the other woman to guide him to sit back.

He was uncharacteristically still as he watched her take his place.

“Come.”

Her simple command was impossible to disobey, and you sat up, doing as she said. With a hand on the back of your head, she guided you towards the man, an imposing urge to touch him descending over you. With your hands sliding along his lithe frame, her fingers applied pressure, and your head lowered.

Your lips stretched around him as you tasted his cock, tongue flat and cheeks hollowed. Feminine hands were gliding over your curves, fingers eventually sinking into you again. You closed your eyes at the feel, relaxing and heart calming at the 180 from Feyd-Rautha’s earlier brutality. At the thought of him, you peeled your eyes open, looking up at him from beneath your lashes.

It amazed you, how he could be so dominant and forceful with you but so obedient and almost subdued with her. With one look into his eyes or the feel of her hands against his skin, he became a momentarily tamed wild animal. The feral glint in his eyes couldn’t be done away with, the desire to cause pain coloring his features whenever his gaze connected with yours.

As Lady Margot gently curved her fingers into you, you found yourself craving that feeling again.

Your neck and torso still faintly stung from where his blade had drawn blood, and you got the feeling that your skin was already starting to bruise from where he’d tightly held you. You recalled her earlier words, about her presence serving to keep him in line, and your mind lingered on the aches you felt from what he’d done while she was here. You wondered what would be in store for you should he ever get you completely alone.

You suspected that she was right.

He would get too excited…and probably kill you.

When his lips curved into a small smirk, you knew then that your thoughts were written on your face—along with your fear. His hand on your head made you nervous, and still you slid your mouth up and down the length of him. You could feel yourself dripping down your thighs, Lady Margot’s soft ministrations stroking that fire deep within your stomach. It made you moan around him, and if possible, you swore Feyd-Rautha’s eyes darkened at both the sound and feel.

“She would make a well-behaved pet,” he haughtily said.

The way he stared into your eyes told you that was meant more so for you than her. They both shifted, leaning in and you heard them kiss above your head.

“I knew that you would enjoy her,” the blonde woman confidently said, her even tone unable to hide her satisfaction. “Provided you don’t break her.”

When she pulled away, she pulled away from you too, and with a hand on your chin, she lifted your head. She guided you to kiss him, her own lips resting against your cheek, her soft voice telling you not to be afraid. You wanted to listen, your own mind agreeing, and so you welcomed the pain when blood bloomed along your lips.

Feyd-Rautha enjoyed the taste, roughly grabbing your hands and pinning them behind you at the small of your back. He didn’t tell you to lie down, instead making you, and you winced at the feel of your hands trapped beneath your own body. His lips were stained red when he pulled away, and your mouth parted into an ‘O’ shape when the head of his cock started to stretch you out again.

You were completely powerless—at his mercy—and you cried out at the rough curve of his hips. He looked vicious above you, focused not on chasing his high but on seeing the register of pain on your face instead. That was what brought him pleasure, watching you wince and squirm beneath him and his intense thrusts. If his hand wasn’t on your throat then it was yanking your hair or digging into the soft flesh of your breast.

He seemed to like the sight of marking you up whether it be with his teeth or his hand…or that blade.

He held it against your throat while he fucked you, sometimes sliding the flat part down your chest, blue eyes transfixed by the metal pressing against your skin. Occasionally he’d turn it, the edge grazing you, making a cut just shallow enough and then he’d lean down to taste you. Spots of his own flesh was marred by your blood, and he obviously didn’t care as he smeared it over both of you with every movement.

With your hands free, you clutched onto the sheets, eyes rolling into the back of your head. His hands were painfully tight on your waist, keeping your hips lifted for him as he thrust into you. Lady Margot—silently and appreciatively watching—slid her hands along the bed to grab your hands. Her fingers intertwined with your own, holding them down, and you welcomed the gentle kisses she placed on your wrists and then your cheek before finally your lips.

The man above you made a noise of disapproval, and after some time, she granted him what he wanted, his own rough lips replacing hers. You panted into the kiss, tasting your blood on his lips, and you felt almost delirious. It was a constant cycle of pain and pleasure that had you chasing him when he started to pull away. The laugh he gave at the sight told you his thoughts on the matter, but you didn’t care how much power you were giving him.

His gaze suddenly lifted, and his thrusts didn’t stop as he faced Lady Margot. You felt hypnotized as you watched them, eyes focused on the way Feyd-Rautha stuck out his tongue, elongating it in a way you didn’t think possible. The willowy woman had let you go, taking his own blade and dragging the edge of it down his tongue.

It was then that you realized the man inside of you enjoyed pain almost as much as he liked inflicting it.

You wondered if that was why he was so submissive towards her, why she could order him around and why she was so confident that she could keep him in line. You were unsurprised when they kissed, the brutal man kissing you after a while when they finally parted. You swore that his blood tasted completely different from your own.

A thin layer of sweat coated your skin, and you felt almost completely spent. You were sure that the celebration of his birth was still being had while he chose to celebrate between your legs. His strength and the knowledge of how easily he could snuff you out played a part in the way you clenched around his cock. You could feel that you were close—and so could he.

His hand completely obstructed your breathing, and you could only hold onto his wrist. With every thrust into your cunt, the heat in the pit of your stomach grew. Your heart was racing, and your eyes struggled to remain open, and your toes curled as he stretched you around him. A noise of appreciation reached your ears, and for a moment you wondered if he was going to snap your neck.

He could do it. The strength in his hand told you so and that he would probably barely exert himself doing so. You felt your neck strain underneath his fingers, and your nails drew blood over his skin. You knew he liked that because he kissed you again. Your shallow breaths hit his face, and just as you were on the verge of passing out, you came.

…and his hold loosened.

The rush of air into your lungs coinciding with the release of pressure inside of you made your world momentarily go dark. All you could feel was the snug fit of his cock—and the way your walls fluttered around it—and his teeth against your lip. You could faintly feel softer hands on your face, and a choked moan left your lips his hips continued to connect with yours.

His hand tightened again just as your vision started to return to you, and the smile you were met with was chilling. So turned on by watching you straddle death, the fearsome fighter came too but much more violently. He practically growled above you, the noise so animalistic and inhumane sounding. Your neck almost cracked beneath the force of his hand, and the overstimulation from the feel of his cock made you want to clench your thighs together.

You were struggling to breathe when he stilled, chest burning, and when he roughly let you go—pushing himself away from you—you gasped for air. You turned on your side, sweaty and bloody and feeling like you couldn’t breathe deep enough. A hand smoothed along the side of your face—a feminine hand—and when you looked up, the blue-eyed man was cleaning his blade with a crooked smile, terrifying teeth on display.

“I think I will keep this one.”

#feyd rautha #feyd-rautha harkonnen #feyd-rautha x reader #feyd rautha x reader #feyd-rautha #margot fenring #lady margot fenring #margot fenring x reader #dune fanfiction #dune imagine #feyd-rautha imagine #austin butler fanfiction #austin butler imagine #lea seydoux

2K notes · View notes

verysium · 6 months

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『01』呪術廻戦: jujutsu kaisen recs

五条悟: gojo satoru

i know you still think about the times we had by @saetoru

satoru will always comes when you call him, he just never thought you’d stop calling. notes: satoru is so desperate and pathetic here it is just delicious; has the right amount of angst to cause tension but a good ending to soothe my poor heart; traditional rich boy and disapproving mother/father scenario but implemented relatively well; miscommunication and feelings of inadequacy; reader realizing the extent to which satoru loves them

pretty eyes by @quirklessidiot

in which the right eye is mine and the left eye is yours and when we meet for the first time, you see your own eyes staring back at you. notes: takes tragic star-crossed lovers to a whole new level; riddled with parallels and symbolism; idea of illness and loving someone at their worst; right person, wrong time at its finest; fate being unnecessarily cruel; surprising moments of humor

minazuki by @quirklessidiot

In which Y/N L/N is placed under a union she has no choice but to partake for the sake of her survival. notes: this series needs to be scientifically studied; it is just that good; halfway in and i fell in love with the reader instead of gojo; strong and somewhat morally grey characters; dark themes around femininity in a patriarchal society but concept was executed flawlessly

21: only by @tenjiiku

“What do you want, Satoru?” You do not use his last name or any honorific to address him despite his age. He was older than you by a few years — but certainly did not act the part — so you do not think he deserves your respect. Your host father told you he does — something about his being from a prominent private school as an educator, which you cannot possibly fathom being the truth — but only in front of you is Satoru Gojo an inane, odd man with a need for clean, dry-cleaned clothes that, for some strange reason he has conjectured in his equally baffling mind, that only you can provide. He smiles at you, placing his cheek in his hand. “You.” notes: this fic embodies the duality between gojo and satoru; he is easy-going until he isn’t and you realize he actually has a considerable amount of depth; the plot twist did it for me; satoru being a loud-mouthed tease but secretly harboring feelings

soulswap by @orphxus (impxria)

this is where the evening splits in half, love or death. grab an end, pull hard, & make a wish. notes: short but realistically describes everything wrong with jujutsu society; poetic voice; gojo being serious for once; disillusionment and tragic hero archetype; being the strongest yet being unable to save anybody; geto would read this fic and feel seen

両面宿儺: ryomen sukuna

nocuous by @quirklessidiot

“It’s ironic, isn’t it? I knew how this was going to end but I’m still terribly hurt by it.” notes: the heian era setting is so complex and established even through dialogue and subtle description; reader strikes me as older and able to deal with sukuna’s chaotic nature; sukuna being an absolute menace is sending me; tragic angst but almost didn’t notice it due to how beautifully the images are presented

avīci by @rotpeach

Several years ago, Satoru Gojo was involved in the exorcism of a uniquely stubborn curse. The official report states that one of Ryomen Sukuna's fingers was recovered from the scene, and nothing else. Only the two of you know the truth. notes: gore, gore, and even more gore; boy was this fic a wild ride; imagine a work that condenses the ugliest and most revolting parts of human nature yet presents them so elegantly you start questioning the blurred lines of morality; cannibalism, violence, and love triangles; japanese mythology & folklore; heian period references; cursed spirit reader tries to grapple with the idea of self after being created for the sole purpose of serving others; themes of existentialism, identity crisis, obsession

#fic recs #jujutsu kaisen #jjk #jjk x reader #gojo satoru #gojo x reader #sukuna ryomen #sukuna x reader

423 notes · View notes

amuromi · 1 month

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★ ₊ ⊹ ⋆˙ ┈ 𝐑𝐘𝐎𝐌𝐄𝐍 𝐒𝐔𝐊𝐔𝐍𝐀 X ᶠ!ᴿᴱᴬᴰᴱᴿ

✦ ⋆˙ 𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓 ┈ 9.1k

✦ ⋆˙ 𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐒 ┈ SFW! heian era!au, concubine!reader, true form!Sukuna, established relationship (married), major character death, canon typical violence, era typical misogyny/gender roles, unhealthy obsession, mentions of death, mentions of cannibalism and blood, (Sukuna is a lunatic), Sukuna is referred to exclusively as “Lord Sukuna”

✦ ⋆˙ 𝐀!𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄 ┈ The canon will begin to matter less and less as this story goes on it seems, but it will all make sense I swear!

✦ ⋆˙ 𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐓 𝐈

✮ 𝐌𝐈𝐍𝐎𝐑𝐒 & 𝐀𝐆𝐄𝐋𝐄𝐒𝐒 𝐃𝐎 𝐍𝐎𝐓 𝐈𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐀𝐂𝐓!! ✮

There are two bodies to burn. The sparse tinder is laid by careful hands. In the deep cold of winter the earth has so few things to spare, only the thin branches of a fledgling tree bowed over by the blistering wind. The wood is dead and brittle, splintering like breaking bones where it’s been bent into curving shapes. Tied with twine in a braided wreath of ashen wood to surround First Mistress’ body. She’s laid over a fine fur in her most sumptuous clothes and most lustrous jewels, the broken parts of her carefully placed where they’re meant to be attached to her body. Beneath her clothes, parts of Jurina are missing. A bit of flesh flayed from her ribs, a gouge taken out of her thigh. There’s a thin square of white silk laid over her face, hiding the claw masks and the fissure where her head was nearly torn from her body. The wound flutters in and out of sight as the wind stirs the edge of the white sheet, flashing the curving groove where Lord Sukuna fit his teeth into her flesh and tore.

The fire catches quickly after the priests say their rites, burrowing like red mice through the wood. Burning tongues leapt from wood to fabric, outfitting Jurina’s body in a brilliant, golden shroud for only a moment before her clothes are burning away and the fire takes to skin. The perfumed wood dampens the scent of burning flesh but it will soon become overpowering as the small crowd gathers to pay their respects before the pyre. There’s weeping for mistress and servant alike as Jurina’s personal maid chose to continue serving her in the afterlife. There was little attention given to her body. She’s simply laid beside Jurina with her collar of bruises from the white silk that had choked the life from her throat. Her name escapes you and you wonder if she has a family that needs to be informed of their loss. A raven was already sent out by Uraume to inform Jurina’s clan of her demise at the hands of the King of Curses.

It’s your hope that Uraume elected to omit the extent of the damage done to Jurina’s body so that her family might have some peace in their ignorance. The winter winds snuff out lives like blowing out candles, ravaging weaker bodies with boiling fevers and gasping coughs that never seem to pass. It’s just the right season for pneumonia and illnesses of that ilk. Let them think that she went with some semblance of peace. It’s a selfish sort of wish as you watch the snow hiss and turn to steam over Jurina’s funeral pyre. It would absolve you of blame, remove the hand you had in her death with your careless words. Poisonous tongue spelling out her death. She’d been staring at you when she died, or perhaps she was dead before her glassy eyes rolled towards you standing at the edge of the engawa, snow dotting your lashes and melting into moisture when the tears wouldn’t come. You hadn’t wanted her death but you can’t find it in yourself to be saddened by the loss.

Even so, you clasp your hands in prayer along with the remaining Mistresses. Still three despite Fourth Mistress’ arrival. Now Second Mistress is the wife with the most seniority and yet she stands to your right, a subtle show of deference that hadn’t been there only so many hours before. The night has stretched on for a small eternity, bleeding into daylight without reprieve as the household scrambled to deal with Jurina’s death. Messengers were sent out in the waning storm to fetch priests from the village, servants were dispatched to clean Jurina’s chamber and erect a platform for her to be burned upon. Tatami mats were changed and floors were scrubbed. The blood soaked courtyard has been renewed with another layer of downy snow to cover the splatters of blood where Lord Sukuna dragged Jurina outside to make a spectacle of her death. He tore at her with a deranged sort of satisfaction, grinning when he saw you watching, as if he’d only been waiting for a moment to tear her apart. She burst open between his teeth and claws like a ripe fruit, spilling across the snow in a brilliant spray of crimson. And all you did was watch, trying to remind yourself that Jurina wasn’t like you. She was still human in a way that you weren’t.

Her dedication was to herself above all else, perhaps her clan came second. Lord Sukuna wasn’t a priority in her mind. Her world was vast, reaching far beyond the bounds of the Ryomen estate. During meals she would tut over letters she received from her clan, bemoaning the poor marriage of a cousin or cooing over the news of a new baby. She needled the servants for gossip whenever they returned from an errand outside the estate. Jurina was just a woman and she died as a woman would at the hands of a being like Lord Sukuna; screaming. She’ll be happy to know that he isn’t in attendance to watch her flesh and bones be rendered to ash, her favorite maid beside her. When the smoke clears they’ll be swept into urns or perhaps tossed out with the dirt swept off the engawa. It’s your hope that she’ll be sent home. It’s clear she never belonged here and it would be cruel for this forbidden corner of the world to be her final resting place.

There’s also a piece of you that thinks she doesn’t deserve the honor of being laid to rest here. Though you suppose decisions like this will be left up to you now that there is no First Mistress to lead the household. Lord Sukuna has made it plainly clear that those responsibilities and honors are now yours. So when a servant comes to ask what should be done when the fire is quelled you send them to find some proper urns of expensive material for Jurina and her maid to be gathered in before being sent off. It doesn’t escape your notice that the servant stopped quite a ways away from you. In fact everyone seems to be giving you a breadth that borders on excessive. As if so much as breathing a breath of air that passed through your lungs will have their body burning next. Everyone that already treated you like a piece of glass is suddenly too fearful to even raise their head in your presence. It’s only Uraume that speaks to you as they had hours ago, entering your chamber with only the lightest knock on the shoji. They find you plucking tunelessly at the strings of your koto with only candlelight as your company.

The midday sky is gray and dim, still choked with the clouds of the breaking storm. Dull light bleeds through the thick paper of the shoji leading outside. The faintest firelight as Jurina continues to burn.

“Have you slept?” Uraume asks, coming to sit beside you. You haven’t. There’d been no time to sleep. Hours have passed since Lord Sukuna returned home, since he took you in the bathhouse, since he tore Jurina apart. Hours spent making arrangements and delegating tasks so that this funeral could be held in a timely manner. It’s doubtless that if Lord Sukuna had presided over the proceedings he would’ve simply sent Jurina to the kitchen and used her bones to pick his teeth when he was through with the meal. It would’ve been an honor to be so wholly consumed by her husband but Jurina likely wouldn’t have seen it as the blessing it was. To be so desired that Lord Sukuna wanted to devour every bit of her. To use her body as a means to bolster his own. A shiver trickles down your back as Uraume gathers your hair to comb, the chill of their skin cutting deep.

“The raven you sent to her family… Did you say how she died?” You ask carefully.

“She died serving her king.” They say evenly. Of all the people bowing to your lord husband, it is only Uraume that understands you completely. The servants were wailing and whispering about the cruelty of their lord but what cruelty was there? A doll doesn’t despair when the owner breaks it. Jurina’s porcelain face was cracked and her straw body torn open, but what higher purpose is there than to serve the whims of something greater than yourself? Jurina was ill fit to be Lord Sukuna’s wife. She didn’t understand duty or sacrifice. She didn’t understand her place beneath him. Not in the way that you did. A flower doesn’t question the might of a tree nor the warmth of the sun.

“How do you feel?” Uraume asks, leaning closer than any servant would dare. If they were anyone else, you might stifle at the audacity, but it feels as though the two of you are cut from the same cloth. As Lord Sukuna’s wife, you are an extension of his being. And no one would dare to touch him so intimately without permission. No one except Uraume. They chuckle and ask, “Are you happy?”

“I’m happy. Always.” The feeling is innate. Whether Jurina lived or died, your happiness would remain the same. There’s no great pleasure taken in her demise, nor is there the pang of loss. It feels like something akin to relief. A thorn finally removed from your skin. The itching, burning sting of her presence has been removed at last and you’ll only be strengthened by it. It’s already begun. The servants had come to you for guidance once the house physician had declared Jurina dead. There was no need for the commotion of an official declaration. She looked like a butchered animal by the end. And when the fire dies, nothing will be left of her but ash and memories. She’ll be swept up and sent away, forgotten with the melting snow.

“Did Jurina serve her purpose? Truly?”

“No,” Uraume answers without hesitation. “I don’t think any of Lord Sukuna’s wives have served their purpose. Certainly none more so than you, sweet girl.” There were never any honorifics between you and Uraume, at least not in private. They saw you as an equal, perfectly matched in your standing with Lord Sukuna.

It feels like an honor you’ve yet to earn. Uraume would wage war for your lord husband. You could do no such thing. Even with your cursed technique, you’d be useless in battle. Uraume was lethal, a blade in Lord Sukuna’s hand where you were simply a plucked flower. A blade can be sharpened and polished, but sooner or later a flower would wilt and wither, and your time as a person of importance would pass. Whether it be by death or age, you’d soon be without purpose and Lord Sukuna would likely do away with you as he had Jurina. You can only hope he’ll honor you with consumption. To know that, even in death, you’d been of some minuscule use would soothe your soul.

Sometimes you find yourself wondering if you’d become a curse, though the only thing worth cursing in this life would be Lord Sukuna. It wouldn’t be so unimaginable that you’d cling to your lord husband even after death. You pledged yourself to him in this life and the next. To go to a place where he cannot follow would be to abandon your vows. And you’d loath to be an unfaithful wife.

“You’re tired,” Uraume said, though you hadn’t acknowledged the lethargy yourself. They finish the careful task of combing through the last section of your hair before urging you to lay down.

“Shall I prepare your tea?” You shake your head. It’s become a nightly ritual to have tea before you sleep, but there is no strength left in your body to wait for Uraume to prepare it. Usually the task was left to your personal maid but she is nowhere to be found. Uraume has made the offer but you imagine it to be a simple courtesy rather than a genuine offer. They aren’t your servant to be ordering about. That honor is reserved solely for your lord husband no matter if they offered the service themselves.

“Sleep for now,” they hum, “I’ll wake you if there is a need for your presence.” Which is to say, if Lord Sukuna calls for you. No other task would be worthy of rousing you from your rest. They tuck you into your futon and blow out each candle before leaving you alone in the darkness. There’s still the faint flickering of the pyre crackling in the courtyard, but it’s easily ignored as fatigue settles over you.

It seems as though no time has passed at all when you rouse to wakefulness, yet you feel perfectly rested. The light slipping in from outside is that same pale orange glow that sent you to sleep; reminiscent of firelight, yet there is no crackling of burning wood and smoldering flesh. Instead there’s the faint whistling call of the wind and the strangest sound of scratching. At first you imagine it to be a wayward branch scraping against the eaves or the sound of geta scuffing against the wooden walkway. But the sound is too close, too concise to be an untrimmed tree or heavy-footed servant. It was closer to the sound of woodwork. The same noise that preceded Jurina’s pyre as branches were cut and stripped of the snow-sodden bark so the fire would not pittle and hiss over damp wood. The faint whittling noise comes from outside. The sound of scratching sounds nearer still.

In the gray-gold light, you see the edge of something shift like a shadow dancing between flickering candlelight. But there are no candles burning. No shadows dancing. The shape in the corner of your room seems far more tangible than any trick of the light. It twitches and writhes like an overturned beetle, wriggling between the seam of the adjacent walls like water leaking through a crack.

Waves of cursed energy surge from the corner like miasma, permeating the room. The scent of it stings your nose and clings to your tongue with the acidity of poison. The curse moans deep and haunting. An almost lyrical sound, as if a dozen voices are folding over each other, like plucking every string of a koto at once. A discordant whimpering undercut by the sound of digging and clawing as it peels away the planks of wood to make space for itself. The walls begin to squeal and splinter, tearing away to allow the winter morning and the curse inside.

Its bulging eyes wriggle, protruding like those of a frog, and twitching as though it’s a hardship to focus them both so singularly on something. One arm falls away from its scratching and three more follow. The weight of each limb hitting the floor sounds much like a bag of peaches tumbling in a cart. It twitches, body contacting inward until it’s a thick bulging ball of pale flesh before it flattens and drags itself forward on its four arms. It moans again, bearing its long, blunt teeth. Again, it moans, and you think you hear the number three. Then again with more clarity,

“Three, three, three.” It whimpers ceaselessly as it drags its bulging body towards you. Its skin is shapeless and loose like a boiled dumpling, contracting into a thick mass before stretching thin as it drags itself towards you with the agility of a caterpillar. Its face is snow white with red horns peeking out from beneath a hood of pale flesh. For a moment, you consider a monster trying to hide its true face, laughing at the absurdity of it. The sound of hysteria bubbles from your lips louder than any other had, and it only seemed to incense the creature. It dragged itself closer with more ferocity. The moaning chant of “three, three, three,” only gets louder.

When it’s close enough, it slashes at you, slow and clumsy like a child playing swords with a stick. The morning chill overtakes you as you leap from the futon in a cloud of silk and fur. The curse hisses, then tries again, and when it misses once more the noise it makes is something like a wail. It sounds far too anguished, far too human. The sound sinks beneath your skin, deep enough to rattle your heart and you shiver in your hakama. Your own voice is lost somewhere in your throat, tangled between your quickened breaths and thundering heartbeat.

Curses aren’t meant to speak, they’re incapable of it. And yet this one reaches towards you with taloned fingers, groaning “three, three, three.”

It lumbers through the room, weight knocking over side tables. It swings its thick arms, claws grasping to rend your flesh from your bone as it chases you. Needles prick at the soles of your feet as you stumble through the hole torn through the wall, splinters of wood stippling through your socks as the curse herds you onto the engawa. The prickling of wood shards gives way to something wet, though far too warm to be ice melting off the eaves. Your eyes are far too intent on the creature dragging itself out of the hole it burrowed into your room to spare a glance at the ground, and you go from staring at the pale creature to looking up at the light sky.

The cold is immediately, stabbing into you like a dozen blades as snow clouds your lashes. A cloud of it drifts down around you, stirred through the air as you land. Gray clouds roll by overhead as you make a wheezing noise. The air rattle inside your lungs as you try to regain the breath that had been knocked from your chest in the fall from the engawa. It hadn’t been a far drop but you hardly had breath in your lungs to start, too startled to take more than shallow gasps of air. The curse comes poking over the edge of the walkway, tossing itself into the snow beside you.

“Get back.” Your voice is as thin as the wind whistling through the courtyard. “Stay away from me.” The curse wails again. Deeper as if it meant to give the toneless sound meaning. “Three, three, THREE!” It says it as if it’s your name, reaching towards you through the snow. Belatedly, you realize that it is your name. You are Third Mistress. Third, Three. The curse bellows the word again, moving like a slug through mud as it drags its malformed body through the bank of snow. Still on your back, steeped in the chill seeping through your thin robe, you watch as the curse reaches towards you with grasping claws. There’s a pondering to your gaze as your eyes watch the dull glint of the morning light wink off the edge of its claws. Jurina had always been so preoccupied with her perfect nails. A talon finds your cheek, scratching a burning line across your face before the connected limb bursts like a crushed melon.

Hot viscera replaces the frigid kiss of the wind as bright purple blood and bits of white flesh rain down over your face. It’s nearly warm enough to scald, made worse by the shrieks of pain ringing in your ears as the curse writhes in the snow. Clouds of frost dance around its wriggling body though it doesn’t seem to move far. With muscles tensed and shivering, you shove yourself onto your elbows to see over the veil of churning snow. The curse is pinned to the ground with spears of ice. Wailing and thrashing to be free. The stump of its arm still reaches for you, joined by the three that remain. You find your knees, then slowly your feet, only to be knocked into the snow once more as a pillar of ice shatters and a flailing hand reaches towards you in another spray of violet blood. The feeling burns hot as fire, spreading through your body like sparks through a dry brush. Warmth blooms through your side, seeping over your hip and down the length of your thigh as blood weeps from the wound torn through your side.

The feeling of warmth blooms between your fingers as you press your hands against the gouge taken from your torso. It’s a strange, hollow feeling. As if your body has yet to accept the prospect of pain just yet. It comes in waves, lapping over you in an ebb and flow as your vision begins to swim. Everything is hot as fire and cold as ice. The world looks as though you’re seeing it through a cloud of steam, rippling and fading as you blink through the blood loss. This feeling isn’t new and yet the feeling hasn’t lessened in its intensity. There’s a sound that you find familiar. Frantic and sharp as a bird chirping at the rising sun. It grows colder still, though there’s comfort in the chill as you recognize the shape of arms wrapping around you. It hurts as they squeeze at the hole gaping in your side, still weeping red tears of blood through the silk of your hakama. The chirping turns to feral growls, a wolf bearing its teeth, and the curse wails anew. It sounds like Jurina if only vaguely. Shrill and bitter. The ground had only just been dusted with a cover of snow, hiding the place her blood had been spilled. Now it was your turn.

Dazedly, you blink up towards the sky, lashes shining with tears or melting snowflakes as a face swims through your periphery. The soft chirping returns and you try to piece together the sounds over the weeping curse. A voice that you recognize. It soothes your fluttering heart, lessens the flames still burning where part of your body is missing, and more is still spilling onto the snow. A red puddle blooming over a sea of white. It reminds you of Uraume’s hair, and reminds you that their voice has always been melodic like birdsong. It must be them holding you so gently, speaking soft words to you though your hearing has faded to the sound of your blood and breath, like hiding your head beneath a pillow. Something cold and soft brushes over your face and you imagine it might be the gentle fingers of your protector, but your eyes can’t find anything other than the vaguest shapes.

Everything has melded into a light wash. Gray sky, white snow, ivory-skinned curse. Everything is white until it isn’t. A sudden burst of color as a shade of sunset pink appears overhead. So far above that, for a moment, you truly think it to be the sun. But the sun has no teeth to bare, no eyes to watch those beneath its shining face. But, perhaps, he can be considered your sun as Lord Sukuna sneers at the curse still sniveling a few paces ahead. It’s pinned and bleeding. Pierced with long shards of Uraume’s ice formation. Lord Sukuna’s towering form stoops to look at the creature before his sights are set on you. He reaches out and for a moment you expect the gentility of a caress against your frigid cheek. Instead his hand closes around your neck, choking the last dregs of air from your lungs as he lifts you from Uraume’s arms. His height leaves you dangling far above the ground, legs too numb to kick though you have no reason to protest such rough treatment. Punishment is in order.

How shameful you are. The daughter of an unimpeachable sorcerer clan unable to defend herself. The wife of the King of Curses being maimed by the hands of another. Your life was not for anyone but your lord husband’s to take and yet you feel the familiar feeling of your body giving out. Made worse by the way Lord Sukuna’s fist is closed tight around your throat. Your head feels swollen, vision darkened as the pressure bursts the capillaries in your eyes. Lord Sukuna regards you with vague interests. His four eyes dance over your face, likely taking in the way your lips must be deepening to an asphyxiated blue as the veins in your face lift to the surface of your skin. You can’t bring yourself to fight against him, hands doing little more than holding his wrist as he keeps you aloft with one hand. Another comes to stroke against the wound in your side, claws raking over the ragged flesh. It feels more like pressure than pain as the feeling fades from your body. Lord Sukuna says something but it’s only a dull rumble in your uncomprehending ears. All that’s left is a ringing, then a sound like a branch being torn from a tree. Then nothing.

