*:☾･⋆myrberry⋆𐦍

9teen | obsessed with yurism, witches, fantasy and whimsical things

[mulberrymyrtle]

it's summer hihi, I've decided to be more active on tumblr... ^^

im a bit bored and had writing block for months so... im opening some short drabbles/one-shots for the following fandoms, mainly :

phantom busters

my hero academia

percy jackson

genshin impact

project hail mary

and like way more... js request atp pls guys I need this.... my moms kinda homeless...

also... I'm in need for some MOOTS!?!

[mulberrymyrtle]

who wants to see a genshin x reader where ur apart of the hexenzirkel and reader is lowki newt scamander.... say AYE.....????? anyone... am I muted...

pls all I've been thinking all these months is genshin...

[mulberrymyrtle]

SOMETHING ABOUT YOU

(i.midoriya x reader)

SUMMARY : izuku falling inlove at first sight on vestige! reader 𐐂𐐚 word count : 1.7k words 𐐂𐐚 note : reader is 17!  a/n : just some thoughts im deep in the depths of writers block man, dunno if I should make this a full-fledged one-shot. this is so ass and ballsacks and just me rambling, enjoy tho! also, reblogs and comments are appreciated c: thank u!

curious!izuku who's been researching everything about OFA, countless of tabs open, notebooks neatly stacked on his desk that towers him like a shadow. 

curious!izuku who's been burying himself to know each and every little thing about the past users, from their quirks down to even the simplest of things (he once asked All Might with a straight-face what kind of color Nana Shimura liked, for "research" he argues) 

curious!izuku who wonders, if there's been 9 users before him, why are there only 8 people in the vestige realm? and each passing day where he meets the vestiges, he increasingly racks up the courage to ask, so he does.

and the answer he gets? a part of him gets a tad bit frustrated. 

"you're not ready for them, tenth," says the second, his crimson gaze that burns with warning. 

not ready?  izuku almost wants to ask again, but swallows it down to his usual composure, bubbling up another question. 

'when can I be ready?'

all of the vestiges shake their head, "never tenth, they'd be too much for you.

and it ended there. 

but like always he wanted to learn more. 

vigilante!izuku who's head swirls at the lack of rest, food, and water. the thud of his feet against wrecked buildings and the buzz of blackwhip numbing his fingers. theres blood, warm and slow that drips over his temple. 

"come back 'ere, " a grating voice mocks, a ravenous tone that makes it seem that izuku is prey. his heavy steps that cause trembles to the ground, that vibrate through his body. "come 'ere lil' bunny! "

he shivers at the villains words, a lithe anger that rings tight and taut through his body. and maybe it's the lack of rest, his feet slips through a puddle, his whole twisting and turning as he plummets hard infront of the villain. 

oh no, he whines internally, shit. 

the fatigue he faces from catching three jailbreakers prior reaches up to his body, the overwhelming pain limps him helpless. he can't lift a finger, feel the spark of OFA cull to him, and with the steps of the villain inching closer -- izuku might as well find himself, dead. 

but like any other, he is stubborn, a dead man can't fix the world. so he stands, even when his organs are curling in his body, even when his legs wobble and ache for mercy. he stands.

vigilante!izuku who prepares to throw every punch to this villain, watching as the man's hand flicker and bundle up with pulsing energy. 

he can do this, he thinks, hes faced even worse.

yet he stumbles, his breath shortens and he can't help but continue to cough. in a short moment, his throat tighten. the villains large hands curling around his throat, the warmth he emits bubbling through izuku's flesh. hes seething disgustingly with joy as izuku struggles within his grasp, izuku tries to bundle up his quirk, but it flickers like a dying ember. 

so he really was going to die? he wriggles helplessly, feeling the overwhelming sadness come to his mind. 

help. 

how long has it been, ever since hes said help? 

help. 

how long will it take for the villain to finally blow through his body? 

help. 

how can he call himself, a hero? 

"don't struggle," a voice echoes through his mind. "just breathe."

the voice, even in this situation, lulls him over like soft waves. it whispers in his ears like a caress of wind, it's soft. soft enough to drip over his racing mind like the morning dew, sweetly and gently it pulls him in to listen to it. 

"don't give up," it whispers again, and he knows he can't see anyone, but it's as if someone is blowing warmth to his ears. it rekindles the fire and changes stiffened muscles and aches in him, the hope in him. 

"you'll be okay."

he wants to reply, wants to see their face, wants to desperately lean in. if he gets closer, maybe their voice could free him from everything. 

'i don't know. how can I win this?"

the voice let's out a soft laugh, "then let me help?"

wait, no, no, no.... he's now suspicious, he can't let this random voice do this? are they apart of shigaraki's masterplan? a telepathic quirk set on destroying him? 

"sh," it comes out once again, "believe in me." 

he says nothing, his eyes slipping deeper and deeper to the dark. then, something touches him, unlike the heavy pressure of the villain choking his neck. unlike the sneers and spit the villain puts to his face, unlike the heaviness of it all. 

this one tickles, almost as if someone was teasing their fingers up his arm. the soft pads of skin ghosting over him it makes him shiver, he can't even make out if someone was there, he let's the voice breathe life into his depleting body. 

then, it arises, a tiny pulse of fire shifting within the cold. it buzzes through his body, similar to OFA, he notes. yet this one feels the rush of winds, it swirls around him like the kiss of spring. 

then the breeze turns solid, dense when it weighs in izuku's palm. 

even the villain sputters in surpise, his eyes flickering at whatever izuku is holding. dropping him in a haze, writhing back. 

even he is surpised, watching as the bundle of light calm down to show a staff made of wood. it is littered with moss nestled in gaps, it grows large to reach the sun, and there are flowers that start to bloom life. 

it's so unfamiliar, it's nothing he's seen before. 

but it vibrates affection in his hands, nestling perfectly in his hold.

"take care of it," the voice says once again, guiding him to raise it to the villain. watching as the flowers glow with light that swirls within the darkened sky. 

"breathe," the voice commands. "dont let the energy consume you."

he breathes, even if the accumulating energy starts to bang on his bones. making him kneel at the force. 

"don't let it consume you," it repeats, "its just like OFA, let it spread, make terms with what you're feeling."

so he does. 

it hums, like it finally agrees with izuku, allowing the energy to rush through the point of the staff. 

"what a natural," it chuckles, feeling them wrap themselves around his body, "youre good at this arent you? tenth?"

he shivers,  nodding, finding the staff light up with patterns, sigils that dance around him. 

"now repeat after me :

Oh elena

heed nin est-

an im am cín devoted híl"

the voice rings it like a ballad, the words trip and stumble in izuku's tongue but he still manages it. he watches the twinkle of the star bloom brighter when it does so. 

"Oh anor, 

bless hi hén i ant."

he repeats it once again, the thunder roaring. 

"Daro- ogol

glanna ah- lothron i talan-o miserui

di ammen teli -na mir - once ad.”

izuku peers down, watching as small tufts of grass pool underneath his shoes, curling to his legs. 

"now shout this with all your might," the voice says with a smile, with excitement. "hold the staff tightly, make sure you hold it like a friend."

"Lotórea! "

the word ripples through izuku's mouth, scorching with energy, the rain pausing at the pure whiffs of light. a sigil appears on the tip of the staff, littered with symbols of something ancient, bouncing around him like flecks of dust. 

it feels almost magical. 

it shoots out a beam of light at the villain, watching it engulf the energy blast the man sent. wrapping it like vines. seeing how it pulses and heaves, almost too real. 

then the ball explodes, blinding him in the process, the shouts of the villain tuning out in his ears. 

then, an uncomfortable sound of silence comes next. there is no mocking sneer, the harsh pits of rain do not crowd his ears.

"open your eyes, tenth," the voice sweetly urges, when he does, his mouth shutters open. 

there are gorgeous flowers that covers every tile, petals that descend slowly through the air, there are shrubs, and there is life, the dingy alleyway he was once struggling in had turned into an area swept out of a fairytale. 

izuku, who stares at the mysterious figure, and maybe it's the way the voice wasn't his imagination, but rather a person, makes his heart stutter. 

they're close, he notes, too close. 

they peer at him with a sparkle in their eyes, like he was a specimen only for their liking. he notes the way the silk of fabric on their shoulders flow on their body like the river.

his eyes travel down to assess them, like heat rising in his cheeks. 

and by heavens, this person looked like they belonged in this place. like they were meant to sit within tall grass as mildew rolls off the softness of their skin. as if they were a spirit that lounged in forests and slept soundly in flowers, a kind of face he'd make out in wispy dreams. 

then you smiled.

and he had stopped his analytical gaze right there. his fingers twitching at the sight, watching as your face scrunch up and study him even more. 

and you laughed. 

he couldn't say anything, he couldn't.

his tongue was twisting, his eyes rumbled, and he looked at you for so long that he could engrain every detail to his mind. let the curve of your smile etch with permanence to his brain, let the gaze of your eyes string through his heart that it may only beat through the rhythm of your laughter. 

what was this? awe? hope? admiration? 

or maybe, it could've been love. 

but he wasn't aware of that yet. just his mind racing of rationale and logic over emotions. all he gathered was that the flowers, that your touch, and your gaze melts him to security. its not one filled with pressure, it clouds him to a short moment of peace. 

this was the missing vestige, wasn't it?

for the first time in months, he had finally satiated his curiosity. 

but like always, he wanted to learn more. 

TRANSLATIONS :

“Oh elena heed nin est- an im am cín devoted híl” (Oh stars, heed my call for I am your devoted follower) 

Oh anor, bless hi hén i ant” (Oh sun bless this child the gift)

"Daro- ogol glanna ah- lothron i talan-o miserui di ammen teli- na mír- once ad-" (Let evil be purged and may the floors of misery beneath us come to shine once again)

“Lotórea!” (Bloom!)

a/n : yes, the words u guys are saying are elvish yes i love lotr and tolkien (no, its probably not accurate but im trying..) yes this is my way of saying id love to write a fanfic about a reader going crazy with being a witch/wizard epic fantasy style....hope ya liked it? 

[mulberrymyrtle]

birds of a feather!

chapter two

hello, ill be updating this on wattpad aswell (earlier updates here)! and im opening up reqs for phanbus and other fandoms, ask away </3

CHAPTER THREE : something's burning (wait, the stove)

She whispered to me, in her gently voice, the dead of the silent night peering over our nearing bodies. That my voice was of clay, pliable like our hands that touched under velvety sheets, and molded hotly to its desire. Molded so artistically, like a string of a bard's harp, plucked from a bird's chirp. That what came of was my voice : so unique, when chimed against other potters' creation.

Because, in her words, I was the only one who stood out. I molded myself in a way unforgotten, a song etched to memories that one could hum — but never fully complete. Dauntingly haunting, hauntingly beautiful.

Yet.

When I screamed at her, in that bloody night, will she still believe my voice was as beautiful as she whispered?

I beg of the spirits, that she still believed so.

SOMETHING BURNS.

Well, more of — something's burning, puffs of white heated steam wafting through the air. The slight scent of char, smokiness with a tinge of bitter ash that enters your nose. Your sight focuses on the gleam of the stainless steel pot, glinting iridescent hues when fire scorches the silverware lightly. The streams of white clouds that tickle your face when the soup simmers, bubbles of vegetables going with a "pop!" when it emerges from seas of broth. The sizzling of hot oil that sparkles bits of scalding acid to the air.

So mundane, so boring, you think. But that's for the better, you reasoned. (A bitter thought, another says.)

Shifting your gaze to the fire fueling on the stove-top, its mix of crimson and orange lures you in. Warmth emanating to your fingertips, you stand mesmerized, not by how elegantly it sways. But something different.

Almost like a bundle of fireflies in the dead of night, the fire began to glow brighter — at a rate one could argue was unnatural. Squinting, you peered in closer. Closer, and feeling the smoke emanate lightly, you make out a garbled mess of a shape.

Circles.

Bouncing, energetic pulses of recurring symbols were roaming in fire. Behaving like energetic children pouncing on summer's bright air. Inside the circles contain tiny sigil, structured almost with an ancient touch. Something one would uncover in cob-webbed stupors, dusty attics meddled in crawling spiders or fabrics woven under a witches' moonlight stroke. Which was your best bet, personally.

The symbols propelled like they called, beckoning itself to you.

Wait, why are there patterns in the fire?This must be a hallucination? Or are you daydreaming again?

Should you touch it? Hold it? Draw it?

"(Last Name)! Eyes on yer' food!" A rustic voice, scratchy, emerges you out of the gaze. "Or yer' gonna get a low score – on Home Ec, nonetheless." The teacher tuts, his head mercilessly analyzing every speck of your soup. "Stop starin' like someone's gonna turn it off for ya!"

You flinched at the tone, blinking out of the moment of haze. (So, that was the smell, the burning.)

Ah, right no can turn this off for me, you remembered. Nodding absentmindedly at his every critique, dropping more pinches of salt to the pot. Cringing to yourself when his fingers glaze over the lettuce you decked in cubes on the cutting board. As it was gleaming of bright green, when he starts prodding with an eye of judgment. His gaze lingers on the other vegetables that lay colorfully, carrots, an array of bell peppers, and bright tomatoes that were plump.

Your body stiffens at the intense stare-off he's having, hand to his stubbled chin, where he mumbles. "(Last Name)," he says gruff, you force your body to stand straight.

"Yes, Mr. Tanaka?" almost too quietly, shifting between his face and the assortment of food— what's his problem?

With yet another stare, he points to one of the cubed lettuce, "where did you buy these?"

Ah?

Tilting your head, like a lost pup in the wild, you mull over his question. "Sir?"

With a rather loud cough (which he's been doing alot), he taps his stubbed finger onto the wooden board. "I said, where did you buy these?"

Blinking in a slow way, you nod as you process it, "I didn't buy them, sir."

You hear an amused hum rumble from his throat, grabbing it as he wanders it over like an experienced jeweler at a pawn shop. "That so? Where didya' get them from?"

"My dad's garden," pausing the repeated stirring, your eyes burning through thick bubbles of stew.

"He takes care of them?"

"I…i do," your hand find itself tightening on the ladle. "He used to, though. Years ago."

He nods when he takes in your words, putting it down with a thud but his eyes still gleaming — a man who just discovered some lost treasure, you think.

He gives off a huff, "don't waste these pretty vegetables on a burning stew."

God, I'm not gonna poison him. You squint your eyes with defense, to protect the pot of... whatever it was. Stirring your ladle in repeated motions, stir, stir, stir.

"That looks dangerous," a voice echoes. Souta rumbles in the darks of your mind with his quipped remarks.

"Not like you can eat it," you shoot back in a hushed tone, "I wish you could."

"Not talking about the food," already hearing the nonchalant shrug that accompanies it, "but, it looks pretty nasty too."

"You're nasty," shaking your head, "what do you even mean?"

"You near a stove is a hazard," he whispers, which goes unheard of in your ears.

"What?"

"Hehe. Nevermind."

"Hehe? Hehe?"

"Hehe."

You grip even harder on the ladle's plastic handle, closing your eyes, letting the calming air fill your body.

"I heard that, you know," you mumble in a bitter tone, he shrugs at your annoyed face. Shifting his body around your worktable, translucent (or rather stubby-like) hands urging to phase through an unknowing classmate. (Which, you berate under whispered anger.)

"Oh wow, this table has amazing carvings," he ignores your words, drifting himself to gawk at the wood while he hums "ooh's" and "aah's". "Spectacular craftmanship, an eye for aesthetics."

"It's just a table, and it doesn't fit the house."

"A fantastic table!"

"Looks tacky." (Wrong, you love it but you'd never let him win over you.)

"Oh, it'd work great on the house," with a dreamy sigh, when he caresses it with excitement. Acting as if you'd comply with his wishes.

"That's my house — and don't switch topics, what do you mean 'I can't be near a stove'," pointing your lips to the appliance, "I'm doing just alright here! A good job actually."

"Yeah yeah," he rolls his eyes, "I'm the reason why my… your house hasn't died yet."

Clicking your toungue, as you sprinkle a dash of pepper to the pot. "If you weren't so hideous maybe I'd focus on it —"

"Kanzaki! Chop yer' damn vegetables!" Hearing the squawk of your teacher bust down your rising fight with Souta, hearing the dissapointed "tch" as a response. You turn to look at the new scene displayed infront, other students stopping to gaze as well.

"What are ya' doing?" He stumbles his feet to your far-left, peering at the group of four students. There's someone who places his head in his palm, flicking numbly at the pages.

A grimace rumbles to your face, it's him again. The signature scowl etched to his face, criss-cross of scars that contrasted against his paled skin.

Chanzaki.

"Uh, sir," a soft, mild voice butts in. "Kanzaki told us it was a cookbook."

"This is a cookbook?" Your professor snatches the "cookbook" nestled within Chanzaki's tight grip. Buzzing with curiosity, you stood a bit on your toes and zoomed in to what was between your teacher's hands.

The cover was anything but a cookbook, it was unlike the one's hidden deep in your grandmother's cupboards nor did it remotely resemble one. It was plain to see — it was obvious to most, it was manga.

"Delicious in dungeon," his gruff voice reading out to the group putting on nervous smiles. "That's a cookbook to you?"

"He says 'Senshi' is a master at culinary arts — uh, sir."

All Mr. Tanaka does is mumble under his breath, shaking his head with disappointment. Never returning the manga, throwing it onto his table. "Get back, or ya' failing, heard me?"

"What about my manga?"

"After school, kid."

When the commotion dies down, you hear a grumble.

"Senshi," ears perking up at Chanzaki's low pleas, clasping his hand with the knife. Which shakes at every breath he took, hesitant, maybe scared. "Senshi give me your cooking strength, guide me."

He grabbed the knife tightly and with no mercy, he doesn't slice the poor onions. There are multiple taps that echoed through the room — stabbing them with fervor, acting as if that onion had killed his precious family.

"Z-zaki!" A concerned voice has Chanzaki break out of his intense ritual. Observing how the green-haired boy (Takon..? Daikon?) nudges at the boy's shoulder. He puts his hand upon Chanzaki's lowering the knife down slowly.

"I can do that," he mumbles, "I don't want you breaking my mom's cutting board," he utters it with mild concern, but hints of sentimentality riddles his word.

"Oh, sorry."

"Just, how about I teach you?" Daikon nervously mutters, guiding him slowly. All the white-boy does is nod along, the two moving along in soft harmony.

Weird.

You shook your head, focusing on something else. Looking back to the teacher's desk, the browned pages of manga strewn across. Unfolding its' story to your unknowing eyes, you catch pages of animals, magical ones— a Basilisk, is what you see. Piercing eyes that poison your bones with uncured venom attached to a chicken's feathered body, its feet sharp with talons. You follow the way it rushes through the page, attacking the characters with a staff and glinting swords at bay.

It shakes, shakes your very being, inching closer to the manga, your mouth opening slightly. Taking a soft breath, you hesitantly switch your gaze to your distracted teacher (busy with his coughing fits). Nodding slow at the information, you once again returned to the story awaiting to be told.

Fingertips touching the edges, you flit to more panels. The illustration you see next has your mind swirl, awed at the magical creature nestled within the page. It's body towering, even if it was stuck to a piece of paper, you could feel it. The wings that flapped strong winds, the scales sharp, pointy and ready to deflect, and it's striking lizard-like snout.

A dragon, you see a dragon.

Your heart wilds at the sight of it.

Next thing you know, you've been sucked in the story — and you were creating your own.

You drift off to a world undiscovered, imagining yourself in such position, Running within the earth that cracked to debris in each step the dragon takes. Body sloshing with intensity, mind frazzled and dazed when you feel its' smoke creep up to your skin.

Turning back, you flinched, it commanded the space around the field — hogging up every patch of dirt. Stinging red scales that glistened upon the setting sun, sharp teeth stained with blood of innocents, and eyes filled with hunger.

You continue to evade its edged claws, the pressure from each blow felt through your skin. The roars bustling down trees and shaking clouds above, a losing fight. Pounding onto every bit as if it yearned for destruction, basked in chaos.

Scary? Oh definitely, the way your throat has been scratched, feet numbing at every step. And there is not only an intense sting in the way your heart pumps fear, but the taut stringing of your muscles in your arms. The harsh ache from the left of your arm, the sensation like pricking red ants munching on your flesh.

