Fᴀʟʟᴇsᴛᴏ Multi Paragraph - Novella- Detailed Responses Feel the weight of our sins. A symphony demanding repentance from its conductor. Fight to the zenith. In suffering, we learn that terribly lamenting beauty of Ｐｅａｃｅ. ━ Multiverse Roleplay: Pein (Shippuden), Aaroniero (Bleach), Joker (DCU), Ser Barristan the Bold (GoT), Sabrina Glevissig (Witcher), Mother Miranda (Resident Evil), And Many More (Countless Fandoms)
His long neck leaned forward, the respirator producing a gentle, mechanical hiss as the steam from the grilled fish spiraled against the resin bubble. The aroma, caramelised glaze blending with the salty essence of freshly caught seafood, wafted through his filters, and for a rare moment, his narcoleptic lethargy wavered.
His ungulate ears perked up, swivelling toward the plate as if the sound of sizzling skin still echoed in the air. The dumplings, as plump as a pirate’s treasure, shimmered under the chandelier’s glow, their pleats exquisitely crimped. He had anticipated mediocrity, perhaps even incompetence. This was... meticulous. The resin bubble instantly fogged as he inhaled, sharp and sudden, a mechanical wheeze slicing through the sleepy stillness of the dining hall. His elongated neck stiffened, vertebrae clicking like a taut chain. Steam curled against the interior of his respirator, distorting the view of the feast before him into a fleeting illusion of glazed fish and dumplings. For a brief moment, the only sound was the rhythmic hiss of filtered breath. Then, his tail flicked once, sending a cascade of linen napkins tumbling from the table’s edge.
"Hm," he murmured, the word muffled yet clear. The attendants lurking in the shadows recoiled at the tone, not anger, not command, but something far more perilous: curiosity. His gloved fingers hovered over the chopsticks, twitching as if battling the impulse to grab the meal with his bare hands. The dumpling’s pleats were crimped with a precision he hadn’t witnessed since the last banquet in Mariejois’ inner sanctum. The fish’s skin crackled softly beneath its glaze, a sound typically drowned out by the clatter of silverware and sycophants. Here, in his private hall, it was deafening.
The sharp, deliberate click of the respirator’s release mechanism echoed in the air. His fingers wrapped around the edge of the resin bubble, pausing for a breathless instant, perhaps it was habit, or the burden of centuries spent concealed behind filters and fog. Then, with a slow, almost ritualistic gesture, he lifted it away.
“Okay then.”
The first sensation was the air hitting his face. Unfiltered. Unmediated. The aroma of the meal, caramelised fish, steamed pork, the earthy tang of natto, washed over him like a tidal wave breaking through a dam. His nostrils flared, the dragon-like whiskers framing his snout quivering as if charged with electricity. For a fleeting moment, he sat there, exposed, his features illuminated in the flickering chandelier light. His skin, a deep, weathered brown, glistened faintly with moisture where the respirator had pressed too long. His lips, thin and surprisingly delicate for a creature of his size, parted slightly as he inhaled again, deeper this time.
“Hm.”
The first bite was nothing short of a revelation. The dumpling’s skin yielded to his teeth with a delicate snap, releasing a surge of aromatic pork and ginger broth that flooded his mouth. His whiskers twitched uncontrollably, an involuntary reaction, as flavours he hadn’t savoured in decades exploded across his tongue. This was no refined noble cuisine, no airy soufflés meant to dissolve like clouds. This was substance. Heat. Texture. The rice clung to his fingers in sticky clumps, the natto’s fermented tang slicing through the richness of the fish’s glaze. His elongated neck arched back slightly, a silent, stunned acknowledgement of pleasure.
He listened in horror to her words, the truth of them sinking like hot iron into his flesh. His nostrils flared wide, drawing in the scent of his own sweat, sharp and acrid, mingled with the fae’s floral perfume. The sound of his own panicked breathing filled his ears, ragged and uneven. He tried to speak, to curse her, to demand she reverse this insult, but all that escaped was a furious, guttural whinny.
“You did nothing, huh!”