A lingering hollowness haunts the light floating before your eyes in clouds of flickering red. It burns through your eyelids as your lashes flutter, eyes disobeying your intentions to open them. It feels like pulling a string with no tension and expecting the puppet to move even still. No part of your body wishes to do more than twitch as you claw towards consciousness like climbing a mountain. First your toes begin to move as intended, then your fingers. It feels like filling an empty cup, bit by bit the water rises until it’s spilling over the brim and your eyes flutter open at last.

The warmth of wakefulness is nearly overwhelming. Hot as the stifling heat at the height of summer as your eyes watch the glow of the braziers flickering across the walls. Sweat trickles over your skin beneath the layers of bedding pulled up to your chin, gathering between your breasts and at the nape of your neck. It’s made worse by the tackiness in your throat. It’s hard to swallow as you shift in your nest of blankets, moving with the grace of a newborn fawn. This isn’t the rising from a fitful sleep but the emergence of a newly formed butterfly escaping its cocoon. You move with a practiced delicacy, wings still soft against your back as you strip the layers away from your sweltering skin. How long have you been asleep?

The light blooming outside the shoji gives nothing away. It could be early morning or midday and the faint glow of the winter sun remains the same. You turn away from the doors leading outside and regard the inner shoji with vague interest. There’s faint hints of knowledge in your mind. It drifts just beyond comprehension like fish dancing just below the surface of a pond, bright and fleeting as you try to grasp at the thought that won’t form. The walls around you are unfamiliar yet you can’t be certain of why. The scent in the air is foreign in a way you can’t place. Everything is wrong. A frightening sort of foreignness as you try to rattle any modicum of knowledge loose from the haze of unconsciousness. The tatami is cold underfoot, your bare toes pressing into the woven mats as you wobble towards the door on the tips of your toes. This much you know.

There’s the broadest strokes of understanding. The door slides open when you pull, red light giving way to darkness as the halls stretch out in either direction almost endlessly. The embers burning in the braziers only reach so far into the yawning blackness so you set forward blindly. One hand trails along the left wall, fingertips grazing along the screens painted with falling leaves. The halls twist and turn, darkness fading to gray as your eyes adjust to the sinuous corridors. At each corner you turn left with the vague knowledge that it will eventually lead you somewhere. The last hallway doesn’t end so much as an obstacle appears in your path. A slim figure cuts across your vision, a burning stroke of white standing out in the dimness. Their face is familiar as is the word they whisper into the darkness. The dulcet sound knocks something loose in your head. Your name. As if you’d been underwater since your eyes opened, the broad strokes of knowledge rattling about in your head are slowly refined. Returning to life is always jarring. Without guidance it takes some time for you to realize yourself, to reclaim your memories and mannerisms. Your mother had said you were like a puppet brought to life before your mind returned, always the last thing to heal from the ordeal of death.

“Lord Sukuna will be glad to hear you’ve awakened.”

“How long was I asleep?” A gentle way to ask for how long your body had been dead. Faintly, you remember the wound in your side, Lord Sukuna’s hand about your delicate throat. From the inside of your body, breaking your neck always sounds like a tree being cleaved in two. A thick tearing noise that echoes dully in your ears before the unknown sound of death swallows you. That you never remember. A small miracle considering how often you’ve found yourself being relieved of your life. Drowning, choking, burning. And yet your body mends itself without fail, becoming stronger for the pain you endured. You touch your side and wonder what it will take to pierce the skin there in this lifetime; because there have already been so many.

“A fortnight.” Uraume tells you. Usually a broken neck would not take so long to heal. But the damage is rarely paired with the viscera of a curse attack. It had been a lucky thing that Lord Sukuna had honored you with death at his hands. The first since you’ve entered his household as his third wife. If the curse had taken your life, you imagine there might not have been another life to live. No death had ever come at the hands of a curse or anything imbued with cursed energy. If it can keep a sorcerer from becoming a curse, it can likely keep you from reviving with more strength than before. It would’ve been a great shame to have been killed by a curse when your lord husband was so near. An insult to allow anyone other than him to determine what happens to his wife. His third wife. His favorite wife.

Uraume leads without much grandeur, simply walking a few steps ahead of you. The path becomes clearer now. Still dark and unlit but there’s a familiarity to it that hadn’t been there only moments ago. The air is chilling as Uraume leads the way outside, meandering along the engawa until they jump from the edge, their landing softened by the clouds of snow still blanketing the ground. It seems less than it had been when your eyes had last opened, as if it hadn’t snowed heavily since the night of Jurina’s death. Yet it was still winter and you clutch the folds of your hakama closer around your shoulders as Uraume trails ahead. Clouds like wisps of smoke puff from between your lips as shivers tremble through your renewed body. If they feel the cold, Uraume doesn’t acknowledge it. The cold is something intrinsic to your lord husband’s most favored servant. Even in the height of summer there’s a slight chill to their presence. Likely a consequence of their cursed technique.

Uraume leads the way past the unattached buildings that are only frequented by servants, towards the far bounds of the estate. There’s never been any reason for you to be this far from the main house. You imagine these are places where things you never think of are stored, preserved foods and wagons for trips into town. The armory is the only building you recognize. A haze of cursed energy looms over the building like a shroud. It’s the same for the building that Uraume seems to be leading you towards. The air around it is thick with the presence of great power. Both auras are familiar in different ways. Just as each person seems to carry their own distinct scent, cursed energy has an element of individuality. Even with your eyes closed and ears plugged, you’d know the approach of your lord husband by his cursed energy alone. He is inside. As is another being that you imagine must be the curse that had attacked you. Their energy is recognizable in a fractured way. Like a dream slipping away as soon as you wake.

Uraume announces your arrival as they open the door. The room is bathed in gold, lit by dozens of lanterns all flickering in tandem. The room is modest in size and made smaller by what must be hundreds–if not thousands–of talismans hanging from the walls and ceiling. All in various sizes and written in different hands. Some of the ink has the neatness of a learned scholar while others have the shakiness of illiteracy, though the quality of the script hardly matters to what is written. Each tag holds the power to bind. As do the thickly woven ropes wrapped right around the pale curse that attacked you all those days ago. It gurgles and strains within the ropes hung with more binding talismans, bulging eyes bobbing in its head as it tries to fix its gaze towards the sound of your approach. You hardly notice, eyes fixed on the vision of your lord husband standing over the creature with his spear in hand.

Lord Sukuna takes over your vision, eclipsing everything with his daunting figure. He takes his eyes away from the curse bound at his feet with an unhurried sort of interest, and the weight of his gaze makes you bloom like a flower beneath the kiss of the sun. Red eyes piercing as burning iron stab through you, pinning you in place so absolutely that your knees buckle. He sees the weakness before you can fall and catches you by the waist, pulling you against him. Your eyes fall away from his face, head bowing as you try to find the words to apologize for your mistake; your death. He silences you before you can find enough words to express the deep rooted feeling of inadequacy.

“The misstep has already been punished.” When you dare to look up, Lord Sukuna is looking towards Uraume. With a sharp nod of his head he dismisses his right hand attendant to leave the two of you alone with the curse that tried to take your life, tried to claim something that belongs to your lord husband alone. Not even you have such control of your life. You’ve heard tales of unhappy concubines seeking death in the face of neglect and mistreatment. Though you’ve always found yourself spoiled in your marriage, you can’t imagine that you could ever take your own life even if you were set aside and forgotten. Lord Sukuna will always be your world. The sun doesn’t cease to exist simply because it has set. The darkness of night must be endured to enjoy the light of day. You’ll suffer anything at the hands of your lord husband if it pleases him. Your life is his to manage as he sees fit.

“My Lord,” you try to speak, but you’re silenced once more.

“Don’t start. I’ve already told you you’re forgiven. Besides, words are useless without action. If you truly seek forgiveness then prove it.” He takes his hand away from you and nods towards the curse still squirming in its bonds. Its eyes wheel this way and that until one finally finds its way into a position to see you. The aborted struggles seem to renew with the vigor you’d seen upon its arrival into your chamber. The ropes burn red welts into its pale skin where it writhes and strains, spittle dribbling from its mouth as its empty whining turns to hissing yowls.

“Three, three, three.” The creature spits, straining towards you with the singularity of an arrow launched from a bow. Lord Sukuna stands behind you, a pillar of strength and a post keeping you from turning away. One of his hands finds yours, pressing his spear against your palm. It’s heavy and your arm trembles with the strength it takes to hold it. His intentions are clear. Kill the curse. It takes great strength and both arms to lift Lord Sukuna’s spear. All of your weight pitches forward as you drive the three-pronged blade through the curse’s head. Blood sprouts like a fountain as the creature screams. The sound pierces through your ears, ringing in your head as you drive the weapon further through its head in a rush to silence the noise. It chuffs and squeals, thrashing against the ropes with slowly waning strength until, at last, it goes still and silent.

For a moment the pale lump of bleeding, bulging flesh takes on a shimmery red glow like flames burning within ash and ember. It grows then fades as the creature sags in a haze of dissipating cursed energy. The only movement left is the blood dripping from the spear still lodged in its head, forming a puddle on the dirt floor. Perhaps a flower will sprout from the soil wetted with purple blood though you doubt something so delicate could spring from the death of such a violent creature. Kneeling next to the puddle you touch the spot of dampness and ask the question that’s been on the tip of your tongue since the curse first spoke.

“Was this First Mistress Jurina?” It had to be. It would explain the vague familiarity about the curse’s energy. Like the scent of someone lingering in their clothes after they’ve worn them, Jurina’s cursed energy tainted the new signature of the cursed spirit. Lord Sukuna barks out a laugh.

“There’s no need to be so respectful of the dead. Jurina is no longer my wife, nor was she ever worth your deference.”

“She was your first wife,” you mumble, lowering your head against the admonishment you expect to meet your stubbornness. It doesn’t come.

“They are wives in name only. Perhaps I laid with them, but there has been no woman above you since we wed.”

The wedding had been something of a formality performed in the absence of your lord husband. The vows had been spoken before your family and the deed was done long before you completed the arduous journey from your home to Lord Sukuna’s estate. You were his wife for some time before you met and, truly, you will be his wife forever. Not even death could sever your allegiance. It makes you wonder if one day you’ll become a curse too. Some amalgamation of your grief and anguish. The dark, rotted feeling of failure as you abandon your lord husband in death. It’s unthinkable when your body has been blessed with such resilience and yet you know that there may come a day when death is no longer like sleep, your eyes will close forever, the butterfly dead at last. It brings a mournful feeling to your heart.

“Would you let me curse you, my lord?” Jurina had become a vengeful spirit fueled by her hatred of you. She’d cursed you in her death and you can only hope to be so attached to your lord husband, even in death. It’s the dividing line between you, the gate guarding you from the rest. In her last moments, Jurina hadn’t been thinking of Lord Sukuna. Her husband, her murderer. Instead he eyes had looked to you and her soul had screamed to tear at you the way Lord Sukuna had shredded through her body. It was with no small amount of pain that Jurina had lost her life and even in the midst of death she had found it in herself to hate you with such passion that it burned even after she died. If she had hatred you wished to burn with love in your afterlife, to be so consumed by the flames of your desire that your essence will cling to Lord Sukuna even in death.

“Would you curse me?” He asks sardonically.

“I think I would.” There’s a bashfulness to your voice as your eyes stay towards the ground, watching Jurina’s purple blood seep into the soil. Lord Sukuna places a finger under your chin, sharpened nail digging into the soft skin beneath your jaw. When your eyes lift towards his face he’s smiling, a stark baring of fanged teeth. He smiles like a wolf and you’re the rabbit a hair’s breadth away from being bitten.

“You’ll have to die first.” His tone is peculiar. There’s a hint of humor though it’s colored with something darker, as if Lord Sukuna is angered by the prospect of you abandoning him in such a way.

“I will someday.” You remind him. Your Chrysalis technique may revive you from traumatic deaths, but a gentle departure, a final breath gasped in the night, is likely to go unrenewed. A winter frost through which no spring flowers will bloom. Nature cannot be denied and to live is to die.

Lord Sukuna cups your face in his hand, clawed fingers digging into your cheeks. “How little you know, woman.”

He says no more and you decide that he must know something that you don’t. He is leagues more worldly and likely does know things beyond your understanding. It isn’t your place to pry if he won’t tell you freely. He must see a thousand questions behind your eyes but he neglects to answer any of them. Instead he pulls his hand away from your face and the warmth of his skin against yours is replaced by the winter cold. There are no burning coals in this room. A shiver snakes through your body, and that Lord Sukuna acknowledges. He removes his outer robe and drapes it around your shoulder. Immediately you’re drowning in the warmth of his body still lingering in the silk. It’s far too long for you and you gather the massive swathe of fabric into your arms to keep it from dirtying on the ground. Lord Sukuna tuts and picks you up, easily keeping his clothes from dragging along the dirt. Cradling you in one arm he pulls his spear from Jurina’s second corpse with another. It comes loose with a sound that reminds you of chopping vegetables.

Lord Sukuna calls for Uraume and they appear in an instant as if they had been by his side all along. There’s an unspoken order that passes between them and your lord husband’s servant accepts it with a resolute nod. Then he says, “come, woman,” as though you could go anywhere else while still held aloft in his arms. It’s so different from the last time he held you, his fist locked around your delicate throat. Now his arms cradle beneath your knees and across your back as you lean against the warmth of his chest. The light of the sun is a bright wash of hazy white after spending some time in the dimness of the talisman room. You expect that Lord Sukuna will take you back to the main house, but he continues off in the direction nearing the furthermost bounds of the estate.

“What will happen to Jurina now?” You dare to ask. Her human form had already been burned, but you weren’t sure what would become of her cursed form. It would be cruel to send it back to her family and burning wasn’t meant for curses. A human body could be purified in flames in preparation for the next life, but a curse could not shed the truth of its nature even in death.

“I’ll show you,” Lord Sukuna said cryptically, still walking towards the building that stood alone on the outer reaches of the estate. Like the talisman room and the armory, there was a heady cloud of cursed energy blanketing the structure, though it was far more potent than anything you’d ever encountered aside from Lord Sukuna. His cursed energy seemed as deep and unending as the ocean and this strange building was just as unfathomably thick with traces of cursed energy. It was nearly overwhelming despite your constant exposure to your lord husband. It was ominous. Terrifying in its foreignness. Were you not held by Lord Sukuna, you might’ve run from this place. But there is an inherent safety in his arm. Your lord husband wouldn’t take you to a place that he could not protect you.

“What is this place?” You ask quietly, as if speaking too loudly would rouse something from the aura of darkness.

“An onsen of sorts.” It had the warmth of a bathhouse though the sound of babbling water was traded for that of rain, like a rushing waterfall as Lord Sukuna opened the door. It seemed just like the onsen of the main house. Stone floors around a deep pool, yet there was no water here. Instead the pit where a hot spring might’ve been was filled with something black and vicious. The dripping sound came from the strange hammock hung far above the pool. That same dark liquid seeping through the large patchwork of fabric. And when you look closer, there are those same talisman symbols painted on the bulging material.

“This is where Jurina will be taken,” Lord Sukuna told you, “so that she might finally be of use.” Just as Uraume said, none of his wives have served their purpose. It makes you wonder what purpose Lord Sukuna would have you serve. You dare to ask.

“That’s why I’ve brought you here,” he says vaguely. “You’re my wife, and I expect that you’ll serve me as a wife should.”

His words send a shock down your spine. What task have you been neglecting? You were raised in an affluent household as the daughter of a large and prosperous clan. The ways of womanhood have been stitched into your brain from the moment you were born. The proper way to act and speak, the things a wife must pay heed to if she wishes to keep a well run household. Though you’re only the third in line of authority–second, now–you’ve taken up most tasks to do with the household. Jurina hadn’t the patience and Second Mistress was always sequestered in her room. Such a sad girl like a flower wilting at the height of spring. She cried at Jurina’s funeral where few others could find the fondness for it. It was you that the head household maid reported to and the cooks asked about which meals should be prepared on which days. At first, you simply thought it was the convenience of receiving prompt answers, but now you know that it was simply expected. You were the favorite, the de facto lady of the house. So what could there be that you weren’t doing to your lord husband’s standards?

“My apologies, my lord. Whatever I’ve been lacking I will–” His hand covers your mouth, ear to ear.

“Enough,” he groans. Then he says, “Children. A wife should give her husband children. You’ll serve this purpose for me.” There’s a fleeting hint of fondness in his voice that sends a twinge through your heart. Lord Sukuna is asking you to bear his children. You weren’t married into the household as his main wife and yet he’s given you the highest honor of being the mother of his heirs. A warmth blooms across your cheeks and down your neck, a flush of excitement igniting through your body.

“As many as you’d like, my lord.” It’s what’s expected of you though you; an expectation rather than a choice, but you’re excited to fulfill the role even still. Though, part of you had considered it an impossibility. Lord Sukuna had been human once but something in him had changed, gone beyond that of an ordinary man. But he is a man even still. Desiring progeny, a legacy beyond his own being. To know that he wants to use your body for such an honorable purpose washes you in a great sense of pride. It will be your womb that births the King of Curses his heirs. Little pink haired babies with your nose and their father’s four eyes. But pride slowly turns to contemplative anguish.

If you were meant to give Lord Sukuna his children, it is nothing short of a miracle that you haven’t conceived in the year that you’ve been married. Lord Sukuna did nothing sparingly. He indulged to his heart’s content. In blood and carnage, in food, and in bed. He laid with you often enough that a child should’ve come long ago and yet you’ve yet to feel the stirring of a baby quickening within you.

The room dips and swoops around you as your eyes lose focus, lost in thought. What was wrong with you that you hadn’t yet fallen pregnant? Your hands clutch at your stomach, empty beneath the layers of your clothes. A hidden fragment of your heart wonders if it’s truly your fault at all. Lord Sukuna had three wives, and while you were most favored there were times when he took the others to bed, a time before you entered his household. And yet the estate remains empty of heirs. Though you don’t dare to entertain the thought longer than a moment, it flashes through your mind as quick as an arrow. Perhaps it was Lord Sukuna that was obstructing the blessing of a child. Still, your hands remain on your stomach, caressing the place meant to bear the fruits of life. Since birth you were told it would be your only honor in this life. To give a man a son to further his glory and continue his legacy. Lord Sukuna isn’t in need of such a successor, yet he’s asked for them even still.

“You are truly too valuable to die,” Lord Sukuna says, lifting your eyes towards his. They’re piercing as red flames, burning into your face with such intensity that it makes you want to wither in his arms, like a flower left with no water. “Jurina was poisoning you. Every night. And yet your body was kind enough to preserve itself for me.” Because what other reason would you have to defy death so vehemently? If Lord Sukuna says the purpose of your cursed technique is to keep you by his side, then who are you to deny it?

“You like tea.” Lord Sukuna says, passing the pad of his thumb over your lips. “Dark tea. Dark enough to mask the color of anything added to it. Jurina was bribing your little maid to slip poison into your tea every night before bed. Nothing lethal. She meant to poison your womb and purge any seed I might’ve planted inside you.” He laughs scornfully, “I thought it was jealousy, at first, but she was drinking it, too, and feeding it to the second one. Likely the work of her family urging her to cripple my reign by blocking the chances of an heir.”

Another hand brushes against your stomach, sweeping away your desperate grasping.

“I chose you well, woman. Though the poison did as it was made to and purged your body of any child that might’ve grown, you healed. What made Jurina and the other barren hardly touched you. As soon as you closed your eyes your body repaired itself. Uraume thinks you might be close to building a tolerance for it since your technique heals as well as strengthens. I might start feeding you poisons to fortify you against future attacks.” It was so terribly wonderful that you knew as soon as he said it that you’d gladly eat anything your lord husband asked without question. The poison might even taste sweet on your tongue if it was prepared by him.

“Things will be different now. You will give me children. Strong children.” He says it with an air of finality, as if you’d ever deny him anything, though you’re uncertain of how strong any child of yours will be. Of course, your maiden clan is a powerful one, but you’re hardly a descendant of the three elite sorcerer clans. Jurina had been a Zenin. Her blood would’ve given him strong children. Second Mistress is a Kamo and her children would carry that superiority in their blood. As a humble Hoga, you were the least desirable of his brides to have his children with. Unless Fourth Mistress was of a lower clan than even you.

“If I may, my lord,” he grunts his annoyance but allows you to continue. “If you want children, why did you not have them with Jurina? Certainly a Zenin would be better suited to creating a powerful heir. My cursed technique is unheard of even within my own clan.” You remind him. It would break your heart to disappoint him with a child that couldn’t even do you the service of inheriting your technique. And there likely would be no second chance to amend the error.

“I don’t want your technique, woman, though it would surely be of great use. That’s what this place is for.” He sweeps his arm towards the pool of darkness gathered in the center of the room. The longer you look the more it begins to turn from black to deep purple. Slowly, the immense level of cursed energy sufficing the air begins to make sense. The staccato waves that don’t seem to match any singular signature aside from Lord Sukuna’s. It is blood. The blood of curses. And Lord Sukuna had called it an onsen of sorts. Did he mean to bathe you in the blood of those he’d slain? To give your child over to these tainted waters to imbue them with its power?

It made you fear for the child that had yet to be made. Of course, their purpose in life would be an extension of your own. To serve their lord father in any way that he asked, yet they’d still be a piece of you. A terrible selfish piece of your heart began to crack and splinter, breaking away in revolt of turning your baby into a monster. But what was Lord Sukuna if not a monster? Adoration did little to cleanse the crimes of the King of Curses. Any child you gave him would be heir to that title. With a few measured breaths, you resigned yourself to it. Your child would know no other way of life and you would love them as proudly as a mother could. They would always be a manifestation of the love you bear for your lord husband. His flesh and blood joined with yours to create a life. It felt like a privilege to even consider the thought.

#sukuna ★#sukuna x reader #jjk x reader #★ mine!

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6lostgirl6 · 1 year

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Can you do an Hannibal Lecter (Mads Mikkelsen one) Yandere Headcanon, please?

Hello, dear! I was already in the middle of writing this but went ahead and added your request so you would be notified!

Yandere!Hannibal Lecter HCs

TW: Mentions of Murder, kidnapping, Cannibalism

Honestly, Hannibal would be a terrifying yandere to have obsessed with you.

I would classify him as a possessive and manipulative yandere in which he will do anything in order to have you and keep you away from others.

You are the first person to make him feel things that he’s never felt before, he couldn’t allow you to slip away from him so easily.

Similar to Will, he wouldn’t be a delusional yandere.

However, he wouldn’t feel any sense of remorse or guilt for how he feels for you.

He would attempt to court you naturally, while simply kidnapping you isn’t that far off the table, he prefers to have you naturally fall for him without any unnecessary extremities.

He is an expert at hiding his true intentions and emotions. Especially during the time in which he was the Chesapeake Ripper and playing the role of a respectful colleague and full of generosity as a therapist.

The subtle changes he would have are practically unnoticeable, however it would still be there.

For instance, if someone was being incredibly rude to you, his mask would slip a little bit. His eyes would grow a little darker and his posture would tense slightly.

Hannibal wouldn’t be the type of yandere that would kill his rivals, at least not all of them. He would at least frame a few of them so it would throw off his pattern of only people you’ve spoken with being killed.

You just happen to have a poor choice of friends or something.

Hannibal’s love language is gift giving and quality time.

As an attempt to court you, he sends you invitations to dinner at his residence and sends you gifts that he knows you would like.

If you were a former patient of his, he would refer back to his notes of things you liked and disliked mentioned in previous sessions and use them to his advantage.

He has an excellent memory though, he likes to reminisce on the times where he has gotten to know you on a personal level.

However, if you constantly reject or deny his dinner invitations in an attempt to court you, he will follow back on his initial idea of kidnapping you.

As seen in the show with Miriam, Hannibal would not be against using force when it comes to kidnapping you, especially if you try fighting him. (that scene was horrifying)

Like the gif above, when he would finally knock you out, he would stroke your hair while resting his chin on the top of your head because he finally feels at peace that he has you in his grasp. (that part was not horrifying)

Hannibal would want you to feel comfortable living in his home quickly and efficiently.

You have free reign around his home but you’re permitted from going outside and the kitchen.

He has a security alarm, therefore he would be notified if you tried sneaking out of the house along with cameras.

He doesn’t want you in the kitchen because he doesn’t want you to potentially hurt him and yourself.

Every night he would cook for you something very special, but he would have human meat in it.

You wouldn’t even know about it because he knows that if you discovered his eating habits, all the process he would make with you would dissolve and your feelings for him would regress.

For your sake, do not question him about it because he will tell you since you were the one that wanted to know after all.

Taglist:

@patient1666074

#yandere!hannibal lecter #yandere hannibal lecter #yandere!hannibal lecter headcanons #yandere!hannibal lecter x reader #hannibal lecter x reader #hannibal lecter x you #hannibal lecter #hannibal lecter headcanons #hannibal headcanons #hannibal headcanon #nbc hannibal #hannibal nbc #nbc hannibal headcanons #nbc hannibal x reader #yandere hannibal #yandere #male yandere

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nemastraea · 7 months

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Doormat extraordinaire: Andrew Graves is down horrendous for his own sister | Part 1

Or as I like to call it, actual literal word vomit attempting a proper character analysis!

Here's a link to the AO3 version for archive purposes: The doormat extraordinaire has a bit of a romantic streak,

Content warning: This will heavily feature spoilers from Episodes 1 & 2 of The Coffin of Andy and Leyley. Trigger warning: Abuse, cannibalism, child neglect, codependency, harassment, incest, murder, self-harm, and suicide. Disclaimer: I will occasionally reference an extremely normal essay from Sufficient Velocity commenter Leyleyfication (here). It would be a lot easier to read this essay first as Leyleyfication does a pretty good job establishing the following: - Ashley is dependent on Andrew to assure and validate her of her own insecurities, and - The game heavily implies that Andrew wants to fuck his own sister.

Anyway: The Coffin of Andy and Leyley! A game in early access where a pair of siblings are stuck through a seemingly never-ending quarantine together, desperate not to starve to death. When their cultist neighbor dies in a ritual gone wrong, they rationally resort to cannibalism. Fun!

I am definitely going to assume that you read Leyleyfication's extremely normal essay (I am on my knees, begging you to read that). Which is why this essay immediately starts with, "yeah, Andrew definitely wants to fuck his sister" as its baseline.

What I will be adding to that funny little cauldron of fucked up sibling dynamics in a horror visual novel are the following: Andrew's fixation and sexual attraction manifests as his desire to control, dominate, and possess Ashley. And it is framed as a fatalist attraction and the totality of his existence (for worse or even worse).

Because of Tumblr's limit for 30 images per post, though, I'm going to have to split this extremely normal and reasonably lengthy essay into... multiple posts! Yeah! I have no idea how long this will fucking go!

So first things first: how can we tell that Andrew is even attracted to Ashley in the first place?

Nemlei (Devlog 05). Note the hickeys above and below Ashley's choker and her left inner thigh, and Andrew's left hand creeping into her right thigh.

As Leyleyfication points out, the game primes us to believe that Andrew is a pushover and Ashley is his abuser. This occurs in the Steam page as it explicitly says Ashley is "in fact, very bad" and Andrew is a "doormat extraordinaire." Moreover, it's very easy to tell that Ashley is, on some degree, obsessed with Andrew:

She's happy to hear that Julia broke up with Andrew over the phone;

She repeatedly accuses him of finding the Lady from Room 302 attractive and he 'tried anything with her;' and

Her flashback to wanting to punish her friend Nina ("the Bitch in the Box") for crushing on Andrew.

Episode 1, dream and memory. Leyley previously said that Nina should know better than to 'steal from another woman,' referring to herself. The implication that Andy is hers is toyed with after this moment, when she says she'd put Andy back in the box.

The game does prime us to think that Ashley is Andrew's abuser. It also suggests that Ashley projects an unrequited and incestuous love onto Andrew. Before we consider Episode 2's narrative, Episode 1 gives the initial impression that if Andrew comes to reciprocate her feelings, it's more of a reaction and subsuming to her will. That it may not be something he wants for himself and independent of Ashley's manipulation.

But again, I do believe Andrew wants to fuck Ashley. And always has been. He just frequently vacillate between 'subtle' and 'really fucking obvious' tells that completely take advantage of the game's third person limited POV.

Keep in mind that both Andrew and Ashley are extremely unreliable narrators. We aren't going to get information they personally do not care about and that is on top of our own choices as the player.

(A digressive example: you will not learn that the founder and CEO of Toxisoda's company was a former surgeon unless you interact with the television in Andrew's Episode 2 dream and memory of their blood oath. Otherwise, it neatly ties into the surgeon that Mrs. Graves conveniently says she was directed to regarding the siblings' quarantine in the main story.)

When it's really fucking obvious

When you play as Andrew in Episode 2, his post-dinner argument with Ashley carefully frames them both. They are cramped in the foreground and Andrew's left arm is conveniently blocked by Ashley and the kitchen knife, as seen here.

Episode 2, common route. Prior to this, you can interact with Mrs. Graves for her to pointedly comment on the siblings being inseparable.

At this point in the game, their physical closeness is something we're used to by now. After all, we've already seen Ashley on his lap at least twice; Andrew slept in her bed in Episode 1; and Ashley confirmed they've shared the same motel bed multiple times in the one-week interim between Episodes 1 & 2.

But the game abruptly shifts to Mrs. Graves' POV when she enters the scene and not only do we see the two as physically close, but we notice a few more details.

Episode 2, common route. The first picture transitions from Andrew's POV to Mrs. Graves as it introduces us to her entering the scene.

The contrast of how spacious the kitchen is from Mrs. Graves' POV to Andrew's cramped POV is obvious. More importantly, Andrew's fingers loop through Ashley's belt loops when the two are huddled together. When Mrs. Graves clears her throat, the two don't really separate.

Ashley pivots on her left foot so that her body is turned to their mother, not Andrew, but she doesn't step away from him. Andrew, meanwhile, recoils from Ashley and withdraws his hand. But he isn't turning his body to face their mother like Ashley does here. His attention, at least in this moment, is still towards Ashley (and, yanno, the sink).