It hurt like it spoke, urging, begging you — pulsing excitedly within the confines of your wooled sleeves.

No. You think to yourself, you couldn't!

Yet death lingered nearer, clutching harder to your left arm when the shadow of the dragon has caught up. It holds in a startling breath, fumes erupting from its snout. Coughing up bits of growing ash that swirled and shrouded the two of you, its throat chugging up fuel when the crackles of fire burst from its tongue.

Just do it, your hand shakes, urging up —

Don't, don't, don't. I can't show that, I can't let you free.

You have to, it relents.

Can't we keep running?

But when death looms over, so strong, unrelenting.

Hiding would never be an option, it whispers against your skin. But surviving would be — and how does one live, when they continue to run?

With a shaky breath, you bring your finger up to the sky. Crackling the same heat the fierce dragon emitted, feeling the sun shoot down its rays to connect beams your finger.

Breathe.

So you did.

Allow the burn to course through your veins.

So you did.

And allow it to work with you, cherish the blooming you feel in your flesh.

So you did.

A luminescent orange, fiery crimson emanates from your palms — the stinging of your arm calming. You draw onto the sky, streaks of neon lights showing through as a drawn circle hovered in the air.

Then, push! Push all of your emotions!

So you did.

With a loud grunt, the circle glowed a sigil, the similar intricate patterns you saw within the stove. An enormous, daunting fire swallowed the dragon.

Then all you saw was burning, burning, burn —

"— Burning! Burning!"

A voice screeches, your mind flickering out of your dreaming. Groaning a while when you do so. (You really wanted to fight a dragon, a tiny voice says.)

"Burning?" you mumble softly, before you eyes widened.

Your stove was burning.

You flinched away from the scene, flickering your gaze back to the manga and your fingers (which feel hot.) Before burly arms push you off, the spritz of white foam clouding up your table.

There are panicked students that scramble across the room, some patting their aprons against the never-ending fire.

Yet, some choose to gawk, such as two boys who watched with widened eyes. (Kanzaki squints at the scene, he swore he saw a flicker of a strong spirit. And Tamon swore he's heard multiple voices before the explosion came — and it was from your way.)

They look at each other in confusion, before slowly nodding to confirm what they've witnessed. (And Kanzaki's slight complaint of his manga, it seems like he won't be able to get it after school.)

"(Last Name)!" Mr. Tanaka berates, "What happened!" grabbing onto your shoulders.

"Uh —" you swallow a lump in your throat, darting nervously. You couldn't really explain. "I'm sorry sir?"

"A sorry ain't enough kid!" He sputters, before shaking his head down. Your eyes not daring to gaze in his disappointed look, focusing on the shining brooch of a Sakura blossom attached to his collar. "Whatever, no one's that hurt, are ya' okay?"

You nodded, before an idea pops up in your head (the internet said it would work!) "Lettuce not talk about this?"

All he does is give a deadpan at your words.

He clicks his tongue and pats your shoulder, "extra work for ya' (Last Name) — no extensions! Write me a five-page apology!"

"Okay sir," you say with a dejected look, bowing slightly. The bell signals the end of Home Ec, your classmates whispering while you felt some give looks your way. ("Always in a world of her own!" They whisper.)

"She's always causing some trouble," another says, his body leaning closer.

"I know," the other replies, "heard she was even worse in middle school."

You did it again, you berated mentally, holding onto your left arm in slight disgust.

Then, you were alone, stumbling in the empty classroom.

"I though jokes were a good way to deflect situations?" you whisper with a slight frown on your face. "Google lied to me."

"They didn't mean nerdy puns," Souta shakes his head, gracing upon the charred table. "Told you it was dangerous to bring you near a stove! Always relying on me to turn it off… you ruined a perfectly good table!"

"Plant puns are pretty cool, someone will get it!"

"No one will."

"Leaf me alone," you pout, rushing away to get changed. You didn't save a book full of them for nothing.

"God, this is why you're unpopular."

"It's a work in progress," sputtering when you try to shoo him with a wave of your hand. "It gets worse before it gets better," you reasoned when he rolls his eyes, fading in the air.

"Be careful, will you?" He reminds, a hint of concern when his sight settles briefly to your arms. "It's getting out of hand."

What? You ponder on his words, hand tracing against the now-formed charcoal. Looking back at the table, the scent of oak in your nose. Your eye widens.

A sigil, embossed deeplythrough cracks of wood. Eerily similar to the imaginary circle you've drawn in the haze of your daydreams.

The fire.

Was it your negligence? Your mind's tendency to shift to a world unknown?

Because.

Your finger feels like it carried the lingers of heavy ash and the blaring passion of heat bursting through your skin.

And somehow, you can feel the remnants of the burn seeping through your left arm.

—

PHILOSOPHERS DEEPLY RAVE THAT "KNOWLEDGE IS KEY," the rustic sting when it clicks, unlocks the perfect mold of undiscovered information that is enough to make one weep. (So they explain, through their pages and pages of academia.) Humanity has greatly risen within waters of a world that constantly drowned them. They learned to adapt through harsh winters, survived plagues, and improved vastly to now live in world of comfort.

Now, if knowledge truly was key, could said key unlock a way to avoid a stubborn man (or men)? Particularly if said-stubborn man has been turning up your every corner. Or what to do when he's been chasing you ever since lunch started? Could Aristotle descend from whatever afterplane he was on and hand you the key to get you of this?

"Leave me alone, Shishikuno!" Echoing through busy halls, sliding through the squeaky floors. Turning back to see him rush through you like firebolts.

"Ya' gotta join! Ya' gotta!" He calls out, his eyes manic, his passion unheard of. "Please, please!"

Oh philosophers, how do I outrun him! You think no amount of Socrates, Jean-Paul Sartre or the rambling of your philosophy teacher had no use for you.

You slumped against the cemented walls, sweat pooling on your forehead. Hearing the soft echoes of "(Last Name),(Last Nameee)!" singing outside the library with mischief tingled in. "Where are youuu?"

Ugh, Shishikuno, you quietly grumbled inside, hiding in the looming piles of books. Looking around to see if he went away well more of hearing — he was man heard before he was seen.

When all you hear are the quiet snores of the librarian and pit pats of books thudding against tables. No sign of a boisterous fanged-boy ready to invade your personal space, you deemed it safe. Allowing yourself to breathe in the air-conditioned room, its fresh air removing your sweat. Replacing the panic with freshly-scented lemons and books.

"(Last Name), look they've got a book on furniture from different time periods," that voice, that whiny voice interrupts the calmness you relieved yourself in.

You resist the urge to scream, when one leaves, another comes in it seems. You slowly turn to see Souta who's body was deathly close to a section of books named "Houses."

Hearing the slight gushes that emit from his tongue, he phases through each and every cover. Bustling your ears off to deck them off the shelves, ordering you on what pages to settle on. Flipping on old text of Japanese furniture during the Taisho era with a tired look on your face.

"Flip faster!" He urges, waving his hands to your face. "Focus! Focus!"

Groaning, you gave a sharp look before flicking it to his desired page. "I can't believe you."

"God, that lantern has the best bamboo I've ever seen," he muses, "better than some of your choices."

"What choices?" you back out of your mindless flipping frenzy.

"Flowers," he drawls, lying on the air with a relaxed face. "The garden back home, horrendous, really."

Throwing the book high up in the air, which lands with a harsh slap (and a little "quiet!" from someone) There is a deep gasp that rumbles deep in both your throat and ego.

"Don't you dare diss the garden, it's dad's hard work!" You jab a finger harshly to his direction, finger curling into the table — deep enough to leave marks. "We worked hard on it," you murmur, thumb now resting over a leather diary scattered onto the table. "We all did."

There is silence when you say those words.

No witty remark emerges quickly nor a click of his tongue fills in the quiet. So he disappears once again (eyes carrying a slight tint regret when he does)

Peace fills in.

You sighed, pushing away the table your feet smoothing along carpeted floors. Wandering amongst the piles of bookshelves that made of a confusing labyrinth. The walls had chips of dried, old paint, pieces of tape holding together "motivational" posters in a desperate manner. Twists and turns of vastly colored spines entered your vision, titles that ranged from well-thought out academic papers to confusing ones that have you double check on who published it. You balanced on creaking stools with a little laugh, bent your back to touch the highest books, and caressed browning pages with glee.

Then in your momentary adventure, you stop to discover a sign that has you peer with fascination.

"Gardening," walking towards the direction of the specific section, a soft chitter of a conversation buzzing behind the shelves. Sticking behind an array of books to hide, using the gaps to scan over who were in the area.

Two students, from a different year maybe? They were engrossed, letting out little hums of engagement when they flicker to pages of flower-filled information. Parchments decked However, dust bunnies might've hopped at every given moment, for every turn of a page came a loud inducing cough from one of the guys. (Just as bad as Mr. Tanaka, you think.) And there was a gleam from one of their collars when the windows were shifting bits of light — the same Sakura brooch Mr. Tanaka wore.

Putting the book down, the girl looks over to her friend, the palm of her hand soothing over the others' back. "It's been getting worse, hasn't it?" She had hints of concern in her eyes, a rather sad look.

"Uh," her friend coughs again, "uh, yeah —"

"Why aren't you resting?" She cuts her friend off, shaking her rapidly.

"The gardening club, yanno," The friend mumbles, her hands fiddling with nervousness. "I gotta do after school clubs, and there's been tons of problems…"

"But you're really sick dude!" She butts in, before covering her mouth in a hurry, darting around in self-conciousness. "And the gardening club's the reason why — look at Mr. Tanaka and… and your other members." She drawls off with slight fear, facing away from her.

The girl stares for a brief moment, before bursting in a short chuckle.

"The rumors aren't true, Misao." Her friend waves her off with a lazy grin. "The gardening club isn't haunted by some 'vengeful ghost'," she utters with a mocking tone. "And the weird sickness thing the club's been having is probably just pollen, trust me."

She holds up her pinky up to her friend, curling it together — 'Misao' stays silent, her breathing hardly heard. You notice how close they are, how worried Misao when her friend tilts it like an innocent girl, free from the coughs, from the sickness plaguing her.

"Just, stay safe," she replies, "I don't wanna lose a friend."

"Swear on it."

They stay close for a while, bathing themselves solemnly in the afternoon sun. In a way, they both glowed. Their grip tightening even more.

"Well," Misao coughs with an awkward tint on her face, "for all the time you waste there, does it atleast look… pretty?"

"Course, I'm literally there!" A horrid reply comes, making Misao chuckle. Pointing to the window, "just look!" Then, she drags the girl off her poor feet while Misao whines at the harsh tugs. The two of them huddled in a small space to stick their faces onto the glass. Their girlish laughs and small banter ringing through the quiet atmosphere.

"Pretty good, I guess," Misao turns to face her friend. "Bet I'd do better, though." She gives a challenging look, nudging her by the shoulder.

"You're too chicken to enter," her friend gets closer, a teasing smile to her lips. "Scared of ghosts aren't ya," she whispers near.

"What! Fumiyo!" Misao slaps her lightly with an embarassed look, "I don't!"

"Plus," Fumiyo leans her head on Misao's shoulder, her silken hair flowing through. "You might get sick, like…me, you said yourself. Our club members have been getting coughs all of a sudden. Even Mr. Tanaka, the club advisor's been sick."

Misao pauses, her tanned hand reaching to encase it with Fumiyo's.

"You'll get cured," she re-assures her (or maybe herself) "I know it."

"Be with me til' then?"

"Who else will listen to you ramble about herbs?"

The two girls then laughed, staring off to look at the garden below.

The scene made your heart quicken, and you didn't know why.

You remove yourself from the scene, a fluttering up your chest. Putting down such strange feeling, you strolled to the nearest window. Swallowing the warmth that spread throughout the frosted glass. Leaning your forehead against it to stare at the grass melting through the sun's heated glaze, insects that whirred across, small animals burrowing in soft earth and a patch that broke monotony of greens.

A flower field, bundles of purples, red, pinks spilling over puffy bushes. Merging and shifting like the hue of an iridescent of a floating bubble, held by a gentle touch. The rows and rows of flowers weren't uniform per se, from above they grew in a direction it preferred. Forming curved lines of pink tulip spirals, springing orchids, or dangling vines that hung from poles. But even if they differed — they all reached for the sun's touch.

Your fingers find its way to the handle, letting the air-conditioned breeze merge with warm winds. Gazing out even further, seeing small dots of people tending to the flowers below. Squinting even further, there's a splotch of a color that stood out of the vibrant display.

Black.

Singular it was, a petite puddle devoid of the hues surrounding it. Yet, it shifted, liquefied, seeping through cracks — oozing inside stems of tulips. It moved to choke, filling up the light pink tulip with buckles of never-ending black. Twisting itself like a cobra grasping at its prey, squeezing it — bubbles of the goo popping in small splashes.

Choke. Choke. Choke.

Then it burst suddenly, making you look outside to see if it was real.

It was gone.

ONCE AGAIN, YOU HID IN THE LIBRARY. Seeping yourself through the shelves, delving your head through pages of gardening puns. Because it was much better than having Shishikuno having to chase you relentlessly. The way he barges in your room, how he sits himself near you in lunch, or the pats of feet catching up to you during dismissal. Always filling your head up of "ghosts" and how "cool" it'd be if you were in his club. (Which, you're sure hasn't been official, sleazy guy.)

But, what was left of the tulip, was of grainy dust.

_

What was this, his fifth time this week? And it was just a Tuesday, banging your forehead against the thick stack. Groaning like a tired worker dealing with unruly customers. It doesn't help that trouble pops up whenever he does.

"That Shishikuno," you grimaced from within. "He's really pollen on my leg, guys."

You looked up to see a bundle of tiny sparrows settling on the window to your front. Leaning in closer, your face urging for a positive reaction. All they do is hop their claws along, nuzzling themselves to your blazer.

"Not good?" pouting to yourself, their beaks pricking at the polyester — strays of thread unraveling. "Hey, hey, no," you tutted gently, removing the sparrow from creating a puddle of strings. "Bad bird."

It backs down with a little chirp, sad-like as it patters along the wooden floor. You sigh at the attitude, fingers gently stroking its feathers. They've been hanging around you lately, you note. Every time you show up to their tree, its been empty when the birds settle on your shoulders, hair, or the pocket of your fraying blazer. The sparrow then nudges you with a happy tap of its beak, before stealing a plastic bag of millet and titters away.

"H-hey!" Reaching out to see the thief already gone, a little whisper in agony from you lips. "Bad bird!"

Then loud mumbles erupt from the shelf beside you, quite familiar.

Those two girl again? Thinking about what happened days ago — the black goo, the dust. You shake your head, none of your business, it makes your skin catch up in goosebumps. You sigh, picking off books to wander at.

The Complete Gardener, you read the title and settle it down.

The Collection of Amazing Plant Puns, nodding in fascination, adding it to the piles.

How To Socialize Without Puking (Be Popular Quick!), another book proposes and you stack up. You decided that would be tonight's read.

Getting another book, a fanciful font in its spine. A gap showing through, turning your gaze to look up to pick another.

A boy with a wide, expectant smile, his crimson eyes, hopeful, wait — you can't put a boy to a pile of books.

"(Last Name)!" Shishikuno gleams, reaching through the small gap, trying to pat your shoulder. "Nice meeting ya' here, eh?"

You screamed, well, screamed appropriately enough for a library. Chucking the thick book to his forehead, he doesn't react, a bloom of red emerging from his skin. "That's not how ya' normally greet people but I'll take it!"

"Shishikuno!" You shout through the gap that separated you both. Before someone "shushes" you.

The two of you turn in sync to acknowledge it, as you cough. "Shishikuno!" You whisper-shout, clutching to the edge, peering at him with a doubtful eye.

"(Last Name)," he returns with a sly grin, nodding. "So…" putting an arm around his neck.

"No."

"You didn't let me…"

"No."

"Come on, we'll give ya' a free trial." He pleads, pushing his palms together. He tries to fit himself through the tight space, before you push him away with a light shove. "It's really funnnn."

"No. Find someone else," turning away, gripping deep to your blazer. The air is crisp of the air-conditioner's frost yet there is a damp of heat that's starting to flare in your arms. You tug lightly at the itchy feeling, rubbing yourself through the thick fabric.

"Where?" Pouting when he thuds his forehead against the shelf, "I don't know no one else but you."

"Dunno, Facebook Marketplace?"

"What's that?" Tilting his head, before a sparkle emerges from his orbs. "A secret organization of psychics?" He happily mutters, his grin growing even wider.

"You don't…know facebook?"

He shakes his head, "Nada."

You give a questioning look, backing away in a slow crawl. "Really?"

"Not a clue! Well, is it though?" He peers in with a curious gaze, leaning in closer through the barricades of books.

"Not really, well — it's an app." You slowly rock your head, trying to explain.

"An app for psychics?"

"No! That doesn't even exist!" (Trust me, I've tried finding that myself, a voice inside mumbles bitterly.)

"Uh…"

"You know, socialization?" You try to act it out, failing to do so. "Like you add people, chat… get it?"

"Fo' sure I got it!" He gives a slow, but unsure nod acting like he understood. "Fo' sure I did!"

There is an awkward pause of silence. The feeling bordering uncomfortable, your brow twitching — a small bite prickling on your skin.

Not this again, you grumble.

He mumbles with a sad tone, "still not joining, yeah?"

"Never," you make it clear and firm. "Don't bother me again like last time." Reminding him of the incident with that Yui girl from the garden.

You've never seen a smile fall off so fast, seeing the shiver of his body. Before he puffs out an air. "Why not join us? I told you, we're really cool — aside from Yui, we don't get into trouble much — I think!" (He looks unsure, himself.)

"Sure you don't," you mumbled with a doubtful tone.

The more you settle in with the boy, the hotter your flesh starts to burn. Instead of prickled stings, it's becoming more of aching flames. Feeling your fingers start to puncture nail marks through your skin.

Don't stay with him — a mumble, echoed and light rings through your brain. Don't stay with him.

The words repeat over and over, fizzling parts of your brain. Tuning out the mindless blabbers he's running through, the feeling of sizzling popping through your skin, like a 3rd degree burn pulsing crevices in. The hairs at the back of your neck rise.

Leave, it tells you to leave, this time it was more urgent then ever. Danger signs, like the red alerts blaring through your mind — it's too dangerous, your conscience tells.

And this is why you don't want to join, every time he shows up — silvers of pain blossoms through your skin whenever he's near. Its been happening lately, too frequently and this time it's flushing you to a point you can't ignore it.

Hissing lightly, you stand up and try to wave him off. "I just don't want to, how many times do I have to say that?"

He squints his eyes at your display, disappearing to later reappear by your side. "I'm not stopping until ya' join," he says with his never-ending determination.

"Then," you winced, closing your eyes as you struggle to say out something else. "Then, I'll keep saying no."

You're starting to feel the effects of dizziness build up on your head. Shishikuno turning into a garbled blur of colors. Finding your fingers to touch at your temples, rubbing it feverishly. Turning away from him in a hurry, navigating through the swirls of the distorted floors. Your feet wobbles, sucked in through the illusion, and your body sways against hard furniture — a loud thump.

"Hey," you hear the boys' concerned tone, his voice getting louder even of you think you've gotten farther. "Hey, are you good? You just.."

It hurts, it really hurts.

Choking out a strained "i'm fine" from your mouth, you continue to walk through the hallways. Shishikuno still in tow, feeling his presence come in nearer.

"Shishikuno," you strained out and wobbled on your knees. "I don't need you right now."

"Ya' need the infirmary?" He pauses in front of you, his fixed attention on all parts of your body. He nervously peers when he see your face meddled with sweat, eyes hazy, and how tight your clasp is on the left forearm. "Come I'll even take ya'," holding out his palm for you too take.

Leaning on the wall, the throbbing ever so persistent. (Don't, don't, don't.) You let out a deep breath that takes tons of air, "get… away, I'm fine."

"You aren't," he persists, waving his hands around in a worried way. "Yer' all sweaty and wobbly-like," practically hearing the way he imitates squiggly lines with his fingers.

"Can't even stand on your own," his hands hovering near in your body, ready to catch you. "Can I help you out for a bit? Please?"

"I said," thumping your head on the walls in agony, "i'm fine!"