As he kicked violently, sending silk sheets cascading to the floor in a whisper of fabric. His hooves scraped against the mattress as he attempted to rise, instinct screaming for him to stand upright, to tower over her as he always had. But his body betrayed him. Muscles that once obeyed without question now coiled in unfamiliar patterns. His forelegs buckled. His hindquarters shuddered. He crashed sideways into the bedside table, sending a porcelain pitcher shattering across the stones. Water pooled around the shards, reflecting his own wide, panicked eyes, purple still.
“Patience, look at me, at what you done!”
Then his hooves skittered against the polished stone wall, legs trembling with the unnatural strain of standing upright. His spine screamed, a jagged, twisting agony that radiated up through his withers. The muscles along his back rippled violently, spasming as they fought to compensate for a body never meant to bear weight this way. He snorted through flared nostrils, breath hot and ragged. His tail lashed behind him like a whip, knocking over a candelabra. Wax splattered across the floor in molten streaks.
CLOP.
His hooves slipped from the wall, the polished stone offering no purchase. Aerion crashed onto all fours with a jolt that rattled his teeth, or would have, if he still had human ones. The impact sent a sharp tremor up his forelegs, the unfamiliar bones shifting beneath his skin like ill-fitted armor. He stood there, trembling, his breath coming in ragged bursts through flared nostrils. The floor stretched before him, suddenly vast and treacherous. A single misstep would send him sprawling.
“FUCK!”
He kicked his hind legs, smashing the bedframe with a splintering crack. The wooden posts groaned and snapped like bones under a warhammer, sending the silk canopy collapsing around him in a suffocating shroud. He thrashed violently, twisting his powerful neck to tear at the fabric with his teeth, only to freeze at the sight of his own muzzle buried in embroidered damask.
“A ride, a fucking ride!”
The scent of crushed lavender and his own equine sweat flooded his nostrils. He reared back with a shrill whinny, his hooves punching through the mattress in a burst of goose down.
“You damn fae!”
As he stood there huffing, nostrils flared wide enough to swallow a dagger. He was a fucking horse. The realization hit him like a warhammer to the ribs, not once, not twice, but over and over, each breath driving it deeper. His reflection shimmered in the spilled water at his hooves: a white stallion with wild, rolling eyes and a mane tangled from thrashing. The absurdity of it all coiled in his gut like spoiled meat. He, Aerion Brightflame, heir to the blood of Old Valyria, reduced to this, this.
“Fuck, fine, fine, whatever you say, a ride, fine!”
She was submerged up to her collarbones, with steam swirling around her like a sentient being, tendrils of mist brushing against the fresh curve of her breasts before vanishing into the warm air. The water caressed skin that felt foreign, smoother where callouses had once been, softer where scars had previously chronicled her struggles.
“Fuchi, you’re alive, I’m so glad.”
As she poured the steaming water over herself, her hips, now undeniably rounded, pressed against the slick stone at the edge of the spring, the kind of hips that would earn nods of approval from midwives, designed to nurture life. She flexed her fingers beneath the surface, half-expecting the taut muscles of her forearms to revert to their former state, but the sinew moved differently now, enveloped in a new softness that didn’t diminish the strength lying beneath.
The steam continued to swirl around her shoulders like a lover’s gentle breath, clinging to the new shapes of her body, water beckoning to reveal more, those hips that flared like a river’s curve, crafted to nurture life or endure the weight of battle, depending on what the gods required. Her breasts rose above the water, full and heavy, their peaks flushed pink from the warmth, and she gazed at them with the detached wonder of an artist admiring an unforeseen masterpiece. Her hands, still marked by the faint ridges of a swordsman’s calluses, glided over her waist, the dip now accentuated, a curve that would leave poets at a loss for words. The water rippled as she moved, unveiling the swell of her thighs, the new weight of her backside pressing against the smooth stone of the spring, a body sculpted for both elegance and ferocity.
“I searched for a week for you.”