Episode 2, common route. Two things to consider in the second picture: Andrew hides Ashley's bite mark on his cheek with his left sleeve and he conveniently moves the pillow from behind him to his front.

The 'tell' isn't so much as the two are unusually physically close. Again, we're used to that by now. But it's how the two siblings react whenever Mrs. Graves comes into the picture. Ashley doesn't really give a fuck about whether or not people assume the worst of her or even her intentions regarding Andrew. To Ashley, their proximity is normal and anyone who sees that as a problem is not worth an explanation or reason.

But Andrew is at least subconsciously aware it's 'not normal.' As far as these moments are concerned, Andrew instinctively tries to do damage control by either putting space between them or keeping his hands occupied so they aren't visibly touching Ashley. Still, he either does not mind or actively appreciates his physical closeness with Ashley.

When it's really fucking obvious (but only in hindsight)

In Episode 1, Ashley passes out after trying to clean up after the apartment. Regardless of her passing out in the living room, the bathroom, or their parents' room, she will wake up on the couch with her head pillowed by Andrew's lap.

Episode 1, Ashley's POV. Andrew's hands often hover over Ashley's head, but more than that—

I personally didn't notice this until I replayed Episode 1, when I basically have the hindsight of Andrew's fixation with hair. But yes, his fingers idly twirl through the ends of Ashley's hair as they watch TV. It's implied that Andrew can and will do this when Ashley pillows his lap, awake or asleep. He does not recoil from it when Ashley does wake up and later on, in Episode 2, even continues to brush it from her face.

Episode 2, common route. Ashley fell asleep at the passenger seat, so Andrew had to have transferred her to the back seat to pillow her head again. Though, technically, she's more cramped at the back seat than if he'd just reclined the passenger seat.

So far, we've seen that Andrew has a natural tendency to not only be physically close to Ashley, but to hover over her personal space and be in constant and direct contact with her. Whether it's by having her head on his lap, twirling her hair through his fingers, or even constantly grabbing her by the head in various states of comfort, playfulness, or outright threat (but let's put a pin on that for now).

The weight behind this candid contact shifts when Episode 2 draws a pretty explicit parallel between Julia and Ashley. Assuming that you interacted with Julia's landline and heard Ashley's voicemails, you know (and Andrew knows) that Ashley draws that connection herself:

DO YOU THINK YOU'RE BETTER THAN ME!? Just because you can fuck him and I can't? You think that's love?! Are you fucking delusional?? Cumdumpsters like you are just that. He will never love you. Not like he loves me. I am the only one. I am everything. I am the secrets you'll never hear. When he lies in bed at night, and when he needs someone to hold on to... It's not you he seeks out. It is me.

Episode 2, common route. Andrew's dream and vision implies that Andrew's heard these voicemails before.

That connection extends to the hair contact as well, as Andrew goes in to hug Julia, cards his hand through her hair and requests she tie her hair up.

Episode 2, common route. Andrew's dream and memory of Julia when they're older. From the use of Andrew's present-age portrait, suggests is closer to the timeline of the game's events than his and Ashley's memories as Andy and Leyley.

From this moment, we can have one of two assumptions: either Andrew wants Julia's (black) hair put up like Ashley's, or Ashley caught onto Andrew's hair kink and puts her hair up to imitate it.

Regardless, we infer the following:

Andrew teases affection through touching and even pulling on one's hair.

His fixation on ponytails and pulling on them does not exclude his own sister. It still stands and without reservation, perhaps more explicitly since he can do it so candidly, as we saw before.

The last of that Julia-Ashley parallel is self-contained within Episode 2. But only if you end up in the Burial route regardless of Ashley's platonic or incestuous vision.

Episode 2, common route (first picture) and Burial route (second picture). It's worth pointing out that Andrew is actually disinterested and moody during his conversation with Julia, and only perks up when he mentions Ashley or feigns care for Julia (since he extends his care of Ashley to her as well).

The game ends up drawing parallels on how Andrew treats Ashley, for better or for worse, with his ex (which is definitely worse, poor Julia). In doing so, the game blurs the lines between romantic affection for Julia and 'platonic and familial' affection for Ashley.

Y'all, this isn't even getting into how Andrew respectfully gives his parents space and only crowds them when he threatens them with his cleaver. In his mind, Ashley and Julia are in that same space of physical and romantic displays of affection; something he reserves only for them (only without reservation for Ashley) that does not extend to anyone else. His ex-girlfriend, and his sister. Shit's wild.

When it's obvious BUT it's violent!

That isn't to say that his hair fixation (hair kink?) is completely innocuous, though, as it rears its ugly head (pun unintended) in Decay. Which is what that previous pin was for! Yay!

You end up in the Decay route if Ashley doesn't trust Andrew with keeping an eye on their parents. Here, Ashley sleeps on their parents' bed by herself and has an alarming vision: an unknown party chases after her through the in-between and when they catch up to her, it's Andrew. Ashley has nowhere to run and Andrew eventually grabs her and threatens to kill her.

Whether or not Ashley can defend herself depends on Andrew expending all of her gun's ammo when he deals with the hitman, or not. But that outcome divergence will matter much, much later (so that's another pin for us to come back to).

The sequence of events actually mirrors the way the siblings ambush the Lady from Room 302 back in Episode 1. There, Andrew closes in on her and grabs the Lady by her wrist and uses his front to pin and restrain her. With his cleaver to her throat, the Lady is completely at his mercy.

Episode 1 & 2, common route (first picture) and Decay route (second, third, and fourth pictures). Note that Andrew restrains the Lady from Room 302 by the wrist while with Ashley, by her hair.

Andrew asserts control of the person and the situation through violence. Whether it's by killing them (the wardens) or by threatening physical violence (the Lady from Room 302 and Ashley). It's always on the table for him. As Leyleyfication puts it, "He's so calculated in how he approaches his use of violence [here]."

That violence includes Ashley. It's always on the table where Ashley's concerned. The game even juxtaposes when Andrew threatens violence and physical assault 'playfully' versus when he's seriously out for blood:

When you interact with the wall of call girls' numbers and Ashley jokes about leaving her number on the wall, Andrew 'jokingly' threatens to backhand her for even thinking about it.

When you interact with their parents' latched window for a second time, Andrew 'teases' slapping Ashley if she doesn't find a way to open it. (Ashley jokingly asks if it's on her ass or at her face, and assumes it must be the face when Andrew says she'll have to find out.)

The two other times that Andrew exerts violence against Ashley are both in Episode 1 & 2. We can remember when that happens in Episode 1, when Andrew's had it with Ashley's fits and threatens to kill her:

Episode 1, common route. Y'all, Andrew was choking her hard enough for his grip to bruise.

It happens again in Decay when he confronts Ashley about repeatedly calling him Andy and therefore, breaking the promise he coerced her into from Episode 1.

Episode 2, Decay route. Another thing to keep in mind is that Andrew's outburst is preceded by Ashley prodding him about his current state and insisting that Andrew was fine with 'Andy' during their home invasion.

In Episode 1, Andrew resorts to harming Ashley because he's fucking had it with her accusing him repeatedly of trying anything with the Lady from 302 and, in her eyes, his 'infidelity.' Where she accuses Andrew of not loving her enough that if his eye catches another girl, he'd leave her behind or flip on her. In Episode 2, she's poking and prodding on his boundaries on 'Andy' and whether or not, once again, he's with her on their now-committed life of joint crime.

If I can give another example, it happens in Andrew's common route memory of Nina's death and his blood oath with Leyley.

Episode 2, common route. Prior to this, Andy expresses immense exasperation at Leyley's tantrums over him 'thinking about that bitch again.' When he goes to grab the kitchen knife, cleans it, and returns to Leyley on his bed—he's briefly considering killing her.

Andrew threatens Ashley violently whenever he intends to confront her on her perceived brattiness, for lack of a better word. And keep Leyleyfication's essay segment on Ashley's insecurities and need for Andrew's validation in mind here—when Ashley does this, she wants and even needs Andrew to comfort her. But her aggression treads Andrew's patience and really, his tolerance of her behavior.

When Ashley's anger, clinging behavior, insecurities, and possessiveness of Andrew slips his control and tolerance, he resorts to violence to coerce or even dominate her.

I think (or hope, if it's clear enough) it reinforces what Leyleyfication points out:

The truth of the matter is, Ashley can only make Andrew do anything because he lets her. I don't mean in the sense that I'm saying abuse victims let their abusers emotionally abuse them, I mean in the sense that he is clearly considering his options on the table and choosing to discard those that could stop her, or bring an end to any of this.

It also reflects on another aspect of why Andrew resorts to violence: in all three situations, Andrew remarks on Ashley's behavior and her sake. If she acts up again once they're out of the apartment, it'll cause trouble for him while they're evading authorities. If she's going to call him Andy from hereon out, what's the point of running away with her. If she expects him to leverage keeping 'her secret,' he won't because it's for her sake.

Andrew rationalizes his attempt to control of Ashley's behavior as being for her sake. But really, isn't it him confining her behavior to something he can tolerate and personally handle?

I'd also like to point out that Andrew admits that he noticed Ashley push for calling him 'Andy' during the home invasion, and he did not argue with her on it while they held their parents hostage and readied to sacrifice them. We can infer that when Andrew calculates his use of violence, that can also factor when, where, and how he exerts it.

Well, that's where I can reasonably end this half of my word vomit! Now, onwards, to part 2!

#lia's conspiracy board #The Coffin of Andy and Leyley #TCOAAL: Andrew Graves #TCOAAL: Ashley Graves #ship: coffincest #character analysis

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cherubispunk · 25 days

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NEPHILIM: THE FALLEN - Jackson-era!Joel Miller x AFAB!Reader

summary: fallen or damned? who's to tell when it's joel miller?

a note from Lucy: DONT HATE ME I KNOW ITS BEEN A LONG TIME!! Not entirely happy with this but it's been sitting in my docs for months now and i had to get it out there to give me some peace of mind so please be aware it may well be riddle with grammatical mistakes and typos galore. as always like, comment and reblog to save a sinners sanity!

playlist | moodboard + poem

wc: 2755

Warnings: 18+ MDNI DARK CONTENT! Jackson era!post outbreak!Joel, no use of y/n, reader is referred to as ‘Bambi’, verbally constipated Joel Miller, brief gore descriptions, heavy religious imagery and references to the bible, biblical lore, yearning, idiots in love, angst angst angst!!!!!!, bombastic age gap!!! yahhhhh! (reader is in her 20’s/ Joel is in his late 50’s), smut, oral sex (m! receiving), rough oral sex, possessive!joel, dom!joel/sub!reader dynamic, you know the drill with my writing, there’s probably some form of cannibalism as a metaphor, or brutal violence as a metaphor, religious imagery as a metaphor, etc. (aka, fancy word vomit) - Lucy crying over a bloody google doc :)

series masterlist | m.list

Ephesians 2:3 Among them we too all formerly lived in the lusts of our flesh, indulging the desires of the flesh and of the mind, and were by nature children of wrath, even as the rest.

The sky was bruised. It was like God– or whatever resided up there– knew. The grey clouds, and the garish yellow of the setting sun, and the deep blue that ebbed into purple…they all knew. Your heart ached too. Bruised. It seemed to crack a little more each day. What started as nothing more than a hairline fracture had split into a gaping, weeping slice. Why? Because Joel was always quiet. For such a large man he had a ghostly habit of creeping into a room without notice. Creeping into your heart too through your hollow ribs. You could feel him behind you now though. His breath thick on the nape of your neck and it cooled the thin sheen of sweat on your skin. Soothed your burning flesh while saving it from the inferno. The tension became bearable. These little spaces of empty matter between all else. That slight awkwardness about his usual stoic yet confident demeanour…it was endearing now.

You were easing into the silence, content with watching the bruise darken from purple to midnight blue. The sky would turn on its bright little stars, and the moon would slice through sapphire as the early evening aged. The sun was going to rest now, the greying moon taking its post to watch over the town. You should follow the sun’s direction. Close your eyes so as to not have to witness his all too soon departure.

His fingers, so gentle, so strong, gently traced the curve and divot of your hip under the covers. It was strange to think just moments prior they had been inside you. Making you feel boneless in bed.

“Bambi?” He asked, tentative and uncharacteristically uncertain. He loathed it; the change in him.

“Mhm?” You hummed lazily, your hands tucked under the pillow to keep them warm, knees curled up to your chest. But no answer nor following question came. You knew what it was. He was cramming something back down his throat before he had the chance to say it for fear of being out of line. One day it shall choke him blue. He was strung so tightly. Tension in his shoulders that made them rise uncomfortably. And you noticed this when you turned to face him. Neither of you spoke for a moment, as if you were fooling yourself into believing he might continue. Your heart cracked a little more when he turned to face the wall,

“Never mind. It’s nothin’.” He had no reason to be weary of you. However in the past few weeks, coming up to a month, there was subtle, almost imperceptible unease that lingered. And festered. Palpable. Tangible. You could feel it when you reached out to touch his skin. So warm and gorgeous. Golden like ichor in this setting sunlight. You dared to press your lips to the wing of a shoulder blade, skin mangled with scar tissue where you liked to imagine wings once resided, and felt him flinch under your featherlight kiss. “Don’t, Bambi.”

“Joel-“

“I said: No.” His voice was firm, and didn’t give much leeway for convincing. “It’s not somethin’ you know how to fix.” But you were stubborn now. You’d found your feet. You stood your ground more, imitated behaviour. Before he could turn away again you reached to right him, set him flat on his back upon the mattress and splay your hand over his soft stomach under the covers. His throat tightened when your hand ventured timidly south. Then his breath tangled in his throat when it wrapped loosely around his half hard cock. Gently stroking it until it stood to attention in your palm. “Let me help…the way I know how.” You whispered into his ear, running your tongue under his earlobe to bring it between your teeth. Voice like honey, so sweet, and smooth, and slow pouring enough to get stuck in. Jesus Fucking Christ, he hated himself for even entertaining the idea of letting you do this for him. For being the one to help you find your feet. For being the man who tarnished innocence. It seemed all he did these days was ruin what little good there was left in the world. He’d taken an entire inkpot to a pristine sheet of paper, splattered black all over it without a care in the world until now. He felt like the space between you was stygian and reeked of his own sin. It simmered and spat and writhed and any moment now I would boil over the second you came to terms with the fact you were too good for him.

His nostrils flared with the thought but with a twist of your wrist he melted. Because at the base of it all, the very depth of his humanity, he was a selfish, selfish man. You watched a swallow pass down the thick column of his throat and rested your head on his shoulder while your hand dragged up his thick, full shaft, thumb smearing a bead of precome over the delicate flushed skin of its head. Joel watched the ceiling and wallowed in pathetic self pity as you kissed your way down his navel, lips moving in a mumbling of words he couldn't quite hear. He let out a breathy moan when you wrapped your lips around the tip, pressing your tongue flat to the underside to let the taste seep onto your tongue. He then closed his eyes trying to imagine anyone other than you between his legs. Another mouth. Another tongue. Someone else's voice.

It was no use because it seemed your eyes, the shade, the shape, were printed to the back of his lids. He gave up. He was too old to try to partake in sisyphean tasks.

Joel sat up and you moved between his legs as he threw the covers off to watch you. His back to the headboard, your warm mouth inviting him deeper, he hesitated to press a hand to the crown of your head, but when you pulled off to lick a flat tongued strip from base to tip, he found himself taking a fist of your hair and righting you over the head completely, pushing down so he slipped into your mouth. Muscle memory had the twitch of a smirk forming at the corner of his lips. The sight of you was enough to have his hips begging to buck, chasing the back of your throat, attempting to find that reaction again.

What you couldn't take of him you wrapped loosely in one hand and the other cupped his balls, adding the slightest pressure that had a dirty cuss passing his chapped lips. Deep inhales billowed in his nose, nostrils flared slightly as he dragged your open, salivating mouth up and down on his length. What he would never understand is how much you hungered for this every time. There was a pain in wanting him like no other, and a reward this great sowed the seed of pleading. You didn’t mind yearning for him because, to you, being hungry was quite a satisfying feeling. It feels nice to want something. To yearn. To have a purpose. You imagined he felt quite the same with the way he could hardly keep his hands from your cunt or your mouth when you passed his front door’s threshold.

“Look at me, Bambi.” He grunted, and your eyes fluttered slightly before the hue of them locked on his through your tear clumped lashes. “I’d like this mouth a whole lot more if it didn’t say such pretty things to me.” He almost lamented, and you felt a tug at your heartstrings. “Makin’ a man hope again.”

Joel sighed, eyes closing for the briefest second. His large hand was still pushing your head with the gentlest of force back down, then his fingers gripped at your hair, dragging you again so the warm, silken touch of your lips and tongue made the fire in his belly start to burn. It was aching, and deep rooted, and had a slow simmer to it. One he begged to hurry along. Joel wanted nothing more than his release so he could set you free again. Set the bird free of its cage. So he threw caution to the wind, and soon you felt the tip of his thick cock reach the back of your mouth again, your throat constricting. “Why won’t you hate me, huh Bambi? What did I do to deserve this?” He asked. If you knew no better you’d have thought his tone implied he hated it. His teeth gritted, words seethed between them. He spat it out in a way that made him seem unworthy of your attention— or the very taste of the thought disgusted him and made his stomach pull up in a wretch. Joel bit down so violently on nothing he swore his molars might turn to dust and clag in spit with the way he was salivating over the sight of you; Puffy lips, bloodshot watering eyes, messy hair. Bent over him and sucking on his cock like it was your only goddamned purpose in life.

You wanted to reply, splutter out the words, but he silenced you. The tip of his cock brushing the back of your throat, and causing your stomach to recoil, tensing as you gagged. Retching slightly as he grimaced at the sound. “You know I can’t love y–” he stopped mid sentence as the ache bloomed into a deep burn. You were oh so grateful because it meant you wouldn’t have to hear what you yearned not to. What you buried deep beneath your stomach and above your diaphragm— that slow, blooming ache. The feeling would never see the light of day. You’d rather die than come to terms with the fact that Joel would not be yours. He belonged to the world. The mass of nature that befell you. That which kept you human and incompetent. He was large, untamable, and oh so delectable in all ways other than matters of love. Joel Miller could not love you.

“Fuck- gonna come, Bambi.” He choked out, head falling back. You looked up at the sight of him through your lashes, lips parted, his brows creased gently in the space between them. Just as you yearned for him to love you, you yearned to be destroyed by him. Coated in him, broken down to pieces by him. Joel Miller could quite literally break you in half, then half again, and again— to the point where nothing was discernible— and you'd get on your knees to thank him for it all. Maybe loving him and being destroyed by him were two in the same?

In the months you’d known him you’d grown to learn that this was as close to a purpose as you’d get. The world robbed you of one, so you searched for it. Selfish enough to keep digging to find one. Only it had no purpose. It has a pattern now, and patterns trick and deceive people into believing in divine intervention. Joel was your divine right. Your purpose. That was what you believed. What you thought about each night. What you thought about now as you took his cock down to the base, the head of him brushing the back of your throat and folds soaked– drenched in the essence of your own arousal. All of which was emphasised by the ache you felt between your thighs that ebbed a little deeper with wanting. A ghost of the pleasure you felt when he was inside you. You entertained it with two fingers slipping between your thighs, teasing your clit. “God— Bambi…” He groaned, eyes rolling back in his head as he let go. Hot ropes of his release flooding your mouth with their heady, salty taste.

You pulled off his shaft, now wet and slick in your own saliva, swallowing a mouthful of his release. His eyes never left you, honing in on the ripple of your delicate throat as you swallowed his come down. Joel couldn't help but hook a thumb into your mouth to unhinge your jaw— to see if anything was left. Nothing was. There never was. Like him, you were too selfish to leave anything.

He should have known better. You never disappoint. “Bambi, you’re too damn good for me.” he panted, skin sweat slick and flushed.

“I promise I'm not.” you whispered to the skin of his lips before he wrapped a large, steadying hand around your arm and pulled you up to his chest. His face met yours and when you looked into those hickory eyes you could have melted on the spot; For the hue of them was nothing like you'd ever seen before, and could command nations to their knees. And if not nations then it could certainly do so to you. “I’m just as damaged as you.`’

The words had his gut in knots because they were akin to holding up a mirror to his visage. And holding his head in place. Holding it still so he was forced to look himself in the eyes and reflect. Reflecting on the monster he’d become. The monster he would always be.

“I’m not asking you to love me, Joel.” You spoke, your voice quiet, slight and timid. Uncertain of his reaction. The way your eyes met his was proof of that. Wide like a foal, wide enough to register the unjust curl of a lip. “ I’m just asking you to stay…”

The words had been burning the tip of your tongue red raw. Each night as he lay beside you, the same questions— words made up of nothing but consonants that had a profound effect on you– would hardly let you rest in his arms. They tortured you instead; Mocked you. It was the equivalent of hanging. You could feel the ghost of a noose around your neck. It might as well have been His hands. It was as rough as them after all.

What is wrong with you? What is so repulsive about you that warrants his departure? Was it the curve of your hips– their dips? Or even the bump on your nose– how dare it not have the perfect influxing curve! The slant of your eyes? The jagged stretch marks on the inside of your thighs! Not only had they the nerve to exist in their silver, shining mockery, posing as a diamond, but they had the fucking nerve to sit where others could see. Fuck them entirely and their very existance. Were those very thighs plump enough? Too plump? Why was there no gap between? Was there too much of a sag to your breasts? The colour of your nipples– why did they have to be that colour? Were the lines on your forehead marring your skin? What on you– about you– detested him? Because if you knew you'd cut it off. You'd change it. You take a knife to your nose and cut it off even if it was just to spite your own face. Now, laying here with him, you wish to be anyone but yourself. Yourself was the woman that disgusted you. It would always be the woman that disgusted you if he didn’t fall in love.

“That's jus’ the thing, Bambi.” He sighed, his mouth moving in a slow hushed mumble. His wind chapped, weathered lips grazed the shell of your ear, “I already do.” Followed by silence, and then: “An’ I ain’t no good at it, I’m afraid.”

That was the problem. Joel thought it had to be a life lived in an entirety of carolling laughter for you. A warm, joyous time. The kind of peace the world seldom granted anyone anymore. Not bound to him by the twine of his selfish nature. In the wrong man’s bed. If the world had told him anything before it was that he deserved to be alone. First Sarah. Then Tess. Ellie too. It was only a matter of time before you left too. He had no clue that what you wanted was just to be held. To be kept. He didn’t have to carve out a hole in himself to accommodate you. Nor give an arm or a limb. He just had to stay. Exactly where he was now. Exactly as he is. But selfish men believe in selfish things. And Joel Miller was a selfish man.

Maybe he wasn't. Humans are, after all, selfish creatures. If we are innately selfish does that make us selfish, or just human. Regardless– Joel was selfish. Yes. But more importantly: He was the damned, the scrutinised, the beggar. All of the above.

Joel Miller was, and forever will be, the fallen.

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grandwretch · 7 months

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only i must wander, pt. 3

[on ao3] [pt. 1] [pt.2]

content warnings: conversations about and references to genocide, murder, cannibalism, kidnapping, drug use, human trafficking, racism, war, and bullying.

Steve and Robin weren't exactly best friends.

They tried. Or, well, Robin did. Steve kinda did what he had always done at work, which was keep out of everyone's way and try not to fuck up too hard. Robin, though, was putting in the effort. Not an hour went by without Robin popping out of nowhere to try and start a conversation. Usually about some gossip she'd heard about their classmates or one of the few movies they'd both seen. Steve usually did his best to keep up with her, never being the first to stop talking and walk away, but it felt–

It felt a lot like high school did. Robin's smile never reached her eyes, and it only put more pressure on Steve to follow suit. Be normal, the weight on his shoulders whispered, and everything will be okay. So when she spoke, Steve answered, a smile on his face.

No matter how plastic and saccharine it tasted.

The kids didn't exactly make it easier. Dustin was even more desperate for them to be best friends than Robin was. It was hard to begrudge the kid the connection, though, when he had spent the longest in isolation. He'd been alone amongst humans before El and Steve even had any words for what was wrong with them. What was Steve supposed to do, tell him to stop showing up and asking questions?

Max was worse. She forgave a lot less than Steve and Dustin, and still showed up at least once a week. She enjoyed her shift of threatening glares. Steve had tried to warn her off of it, and Max had snorted.

"If I can take down my brother, I'm not worried about a bitchy fox demon, or whatever." Max was unimpressed by monsters as only a pre-teen could be. Steve wasn't even sure when El had told her about the Wesen thing. He couldn't exactly pretend to be surprised; They'd never been very subtle around her.

So, yeah, they were both under a lot of pressure to be besties. Enough pressure to guarantee they would never be anything even approaching 'close'. Which Steve was fine with. He was finally getting used to all his friends being nerdy middle schoolers. What would he even talk to a friend about? … Basketball? Steve hadn't watched a game in months. March had flown by without Steve even catching a single game. Not that Robin would even be interested in basketball, and–

Steve shook his head, and focused on wiping bits of ice cream off the glass counter.

He did not want to be friends with Robin.

Dustin didn't care, though, as he came in and slammed his backpack down in an empty booth. "Steve!" he greeted, if that could even be called a hello. "Where's Robin?"

"I don't know," Steve said, even though he knew Robin was in the back room. She was socially allergic to the food court downstairs. That wasn't the point, though. "Why do you care?"

"I've got news!" Dustin crowed, "Big news!"

"What's he talking about now?" Robin asked from the door, arms folded.

Steve rolled his eyes. One day, the universe would teach Dustin that his antics wouldn't always get him what he wanted. One day. Steve hoped he was there to see it. "I've got no idea," Steve said, throwing his towel down on the counter in resignation. "He came in and started screaming."

"So El was telling me and Max about your big plan," Dustin said. Steve watched Robin's eyebrows shoot way up behind her bangs.

"Jesus Christ," Steve muttered. "You guys gossip more than every cheerleader in our school put together."

"What 'big plan'?" Robin said, an appropriate amount of sarcasm behind Dustin's emphasis of the phrase.

"There's no big plan. There's a–" Steve turned to Dustin, trying to get the words through his thick little skull. "There's an agreed upon procedure between me and Hop, should there ever be a threat large enough–"

"What the fuck do you think procedure means?" Dustin asked, every inch as bitchy as Steve had trained him to be.

"Yeah, well it sounds a lot less fucking ominous. I can't have a thirteen year old going around talking about my big plans with the police chief." Steve hissed. He knocked his knuckles on Dustin's shoulder, following him as Dustin tried to squirm away. "Did you even think about trying to explain why Hop would be working on a plan with me?"

"Can someone please explain this plan to me?" Robin said, volume increasing to be heard over Dustin's squawks of protest.

"Steve's going to be a good Grimm!" Dustin said, cheerily, dodging Steve's swiping hand.

"Jesus," Steve cursed again as Robin turned a disbelieving stare onto him. "It's not like that! I was talking to Hop about what happens if my parents show back up. We decided we should have a plan in place if they or any other Grimms start sniffing around Hawkins. That's all."

Robin looked at Steve for a long moment. "You said that Hexenbiest friend of yours was Chief Hopper's daughter, right?"

Steve winced. "Kinda. She was part of a case a couple years ago, and she hasn't been allowed outside much, but–"

Robin shook her head. "Believe me, I don't want to know. Hexenbiest blood can be used in all kinds of potions and shit. The last thing I need, as a Fuchsbau, is to get involved with whatever all that's about."

Steve didn't even know what to say to that, so he turned to Dustin. "Why are you here, Henderson?"

"I'm calling the plan into action!" Dustin said, his limbs flailing as if he'd been saying that this entire time, Steve, you idiot. "I would have called in a Code Red, but it's not…" His eyes darted to Robin, then back to Steve. "You know."

"There's a Grimm in Hawkins?" Steve asked, his voice flat with disbelief.

"... No?"

Steve rolled his eyes. "Henderson…"

"No, come on! There's– Look," Dustin said, holding one finger up as he reached for his backpack. He pulled out one of last semester's folders, green with 'English' crossed out on the front. Underneath, he'd written 'Wesen stuff'.

"Subtle," Steve said.

Dustin ignored him, pulling a stack of newspaper clippings out of the folder. They were rather large, not at all like the small sports write-ups that Steve's mom used to clip out for him. No, these were big, front-page articles, with big black-and-white pictures accompanying them. Dustin's handwriting was in the margins, tiny scrawled notes and circles and arrows and–

Steve shook his head, trying not to let the sudden wealth of information overwhelm him. He felt like this should be the kind of thing Nancy had done in the past few years. Definitely not the job for him, who had trouble pulling together a decent book report.

"So I was spying on my mom's phone call," Dustin began, which inspired a new round of cursing from Steve. "Shut up, Steve, this is important."

"Your mom not killing us is important," Steve hissed.

"My mom is a middle-aged beaver woman. You're a nineteen year old killing machine," Dustin said, ignoring Steve's flinch. "You'll be okay."

Robin came around the counter to stand on Dustin's other side, leaning over his shoulder to peer at the collection of wrinkled newspapers. "Focus, boys," she said, her hands smoothing out the topmost clipping, which featured a large black and white photo of a kid. He was about the age Dustin had been when Steve first met him, grinning wide in front of Fort Worth Elementary. "What is all this?"

"This is what my mom was talking about," Dustin said, his gaze snapping back to his research. "He went missing last week."

Nausea roiled in Steve's stomach, and he forced himself to look away from the bright grin as he struggled with his own gag reflex. It was a little silly, since he hadn't even known Will when it happened– had been a fucking shit about it, even. He hadn't been able to stomach missing kids since '83. Not even in movies. That was one of the reasons O'Donnell hated him so much– She'd tried to make him read some awful book about a missing little girl, and he'd refused. Hired some nerd to write the report. She knew it, and he knew she knew it, but he couldn't read it. Couldn't think about some mom, sick to death with worry, and a bunch of men who thought she was crazy. It made him want to crawl out of his skin. Made him want to launch the book through the police station window with Lucas's slingshot. Made him want to make every teacher who'd whispered behind the Byers' backs eat the pages the words were printed on.