"No ya' aren't!" He presses his hand onto your shoulders. When he does so, an arrow of pain shoots through you, grazing upon your heart in harsh throbs. A strong gust of wind hurling you through your stomach, combusting more of the fire thrumming in your veins — it intensified, deepened, so much than before. You felt doused in the heavy oceans of thickened gasoline, lit feverishly and drowned in the fierceness of flames.

Letting out an excruciating whimper, backing off his grip.

You both staggered away at the the sudden spark, you mind cleared for a brief moment to convey one thing.

Run! Run!

So you ran.

Struggling through the hallways in drunken-like motions, no destination in mind.

Just get away — get away! The voice pesters, rumbling in your head.

"H-hey! Wait —" Hearing his voice fade away, turning to enter the first door you see in mind. "(Last Name)!"

Mogari looks at your fleeting, disordered moments, confusion filling his body. You ran familiar to a deer that was being hunted, a prey stuck in a predator's trap.

There's something strange — very much so, by the way his hand met your skin.

He suddenly remembers a memory, the moment popping up in his brain.

"I felt some weird kinda energy from her last week," Zaki mumbles through their shared walks.

"Yeah!" Tamon agrees, nervousness seeping. "And I heard lots of voices — then something exploded."

"Really?" Korekishi mumbles, adjusting his bag while he taps on the strings with a thoughtful look. "Didn't the teacher say she just careless about was she was cooking?"

"Nah," the white-boy hair shakes his head, "didn't feel like it."

"It was more of…" Tamon trails off, looking at Zaki, the two forming a similar conclusion.

"Some dangerous spirit," they both say together.

He stares blankly at the now-empty hallways letting the information process. Lifting his gaze to his fingers. Bringing them to ghost over his lips, pondering over the moment.

He had felt his tongue singe, the tattoo embedded in the muscle punching deeper, an alarm ringing through his head. Encasing him in anger, he felt like they chastised him for something he didn't do.

He felt like he touched the voice of an enraged spirit nestled in your body, the hard thump of death.

Just who are you, (Last Name)?

You continued to run, bumping your head to a door. Entering it with haste, hearing the clinks of the lock — sliding down against the door, leaning to let the air enter through your breathless daze.

Through your blurry sight, your nose picks up the scent of detergent, sewer water, the slight wetness of the floor dampening your skirt. With a shake in your step, you took in the environment you barged yourself in. Stalls formed in a uniformed line, noticing carvings etched within the doors and rather suggestive words penned by permanent markers.

A bathroom, a musty scent of both chemicals and other things , it reeked.

Shaking your head, the blurs, the hurt still lingers — dragging your weakened legs to clasp your hands on the porcelain sink.

"God," wincing when you touched your arm once again. Slipping out your blazer with urgency, throwing it against the tiled floors.

The clinks of marble drumming against your nails, facing up to stare at your reflection.

Breathing heavy, the feeling of your lungs molded, weighted — your fingers flinch at the edge of your blouse. Hovering over it, hesitant movements over the white fabric. With enough courage, you hooked it under the crinkled cuffs, lifting it until it revealed bits and bits of your skin.

You flinched.

In the mirror, one could not deny — you could not deny it, no amounts of jackets, blazers or ignorance would.

The tattoo.

Spiraling itself to your skin, the inks of an intricate design seeped within your body. The patterns of well-drawn vines, its thorns poking out, injecting its sharpness through your tissues. These vines crawled around, squeezing the plain canvas of the entirety of your left arm with its imprints of black. The vines contained not only thorns — accompanied by bundles of little flower buds that struggled to bloom.

There it stood, stood so brilliant and bright against your skin. It pulsated organically, something so living — so real. Gleaming an angry glow, thumping in your flesh like how a heart pumps oxygen to give life.

Alluring, one would describe it, agonizing — you'd argue.

Tracing it with a touch hesitant, disturbed feel. You'd throw up if you could, the scent of metallic blood, tearful screams, and a silver of hope coursed through your mind when you rubbed it with fervor.

It reminds you of that day, the tattoo may have swirls of ink dripping of a stunning picture on your skin. But you swear, you think it drips of never-ending guilt — a bloodstain one could never wash off.

"(Last Name)," she mumbles through her stricken daze, soft hands thumbing your teary cheeks.

"It looks like I can't be with you, anymore." Her voice resonates of morning birds, and chimes of clay pots. So calming, so gentle.

"Take care of them, will you?"

You winced out, opening the sink to splash it over the burning-like feeling.

Feeling soft curls of mist form by your feet, you look to see someone appear in the mirror. Hearing a gentle chime ring in the pocket of your skirt.

Souta.

He floated beside you, staring at your disheveled appearance. His ghastly touch reaching slowly to grace upon your skin. He began to smooth his misty form over you, glowing a pastel blue as he does so.

Then the feeling stopped.

A different look tinted his face, not the usual one of annoyance or a smirk of insulting you. But he shook, misted form shaking when he removes his hand. Worry — not of concern, but of fear flickered in his gaze. (It's getting stronger — he notes to himself, plaguing his mind.)

You two stared at each other in the silence, his expectant gaze and your tired ones.

"I don't wanna talk about it, Souta."

You never do.

—

YOU'VE THROWN AWAY THE THIN BLAZER THAT DAY.

And yet, the feeling never fades — it lingers. Embers still scalding parts in you, still hurting, and you don't know when it'll stop.

The thick wool that encases your body has been the replacement, no amount of birds that nip could unravel it (you hoped — if not birds, maybe Jomaru.) Or the bunny nestling itself with you legs, buckteeth nibbling onto the cuffs. Fluffs of yarn forming in chunks between its mouth.

"Yarn isn't in a bunnies' diet," you chided, removing it away. "I just made this, you know?"

It gave no sign of understanding, hopping back to continue feasting on your poor sweater. "Don't you want strawberries?" You desperate reply came, repeating your earlier actions."Very, very fresh, very yummy," dangling it in front of her face.

It's beady eyes stared at the glistening strawberry for a fleeting second. Soft fur inching closer and closer to the fruit fit between your fingers.

"Yes, yes! Good girl, strawberries are like — way better than yarn," encouraging with a coo, drawing it nearer to her face.

Chomp.

You felt like a disappointed parent. As it happily thumps its' hind legs, gnawing on your now-destroyed sweater. The crochet patterns you ached your hands for now was fraying, dying in front of your own eyes. A pile of silent tears erupting from your mind. (Poor, poor yarn.)

"Bite something else, please," you pointed to the ghastly figure perched on top of the oak-wood branch. "Bite that thing."

Souta hums thoughtfully, long enough for you shift with a line of regret. Mischief, he's thinking of something mischievous.

"Hey, I'm a bit busy here," Souta rambles, a dreamy sigh to his lips. "This tree is beautiful, imagine the chairs you could make out of such material — (Name), let's bring it home."

Your mouth contorted in a way you didn't know was possible. "Why would we? One, I can't cut off a tree. Two, the sparrows live there, and three, you can't even hold carving tools."

You turned to the mischievous bunny with an irritated sigh, "favor please, little buddy — bite that hideous ghost."

All it does it stare and chomp on the wrong thing again. You guess you can't ask for too much, sadly. "We'll work on it," you mumble with a dejected look, petting it with a gentle touch. "Since I love you, I'll let it pass."

You continue to enjoy in the silence, no Shishikuno to bother you equals a peaceful day. Your finger drifts back to hover on your arm, a small headache forming. Shishikuno,it rumbles, the fierce gust of fire that engulfed you. Everything's been acting weird when he came in — the weird patterns, the tattoo hurting more, and everything.

Just what was he? You pondered, the voices inside telling you contrasting ideas.

Gazing down to the earth, you drag your fingers among the dirt. The crumbs shifting under your nails, staining it with deep brown when you continue to dig in. Your mind worked on a blank, shifting lines in the gritty ground. Out of the haze, you stared down.

The sigil.

What? With a hitch in your breath, you tapped it with a hesitance, closing your eyes with slight fear.

Nothing.

You did so again, patting the patch of dirt in repeated motions. You let go suddenly, pushing yourself back onto the tree. You sighed in a sad manner, giving up.

The bark of a tree was scratching itself on your back, rustling leaves cascading down gently. Letting the splinters of wood whisper in your ears, yet what returns is silence — not even the slightest rattle.

"This tree's pretty young," you mumble, looking at the ghost droning about what he'll turn it too. "Don't you dare try to make it some bed," you scold Souta with a disappointed look.

"God, you'd think I'd make this a bed?" He scoffs, his ego damaged. "It's better as a vanity."

"It'll take too much space," you argue, planting your hands on the tree with a firm grip. "And we all know, you already take too much space in my house."

Hearing an offended gasp fall from his lips, "And you should be thankful I do!"

"Can't we have a better, you know — more productive conversation?" Suggesting with an annoyed look. "that isn't furniture or you insulting me? Like, 'hello, i'm (Last Name) and uh…'" you faltered, how exactly did this work?

"Whatever," you mumble, "your turn," gesturing to his closed-off face.

He gives an unimpressed look before sighing deep, "Hello, I'm Souta, and I'm leaving." His body fading away to nothingness.

"Y-you! I'm trying to bond you know!"

Silence.

"You know what, you suck!"

Giving the air an incredulous look — you shake your head. In your annoyance, a heavier weight nudge on your knees. Groaning at the sudden heaviness, your eyes peer down to see Jomaru — body already melting like soft-served ice cream in your lap. The bunny beside him struggles, immediately scooping up the poor girl from suffocating.

Nestling the bunny between your arms, the purrs eliciting from Jomaru's mouth, rubbing insistently to your thighs.

"Jomaru?"

Meow. His body slithering like an earthworm, purring when he settles in. It causes you to chuckle, "I haven't seen you for a week, you know?"

"Meow." He lets out, the tone implying that he was busy.

"Sure you were," scratching the back of his ears, with a fond look. "What a very busy cat you were, hm?"

He basks in your continued affection, his nuzzle rubbing at your left palm. Which he seems to adore, never giving focus to your right hand. (Maybe because the bunny sat tight there — or, something else?)

Your lips lift up at the display, cooing at the two animals by your side. School had ended minutes before, watching bundles of friends skip through the halls with excitement. You looked at the windows, watching them rush through with glee. Their shared laughter heard, even if you were far from the building it still rang through. It chimed as light as their worried, holding hands while they did so.

So free, so happy.

With awe, you continue to watch through the distance.Placing a hand over your chest, it thumped heavily. Aching almost, trying it's best to use your veins as hands to reach out to the scene like it was oxygen. It felt like it wanted to soar, to fly out of your chest.

You tapped against your chest, calming it down. Removing yourself from your stricken daze, focusing on more nudges sent to your body. With a light laugh, you allowed the small birds perch. Allowed more bunnies to lay by your feet, and squirrels drop nuts in your shoes.

When you put your whole attention the animals, you let out a light hum. When they settled in even further, your hum turned into organized melodies. Your voice ringing out a simple song, letting the grass etch it into form — and the wind swallowing every word from your lips.

What was that feeling? You pondered.

One day, you'll find out soon.

—

THE TALE OF RAPUNZEL, begins with a girl, hair bathed within the liquid gold of the sun. On a tower higher above than she knows — sits Rapuznel. She is unlike any other, her clothes would be one consider "outdated" and she is constant, never changing. Stuck she was, her body ghastly white yet her youth preserved in vibrant amber.

But there is one thing, she was a dreamer.

She spent most of her days laying against a fogged window, pushing her already translucent body to swirls of soft clouds. Dancing her feet against the puff of cotton, taking in the air breezing on. She wishes she could touch the stars, let prickly grass puncture her toes, remove the heavy weight of her shoulder.

Atleast, Rapunzel got to be free.

Otohime believes she could not.

"Ah, it stopped," Otohime puts on a disappointed frown. "I wanted more,"

What a kind voice, she ponders to herself. Peering down to peek at a figure shrouded by various animals. For a second she felt real. A real, tangible person instead of being a ghost princess stuck in a messed-up tower.

Otohime wishes she could hear the birds chirp, the squirrels chatter with acorns, or the cicadas blabber to the winds beyond a dusty window. She wishes to hear the swishes of the sea, gobble up the salt that would’ve stung her eyes.

She dreams to hear the mysterious voice closer, someday.

Would she be free then?

—

a/n — warning, author is a yapperist!

hello! i hope you've been enjoying this book so far :0

to be honest, this book hasnt been thorougly planned out, i just really like describing things — this whole book is practice for prose acc, which i hope is good and conveys a nature-like or fantasy vibe? (blame tolkien for this btw)

moreover, i know its been kinda slow, or how the phanbus gang rarely shows up — but i just want to build up on the world? make it more lived in, and i build up on (name)'s character more, hope her little adventures or.. breakdowns dont bother you guys

even though i haven't planned out this book as much as id like — i'd just wanted to let you know each scene, little conversations or action is important to some plot points ive been building up

anyways, thank you again for liking my story hehe

[mulberrymyrtle]

°⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ birds of a feather!

(various!phantom busters x reader)

chapter one

edit : chapter three is here!

a/n : HAPPY BELATED BDAY TO TAMON! omg, i didn't expect for people to like chapter one (imo its so rushed) thank you so much for liking it! this took so long because i hated the prose and kept rewriting.. lol, enjoy eitherway! also I might post this to either quotev or wattpad (hm)

CHAPTER TWO : note to self, dont have meetings in gardens.

THERE IS A CALMNESS TO THIS SCHOOL KOREKISHI BELIEVES, that splotches and swivels, pours itself infinitely like satin of baby blues fluttering over the sensitive flesh of his skin. It paints wispy smokes over his goosebumps, it soothes the fray sticking out of his gingered hair, the fog in both his glasses and mind vanish thinly – unseen, unknown (well, he makes sure there is not even hints of fog to his spectacles, much less his brain.)

It is a type of calm that surges when one hits the soft comforter after long aching days or cushioning out the fast, zooming, booming world with gentle tunes that drifts to a dreamless sleep. To Korekishi though? He believes his calm is more than allowing an array of aromas brewed over boiling flora, hooking him to serenity or finger stained with ink that pumped his brain of the latest science discoveries. 

“Look, look, it’s Korekishi!”

Calm, in his own dictionary (which he owns several) is the way the breeze tickles him lightly during spring’s kind days. Where students do not crowd his path to gawk over the ‘newest’ school celebrity, hushed whispers of a genius that’ll carve new scripts to the scientific world (or rather, weird conspiracists that theorize he’s an overworld alien, somehow.) Where it also arises is jealousy that wanders, that touches him disgustingly. Where teachers gleam, chests drummed more extravagantly he’ll swear he can make out the beats that scream : 

“That is a man who revolutionizes! A man beneath us!”

That thought does not smooth over his mind, nor does it caress his heart with softness. It picks, and picks, and picks to the point his mind recounts the moment he decides to take the hand of an enthusiastic boy at Kamakura’s roaring ocean. (For a man as smart as him, should he have done that?)

It is far from teas that make his nights better or delving himself in the scientific names of plants – this feeling? Caged, ready to pump him full of expectations that tower over his brain, it shadows and glues its soot-like tendrils down deep that air is forcibly ripped from his own throat.

So when the crowds dissipate out of his sight, leaving the hallways free at least. When he hears pitter patters of a run he’s starting to memorize.

Fast. He notes, the echoing of the hall paints out of a man desperate – his heavy breathing which stands out against the quiet.

“K-koreshiki!” The voice is pleading, almost garnered with intense mischief.

Somehow, calm is when Mogari screeches his name.

“Help us please!”

Calm is when Tamon hums to fill in the silence during unexpected ghost rendezvous.

“He’s damn desperate to get her in, the first two attempts failed badly. It’s so hilarious, I took pictures.”

Calm is when instead of babbling over chemistry, Zaki teaches him One Piece lore.

With a turn of his body, he feels himself revert to that feeling again, sending a slight wave to their way.

“How can I help?” He immediately asks, only to be dragged away to a spot.

“Urgent club meeting after school!” Mogari booms, “Will ya’ join in?”

“Of course,” Korekishi says, eyes mellowing out its previous sharpness when he sees the boy jump through the air.

“Hell yeah! Nothing’s better when Koreshiki’s around!”

The three return a smile filled with glee, not the kinds that’ll cage his heart. He thinks it is a smile that retreats his earlier words. (He doesn’t regret reaching his hand, no, not ever.)

So, he lets the cheerful boy drift him away to whatever mischief he’s up to. Because, it’s much better than letting himself sink by the hands of expectations.

Okay.

Usually, Korekishi has delved into the world of school clubs. He once proudly sported the bright red armbands that fit snugly on his thickened blazer during middle school, commanded the student body with a tap of his pen. Organizations have sent him lavish gifts wrapped in ribbons, cards with fancy lettering that were all : “Thank you President Korekishi for helping us!”

That means, with his countless years in working out the “do’s” and “don’ts” of club culture in Japan. He’d expect to distinctly prepare himself, to grab his laptop, maybe a small notebook with his favorite pen. Club meetings – especially “urgent” ones are to be handled like locations of radioactivity, one puncture of your suit and the failure will choke you to death. It is to be treated with stern words, heated discussions, all for the future of the club to not crumble, especially as small as this one. Almost like war, he ponders, a satisfying intellectual play of strategy.

He expects this urgent meeting to be the four of them, surrounded by plans, intricate detailing of how to get you in their club. 

“Okay, so here’s the plan, we kidnap her.”

This is not the typical discussion of a meeting. Korekishi deadpans, his fingers twitching on his notepad. Instead of frenzied writings of never-ending ideas, it's sadly blank, because every idea has been shot down and Korekishi believes he is an open-minded man. (To an extent, because chasing girls down hallways is not an idea.)

“That’s not how you win over girls Mogari,” Tamon chides, tutting a finger disappointingly to his way.

“Whaddya’ know about girls Tamon!” Mogari retorts, pushing his finger to Tamon, fighting for his point. “You can’t even look ‘em at the eye!”

“I know plenty!”

“Angel-chan doesn’t count yanno!”

There is a shocked gasp that is heard, seeing Tamon clutch his hand over his uniform. He sputters, before he waves his finger all through the air. “What do you know about girls Mogari!”

“More than you do!”

“The only girls he’s probably talked to are old women in his estate,” another voice, uncaring and rather cold enters the conversation. The boy dips in slightly, arching the humongous manga that rested deeply in his grip. “Like, in their 100’s, maybe even saw the birth of manga itself.”

“Hey! Not true, I talked to some that weren’t bordering like, 100…” Mogari mumbles, putting his two pointers together shyly. “S-some even asked me out! I was a hotshot in Akita!”

With a dramatic shift, he angles his body in a flash. Instead of a “shy” embarrassed guy he’d displayed earlier, he strikes a pose – flexing his muscles in a bizarre way. His face contorting to a fish trying to desperately siphon for water, but Korekishi recognizes he’s trying to replicate models he ogled at the magazines in the 7-11 store.

“Feast your eyes on me!” He sticks his tongue out, trying to “pop” out more muscles. “The ladies love this one!” He shouts in a boasted tone, trying to one-up Tamon (who’s weirdly cross-eyed at him.)

“W-what?!” Tamon chokes out, immediately rolling up his own uniform. “I got some muscles too!”

“Mine are better, they drool after me when I show ‘em a peak!”

“You sure it wasn’t arranged proposals?” Zaki once again butts in, “you sure you were a ‘hotshot’?” he mumbles, a subtle raise to his brow.

“Arranged proposals aren’t my thing,” Mogari tries to rebut, yet trying to flex his muscles to the point of his limit makes him sound more strained. But he can’t lose, not when Tamon has engaged him to a battle, one he must focus on : Mogari hates to lose. “Ya’ jealous Zaki?” He smirks, reaching over to showcase the tones of his body. “Of my amazing, sophisticated muscles? Careful now, don’t want ya’ to be overwhelmed.”

“Uh huh, sure, hotshot,” Zaki smirks, poking Mogari through his stomach. In which he violently lurches, clutching over like he’s been stabbed. Tamon lets out a soft “yay!”, hands up in the air at the victory. 

“You!” The now-tortured boy sputters, tone tinged with utter betrayal. “I'm the President! You don’t do this to me!”

“We live in a democracy, you idiot,” Zaki retorts, putting on his delinquent facade. “Free will exist, Mr. President.” 

“Anarchist! Yer’ an anarchist!” Mogari screeches, hands reaching up to grapple the boy. “You totally did that because you're jealous of my physique, aren’t ya?”