As she noticed that Fuchi’s handkerchief was completely ruined now, the fabric drenched in blood. He remained still, not even a breath escaping him, as if any slight movement could break the spell. Yet, the spell held firm. She turned her head, droplets cascading down her throat, and the face that met Fuchi’s gaze was unmistakably hers, the same piercing eyes, the same furrowed brow, but softened, the angles of her jaw smoothed, lips fuller, as if the island had sculpted her, removing all harshness. "You’re staring, do you want to join me?" she asked, her voice lower than he anticipated, still imbued with authority, yet laced with something new, a richness, akin to honeyed steel. Her mind was foggy, but only the water, the heat, this place felt right amidst the nightmare of this island.
"No, no one else, my team got wiped out."
As she rinsed her long black hair, her fingers methodically working through the thick strands, as if this too was a ritual of cleansing. The water darkened with each stroke of her hands, its weight unfamiliar against her scalp, heavy, alive, like the tails of ravens intertwined. She tilted her head back, allowing the heat to seep into her neck, and for the first time in days, the tension in her shoulders began to dissipate. The scent of sulfur and something earthier clung to her skin, not entirely unpleasant. It reminded her of the inkstones Eizen used to grind for his calligraphy, the very ones she had pilfered as a child to sketch crude maps of battles she had never fought.
"It’s just me now, and you too."
As she breathed out, a sigh heavy with the island’s sulfur and the memories of her blade. Steam danced around her lips as she looked at Fuchi through the mist, his form flickering like a mirage. The water brushed against her collarbones, and for the first time, she felt how the ripples caressed her throat differently, more gently, as if even the spring was reluctant to touch her now.
"Is something the matter?"
She raised a hand from the water, droplets tracing the new curve of her forearm. The movement was still Shugen’s, exact, intentional, but her wrist turned with an unfamiliar elegance, tendons shifting beneath skin like silk gliding over steel. She flexed her fingers, observing the dance of muscle, the way her knuckles no longer protruded as sharply.
"Fuchi?"
Her brows furrowed, her lips, now fuller, parting as if to speak, then sealing shut. She exhaled through her nose, steam swirling between them like a curtain.
"You seem unwell; this island has a way of affecting you. You didn’t eat anything, did you?"
She was neither an object nor a mere instrument; she was a living, fragmented being before him. The girl crumpled on the cavern floor was a stark contrast to the dragon that had scorched the mountainside moments earlier, yet in her quaking form, she appeared more powerful than any creature. Her sobs reverberated against the stone, raw and unrefined, a sound that clawed its way from a throat raw with the weight of truth. He could taste the lie on his tongue, metallic and bitter. Love. What a ludicrous term to bring into their midst now.
“Do you question my words?”
He knelt, not with the practiced, courtly grace of before, but with a slower, heavier motion, and reached out to her. His fingers hovered just above her shoulder, close enough to feel the warmth still emanating from her skin.
"Nunnally," he uttered, her name feeling foreign on his lips, too gentle. It was the wrong thing to say. She recoiled as if struck, curling in on herself, her fingers gripping the fabric of her dress like claws.
As he exhaled through his nose, frustration prickled along his spine. He had witnessed her tears before, quiet, stifled sobs in shadowy corners, but never like this. Never with the cavern trembling from the intensity of it. Never with the remnants of dragonfire still lingering in the air between them.
His jaw clenched. He should be taking advantage of this moment, exploiting her vulnerability, bargaining for the secrets hidden beneath her skin. Instead, he found himself captivated by the way her tears left faint, scorched trails on her cheeks.
His breath hitched in his throat as the scales melted away like wax under a flame. In an instant, Nunnally transformed from a creature of coiled fire and obsidian claws to just a girl. A girl in a tattered black dress, knees scraped raw from collapsing onto stone, her face marked with tears that hissed softly where they met her still-warm skin.
The transformation was not graceful. It was violent, a shuddering collapse from one reality into another, as if her body had forgotten how to be human and had to relearn it, bone by trembling bone.
She has the power to control it.
The realization struck him like a knife thrust into his side. This wasn’t merely an uncontrollable curse born from blood magic, she had done it on purpose.