It made him want to pay for the words he couldn't take back with blood.

"Dustin, not every… Kids go missing all the time, buddy." Steve tried to be calm, the reasonable older brother, as his own hands started to shake. "Will was a special circumstance, you know that, right?"

"Oh, shit," Robin mumbled.

"This isn't about Will," Dustin said, although Steve could tell from the way that Dustin's eyes were big and round that it had been very much about Will. "My mom called her friend in Fort Worth, and they were talking about the investigation, and they– He's a klaustreich."

Steve had no idea what that meant, but the German was enough of a giveaway to get the gist. "This kid is a Wesen?"

Even as Dustin nodded, Robin was snorting and shaking her head. "If he's a klaustreich, it was the dad. It's always the dad."

"Hey," Steve said, voice weak. It was hard to fight Wesen prejudice when he had no idea what the stereotypes were supposed to be. It certainly didn't sound flattering, though.

"It's almost always the dad for humans, too," Robin said, a flush of embarrassment across her face.

Steve and Dustin exchanged a look. "Dads aside," Steve said , because talking parents never went well for him. Especially with any of the kids present. "It doesn't matter who did it, because this isn't any of our business. The police will handle this, Dustin, I don't know why–"

"Because he wasn't the only one!" Dustin moved the newspaper to the side, revealing another black and white photo of a smiling child. And then another. And another. More and more pictures were revealed, until the children devolved into a blur of gray and sepia. "In the past four years, more than 38 kids have gone missing in adjacent counties alone."

"That's impossible," Robin said, immediately. "Someone would have done something. They would have caught the guy. There would be– There would be fucking dogs and search parties–"

"Oh, like there was for Will Byers?" Steve said, his tongue numb. He almost didn't mean it, didn't want to be saying it, but all he could think about was that fake body of Will's. His own voice, asking if Jonathan had killed him. "Kids go missing all the time," he repeated.

Robin was quiet for a moment. "So the guy who took Will…"

"No," Steve and Dustin said at the same time.

"That was completely different," Dustin said, "and it's handled."

"One of us would have noticed if there were that many kids involved," Steve said, trying to make himself believe it. "And they wouldn't still be going missing."

"I thought they never caught the guy who did it?" Robin asked.

Another glance. "I made sure of it," Steve said, his voice firm enough to broadcast that he would not respond well to pushing. Not exactly stellar for his new serial killer reputation, but there was no way in hell he was telling Robin about the Upside Down. She wouldn't believe it, anyway, in spite of all the Wesen and magic and shit. Whatever created the Upside Down, it wasn't a furry little guy. It was something sinister, and the last thing he needed was it to get its claws into Wesen society.

Robin's eyes narrowed, her gaze analyzing Steve's face, before she nodded and looked away. "Alright, so what's your theory, beaver boy?"

Dustin sighed. "After I left the library, the trail went kinda cold. It's not like a thirteen year old can call grieving families and expect answers, you know?"

"That's why you should bring this to Hopper," Steve said, tapping the folder. "You know, an actual adult? And a cop, by the way. The people who would actually have a good chance of–"

"A Wesen family would never talk to a human cop," Robin said, then shrugged at Steve's sharp look. "Sorry, man, it's true. We have a thing about handling our own disputes."

"Alright, well…" Steve huffed. It wasn't that he couldn't appreciate the sentiment. He was pretty sure that when Robin said 'handling it', she was using a definition like his own-- Beating the shit out of it with a bat and then setting it on fire. "That's one family that won't talk, but that leaves almost two dozen–"

"More are Wesen," Robin said, and then leaned over to tap at a picture on the table. The kid was older than Dustin, around Robin's age. He beamed out of the gray, wearing his letterman's jacket, a football tucked under his arm. "That's Carter Ridley. Goes to school in Jackson. His mom comes into my dad's shop sometimes. They're jagerbars."

"Hunter bears?" Dustin translated, his nose wrinkling.

"They used to be berserkers, in the old country. Now they're mostly yuppies," Robin said, shrugging. "Still built like a fucking mountain, though."

"Huh," Dustin said, looking thoughtful.

"Alright, so two families…" Steve tried, but Robin shot him a look that left him feeling small.

"If someone is hunting Wesen kids, two is enough."

"Hunting any kid is bad enough," Dustin corrected, but his face was still unfocused in deep thought. "It does take a special kind of person to capture two predator kids, though…"

"What?" Steve frowned down at the picture. "He's, like, fifteen, sixteen? He's big, but he's not going to take out a full grown man."

"He's a sixteen year old jagerbars," Robin repeated. "They used to hunt humans for sport at that age. No dad with a beer gut is going to be able to take a jagerbar raging on teenage hormones."

"So what?"

"So it's a Wesen that's doing this," Dustin said, determined. "Something powerful. Something evil."

"That's your job, right?" Robin said, turning to Steve.

"I'm not a fucking–" Steve paused, frazzled. "I mean, I am. But, like… ethnically. I'm not going to start hunting criminal Wesen and killing them! That's insane!"

"So we're supposed to let them keep doing it?" Dustin said, whirling around.

"No! Or… maybe? I don't fucking know, Dustin. Why didn't you take this shit to Hop? He knows about this Wesen shit, now. I'm sure if he knew about this, he would do something about it." Not as much or as fast as Dustin wanted, but Steve had never known Hopper to sit around and let a kid hurt like that. He would stop this. He would.

"You want to send your father figure after a monster that'll tear him apart?" Robin asked. She didn't even sound upset about it, just… curious. Which Steve thought was rather rich, considering she'd never even met Hopper in the context of Steve. Rich and cruel.

"Steve," Dustin said, before Steve could even gather his thoughts enough to tear into Robin like he wanted to. The kid's voice was solemn, deep in the way he only got when he was on the edge of tears. "I know. But when has bringing an adult into this ever fucking solved anything?"

Steve wanted to protest. They'd helped– Hopper and Joyce and even those stupid science guys, they had all helped. Been instrumental, really. But Steve couldn't deny that sometimes it made things harder. They didn't understand, sometimes, why things had to be done a certain way. Whatever help they would give had to be wheedled out of them, piece by piece, usually at a cost greater than anyone guessed. And that was only if they didn't die. Steve hadn't known Bob, but he had watched Joyce cry into Hopper's chest about it, which was more than enough to solidify the danger in his mind.

He loved Joyce and Hopper. He did. But they weren't the reason they were all still alive. Nancy was. El was. And, sometimes, when someone needed to take the hit, Steve was.

"Okay," Steve said, his shoulders going lax in resignation. "Alright. But if we're going to look into this, we're going to do it right. Now…" What would Nancy do? he asked himself. "We need to know how many of these kids are actually Wesen. Any ideas?"

"You could show up to their house and see if their parents woge?" Dustin said.

"No."

"I have an idea," Robin said, "but you both have to promise not to fucking touch anything."

"There is no way you can make me promise that without telling me what it is I'm not touching," Dustin said, seriously. "That's entrapment."

Robin sighed, chewing off all the lipstick on her bottom lip. "Okay," she said, finally, "my dad's shop is the only Wesen apothecary outside of Indianapolis. If any of their families have ever needed anything a human shop wouldn't handle, they'll be on his ledger."

"Alright, so…. " Steve shrugged. "Would he let us see it?"

Snorting, Robin replied, "Absolutely not. But if his darling daughter were to leave the back door unlocked the next time it's her turn to clean…"

"Oh, good, another crime," Steve said, rolling his eyes. A quick glance at Dustin proved he would be no help in finding an alternative. Glee was written across the kid's face so patently that even Steve didn't have to puzzle it out. It's for the kids, Steve reminded himself.

"Since when do you care about what's legal, Harrington?" Robin said. "You've been drinking since the cradle."

"Like you said," Steve said dismissive. "Police chief. Father figure."

"Steve has, like, chronic parental issues," Dustin informed Robin, sotto voice.

"Dustin…"

"They're fucking terminal," Dustin continued, ignoring Steve's sighs of complaint.

"When are we fucking doing this?" Steve cut in, voice harsh with frustration.

Robin's face went blank in thought for a moment, running through the days in her head. "I'm supposed to clean up after inventory on Thursday," she said, shrugging. "That's the earliest I'll be able to get you in."

Six days. That was more than enough time for the more rational parts of Steve's brain to take back over, more than enough time to talk Dustin out of this heroism kick. He found himself nodding, more than willing to put this off for another week.

"It'll have to wait, then," Steve said, and tried not to sound too pleased about it.

Despite Steve's efforts, the next six days didn't lessen Robin and Dustin's insistence on playing the hero. In fact, Steve found himself on tenterhooks every night. He watched the evening news with an intensity he had given very little since graduation.

The six o'clock news, then the ten– The morning news on the weekend, anchors and time slots that Steve usually slept through. He watched them all with his heart in his throat, every cell of him focused on the prayer that he wouldn't see another sunny, ignorant smile on the screen. Every night passed without a new addition to their list, but that did nothing to soothe the mounting frenzy in Steve's chest. Instead, he could only wonder what they were missing, if there were kids slipping through their fingers unnoticed.

Saturday morning when the anchors said goodbye, the local channel started reruns of old episodes of Batman. Steve, numb with anxiety, stayed curled in his father's pristine armchair and let them play. Primary colors and musical stings blurred together in his bleary mind.

He'd never been a huge superhero kid, not like Dustin and Mike, but there had been no one in his elementary school who didn't sometimes watch Batman. There wasn't much that he remembered. The characters were all unfamiliar and cartoonish, but the apathy made Adam West's booming voice softer. It soothed the shake of Steve's hands.

In one scene, Batman rushed onto the docks, a bomb in his hands. There was nowhere to go, no way to save the unbothered masses around him. It was supposed to be funny; Steve recognized the slapstick body language, the sigh in West's voice. There were baby ducks in the water, for fuck's sake. He had thought it was hilarious, once, in the way sheltered little kids always did.

Steve pulled his legs a little tighter against his body, watching the fuse burn down. The exaggerated resignation had grown too familiar to be laughable. He sat and he watched Batman accept that this bomb was going to go off in his hands, so it wouldn't go off on anyone else's, and it didn't make Steve upset. It didn't make him uncomfortable.

It made him nod, approving. Because Steve knew that if he found himself with a bomb in his hands, he would keep holding it. Would curve himself around it, letting it go off.

"Some days you just can't get rid of a bomb," Batman told him, and Steve clicked the television off. It was time to go back to bed.

The rest of the week wasn't easier. Work helped, the distraction as good for Steve as it had ever been, but Robin didn't. Her obsession had gotten its teeth into Dustin's little mystery, and there was very little else she was willing to talk about. Even when Steve managed to change the subject, he could see the missing smiles in the shadows behind her eyes. In time, she would lapse back into theories and ramblings about some story she had heard, once-upon-a-time. Steve was never sure how many of these stories were facts and how many were legends. The both seemed equally real to Robin, and by Thursday night, he had heard every word the Buckley clan had to offer.

He wished he could blame her. That terrible feeling got its claws into him every time, the paranoia and the guilt and the shame, and it would feel so much better if he could take it out on her. Steve knew it would. He couldn't bring himself to do it. He could feel the frustration bubbling up in his chest, taste the bitter words on his tongue. It didn't matter how long she rambled, though, every time he turned to face her, his voice refused to cooperate. It was too easy, he thought as she rambled through another legend too horrific to listen to. Even as Robin spoke, she broadcasted her fear louder than her voice. Every curiosity revealed another nightmare she'd never beaten. It wouldn't feel as good now, when he knew she was so fragile.

Or maybe he didn't want to be an asshole anymore.

So listened to every awful theory she had, and then drove home to find Henderson on his doorstep with his own set of ideas. Dustin's were at least a little less gory, but he had even less to work with than Robin did. Most of his 'theories', if they could even be called that, were cribbed from cop shows and nursery rhymes. The kind of thing his mother filled his head with so he wouldn't talk to strangers. They had never worked, because Dustin had never met a problem he didn't want to interrogate to death, but they left their mark all the same. So Steve soothed his fears, did his best to not sound too sarcastic when he assured Dustin that the bogeyman didn't exist, and then shooed Dustin off to bed.

Every night was the same, a shift of horror movie plots followed by a thirteen year old's best attempt at paranormal theory.

When the sun finally set on Thursday, Steve expected to feel relieved. After a week of fending off the worst of Robin and Dustin's impulses, he would finally be able to prove this wasn't their problem. All it would take was a quick look at Mr. Buckley's ledgers, and all three of them could finally move on.

Steve tried to remind himself of that, blocking Dustin's chattering voice out as he turned the thoughts over in his mind again and again. They did little to help the rising anxiety, though, the edges worn smooth with handling like well-eroded stones. Steve's fingers flexed against the steering wheel. The closer it got to go-time, the worse Steve felt. The air felt heavy around him, so thick he could imagine it darkening like in one of Dustin's movies.

"You are, like, the worst criminal in the world," Dustin said, halfway through shoving a Twizzler into his mouth.

"Is that supposed to be an insult?"

"You look like you're about to throw up," Dustin said, poking at Steve's cheek with his licorice.

Being able to grab the candy out of Dustin's hand without looking was the only thing Steve's Grimm abilities had ever been good for. He tossed it through his open window, his other hand covering Dustin's mouth– Well, the kid's entire face. Steve wasn't trying to shut him up as much as annoy him into submission.

"You know, you could stand to take this a little more seriously," Steve said, frowning. "Jesus, where is Robin? She said eight, right?"

"It's only 8:15, man," Dustin said, leaning his seat back. "Chill."

"How is it that I'm the only one who believes there isn't a fucking serial killer on the loose and I'm still the only person taking this shit seriously?" he muttered to himself. He needed a fucking cigarette, but he knew Robin would bitch incessantly if she smelled smoke on him. Steve had no idea how he'd picked up another nerd to tell him what to do, or why he even cared about what she said–

"Steve, fucking breathe."

Steve heaved, realizing his lungs had stopped working a thousand thoughts ago. "Thanks," he wheezed.

"No problem."

They lapsed into silence. The moment stretched out between them like the infinite increments between one and two, until Robin's head popped out of her back door. She already looked mad, the too-familiar furrow between her eyes, and Steve sighed under his breath.

This hadn't been his idea, but he was pretty sure that it was going to end up being his fault when they all got caught.

"Come on, before she has a fucking heart attack," Steve said to Dustin as he opened the door. They sprinted across the road, looking twice as suspicious as if they had walked. Steve looked over his shoulder as their feet finally hit the sidewalk on the other side. Though the street was empty save for the Bimmer, he couldn't shake the feeling of something at his back. The feeling had been lurking for weeks, though, even in his own house, so he forced himself to shake it off and slip into the door behind Dustin.

"Took you long enough," Robin hissed.

Steve barely held back an offended squeak, turning it into a grunt in the back of his throat that left him feeling nauseous. "Did you want me to fly here, Buckley? We were waiting for you."

"Yeah, well, we don't have all night." Robin rolled her eyes, but her hands fluttered in front of her chest, as if she wasn't sure how she was expected to hold her arms during a B&E. Steve deflated. It was hardly worth the fight if Robin was picking it to hide how scared she was. It occured to him, for a moment, that it was odd for Robin to be so scared of being caught in her own home. But then Steve thought about getting caught in his dad's office, and winced when his stomach lurched.

Maybe that was the life of a predator kid, Steve thought. Maybe the fear he'd kept just under the skin for most of his life was... normal. Robin had it, El had it. Maybe that was the price you paid for sharing a roof with a monster.

Dustin didn't let Steve mull over that one for long, turning and glaring at Robin in the dim light. "So where are the records, then?"

"The ledger is in the back office," Robin said, casting a glance over her shoulder in the blackness of the rest of the store. "We move it there so Dad can balance the books--" Without listening to another word, Dustin pushed past them both to stalk into the shadows. Robin hissed, the most animalistic sound Steve had ever heard her make, and chased after him.

Steve tried to follow, but the heightened senses he had come into recently did not extend to his vision. He was as lost in the dark as he had been the rest of his entire life. He stumbled into the Buckleys' storeroom using only what little lamplight shone through the windows.

Squinting at the shelves on either side of him, Steve struggled to make sense of what little he could see. The closest Steve had to reference was a librar. The shelves were too cramped and close together to resemble any kind of store he'd ever been in, especially the familiar aisles of the Big Buy. Rather than books, though, every inch of available shelf space was taken up by jars and boxes. Some held dried herb leaves or pills, like Steve had seen in pictures of old pharmacies. Others looked like they would be more at home in his chemistry classroom, right next to the preserved pig fetus. Glad the shapes in the jars were shadowy and dark, Steve shut his eyes and followed the sound of Dustin and Robin's bickering voices.

Who needed to confront the vision of that jar of suspiciously eyeball-shaped soup when you had enhanced hearing? Not Steve, that was for sure.

Luckily, the storeroom wasn't as big as the looming shadows made it seem, and he only took a few steps before he felt the familiar prickle of Dustin and Robin's presence against his skin-- Wait, was that familiar? When had he started noticing that? Why did he not notice himself noticing that--

"Thanks for joining us, dingus," Robin said, muffled around the thumb she currently had shoved in her mouth as she chewed at her cuticules.

"You are going to get scars," Steve said, frowning down at her free hand. It was already ragged around her nails, as if she'd chewed through one hand and kept on going. "And a yeast infection. In your hands. Just so you know."

"Can we please focus?" Dustin huffed as he flipped towards the back page of an enormous, cotton-bound book. It was filled with all kinds of words and numbers that made Steve's head swim, so he was more than happy to look away when Robin snorted at him.

"I hope you get fired for your weird diseased fingers," he whispered, and didn't even grunt when Dustin punched him in the side.

"I get that you two have some weird sexual tension to work out," Dustin said, and Steve and Robin flinched, making twin noises of disgust. "--but I don't actually have any idea what I'm looking for, here, so I could use some help."

"I have the list of the missing kids," Steve said, pulling it out of his chest pocket. He'd kept it there all week, moving them from shirt to jacket and back. It had felt wrong to leave them behind. "We're looking for their last names in here, right?"

Dustin frowned at the book, index finger tracing a line down the page. "No, this is by date, not name. If we use this, we'll be here all night."

"The last few months will--" Robin started, but Dustin wasn't having it.

"I'm not going to leave someone behind just because they didn't need heart powder for exam season this year," Dustin huffed, slamming the book shut. "Your dad has to have, like, a client list or something, right?"

Robin shrugged. "I mean, we have the address book we use for deliveries, but if they come into the shop--"

"Sorry, heart powder? Like, human heart powder? Like, from humans?" Steve interrupted.

"Not always. It's an Eisbiber thing," Dustin replied. "My mom says it got her through college."

"Your mom microdosed?" Robin said, her voice rising an octave.

"Mrs. Henderson might have eaten people?" Steve took a moment. "And I'm the bad influence?"

"That is, like, so not what we're talking about," Dustin said, pushing away from the desk. "Show me this address book."

Huffing, Steve stepped back as Dustin and Robin pushed past them towards an ancient filing cabinet in the corner of the office. Robin was nattering about her father's extensive record-keeping system, and it reminded Steve so strongly of his own father's boring dinner sermons that he tuned it out almost on instinct. Their voices faded until they were swallowed up by the fuzz in the back of Steve's brain, like someone turning the volume of a static-y television all the way up.

Why was he even here? As desperate as Steve had been to get in here and get it over with moments ago, he could feel the frustration starting to build in his chest. This was getting them nowhere, and even if Mr. Buckley did have some computer-level organizations going on here, how the hell was Steve supposed to help? The last time he'd checked, Grimm powers hadn't healed his stupidity yet. He should be home in bed, pretending it wasn't absolutely pathetic he was already under the covers.

"This is it!" Robin hissed as she yanked some monstrous, stained book from underneath a sheath of papers. So much for Mr. Buckley's filing system, Steve thought. "All the addresses should be in here. The ledgers get replaced every year, but this should be everything since we opened."

"Excellent," Dustin said, rubbing his hands together like a cartoon character.

"Okay, so--" Impatient, Robin laid the book on top of the cabinet with a thwap, opening the book straight down the middle. "Alright, so, what's the first... Oh. Huh."

Dustin peered over her shoulder, legs straining as his tip toed feet wobbled. "Huh," he agreed.

"What?" Steve asked. The double act was starting to wear on him.

"It's not just names and addresses. There's, like, dates and stuff? These must be sale and payment logs?" Robin didn't sound confident, and that, at least, made Steve look at the moldy book twice. "It's not a ledger, though. There's not a single dollar marked anywhere in here."

"Right, and we care about that because..."

"Because it might be a clue!" Dustin said, and began to scramble to open the list of names once again.

Steve rolled his eyes. "Sorry, are we putting Robin's dad at the top of the suspect list because he keeps records?"

"The first name on the list is Altheide," Dustin said, ignoring Steve. "Are they in there?"

"Cool," Steve muttered, starting to pace behind them. "Let's waste time trying to figure out if the most German last name we've ever heard is part of the German monster conspiracy in our town. Great use of our time, team."

Robin glanced his way, but turned back to the book without a word. With a little grunt of effort-- Steve was beginning to think the book got bigger every time somone looked away from it --she turned to the first few pages. After a moment of skimming the pages, Robin nodded. "Alright, here's one. We've got a G. Altheide from Lafayette."

Dustin grinned, his body barely containing his triumphant glee. He was practically vibrating out of his shoes. "That matches our missing kid-- What else does it say? If we can find some kind of connection between them, it might help us find out why they've been targeted."

"Assuming they were targeted at all," Steve reminded him.

Both of the excited detectives ignored him. "Altheide isn't exactly a regular," Robin said, her fingers following the rows of entries down the page. "He hasn't bought anything since 1982, but in '79 there was a rash of purchases for..." She paused, biting her lip.

"For?" Dustin and Steve prompted in unision.

"Milz," Robin said, looking a little grossed out. "It means 'spleen'. He bought 350g of it over the course of six months."

"Is that a lot? That feels like a lot," Steve said, looking between Dustin and Robin's blank faces.

"That's at least three full organs," Dustin said, shrugging. "Not exactly common, but..."

"No," Robin said, her voice sharp. "It's not common. And I'm sorry, Dustin, I know we were joking about your mom, but--"

"I wasn't joking," Steve muttered to himself. "It's weird."

"--It's exactly the kind of thing we aren't supposed to do. It's exactly the kind of thing that gets you run out of town again. Exactly what people expect us to be selling, and exactly the thing my dad always told me he would never..." Robin's voice trailed off. She flipped through the pages of the book, shaking her head. Steve and Dustin watched her in silence, the horrific humor of the situation completely gone.

They had gotten used to death, gotten used to staring it in the eye and making jokes. But it was different, when it was your dad. They both knew that.

"It's all like that. Every single purchase in this book is... Milz. Gehirn. Gallenblase. Herz. Not a single fucking herb or poultice in sight, just..." Robin shook her head. "How is he even sourcing this?"

Steve and Dustin traded a look.

"Let's solve one mystery at a time, okay?" Steve suggested, , when the question had hung over them for too long.

Robin shook herself, and Steve watched her pull focus over her face like a mask. He had no idea how she did it; Every time he even thought about his father with a Grimm's rage in his veins, it made him vaguely ill. He couldn't imagine holding proof of it in his hands. The mere thought had panic clenching around his throat like a fist.

"Give me the next name," Robin said, solidifying herself as one of the strongest people Steve had ever met.

"Barrett," Dustin said, and Robin was off.

They went through every name like that, one after the other. Some of the names were in there, followed by sales and dates the same as the first. Some of them weren't, although there was no way to know if the kids were human, or their parents were good people. They found more than Steve would have liked. Two dozen cozy little cannibal families in Indiana, most of them a twenty minute drive where Steve's kids went to school.

He didn't say anything, though. Didn't bitch and moan and protest as he had before. He didn't have to. Dustin no longer smiled when they found a name, all the victory of a lead paying off sucked out of it. Now, every confirmation deepened the frown on Dustin's face, made the lines between his brows go tight with worry. Every name was no longer proof that his theory was right, just another danger to Hawkins.

"I'm starting to think Mrs. Henderson is right about, like, everything," Steve mumbled to himself once they'd made it to the end of the list. It wasn't even much of a joke as a dawning horror. More and more, it was beginning to seem like Robin, Dustin, and El were actual outliers, not just proof that stereotypes were wrong.

"Don't say that," Dustin said, despairing. "You don't have to live with her when she's right."

Robin was still staring down at the book, shaking her head. "Out of the 40 missing kids, almost half had parents willing to eat human flesh for a cheap high." She slammed the book shut, and glared up at Steve. "I fucking told you it was the parents!"

"Okay, let's not leap to any--" Steve began, but Dustin cut him off with a rough snort.

"More like your parents," the kid said with a sneer.

Robin woged for a half second, fur rippling across her face and then away again. The gold in her eyes stayed, though, glowing eerily in the dim light. "Excuse me?"

Dustin pointed at the book, his eyebrows almost flying off his face with emphasis. "Your dad is peddling human body parts, and he just so happened to be selling to half the families whose kids are missing?"

"Yeah," Robin said, "Wesen families, not human ones. Why would that--"

"I don't know, the fact that he was collecting blackmail on them?" Dustin rolled his eyes when Robin growled. "There's no reason for him to keep evidence of illegal activity if it's not for blackmail or spying, and I think--"

"No one cares what you think," Steve said, stepping between the two of them. When a smug smile began to spread across Robin's face, he shot her a glare. "Either of you. You're both being stupid."

"Oh, good, the keg stand king of Hawkins High is going to preach to us about being stupid," Robin muttered under her breath but her gaze finally filtered back into its hazy blue, the sharpness of her teeth dulling as she spoke. Steve resisted the urge to sigh in relief.

"No offense, Steve, but you're not exactly--"

"I'm gonna stop you right there, Henderson." Steve drew himself up to his full height, a display that would have been more intimidating if his hands hadn't instinctually found his hips. "Because what I am is a Grimm, and that's as close as we're gonna get to an official on this thing, so what I say goes. More importantly--"

Robin tried to break in, a protesting whine to her voice as she said, "I don't think being born--"

"More importantly," Steve repeated, a little too loud for someone who was trying not to get arrested by his own father figure, "I'm the son of a business man. Do you know how many lectures I've had to sit through?"

"What does that have to do with any--"

"Getting rid of your own clientele is bad business. Especially if you can still get something out of them. And given that Mr. Buckley has blackmail on nearly every single wesen family in the state, I'd say that he has a lot to gain from keeping them around and no motive to speak of."

"Thank you," Robin said, relief evident in her voice.

"You weren't right either," Steve sighed. "Look, I-- I think it's as weird and gross as you both do, okay? I have no idea what we're going to do about this, but.. One mystery at a time, alright? These kids have to come first, and I don't think this--" Steve gestured to the book, so unassuming with it's tattered cover "--actually has anything to do with it. It was a good lead. It was. But this isn't a game."

"But all the names--"

"Less than half of the names, Dustin," Steve interrupted. He paused to put a gentle hand on the kid's shoulder, squeezing gently. "It's enough to prove that wesen are getting targeted. But we can't force everything into connecting because it's convenient. That's how people get hurt."

"Then what does it mean?" Robin's voice was muted, her gaze still stuck to the floor. "If it's not a part of it, then why--"

And Steve got it, he did. It would be so much easier to swallow if this was part of some grand conspiracy. So much easier to accept that her father was a terrible person if there was a fantastical story to back it up. If Robin could pursue this thing and claim that the anger in her chest was for the kids, not for her own frightened heart. If there were a bigger evil out there, something she could focus it on that wasn't someone she loved. Steve understood it better than Robin could probably ever imagine, but there was nothing he could do to fix it for her.

"It means that there's a lot of stuff for us to fix," Steve said, "and it's going to take more to fix it than we thought. That's all."

Dustin sighed, slumping forward. He faceplanted into Steve's abdomen, hat tumbling off his head with the sudden jolt. Steve caught his weight, keeping him steady with one hand flat on his back. Dustin was getting taller, Steve realised with a pang. Next year Steve wouldn't be able to hold him up so easily.

There were no thoughts of his own impending adulthood in Dustin's head, yet. "What do we do now?" Dustin said, every inch the child he had been two years before. Steve looked over his head at Robin who shrugged, still looking lost.

It rankled that Steve didn't know how to help her. He couldn't pull her into his side to offer the support that the kids so eagerly took. The things he did with Hopper were no help, either; Steve didn't know much about her interests but beer and a game on the television didn't help much with forgetting that your dad was the most fucked up version of a drug dealer.

"We should go home, get some rest." Steve ruffled Dustin's hair. "We can try to figure out our next steps tomorrow, okay?"

"We're running out of time," Robin said, motioning at the list. "There's no way they're keeping those kids ali--"

"Stop it," Steve said, pulling Dustin further into his chest. "It's late, and we're all on edge. There's nothing we can do right now that's of help to anyone, alright? We need to get some sleep and come at this when we aren't freaking out."

"I'm staying with you tonight," Dustin said, muffled by the fabric of Steve's shirt.

"Dustin," Steve began, sighing, but Dustin wasn't willing to be swayed. He tilted his head up, frowning as he made eye contact with Steve.

"There's no way I can see my mom tonight, man," he whined. "She's going to know something's up, like, immediately. Call her and tell her I'm staying over because I ate too much lasagna and fell asleep on your couch again."

Fair enough. Claudia Henderson had an almost supernatural nose for danger, one that would be on high-alert when Dustin started asking too many questions about the illicit substances she may or may not have taken in the 60s. There was nothing that gave a scheme away like questions with too much specificty, and Dustin had never understood the meaning of the word 'casual'.

Steve looked toward Robin, resigned to not actually getting any sleep tonight. "What about you, Buckley?"

Robin's face creased with disgust. "Oh, ew, Harrington. Tell me you are not using this as an opportunity to pull."

"As if you would be so lucky," Steve said, resisting the urge to roll his eyes. "Come on, you're telling me you want to make eye contact with dear old dad over the breakfast table tomorrow morning?"