“Say that to me when you earn the physique of someone in the JoJo universe,” Zaki mumbles, shoving the manga to his face.

“This,” he repeatedly taps on the pages of the cover with the insistence of a desperate teacher, the title reading, ‘JoJo’s Bizarre Adventure : Stardust Crusaders’. “This is the perfect physique,” He declares it like its fact, prides the page with glitters and flowers, a treasure he must spread to the entirety of the world (it is a Bible, it is his doctrine.) 

“Ehhh?” In his true nature, he mopes out his face in shock. “T-that’s fiction! Ain’t no way I can get as big as him!” 

“Yare yare daze,” Zaki mumbles, taking on a deeper tone as usual, like he was impersonating someone. There is a judging look that swirled in his green-fuschia eyes, a shake of his head. 

“Don’t ‘good grief’ me, this is unrealistic!” Mogari clutches on Korekishi’s blazer, pointing with an accused look at Zaki. “Tell him Koreshiki, with your big brain that this is totally impossible!”

This is not a club meeting, Korekishi ponders (depressingly) once again. He wonders, did Japan decide to update their manuals on how club meetings operate? Did evolution decide to take its course, he’s been here for years! How has the things he’s done efficiently been dropped and changed like wind dusting over?

Alas, change is always present : that he acknowledges, so even if ‘calm’ takes on a different form. He’ll take it, he can’t succumb to the overwhelming world now, that’s not how it works. Science did not work this way, its power was to adapt and change – so he must too.

“Come on,” Korekishi breaks in the rather pointless discussion, “we have to make a plan now, you do want (Last Name) in the club right?”

“More than anything!” They all turn to him, hands fisted high up to the sky.

“Well, let’s do it!” Korekishi opens his notebook with fervor, already dotting down during the time the other three had bickered endlessly

“Operation : Get (Last Name) in our club goooo!” Mogari sings, swaying his body in the air. 

“Goooo!” The other two followed, their laughter uniting through a shared goal.

Korekishi can only let out a small smile at their enthusiasm, gazing down at the paper he had decorated with ideas.

“Operation : Get (Last Name) in our club,” He whispers, chucking his pen lightly. “Let’s go…”

Crunch.

Wait. Something is wrong.

“Mogari?” Korekishi stops himself, adjusting his glasses.

“Hmm?”  The boy looks up in slight confusion, tilting his head.

“Mogari.” Korekishi repeats, tone now filled with one of a stern parent, putting down his notebook.

“Hehe… yes, Koreshiki?” Mogari repeats, but the words are barely incomprehensible through the incessant chews that puffs through his cheeks.

Sure, Korekishi may have issues with his vision. But it is undeniable that there's a humongous, ripe, vibrant red tomato nestled perfectly on the palm of his hand. And, there is no denying the big, obviously fanged bites of said tomato dripping down his hands and leaking through his mouth. He didn’t have one in his hands the whole time before, just… how?

Could Science even explain how he randomly propagated a tomato that big in under a second! Korekishi is less concerned with where he got it, mind focused on how spectacular it has grown to such size. He shakes his head, throwing away his prior confusion (and excitement, a little thought says “steal one too”)

“Where’d you get that?” He mumbles, resignation evident.

“Tuh wuh?”

“That tomato.”

“Mother Nature has given me the gift of her kindness?”

“He stole it off the garden club’s crops,” There is an intense side eye when Zaki snitches, settling himself down on the ground.

“What?”

“Plucked it outta the ground, I told you, Mother Nature willed it to –”

“He stole it off the poor girl there,” A disappointed tone, as Tamon shakes his head, letting himself play gently with the growing leaves touching his forearms.

“What?”

“K-koreshiki! Promise, it fell outta the sky and Mother Nature had pity for my hunger, so she–”

“What?!” 

This time, that voice definitely wasn’t Korekishi’s – lacked the gentleness, the utter understanding. It’s impossibly high, enough to match the chittering of mice. She doesn’t sound harmless, maybe, with enough smooth talking she could nod and go on with her day.

“You!” A girl pops up from the stalks of towering crops, Mogari screams when the said-girl grapples onto his collar.

Her wheat-silked hair is plaited into braids, garnished with complementary ribbons. She stands her pink-garden boots against the earthy soil. Yet the force she uses to step closer echoes, shatters, commands the dirt beneath her. Walking the patch of soil like minions and she is the ruler they devote their lowly selves to. Her arms are littered with chunky-kandi bracelets, but veins show deeply, engrained on her pale skin. 

Scratch that – this girl may squeak her tones to a mouse, only if said-mouse had been contained by military forces to chew exclusively protein pellets and drink steroid smoothies. 

“Are you the ones eating our pretty crops?” The other three boys stiffen, faces turning dim at her. One breath, and they might face the wrath of joining the bundles of “pretty” crops nestled below.

“No?” Ah. Ever the brave one, Mogari spits out with a smug grin.

“You know, Toma-chan is in your hands,” They see how much tighter her hands have become, trapping the unaware Mogari (or just stupidly brave) with no escape. “Don’t lie to me!”

“Toma…?” 

“The tomato you murdered with your blasphemous fangs!” She screeches, hovering Mogari to face her. “Say sorry to her!”

“Hehe, I didn’t mean to!” there’s panic in his words, pleading his hands in front of her. “It was totally delicious, like, I couldn’t resist…!”

Oh boy. These three boys are currently watching the execution of their president, whose life threaded at the plasticky ropes of chunky kandi bracelets, threads of fluttering pink ribbons, and a furiously cute girl whose muscles are expanding with every flare of her nose.

When she puts her gaze down to assess further. It doesn’t help that Zaki used the luscious greens as his personal bed, or Tamon unknowingly kicked over a small piece of an onion stalk.

“You men,” Pointing the steeled-shovel not as a tool, but more of a weapon. “You’re the ones wrecking our garden!”

“Wait, you misunderstand,” Korekishi sputters, smoothing out the dirt speckled on his uniform (gods, he hopes his mother doesn’t mind). “We were just sitting here, my club and I are…”

“Your club? What club?” Squinting her fiery eyes to his, burning into his. He can’t look away nor can he even focus, it’s impossibly scorching to a point he swears condensation is forming on his glasses (and on his forehead from how scary she is.) 

“Phantom Busters!” Tamon butts in shakily, “we study g-ghosts and exorcise them.”

“Uh-huh, we’re superrrr cool,” There is cockiness that emits from Mogari, flashing a smile while putting up a thumbs-up (like, it’ll save him.) 

“The occult club? Did you summon a ghost here, did you curse us? Is that why we’ve been having trouble lately!” Demanding an answer, holding up a now dangling Mogari higher, the shovel below him.

“No, no, no!” The three wave their hands, immediately standing up.

“We’re sorry! W-we won’t be here again,” Korekishi butts in, eliciting his gentle demeanor. “We won’t disturb you ever –”

Turning to the other two, who nodded their heads with vigor. “Please put the President down,” Tamon pleads.

“This is war on the gardening club!” She retorts, her anger piping in even deeper.

Currently, when Korekishi said that club meetings were a war ; he meant that in a figurative sense. He imagined a mahogany table in their fresh clubroom that contained spills of parchment, a throw of “this plan is better”, and productive discussion.

Again, such fragile imagination has been shattered, pieces thrown faraway. It is far from his initial idea ; there’s no mahogany table. Instead, the “club meeting” were the four hunching their polyester uniforms to kiss soil and make grass puncture through their feet. Their “mahogany table” had been the turf of the garden club (in the first place, they never had a clubroom), now that they’ve stepped on the hidden landmines, been caught – they were to be defeated.

“Haha, war? Don’t go too far! So, you're gonna bring me down or…?”

The girl turns to Mogari slowly, his face with a nervous smile (so, he’s finally caught on). “You’re too much, Yui-chan won’t have mercy on you.”

“Yui-chan?” He asks, sweat now piling in his uniform. “W-where?”

“That’s me,” She replies, the girl now with a deeper, broadening aura. In Zaki’s view, the girl is transforming herself into a magical-girl complete with the overdone sparkles. Though instead of the show being Sailor Moon, it’s giving more of Goku when he powers up to become Super Saiyan (it’s both fascinating, but Zaki aside from his stupor, he wants to live) The four boys, gulped, her body enlarging, quite towering – deathly similar to the manga, ‘JoJo’ Zaki had praised on earlier. 

God. The four boys swallowed. This girl must’ve joined the wrong club. Their minds simultaneously link to create that coherent thought.

Note to self, first – find a clubroom. Korekishi sweats internally. Second, don’t ever set foot in the gardening club and…

Yui held her shovel, eyes glinted with intent, the kind that would make spirits disintegrate and men with flesh falter to Hell itself.

Third : Survive.

“You’re dead to Yui-Chan.”

—

THERE IS NO CALMNESS TO THIS SCHOOL, is a sentiment you’ll carve deep in the crevices of your mind. An unfortunate reminder it’ll have to pin to the corkboard, a recurring thought to mull over for the next 3 draining years (how fun, it sneers). For everything here is one-word ; overwhelming. Each step your feet sweeps over newly-mopped floors, returns a chittering squeak like mice, sound ringing your brain. When the chatter of a classroom finally weakens, enters the schoolbell’s jarring chime. Where it squeezes, tightens, and deviously circles around the ears over and over that you cup your hands on them – the pain cushions, but for a flit of a moment. 

It doesn’t help that there is a wandering feeling itching the back of your neck. Swifting over your skin like shedding pine-needles of fall. Where it trickles of thin, straight incisions caressing you with malicious intent. Piercing inches in the plush red of your body, lingering so tightly it makes you squirm. 

Someone is staring at you and you’re sure it’s dangerous.

Your mind turns frantic, trying its best to string together Mr. Kurosawa’s lesson on stoichiometry when he drones on about excess and limiting reactants. The squeaking of his chalk when it breaks from the blackboard, or how he coughs from the excess dust sticking to his tongue. Even when the gears in your brain try, something slips, wanders, and you're once again focused on the intense feeling. A little voice in you mumbles a soft sorry to Mr. Kurosawa’s passionate drive, hoping your indifference won’t somber the fire.

Tapping your feet on the wooden floors, shifting your eyes on where the looming presence comes from. It’s inconsistent, you note, it swarms from the top of your head, to the tip of your shoulders, to the nape – but never, never does it put its’ coldness in front of your face.

“Souta?” you mumbled, only to yourself, pen flicking between your middle and pointer. “Is that you?”

“Oh yes,” there it is, that grating voice, a bile of frogs that croak whenever he speaks. He calmly emerges from your desk, looming over you with a lighthearted smile. “It’s me, your favorite.” (wrong, you despise this man.)

You don’t bother to look at his smug grin, leaning into your palm. “Uh-huh, sure, it is you?”

“Ugh, it’s not me,” he slides over your desk, trying to garner your attention.

“Figured, you’re too wimpy to put that much spiritual energy here,” you sigh, “or, if you even have that much energy to begin with.”

He musters a grating whine, the smoke of his body sifting through your hand. “I’m pretty strong, you haven’t seen the best of me!”

“Only in your domain,” you roll your eyes, checking the clock. Shifting your gaze to pretend to stare at the board, instead of this guy. “You felt it too? A ghost that strong is here?”

“Felt it alright,” he nods with an annoying tone, “not sure if it's a ghost though.”

“Huh?” Tilting in slight disbelief, searching for any mischief on his translucent body. 

“Check diagonally,” pointing behind you, where it finally clicks. 

You groan, in a robotic-mechinal turn, where the gear clinks and squeaks. You slowly shift your direction to the back of the class, where the windows blare and the trees shift so closely.

Seeing the puffs of white, speckles of onyx on his roots, leering over with his eyes that mixed of fuschia and sage greens.

It’s that guy, the Phantom Busters shtick guy who’s been turning at every corner you turn to. Chanzaki (Ozaki… Baki?) You’re not sure, all you gather is that he has a poisonous curl of his lips, a rattle of a snake’s sneer when he looks at you (or Souta, to be fair, the ghost is hideous.) With rumors flying of his past, a delinquent who bathes in bloodied fists (or a fake-out, he did trip during gym thrice) a face that pierces fear, and a weird intuition for the supernatural.

And right now? 

He wants to kill me. You sweat.

It looks like your being has insulted him whole. What were you meant to do? Wave, smile, return the same look? God, it’d be even more insulting if you turned back – whatever.

All you return is a deadpanned stare. (However, Kanzaki takes this entirely wrong.)

God, he wants to murder me, in cold sweat — with his delinquent hands, and his Sharingan, or whatever powers he holds in those eyes.

“Are you kidding me,” you turn quickly, breaking the chain of the stare-off. “They’re still on me?”

“Or me,” Souta says confidently, winking at you.

“Maybe they wanna exorcise you?” you think, tracing your fingers on the desk. “If that’s so, I can just give you away for free.”

He shrieks, stomping his foot, where it phases hilariously. “No way! Not even a 500 yen convenience fee?”

“Free.”

“You need me!”

“Do I?” you retort, trying to subtly wave him away.

“Who else will wake you up, we all know you forgot to charge your phone!”

With a drop of Mr. Kurosawa’s chalk, you let out a deep breath. “Banging the windows together at 6 AM is a bad strategy.”

“Well, it works, and it annoys you.”

“I will put you in the tongue of that Shishikuno boy –”

Lunchtime, the recurring bell interrupts with chimes, urging students to get off their chairs. Your argument is delayed, better thank the bell Souta, you think bitterly. Removing yourself from the chair, finding Souta out of your sight. You try to walk towards the exit with efficiency. But, by the doorway stands a figure, her tall body edged closely. She’s humming at the two chatting her ear off, hand curling onto the strands of her hair with her far-away gaze. She’s just there, is your hair okay? Is your uniform crimped? Swallowing thick slobs of insecurity that rises up.

Kikuchi, you awe silently (in an admiring way of course)  She won’t care what happened weeks ago, right? Pausing as you shake your head, her body already disappearing to the masses.

“(Last Name),” a voice interrupts your stealth mission, and the familiarness has you shoulder drop. It’s kind, yet there are hints of a stern tone.

“Yes, Mr. Kurosawa?” Turning to walk towards his desk, looking at the scratches of formulas he’s done on the board.

“You haven’t passed last week’s assignment,” he informs, shaking his head. “You promised you would.”

“I…,” you didn’t mean too, things slip out your mind easily – a curse, for how filled, yet empty it is. “I’m sorry Sir.”

“Look, your mom told me to look out for you,” he drifts his gaze to the stacks of paper on his table. “I know it’s been –”

“Let’s not, Sir,” you interrupt, knowing what he might say will dampen your whole mood. “I’d rather not focus on that, I promise I’ll give it, just…”

He sighs with a tired smile, “(Last Name), you’ve got potential, don’t waste it.”

So I’ve been told. You bitterly think, you know what you truly are. 

“And don’t let the past define you kid,” he tries to pack together the books, his cold coffee, and the bundles of assignments. “You gotta change, for the best, I believe in you, yeah?”

He pats your shoulder, giving you a look that makes you clutch your hands. He believes in you, it’s unfamiliar to your ears, much more to your heart. 

“Do you need help, sir?” you muster out suddenly, trying to grab onto his things.

“I do need it,” he nods, sending a grateful look. 

Through the busting halls, you walked beside Mr. Kurosawa in silence. There is a sea of students, one that rivals Kamakura’s own. Various people bow to the teacher beside you, waving him with gleeful energy. However, you catch on to other things that interest you.

“Look, look, it’s Korekishi!” A student squeals, her bountiful energy reverbing through the walls.

“God, I heard he created a new element!”

“What?”

You tune them out, not wanting to listen, yet gossip always lingers.

“Though, did you hear? He’s in some ghost club.”

“Oh?” The voice wanders out in confusion, “he believes in that?”

In return, the other laughs, “I guess so? It’s quite, stupid.”

“I don’t know why he bothers, he’s wasting his potential. Nothing good ever comes out of that, ghost business always ends up badly.”

Their words strike something in you, stringing you back to a certain time – it pulses up in bile, before you shush it down (he was right, ghost business ends up badly). Shaking it off, you continue to trudge onto the teacher’s lounge.

Then, the gossip stops, the sound of chippering birds gliding in. Until you feel yourself collide into someone’s shoulder.

“Oh!” It’s boisterously loud, and you feel like the universe is condemning you. Already knowing who this was.

The books in your hand drop, pages flutter aimlessly on the ground, and a fanged smile enters your peripherals. 

“It’s you!” He chuckles, hurriedly grabbing onto your shoulders, happiness evading his face. “Have you thought about it then? Joining our club, eh? Whaddya’ think, yessss?” Singing out the last word, hope that radiates into his crimson eyes.

“No touching please,” swishing away his strong grip, in which he awkwardly shrugs. “And –”

“Shishikuno?” Mr. Kurosawa mumbles, “What do you need?”

“Nothing sir, just tryna’ get (Last Name) to our club!”

“What club?”

“Phantom Busters!” He hands over a cardstock, shoving it to your faces. “Bustin’ ghosts, yanno? All that, and it’s a 10% discount if you're a student or a teacher.” He wiggled his brows, his grin enlarging.

Taking the brightly decorated card in your hand, he needs a better designer is your only thought. It’s littered with contrasting elements, not a single thought of cohesion shining through. You’re not sure who greenlighted him to mix comic sans and vibrant reds – but by gods, it’s hard to look at. It looks like shady ads on pirated websites, ready to be knocked down by adblockers.

“You’re planning to join, (Last Name)?” Mr. Kurosawa says with disbelief, looking at your eyes, as if you shattered a promise.

You gotta change, for the best, I believe in you, yeah? Thinking of the previous conversation, holding onto his intense gaze.

You were gonna change, you’d held a bloodied hand years ago, promising her through choked whispers that you would. Even if his offer tempted a deep part you chained in, threatening to break out the metallic binds. You know one thing ; ghost business always ends badly – she warned you before.

You gotta change, you repeat numbly, for your best.

“No, I’d never,” grabbing the dropped items with haste, scrambling with shaking hands. “I don’t know what Shishikuno is on,” you say quickly and through, shaking him off. Crumpling the card to the depths of your blazer, following in the teacher’s lounge.

"Ghosts don't exist, afterall," you harshly state, gazing briefly into his eyes.

You can only hear his fading voice beg for Koreshiki to “help him”, he won’t stop will he? You wished to bust out of this school and run away from his insistence, maybe drowning yourself in a forest would be a kinder fate.

Well, in a battle of stubbornness, you’d keep the high ground.

—

ONE THING YOU LIKED, was how kindly spring has wavered over this school. It’s not well-known for its academics, nor does it sprout buildings higher than bamboo shoots. So when the school finally ends, your feet finally settle on the lushness of greens, greeting you with its own hug. Your body inches closer to a known-path, navigating yourself to the back of the school building. There, your eyes gleam at how cherry blossoms dance elegantly with the air, how bright the trees curl in through the sun, and small birds that chitter in the freshened breeze. From the suffocating air that lingered during schooltime, like magic, seeing the patches of nature lifts up any previous negativity. They beckon you, almost soft lullabies that sing sweet, letting the shrubbery host you into their world.

A chirp interrupts your distracted mind, letting it fly around with child-like glee.

“Hello,” you cooed with a happy smile, letting the bird nuzzle in, feeding it. “Nice to meet you again,” you whispered, cupping it softly.

Chirp!

Like a language only you could understand, you merrily laughed. “Ah, I know, I take too long don’t I?”

It swivels its brown tail, akin to tree bark that shifts left to right. Wings unraveling with a slight sassy blow, the chirping a bit louder.

“Calm down, not my fault cleaning duty makes me stay.”

Chirp. Stomping its talons playfully to your skin, declaring a proposition that makes you chuckle.

“Yeah yeah, as if Mr. Momose would allow squirrels and birds to help clean rooms – that’s a health risk. And, they’d call me names, had enough of that.”

It shakes its head in defeat, guiding you to their masterfully made nest. Other sparrows cackle in delight, surrounding you like a perch on a tree. Letting your fingers trace the ages of lines on the tree, flowing down sunflower seeds at the base of the nest. They crowd the food source, gobbling it with intensity.

“Out feedin’ the birds again?” Souta pops in, droning through the tree with a bored look. The sparrows squeak with sudden fear, blasting it in his way.