His fingers twitched at his sides. All those years spent studying ancient Valyrian scrolls, all the hushed rituals and pilfered artifacts, and the solution had been right in front of him all along. A servant. A slave. A whore, a woman, a wife. A girl he had purchased for the cost of a good horse. His heart raced in his temples. She hadn’t just received the gift, she had conquered it.
As he settled down and drew her into his lap, holding her with a grip that was neither gentle nor harsh, just intentional. The stone beneath them was frigid, yet her skin still emitted the residual warmth of her transformation, a furnace cooling beneath silk and sweat. She tensed, her breath catching mid-sob, as if uncertain whether this was yet another manipulation or something more genuine: sincerity. His fingers spread across her back, feeling the ridges of her spine through the damp fabric. No wings now. No scales. Just flesh, as delicate as it had always been.
“I’ve always loved you; deep down, you know it. I cannot exist in this world without you; I need you.”
CHARACTER ASSOCIATIONS
Repost & fill in the words you most associate with your character.
animal: chihuahua 😂
colour: gold
month: july?
song: right now im liking utopia by goldfrapp ' My dog needs new ears / Make his eyes see forever / Make him live like me / Again and again ' for when he gets turned into a summon 🥲
number: 5
day or night: day
plant: erdleaf flower
smell: all fire knights probably have soot but he might smell more like leyndell nobility. still applies expensive gold cologne oil after bathing. a little unhinged in how he acts like daily aristocratic customs should still apply in the realm of shadow
season: summer
food: some lavish leyndell soup
astrological sign: sagittarius?
element: fire
drink: cider?
tagged by: @redcrownedwizard* ( thank you so much!!!! )
tagging: @divinityrisen ( marika! ) ; @fallesto ( harmonia! ) ; @reclaimeth ( fia! ) ; @vicarlunares ( messmer! ) ; @zcrayas
Kikyo froze after getting on the creature’s back as she had been injured and it offered her a lift it had been following her for a while. It was not life threatening but something felt off after sitting down as if she was stuck to the equine’s back. Shifting around trying to free herself the ravenette had exhausted, her spiritual power. Biting her lip as she tugged at the sleeved she finally spoke to the creature. “Stop, I’m stuck. Where are you trying to take me?” The female’s heart was racing at the realization that she had been captured when her guard was lowered.
She was truly worth a fortune. He pondered how much he could fetch for her, should he decide to sell her. The issue was, he couldn't teleport back; she was scum, filth, worldly trash in every conceivable way. Just a mere slave, nothing more, so it was the long journey home. She had fallen for his trap, the fool. Why are these weak, repulsive creatures so incredibly stupid? She spotted a horse and thought what exactly? That she could claim it for herself, mount it, and ride away? Nothing is worse than a filthy slave, but one that steals is even more despicable.
"Damn it, sit still!"
He hissed as she clung to his back, clip, clop, clip, clop, the sound of his hooves striking the ground as he traversed the fields, covering ground effortlessly, his yellow tail flicking behind him, puffs of smoke rising as he heard her whining about being stuck, about not being able to move. Exactly, she wasn’t going anywhere at all. "Where the hell do you think you’re going anyway? Nowhere, right?" He chuckled, turning his head, narrowing his eyes, a wide grin on his face, sharp fangs visible as he exhaled a sigh. A feisty slave; he ought to beat some sense into her to teach her a lesson.
"I’m taking you back to my estate." Clip, clop, clip, clop. His hooves found solid ground as he picked up speed, moving a bit faster now, with her settled on his back, no saddle, because why? That would be an insult to someone as flawless and perfect as him. Even having her on his back was pushing it too far, but it was the quickest way to transport her across these lands to get her to a ship bound for the holy lands. He turned his head, a giggle escaping him as he pressed on.
"You’re my slave now, so you belong to me, and you can clean my back, how disgusting that you’re sitting on me!"
Kagura sighed looking at the horse who had been a demon slayer as it’s sword was laying on the ground. She had smelled another demon which had to have run away after affecting the human with its blood demon arts. Looking at the creature she tapped her chin with her fan before speaking. “Goodness me. What a predicament I stumbled onto.”