Robin apparently hadn't thought of that. He watched it settle over her, the fact that this was her life now. That nothing, not Friday mornings or family games or birthday parties would ever be free of the knowledge of what her father had done. He watched her truly understand it, watched the nausea cause her jaw to work, watched her hands flex at her side.

Steve had spent the last two months dreading the day his parents came back home. Not even because he was worried about how they would treat Dustin and El-- That, Steve could handle. He had gotten very good at keeping secrets over the last two years. No, the worst of it was that it was very different, it turned out, knowing that your dad was an asshole who hurt people and having to acknowledge it.

Being a Grimm didn't make Bradley Harrington a monster; Steve had always been very aware of who his father was. Not that it had ever been much of a secret. Every dinner Steve had ever been forced to have with the man had turned into a lecture on how to screw the most people over, how to use it to control the narrative around you. It was framed as a lesson, but it was bragging-- A list of people whose lives he had ruined to buy Steve a shiny new toy he hadn't asked for, to keep him clothed in fabrics that made him itch and feed him expensive dinners that made his stomach churn.

Robin's father was closer, and kinder. He didn't want to think about how much harder this would be for her.

"That's... nice of you, Steve," Robin said. "But I should go home so no one suspects anything."

Steve nodded. "Then we can meet up at my house tomorrow afternoon," he said. "We'll go over our options then. Until then, we keep our heads down and try to forget everything we learned tonight, okay?" Robin and Dustin both nodded, and Steve felt something in his core finally unclench.

It was a long, hard night. Long after he'd gotten Dustin home and tucked into a guest room, Steve was wide awake. He found himself walking up and down the halls of the second floor. He kept his footsteps as quiet as possible, but he couldn't make himself stop. He wished he could blame it on the nerves that had made him so jumpy earlier, or even fear-- That, at least, would be familiar. Sleeping for months after the demodogs and Billy had been rough; Every time he closed his eyes, his heart would lurch with adrenaline.

That night, Steve felt calm. His brain turned every shadow and creak into an enemy, but with a confidence that shook him. He was in his own home, lancing at windmills, confident that whatever beast crept out of the corner wouldn't last long in front of him. They wouldn't touch Dustin. Every other Wesen kid in Indiana might be in danger, but not his.

Steve had never had a lack of self-assurance, exactly, but the complete belief in his own victory was new. And, if he was completely honest, unnerving.

That didn't stop his feet from moving.

He drove Dustin to the Wheeler's the next morning, the both of them silent and sleepy-eyed. Dustin hugged him for a little too long before he got out of the car, uncaring about embarassment or teasing in a way Steve could never fathom, but he returned every ounce of affection as long as the kid would let him. The drive home was lonely.

At least with Dustin out of the house, Steve could sleep. He didn't even bother going up to his room, just sprawled himself out on the couch and let the rising heat of the morning lull him into unconsciousness. By the time he woke, it was almost time to pick Dustin up.

Apparently, a single day with his friends was enough to shake Dustin from his fear. "So it's got to be another Wesen, right?" he said before he'd even closed the Bimmer door behind him.

"We're not talking about it without Robin," Steve said, absently adding, "and put on your seatbelt."

"Come on," Dustin whined. "We don't need a stupid girl to figure this out for us!"

"I'm going to tell El you said that the next time a monster crawls out of the ground to kill us all." Steve didn't even bother looking over at Dustin as they spoke, his eyes fixed solely on the after-school traffic milling around them. "See if she helps your ungrateful ass after that."

Dustin huffed and threw himself back against his seat, arms folded. "Sorry, it's-- Why does everyone have to be so stupid about girls all the time? They're just... they're just girls!"

Steve winced. He still kinda regretted the advice he had given Dustin about girls the year before. Sure, it had been true, but Steve had only recently learned that because things got you the results you wanted, didn't mean you could do them. Even if girls liked it. Even if it kept you safe. Hopper had laughed his ass off when Steve had confessed that he wasn't sure how to take it back without embarassing himself. In the end he had told Steve to keep an eye on it and help when Dustin ran into trouble, same as he would anything else. The problem was, of course, that Steve himself hadn't figured out a different way to talk to girls.

He could talk to them, yeah. Ring them up and ask them about their day, then send them off and never see them again. But dating? Steve couldn't exactly claim to be an expert anymore, especially since he hadn't given it a single thought in months.

"Oh, man," Steve said. He could feel his face twisting with discomfort. "I mean... it's kinda just what... boys do?"

"It's not what I do," Dustin grumbled, kicking at the floor in front of him. Usually, Steve would have snapped at him to not wreck the Bimmer, but it had been a rough week, and it was shaping up to be an even rougher day. Steve didn't have the energy.

"That's funny, because I remember a kid who wanted to talk to Max even when his weird pet was terrorizing the town," Steve joked.

Dustin didn't laugh, just looked up at Steve with big, sad eyes. "I don't know," he said, a little fear starting to creep into his voice. "I just don't care anymore. I feel like it's all Mike and Lucas even think about, anymore, and even Will... all Will ever talks about anymore is Mike and Lucas talking about girls! And it's stupid, 'cause there's so much other stuff to think about, you know?"

"Well, for one, Mike and Lucas and Will don't have to deal with the same things you do," Steve said, trying to talk around Wesen issues and medical scares as gently as possible. "Plus, well. It was pretty much the same way when I was your age, right? Everyone, even all the adults, expect you to talk about girls and sports at your age. And some people, you know, are more interested in others, and then some people just... pretend, because they like to fit in. Does that make sense?"

Dustin made a small noise of confusion. "Should I start pretending, too? Is it, like-- Is it important?"

"No, you--" Steve sighed, his fingers tapping on the steering wheel. "It's good, that you don't pretend. Seriously, man, sometimes I wish you'd pretend to care about, like, volume control, but I like that you don't pretend. Your friends like that you don't pretend. Just, you know, you have to understand that not everyone is able to be that cool about it. Give it a few years, and people will stop caring about it so much."

"So were you pretending? Is that why you haven't been on a date in a while?" Steve squirmed at Dustin's question, feeling thoroughly grilled by the thirteen year old in his passenger seat, but it was better than the fear he'd had earlier.

"Not, um--" Steve cleared his throat. "Not exactly. I mean, sure, for a long time, yeah. I was... I was expected to behave a certain way, and when everyone else started going on about girls then, like, yeah. I put on a show for a little while. But, you know, then I met Nancy, and I liked her more than I've ever liked another girl. More than I had ever liked anyone, at that point. I haven't really... I mean, people kinda expect it from me, because I was a little too good at pretending, but it hasn't really felt like that again. It's not realistic to expect yourself to be crazy over every cute girl you meet. Even the really, reall cute ones. So, you know, don't be so down about it. Maybe you'll meet your own Nancy one day."

"I think Nancy was already my Nancy," Dustin said, frankly, and Steve snorted. Yeah, the kid's childhood crush had never been super subtle. "I don't know, man. There was this girl, you know, at camp? Her name was Suzie. And she said she liked me and I... I liked her, too, but there was just so much going on at home, and there's so much going on now-- How am I supposed to care? It just doesn't seem worth it."

"This is going to sound like shitty advice," Steve said, continuing over Dustin's eyerolling. "But you're young. You're probably not going to meet the love of your life in middle school. You're allowed to not care about it for a few more years, if that's what you want."

"What if I never care about it again?" Dustin asked in a small voice.

"Then you're luckier than the rest of us," Steve said as he pulled into the driveway. "Because, you're absolutely right: it's not worth it."

"Wow, you're such a romantic," Dustin said, hand already on the door handle. "I have no idea why you're still single."

"Mystery of the century," Steve said to his own black eyes in the mirror.

They spent the rest of the afternoon in the kitchen, where they usually spent most of their time snacking. Steve hadn't had the stomach for food in days, really, but he made Dustin a sandwich while nibbling on a package of stale Keebler crackers.

Robin finally showed up thirty minutes after they'd agreed to meet up. She stomped into the house with the heavy gait of the thoroughly exhausted, and Steve eyed her sweat-damp hair and mussed clothes with a little frown.

"You know, I could have picked you up." He was well-aware that his house was a fair piece to bike to, even to people who technically lived close. Being in the woods didn't help, with less people to find you if you fell off your bike. Steve never let the kids cycle to his house, forever worried about finding one of them in a ditch the next morning, and it didn't sit right that Robin had made the trek clear across town on her own.

"If my mom had seen me being picked up by Steve Harrington, she'd have a heart attack and then spend the next five years trying to 'cool mom' her way into finding out if we had sex," Robin said with a huff as she readjusted the plaid shirt tied around her waist.

Steve could feel a grimace crease his face, both at the second-hand embarassment and what that said about his own reputation. Had the exaggerations of his sexual conquests really spread so far as to make it to the middle-aged population of Hawkins? Did people talk about his sex life with Hopper or the Sinclairs, or worst of all, Karen Wheeler?

He hoped not. He really hoped that Mrs. Buckley was either just paranoid or extremely invested in Robin's love life, because the alternative was too stomach churning to bare.

"Okay, ew. I didn't need to hear that," Dustin said, his face pulling into a mirror of Steve's.

"Sorry," Robin said with a shrug that didn't seem that sorry at all, actually.

Rolling his eyes, Dustin said, "Since Steve promised me there would be no weird teenage romance energy tonight, can we please get to the point of this meeting?"

"Which is?" Steve asked, leaning against the breakfast nook.

Dustin picked up his folder of 'research' and slammed it down on the island in the middle of the kitchen dramatically, both hands splayed onto the paper. He leaned forward, making eye contact strong enough with Steve that he was almost sure the kid was trying to trigger a woge for dramatic effect. "We are going to find out the culprit of these kidnappings tonight or die trying."

"Dustin, could you please stop predicting our deaths?" Steve groaned. "You're a total jinx. If I die because you said that, I'm going to invent ghosts just to haunt you."

"Do you honestly believe in that stuff?" Robin scoffed. "Like, ghosts? Magic universe manifestation or whatever?"

Which was rich coming from someone who had spent four days telling Steve about every fairy tale creature she could think of.

Steve didn't even look her way as he shrugged. "Robin, I am literally friends with a wizard. I watch you turn into a giant fox creature daily. Of course I fucking do."

"Guys, can we please focus?"

Under Dustin's militant reign, Steve and Robin dutifully helped him re-read all the newspaper clippings. There were a few commonalities that Dustin had missed-- All of them found by Robin, who had a better geographic memory than Dustin and Steve put together. However, there was nothing that would establish a functioning territory for a Wesen, or even a motive or means. Just a few common street names, a lingering presence for a month or two before it jumped across the county line to lurk somewhere else.

It would be helpful, Steve thought as he listened to Robin and Dustin debate about jurisdiction laws, if he had access to any files Hopper might have in the station. He knew all it would take was a quick call and an explanation, but the last thing he wanted was to get Hopper and El involved in anything that involved missing Wesen kids. Anyone who knew the truth of what El was knew that she was the cream of the crop, and Steve wouldn't be able to think past the sheer worry. It was going to be hard enough to keep Dustin safe, and there would be no convincing Dustin to keep himself safe if El kept rushing into danger. And she always did, no matter what anyone told her.

Even worse would be dealing with Hopper, who had the tendency to be even more overprotective than Steve himself.

Eventually, Robin threw the newspaper down on the table. "I give up. There's literally nothing in here that we haven't considered, like, a million times before." Steve was only halfway through his own stack, but he had to agree.

"There has to be something," Dustin said. "There's always a clue, we just have to find it!"

Robin pushed a hand through her hand, her bangs sticking out from the top of her head at an angle. After a moment of silence, she said, "I think we're looking at this the wrong way. I was reading this book last year, about how the cops find big serial killers. You know, like last year, when Larry Eyler--"

"Let's not talk about that." The last thing Steve wanted to talk about with Dustin was Larry Eyler. Even if he was comfortable telling his teen friend about a rampant serial killer, he wasn't exactly keen to find out what Dustin's opinions on gay people were. Or, even worse, have to explain what a leather community was. He shot Robin a look.

"... Okay, fair," Robin said, giving the thirteen year old in the room a glance before moving on. "Anyway, when they look for these guys, the first thing they do isn't to try and figure out exactly who did it. They try and figure out what kind of person would do it, and go from there. You know, to narrow it down."

Steve frowned. "We already know what kind of person did it. It was a Wesen; We already decided that."

"No, not like that. Like-- What kind of personality traits do they have? Are they bold or are they skittish? Are they charming? Creepy? Stuff like that." The explanation didn't exactly make sense to Steve, but he supposed the general concept was reasonable enough. There had to be some way to find out who commited a crime when there were no witnesses, and the cops certainly put enough people behind bars without them. It might as well be psychology, Steve supposed, although to him that was about as meaningful as witchcraft.

Dustin sounded more convinced. "How do we even find out something like that?"

"Ugh. A psychology degree, I guess," Robin said, as if she had never thought about it before.

"It's not a terrible idea, though." Dustin said. His eyes had gone hazy and unfocused, staring through the newspaper on the counter instead of at it. "If we stop focusing on exactly who the kidnapper is, and maybe focus on what kind of Wesen they might be, that would definitely narrow it down..."

"Can we?" Steve asked. His frown grew deeper. "I mean, it's kinda messed up to just decide that one kind of Wesen is more likely to kidnap kids than another kind, isn't it?"

"Steve, you're new to this, so I get it," Robin said. She had that tone in her voice that Steve hated, the one that said he was being a new level of stupid previously undiscovered by man. The kind that said they couldn't even blame him for being so unable to compute reality, because who would ever expect Steve Harrington to be capable of thought? "You're still thinking about people as humans. We're all the same, we all bleed red, yadda yadda. But Wesen aren't like that. Some of us literally bleed different colors."

He wasn't sure what that had to do with anything. "That doesn't seem like a good enough reason to--"

"It's like zoology," Robin interrupted. "Cats and dogs aren't inherently good or bad, right? There's a mix, made up of enviromental and social influences. But they have specific instincts, and specific responses to certain stimuli. There's no changing that."

"Yeah, but-- Cats and dogs aren't people, Robin," Steve said. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat, unsettled as always by the Wesen impulse to dehumanize each other. Maybe it made sense to them-- After all, they literally weren't human --but as someone raised completely in the human world, no amount of woge could make Steve look at someone with two legs and a smile and think 'animal'. Even remembering the way demogorgon flesh collapsed under the weight of his bat still made Steve vaguely ill.

"They're not human, you mean. Neither are Wesen. Look, I get it," Robin sighed. "But when a Maushertz dies, the first person you look at is the Klausreich. That's all I'm saying."

Dustin jumped in, patience worn thin by their impromptu ethical debate. "So, what? You think we need to look through every species of Wesen and find out exactly who would be compelled to hunt the species of Wesen that are missing?"

"It's better than our other idea," Robin reminded them, "which is literally absolutely nothing."

"I still think this is a terrible idea," Steve said. This sounded like a good way to get their asses kicked. Or an even better way to end up like his parents.

"When we start looking to you to be the ideas guy, Harrington, that's how I know we're really fucked," Robin said, rolling her eyes.

"Great."

"Do your parents have any books on wesen species?" Dustin asked, ignoring Steve's glare.

"No." Robin shook her head. "Maybe one about anatomy or something, but nothing general like this."

Dustin looked thoughtful for a moment, and then began, slowly, "Is it possible that it's..."

Steve stopped him before he could complete the thought, completely uninterested in revisiting last night's near meltdown. "Dustin, if Robin's parents were using the kids in a weird drug scheme, there would be bodies literally all over Indiana. Let it go."

"Fine! Fine..." Dustin said, throwing his hands up in the air. "What then? We can't exactly go the library for this kinda shit. What else do we do? Call Owens? My mom?"

"Who's Owens?" Robin asked, turning to Steve. He almost wanted to rub it in her face, that he knew something she didn't, but Dustin looked all too willing to answer her question.

"Someone we literally can't talk about without getting our asses kicked by Reagan," Steve said quickly. "Shut up, Dustin."

The kid didn't look all too upset about Steve's intervention. If anything, he looked excited, as if Steve had reminded him of something great. "Hey, wait, what about your parents, Steve?"

"My parents haven't been in town in months," Steve said, although Dustin already knew. Robin had probably already guessed, by the way Dustin talked about them like they were strangers, and for once Steve was glad to confirm his parents had all but abandoned him to Hawkins. "There's literally no way this could be them."

"No, I know that. But they probably have research or something, right?"

Robin visibly brightened, straightening from her previously defeated slouch. "Oh my god, Dustin, you're a genius!"

"Isn't his ego big enough already?" Steve sighed. Dustin was already giving him the smugest eyes imaginable, as if Robin's praise proved what Dustin had been telling Steve all along. He was starting to wish these two had never met.

"No, seriously, there's literally no way that professional monster hunters wouldn't have information on which monsters are more likely to commit which crimes," Robin said. "That's like if cops didn't keep info on gangs. And that's exactly what we're looking for! If we're gonna play the Grimm game, then we need to start thinking like a Grimm."

"And that starts with getting a Grimm's information," Dustin finished, a gleam in his eye.

Steve thought this was all rather rich, coming from the boy who hadn't known what a Grimm was mere weeks ago and a girl who had been ready to write him off forever for being one. Not to mention, Steve had absolutely no interest in actually being a Grimm. He might have been born with a Grimm's powers, but that didn't mean that he had to go around acting like one. If anything, trying to protect these kids was his first step in making sure he never followed that path.

"This is insane," he told them, his voice brokering no room for negotiation. "What do you want me to do, call them up and tell them a bunch of Wesen kids have gone missing? Because that's going to either end up with them here, which we definitely don't want, or they're going to hang up the phone because, again, it's Wesen kids." And the guy they were trying to find probably wasn't doing much worse than whatever his parents had been doing in Prague for the last six weeks.

"Doesn't your dad have a study upstairs? I mean, have you even looking in there since you found out?" Dustin said.

Steve's stomach sank. His father did have a study, yes, on the far end of the hallway from Steve's room. He hadn't been in there since he was very little, not yet old enough to understand why rules existed. The bubbling rage on his father's face had been clear, made even keener by the fact it had nowhere to go. Steve's father hadn't laid a finger on him, but Steve never forgot the rule again. While the rest of his memories of that age had been washed away by time, that one had remained, far clearer than Steve was technically comfortable with.

He wondered, now, if his father had woged at him, his child's mind unawakened to what he was truly seeing but keen enough to know he was in danger.

"I'm not allowed in there," Steve said, quickly. Without another word, Robin stood and walked out of the kitchen, Dustin scrambling after her. Steve leapt to his feet and overtook them with a few large strides, using his body to block the way up the stairs. "No, Robin, seriously. My dad will lose his fucking mind if he finds out anyone's been in there." The anger hadn't had anywhere to go when Steve was a kid, but who knew what he would do if he came home to find his 19 year old had been rummaging around in there? Even worse, what about kids that weren't even his?

"Steve, I literally helped you break into my dad's store and look through his secret blackmail book," Robin said, her mouth curling into a snarl. "Forgive me if I don't really care that your daddy might be mad at you when he gets home."

"Sorry, am I the only one remembering that my dad might be an actual murderer?" Steve asked, looking from Robin and Dustin and back. Neither of them looked very impressed, and once again, Steve felt like the only sane person in the universe. "Hello? Are you even-- Seriously, guys, this isn't cool."

"Steve, chill out," Dustin said. "We don't even know when your dad will be back. You told me literally a few months ago that they said they probably wouldn't be back until Thanksgiving! We have, like, so much time. They're literally never going to find out."

That was true. It would be months, probably, before his parents found their way back home. The dust would have more than enough time to settle, and Steve could spend as much time as he wanted trying to clean everything up. That didn't rid him of the queasy feeling in his stomach, or the panic tightening around his throat, but it was enough to make him quaver under Robin's glare. He stepped out of the way, rubbing at his nose while Robin pushed past him.

"... Fine. Fucking fine," Steve muttered under his breath. "This is so fucking stupid."

He followed Dustin up the stairs, eyes glued to the familiar carpet under Dustin's sneakers. It was getting harder and harder to swallow down the panic that always sprung up when he thought about his parents, a sign that did not bode well for Steve's career as an anti-Grimm. It was odd, he knew, but until all of this, Steve's feelings had been pretty neutral to his family. He hated it when they were around, of course, but didn't every teenager? That was why they all complained, right, because their parents made them feel like a rat in a cage, and they didn't have Steve's good luck of months and months alone? Even after dinners with the Wheelers and the Henderson, after he had learned that most kids loved their parents, he didn't examine his own feelings too closely. There was no reason for it, after all; They were gone, and had never hurt him. What would be the point of thinking about it now, when everything else in the world was out to get him?

It wasn't until he realized what being a Grimm meant to his parents, meant for his relationship with them, that he realized how truly fucked he was, being afraid of his parents. Because how was he supposed to stand up to them if he couldn't even make himself walk into an empty study? All Steve could really do was hope it got better as he got a little older, and that his parents would stay out of his business until then. For now, his palms sweat as he thought about what they were about to do. Wiping his hands on the leg of his pants, Steve tried to ignore the panic.

Robin didn't wait for permission to throw open the study door, immediately heading for the large bookshelves that lined the room. Steve looked around before stepping over the threshold, his heart in his throat. The room seemed normal enough, like the home offices on television shows. The walls were a boring beige, unmarred by his mother's personal touch, and the only furniture besides the shelves was a large antique desk, a high-back chair, and an over-large ottoman to the side. It was all brown and white and boring, covered in a thin layer of dust.

Steve felt sweat pool on his back as he took two shaky steps in.

"It's all business junk," Robin said, her fingers skimming over leather-bound spines. "And encyclopedias. Honestly, I don't think most of this stuff has ever been touched before."

"My dad's not exactly a huge reader," Steve said. For the first time in years, Steve felt the urge to chew on his bottom lip. The only thing that stopped him was the knowledge that his mother hated it even more than his father hated a broken rule. She hated the chewing and the fidgeting and the sounds, all things that Steve had driven her crazy with for the first ten years of his life, and she wouldn't put up with it for a second more.

She couldn't hear or see him now, but Steve didn't dare break the habit.

"Help me check the desk," Dustin said, and Robin darted across the room to join him.

For a moment, Steve thought about stopping them, the intrustion feeling even riskier than opening the door had been, but what was the point? No one kept anything important in a desk they never used. Steve couldn't remember the last time his dad had spent more than a few minutes in his study. It wasn't a place meant to contain any semblance of real life. Steve had to imagine that even the dust mites suffered.

He watched them rifle uselessly through marked pens and blank papers, every drawer unlocked and useless.

"I don't get it," Robin muttered to herself as she stood, hands on her hips. She didn't even seem to be talking to either of them, too absorbed in her own thoughts. "There should be something. Why isn't there something?"

"Because my parents aren't a movie. They're real people," Steve hissed, a little fed up. "They are also, unfortunately, my problem, so if we could get the fuck out of my dad's study--"

"Hold on," Dustin said, breaking through the brewing spat. "I think I found something." He was standing over the too-large ottoman his dad kept in the corner, the matching upholstered top torn off the base and set to the side. Steve felt the air rush into his lungs, ready to lose his fucking shit, and then he noticed that the base was hollow. Well, it had been hollow, once. It was full, now, crammed to the brim with books older than Steve had ever seen before in his life.

"Holy shit," Robin said, rushing to Dustin's side. Steve, despite himself, followed.

They surrounded the disguised trunk by unspoken accord, all of them kneeling to get a closer look. Most of the books were trashed, the cloth covers water-stained and the pages wrinkled. Other than that, there was nothing common amongst them. Every book was a different size, a different shape, the pages cut differently or just a tad more yellow than the others. Some were worn white by time, while others had gone grey with dirt. Despite all that, they looked recently well-taken care of, and they were free of dust. The holes in some of the bindings had been neatly stitched with clean, white thread.

"God, some of these look ancient," Robin said, reaching for one of the oldest. Steve and Dustin leaned to peek into the pages as she opened it slowly. Steve could smell decaying paper and stale ink as the pages flipped through the air, and he squinted as the stench made his eyes water. The letters swam in front of his face, but even as he blinked them away, the spindly handwriting on the yellowed page refused to make sense.

"Is that even in English?" Dustin asked, and Steve silently sighed in relief.

"This is an old German dialect," Robin answered. She set the book to the side, perched on the plush ottoman top. The next few were in English, and Steve could tell she was disappointed, but then she reached for another. It was so old that the pages crumbled at the corners when Robin picked it up, and the words inside reminded Steve of the one time a teacher had given them their assignments in some old version of English as a joke. "This one is even older than Modern German--" She reached for a another, her eyebrow furrowed in thought. "And I think this one's in Yiddish?"

"Can you read that?" Steve asked, shocked.

Robin shrugged. "It might take a little time, and the dialects might throw me off a word or two, but most of them, I can. I think."

"Okay, great!" Dustin said, "So you can focus on those, and me and Steve can split anything in English between us."

Steve picked up the nearest book carefully, holding his breath as he opened the front cover. He had never been a huge book person, and he had certainly never cared about the condition of a book when he finished reading it, but something about these books felt important. Not just because he was sure his father would kill him if he ended up ruining it.

To his surprise, there was no title inside the book, just a name and a series of dates. "I think the ones in English might be diaries. This one is, at least."

"They must be your ancestors, or something," Dustin said, grinning at Steve over the the trunk. He looked thrilled, like they had found actual treasure instead of a stack of dusty old books. "It's kinda cool, when you think about it. Having all this history in your blood."

Steve could understand why Dustin, who had been cut off from the Wesen world completely, might think that. But Steve could already feel a pit forming in his stomach, "Something tells me I'm not going to like finding out what 'my blood' has been up to. But, uh, I think I should be the one to read these. Just in case."

Dustin looked a little disappointed, but nodded. "Sure, man. They're your books."

Luckily, there were only a few proper diaries in the pile. At least, ones in English, anyway. The rest were almost like dictionaries-- "Bestiaries," Dustin corrected -- little more than impersonal lists and facts about the different kinds of Wesen. Steve listened to Dustin read a particularly sarcastic passage about Eisbibers, and then turned back to the books in his hands.

If he had to be honest, Steve was a little thrown off by the fact that he now had physical proof that his parents were Grimms. He'd been preparing himself for the truth for months now. At least, he'd thought he had. Now, with the proof in his hands, Steve didn't feel very prepared at all. At least none of the books had been his parents' diaries. He wasn't sure if he could handle reading their thoughts, when they hadn't bothered to call in months. He wasn't sure if he could handle facing that they even had thoughts, when they'd mostly amounted to ominous shadows in the corners of his life.

He certainly couldn't handle thinking of these books in his father's hands, what his dad must have been thinking as he read them for the first time. Steve could feel his brain slip into fuzziness as he begins to flip through the first few diaries. The entries were short, and he found himself skimming over them, lingering on the ones with small pictures and diagrams scrawled in the margins.

In one, he found a perfectly drawn and unfamiliar heart, every valve and aorta clearly labeled. Underneath, his great-grandfather said it was the heart of Siegbarste. Steve flipped the page, not wanting to find out whose heart he was looking at, but the entry only continues. The handwriting has changed, the ink a little fresher-- And Steve would be surprised, because it's not exactly how diaries are meant to be used, but apparently that wasn't how Grimms worked. Every single one he's looked through so far has had a note or two written by someone else. It would almost be heart-warming, the generations of collaboration, if it weren't a legacy of murdering people that now rested on Steve's shoulders.

So, no, the presence of a second author wasn't what shook Steve. It was the familiarity of the handwriting that turned his stomach. Most of the contact he'd had with his parents had been in writing. Not in letters, of course; Steve didn't expect his parents had that much time for anyone, least of all him. But through the years, they'd talked to him mostly through notes. Simple lines explaining they would be back home in a few months, impersonal birthday wishes, a few kind lies of affection. Always written by his mother, of course, when she missed the easily polished child that Steve used to be.

And that same writing was here, her looping 't's and slanted 'r's, only now instead of soothing the loneliness in Steve's chest, it told the tale of a particularly stubborn Siegbarste, who had been so unwilling to die that she had to take a crowbar to his ribs and--

Steve closed the book.

Suddenly, he was nostalgic for the days when Nancy and Jonathan were the ones who did all the research. Sure, Steve had resented it a little at the time-- He'd meant it when he'd said that all he really wanted was for Nancy to be happy with the person she loved, but it had also stung, that Nancy had picked someone smarter than him, someone who could keep up with her. If this was what it was always like, though, he was grateful that he and Nancy hadn't worked out. He wasn't sure he could stomach this every single year. It was so much easier to just pick up a blunt object and keep some kids alive, even if he was the one who always ended up in the hospital afterwards.

If this was what being 'smart' meant, Steve genuinely thought he preferred being stupid.

Robin and Dustin had settled in with their books, though, and there was no way that Steve was leaving them up here alone. There was no telling what they'd get up to, and he wasn't exactly about to let them dig through his family's secrets. He looked from diary to diary nervously, with no real idea of where to start. Eventually, though, he looked to the cleanest diary, almost pristine except for what looked like a singe in the corner. On the outside, embossed in gold, was the name 'Otis'.

Steve had known, intellectually, that if his dad was a Grimm then so, of course, was Grandpa Otis. Something in his brain, however, had rebelled against the thought. Because while his parents had triggered every prey instinct Steve had ever had, Grandpa Otis had never made Steve ever feel anything but safe and loved. Even though Steve had literally heard his grandfather's stories about the war, about the terrible things Otis had done and seen, he couldn't imagine him hunting someone. He had gone to war because he hadn't had any choice, and he had fought with honor and righteousness. At least, that's what Steve had always been told. That's what he wanted to believe, more than anything in the world.

At least if he was wrong, though, he wouldn't have to look his grandfather in the eye again. There were some advantages to losing the one family member who cared about you, he guessed.

Curiosity getting the better of him, Steve opened the diary to the first page and began to read.

Otis' diary entries started in his first days of boot camp, desperate to keep some kind of record since the family's grimoire-- Steve had to assume that was some kind of fancy word for book --was no longer available to him. At first, there was almost no mention of Wesen at all. He wrote about Steve's Grandma Mary, mostly, and how much he regretted marrying her only to make her wait for him. A few weeks later, though, things changed.