“Even they hate you,” you raise your brows, almost proud at their defiance. 

“I’m an acquired taste,” he huffs with a bitter tone, facing away. 

You shake your head at his pride, before a tuft of fur nudges into your shoe. Seeing a robust cat rub its plump cheeks to your socks, eliciting a lazy purr when he melts to the ground.

“Jomaru!” Squatting down in surprise, fingers deftly smoothing over his fur, the color of pure-lilies, you awed. The triangle of black that stains the top makes him stand out, already cuddling with the back of your hands. Before it briefly stops, staring at the ghost hanging by the branches.

“No worries he’s not dangerous,” you smile, scratching the back of his ears –

Like a shock that tumbles in your heart, you feel it again. The same one that you feel in the mundane classroom. It looms even deeper, darker, swirling and unforgiving.

And you’re sure it’s not the harsh stare of an angry teen.

Standing up with haste, even Jomaru has stopped his moment. He holds a stance, one ready to pounce. Taking careful steps towards the lingered, heavy aura, swallowing your fear. Your feet patters through the grass, feeling it shield you, then you find yourself faced with…

“Oh look, your fanclub’s here,” The ghost whispers, tingling with mischief. 

“Don’t tell them they’re back, Souta,” you leaned onto the tree, hearing distant shouting of fear. Peering over, you see the garden club’s known prize ; its luscious garden. However, the sight of four boys jumping, screaming over ripe tomatoes and colorful flora is confusing – not typical. Yet, you hear the heavy plows of a shovel echo through the ground. Shifting your body even further, there’s a girl with an enormous build, packs of muscles meddled to her body. It contrasts heavily to the pink eyeshadow she dons on, and the ribbons tied to her hair. It doesn’t help that with each blow, she does so with intense rage, a messed up game of whack-a-mole appears to your eyes.

“Oh look! It’s (Last Name)! Save us!” Shishikuno screams with glee, pointing to your direction. Seeing the other boys (save for the one closing one eye) radiate with relief.

“Save us! Please! Please!”

You tried to shake your head, hiding behind a crater. But a voice tells you, “it’s too late.” (And you know it's Souta, who vanished once again.)

You see her eyes catching your figure, the grip on her shovel even tighter. “Are you with them?” She mumbles with a gravelly voice, stomping towards your way. Negotiating won’t be an option, but running for your life might be.

That’s when you know – you’ve been screwed.

—

HERE YOU WERE, sliding the floors of the school, avoiding every swing her shovel blows. Gladly, she’s not dead set on you, her rage is channeled and targeted to Shishikuno. Who’s jumping is as law-defying as the heavy blows her weapon gives, who fed this guy? There’s a part of you that’s glad school is over – but where were the teachers? The hallway is filled with sheer panic, adrenaline-junked running, and the regretting of your decisions. You can visibly find the other 3 huffing, bodies slowing down.

You give an exasperated look to Shishikuno, “did you really have to point me out to her, Shishikuno?!”

“I-i thought you were gonna help!” He shrieked back, when he dodged the vase sent his way.

“Well, I regret even trying to!” You whine through short-breathes, turning a left – where you run through long ways of sun-filled windows. Yui-chan’s running, almost blastering through the sound barrier.

“What is wrong with this girl!” Chanzaki screams, “she’s got a stand! A stand!”

Takon? Tampon? (you should learn their names.) only cries silently, “why, why, why, why.”

“I-it’s like she did a thousand jumping jacks using her momma’s umbilical cord!” Shishikuno bounces back with a voice-cracking boom, tears brimming. “I didn’t know Kamakura had people like this!”

“Because we don’t,” Koreshiki butts in, raising his glasses. “It’s scientifically impossible for a person to grow herself that big under a few seconds, unless she’s –”

Possessed, you figure out, that would explain what you felt earlier.

“Posessed?” The three blurt out, leaning against a blind spot, all of you chucking your heads when sweat blisters through your skin.

“Ah,” Koreshiki nods, “must be it.”

“But how do we get it out…” Takon mumbles, avoiding your gaze.

“Don’t you have any fancy chants Mogari?” Chanzaki puts a finger to his chin, “or a cursed tool? Go Toji-style?”

“Nada,” Shishikuno shrugs haphazardly, “or I didn’t listen to what they taught me, hehe.”

The four of you groan, the sound saying ; we’re dead.

You clutched onto your blazer, banging your head onto the concrete walls.

“H-hey,” Shishikuno voices out, “we’re not dead! Yet!”

Closing your head, you softly tune him out, their discussion muddy and discernible to your ears.

Meow.

“Meow?” Raising your head up, brokened from your stupor. A soft presence nudging through the back of your shirt.

“J-jomaru!” Taking the cat in your arms, “you followed us here, how?”

“Why’s this cat here? Ancestors, I asked for a strong guard dog,” Shishikuno, who was facing the light shining through the transparent glass, “not a fat cat.”

“H-he’s not fat,” holding Jomaru close to you, squinting through your gaze. “He is perfectly well-fed, thank you.”

“Well, this fatass won’t help us,” Chanzaki rudely states.

You shriek in horror, clutching while you stroke him softly. “You’re perfect Jomaru, don’t listen.”

“Guys,” ever the practical one steps in, “we have no time for cats, there’s a rogue girl willing to murder us, we need a plan.”

“We can’t just calm her down,” Takon mumbles, now using his hat as a cover. “I don’t know if I can even talk a ghost outta her body.”

“Can’t you force it out? Through external means,” Koreshiki puts a hand on his temples, “like… punching?”

“You want me to punch her?” There’s enthusiasm riddled in his tone, “I mean I dunno if I can, she looks like a wall.”

“No Mogari, just an idea,” he shakes his head, staring at you.

You only give an unsure look, “Sorry.”

Then, you hear the echoes of a thundering bloom rushing in, the heaviness seeps in again. With a quick reaction, you all start to run.

Yui.

“God, I hate you Shishikuno!” you blurt out through the wind, as Yui blitz through the long floors. “Ghost stuff always ends up bad!”

“M’ sorry! Will you still –”

“No! No!” Turning a corner, “there won’t be a club when we’re all dead!”

“If we don’t die,” he says back, “will ya’ join?”

“No!” Turning away from his gaze, deciding to stare at the windows – the last time you might ever see the sun again. “Not even if you save me from some dangerous ghost or something!”

Then, in your sight, a familiar tree settles in, you can see the sparrows flickering aimlessly. Staring back into Jomaru in your arms, like a fiery candle, an idea burns through this hazy moment.

A wall enters your view, no turns, no twists.

It’s a dead end, all of you stuck and mixed to the school walls. Yui’s aura like ashen smoke curling to her body, as she taps her shovel to her hands. Once she gets closer, your eyes flicker to the empty spot under her. Letting the heaviness crawl onto all your legs, suffocating, embalming.

You go closer to Shishikuno, mumbling under your breath.

“Distract her.”

He tilts his head, before he unknowingly nods, rushing to Yui. The other three let out a quick “come back!” before he uses his athletic prowess to deflect every harsh blow.

You use the last of your stamina, ushering through her hefty aura, running towards her. In the heat of the moment, you lower yourself down, momentum boosting you to slide under. Before she even processes what you’ve done, your heart bounces and twists when you grab onto the plastic handle of the window, budging it open.

The air rushes in, a gust of fresh wind surges through, sifting through your pockets – you bring it out ; sunflower seeds. Calling onto them with a whistle, shaking the bundle nestled in your hands. They perk up at your call, wings busting through your direction. 

Once they’ve gotten closer, you aim the seeds to Yui’s face, her swinging clumsy when her vision’s obscured. The birds blur, wings fluttering when they shoot through Yui like thunderbolts – loud thuds and chirping ensue. They pull at her hair, stringing her braids like they collected wheat for their nest. There is a mix of groans, complaints (“don’t use my hair for a nest!”), and flapping that is before you all. Yui throws her shovel up in her stupor, you throw a little tuna pack by her feet, where Jomaru licks happily.

With a harsh thud, Yui hits the ground when she trips over Jomaru, the shovel plunging through her stomach.

You all winced at the gurgled noise, seeing as mists bellowed out of her body. An inflatable buzzing happens, the girl goes back to normal. What emerges from her lips, is a jacked spirit of shadows, his eyes red with anger.

“Listen up you wimps –!” The ghost rushes through with annoyance, “y-you’re gonna pay for this –”

“Yeah, yeah,” Shishikuno cuts him off, mocking him. “Just lettin’ you know, my guns are way better,” he cheekily flexes his muscles. It further angers the spirit, targeting him with a straight blow.

Crunch.

You stare at the dusting particles of the ghost, where he struggles aimlessly. The fanged boy munches, splits, decimates his translucency to shreds, paper-like and fragile when he screams.

When nothing else can be heard, in a collective way, the five of you slump to the floors, the calm finally enters in.

“That,” Chanzaki has a wide smile on his face, maybe bordering on infatuation? “That was the perfect woman. Like a real-life JoJo character.”

“That’s what you were worried about?” Takon shrieks, fanning himself before staring above. “Well, a muscled woman is quite beautiful…”

“Wow, that fat cat really did help,” Shishikuno pets him, “I’ve never doubted ya’ Ancestors,” throwing a peace sign to the air.

“She’s not dead, right?” Koreshiki mumbles with worry, fingers on her pulse.

“Well, there’s no ghost,” Chanzaki looks around, “yet.”

“Don’t jinx it,” Takon sweats with nervousness, “I don’t wanna be responsible for a senior’s death.”

“Nah, let’s just take her to a hospital,” Shishikuno casually states, looping Yui under his arms. The four of them all carry the girl, they pause to look at you.

“I’m fine,” you quipped, erasing yourself from the scene. “I don’t wanna be involved.”

And, there’s someone you don’t wanna face in the hospital. You think, hands crumbling onto your arms, if she saw you with them, how would she react when she knows you’ve caused this? The possibilities swarm your mind, flies buzzing with thoughts you try to swat away. With steps, you rush to the opposite direction. 

Even if the ghost is gone, settled greatly in Shishikuno’s system. There is something still pricking itself to your flesh, pricking and clinging onto your skin. There’s more to that, it signals, more for you to come – it’s just the beginning, girl.

It's why you shove it down, say it face to face why ghosts won't and never be real (even when you witness one teared to pieces.)

This is what sticking to trouble gets you, what it always does, when you decide to embrace it (you should have never.)

“Thank you,” Koreshiki voices out to your fading figure, “Thank you, (Last Name).”

With a small turn, you stared at his face, the thought still buzzing insistently.

“Don’t bring me into trouble, again.”

—

THERE IS SOMETHING KOREKISHI RECOGNIZES, in the muddled look in your eyes. It haunts him through reflections, the small bits he sees in himself through glasses, the huge mirror by the doorway (which his grandma gifted), or pictures when he was in middle school.

(“Don’t bring me into trouble, again.”)

Caged. Almost like him, you looked caged.

The fluorescent lights of the hospital flickers, his thumbs grazing over his circular lenses. Feeling the weight of Mogari when he drools onto his shoulder, snoring the only thing breaking through beeps and clicks.

You seem to hold a lot, he figures, from the hunch you do when walking to crowds. How you seemingly pause, rehearsing to yourself over and over before you wave to someone else, or the little scared flinch when you see a slight frown to someone’s face. Holding onto yourself, as if you were covering yourself to the world. 

“Koreshiki,” Mogari mumbles through dreamed-out groans, “ya’ think we’ll get her?”

“Of course,” he whispers back softly, “I believe in you, in us.” (He’ll always believe him, no matter what.)

With enough time, he hopes Mogari will work his magic, threading his way to break whatever holds you back. He’s done it with Zaki even if he called them posers, with Tamon puking at every sight, or with him spitting out the harshest words on the first day.

And what’ll he do? He’ll stand by his side, helping Mogari, even if it's difficult. He never stopped finding his bracelet lost to sea, so even if they fail, there’s always another way.

Like he sticks to his heart, the beauty of science is to always keep trying. He knows Phantom Busters will stubbornly carve in, even if not in their club – at least a smile. A way for you to feel calm, in a state of constant battles.

For calmness comes to blossom, once you’ve trimmed all the dead leaves, and let new ones emerge.

[mulberrymyrtle]

birds of a feather.

(various!phantom busters x reader)

SUMMARY

in your pursuit to become a part of the popular clique ; a group of 4 kids who "exorcise" ghosts ruins your perfect chance of doing so.

OR in which, you find people as weird as you. however you're not willing to join this "phantom busters" club, so in mogari's stubborn fashion ; he chases you.

notes: implied! sapphic reader, also we need more phanbus content 💔💔 and, I didnt plan this throughout so this is ass AF ; this is more off a way to let steam out. chapter two will be up right after (I hope) , not proofread!

edit : chapter two is out!

reblogs are highly appreciated, need more phanbus moots!

CHAPTER ONE : (name), this is calculus.

You fought well.

HE tries to tell himself, even if his body is mangled with bruises - aching when even the slightest tap of his feet lands the ground. With the last of energy, the tremble of his muscles, the stringing of veins combine to stand : to protect, repeats in his mind.

In a final breath, he stances his body, letting the cocky smirk emerge from his pristine face. But, as his eyes meet the opponent -- a slash of blue enters in eyes.

All he hears is nothing, before feeling lighter, soft lined blankets hovering over the heavy mass --

"-And here's where Gojo " an excited quip emerges from your mouth. Placing the linen-doll down a wooden board, hands grabbing the plastic handle of a cutter.

A loud thud echoes in the quiet class, eyes focused, pupils set. There, they see the Gojo-like dolls, sapphire-like orbs bulge out -- it's small, felt body spliced to two pieces, with a red silk emerges akin to blood spilling.

"Gets cut in half!"

Turning away for a while, "no worries, there's way more bloodier scenes like --"

"Nope," something blocks your view, looking at the pillar between you. "Don't even try to finish that."

You stare awkwardly at your teacher.

Slowly looking behind her broad shoulders, the scene before you ; people were chuckling behind their campus notebooks, girls giving eachother looks like they'd debrief this later, and students napping when their drool seeps in the wood.

Shifting hastily, a glance of hope flickered when a man sat by the window ; who's hair looked like strings of falling snow, eyes swirling in different hues of greens, purples, a warmth of yellow -- paired with scars over them (like a mysterious chosen-one, you awe). Even if the way his lips curl look unsightly, his body leans closer, head almost urging for more.

"Dear," a concerned reply comes from your teacher. Fingers gently tapping onto her clip board, shifting her sharp gaze between the dolls in your hands to the smile etched on you.

"What are you doing?" She sighs, the intense search-over providing nothing.

Tilting your head, raising the mangled Gojo to her face. "Giving my book report?"

"This is calculus," huffing, putting down the doll. "Go back."

The quiet classroom puts on howls of laughter, countless whispers that egg on you, their words letting your head down in shame.

Just be yourself, a ghastly tone whispers in your ears.

Bullshit, you reply back in your head. I did, and look -- they think I'm some freak.

Inside, the thought pangs, it bounces and pierces through you. Like a reminder of something, an outcast -- an alien obsessed with pages and pages of words.

"Won't you all just leave her alone!" an authoritative tone enters the room, her words alone stopping the laughter.

Her hair falls gracefully over her shoulder, annoyed grunts falling from her pink-glossed lips. The sharp gaze panging through every person in the gaze -- even yours. It's piercing, the obsidian almost taking you in. Once it quiets down, she heads you a small nod and an amused smile -- a pretty one.

It makes your lungs tie, depriving itself of oxygen.

You feel yourself grow flustered, looking away. Yet, when you hit your forehead on the soft confines of the dismembered Gojo plush, your lips morph itself to a small smile.

She defended me, you think, like a giddy child.

Maybe, maybe I won't be so alone anymore.

WHEN the days pass, even if Kamakura was a small, tight-knit town. You never seem to find her, never catching a glimpse of the ringlets with every bounce or the smell of cherries that waft over.

Kikuchi Hotaru.

The excited, almost awed rumors who say. As if a goddess decided to descend on their trails, basting them with flowers, blessings, or glittering light that'll sparkle a path of dimmed alleyways.

"Man, Kikuchi was seriously gorgeous today," a boy whispers to his peers.

"Course she is, always is. "

"You think she'll like the chocolates?"

Stopping behind the two, you slowly back down a corner. Ears leaned in to oversee this conversation (and maybe even find her.)

"Dumbass, like she'd like weirdos like you," he chuckles, jabbing his friend. "Maybe someone like Eugene can match up to her though, who knows."

"Eugene? Like Korekishi? Nah, he's in that club ain't he? Phan..."

"Phantom busters?"

"Yeah, that exorcist stuff with the four guys."

"Oh," the boy let's out in agreement,

"Seriously, what a waste."

The two shake their heads, continuing onto their walk -- when the school bells rings the familiar tune. Your eyes widen at the door, hearing her voice run through the halls. With a little pat on the chest, your legs start to march.

"You are hopeless," someone chuckles, immediately looking up. The translucent, almost sea-like figure floats above -- picking at his nose.

"And you're dead."

"How creative, can't say the same your gift," he retorts, his sassy hisses erupting something in you.

Pointing at the paper clutched on your fingers, you jumped. "She'll... she'll like it," you mumble, keeping it close to your chest.

"Yeah yeah, she'll like calling the police by how much you're following her."

"It's called, fate, dumb ghost."

"It's being a damn stalker -"

"Get off me!" you hiss back, tucking the paper safely. "Stop following me, why don't you reach Buddha..." giving him a harsh look. "Bet even they don't want you there."

Instead of offense, he shrugs. "I'll reach Buddha when you get rejected." He gives a smug smirk, floating through the air.

All you manage is a rude gesture, which he returns. "I don't even like her, just wanna be friends that's all."

He raises his brows, before shaking it head -- following alongside you. Inching closer to Kikuchi, her body surrounded by other people. Your lips dry at the sight, legs trembling when your fingers grip tight. Once your feet step in her space -- her space, your mind almost jumps.

However, before a word falls beneath your lips, a loud thud washes through the hallways. Finding your sight changed ; instead of her thick, bushed hair -- your eyes meet the brown of the school floor. Body pressed on it, another weight on you -- it's bulky, heavy, choking you of air.

"No worries!" the person on top of you happily chuckles, "you'll be safe from hhe ghost now!"

Boy, what?

Finally finding the sweet air to enter, you are entangled in the arms of someone. Looking up in your panic, his black messed-up hair, a toothy-fanged grin, and his red, striked eyes look down on you. A free-hand showing a half-made thumbs up.

All you do is give him a look of disgust.

He stumbles a bit, letting go of your body -- before you hear garbled high-pitch screams. It immediately makes you look up, the scream reminding you of a certain ghost. With open eyes, you find the fang-toothed boy chase the ghost with a crazed smile.

"Ohhh," he taunts, bouncing off the hallways with his tongue out. "Don't run, it won't hurt, just a taste!"

Your ghost companion just evades him, fear. seeping in his rather calm, annoying face. "No! Don't eat me?!"

The sight before you makes you lean back in awe, a hyper-energetic man who looks like a blur of white chasing the ghost you prayed to get rid of.

But, even with the highs, your fingers twitch -- urging to help him.

"Help me! Help!" he cries out like a child, his tears puffing at every moment. With one swoop, you grab the boy holding him down with all your strength. But, you struggle, feet flying dumbly in the air.

"You!" you breathe out, trying to pin him. "Don't... don't eat him!" you plead with desperation, "he maybe an annoying ghost -- but eating him is too kind!"

Then, you find yourself in a weird fight -- if you could call it that. The two of you rolled on the smooth wooden hallways, struggling all while you hurled pleas. You exchanged insults, pulled eachothers clothing and hair.

"Mogari?" a series of voices interrupt you two, as he was pulling on your hair. Stopping in his actions, crimson shifting to meet the three people.

"Koreshiki!" he happily utters, letting go of your hair. "Zaki told me he saw a ghost and..."

"I know," a deadpanned reply, looking to see the other boy, you were stunned.

He has foreigner origins definitely, his bright-ginger hair clipped and wide-round frames that suit his face. Seeing the others, you find the same mysterious dude, and another who's gaze was away -- his body shaking, like it was holding in the urge to vomit.

"Oh," Mogari chuckles, before hastily looking around. "Where is it?"

"More like, where is your mind right now?" Koreshiki states, pointing between the two of you.