Ugh, his head throbbed painfully, and his vision blurred, the world tilting sideways in a dizzying swirl of colors and shadows. His body felt wrong, too tall, too unsteady, his limbs ending in hard, unfamiliar curves. The weight of his own head hung forward, heavy with the strange elongation of his face. Hoofs. The word slithered through his mind like a curse. He attempted to speak, to demand answers, but all that escaped was a panicked whinny, high and undignified. His sword, his blade, the extension of his will, lay useless in the dirt, just out of reach of his new, clumsy anatomy. What had happened!
He wobbled around, unsteady on legs that bent all wrong, his hooves scraping the dirt in stiff, jerky movements. Each step sent a jolt through his spine, too long, too rigid, and his tail flicked instinctively at nonexistent flies. His breath came in hot bursts through flared nostrils, the scent of disturbed earth and his own sweat sharp in the air. Focus, he urged himself, but his thoughts scattered like startled birds. The demon’s laughter echoed in his skull, even though the creature was long gone. And he remained here like this, staring at his sword.
Quickly, he scraped at the earth with his hooves, the sharp sound of them striking the dirt mocking him. Each frantic scrape only pushed his sword further away, the polished hilt glimmering mockingly in the sunlight. He snorted, his breath hot and ragged, muscles tensing beneath his new hide in a futile display of frustration. His instincts screamed for him to seize the blade, his blade, between teeth that had become flat and useless, only capable of tearing at grass. Another whinny erupted from his throat, this one raw with exasperation.
Then, his ears perked up as he heard the woman speak; he noticed her tilting her head, observing him with the detached curiosity of a botanist examining an unusual fern. He stepped forward, nostrils flaring, attempting to gesture with his muzzle toward the treeline where the demon had disappeared. But his body betrayed him; his urgent attempt translated into an awkward stomp, his hoof kicking up a clod of dirt that landed with a pitiful plop at her sandaled feet. As he tried to warn her, he neighed like a fool, his eyes wide with alarm, damn!
The priestess was quiet as she untangle the thorn vines around the strange creature’s legs. She believed it was some sort of horse monster but didn’t sense any demonic energy. Which was why she helped free it from the vines. One the legs were healed she stood up and brushed off her miko kimono. “There you go.”
He had been dozing off among the vines. Can you really blame him? Everything felt so exhausting, utterly exhausting. He despised being out here, and he loathed being on these worthless islands too. Why was it always him chosen for such missions? Was it because of his devil fruit powers? It hardly seemed fair; they should send another knight, someone else entirely. All he desired was to be in bed, sleeping, dreaming, and unwinding. This was far too much effort, laden with stress. Danger? Not really, but he was supposed to be deep undercover when he stumbled into the vines and simply dozed off instead of trying to escape them.
Gradually, he blinked, his long-lashed eyes fluttering open as the priestess knelt beside him, her fingers skilfully loosening the thorny vines wrapped around his equine legs. The sensation was strange, not just the feeling of someone working to liberate him, but the absence of pain. Typically, he would have anticipated the thorns to pierce deeply, drawing blood worthy of his holy status. Yet here, in this serene grove, there was only the gentle rustle of leaves and the priestess's soft breath as she toiled away.
As he watched her rising from the ground? She had actually helped him? He tilted his head and exhaled, undercover, right, right. If it looks like a horse, walks like a horse, sounds like a horse, then it is a horse. A saying? No, he had just made it up, as his head drooped, nearly slipping back into slumber. But she had freed him, using devil fruit powers or perhaps something else? Intriguing, maybe, just maybe she was worth his time. This island, still unexplored, held much, but she was undoubtedly the most fascinating thing here. He took a moment to look her over, kind, intriguing, and strong, definitely someone worth staying close to.
Not the poetic kind sung about in monks' hymns … no rivers of fire, no demons with rusted tongs. Just the deck beneath him, sticky with his own blood, the air thick with smoke and the stench of burning pitch. Fuchi's weight pressed against him, too light, too still. The blond's breath came in shallow, irregular hitches, each one shuddering through His ribs like a dull blade twisting.