The longer Otis served, the more Wesen he met. His fellow soldiers, his commanding officers.... It seemed that Otis couldn't go more than a few days without forcing someone into a woge on accident. To Steve's surprise, Otis didn't seem upset or disgusted by being surrounded by Wesen. If anything, he seemed guilty to be causing them problems, and worried that his presence might keep his unit from performing at their best when he was shipped out.

Then, the entries became more and more sparing, only appearing when Otis had met a new Wesen. Sometimes, they would be French or English allies. Usually, they weren't. Steve wasn't the greatest history student, the dates mixing themselves up in his head at every opportunity, but he had thought that the Second World War was mostly fought with bombs and guns. Apparently, Otis' unit hadn't been informed of that. It seemed every entry was now about Otis having to wrestle some Wesen enemy into the mud, feeling their hearts stop underneath his hands.

He never talked about the humans he had to kill. Only the Wesen.

Steve didn't know how he did it. He didn't know how Grandpa Otis could drink with a Wesen one night, and the next pretend it didn't matter when one died by his hand. But he couldn't hate him for it, either, because if he hadn't... If he hadn't been able to pretend like that, then the faraway look that he used to get in his eyes might have been so much worse. It wasn't what Steve would have done, but it meant he lived long enough to meet his grandson, and how was Steve supposed to judge that?

After a few years of entries, they became vague and wistful. At one point, there was a long, rambling entry about a beach that Steve didn't really understand, and the next day, there was only a list of names. After that, there was scrawled poetry in German and English, followed by sketches of men long dead. Steve was almost tempted to put the book to the side, a little ashamed of snooping through his grandfather's worst memories. He hadn't been able to put it down when Otis was in the thick of it; That felt too much like abandoning him. But Steve's own search still loomed, and it seemed obvious that nothing he needed was in these pages.

Steve flipped through the next few pages, eyes skimming over awkward verse and floral doodles, until his gaze caught on one entry in a heavy, unfamiliar hand. He sat straight up as he read, eyebrows raising so far in shock that it hurt a little to blink.

"I think I found it," Steve said, breaking the long silence that had settled in the room. "Blutbader! We're looking for Blutbader."

"What? No, I already--" Dustin looked down at the book in his hands with a frown. "There's literally nothing in any of these books about Blutbader hunting other Wesen except for very specific blood feuds with the Bauerschwein."

Robin didn't look convinced, either. "Yeah, I've never heard of a Blutbad pack picking fights with other predator species like this."

"I don't think they usually do," Steve said, and flipped back to the beginning of the entry. "But I found a journal in here from Grandpa Otis. I don't remember him ever talking about it much, but I guess he spent some time in Europe after the war? One of his friends wrote some information down for him while he was in the hospital. Turns out they were tracking some French soldier who gave them a bad feeling, and it turned out to be a Blutbad. Luther-- His friend's name was Luther -- said that the guy didn't hunt humans, which was weird because it should have been super easy in all the chaos. Like, he specifically says that literally almost every other predator species in France was on the hunt, but instead this Blutbad guy focused entirely on this species called... Waages?" Steve's tongue tripped over the pronunciation, and he looked to Robin for help.

"'Scale'," Robin translated, and then said: "I've never heard of them."

"Good reason for that," Steve said, grim. "Luther says that before Grandpa Otis could take him out, this Blutbad had killed nearly every Waage in Europe."

"That's..." Robin looked sick.

Dustin had no such compunction, focused entirely on finding answers. "So, what? Sometimes a Blutbad just comes out the wrong way and goes after Wesen instead of humans?"

Steve shrugged. "Luther doesn't go into a lot of detail, and said that he mostly avoids Blutbader, but he does kinda hint that maybe humans are just an easy target. And, yeah, some of them go after Bauerschwein because they're loyal. But a brave Blutbad, or an angry one--"

"Or a crazy one," Dustin interrupted.

"Yeah, or that," Steve said. "They might go after literally anyone."

"If there was a Blutbad pack in Indiana, I feel like I'd know about it," Robin said. She crossed her arms and sat back on her heels, frowning.

"There is," Dustin said.

"What?" Robin frowned. "No there isn't. I mean, there are the Munsons, but--"

"What, Eddie Munson?" Steve interrupted. That was the last person he'd expected to be dragged into all this nonsense. Or maybe the first person, and he'd just dismissed it as being far too obvious. Steve would have pegged him more for 'vampire' than 'magical German animal monster', though.

It was Dustin that answered. "Yeah, he's the reason Mom won't let me join the D&D club. He and his uncle are Blutbader."

"Sorry, Eddie Munson is a werewolf?" Steve clarified. He just couldn't accept it. What kind of werewolf wore that much silver? "Eddie 'The Freak' Munson?"

"Don't call him that," Robin snapped.

"Sorry!" Steve said, his hands flying up in supplication. "It's just... He's not exactly subtle about it, is he? I'm pretty sure he wore fangs to school for like half of my freshman year. Not how I would pretend not to be a monster."

"I think we're all very aware of how you pretend not to be a monster, Harrington," Robin said pointedly. Steve rolled his eyes. "And that's super not the point. Eddie and his uncle don't count as a pack. They're barely even really Blutbader."

"How do you--" Dustin began, but Robin didn't entertain the thought of letting Dustin loose on a new theory.

"Eddie and I have been in band together for the past three years. I've never even seen him squish a bug, much less hunt anything," Robin said, making stern eye contact with Dustin that honestly reminded Steve way too much of his own mother. "And like Steve said, he's not a subtle dude. I'm pretty sure if he had an aggressive bone in his body, he would be hunting jocks in the hallways."

Alright, that was a much more believable reason, Steve thought.

Dustin looked at Robin, donning that 'mysterious' expression he practiced in the mirror, the one that Steve had told him multiple times only made him look constipated. "Maybe he's more clever than you give him credit for."

"Absolutely no way. No Blutbad would be able to deal with Hargrove for more than 15 minutes without throwing a punch back," Robin said, and Steve found himself nodding along. Dealing with Billy was hard enough without supernatural rage behind it. Even at his most human, Steve hadn't been able to keep his cool. There was no way that a roided up killing machine was going toe to toe with Hargrove and simply walking away. Robin continued, "There's a reason Eddie hates the basketball team, and it goes to the tune of daily swirlies until he hit his growth spurt."

Steve winced at the reminder of his old friends' idea of fun, but he had to admit that Robin was right. Eddie had always been loud and in everyone's faces, all leather and smoke and pounding bass, but the moment any actual conflict started, he was the first to disappear. Eddie was always just... gone. Never apologized, never took anything back, but just disappeared, as if he had never been there to begin with. The rest of the team had always accepted it, content in knowing that their authority was no longer being challenged, but Steve had watched him as he walked away, always wondering what was happening in the freak's brain that made this cycle so unending.

Then again, if Eddie was really a Wesen, was it really so surprising that he didn't want to fight a group of teenage assholes that included a baby Grimm? Steve wasn't sure how obvious it was to people, before he'd started wogeing. Sure, El and Dustin hadn't noticed until his eyes came in, but they were hardly experts on the subject. And Robin hadn't known, either, but she and Steve had hardly spent much time together before Scoops.

Suddenly, Steve wanted very badly to know what Eddie Munson thought when he looked at him.

He said none of that outloud, instead turning to Dustin and saying simply, "She's right. He and Tommy H. always had it out for each other, and Eddie was always the first to run. Not exactly the sign of a cold-blooded kidnapper."

"Okay, fine," Dustin said. He scrambled up from the floor to put his hands on his hips in what Steve was surprised to find was a mimicry of himself. "What about his uncle, then?"

Steve and Robin exchanged a tense look. This kid and his theories were going to get them all killed if they didn't play their cards right.

"Look, Dustin, you're right," Robin began, slowly. Her voice was the kind of gentle that Steve associated with kindergarten teachers and small children who were about to turn into the elementary equivalent of an emotional atom bomb. "Just because there's no pack in Indiana doesn't mean there are no Blutbader at all. But there's also absolutely no proof that the Blutbad we're looking for is from Hawkins, or even that it was actually a Blutbad-- This is all just supposition, remember?"

"What was that quote you were telling me last winter?" Steve reminded him. "Something about forcing the proof to fit your idea instead of the other way around? Let's not have a repeat of last night, buddy."

"So what are we supposed to do, just sit around with absolutely no idea of who it might be?" Dustin asked, his face flushing red with anger. "Wait for another kid to disappear? Just because we don't have any evidence? Jesus, Steve, you're not the fucking cops! You're a Grimm. Do something Grimm-like for once!"

Steve blanched, his grandpa's words flashing through his head. "No thanks."

Dustin shook his head. "I think maybe we should--"

"No, this is stupid," Robin said, frustration leaking into her voice. The mom act had been abandoned just as quickly as she'd picked it up. "Just because you think it isn't the Munsons doesn't make that true."

"Ever heard of something called 'innocent until proven guilty', dickhead?" Steve said, immediately following Robin into the new plan of shaming Dustin into submission.

To Dustin's credit, he at least gave it a few moment's thought. For a second there, Steve was almost relieved by the look of doubt in his face. Of course, he shattered Steve's dreams for a peaceful evening pretty much immediately. "Even if it's not them, we can at least talk to them, can't we? They've gotta no more about other Blutbader in Indiana than we do."

"No," Robin said, immediately. "No way. Just because Eddie doesn't fight in school doesn't mean that his uncle is the same and, uh, they would make mincemeat out of an Eisbiber, and there wouldn't be anything Steve or I could do about it."

"If anything, me being there would make things worse," Steve said, grimacing as he imagined a fully grown Wesen with the same rage El and Robin had shown when Steve forced a woge out of them. "A Grimm poking around and asking questions is going to make a lot of people mad, especially when you accuse them of a crime."

"We have to be smart about this," Robin agreed.

Dustin huffed. "I'm sick of being smart about things and watching other people get hurt because of it."

Guilt curled in Steve's chest. Maybe they weren't being the most sensitive about Dustin's clear trauma, here. Steve honestly wished he could make it all better for him. Wished it was as simple as Dustin wanted it to be, a bad guy for Steve to fight and make everything okay again. He wanted that, too; Wanted to be able to kill the monster that made Dustin afraid.

But it wouldn't change anything for Steve to go fight a werewolf, even if he won. Most of those kids would still be dead. And Dustin would still be afraid.

There was nothing Steve could do about that. His only job was keeping Dustin alive.

"Dustin--" He started, but Dustin could hear the weakness in his voice, and immediately leapt on the opportunity.

"Can we at least drive down to the trailer park tonight, and look around?" he said, looking at Steve with shining, hopeful eyes.

"The trailer--" Steve repeated, stopping halfway through to look at Robin in disbelief. "The werewolf lives in the trailer park? Jesus Christ, what kind of weird ass horror movie bullshit plot--"

"Not the time."

"Fine, whatever." Steve turned back to Dustin. "Even if we do go down there, what exactly are you expecting to find? What do two grown men in a single-wide trailer even have room to hide? Not fifteen kids, I'll tell you that much."

Dustin's face was flat and serious, but Steve could see the desperation bubbling in his eyes. "I don't know what we're going to find, Steve. I don't. But I'm so sick of having to know something for sure to be taken seriously."

"That's not--" Steve tried to explain, but Dustin was already turning to Robin with a different tactic.

"Do you think we knew what we would find when we went to look for Will?" he said, as if Robin had literally any point of reference for everything that had gone down in 1983. She knew what every other person in town knew, and Dustin knew that, and was using it against him. Steve's guilt about Will warred with the new rage against being played. Dustin continued, "No! We went out to find him, by ourselves, because all the adults were too busy sitting around and talking about proof and profiles instead of looking for him."

"From what I've heard," Robin began slowly, shooting Steve wide-eyed glances to gauge his reaction to every word, "you and your friends got really lucky finding Will. And I'm not saying that it was a wrong decision, or that you shouldn't have done it, because you found your friend, and that's-- That's great, Dustin. It really is. But we can't rely on luck again, especially with so many kids missing."

Steve jumped back in, a new level of anger in his voice. "What happens if you get hurt, Dustin?" he asked, trying to remind Dustin of the reality of what happened to Will. He didn't just go missing; He was attacked. This wasn't just going out and looking for someone. This could end up leading to war. "Whoever took those kids is actively going after Wesen, and you want to just knock on the door of the guy you think did it? I'm supposed to be the adult, and I'm not letting you be that stupid. Sorry."

Dustin drew himself up to full height, and Steve was struck for a moment with the realization that Dustin had grown while he was away. He was still nowhere near catching up to Steve, but he wasn't the little kid who couldn't see over Steve's shoulder, either. He was going to be fourteen soon, Steve remembered, and the thought made his stomach churn with anxiety. The bigger they got, the harder they were to protect. There was no more scooping Dustin up to keep him safe. There was no more holding him back with one hand and a weapon in the other. In two short years he would be as old as Steve had been when all of this had started.

The way Dustin held himself, chin high and feet planted, said he knew all that and more. "I'm going to Forest Hills whether you like it or not, Steve," he said. There was no more anger in his words, just simple fact. That, more than anything, told Steve just how grown up Dustin was becoming. "The next time you leave me alone, I will get on my bike, and I will find my answers. It doesn't matter if it takes days, or months, or if I have to skip school or jump out of my window to do it. So you can give up and let me go now, or you can come with me."

Steve knew he would do it, too. Wouldn't even think twice before he did it. Even worse, he would probably drag El and Mike and who knows else into it. And though Steve knew that, more assuredly than he knew anything else these days, he also knew that Dustin knew he knew that. As dizzying as that logic was, it all came down to Steve being manipulated by this punk kid, and part of him wanted to fight back out of sheer spite.

But that would leave Dustin on his own, facing off against who knows what.

Steve sighed.

"This is so fucking stupid," Steve said, throwing his hands up in defeat. "Jesus. Okay, fine. Sure. Let's go talk to the fucking goth werewolf. Sure. I hate this plan. I hate you."

Steve stood, pointedly ignoring Dustin's cries of triumph. One of these days, when the stakes were a little less high, he was going to have to figure out how to take that kid down a peg. He rubbed a hand over his face, trying to rid himself of the sudden exhaustion that had descended over him, and when he opened his eyes he saw Robin, still on the ground, glaring up at him.

"I can't believe you gave up so easily, Harrington," she said. "That was pathetic."

It had already been a long day of having his every opinion and boundary walked all over, and Steve had been itching for a good reason to put his foot down. The kids were always his best reason, so it was with a certain amount of glee that Steve snapped at Robin. "You have no idea what I've been through with these kids, and to be honest, I'm not all that interested in telling you. The only thing you have to understand is that it's my job to make sure Dustin isn't hurt, and if I have to drive down to Forest Hills to get my ass kicked to do it, then that's what I'm going to do."

"Or you can lock his ass in his bedroom until he turns 40 like the rest of the helicopter parents," she said with a fake smile.

Steve huffed. "No one's making you come with us," he pointed out. Honestly, he would feel better about Robin staying behind. It was one less person for him to look after, and Dustin would stop trying to go over his head if there were less people involved. "You can stay here for the night, if you're nervous, or I can drop you off at home on the way."

She stared at him, blankly, for just a moment before rolling her eyes and pushing herself to her feet. "You're just as crazy as the kid is if you think I'm letting you both run off and die without a braincell to share between you," she said. "Of course I'm going with you."

"Of course you are," Steve repeated, and resigned himself to a repeat of the night before.

Steve's only victory of the day was that they, at the very least, listened when he demanded they all eat something before heading out. It seemed that even Wesen with no self-preservation instincts didn't want to die on an empty stomach. Usually, Steve would cook something, but it seemed like a bad decision to leave dirty dishes behind when he wasn't sure if he was coming back to clean them. Despite his misgivings, Dustin dug up a frozen lasagna from the bottom of Steve's freezer, where it had been laying in wait for what might have been months.

Usually, ricotta cheese made Steve's stomach tie itself in knots, but he couldn't even feel the oily, grainy texture on his tongue as he chewed. Every cell in him was focused on trying to think of anything other than what they were about to do and failing. None of them ate well, but Steve was determined to keep trying until he realized that Robin had disassembled her lasagna layer by layer and was restacking them in new, weirder patterns.

It was a short drive to Forest Hills. Loch Nora was a richer part of town, sure, but it wasn't exactly a well-inhabited one. It was largely sought after for the privacy it afforded, surrounded by the woods on the edge of town. Turns out the edge of town was also a pretty great place to put all the people no one wanted in town, too. Steve tried not to think about that too much as he pulled into the lot, parking his car behind the diapalated sign.

"You know which trailer is his?" Steve asked Robin, looking from home to home as if Eddie's would be as big and obvious as he was.

"I don't know if I like us being parked so far away," Robin said instead of answering. "I mean, what if something happens and we need to make a getaway?"

"Then you run," Steve said, dryly. "The Bimmer isn't exactly inconspicuous, Buckley. If I park this shit at Eddie's front door, he's either going to run or come through the windshield."

"There's got to be a reaction somewhere in between, there," Dustin piped up from the back seat.

"Shut up, Henderson," Steve said, glaring through his rearview mirror. "This is a conversation for adults who aren't actively trying to get everyone killed."

As Dustin grumbled, Robin looked at Steve with wide eyes. "You really think Eddie would attack you out of nowhere like that?"

"No," Steve admitted. "At least, not without seeing my eyes, first."

Robin grimaced. Steve could still remember the way her forced woge had made her bare her fangs. If he hadn't seen her like that, he would have never believed that Robin was capable of violence, either. But he had seen proof of it-- In fact, the only Wesen who had ever not reacted with violence to his woge was Dustin.

And, let's be honest, Dustin could hardly be counted when it came to Steve. Or having his guard up. Or really... anything. He was a weird kid.

"Alright, fair enough," Robin said. After taking a deep breath, she looked toward the back of the park, where the older, dingier models stood. "I've only been over for like five minutes one time, but I think I remember he was in the very back. Big and white, wheels still on."

"Right. Right, okay, come on."

All three climbed out of the car silently-- Well, as silently as Robin and Dustin were capable of --and began to walk down the dirt path that cut through the center of the trailer park. There was no use in being sneaky, Steve thought, even as his hind brain scrambled to find a way to camouflage himself here. It was barely night, the last of the sun still painting the horizon a dusky purple. They were in plain sight of nearly every window in the damn place. There was no play that could give them any kind of advantage, outside of just... walking.

It was what they were going to do when they got there that was the hard part.

Maybe he could get Robin and Dustin to step back a little, Steve thought, and then he could just... knock. Sure, whoever opened the door would still freak the fuck out, but Steve had enough of a handle on his own powers that he could talk them down from attacking.... probably.

He squared his shoulders, bracing himself to mount the rickety stairs to the trailer, but Dustin stopped him with a hand on his elbow.

"Wait, wait," Dustin said, voice hushed, "we should look around outside first. You know, do a perimeter check?"

Robin sucked her teeth in disbelief and muttered, "Where do you think we are?"

"Yeah, man," Steve had to agree, "this isn't Fort Wayne. It's a trailer park."

"I just want to be thorough!" Dustin insisted. "Come on, it'll be really quick."

Looking back at Robin, Steve lifted his eyebrows, receiving only a shrug in return. Fine. It was Dustin's stupid recon mission, anyway. They could play it Dustin's way. At least it was just looking around in some overgrown grass and not something dangerous, like plunging the depths of underground tunnels infested with demonic dogs.

Sure, it wasn't likely that he would make the same mistake twice, but Steve couldn't be too careful around his little shits.

Dustin darted in front of Steve, leading the way to the back of the Munson's trailer. There wasn't much to be seen, especially in the dark. Even Steve, whose vision had been getting better with every day, couldn't see much besides a few pieces of plastic and rusted metal. Whatever they had been before, their forms were now almost entirely covered by the wild growth of the Munson's 'backyard'. Dustin tried his best, poking at any suspicious lumps, but there was nothing to be found. No weird smells, no unexplainable prints. There weren't even any out of place sounds, which was usually Steve's first clue that things had gone terribly. Even when he strained, Steve couldn't hear more than a few muffled conversations and a Reds game.

Dustin crept towards the edge of the lot, where the foliage went from unkempt to wild, overgrown with ryegrass so tall it almost rivaled Dustin himself. Steve almost called him back, unnerved by the shadows in the weeds, but bit his tongue. It was fine, he told himself, heart pounding. Everything was fine. It was just plants and the summer wind. Everything would be okay.

Robin sidled up to him, muttering under her breath. "This is a waste of time."

"I know," Steve said, turning to her. "Just let him--"

In the future, Steve will say that the Blutbad jumped out at them. It's a simpler story, and one easy to believe. Sometimes Steve believes it himself. Most times, though, Steve knows the truth. In one heartbeat, he was certain that they were alone, and in the next he knew they weren't.

They moved at once, him and the shadow-- Steve was pushing Dustin behind him before he could even see what he was racing against. At first, it was just a shadowy form at the edge of the weeds, a blur in the corner of Steve's vision, but as the figure leapt at them, it shifted into focus. He saw the eyes first, burning red in the monochrome night, and a flash of fangs in a snarling mouth. Claws extended from thick, swollen hands. Long, curling hair that covered a little too much face to be human.

And then he saw the glint of silver jewelry, the moonlight reflected off a familiar leather jacket.

Blutbad, Steve thought, and then: Eddie.

It was nothing like when he had first met Robin. That had been a standoff, nothing but time for his mind to think of a thousand ways to fend her off. This was nothing but a moment, nothing but a split second for Steve to figure out what to do next, and all Steve could think was how he didn't want to hurt anyone.

He didn't want to hurt Eddie. Didn't want to have to, but he couldn't let him touch Dustin or Robin, either. Couldn't just sit back and do nothing, couldn't let them watch him be torn apart-- He remembered, vaguely, something Grandpa Otis had said about Blutbader having weak backs, but he couldn't remember enough to make use of it.

Even if he had, would he even be able to make use of stomaching it?

For the first time since he'd come into his Grimmhood, Steve was paralyzed with indecision.

Which was why it was somewhat of a relief when the moment passed, and Eddie rushed past all three of them without sparing them a second glance.

"Um," Robin said. Steve could feel her fur brushing against his arm, just for a moment, before it melted back into skin.

"Follow him!" Dustin barked. He tried to sprint off after Eddie himself, but Steve had never let go of Dustin's sweater. He pulled ineffectually at Steve's grip, but Steve only tightened his fist and hauled him back.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?"

Dustin sputtered, gesturing after Eddie. "He ran! That's a sure sign of guilt!"

"Or a sure sign of a Grimm being in the vicinity?" Robin said, voice dry.

Steve took a deep breath, trying to calm the pounding of his heart. While he really, really hadn't wanted to hurt Eddie, now that the initial shock had passed, the instinctive adrenaline was a little harder to deal with. His hands shook against the fabric of Dustin's shirt. "Look, I agree we should talk to the guy--" If only to apologize for scaring the shit out of him in his own backyard "--but if we're going to do it then we're going to do it slowly. And you're both going to stay behind me."

The only thing more dangerous than a feral animal was a cornered feral animal.

Reluctantly, Dustin nodded, and he and Robin fell into step just behind Steve. Even before they approached the corner of the trailer, Steve could already hear Eddie's voice, hushed and hurried.

"I'm serious, Wayne, we have to get out of here," Eddie said. Whoever he was talking to only hummed thoughtfully, and there was an upset little huff that reminded Steve so much of Mike Wheeler he rolled his eyes on reflex. "There's a Grimm on our ass, and he's got Wesen with him. I have no idea what's going on, but if it's Mom's shit, then I don't wanna be here when they figure out we don't have anything for them."

That sounded exactly like the kind of thing Steve wasn't supposed to be hearing. Chest stinging with guilt, Steve walked a little faster. As he stepped into the dimmest circle of light from the Munson's front porch, the other man spoke up.

"I don't think that's what they're here for, Ed." An older man stood next to Eddie on the front porch. He was everything Eddie wasn't, bald and solemn and plainly dressed, but there was something in their faces that seemed to match. Eddie's uncle, Steve realized, the Blutbader they were really here to talk to. He already seemed to know they were here for him, because he was looking over the railing, meeting Steve's eyes before Eddie even had a chance to turn around. "Is it, son?" he asked Steve.

"Uh, no, sir," Steve said, as Eddie turned around with what could only be called a squawk of surprise. "It isn't."

"Oh, good," Eddie said, his cadence still familiar from the countless rants that Steve had been helpless to avoid for the past four years. "It's one of the Harringtons. Great, this is exactly what I needed. To get fucking thrown out of town--"

Eddie knew his parents were Grimm, Steve realized with a start. That almost made sense, except that there was no way Eddie or Wayne had ever met his parents. Not in a normal, human way, anyway. They didn't exactly spend their days taking leisurely strolls down the streets of Hawkins. Hell, Steve was pretty sure even he wouldn't have been able to meet his parents if he didn't live in the place where they stored their birth certificates.

But Eddie knew they were Grimm. More than that, he was scared of them, but not that they would kill him.

For the first time in months, a hope sparked in Steve's chest.

"Hush, boy," Eddie's uncle said. "Let him speak."

"We're not here to cause any trouble, sir," Steve said, trying to put on the voice that had once charmed so many respectable Hawkins parents. It was a rusty skill, but it was one he had spent years refining. He tried to smile. "Really, we're not. But there's been something weird going on lately, and I don't think I can ignore it anymore."

Mr. Munson didn't look impressed. His bushy eyebrows drew together, and Steve resisted the urge to fidget under his gaze. Eddie, apparently, had no resistance at all. It was hard to focus on the elder Munson, and not Eddie, who was chewing nervously on a lock of hair. "And that brought you to our door?"

"Well, Mr. Munson," Steve said, hesitating as he tried to figure out how to sound like a competent Grimm, "my... my parents aren't really home to take care of it, and it's not like the cops know half of what's going on in this town." Sorry, Hop. "I wasn't really sure where else to start. We just need some information and then we'll be on our way."

It didn't take years of obsessively puzzling out peoples' attitudes to know that Mr. Munson wasn't entirely on board, no matter what he'd said to Eddie. "And who's 'we'?" he asked.

Robin stepped forward. Steve could practically feel the vibration of her nerves, and he swayed into her space slightly, bumping their shoulders together. "That would be us, sir."

On his other side, Dustin was much more enthusiastic. "My name is Dustin Henderson, sir. I go to Hawkins Middle. I'm really excited to meet you and your nephew, sir, because I'm pretty sure you can help us, even if I'm not allowed to join the D&D club next year, which is total bullshit, by the way, and--"

"Dustin," Steve said, voice tense. "Now is really not the time."

Ignoring them both, Robin waved up at the porch. "Hi, Eddie."

Eddie dropped the hair he'd pulled into his mouth and stepped closer to the railing, eyes flashing red as he squinted down at the trio. "Buckley? The fuck are you doing running around with Steve Harrington?"

Steve tried to ignore the flash of hurt. It didn't matter that Eddie obviously thought he wasn't good enough to hang out with. It didn't matter at all. Steve had absolutely no interest in hanging out with Eddie Munson, or even Robin, except in emergencies like dozens of missing kids--

"Well, uh. We work together," Robin said, and Steve stared into the Munson's porch light, frowning. "You know, at the ice cream shop in the mall?"

There was a beat, and Eddie turned to his uncle, pleading. "Wayne, come on. There is no way you're actually buying this bullshit. None of this even makes any sense. What the hell is a Grimm doing running around with a Fuchsbau and whatever flavor of rodent this kid is?"

"Hey!" Dustin protested, and Steve hated the way he felt a little relieved that Eddie had briefly killed Dustin's enthusiasm.

"If anything, son, I think they speak very well to our ability to make it out of this night alive," Wayne said. He finally looked away from Steve, his gaze darting over Robin and Dustin before finally meeting Eddie's. "I don't think anyone coming here to cause trouble would bring these two along with them. No offense, of course."

"Isn't that a good thing?" Robin whispered in Steve's ear. He shrugged, waiting for Eddie to argue. To agree. To do something, anything.

Whatever Steve was waiting for, however, it never came. He just stood there, glaring at his uncle and refusing to give the rest of them a second glance. It made Steve want to scream, just to see if he could get Eddie to flinch. Just to see if he could get Eddie to look.

"I'll tell you what, Mr. Harrington," Wayne said, after the silence had dragged just past the point of comfortable. Steve tried not to flinch at the address, hands clenching by his side as he thought of his father. "You sound like you're in a right pickle, and you at least had the good sense to come here unarmed. Why don't you come sit down a spell, and we can talk about what's got you climbing around in my weeds so late at night?"

And didn't that sound like a recipe for disaster? Steve didn't think of himself as a very suspicious person, and he was all for giving the Munsons the benefit of the doubt, but he'd read a few fairy tales in his time. He didn't remember most of them, but taking invitations from wolves had stuck with him as a pretty stupid thing to do.

Of course, there was no need to be impolite. As Steve considered how he could suggest a more neutral territory without offending anyone, Dustin stepped forward.

"That sounds great!" he chirped, and before Steve could stop him, he was rushing for the stairs.

Steve met Robin's wide, nervous gaze. Into the wolves' den they went.

tag list: @i-write-stories-not-sins-bitch @suddenlyinlove @plasticcrotches @adizzycollegekid

#oimw #my fic #grimm au #steddie #stobin #eddie finally shows up woohoo #im so tired its like 3 am and it was 1 am twice but i was so close so i stayed up late to finish

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able-juice · 23 days

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More Lute headcanons from your resident @ask-lute because idk:

She struggles with alexithymia and being detached from her own emotions. This causes her to dive into her work, she avoids her difficulty with emotions by putting all her energy into stuff she's passionate about.

She's a people pleaser, though it's in more subtle ways than just doing stuff for everyone.

She seeks praise and affirmation though she would never admit it. This is why she can't seem imperfect. Her identity is tied to being flawless in the eyes of Heaven.

She was in love with Vaggie. But because she struggles with emotions it caused Lute to grow resentment towards her.

She loved Adam too, but didn't pursue anything serious with him because she knew he wasn't the best at handling her when she needed someone to listen.