"Here?" Mogari points to his temples, chucking his head.

"No, let... let go of the girl," he replies back, removing Mogari off your body.

Finally, you felt like breathing.

Sitting up, you find more than three ; a whole crowd just gawks -- their phones up, small chuckles. Your heart drops, they saw that stupid fight, looking around you catch the gaze -- her gaze. She's staring at you, no amused smile, no emotion, it was a blank. You find her peers whispering their lips close to her ears, girlish laughs entering your earshot.

She saw, your body shuts down, like she'd like weirdos like you, the boys words re-enter your ears.

You don't hear the gossips of laughter, or the phones shuttering, all there is -- is the long stare between the two of you, before she twists her body and walks away.

No, no wait. I didn't get a chance.

"Wait," you try to voice out, reaching out -- before a hand brings you back in. Turning your head back, you're once again faced again with Mogari. He has that stupid grin, showcasing those fangs -- what does he want?

"You, you saw that ghost right?" his smile gets impossibly huge, almost ripping at his skin.

"What?" you choke out, brows furrowing.

You don't get to reply, as he continues to ramble. And all you get is phantom busters, exorcism and ghost. Those words pang passion, yet it brings you to the depths of the cruelty -- their chants of insults, the freak, the outcast.

No, you weren't gonna fall for that -- you promised, you promised her. Even if you wanted to grasp on that string, that thread that could tug on that still heart. But a beating heart, the one that sang every passion you sang to the world -- greeted you with slaps of reality.

You won't be lonely again, right? No one can protect you now. Get off your fantasy, please!

Muffling all the words he's been rambling on, you push him harshly. Yet, his build deterred a slightest bit of impact.

"Leave me alone," you cut harshly, avoiding his eyes. "I don't wanna join you or that freakish club, ghosts don't even exist! Are you out of your mind?"

You turn to the four boys, stance straight and eyes cold (colder than you hope.)

"Get away from me, freaks." you spit with venom, ushering yourself away.

Yet, the small part of your heart beats, even when you forced it to stay still -- and when you try to remove her ; she pleads.

No, please come back, don't keep me here.

MOGARI is stunned. Watching your body flit away, your words stunt his head.

Freaks.

Yet, you utter it less of an insult to them, to his ears -- there's hints of a pained hiss. The words, you don't hurl them in typical bully fashion.

"You think she's a psychic too?" Eugene cuts him off, leaning a finger to his temples. "Or did you just wanna fight?"

"No," Kaoru butts in, shifting his colored eyes. "I saw them talk to the ghost too, in class. " Then, taking on a serious facade, "and someone with a passion for Jujustu Kaisen, she truly must be one."

No one gives a notice to his last words.

"Yeah," Tamon shifts on his feet, "there's some voice that lingers near her, Mogari may be real."

"So," Eugene flickers his gaze to the three, lips pursued in thought. "You're planning to recruit her? After... that?"

All Mogari does is stare, continuously look at the never-ending halls.

He sees the hints of longing, the dots of sadness that paint your stare -- as if a ghost came to posess you, he theorizes.

Your trembles, your hesitance, it really does seem like a ghost of a person he wants to know. Outside of what you show, with that faux confidence and strides.

And instead of wave her away, he sees it like a challenge ; a new exorcism goal for him to fit.

Because after all, if there's a ghost -- it's his job to exorcise. And damn well, he'll do it perfectly -- to remove whatever makes you tremble, what made you seem scared.

"Mogari?"

Returning his grin, he gives off a chuckle.

"Damn right, we do need a new member, yeah?"

[mulberrymyrtle]

the life of second year, (name)

a series of one-shots where you, (name) (I.name) navigates their rather boring life as a seemingly 2nd year student at the prestigious Yuuei --pretty NPC-like, as your peers say.

(various! bnha x gn! reader x ocs)

reblogs are greatly appreciated ˙˚ʚ(´◡`)ɞ˚˙

• notes: some OCS are taken from other people, please message me if it's not okay - credits to @yoiquu on instagram for moritsuka segi, her art is amazing!

• extra note: if anyone wants their oc's added here, chat me! mwahahah. (you are also signing up to be a beta reader... teehee /j)

• extra extra note: is it bad thing all the x readers im creating rn have witch-based powers? sorry I just love witched based mcs, so more of them will be coming soonn... *evil laughs*

part two (coming soon) ° masterlist

ONE-SHOT #1: im an NPC in my own story.

WHEN the words "Yuuei" erupts from the tongue, it is often coming from prestige. A single word that lets the masses come into unity, countless excitement that bounces off the crowd.

It is a word held with respect, dignity, and admiration -- Japan's most beloved hero school. A institution that produces top-quality heroes -- the ones that shine brightly in holographic cards. The press punting their headlines with their strained smiles, when blood heroically draws down their temples -- those kinds.

The heroes that have all age groups gape their mouths and foam for an autograph.

The heroes that have the mass bust out in cheers when they come to the scene, the sign of hope that'll overthrow the darkness the lurks everywhere. They come to lift up the burdens the cruel word has placed on your shoulders, aiming to alleviate whatever strings your heart.

So ask every kindergartener their dreams, in hasty babbles the words "doctor" or "lawyer" do not emerge -- it is now hero. Eyes glittering with pride, a dream that explodes and follows them when they reach their teenager years.

Then, ask every teenager what their dream was. With a phone slammed down to the desk, and a passion that flurries through, this is what is heard.

"I want to study at U. A, obviously!"

It really is the naive dream, to save the people, to push through when hope has disappeared. To always have people gape their eyes at you, it is what every student dreams off when they stare off in the middle of math class. To join in the competitive roster filled with students who like you, have worked years off to join UA, is something short of special.

So when results come, and with your trembling hands -- the holographic Aizawa emerges and unenthusiastically informs you that UA was in your reach. You believed that this was the beginning of your life. The blooming start of an eventful journey. One you'd tell the noisy grandchildren when you lounge in the rocking chair.

But, that really was far from the damn truth.

Here you were, splattered across your desk -- the snores of a classmate beside you. The class is filled with the grating sound, a cacophony of tired, restless students that blends together.

It is far from exciting spars, showcasing of unique quirks, and the inspirational path of an aspiring hero. Instead, the days are filled with overdue performance tasks and group projects that have you staring at a screen.

"Do you feel like an NPC sometimes," a voice calls out, a pen tapping against your desk.

Lifting up to meet the gaze of the person, it flickers to the large horns adorned on the mop of brown hair. Reeling your gaze back to the sage eyes that bore into your being -- desperate for an answer.

"Moritsuka," you sigh, the grogginess invading your tone. "Can, can you let me sleep?"

Placing the pen to your forehead, he gives a light flick. "This is what you get for chugging 2 red bulls, didn't I say to get proper sleep?"

A groan is heard from you, pushing it away. "Just because you work under recovery girl doesn't mean you have to solve my health-related issues."

"I do try to lessen the workload in the infirmary, " he states, dragging the pen lightly. "Especially from students overdosing themselves on cheap energy drinks."

"Redbulls not cheap, not at all!"

He only stares at you, an awkward silence emerging from the gaze.

"Moritsuka is right though," another chimes in, their presence squeezing between your space.

"On the sleep schedule?" you mutter with a hint of annoyance, rising up from your nap.

"Nah," the girl lightly dusts off your shoulders, putting herself on your chair. "I mean the NPC stuff."

"This again?" a huff of exasperation emerges from your mouth, looking at Moritsuka. Who's gaze lingers on your long enough, before you sigh again.

"Come on Moritsuka. don't feed Miuna with vour bullshit theories again." you drawl out, a cheek to your palm.

"They're not theories if they can be proven," Moritsuka argues, but it's done in a cool collected way than the offensive tone, which makes you boil a bit.

"And I can definitely prove that!" Miuna butts in, her palm slapped onto your desk. Hearing more students groan and rise up from their quick naps. "I mean, we're in the damn hero course -- but it's so boring! We don't do any fun stuff compared to our seniors! No special treatment! Like some fodder that pops up..."

You turn to find Moritsuka nodding at every word Miuna pushes out, his horns weighing in -- your eyes wander over the visible neck strain. It causes you to shake your head, hands patting on the boy's shoulder.

"Miu," you say to your babbling friend. "Stop before Moritsuka here ends up with a neck injury."

"A neck injury means he supports and acknowledges that it is more than just bullshit!"

"Can't you wait til" lunch?" you plead, ushering the two away. "Free time is the only time I'm not being fried by school or with the illumati theories, have mercy." The two shrug in unison, their voice still bustling with absurd theories. Ranging from the miniscule "we are totally just fodder" to "man, what if we're in some anime!". You end up groaning, burying your face deep in the wooden chair. The voices increase in volume, as the heated discussion bounces off to other sleep-derived students who were seemingly engaged.

God, let this end.

A soft presence rubs itself on your ankles, looking down - your sour demeanor bursts and evaporates away. Fingers reaching over to brush over the soft fur of the familiar blasting affections to you.

"You're tired too, hm?" you smile with gentleness, scratching the back of its' ears. It hums back, slithering into your lap when it curls into contempt. The noises of chattering muffles out when you continue to pat it down -- a calm feeling surrounding your being.

"Besom," the tone of your voice is quiet, gentle when it perks her ears up. "You're not supposed to be... here until it's hero training right?" you question -- a small hiss to your concerned query.

"Man, calm down," you sighed, "just concerned, you might get hurt."

Besom only nuzzles itself deeper into your lap, the fuzzy creature putting on an affectionate display.

"You definitely just want food, don't you?" the deadpan in your tone serious, letting your tongue click from the disappointment. "Such palisman you are."

Just when you reach to your bag, the speakers boom with volumes loud enough that Besom jumps from her position. In a split second, she takes on a defensive stance when sparkles of energy starts to emerge.

There has been a Level 3 security breach.

You hear the monotone voice announces, reaching to every crevice of the room.

The blaring red lights flash over the classroom, the once heated discussion of theories now turned into questions of panic. The sleep-deprived students now fully aware when their hands curl into punches, their quirks sparking from their hands.

All students please evacuate outdoors promptly.

With urgency, the commanding voice of your class representative breaks through the alarms. Her voice slightly shakes yet you find her in the front lines, urging everyone to come out. She stays at the front, like a shield you bask in when crisis comes -- head turning back to make sure all is complete.

"Class 2B," voice filled with authority, "Stay close with one another! If someone gets lost use your phone or contact via Kokoro's telepathy!" she reminds over the packed crowd, her groans and struggles heard.

The hallways were dead filled, each and every student filling in every spot. They push, scream, hurdle and it's warm. The crowding and panics make you clutch onto Besom, her comforting nuzzle helps you navigate through overwhelming crowds.

Just then, she immediately detaches herself from your hold. Sifting through small gaps the crowd leaves, slithering through it with ease. With a gasp, you follow after her steps, saying sorry to every student you push. (and a quiet curse to some random blonde who angrily stepped on you.)

Besom seemingly is out of your sight, nowhere to be found. Yet, you only give a light pat and chant to your bracelet.

"Appare Vestigum," a glow emerges from you, a light flickering against the groups. It takes the form of Besom, her shape highlighted as it moves animatedly.

Her movements are erratic, the subtle glow switching from one to the next -- even leaping over the heads of even more confused students. Taking the opposite direction of the exit door. She successfully evades the crowded area, her direction turning to the stairs.

"W-wait up!" your breaths almost come to choke you, stopping yourself to atleast inhale some bit of air. "B-besom, where the hell are you going?" You slide over to the stairs, a gulp in your throat. But you find her glowing figure descend further and further, the rationale part of your mind wonders why you couldn't just summon her back to your arms. With a mental facepalm, you whip out your wand -- when a man's voice ripples through your bracelet. You look down, the crystal spurring in irregular patterns like a radio buffering.

A voice? The beat of your heart tells you to follow.

"Damn signal," you mutter, sighing when you find the light starting to fade -- a sign she may be too far. The lack of knowledge of where she was couldn't have you immediately teleport -- plus, the weird voice tells you it may not be wise. With a quick decision, you follow over her when you descend down.

After almost a workout, you find yourself in a familiar floor -- the faculty room.

Your face scrunches, the faculty room? The questions form in your head, you know the palisman wouldn't jump out of your arms to go to a room you both despised. Well, much less even have the energy to get out of your arms. (don't tell Besom that.)

Weirdly enough, the faculty is empty, the doors seem swung open in a hurry. Some paperwork still at the entrance, there you find her -- finally, hidden over the hinges. Her body slightly peeking over, then you hear it again -- the voice. The same one you heard earlier, now clearer and nearer.

With a shaking body, you slowly march over to her side. Eyes over the looking by the windows, holding onto her with care when you assess the room.

Then, there he was -- a... a student?

He walked around the faculty, almost clueless. Squinting slightly, you didn't recognize him, much less even see him from orientation. His foreign look should've given you a lasting impression, with shoulder length blond hair curled at the ends with his violet eyes desperately searching around.

Oh, a transfer student? You muse to yourself, the pieces coming together. He must've mistook this for some room, or whatever. Especially with the alarms or something.

With relief, you emerge from the hiding spot, alerting him of your presence.

He only jumps, scrambling to his feet -- sweat pouring down.

"Calm down," you strut up to him in a slow pace, showing you aren't of any harm.

"You new here?" looking at him with an akward gaze, shifting to english. "Are you a foreigner?"

He gulps, hands clasped together as it shakes. He nods, his body screams like he's been caught or something.

You only raise a brow at how he is, "Uh, from where are you?"

"F-france," he whispers, his accent slips through.

"Ah, no worries!" you lighten up, "I'll make it easier for you..."

Hovering your fingers to form a shape, a subtle light emerges from your fingertips. Words and symbols start to detach and form all over, swirling beautifully against your hands the warmth making you sweat. Then it condenses to a single point, before bursting -- the essence fluttering to your heart, a swallow of heaviness when you stomach the feeling in.

"You aren't in the correct room, sir," you say in his native tongue, his surprise evident as his eyes widen with glee.

"You speak French!" he cheers, a flamboyancy emerging -- like sparkles all over his being. "That is incredibly spectacular!"

You give a slight nod, "Well, kinda? My quirk does... anyways, you're lost?" You turn over to the faculty sign, rearranging the words to show a hologram of it in French. "We're in the faculty room, you're not meant to be here -- didn't orientation teach you that?"

He once again awes at the display, spouting all kinds of praises. "Oh my, that quirk of your is so dazzling I must say!"

You only cough, "Answer the question, please?"

"Uh, my class didn't go through orientation..."

"Huh?"

He gives an embarrassed gaze, "Can you help me first? I'll tell you on the way back, I'm still not used to all this..." You give a nod, guiding him back -- taking the elevator. "Well, since the alarms are gone, I'll help. But you have to tell me, okay?"

I mean, it's kinda suspicious. You think to yourself, the weird feeling of someone watching over the two of you makes your heart heavy.

So when your hand is on his shoulder, gently coaxing him back -- your eyes is caught on as shadow, it blends seamlessly, but it is enough to have your skin filled with goosebumps. With a quick look around, there is light dust collecting by the edge of the door -- where a piece of paper used to lay.

What? You gulp, heart raising, grip almost tightening.

"What made you come here?" the boy interrupts your subtle gaze, when you two were nearing the elevator.

You look at your side, whistling to have Besom curl up by your shoulders. "This guy kinda went crazy, must've been the alarms. She's scared of them."

He squeals at the creature,

"She really is the cutest! What is her name?"

You reply and all he does is coo and let out squeals of delight.

"What is yours?" You tilt your head, now in the elevator leaning against the wall. Hearing some 80's groove subtly playing in the background -- Present Mic, you figured. "You must be a junior aren't you? What course?"

In a flamboyant display, he poses like a model with wind swooping over his luscious hair. Different from his scared display from earlier.

"Refer to me as the sparkling Yuga Aoyama!"

As if on cue, sparkles seem to surround him. Then he switches to another pose, and you feel like a background of golden roses come next.

"And for my course! For someone as dazzling as I am, naturally it is the hero course!"

Again, he switches to another pose, "Class 1-A to be exact, hold the applause!"

You pause, the puzzle pieces shifting together. "1-A? Is Mr. Aizawa your adviser?"

He gulps, nervousness seeping once again. "Yes... it is him."

A light laugh emerges from your mouth, "Ah, that says alot! One of my classmates would be proud your his junior. He's got a lot to say about that man. Is that why you weren't at orientation, faced the dreaded physical test?"

His simple nod answers everything all at once.

That makes your worries lift, returning back to a chiller demeanor.

He stops for a second, eyeing you. "Are you also at the amazing hero course?" You give a tired sigh, playing with Besom. "If you could call it that..." you whisper before addressing his concerns. "Yep, I guess I'm your senior. But, not a Mr. Aizawa child."

He bows down in a split second, addressing you with an honorfic that has your insides slowly die.

"God, no please," you shush him down, waving him away to straighten up. "No honorfics. I'd rather you just call me by my name."

When he meekly meets your gaze, he asks for your name.

Then, the elevator door finally dings, opening slowly. You find a small group of students in front of the humongous 1-A door. Seeing how a girl with short mousey brown hair waves to your direction, calling out to him in familarity.

You usher him away, but he stands to look at you, unmoving; almost desperate for an answer.

"Oh, my name..." you remember, quickly pushing him outside the door. Another huff, when Besom affectionately puts herself in your arms.

When the doors slowly close, you meet to him eye-to-eye, his usual quirkiness shows sincerity, and who were you to say no?

"Just call me (Name) Momiji. See you, Aoyama."

[mulberrymyrtle]

THE CHALLENGE

ONE-SHOT (PJO x reader)

pairings : (slight will solace x reader) (slight nico di angelo x reader)

SUMMARY :

In a spur of typical ADHD indecisiveness, you challenge Clarisse La Rue to an archery competition to “heroically” save the new camper.

One thing – you have never held a bow. Actually, two things, your only experience in firing something are online shooting games you were obsessed with before you came to camp.

Third thing, you aren’t claimed. So, here you are – prepared to face another “dunking” your head in the toilet cliche.

a/n : very short, spur of moment! so don’t expect something really good.

warnings : reader may use gaming terms? also to people who do archery, I apologize for inaccuracies , this is something i thought up quickly!

The snow that elegantly bows down the ground is a sight you’ll grow tired of, soon. However, with the steaming cup that flows within the air and the warmth that Will gives you when winter enters is a feeling you’ll miss, forever.

Camp has once again been shrouded in the comforts of winter, the cold shifting in the bodies of those unprepared. The piling of jackets and puffers that the Aphrodite cabin have been handing out to the shivering campers paired with the Apollo kids carolling at the early of night – the shaking of tambourines and bells ringing through your earmuffs. The grassed terrain is overfilled with litters of soft snow that squish under your boots, a satisfying crunch heard in every step. Internally, your mind is wrapped around fleeced and heavy blankets that snug comfortably in warmth – winter is here, and it’s a time where you have peace. 

Unlike the previous seasons, where in Summer – Percy Jackson changed the whole trajectory of peaceful camp life. His forbidden nature of a child of the Big 3, the prophecy, the betrayal of Luke and of course, you can’t forget that damn pine tree becoming Thalia. It was a compilation of events your brain always wants to etch out. It gives you enough headaches, you swear that both the Hephaestus and Apollo cabin have to be in an alliance to either heal or re-work your memories.

“Thank Olympus, hope no one’s gonna ruin Christmas,” the fog that erupts from your mouth makes you awe, playfully mixing in with the steam of hot chocolate.  

You hear the laugh of the boy beside you, his bright eyes squinting at your words. “Don’t say things like that, you’ll get jinxed!”

“Will, c’mon you seriously can't believe what Travis has been saying,” you huff, a nudge to his shoulder. “Not everything has to be jinxed, let camp be peaceful for once!”

The look Will gives you is half-turned smile, blonde curls shaking as his disagreement is obvious. “No no, when has camp ever been peaceful?”

That question makes you think, a little yeah, your right erupts from a slight whisper.

With the slight admission, he raises his brows – warm laughter once again emerging from his throat. “Told you! Have you seen my half-siblings running around the infirmary?” His fingers pointed at the unusually packed line that was held within the rather run-down building. Following his direction, you find Lee Fletcher bouncing around and talking in everyone – voice echoing. You flinch a slight bit, the nagging from his mouth reminiscing you to the times you wound up there, a bandage stuck to your head and ambrosia sticking to your taste buds.