"Fuchi—"
Slowly his voice cracked, raw as split timber. He barely recognized the sound as his own. The deck tilted beneath him, waves slamming against the hull with enough force to send a tremor through his spine. Fuchi's weight slumped against him, boneless, the blond's breaths shallow and uneven against the crook of his neck.
“Fuck!”
The ship groaned … a deep, guttural sound that resonated through the soles of his sandals. Flames clawed up the mast, tongues of fire flickering against the night sky, casting grotesque shadows that danced over Fuchi's pallid face. His fingers, slick with blood and sweat, curled instinctively around Fuchi's wrist. The pulse beneath his thumb was weak, erratic … like a dying bird's wings fluttering against his palm.
He couldn't carry him. Not like this. Not with one arm gone and the other shaking from exertion. But he couldn't leave him. Not when Fuchi's lips were stained crimson, his breaths coming in wet, ragged gasps.
“Shit!”
The mast snapped overhead with a sound like breaking bones. He rolled them both sideways just as flaming rigging crashed where Fuchi's head had been moments before. Sparks scattered across the deck, catching in Fuchi's pale hair like fireflies. As he pressed Fuchi against the wooden rails, ducking him in there as he leaned down and kissed him.
“I am sorry, but the land, needs people like you to make it better, people like me, no.”
The kiss tasted like blood and salt, fleeting but searing … an unspoken vow pressed between lips. He pulled back first, his teeth gritted against the pain radiating from his ruined shoulder. Fuchi's fingers trembled where they'd clutched his collar, slackening now, confusion and exhaustion dulling his usually sharp gaze. "Stay down, that is my last command to you." He murmured, pressing his forehead to Fuchi's one last time. The blond's skin was clammy, his breath uneven. It was all the confirmation he needed.
“I am already cursed Fuchi, I drank the elixir, I cannot go back.”
He stood. The motion sent fresh agony lancing through his torso, but the deck beneath his feet felt solid despite the flames chewing through the ship’s bones. The elixir at his hip burned hotter now, its pulse synchronizing with his own frantic heartbeat. Ahead, through the veil of smoke, she stood … perched on the railing like a carrion bird surveying its meal, everyone who had fought her, had been swatted down like flies. The fan in her hand dripped rust-colored fluid, her newly feminine form silhouetted against the inferno. She hadn’t fled. She’d waited. Watched. And he made his way towards her.
“We both aren’t getting to the mainland, we both die here.”
He maintained his gaze on her, all six of those piercing eyes, unblinking and steadfast, resembling a predator analysing prey that refused to act as it should. The water that separated them vibrated with the intensity of his presence, thick with the aroma of salt and something ancient, something profound. His claws flexed once more, the movement intentional, probing the silence like a blade testing flesh. "You speak," he whispered, the words echoing through the water like a bell tolling, "as if you comprehend us." The accusation hung in the air, sharp and palpable beneath the surface.
"Humans have destroyed the world, and you are quick to defend your own kind, hm?"
His grip tightened just enough, not enough to leave a mark, but sufficient to stop Kikyo's gentle retreat. A ripple of water surged outward as Doma's fingers reached toward her, his grin expanding with predatory pleasure. Before the pale mermaid could bridge the gap, his tail flicked once, a silent command that made Doma recoil with an exaggerated pout. "Tsk. Always so possessive," Doma chimed, twirling a strand of silver hair around his claw. Yet he complied, floating just out of reach, though his gaze remained locked on Kikyo with an unsettling hunger.
"You are mistaken," He intoned, his voice a deep rumble that resonated through Kikyo's ribs. His six eyes traced the contour of her throat, the quickening of her pulse, always observing, always analysing. "This is not mercy." Each word was pronounced with intention, each syllable heavy like a stone sinking into deep water. "You entertain me. That is all." His claws brushed against her side, not breaking the skin but marking her with the promise of their potential. "And entertainment is... scarce."