Adam and Lute did share intimate and loving moments but they were disguised as a no strings attached deal.

Conversely Vaggie was her emotional support, much like Vaggie is there for Charlie she was absolutely there for Lute. But when she started feeling more for Vaggie, Lute started withdrawing and treating her like an inconvenience.

When Lute says "you were always weak" she is not only referring to the incident with the cannibal child, but the fact that Vaggie was so open with her feelings around her, and Lute couldn't understand her own so she saw any kind of emotional display as weakness.

She overlooked Vaggie sparing sinners before, but because her resentment grew she took the cannibal child as an opportunity to 'deal with her'.

I don't think Lute, herself, would spare anyone, I do think she is that sadistic, but it comes from the inability to process her own issues appropriately. (Not an excuse, just an explanation)

She loves puns, I've said this one before, she thinks they're so bad that she loses her shit over them.

Despite being authoritarian, she enjoys anti-authoritarian music most. Punk and Grunge being her favorites, but she listens to most anything.

#hazbin hotel #hazbin #hotel #hazbin hotel lute #lute #hazbin lute #lute hazbin #lute hazbin hotel #lute headcanon

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kyupidos · 7 months

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hii,

congratulations on achieving 100 followers 🎉

may I request "laying wide awake at night after watching a horror movie that left them unnerved" with riddle, ruggie, azul and sebek please!

10/13/23’s delivery 🏹✉️ twisted wonderland

prompt 21 🕸★ଘ(੭ˊᵕˋ)੭* ੈ✩‧₊ 🕸★ଘ(੭ˊᵕˋ)੭* ੈ✩‧₊ 🕸★ଘ(੭ˊᵕˋ)੭* ੈ✩‧₊ ;; summary. ‘laying wide awake at night after watching a horror movie that left them unnerved.’

100 follower milestone event homepage <- ! | event m.list

characters. heartslabyul , savanaclaw , octavinelle , diasomnia : riddle rosehearts , ruggie bucchi , azul ashengrotto , sebek zigvolt ( separate ) ;; romantic . 🕸️ tags. reader is gender neutral ( you/your ), reader is yuu, reader is implied to be a horror movie fanatic, honestly not much to tag except expected references to horror, being eaten/cannibalism mentions, romantic fluff ( but it’s sorta in the background compared to the horror? )

📞 _a/n. hihi!! tysm for the congratulations as well as the request <3 happy friday the thirteenth! ( i literally went off when i realized the date goodbye.. ( idk why i went so hard with riddle’s tho hello?? ) )

r. rosehearts

— as expected from someone like him, riddle didn’t usually watch any sort of movies in his childhood. so when you offered to him to watch a horror movie you’d been interested in recently for the halloween season, he took you up on your offer in order to kill two birds with one stone; watching movies, horror movies at that, and celebrating halloween as well. did he expect it to be as horrific as it was, especially considering ace’s commentary about how cliche and stupid most horror movies were? absolutely not! ( seems like someone’s going to get collared after this, but it was inevitable. )

— it was already becoming close to night, evidenced by the fact that the sun was on its way to setting already. riddle was feeling a little paranoid ( in fact he swears in his mind he saw someone lurking outside the windows ), so he not so subtly suggested the idea of him staying at ramshackle with you. you were almost certain grim would refute the idea immediately, but you nodded anyway. thankfully for all parties, you just so happened to buy extra tuna that day. riddle had to say, he was surprised that you didn’t seem to be affected much by the movie as he was, but perhaps that was because unlike him, you indulged in movies like these often.

— hours passed, perhaps, as he slept in bed with you as you held onto his side, his thoughts overtaken by the events of the movie you’d watched in the late evening, his hand clutched onto yours as if he were coming up with a million ways to protect you all at once; and to be real, he was. for a moment, he huffed, finding it comical all of a sudden. he, the one who carries out the rules of the queen of hearts, being scared of a movie of fiction? he found an almost hilarity in it all, and perhaps his tiredness was catching up to him, and he could finally get some rest, before a creak from outside the room, sourced by the halls of ramshackle reached his hearing.

— riddle sucked in a breath of suspicion and paranoia— a noise that could only be comparable to a choking sound—at the creaking noises, before it stopped a moment later ( perhaps he had forgotten about the ramshackle ghosts.. ). he became hyper aware of his surroundings all of a sudden, which is how he quickly noticed your subtle movements as you slowly started to wake up. he couldn’t help but panic at the idea, considering all the possibilities. what if you waked up and all of a sudden the perpetrator of the creaking noises heard you, or worse.. what if you waked up and you were possessed, like in the movie?! it was based on real events, right?!

— in spite of all his needless overthinking, he simply laid there still, frozen as you begrudgingly unwrapped yourself from your hold on riddle, waking up to see him wide eyed and staring at you. “..riddle?” you called out, in an obviously tired, barely awake tone that proved to him that you were in fact, not possessed, “what’re you so awake for? it’s gotta be like, eleven pm at this point..” at your worn-out, mumbled words, riddle almost, no, certainly, felt the embarrassment rushing to his cheeks. you’re right, after all, how could he possibly let a movie get to his head like that? “right..sorry..” he apologized, “i’ll get to sleep now.” you yawned in tired acceptance, and finally wrapped your arms around him again before immediately falling asleep. “night night, riddle, don’t let the slashers slice..”

— and with your final words, now finally able to sleep and out of his frightened state, riddle sighed relieved as he let himself fall asleep in your arms. ( he just chose to ignore the way your words weren’t comforting at all and instead focused on the calming allure of your tone. )

r. bucchi

— some three rounds of rock paper scissors later, ruggie gleamed at his two wins and your loss, the signifier that you were the one to buy whatever cheap phsyical copy of a horror movie you could get your hands on at sam’s this time. naturally, you’d be watching the movie at ramshackle, this time, as well. back in your world, this trope of horror movies was common, so it didn’t scare you much—ruggie, on the other hand..well it was safe to say that while he didn’t outright scream at every other scene, judging by the twitches of his ears and the way he subtly jumps back every now and then, you could only assume he was at least a bit perturbed.

— once the movie was over, you took the disc out of the dvd player, teasing ruggie when you noticed him jolt at the sudden darkness of the room, which he denied, though he sweat and hurried to turn on the room lights. dusk was approaching along with expected foggy weather, you half jokingly asked him if he wanted to stay over at ramshackle—not expecting him to agree almost immediately. you shrugged even despite, getting up only to refill your popcorn. neither of you could be bothered to get up from the couch, so you agreed to spend the night in the living room, ruggie on the couch, and you on the floor with a blanket laying against it.

— but while it was easy for you to fall asleep in your position, ruggie stayed wide awake, his heightened senses failing him in this moment as he stiffened at every little thing he overheard, like the sounds of chewing, which reminded him of a cannibalistic scene where the main character—who disturbingly reminded him of himself, money ( or, lack of ) and moral wise— came across the aftermath of their best friend’s unfortunate demise from the killer ( all it was was grim eating the tuna you accidentally forgot to put away ), the sounds of something hitting against the windows, and while he could just easily look up to see it was the longer branches of the trees outdoors, his feeling of paranoia could only be comparable to that of a child who woke up late at night thirsty, but didn’t want to get up because they thought a fnaf animatronic was in the kitchen.

— all his rustling about was sure enough to wake you up eventually; and sure enough, it did. “..huh, ruggie?” you questioned in your exhaustion, “you watching horror movies without me, or what?” once more, ruggie’s ear twitched slightly at your sudden voice that pierced through buzzing silence. but then again, your voice, as groggy as it was, brought a sense of safety to him. no, unlike what his lack of sleep brought him to believe, he wasn’t going to fall victim to the hands of a murderous home owner of a lodge cabin out in the woods. no, something like that would only happen to idiots. he, of course, isn’t one. he looks to where you’re leaning against the couch, seeing your tired but skeptical look, and now finally back to normal, he snickers and shrugs you off. “nah, i wouldn’t do that..i’m picking the next movie we watch, though.”

a. ashengrotto

— there are many horror movies that take place in the depths of the ocean, azul knows, but in his two years of time as a human, he’s yet to watch any horror movies on land. so when you ask him to watch some with you with a mysterious but excited glint in your eyes that he couldn’t quite place, he agrees. after all, surely he can use this as one of many opportunities to dive into the depths of land people’s media production and their many stories to be told, no? when you tell him you plan to watch it with him late at night, he is again enthusiastic, since the “set mood” of creepiness will be sure to aid in his little research deep dive. plus, perhaps if it gets scary enough, he can be a good boyfriend and wrap his arms around you as if to protect you from the jumpscares!

— well..he certainly didn’t expect the horror movies of land people to be so..grotesque. not like it wasn’t the same in the coral sea, but the tropes were distinct enough to leave a certain sort of effect on him. not to mention the scene where the characters were forced to face their greatest fears, and one had to eat octopus, which they were allergic to. azul doesn’t doubt he won’t be able to get the image out of his head for a long time to come. every single scene had him wondering why he’d even agreed in the first place; and in the end, you were the one protecting him from the jumpscares anyway.. it would’ve been embarrassing if he wasn’t so focused on getting the ever living daylights scared out of him the whole time.

— at first you asked him if he wanted to give his commentary on the movie, but at the remembrance of the octopus scene, he became an angered, paranoid blubbering mess to the point you had to pat his back and suggest he stay the night at ramshackle, since he was so sure he would be snatched up to become the dinner of someone allergic to seafood. he swears there was a teasing undertone in your words, but he saw no harm in agreeing anyway— after all, sure night raven was protected by a barrier, but considering all the quote on quote “adventures” you’ve been on as the ramshackle prefect, azul’s pretty sure the skies the limit at this point.

— so you laid together in your bed, having moved to your bedroom once you finished eating some dinner you had prepared for the two of you, and though you were able to fall asleep without a second thought, azul was distraught, still, at whatever the hell kind of a horror movie he just witnessed. he ate dinner and brushed his teeth over that movie, and still was thinking about it late into the night! if he didn’t fall asleep now, then surely he would ruin his sleep schedule and do a poor job at the mostro lounge the following morning, but right now as he laid beside you, contrasting your calm posture as he was wide awake and still as a board, he couldn’t care less about any of that. he’s still thinking about the fact that the main character technically didn’t even get a happy ending by the end of it!

— though, his thoughts are disrupted when he shifts in his sleep, turning around only to be met with your disgruntled face. clearly, his shifting about and taking the blanket all for himself was enough to disturb you—even just the thought of such a scenario embarrassed him, and yet here he was. but even so, in your eyes he found comfort, and from the way you smiled at him with a teasing undertone again, he knew there was no ill intentions in the way you looked at him. “i knew it, i should’ve asked you to pick a movie. next time, ‘kay?”

— and even though it took quite the pretty stab at his ego, azul agreed— after all, surely you aren’t used to the horror movies of the sea?

s. zigvolt

— he felt it was unfortunate that this time it was your pick for your movie night; he’d have liked to introduce you to a movie he had particularly enjoyed. but no matter, sebek felt it would be nice to indulge in the type of movies you seemed to enjoy from your world as well anyway. the one you chose specifically was apparently adapted from a horror game, which certainly was out of his particular zone of knowledge. he protested with himself on this one though, because surely he can get over his lack of experience with this genre. he is the retainer of the malleus draconia after all, so something so trivial couldn’t possibly humble a knight such as himself!

— it humbled him. it humbled him real bad. the half fae couldn’t even imagine how much more horrific the game version could be, considering you were the one controlling the main character in it. from the demonic entity you informed him was an oni, to the way it ended with the main character being forced to leave his injured friend behind to escape the mansion they were all visiting under the pretense of it being haunted?! but then again, the main character didn’t seem to emphasize with the rest of the group, so perhaps it wasn’t that hard of a choice for them— sebek, though, he saw it as a tragedy. and no, he was absolutely not clutching onto your arm as if he were trying to protect you from the oni every time it scared the ever living hell out of the main character. ‘twas just his knightly blood in him speaking, of course ( he spoke this all with flushed cheeks, so you found it hard to believe him. )!

— outside it seemed that the weather had decided to match the scary season with its heavy downpour and thunder, and you certainly didn’t want sebek to go outside in those conditions. so you politely asked if he wanted to stay in ramshackle, at least until the rain died down, and though he seemed hesitant at first, he eventually agreed once he realized he couldn’t will the rain to stop with his mind. though, he did respond with a quick and curt no when you asked him if he wanted to watch another movie— you could swear you saw sweat bead down his forehead if you looked hard enough. you could guess the reason as to why.

— which of course led to you sleeping on the couch comfortably while sebek stood rigid right behind. he’s done similar stuff of the like before, usually walking behind you and the rest of the first years during school hours whenever you walk together, but you’re quite sure he had no reason to be doing it when it was about time to be sleeping. you did attempt to question him, but he merely replied that ‘it’s nothing a plain human would understand!’, so you left it at that. you made sure to leave an extra blanket out just in case for him though, if he ever gave in to his weariness. he huffed at the thought, because after all, like he said, you’re human. you would never be able to survive an oni attack like the one the characters in the movie face ( even if they’re the ones who practically went to the oni )! as a half fae he’s quite sure he’d be able to survive like the main character did, but you’re a helpless human, so of course he’ll give up his sleep to protect you. no, it’s not also because he’s paranoid that the oni will try to break into ramshackle and take on everyone inside’s appearances after devouring them, how ever did you manage to come to that conclusion?

— still though, falling asleep by your side seemed rather enticing—and he really was starting to give into his weariness. now that he thinks about it, even if there was the chance of something like the movie being reality, onis don’t really exist in twisted wonderland anyway, so he should be safe..why’s he even worrying, again? perhaps his lack of sleep and the adrenaline still in his veins after having watched the movie is getting to him now. so with great hesitance, he shuffled onto the couch, laid opposite to you on it as to make more space and not accidentally let either of you fall off, and huffed at the fact that you ended up winning anyway. it’s not his fault the movie was so realistic, he reasoned internally as you pat his leg to signal your acknowledgment of his presence, he just happened to be caught off guard by its terror.

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uneducated-author · 8 months

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Okay but these frames show legitimate emotion on both of their faces. Chuuya's is from Dazai directly 'provoking' him, about Chuuya's shoddy martial art skills, and Akutagawa is from Atsushi's imploring question, that doesn't he want to be strong?

And these are subtly important conversations being referenced. Strength and the types it can take has been a major theme for both Atsushi and Akutagawa, and relevant to their overall arcs and bond. Initially Akutagawa utilises strength as a way to measure whether Atsushi is worthy of being Dazai's new mentee, and then they're paired as a battle union because of how well their strengths compliment each other. Meanwhile Atsushi is driven to use and develop his strength to protect others, so that he can earn the right to live. And both of them use the other as a motivation to get stronger, not wanting to fall behind the other.

With Dazai and Chuuya, it's a little more subtle. But we see Dazai comment on Chuuya's fighting style often.

First, when they reunite in the cellar for the first time in years Chuuya says something along the lines of 'I want to fight you, and crush you along with your schemes' but Dazai later responds with 'you aren't the top martial artist in the port mafia for nothing' to which Chuuya thinks 'he's predicting my attacks' to which Dazai responds with his line of 'I know your moving, pacing and habits. How else could I have been your partner?'. Chuuya's last dialogue there is that 'You can't beat me just by predicting my moves'.

Then, when they team up to save Q. It's brief this time, but Chuuya kicks at Dazai, and Dazai bounces out of the way with a cocky remark of 'Give it up, I'm familiar with your attacks, thrust, timing etc.' and Chuuya bites back with 'If I was serious I would have decimated your skull.'

The two conversations run the same. Dazai doesn't discount Chuuya's strength as a martial artist, there's no point. He knows, and Chuuya knows that he's a phenomenal fighter. Instead, Dazai simply says that all your training is for naught, because you can't hurt Me. The threat is in being known too well. Dazai can't help but hammer it in, that You are Known by Me. And Chuuya always responds with a warning. Chuuya, who surrenders control to a beastly ability that kills indiscriminately always says 'If I am out of control, if I am serious, reading my moves will not save you'.

But here? Dazai tells Chuuya that he has a flimsy punch, that he's weak. The line feels strange in all honesty, because Dazai may use deceit, but he doesn't lie in this way. He doesn't tell Fyodor 'I deduced your location' in the cannibalism arc, he references and gives credit to Fitzgerald. He tends to win by controlling the circumstances, not bluffing. He's good at lying, but it isn't a habit, and it certainly wouldn't work on Chuuya.

So Dazai utilises this rhetoric, a weak one to provoke Chuuya. But it's interesting, because that's genuine emotion on Chuuya's face.

Both Akutagawa and Chuuya prove responsive to the external stimulus. Akutagawa even repeats Atsushi when he says 'stronger' showing evidence of internal thought. And the damning evidence.

A literal point of view shot from Akutagawa, anime exclusive. The vampires aren't puppets or drones. We know that Bram has converted humans into vampires before, and since he's ostensibly a good guy, having 'converted vampires are glorified muppets' wouldn't really work.

They're trapped. They're inside their bodies, watching themselves work for villains who killed and manipulate them, and forced to watch the people they care about suffer under their own hands.

I've seen a lot of theories of 'Chuuya wakes up and sees the blood', hell I've made some myself, but that's not the case. It's not that Chuuya will wake to a corpse. It's that he'll remember putting a bullet in one.

(unless of course Shenanigans happen and Mr Bungou Stray Dogs is Okay)

#bungou stray dogs #bungou stray dogs spoilers #bsd dazai #bsd #bsd atsushi #bsd akutagawa #bsd meta

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mlsofh · 5 months

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Character Thoughts - The Radio Demon

Hello Wayward Sinners!

I am back again with another Hazbin Hotel based analysis. My theorist brain has been thinking; gears have been turning. My theories, speculation, and analysis today surrounds the ever mysterious character: The Radio Demon, otherwise known as Alastor.

Firstly, what do we know about the ever-illusive character? We know he is a sinner turned powerhouse of an overlord overnight the moment he died and entered hell. He massacred demons of all kinds with his carnage. Broadcasting it over the radio in hell when he died in 1933. Supposedly, Alastor is in his late twenties to late thirties. He is mixed creole. He is an only child, a momma's boy and the peak of his life was when he was living as a radio star.

Something that is interesting to me is that Alastor's microphone is actually an extension of himself. Viv has once stated that it's a possibility Alastor would not be able to speak without his microphone as it's an extension of himself. He is incredibly complex as a character. We don't know a lot about him likely for good reason. This isn't surprising and shouldn't come to anyone as a surprise since Alastor was the first character Viv ever created! He likely will have the most subtle depth along with Angel dust. (A common occurrence for Viv is to flesh out her male characters, which is concerning that she doesn't do that for her female ones, but Viv is also working with a large company now to help her with writing.) We know he frequents a place called "Cannibal Colony" which is presumed to be one of the fractions in Pentagram City. We must remember he's also a cannibal. He also has a higher view of women in general, and as stated by Faustisse(one of the former developers/illustrators of Hazbin Hotel), that he finds Angel Dust and Husker pitable. It was shown in the now deleted Hazbin Hotel comics that he values women. Whenever a butcher was going to kill a sheep demon, we saw that Alastor stepped in and killed the butcher. Now onto theory territory: What is Alastor doing at the hotel? I'm going to make a brave assumption that Alastor has more bold intentions when it comes to the fact that he is helping out with the hotel. I'm unsure what those intentions are personally. We see in sneak peaks that Alastor even has startled Lucifer, so them working together to watch Charlie fail is a bit of a long shot all things considered. I don't even think Alastor wants Charlie to fail. I think he really is just along for the ride and is a patron for the hotel. He actively is making large changes. Furthermore, we see him protecting the hotel from loan sharks/shark mafiosos. Whenever we use the trading cards also for reference, we see the hotel destroyed. I don't think Alastor is going to be a Jax situation from the amazing digital circus. I think he's going to be upset that the hotel is destroyed. He's going to be distraught and upset. I think he's going to struggle a lot with power. We saw he had eyebags in the trailer after using some power against Pentious. Imagine what a lot of power would do to him? I'd love to hear you all's thoughts about this. That's all for now, Stay tuned for more!

#hazbin hotel #hazbin alastor #hazbin hotel theory #alastor #theory

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1moremilgram-enjoyer · 7 months

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Play-by-Play Analysis of HARROW

Hello members of the jury! Since I only recently joined the Milgram fandom, I feel it'd be nice to have most of my thoughts on each MV so far in one big analysis for each. I'm starting with HARROW because Kotoko's second trial MV is coming out relatively soon, so I want to get my thoughts about her in order before then!

What? Double? MeMe? What are you talking about?

(Translation: Mikoto's giving me a headache so I've decided to hold off more in-depth analysis until Double actually releases)

Anyways, let's see what our local furry vigilante has for us!

CW Death and murder, child kidnapping and torture, vigilantism, online radicalization, self-loathing and grief, mention of cannibalism, sexual harassment (upskirt shots)

Theoretical Basis

(For anyone not yet familiar with the prisoner's situation)

There's not much debate over what Kotoko's murder is. She killed someone to "protect the weak", so vigilante justice.

[TASK (First Voice Drama)] Kotoko: I did kill someone. This is the one reason why I believe in the power of MILGRAM. But, the murder is only to protect the weak ones being bullied from the extremely evil ones. I became a shield for the weak, the result of becoming a fang for the weak.

The exact nature of her murder is... complicated, but we'll get there in the analysis.

Analysis

Alright, let's see what kind of incredibly subtle symbolism this video has in store for us-!

Or maybe we just get punched in the face by the symbolism! The opening lingers on a shot of Kotoko wearing a blindfold because "justice is blind." You get it? The lyrics in this scene are:

Let’s end this! “HARROW” “HARROW” I can’t forgive the evil hurting the weak It’s unforgivable, I won’t allow it, I sweared

(I'm using the English subtitles transcribed in the wiki btw, though I might change a bit of formatting for funsies)

So basically setting up the main message HARROW wants to communicate; Kotoko wants to protect those she considers weak. She cannot possibly forgive any offense, that she... "sweared." The past tense of 'swear' is 'swore' but alright.

However, it's worth noting that this is a biased showing of the events, as we're seeing them through Kotoko's eyes. She considers her justice as "blind", but I'm not entirely sure that's true. We’ll get to it when we get to it.

‘Harrow’ means to cause distress to (because I’m pretty sure we’re not referencing any farming equipment). In context, I believe it means Kotoko feels distressed by the evil in the world, which will make more sense as we look at other lyrics.

Kotoko is in her investigation room, for lack of a better name, and is pondering her investigation board. Now, if you think I'm insane enough to try to figure out what she's doing in that board... you're right, but I couldn't figure out anything too interesting. She seems to just be narrowing down suspects and figuring out murder routes.

Kotoko is seen wearing a white jacket with red streaks, as well as a black tank top of despair and white shoes. I've explained how I view the symbolism of her clothes in this other post (which you should probably read before this one because I reference it quite a bit), so I'm not gonna go too deeply into it here.

The interesting thing about this scene are all the wolves staring into the camera there. I believe all these wolves represent people online who do similar things to Kotoko and influencing her, which is gonna make slightly more sense as we go further. Note that there are many wolves here, too many to just be her family in my opinion, which is an interpretation I've seen around.

However, it's notable that there is also one other wolf which is seen directly next to Kotoko, not to mention the two wolf pelts (a white one where Kotoko is sitting, a brownish-grayish one next to her). We see the wolf sleeping for a moment, before waking up with a close up of its eye. By the way, in case anyone's concerned, the wolf is not different from the wolves we see in the pack later. It only looks white momentarily because of the lighting, but you can actually see it has the same "white under - gray top" as every other wolf.

I hope it's clear enough.

So why is this wolf important? I believe this is another person, but one who is working alongside Kotoko directly. We unfortunately never really see who they might be, but I do think they exist, and they're not the serial killer with the white hoodie. Again, things in these MVs make more sense the longer you go on.

One interesting thing is that the close-up of the eye looks like a camera lens. Currently, the theory I'm going with is that Kotoko is working alongisde this "wolf", but they don't meet in person often; they mostly speak through video chats. Thus the wolf's eye, the one which can stare at Kotoko, is a camera. I have very little basis for this, mind you, but without Deep Cover, this is the best I can come up with for now.

Finally, the lyrics, which are repeated several times over the course of the MV.

How heavy “HARROW” “HARROW” Is the damage to get in the way of someone’s dream. I’ll gouge you out with my fangs

I think the placement of the word 'harrow' is sort of confusing the lyrics a bit. I think "how heavy is the damage to get in the way of someone's dream" makes one full sentence, so the way I read this is

"It's so horrible (it's harrowing, it distresses me) the damage evil people cause, that gets in the way of people's dreams. I'll destroy the evil, gouge them out like a wolf's fang."

Does that make sense? I hope it does. It's not like the exact meaning is too important; the main thing to take away here is how much Kotoko hates people who get in the way of other people's lives.

Alright watch out this one's important. Kotoko's out on the street, and looks at a sign which speaks of an accident, asking the public to call the police if they have more information. Meanwhile, this lyric plays:

Stained emotions, what is winning or losing Feeding on food so I don’t burn out

The important thing to note here is how unsure Kotoko seems here; she sounds lost. She can't tell what she wants, "what is winning or losing", her emotions are "stained" because she's in despair. For one reason or another, she seems distraught.

The reason for the stained emotions is likely that accident sign we see. It appears repeatedly throughout the MV, as you're going to see. Why it's so important is up in the air, but for now, I'm going with the idea that the person who died in this accident was someone Kotoko knew personally.

Well, "accident." We'll get there.

The moment Kotoko stares at the sign, the lyric "feeding on food so I don't burn out" plays. Presumably, "feeding on food" refers to her vigilantism, the thing she does to feel alive, to keep the flame inside her burning. This isn't the only reason she does the things she does, but it is an important one. Kotoko is sad over this "accident", so she feels she has to do something about it so as to not break down entirely. In fact, it’s very possible it’s after this incident occurred that Kotoko dropped out of university.

(T1) Q7: What did you study at university?

KY: For a while, I studied at the faculty of law. There's something I want to do, so I'm currently taking a break from studies, though.

For the flower symbolism fans, I believe the flowers next to the road sign are white lilies, pink roses, and I think baby's breath (the tiny ones). They are all suitable funeral flowers.

White lilies in particular are apparently pretty popular funeral flowers in Japan, representing purity, elegance, virtue, that kind of thing. Pink roses are also used in funerals, representing love (though explicitly not romantic, I think), appreciation, gratitude, gentleness, etc. Finally, baby’s breath represents purity and innocence, and important to note, are usually used for the funerals of young children.

This is a surprise tool that will help us later-

Another thing to note is the name on Kotoko’s cap and jacket, Jacques Roulet. I’ve talked about it in this post, but if you don’t want to read the full story of Jacques Roulet, it’s about a man who claimed to be a werewolf, killed a child to eat him, and only stopped when two wolves scared him off. I couldn’t come to any definitive conclusions, but I think the best answer here is that Kotoko is one of the wolves who scared off Jacques, who in this case would be the serial killer Kotoko ends up killing. This would entail she had a partner in vigilantism, which is part of what gets me to believe that wolf buddy in the beginning is an actual person.

Finally, a fun fact about that stop sign to our left, that’s actually outdated lol. Stop signs in Japan used to be like that, but apparently from 2017 onwards they now display “stop” in Japanese and English, not just Japanese like in the MV. I doubt this means anything other than ‘the artist who drew this probably grew up with the old stop signs all their life and didn’t think much about it’, but it’s there. Oh, and if you want to really look at the symbolism, Kotoko could be said to be turning away from the stop sign, implying this is her “start.” Get it? Like the opposite of “stop.”

(And listen, I have to draw a line somewhere, I'm not talking about the trash bags and vending machine, etc)

(Girl do you want a chair)

Here we start to see how Kotoko spirals down, and begins to form more and more radical ideas in her search of justice. The articles she's reading are all speaking of different crimes, as these lyrics play.

Becoming light-headed again, it all becomes crazy The normalcy sought for, fading away, everytime death comes The soul moves forward

She's "becoming lightheaded" as she looks at these reports, sickened by the evil in the world. The status quo she's searching for, a world without evil, disappears as horrible people keep killing and hurting.

Yet, "the soul moves forward." Kotoko must find a way to keep going, must find a way to deal with the death and the evil. Both for the sake of "the normalcy sought for", and for the sake of her own feelings. And that is her vigilantism.

Let's go over what exactly she's seeing. I won't post full translations for most of these, you can go to this post by Maristelina which is nothing short of a God-send for that, but I'll give summaries. In order of appearance:

A man and a woman in their twenties stole a bag from another woman and drove off. They were caught on camera, so they were arrested and admitted to the police they sold what they stole to pay for food and drinks. They had a prior record of theft.

(Note: I've seen some theorize this could be Kotoko and someone else, and while it's an interesting possibility, I don't see much evidence for it, and the fact Kotoko is 20 in Milgram makes the timeline a bit wonky imo)

A man in his 30s deceived an 80 year old woman out of 500.000 yen by pretending to be a bank employee. Keep this one in mind.

A 46 year old man took over 200 upskirts photos of high school girls in public transport. One of his work colleagues claimed he'd been saying he was going to pick up his kids, and had no idea what he was actually doing. The man himself claims to have done it to escape the stress from work. Below the article, there are two comments... which Maristelina didn't translate, so I did my best but take the following two translations with a massive grain of salt because my ass does not know Japanese.

何やわんこいつ = What is this guy? 同僚のコメントおかしぃだろwwww = Your colleague's comment is funny hahahaha

Additionally, we later see two anonymous comments which follow the same style as these two, and thus I believe they're talking about this. These ones Maristelina did translate!

Anon on Top: It’s just stress, cut him some slack. Anon on bottom: People like this will just do it again.

(Note: That last one is one of the things which make me believe Kotoko was at least slightly influenced by the comments of other people online)

A man in Tokyo was arrested for stealing luxury bikes by figuring out their combination locks. The police will charge him with theft and other crimes soon.