“Well…” trailing off, the mug nestled in your hands – an idea popping in, a new way to battle Will’s words. “Well, that’s like normal – it’s practically peaceful enough…” 

You see the twist in his face, which makes you have to explain yourself even further. “I mean like, peaceful like when not faced with pine trees turning to humans, weird threats… that stuff! It’s different, no very- very- ultra dangerous threats!”

“Ahhh,” he finally nods, a cheer escaping your lips. “Guess you’re right, but I did hear news about Percy coming back…” he sighs, a rather big smile on his face. “That means I get to meet this “legend” camp’s been raving about.” 

The news practically has everything in your mind shattered, divided into little minions that scream murder and crowd up your thought process. 

“W-what?!” The growl that manages to bubble up makes Will jump in surprise, eyes wide.

“H-he’s gonna return?” you shake his shoulders, hot chocolate now soaked deep in the snow. The noises that come out are frantic, like an old lady spouting crazy visions paired with whined moans like a toddler not getting their sweets. “You’re joking!”

“I heard Chiron and T-thalia talk about it,” Will tries to tell you, but the constant shakes spurs his speech – bubbles of thoughts entering your ears. He gently grabs on your face, patting it to stop. The assault (and the warmth, unknowingly) has you slow down your movements, a more rational thought entering your frazzled state. He still holds onto you, and in a brief shared glance – a gentle gaze deep into yours. Your mind slowly dissipates, talking in the crisp air, his soft touch, and the snow falling onto your nose.

“You’re good at this,” you hold onto his hands, detaching it slowly – but you still hold on, weirdly enough.

“At what?”

“Calming people down,” you let go of his hands. “Like a healing touch, I guess?”

“Healing touch?” his brows are raised high, “Are you saying that because I’ve been claimed by Apollo?”

“Well, it fits?”

He lets out an awkward chuckle, “I don’t even have any abilities yet!”

“Hey, it’s just been like 4 months,” you pat his shoulder. “You’ll be able to channel some cool Apollo-like things – like… Archery?”

He gives you a disappointed whine, “Look I’ve tried everything, singing –”

“Yeah,” swallowing a lump in your throat, “that was really bad.”

“Oh, shut,” he punches your shoulder, “I’ve done musical instruments, poem writing, and archery yesterday was a big fail!” He buries himself deep in his hands, a sigh lifting from his tongue. “Gods, I'm virtually just a heatwarmer.”

Your eyes soften at his words, rubbing his hands. “You haven’t tried healing yet, right, maybe you’d do good there.”

“But healing’s scary,” he confesses, muffled sounds now on your end. “I see Lee handle that and...” He raises to meet your face, worry seeping through his expression. “I don’t know if I can handle that.”

“Then… “ you mumble off, eyes darting to think of a solution. “Well medic work in the online games I’ve played were simple enough.”

“Oh my, this isn’t a game,” the slight amusement in his tone has you brighten up, “that stuff is automatic, a simple press and they’re healed.”

“Hey hey, I’m trying to comfort you.”

“It’s not effective, I can’t just find some medkits and throw it at someone and hope they’ve been healed.”

“You’re missing my point!”

“That point was?”

You shake your hands around, deflecting the conversation. “W-whatever! I… we can have Lee teach us.”

Hope shines in his eyes, “Us, you mean you’d wanna be a medic too?”

The nod you give makes his eyes sparkle a tad bit brighter, “I mean, I’m unclaimed. So there’s no skill I have, same boat right?”

“Aside from being obsessed with shooting games?”

You push him off the log, “It doesn’t hurt to learn something. Let’s just do it together. Okay?”

He groans from the confines of the snow, lifting your body to kneel over his side – cheeky smile to your face. A hand reaching over to help him up, “You up for it?”

His hand finds yours, a slight complaint from his mouth. “If there’s nothing to do, we can try.”

You bump his head in a lighthearted manner, “Hehe, I can eat the stacks of ambrosia and nectar by the cabinets.”

“Really? I’d wanna try that,” his movements slow, his gaze faced down. “It reminds me of mom's pie,” his voice held longing, seeing how his fingers grip onto his coat.

The tone he had made you pause to look at him, the reality set in despite the air of Christmas that you two confided yourselves in. That even if he was finally safe, in a haven where he had no fear of monsters creeping up to attack him and his mother. An explanation to the massive questions he had about himself – a place where he could be himself, freely. 

It also came with weird nightmares that’d have you stare in the starry sky, the fingers of death coming and closing in at the clock of your birthday, and to spend Christmas without the comforts of someone dear – you understand why his eyes dulled and his smile now neutral.

You stood up, dusting yourself up. “Well,” a rather mischievous look covering your features. “First to go there can eat it infinitely, losers only get a small bite!” with a head start, your feet dash along the path towards the infirmary. 

The cold air filling in your lungs, yet the running brought intense fire burning – the clash of these feelings made you giddy. Laughter heard between you two, Will’s steps catching on. His voice rumbling and shouting the words cheater echoed in the seeming empty woods.

The two of you found yourself streamlining through some nymphs playing by the snow, the satyrs hunched around fires, campers rolling snowmans and shooting snowballs. You had to save Will from Katie’s intense aim, her vision automatically thinking you were the Stolls.

“Woah that was a nice headshot,” you awed at her aim, “Better than those online weirdos who…”

“I’m ahead!” Will sings, blowing a raspberry to your way.

“H-hey no!”

Then you passed by the arena, hearing the clash of metal and taps of feet moving synchronously. The slings of arrows warping through the air heard within the distance.

It’s just a normal camp day, free from fear, from monsters.

It was a day where campers could be free from their obligation, the burden of being a demigod lifted for just a little second —

“Oh–!”

You tumbled down the snow, rolling down a hill, the weight on top of you has your breathing choked out. Holding onto the weird pressure tightly – was it a person?

In the disarray of everything, the bundles of white entering your vision, the cut-off breathing, and some guy rolling with you? Your ambrosia and nectar were at stake!

You two crashed on something, immediately pushing off the person.

“What the –?!”

Settling your sights on the boy who lumped against the snow, his face was unfamiliar. He had ebony hair that messily contrasted the white beneath him, his skin tanned, he looked the same age as you – 10. His hands gripped onto a figurine, you see his breathing slowly. In a quick motion, you hovered the boy with concern all over.

“Are you okay?”

With a twitch in his eyes, bits of snow littering his eyelashes. It fluttered open, and he jumped – the figure clutched used to hit your head.

“O-ow!” you staggered back, hands rubbing over the sore spot. “The hell!”

“I-i’m sorry!” the boy says, coming more into your view.

“You better be!” you roar back to him, “Why’d you do that? God that hurt!”

“You looked like a monster, “ he says in a haste, hands playing with his figure. “You know we were just attacked by one – a manticore.” He awes, bringing out a holographic card to shine to your face. “3000 ATK plus you get an extra 5 to save throws, cool right?” 

“Y-you just called me a monster!” you barked out, and though your eyes lingered on the card a bit too long you shook him off. “Look, you need to apologize two times,” you told him firmly, crossing your arms. Scanning him up and down, you figured – he was new. “That was hurtful – twice the pain and now I’ve lost the race against Will!”

He sets down the card, looking at the bruise forming on your skin (and also your heart). Holding his hands together, he mutters in a sincere tone.

“I’m sorry, for all that.” 

Silence overtakes the two of you, your defensive position slowly crumbling down. You stare at the card planted between the space you two had. The intricate designs and the holographic sticker had your eyes entrapped, the anger you also bubbled up because he made you lose the race wilting away.

“The card is… cool,” you mutter, picking it up to hand it over. “What are they?”

His face gets overcome by a toothy grin, seeing excitement threatened to burst out if he spoke one more word. “They’re Mythomagic cards!” he sputters out in a daze, closing in to you.

Before you try to say anything, a rough hand lifts you up by the collar. Then instead of an excited boy ready to say all kinds of things about cards, you’re met with a fuming girl who practically said i’m gonna kill you, kid with no words at all.

With the burly build, scars littered even when the fur coat (that looked like she hunted herself) that hung around her body. Her chopped, but curly strands entered your view and her eyes glinted a dangerous red – her grin akin to boar’s animalistic growl to take down enemies. 

“Clarisse?” you uttered in a meek tone, feet dangling above the ground. “Why?”

“You, you made this mess?” she brings your body towards the crashed crates and archery targets, throat suddenly filled. “You puny lil’ chump making me miss my shot!” she rages out, shaking you with vigor.

“But it was just a —”

“It was a bet for something,” she barked. “A bet for the next Capture the Flag game.”

Oh.

If there’s one thing about Ares kids, they don’t play around with Capture the Flag.

With one swallow of your throat, you prayed to a god and accepted your fate.

“I’m sorry Clarisse,” you begged, her steps dragging you two away. “Please don’t hurt me.”

An evil snicker ruptures through her, bringing you down to hit against the wooden frame of an archery target. With a small, condescending pat – she places something on your head.

“I won’t,” she says pointing to the pack of equally angry Ares’ kids who were stringing bows. “But they’ll help.”

“Oh, I'm just 10,” you cried out, eyes a bit watered.

“And? You need to be taught something —” her words get cut off by a snowball entering her mouth, muffling her speech. Darting to whoever threw it, it was the boy from earlier. Chest heaving as he shouted a quick “goal!” as he rushed over to your side.

But with Clarisse’s booming command the group huddled over and caught him. With new-found rage in her senses, she marches over to him and with a grip so harsh the veins popped out of her hands.

“Y-you! Oh, I can wait to get two lil’ kids knowing their lessons,” dragging him next to you.

“Let us go, you pig!” he lashes out, weak punches on trying to fight back, using his figure as a line of defense.

Picking up the figure, she mockingly waves it around. “Ha, it’ll be fun to make you my slaves.”

You worriedly watched, the scene making your body feel numbed, meant to just watch.

What should I do?

She once again laughs in his face, “Are ya’ new here? What’s your name!”

“Nico!” he shouts to her, trying his best to get it back. “Nico di Angelo – I bet your name is Ms. Piggy!”

You see the boy’s face determined, yet it glints with fear – so different from the happy look he donned. His toothed grin, and rather sporadic bounce was heartwarming.

His first time here and he was subjected to this, your heart dropped at the memories. The times you were new, the same face you shared – begging on your knees with tears streaming down your face. Even if you were in a time of peace now, they’d resurface and the guilt gnawed everywhere.

You didn’t want that again.

You don’t know if you should thank impulsivity for this, but your mouth ushered out words you shouldn’t have said.

“Clarisse! I-i’ll make a bet!” the tremble in your voice, slow steps as you walked towards her. “If I win, you leave us two alone – for a long time. If I lose, I’ll be your slave for everything.”

That makes her smile, dropping the figurine by the snow. Confidence roared through her every move, a scary tilt as she regarded the offer.

“That bet is?”

You swallowed your own saliva, that didn’t really enter your mind – you know what? Go with the flow, you internally told yourself. Taking in your surroundings, the only thing that registered was the fact you were in the archery range. With shaking hands, you grabbed a bow and gave it to her, pointing to the targets.

“It’s easy, we’ll shoot arrows in those three targets continuously, and whoever has the most points – wins.”

She gives you a wide look, “Are ya’ underestimating me? This is light work.”

Taking a good, she shakes her head. “Know what, this just makes it easier for me and harder for you. No need for goodluck,” she chuckles as she takes her position. You find that the archery range has garnered more people, a crowd forming in.

The nerves in your body shout at you, taking the hand of the boy – you settle him there in the bustling chatter of people. He only stares at you, with a gaped look and his hold tighter on the cards and figure he held.

“No worries,” you whispered, holding his gaze. “I-i’m good at FPS!”

“FPS?” he tilts his head, “what?”

“You know, video games…?”

“What? Oh like those arcade things in the casino?”

You give him a confused look, ready to explain before Clarisse calls your attention. There you see her work, and your brain could only burst up in haywire.

The first two, though not perfect, had the arrow shoved up near the target– while the third one nestled an arrow perfectly on the red dot, a bull’s-eye.

She tosses the bow to you, your hands clumsily catching it, a slight off-balance when you stumble. You walk through the crowd – recognizing the Hunters of Artemis who regarded what Clarisse did with impressed gazes. You find Will’s mop of hair, his face etched with concern, god’s they’re watching your demise.

How in Olympus were you gonna do this! The bow in your hands was unfamiliar, if it was a console or joystick you’d bet 20 drachma that Clarisse would be dead – but the actual thing? Oh, if you were in some online lobby you’d be hit with the most creative curses known to man.

However, you looked at the boy – face filled with hope, encouraging you to go on.

So even with the tremble in your hands, you did.

Just treat it like a game.

Just treat it like a game.

The words repeated in your mind, taking position.

Maybe someone took over your body, but the bow felt light – pliable and easy to mold. The string was flexible, following your movements like water. You drew your arrow, perching and fixing it. In your vision, you found yourself in the setting you were used to. The crosshair, the bow – like the gun, you went slow and waited for the perfect time. The arrow stuck to your face, the feather brushing your skin – the crisp wind slithered through your whole being. Removing you of the fear you felt, a quick surge of confidence coursing through. It was your warzone, and you weren’t gonna back down.

This is just a game.

Then you let go, the feather cutting through your cheek. It cut through fast, the bow spun and in a blink —

“Bull’s eye!” a voice says, it’s melodic, maybe someone from the Apollo cabin. But that didn’t concern you, the adrenaline seeped in – grabbing another arrow to nock on the string.

“Bull’s eye again!”

Then the dread came over again, faced with Clarisse’s perfect shot. But you turned back to the expecting crowd, and returned to face the red dot that loomed over you.

“Man, you’re too tense,” a voice rang through your mind, like a gentle whisper. “It interferes with aiming, sometimes all ya’ gotta do is shoot – “

Before camp, online games were your only escape. From the failed grades, the laugh of peers that followed you, and the disappointment that weighed in your whole mind. The feeling of bringing out your anger through shooting online randoms wasn’t the best, but it worked for you. The way you could get control, to feel a sense of victory – and to win wasn’t by hastily shooting the enemies or buying the newest gear.

All you just needed was a quick breather, a calm mind, and to take every chance.

So as you once again felt the arrow cut through your skin, the anticipation danced through. 

And maybe you were dreaming, or maybe some prayers were answered.

But the crowd’s cheering and words behind you confirmed that it was both.

The arrow spun, a fast sling – hearing the loud crunch of wood entering your ears. Seeing how the arrow pierced through Clarisse’s with a split, halving hers to pieces. You find your arrow buried deep in the target, the bundles of feathers placed delicately in the middle.

“B-bull’s eye!”

Then something caught your eye, a soft red glow reflecting off the snow. The crowd gets even louder, their stares looking at something on top of you.

You held a confused gaze, head turning around – you caught Clarisse’s gaped look. The anger seething through her skin, but it wasn’t the usual. It held some respect? Everyone gave you a hard gaze, hearing Chiron’s hooves run through the crowd.

In a sudden movement, they all bowed. You were left to only look up — the red glow surrounded a symbol. It screamed strength, power, fear even if it was a simple spear. Your eyes widened at the recognition, an audible gasp from your tongue.

“Ares,” Chiron said, his voice rigid and filled with respect. “Destroyer of men, raider of walls, master of the art of blood.”

“Hail. (Name) (Last Name), Child of the God of War.”

[mulberrymyrtle]

COSMIC ─ ⊹ ⊱ ☆ ⊰ ⊹ ─

[various!pjo x child of urania!reader]

CHAPTER ONE : stargazing...petty fights... weird guy who smells of sewer water.

SUMMARY : in typical sibling fashion, your half-sister forces you to engage in bonding activities to get closer to your godparent. however it's 1am, and gods? they never cared anyways.

YOUR SISTER WAS A WEIRD PERSON, or rather your "half-sister" was the epitome of whimsical shook into a bottle rapidly to create a highly-superstitious woman.

You could say she was obsessed or in her own terminology - a "passionate" astrologer who's hands were blessed by Urania's knowledge of the cosmos. (As she uttered in her theatrical matter, in front of the Hermes table. You wished with clutched hands that Zeus should strike her down with his fearsome lightning.)

Yet, in your own terminology she was a nerd who loved the stars too much she'd disintegrate herself if it ever decides to come near her vicinity. (both literally and metaphorically)

She'd wake you up in the chill-breeze of dawn, hands slapping at your sweat-filled forehead (because being squeezed in the Hermes cabin is definitely anything but cold). Her fingers gesturing to the destroyed window, (a polite gift of the Stolls) with excitement coursing over her star-speckled eyes. With drowsiness choking you by the brain, fogging everything that hurls out of her mouth - the only thing it can make out is your name.

"The constellations!" She sputtered, words spilling from her chapped lips. "They're clearer!"

"Uh...clear, cool. Woah."

"Oh my Olympus," she sighs knocking at your head, "It means Urania is giving us a sign! We need to talk to her or something!"

"Why does it matter if she..." you paused, shifting your crumpled blanket closer to your body. "Or Urania makes the constellations clearer? You know the gods don't care at all. Making up for neglect isn't making stars clearer or whatever." Rolling your eyes, flopping yourself back on the floor.

With a whine of your name, she smacks you (like she always does) "That's our mom, you have to respect her."

"That's a god." You spit out,  "She's probably out there creating more half-siblings to cramp us in this cabin."

"I hope she makes better siblings than you." She huffed, her arms crossed.

"You'll just betray me like that? I was joking, you were supposed to say you're the best ever!"

She gives you a look of disgust, her head shaking rapidly. "In a hypothetical sense, you're doing the betraying here."

You gave an awkward cough, eyes shifting away from her face. With a stiff laugh, you murmured under your breath. "In Capture the Flag... maybe?"

She tilts her head, your words processing in her mind. "Huh- wait! You're not teaming up with me?"

"Well, I wanna win for once."

"You think Clarisse will make you win?" She raises her brows, her face scanning over you like it was a joke.

"Better than be dunked in the toilet that's for sure..."

"We had a plan!"

"I barely have anything to do there," you shake your head, putting the blanket over your head. "It's probably Annabeth saying that Athena always has a plan." Replicating Annabeth's confident tone to perfection as you utter the phrase. "I am practically dummy bait for Clarisse either way."

Your ears pick up on her groan, her back hitting the wall with a loud thump. Under the covers, you shift to turn away. Your mind was on desperate measures, forcing itself to shut off - away from your half- sister's insistent pleads. The thin sheets you slept yourself on was better than lying on prickled grass, the hurls of harpies screaming in the distance, paired with the stories your sister’s would wander about was anything but delightful.

"Just let me sleep," you tell through muffled sheets, moving around the tight space.

"You're so difficult." She murmurs in exasperation, almost tired. "I'm just trying to get us closer, that's what she..." Her tone falters, like the next words were impossible for her to voice out.

You hear the deep breaths she takes in, the sigh she releases - even a clink of the necklace Urania gifted her. The subtle movement of the blanket tells her that you're prodding the next things she'll say, eager to listen.

"Oh," you finally hear her voice after the moments of silence, you find yourself shifting closer to her.

"Oh, i'm sorry Peter," she utters in a soft manner, "Did we wake you?"

Who the hell is Peter?

In a sudden movement, you fling your blanket off. Head emerging from the soft comforts of your dingy pillow to face whoever decided to join the conversation. You swore, there was never a Peter unless it was a spirit that decided to wander in the dead of dawn. But, you also know that your half-sister couldn't see ghosts. You were sure that in the entirety of Camp, only one person could do that - the cabinmate beside you whose snores irritated your ears.

Your head turns to the person, like a crane cranked up in slow motion. Your vision clearing up, the blurred figure of the person fully coming into view.

Ohh, so that's Peter.

You turn to your sibling, then back to him as your memory tries to recollect on who he was. Eyes looking over his closed off form - he's a bit close, you think. His sea-breezed hair has been swept by the constant turns in his sleep (he's restless as well, why were you beside two annoying sleepers?)

He was reminiscent of men who spent their summers lazing in the warm sands, letting the grains supple over their bodies. A man that looked like he thrived with the waves splashing in their hair and the chemical smell of sunscreen that he’d pile on endlessly. You wouldn’t be surprised if his godparent was a related to water (if Poseidon still had children, he'd be top one) or his whoever his parent was, must’ve been an avid surfer.