The weight of his gaze enveloped Kikyo like a tangible force, six golden eyes scrutinizing her with a meticulousness that sent shivers across her skin, even in the frigid water. His claws hovered near her ribs, neither digging in nor pulling back, as if he were torn between the urge to slice her open or allow her to float away. The silence elongated, interrupted only by the sporadic flick of Doma’s tail as he circled them like a predator awaiting its meal.
"You entertain me, human." He reiterated, this time more deliberately, savouring each syllable. His voice echoed through the water, vibrating against Kikyo’s bones. "But do not confuse this for compassion." His fingers twitched, claws brushing against the fabric of her shirt without tearing it. "Compassion is for the feeble." The corner of his mouth quirked, not a smile, but something more sinister, something that made the shadows in the tank seem to tighten around them.
"I have no intention of killing you." He stated as he reached out, his hand encircling her throat, applying a slight pressure to pry her mouth open, while his other hand moved to her face, a claw gliding down to slice her palm, the blood mingling with the water as he covered her mouth. "I intend to enlighten you." He declared as he pressed his hand over her mouth, allowing his blood to blend with the water in her mouth.
"You will become like us... you were... curious about us, observing, learning, mocking us with your studies; now you can experience it firsthand instead.”
Her fingers twitched once against the mattress, the final conscious signal from a body that had ultimately succumbed to the toxin that had slithered through her veins. The lazy rotations of the ceiling fan etched themselves into her fading vision, blurring, doubling, and then fading into darkness as her eyelids closed with the finality of a tomb. Her breath became shallow, her lips parting slightly around an unfinished syllable, the damp heat of the apartment enveloping her like a second skin.
She didn't dream. Not in the way that ordinary people did. Her unconsciousness was a black velvet void where memories emerged like corpses in a still pond, her father's bamboo sword cracking against her knuckles at the age of seven, the wet gurgle of a target's last breath in Osaka, the phantom weight of a flute she hadn't touched in decades. Tonight, the corpse drifting toward her bore Kagutsuchi's smile.
The first sensation she registered was the taste, coppery and something sickeningly sweet, clinging to her tongue like spoiled honey. Her eyelids peeled apart with the sticky reluctance of old tape, the morning light piercing through the gap in her curtains with the precision of a scalpel. She blinked against it, her lashes snagging on something crusted at the corners. The ceiling fan wobbled lazily above her, its uneven rotation casting distorted shadows across the water stain shaped like a screaming face that she had dubbed 'Landlord' last winter.
“Ugh.”
With a slow groan, she turned onto her side, her muscles protesting like rusty hinges. The sheets carried a faint scent of detergent, real detergent, not the stale remnants of vodka and sweat that typically lingered in her bedding. She squinted at the neatly arranged pile of clean clothes on the chair, the fabric crisp and devoid of wrinkles, as if it were mocking her very existence. What transpired last night was a mystery to her; did that idiot actually put her to bed, tidy up her place, and then leave? What a loser.
"Fucking hell."
The shower hissed to life even before she stood, steam curling around the bathroom door like a tempting invitation. She forced herself upright, her bare feet meeting floorboards that were suspiciously free of dirt. Every surface sparkled, no empty bottles lined up like tombstones, no cigarette butts drowning in old ramen cups. Even the damn spider had vanished. Her reflection in the mirror stared back at her with a mix of suspicion and fatigue, dark circles under her eyes resembling smudged ink.
Stepping under the scalding water with a hiss, she let it wash away the grime. The soap had a lemon scent, unlike the cheap drugstore bars she usually kept. She scrubbed until her skin turned pink, trying to ignore the phantom sensation of hands that weren’t hers, hands that had touched her while she slept, rearranging her life like a dollhouse.
Dressed in clean clothes that actually fit, she padded into the kitchen. The fridge hummed, filled with groceries she had no recollection of buying. The first sip of water hit her stomach like a jolt, cold and clear, a stark contrast to the usual burn of morning whiskey. She despised how good it felt. Had her sister been here? She was the only other person with a key to her apartment, always fussing, always worrying, always helping. This place was immaculate, perfect, as clean as could be; she liked it. Maybe her sister had been around, because all she remembered was drifting off last night.
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