A group of people have pulled off something called the "It's me" scam over 40 times (FNAF reference?). Basically they call someone, disguising their voice, claiming to be a family member or someone they know and asking for cash for an emergency. The article specifically talks about a 23 year old woman who lost a million yen to this scam.

Point is, there's a lot of crime going on.

Anyways, as the camera pans out, we see a tripod, which can be assumed to have a camera pointed at the investigation board. Since it's not a very good idea to record yourself planning to commit crimes and posting it online anywhere, my best guess for what Kotoko is doing with that is videochatting with someone specific? Maybe? That's why the wolf's eye sort of looks like a camera in the beginning? I'm trying, cut me some slack here. This is very possibly wrong, but I don't know what else to do with this tripod.

If you don't get what's going on here, basically these images flash on screen very quickly, in the order I put them in.

Let's start with the lyrics, which are easy:

I hate all the evils in this world I feel like I’m about to break The surrounding net covered with poison

Kotoko hates evil, she's this close to breaking down, she feels trapped in a net of poison. You get it.

The image flash is important, though. We see the "accident" I said was important before, alongside two things: a TV report I'll call the Street With Bushes Report (SWB report), and an article about white hoodie guy. The SWB report says:

Body Found near the Home of Another Female Victim. Possible Connection to Series of Murders of Girls The body was found near the home of another female victim, and the police are investigating a possible connection to a series of murders of girls committed by the same perpetrator.

And the article:

Shocking revelation: The heinous criminal behind the crime is the privileged son of a high-ranking official! Killed 10 people in just about 2 years. Victims are elementary school students. Hidden by a cover-up.

Presumably the SWB report is of one of this guy's murders. He killed 10 elementary school girls, dumped their bodies near their home, and it was hidden because his father was a high-ranking police officer. I imagine this is probably why Kotoko lost faith in the police and the judicional system as a whole.

However, you'll notice an interesting detail. We maybe actually get to see this victim, somewhat. That person with the white dress laying on their back on a wooden floor. The only other time we see them is at the very end, so I think it's possible they really are related to the SWB report.

But why are we getting so many details about this one murder? It's not connected to the "accident", since the street is different. Well, it's not something I can answer now, but take this idea that there's a second murder which Kotoko isn't necessarilly related to, but one she knows more in-depth than some of the other white hoodie murders.

I put a lot of images here because I gotta properly illustrate this. This scene, where we see a representation of Kotoko's mind, starts with her literally opening her eyes or "waking up", sort of similar to the wolf at the beginning. She's surrounded by wolves, looking around hesitantly. Like I said before, at the beginning of HARROW, Kotoko is still very unsure of herself, but here, surrounded by the wolves, she seems to finally find a purpose. That's why the scene ends with her focusing on the foggy path ahead and starting to run with the pack.

What I believe is happening here is that Kotoko believes she is beginning to understand just how much evil there is in the world, with the guidance of the wolves (again, possibly people online with radical views), and decides to follow them into the foggy path of vigilantism. Essentially, this is a representation of her radicalization. And it's scarily accurate, isn't it? Someone lost and vulnerable, who literally starts by being framed as the wolves' prey, thinks she finds an answer to her 'harrowing' situation. Even the imagery of "waking up" is pretty common for some of these types of communities.

This also vaguely mirrors the scene in Little Red Riding Hood where the titular character first meets the wolf, which presents itself as friendly while getting information of what the girl is doing. This imagery of Little Red Riding Hood will come up again, so.

One note is that the trees are dead, which not only shows how grim Kotoko's views on the world are, but can also see as symbols of death and rebirth. That's going to come into play later, though you could argue Kotoko's already been reborn by becoming radicalized. Additionally, the fog can represent a twisted or limited view on the world, cloudy thoughts, that sort of thing.

The lyrics aren't anything special, since they're the same as in the beginning.

Let’s end this! “HARROW” “HARROW” I can’t forgive the evil hurting the weak It’s unforgivable, I won’t allow it, I sweared How heavy “HARROW” “HARROW” If it damaged someone’s dream to the points of stopping it I’ll gouge you out with my fangs

Well that escalated quickly.

We actually see a lot of articles between when the chorus ends and when the verse begins, but they're mostly the same ones we've already seen (or Maristelina didn't translate them). However, that one I put in the collage is interesting. It talks about how a wanted thief named Mikio Oshii was beaten in the face, stomach and other areas by someone in a hood and using men's sneakers. Oshii was taken to the hospital, but there's no mention to whether or not he died.

And in the next scene, Kotoko scrolls through an article describing Mikio Oshii, which explains he had been the one to steal money from the elderly by pretending to be a bank employee.

Note that this guy has a face, possibly signifying importance. This is because this is the first big act of vigilantism Kotoko performs. Note she uses men's clothing because it throws off the police; the first article actually says the police narrowed down suspects only to men, so it clearly works.

However, Kotoko isn't looking to stop after one. She's still walking forward, the evils always lurking in the background. The lyrics as she beats up Oshii are:

I’ll teach you the pain you caused It’s a tie after saying sorry? What are you hoping for?!

And when she's walking along:

Shall we replace the poor soul, and the miserable delusion “I didn’t mean to offend”, “I won’t do it again” How many wins in a row?

It's evident something's changed in Kotoko. Before, she was asking herself "what is winning or losing?", now she seems to speak with authority on what a "tie" and a "win" are.

And what is a win in her eyes? Well, I believe it's when she "replaces the poor soul and miserable delusion." In other words, when she can get an evildoer to stop their acts of evil by "teaching them the pain they caused." That's why after they say "I won't do it again", Kotoko adds a win; how many in a row? Saying sorry isn't enough, of course, it's not even a tie; she needs to make sure they never engage in evil ever again.

So here's how I read this line:

Let's replace the evil monster with a respectable citizen. Saying sorry isn't enough, we need to teach them the pain they caused so they never do it again. And we hear them promise to stop over and over; how many times have we done this in a row?

Maybe there's other ways to interpret that, but we ball.

(This really makes me wonder what she would consider a "win" in Milgram, though. She doesn't even know what the people she attacks did, how would she know they would stop after getting beat up by her? Unless she straight up aimed to kill, which would stop them, but I believe she was probably going more for an incapacitation thing, otherwise I don't think Mahiru would have survived at all. Whatever, we'll presumably get an explanation in her second VD)

One question that comes up is what are the other "wins in a row"? However, we have genuinely no way to tell, so it's just an unknown for now.

Now, let's ask the big question of the scene. Did Oshii die in the hospital, or did Kotoko intentionally let him live? Well, I believe he survived. One, because there isn't much of a point to specify he was taken to the hospital if he did die. Two, because there is precedent of Kotoko being able to control her strength as to not kill her victim provided medical attention is adminestered (Mahiru), and if she didn't kill him in the moment, she presumably didn't want him dead. Three;

[TASK] (First VD) Kotoko: I did kill someone. [...] what I did is, "facing an urgent and illegal infringement, an action taken out of necessity to protect the rights of myself and others".

Even beyond the wording of someone implying only one victim (and she most likely did kill the guy at the end), Kotoko was not facing an urgent infringement when she found Oshii, since he seems like he was just minding his bussiness when she got there. So it wouldn't be justifiable defense as she claims her murder was. Yes, it's possible she's lying, but I genuinely think there is at least an argument her murder was justifiable defense, as she's usually paired up with Yuno, Fuuta, Mahiru and Kazui (long story), and the most straightforward connection there is "their 'sin' would not be considered murder in a court of law." The other four didn't outright kill a human with their own hands, and Kotoko's would be considered "justifiable defense." Get it?

Undercover prisoner card? What are you talking about? Let me cope and ignore that.

Anyways, for now we can't be sure whether Oshii died or not, but I think he didn't. There's really no way to confirm though.

Finally, the scene ends with Kotoko finding the warehouses we'll see the serial killer take a victim into later. And yes, warehouses, plural. Go back and check; there are two warehouses connected to each other. I believe the warehouse complex might even be referenced in the whiteboards of the investigation room.

I have zero way of checking the Japanese, but none of the other marked locations in her whiteboards match multiple buildings being circled as one complex, which seems to be what these warehouses are.

Why is this important? It probably isn't. But my insanely deranged murder theory sorta requires the possibility there are multiple warehouses connected together in the same complex, so I'm introducing it now so I don't have to convince you of too many things at the same time.

Speaking of not important things, there's a 40 km/h speed limit sign, and a 'no parking' sign. Nothing too wild there, though I guess you could try to read into some kind of symbolism that Kotoko needs to slow down, but she's not gonna stop. That's insane even for my standards, but it's there.

Before we deal with the images, the lyrics are:

Whose fault is it This is getting ridiculous What should the punishment be?

Considering the fact all the images here are connected to the serial killer dude, that's probably referring to him. "Whose fault is it" that he keeps getting away with it. "This is getting ridiculous" because come on, how have the police not caught him yet? "What should the punishment be?" because if the police isn't gonna do anything about it, then she will, and she gets to decide how he'll be punished.

So what are we seeing? Let's ignore the TV report for now, because what is probably the most important article in the MV shows up here; the article with the serial killer that shows up.

“Since he was young, he has been aware of his environment, and his parents are satisfied. His thoughts are unknown,” according to the voices around him. He lives in a tower apartment located in the city. It seems that the suspect’s name (A) was not revealed, and no investigation was conducted based on his bodily fluids. According to sources, there may have been concealment due to his father’s pressure. The victim may have been run over by a car or killed by hand. However, due to the fact that suspect A is his son, there is a lack of consistency in the handling of the case.

Did you spot it?

The victim may have been run over by a car or killed by hand

In case you missed it, the police should be able to easily tell whether someone was ran over by a car, or they were killed by hand. This should not be difficult, though I can't confirm with sources, I'm pretty sure just looking at the injuries should be enough. And yet, they're unsure. But as the article says, there could be some foul play going on, since the guy is the son of an official.

Do you get it? If there's doubt of what happened, that's because the victim wasn't ran over. The police are trying to cover up a murder by claiming it was simply an accident, that way the killer can get away with simply a slap on the wrist. Which is interesting, because we already know this guy killed ten children, why is this murder and cover up so important?

Well, we do know of another "accident", don't we? And if you remember what I said about baby's breath the flower, you'll remember it's possible the victim of said "accident" was a child, which fits the profile of this guy's victims.

Thus, I believe if we're bringing attention to this murder in particular, that's because it's connected to the "accident" Kotoko is so fixated on. I believe the serial killer murdered someone close to Kotoko, and the police covered it up as an accident. And this is what kickstarted Kotoko's path to vigilantism.

This brings up the interesting possibility that Kotoko may have killed him out of a personal grudge, rather than simply to protect someone else. Don't get me wrong, she definitely wanted to protect the weak, that's her thing, but she could have done that without killing him, in theory. She hurt him to protect others; she may have killed him for revenge. At least, that's what I think.

Her justice isn't as blind as she makes it out to be, is it? Unreliable narrators, gotta love 'em-

And speaking of, subconciously twisting a supposedly strict moral system to justify killing someone for personal grudges? That reminds me a lot of another prisoner, but I will not allow Amane Momose to consume this post.

Anyways, that aside, there is actually another murder referenced in this scene. The one referenced in the TV, what I'll call the Highway report (not entirely sure it's a highway actually, but that's what it looks like to me).

New evidence in the case of the abandoned and murdered girl’s body? Report: Police (this afternoon) The same tire marks found at the scene where the victim’s body was discovered were found near the scene of the crime. The perpetrator likely abducted the victim in a car, killed her, and then abandoned her body in the vicinity of her home.

Note that the police are sure this one's a murder, presumably because there's no way to connect the white hoodie guy to it, so there's no need to cover that up. Because of that, and because again the street shown doesn't match either the "accident" street or the SWB report, this is a third murder Kotoko is oddly fixated on. Although we don't see the victim for this one. However, the whiteboard shown here doesn't actually match the whiteboards on Kotoko's room.

It's possible, then, that each of these whiteboards represent a different murder. And once again, we have the theme of three murders Kotoko has more knowledge of than the rest. Presumably, these are the murders Kotoko investigated deeply to figure out where the killer was taking his victims. Keep this idea of 'three important murders' in mind, with what Kotoko knows about them.

>She may have known the victim of the "accident" personally.

>She remembers seeing the victim of the SWB murder, the one with the white dress.

>She doesn't seem to know what the victim of the Highway murder looked like.

Anyways, the scene ends with Kotoko running forward, as we cut to another forest scene.

This one doesn't have much new stuff in terms of imagery, though there's three things worth noting. First, by now Kotoko is firmly running in front of the pack, so she's firmly one of them, unlike in the first chorus, where she was still figuring stuff out. Two, the waning moon is still there. Three, Kotoko's clothes haven't changed despite how much she's changed, which I talked about in the clothes' post and I believe represents how Kotoko doesn't realize how much her views are shifting as she hangs out with the "pack of wolves."

Timelines - 20/6/18 Kotoko: Treat you [Amane] like a child? Hah, you’ve got to be kidding. Back when I was your age, I was already the person I am today.

However, the lyrics are quite interesting.

Want to find “HARROW” “HARROW” I feel like I’m going crazy after straining my nerves The person that can’t be saved, is now understanding the abnormality How heavy “HARROW” “HARROW” If it damaged someone’s dream to the points of stopping it I want gouge you out with my fangs

I've already talked about the second part, but the first one is new. At first it doesn't seem like anything special; we already knew Kotoko was "going crazy after straining her nerves", again becoming sickened by the evil in the world.

But then there's "the person that can't be saved, is now understanding the abnormality." Which seems to mirror the earlier line:

The normalcy sought for, fading away, every time death comes.

As stated before, Kotoko sees a "normal" world as one without evil. But as she saw more and more crime happening around her, she "begun to understand the abnormality", she begun to understand how much evil there was in the world.

But the person who begins to understand the abnormality "can't be saved." Which seems to imply Kotoko considers herself impossible to save. She's far too sickened by the world to feel anything but awful, she feels nothing will ever make her feel good with her life.

Friendly reminder that Anti-Beat, her Trial 1 cover song, is extremely depressing. CW suicidal ideations

[Anti-Beat] Anti Beat I just want to die already, So I can finally be at ease Anti Beat But all I know is pain And there’s nowhere to run Anti Beat

CW over

So yeah, she's extremely sad, and doesn't think anything will make her feel good. That's why she clings so hard to vigilantism; as we'll soon see, it's the only way she's found she can feel good about her life. Yeah, it's sad.

As the bridge plays, we get to see the last few investigative actions Kotoko performs. She shows some dude possibly named "Kaneshiro Ken'otoko" something on her phone, then pays him 10k yen (around $100) for him to... do something. He works for "Shoko Newspaper Corporation" (Shoko is just a woman's name), and is an external director. Well, that's not a real term, but it's probably meant to mean outside director? A member of a company's board of directors who is not an employee or stakeholder in the company. I don't know how important that is, though. Point is, it seems he's pretty high up in a newspaper company, and thus likely has some kind of information Kotoko finds useful. Presumably that's how she found the warehouse complex in the first place.

And then, Kotoko sees the killer take a child with orange overalls into one of the warehouses. I'm going to ask you to pay attention to three things (at this point I'm starting to feel like a Playmaker from Yugioh kinnie). First, the guy has put up a sign to seemingly close down the entire complex, either implying it's completely abandoned or he owns the entire place. This implies he can be relatively confident no one will enter the complex until he's done with his victim. Second, the walls have verticals lines on the walls and vertical bars on the windows. Third, Kotoko is wearing her blue and yellow jacket + cap, and the girl's hands are unbound.

We'll get to why these things are important (to me and no one else) later.

And this is a really weird thing to put here. Although we just saw Kotoko witnessing a crime, we see her slowing down, getting tired and discouraged. It's almost like she's going back to doubting herself, see the lyrics:

Newly born “HARROW” “HARROW” It’s ok to dislike, right? Losing it, losing it. What should I hope for?

She's 'newly born' since she recently underwent some pretty big changes, but she's still distressed. She's doubting whether or not she's allowed to hate evil/the hoodie guy as much as she does, and questions what she even wants to do, what outcome she hopes for.

But the doubt doesn't last long. One of the wolves, possibly the one from the beginning she's particularly close to, smiles at her as this line plays:

Goodnight “HARROW” “HARROW” Laugh and I can get to like myself

Goodnight, because something's about to end, there's a big change looming. She will now "laugh" to "get to like herself." As stated, Kotoko feels deeply dissatisfied with her life, and her vigilantism is the only thing she has which makes her feel good about herself. Kotoko literally laughs after she says that, because her vigilantism is about to reach a climax. She will now kill the man who caused so much suffering, to others, and to her, by killing the victim of the "accident."

So what was up with that hesitation at the beginning? Well, uh. I'll get there in the murder theory. Let's go to the final scene.

Lyrics first since it's the easier part, as most of them are repeated.

Let’s end this! “HARROW” “HARROW” I can’t forgive the evil hurting the weak It’s unforgivable, I won’t allow it, I just can’t let it go How heavy “HARROW” “HARROW” If it damaged someone’s dream to the points of stopping it I want gouge you out with my fangs

The only notable thing is the addition at the very end.

I want to be drowning in the knowledge that I am right

Basically what we've heard before. As Kotoko is very unhappy with herself usually, she finds worth in herself by protecting the weak, which requires "the knowledge she's right" to do the things she does. She wants to feel sure of herself, which as stated is one of the reasons she engages in vigilantism.

As for the visual symbolism, I talked in the clothes post about how Kotoko undergoes a pretty big change here. She's reborn. Remember how the forest scenes always had a waning moon? Well, this one has a full moon, representing the end of a cycle, rebirth. The same sybolism is found by the fact dawn breaks there, again showing rebirth. This also connects to Red Riding Hood symbolism, etc.

This idea of rebirth is even further implied by the fact we see a wolf with her neon pink smile take its place in the investigation room. Kotoko, with the full moon like a werewolf, has become just like the rest of the wolves. She's changed for good.

One other note, you see that one shot where we see the killer's smiling shadow? Doesn't it look like his mouth casts a shadow like a wolf's snout?

If you squint, yeah, I think so. This, and the fact he kills children, is what makes me think he's "Jacques Roulet" getting chased off by the two wolves (Kotoko and wolf buddy) in that metaphor. Not entirely confident I know what the deal with this is, but you know.

Okay so the symbolism is all good, but now we have to get to the really weird part of all of this. Which is, what the fuck is actually happening in her murder? Let's get to the most speculative part of this post, the one which will most likely be outdated by the time Deep Cover releases lol.

(Unhinged) Murder Theory

First Problem: The Time Gap

So it's pretty well known that Kotoko's clothes mysteriously change between when she sees the kidnapping outside, and when she actually goes attack the dude. She sees the kidnapping happen with her blue and yellow jacket, but she kills the dude with her red hoodie. This isn't even the only indication that some time has passed. We can also see the girl's hands are bound and her shoes are off on the floor, so there were at least a few minutes the killer had to do that. Additionally, the lighting slightly changes between Kotoko seeing the event and the murder ending.

Okay the change is actually subtle enough I could believe it just took her a few minutes to finish off the guy, but it is there.

So I believe some time passed. Clearly not much, since the lighting shift isn't too radical, but there's at least a few minutes between when Kotoko sees the kidnapping and when she rushes in.

And I believe we can get a vague idea of what happened, by looking at the scene in between these two things. Which you'll remember, is the scene in the forest where Kotoko slows down and hesitates, before being encouraged by the wolf again. Essentially, after seeing the guy commit a crime right in front of her, Kotoko briefly hesitated, and maybe rushed back to her investigation room or somewhere else. Perhaps she considered just calling the police, perhaps she was paralyzed by the trauma of the "accident", whatever the case, Kotoko couldn't get herself to immediately rush in. However, maybe she called her partner in vigilantism, that wolf she seems particularly close to, and they encouraged her to go in and do her thing.

Is this a good answer? Fuck no, but it's undeniable some time passed, so until we get Deep Cover, this is the best explanation I can come up with as to why that happened. The point is, there's a time gap between the kidnapping and the attack. Keep that in mind.

Second Issue: Different Warehouse

The warehouse Kotoko kills the guy in has bricks which form both vertical and horizontal lines on the walls, and the window has a horizontal and diagonal bars instead of just vertical. It's a different warehouse. Thankfully, though, this is pretty easily solved by what I mentioned before; the killer didn't block off access to just one warehouse, but to the entire complex.

Thus, it's perfectly possible he just took the kid through one warehouse and into another one. This is simply more indication that there really was a time gap between the kidnapping and Kotoko's attack.

However, there's a huge problem. Not only is the girl nowhere to be seen in the last shot, this isn't the room the kid was in. That one's a lot smaller.

Biggest Issue: The Nonsensicality of the Attack

The first thing I want to address; I don't think Kotoko ever worked with this killer. It goes against pretty much her entire character, and as mentioned, I'm pretty sure she has a personal grudge agaisnt him. There is reason to believe otherwise, you can find other posts around talking about it, and you can actually see two hammers on the floor in that scene, which I don't have a great answer for. However, it just doesn't seem like it makes much sense. And yet, there's so many weird things about Kotoko's initial attack in this wooden floor room.

>As mentioned, the room of this scene isn't where the guy actually died.

>The guy is standing on one of the hammers, seemingly not doing anything.

>He doesn't react to Kotoko entering at all beyond simply turning his head a bit, which doesn't seem appropriate even if he was working with her.

>The girl also doesn't react to Kotoko slamming the door open.

>The toolbox appears to be empty, though this isn't too big of an issue.

>Kotoko reaches for him with her right hand, but later we see her grabbing his hoodie with her left hand.

You could argue she turned him around with her right, then grabbed him, but that doesn't make much sense. Why not tackle him to the floor while his back is turned?

Well, to answer what's going on here, I think we need to look at the other scenes where this room appears, and notice they also don't make sense.

How does Kotoko remember these events? As I said, it doesn't make sense for her to have been working with the killer, but that's not all. The last one in particular is extremely impossible. Kotoko is nowhere to be seen in the room (unless she's the girl there, but I don't think so), and there's nowhere she could be where she doesn't cast a shadow or show up on the shot.

Well... I have an answer, but it's sort of insane. Kotoko shouldn't remember these events, so she doesn't.

Unhinged Hypothesis #1: These Scenes Are All Kotoko's Imagination

Alright hear me out. I think Kotoko saw this room at one point, but only when she went to rescue the orange overall girl. The rest of the scenes are her filling in the blanks with what she knows. When she saved the orange overall girl, she saw what the room looked like, the toolbox and weapons the killer was using to torture the girls with, and just imagined the rest.

And why do I say this? Well, apart from the aforementioned nonsensicality of the situation, remember those three murders I mentioned earlier? The ones Kotoko knows the most about?

>She may have known the victim of the "accident" personally. >She remembers seeing the victim of the SWB murder, the one with the white dress. >She doesn't seem to know what the victim of the Highway murder looked like.

Does this ring a bell? Because it matches the scenes of the room with the wooden floor, aside from the occassion with the orange overall girl obviously. We have:

>One shot of the killer attacking a victim out of frame, a victim Kotoko knows exists, but one she can't visualize. This would be the Highway victim, the one Kotoko never saw.

>The girl (because the report specifies it's a woman and it may be connected to the murder of other girls) with the white dress, as stated is likely the victim of the SWB murder. It's possible Kotoko got a glimpse of her corpse being carried away, which is why she only remembers a portion of her body covered by a white dress.

>And finally, the last shot of these we get, book-ending the image flash which starts with an image of the "accident" sign, is of a girl which Kotoko remembers in full. And it's a girl who looks like she could be elementary school age if you look at her at the right angle, so she likely is one of the dead girls. And it's a girl who looks suspiciously similar to Kotoko, perhaps a younger sister, a cousin? This is the victim of the "accident", I believe.

With this, it's possible Kotoko is simply imagining these things based on what she knows after seeing the murder room when she went to rescue the orange overall girl.

Am I confident in this claim? Not really, I'm decently sure it will be deconfrimed in Deep Cover, but for now I'm running with it so I can have something.

But why is this important? Well, apart from explaining how these scenes would be in the MV without having to assume Kotoko worked with the murderer, it also throws into question anything we see in these scenes. If you've been paying attention, you'll have realized Kotoko is not a particularly reliable narrator; see the "justice is blind" thing from the beginning, the non-changing clothes in the mind space, etc. And now, we're wondering if maybe, just maybe, that scene where she enters the wooden floor room and attacks the killer didn't play out how she's presenting it to us.

Unhinged Hypothesis #2: When Kotoko Found the Girl, the Killer Wasn't in the Room

Let me draw your attention to the distorted quote in her Trial 2 Voice Reveal.

"From the beginning I've never asked for your understanding! My actions, one by one, are bringing earth closer to peace. Useless weaklings should just shut up and let me protect them!"

Going by the pattern these things follow, this should be something Kotoko says before her murder. But, who is she saying it to? Looking at the context, it really seems like she's talking to an 'useless weakling' who is pushing against Kotoko's decisions. But, with the information we have so far, the only 'useless weakling' Kotoko could be talking to... is the orange overall girl. None of the other characters shown in HARROW really fit that description.

But how the hell would that happen? By the time Kotoko gets close enough to talk to her, she's suppossedly already attacking the serial killer. And yet, if you hear the quote, she doesn't sound winded or anything during the quote, she doesn't sound like she's fighting the dude. This implies there may have been some time before the murder when Kotoko could talk to the girl, but the killer wasn't there.

So we go back to what we have. The killer has no reason to think anyone will enter the warehouse complex, so he could perfectly leave for a moment to do something. By the time the killer is dead, the girl is nowehere to be seen, it's possible she's been untied and has ran away. And Kotoko's views of the events in the wooden floor room are not to be trusted. She sees herself as saving the girl from an immediate threat of danger, but that may not have been the case.

Heavy Speculation Incoming

My vision here is that Kotoko, after changing and coming back, found the girl in the wooden floor room alongside the toolbox and stuff, and untied her. After getting a bit of an explanation, she hears the murderer will probably come back soon, and decides to wait for him, so she can enact justice. Remember, this is personal; she doesn't just want to save this girl, she wants the guy dead.

Upon hearing this, the girl tries to convince her not to do that. It would be better to call the police and let them deal with it, right? But Kotoko obviously doesn't expect that to work, so she tells her she needs to kill the guy herself. The girl tries to talk her out of it, saying she doesn't understand, and that's where we get the Voice Reveal line. Kotoko never asked for her understanding; her actions are bringing Earth closer to justice, so 'useless weaklings' like the girl should shut up and listen to her.

At this point, you'll notice I'm practically just writing fanfiction. I have very little evidence for most of this, it's more just me trying to come up with some kind of explanation for all the seemingly contradicting evidence we have.

Though there is one more thing Kotoko being in the final warehouse before the killer would... somewhat kinda explain if you squint; the cap on the floor.

Listen. There is, like, no good explanation for why the fuck that's there. People don't just leave caps on the floor, no matter what they're doing. However, ignoring for a moment the why it's on the floor, let's look at the how. If the killer was already in the warehouse when Kotoko went in, there's no real way the cap would end up there. Kotoko has her hood up during the entire attack until the guy's already dead, so it couldn't have fallen off if she was wearing the cap under the hood for some reason. If she came in with it in her hand, for some reason, she would have to drop it before attacking him (see: grabbing him with her left hand then hitting him with her right), but she would drop it before reaching him; the cap wouldn't end up so close to them. Putting it in her pocket would be insane, and also wouldn't exactly explain how it would fall off and land upright either.

Thus, the only way I can think of to explain how it ended up there, is if it was already on the floor, then the killer went to inspect it or something, and that's when Kotoko attacked him. Again, no idea why Kotoko would just leave the cap there, but it's what I think makes the most sense, physically speaking.

Thus, Kotoko was in that warehouse before the killer, or like I'm claiming, the killer went away, Kotoko went in, waited for him, he returned, got distracted by the cap and went to investigate, got attacked by Kotoko.

Closing Argument

+Kotoko sees the man taking the orange overall girl into the warehouse complex, with him having put up a sign to close off the complex to the public.

+For some reason, she becomes discouraged and goes away for a moment, doubting what she should do. She's encouraged by her wolf buddy to go kill the dude, she changes into her murder fit, and goes back just a few minutes later. Meanwhile, the killer takes the girl to a small room in another warehouse connected to the first one, binds her hands and takes her shoes off... for some reason.

+The killer leaves for a moment for God knows what reason, Kotoko comes back and finds the girl, unties her. Thanks to what she sees in that room, she forms a mental image of what the other murders looked like.

+Kotoko decides to wait for the killer to come back, leaving her Jacques Roulet cap on the floor... as bait or something I don't know. The girl tries to convince her not to do that, but Kotoko refuses to listen. Cue T2 Voice Reveal line.

+The killer comes back, sees the cap on the floor, and gets closer to investigate. Since he's distracted, Kotoko takes the chance to run up to him. He turns around right before she reaches him, and before he can react, Kotoko grabs his hoodie with her left hand, and punches him with her right. He falls to the floor, and Kotoko starts beating him to death as the girl runs away. However, since he arrived while the girl was still in the scene, Kotoko can claim it was justifiable defense of either the girl or herself.

... Yeah this is completely fucking insane. This is most likely wrong, so don't be surprised when Deep Cover comes out and deconfirms it. However, I do think some of what I said has a chance of being accurate, so I'm putting it out there so I can pretend to be smart and stuff if it turns out some of this is right.

(Can you believe that's not even the most insane murder theory I've ever done? Like, at least I didn't bring in an accomplice and several pulley systems, or made a wire circuit extending throughout the entirety of a room, both things I've done for another fandom. Yeah, my brainrot runs deep)

Conclusion

Well that last part was a bit of a mess. I hope you can forgive my insanity, and that you still took something out of the rest of the analysis if not the murder theory. I'm really excited to see what Deep Cover has in store for us, Kotoko is a very interesting character. Anyways, if you made it this far, then I think you deserve your own wolf buddy! Though be careful, and don't listen to it when it tells you to kill. Take care!

#milgram #milgram project #milgram theory #kotoko yuzuhira #harrow mv #milgram analysis

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