But, you wished he smelled like the fresh seas or of summer's refreshing taste. Instead a vague scent of rotten sewer water invaded your senses, as you shook your head. Meeting the gaze of your sibling once again, a common understanding of apologizing to him came over the two of you - his squinted eyes seemed to tell you he was irritated.

You sighed, resting your head against the creaking walls (does Chiron even have enough budget to fix this, you wonder) "Sorry Peter, we didn't mean to - "

"It's Percy." He clears up with a rather deadpan tone, his arms clutched around a rather curved object. "Can you tone it down?"

You share a look with your sister. "We're sorry, we'll quiet down."

"Will you?" He questions, hold tightening on the object in his arms. You’re pretty sure that comment was meant to jab at you two, hearing your sister mutter something inaudible.

A few awkward glances is shared between the three of you, the sudden creak of the floorboard disrupts the moment. The shuffles of your sister's footsteps is heard within the empty cabin, all you can do is observe her movements, her body reaching over to a corner.

Rustling is heard from a distance, bunches of papers being smashed into one thing. The heavy thuds of books, she stuffs countless books about astronomy (that she probably let Travis steal from the camp's store) pencils that seem to clack at every moment, pens scattered with vast colors. She slings the filled bag over her shoulder, as she faces the window, fingers nimbly opening the creak. Then with a soft breath, she turns to you two - her mouth moving in a familiar manner. She's ran away from too much cramped sleeping beds in the dead of night for you to immediately understand her.

Don’t tell Luke.

With a lazy nod, you shoo her away - an action that makes her mouth quirk up, a little "you'll pay if you snitch" emerging from her tongue. Then in a blink you find her figure blending into the starry sky, the stars seeming to twinkle a bit brighter when she did.

"Does she do that often?" Percy asks with a tilt of his head. "Isn't that, against the rules?"

"Well," you trail off with an awkward smile. "Rules never bothered her, really."

"The harpies?"

"She's good at avoiding them," shrugging him off. "Got a collection of their feathers, weirdly enough."

Percy doesn't say another word, noticing the chest set beside you — overflowing with the collection.

The nightly-air washes over your body, dancing around you playfully. It’s cool, different from the compacted warmth that Hermes’ cabin offered behind the doors. Leaning your head on the window-still, you see the glowing splatters of the stars glint in your sight. It contrasts against the abyss, like it usually does without fail - despite your reluctance, you do admit it was ethereal.

“Ah, it is clearer,” you mumble in defeat, eyes taking in the constellations that appeared within the etched sky.

Your breath awes at the different collection of constellations that pooled beneath. Immediately catching the bright gleams of common constellations ranging from the Zodiacs, drifting over to beam at Cassiopeia. You stop your observations for a moment, with a furrowed brow. Your dart your eyes to the seemingly duller shine of stars that mixed to create another picture - eyes widening at the newly found connection.

"Perseus," you whisper amongst the silence, awe filling your body - it gleamed beautifully. It took over half of the field, completely stealing the show — a rare constellation appearing?

"Excuse me?" a voice calls out within the silence, confusion evident in their tone. You flinch at the intrusion, seeing Percy look at you with a pursed lip.

"Perseus, the constellation?" Pointing to the sky above, connecting the brightest stars together to show him the picture. “You know, the Greek hero?”

"I know," he states, when you blink you find a presence settled beside you. He's close, you think, the proximity has your mind jump. He focuses his sights on the sky before him. His breath stutters unevenly, you see his throat almost bobble up — his face is a mix of everything. It's dull mostly — like the constellation isn't something he awed at. "Slayed Medusa, saved the princess, happy ending, all that." He spits out, a hard edge to his tone.

"Not a fan, huh?" you tease with a glint of mischief, hugging your knees close to your chest. "Me too," you confess, burying yourself deeper in your knees. "Heroes with a happy ending, seems weird."

"Yeah, real weird," he croaks out, his tone slightly pitched up —lips quivering when he continues to stare.

You observe him quietly, how he clings tight to the material close to him. Hugs it like it's the only warmth, the comfort he's had — it resembles how a child sticks to his mother. It makes your chest tight, your hands clammy.

With a little sigh, your body finds itself shifting closer to him. You come shoulder-to-shoulder to him, his warmth ever so present.

"Man, you do hate him huh?" you utter with a surprised tone, fiddling with your blanket. Bumping his shoulder in a light manner, you linger a bit long. "Don't worry, he doesn't show up all the time," you inform him softly, hoping it'll lift up whatever anger he has directed to him. "You'll mostly find common ones, like the Big Dipper or Cassiopeia here — just don't look too hard and Perseus won't show."

"No," he interrupts you, his eyes back at yours. The closeness has you forced to stare into his pierced gaze — it's clouded almost, like seas crashed with storms and overlapped. "No, I don't hate him."

"Then what?"

"It's just weird," he whispers. "We share a name, I find it weird."

"Perseus?" With a raised brow, you tilt your head. "You share a name with him? Perseus? Who named you that?"

He takes a second to register your question, yet his breath hitches — almost stopping his lungs from functioning.

"My mom," he rasped out, a heavy sigh ; the confession a burden to vocalize. There is a crack entering his words, mourning coloring his very body. The object he's been embracing the whole time is tighter than before, you can see the outline. Curved and pointed, a minotaur horn which was penetrating itself in his chest  — he does not stop ; he continues to press deeper.

Oh.

Minotaur horn, Percy, mother.

Minotaur horn, Percy, mother.

Minotaur horn, Percy, mother...

Then, it finally clinks in your mind ; an echo of previous events emerge within. It's him. You knew of him in the rumors that spread by both campers or by the satyrs who's hands tended the stables. The tale of a new camper brought in the hazing storm, killing the famed minotaur with brute strength — his endeavour marked by the remnant of the horn held by his hands. It was a story that'd be etched in the stars, you imagine the giddy smile your sister wore when she heard of it.

A new legend, she sputters with excitement. A story that the constellations will love.

But, your mind did not think of "legends" or the myth in a making. The boy before you, who's blanket was not neat, who's eyes started to water a bit, and choked with the overwhelming pressure of learning of his heritage — he looked too human to you.

The creation of a legend is never beautiful, it is from harsh treatment — to be attacked mercilessly of battles that the gods force you in.

You were aware of that, every demigod was.

So when you hid yourself deep in the vines that hugged the White House, hearing the worried murmurs and rabid shuffle of pinochle ; hearing news about the newest recruit. Your heart becomes heavy. Grover's tone is shaky, the tin cans that clattered as it crunched underneath his mouth. His reporting is messy, unclear, the quiet sniffles interrupt it from the clarity.

What about his mother? He quietly voices out, it is silent. Mr. D doesn't have some snarky comment nor does Chiron bring out any advice like he'd always do. What are we gonna say about his mom? Grover says, filled with desperation — it's coarse, demanding.

She's gone. He cries out, his tone is weighed in by grief ; a failure, he thinks of himself. The way how utters the words is so similar, bringing you to a moment years ago.

You try to shake off the previous events, focusing on Percy.

"Your mom," you repeat, careful to say it with caution. "She... she must've been cool to name you that."

"She was," he answer back, his tone softer. "She was the best, actually," he whispers tenderly. You feel your chest tighten at how he mentions her. He has a little smile on his face, how his dullness is now shining at every moment he thinks of her positively. He parades his memory of his mother like a cherished gift, a woman he never wants to ever forget.

You never thought it was possible to think of your own mother that way, to hold her tightly to your heart.

You give him a reassuring nod, taking in the softness that surrounded him briefly.

"Hm," you hummed, fingers playing amongst the gathering dust at the window. "Naming you after Perseus, names are pretty strong thing here, you know?"

"Grover said the same thing," he says confused. "When I almost said Diony — Mr. D's real name. What's that about?"

"Uh, my sister says it kind of seals your destiny," you trail off. "If you're named after something, your fate's gonna be written out for you." But you put a shushing motion to your mouth, "I don't believe whatever she says — she's ultra superstitious, really. It might be her fear-mongering again."

"But," you continue. "Your mother must've loved you a lot for you to be named after a hero who gets a happy ending."

He squints his eyes, wondering what you were trying to imply.

"If we do take my sister's words, she wants a happy ending for you," you say slow, thinking of how to convince him. "Then you should follow that destiny, let yourself reach a happy ending that you want," you ramble off to him, hoping he'd listen. "I mean, that's why you were brought here? You must've felt outcasted, like most of us — and now, you're not different anymore, you're just you."

You take a breather, the next words crashing on you. "That's something happy isn't it? To finally be with people who understand, — here you don't have to be scared. You can do everything without fear of judgement."

"Will I?" he spoke in a hushed tone, insecurity evident. "I mean, I did get dunked in a toilet first day in, very welcoming." He uses a sarcastic tone, the displease is displayed loudly.

That alone makes you laugh, "So Clarisse did that to you, that's why you smell weird."

"H-huh, I don't..." leaning down to sniff a part of his clothes, "I wasn't even wet by the toilet water!"

You were a bit stunned at his claims, shaking it off quickly. "Well I can still smell it!"

"Are you messing with me?"

"Well, we are in the Hermes cabin, try guessing," you cheekily reply, using your elbow to nudge him. He playfully shoves you off with a huff, making you smile.

"It's hard to read your face — it's a blurred mix," he scoffs at your words.

"Blurred mix? That's a new one," you expressed amusement, shaking your head. "Has camp been mentioning that again?"

"Well, it's not a joke, it is kinda blu —"

"Well, since you faced Clarisse's toilet ritual" you cut off his words, reaching out to pat his shoulder. "You definitely will, you'll belong here just fine."

You'll belong here just fine.

Percy pauses, your hands still placed on him — you flinch, immediately removing it. He mulls over your words, blooming something within him — you think that after being kicked out almost every year, that he'll never find a place to be. Everywhere he steps in, trouble catches up and is ready to grab his collars and sink him deeper into the pits.

To himself, he is an outcast — he has never belonged, he is the kid a Nancy Bobofit like-persona would pick on every chance, the weird kid who couldn't do well in school. A trouble-maker who'd burdened everyone.

Yet, Camp Half-blood entered his life — and everyone shares the same story. He isn't alone anymore, he's not different, he's everyone else — just like he'd dream.

Okay, I'll belong here, just fine. Percy thinks deep inside, giving you a half-smile. A shared silence falls between you two, turning your attention back to the beaming stars. You hear a stifled yawn beside you, Percy body sways like the calm winds — sleepiness overcoming his every being.

He crawls back, uttering a curt goodnight. His snores now adding on to the never-ending piles of sleepy campers — it's annoying, but it's starting to lull you to your own sense of slumber.

"Goodnight, Percy," you reply back, already finding his body deep within the covers. You observe how his face flinches, before coming down to a little smile - he was thinking of his mom. You come closer to his side.

"May the stars guide you,"  you whisper, it's unfamiliar on your tongue. It better suits your sister, however you wished the words wrapped the nightmares that plagued him. It worked when your sister uttered them when you tossed and turned at sleepless nights, gentle hands soothing you down.

You pray to that the boy beside you, who's face shone brightly at the mention of his mother. That he would not succumb to the horrors being a demigod would bring him. The grief that weighed on your , the flashes of other campers before him, who crumbled under the gods.

Do they even care?

You hope they will, someday. Turning over to observe the brightest star, a speckle of hope in your heart.

"Goodnight..."

Your voice halts at what you want to say next - "mom." Shaking your head, you return the blanket over your heaving chest.

"You really did make the stars nicer," you blurt out, a tinge of frustration in your tone. "It's not that bad." you snicker mockingly, hoping it'll anger her a bit.

Maybe, if you squinted hard enough, the star twinkled back for a brief moment. Urania's weird way of scolding, you wished - but the gods never cared, do they?

AUTHOR'S NOTE:

first chapter done! wohoo, hope you enjoyed this is the first ever book i've written and decided to post so im shy, hehe... reblogs and comments are HIGHLY appreciated, would love to gain insight on how to improve this story -- so any beta reader who can give me advice thank you!

also i lowkey bawled because I DELETED A GOOD PORTION OF THIS FIC I HAD TO REWRITE IT AUGHHH.

fun fact : the camper who can see ghosts is actually another reader insert i plan to release, someday :0! (try to guess who's their godparent is)

[mulberrymyrtle]

COSMIC [various!pjo x child of urania!reader]

it's weird how vastly different you are from the insane powerhouses camp half-blood contains, from percy jackson's extreme command of the seas or clarisse la rue's hands rusted with the iron of battle, you only stand as a minor child of a muse, reading zodiac compatibilies and recognizing constellations once the clock hits -- can you even call yourself a demigod?

SNIPPET ; chapter one :

“The stars tell stories, my dear. The constellations are heroes who have ascended, ready to watch over you. It is your choice to call upon them, harness their pleas.”

"The answer is starchild, will you? Will you heed their calls? 

IF PERCY JACKSON was known as one who commanded the seas with the hilt of his blade. Or if Clarisse La Rue’s hands were known to be stained with the remnants of a fearsome battle. Then what would you be known for?

Your legs feel the prickly grass beneath you, itching almost everywhere. That paired with the heat where you want to bang at the Apollo cabin’s door and plead for dad to chill.

Its showing that it is summer again, and it surely is an unbearable summer. Not only is it due to the humidness that allows the prickly grass to stick even closer or your clothes drenching with pure sweat, But it seems that Camp Half Blood has decided to once again show you that even in a world where you are grouped with outcasts or rather demigods who have had their fair share of peculiarity – you are somehow normal.

Because the boy -- the enigma dubbed "Percy Jackson" by the on-going whispers of camp. Who has led you to a concerning spiral of your self-worth is back from an ultra-thrilling quest. You don’t know if Travis loves to mess with you about what Percy has gone through. But he battled Ares, faced the wrath of Zeus, and escaped the underworld? You swear, it hasn’t even been two weeks and the whispers from demigods, satyrs, and even Chiron? -- has never seemed to die down. It was as if they were willingly saying that “he was the prophecy!”

You shake your head, continuing on with the collecting strawberries by the field.

“Pst.” Someone calls your name from the field beside you, another client or was it?

“No, you are not compatible with Luke, Jenna. You’re a Virgo and he is a Leo. Worst pair.”

SNIPPET END.

INFORMATION (about the pairings and others)

* a little fanfiction i have in my mind, it's not fully planned or anything -- but if someone's interested let me know! might find a beta reader who can take my ideas/ smth, honestly just need someone to help w/ writing and possibly rant abt this fanfic i planned :>

* i based a majority of this fic of orv 😭😭 ORV X PJO FANS UNITE

* idk if romance is gonna be big aspect but there'll be a BIG batch of people? all u need to know the roster rn is percy, annabeth, clarisse, leo, piper, jason, the stolls, reyna, nico and will??

*IDKKK HOPE U LIKED IT?? first tumblrpost yeehaw 😭😭 might delete chat hehhee.

[sloanslone]

Oh! I forgot to post the finished Warrior Penelope ( in my style ) rkgk!

Ib: @gigizetz

(I love this AU sm I wanna draw more of it 😭🙏)

also, I've been thinking, should I draw siren Ody 🤔?

ye 🙂‍↕️🩵

no 🥲

Voting ended onOct 26, 2024

[kartoplyaart]

Medieval yuri

[weavemama]

DO NOT SUPPORT SALVATION ARMY 

[jackharknessday]

I can back this up. It isn’t only their shelters.

I have a family friend who worked at our local Salvation Army headquarters as a a secretary. This particular office took all the Christmas donations for children in need, put them in a warehouse, and on a designated day the staff and their friends picked through them all, taking whatever they wanted. She saw people hauling away bikes donated for specific families. Some local children had hundreds of dollars of gifts donated in their name, and on Christmas they received three cheap things, items likely not even from the person who sponsored them.

My friend quit, and I’ve not given them a dime of my money since then.

Do not give to the Salvation Army.

[gayfeatherfiend]

Do Not. Give. To. Salvation. Army

[rab-it-deactivated20231030]

My turn.

I’m a wildfire and disaster logistics specialist.

I deal with a lot of agencies who provide disaster relief.

I used to say the Salvation Army’s disaster services were the one (literally the ONE) good thing they did.

They would come in, set up a canteen trailer, make and pass out hot coffee and donated food in a disaster, usually being one of the first agencies to get there and the last to leave.

Then I found out.

Every time they did this, regardless of if they were actually invited or deployed by the agency in charge (usually FEMA, sometimes others) they would SELF-DEPLOY. Meanjng they would just show up. Ok. That’s not TOO bad, sometimes agencies have to take initiative and get there before the red tape is sorted out. BUT. They, after they left at the end of the incident, they would send FEMA or the host agency a BILL. They used one or two paid employees (usually the driver of the truck and a supervisor); and many VOLUNTEERS, but they would bill for EVERYONE’s Labor at standard federal rates. They would bill for the food they distributed even though it was all donated by another agency or private parties. They would bill for the coffee they made and the supplies. Except they would use electricity from the shelter location, water from donations or from the shelter, and in many cases, they would get the coffee and industrial filters DONATED, but bill for them at retail prices.

Don’t FUCKING give to the Salvation Army.

[knight-of-vengeance-deactivated]

The Salvation Army is also ass to the workers. A good number of people join it, naively thinking that it’s doing good, and end up leaving cynical and beaten down. The management is hostile, if not outright abusive, and demand some ridiculous hours of it lower to mid-level staff. Don’t support these people.

[fisharescary802]

Unsettling update

[oldearthaccretionist]

Find better local charities and shelters and give to them instead!

[moonybyte]

Also just for even more horrific context on the original twitter thread?

Salvation Army reached out to Milknmuffins and asked what shelter she’s at with the promise to address the abuse in it. She…ended up saying where she was. She was thrown out onto the street. It’s also all on Twitter.

They invited her to a personal talk so she could explain the situation in person.

And then they threatened her with a screenshot of a rape-threat made supposedly by her:

And then threw her out into the street while claiming she broke house rules that

So yeah, the Salvation Army is a bunch of entitled assholes that will treat the most vulnerable like shit if they dare try to do anything that makes them look bad

[supernovafirefly]

The “Fuck Salvation Army” posts are making the rounds again, so conisder this your reminder: Do. Not. Give. These. Assholes. A. Single. Fucking. Penny.

Do not support them in any way, shape, or form.

[eagletrekkie]

‘Tis the season to say FUCK the Salvation Army.

[soonsoonii-deactivated20241023]

[hayanahed]

Emergency: Help Evacuate My Family From GAZA WAR

Dear Humanity,

I'm Haya from Gaza , from a family of 8 people: my parents, two sons, and four daughters (two of them suffer from allergies).

Donate to Emergency: Help Evacuate My Family From GAZA WAR, organized by Ahmed Alshawish

Dear Humanity, I'm Haya from Gaza , from a family of 8 people: my… Ahmed Alshawish needs your support for Emergency: Help Evacuate My Fa

I've witnessed the evidence of the tragedy that has struck our lives in Gaza, where my family and I have survived amidst numerous previous wars. But today, we face the most dangerous and fierce battle in the current war. The urgent need intensifies for us, as we have nothing left and are unable to secure our basic needs such as food, water, and safe shelter.

Here is our story - On October 7th, our lives changed forever, my family and I evacuated from northern Gaza to southern Gaza, hoping to return soon, but it wasn't meant to be. Our home was surrounded, burned, and then completely destroyed, Our home, once a fortress of hope, now lay in ruins, a stark reminder of our shattered dreams.

The night before we left from the north to the south was terrifying. Shelling sounds were everywhere, making a loud noise that felt like it went through our souls. Every explosions shook the ground like earthquakes, sending shockwaves of fear through our trembling bodies. filling us with fear. The air smelled of destruction and blood, making it hard to breathe. When dawn came, we saw the devastation around us, realizing our home was now a symbol of loss and despair.

We ran into the streets and with each step we took into the unknown streets, we felt as if we were plunging deeper into the abyss of our shattered existence, leaving behind everything we own in our home: Clothes, important official documents, the car, and literally it's almost everything - the enormity of our loss weighed heavily upon us.

Our home it was where we found hope, safety, and made precious memories. Losing it felt like losing years of our lives, leaving us adrift amidst the wreckage of our shattered existence.

A brief video depicting the devastation that struck our home and our entire neighborhood in Gaza.

Desperate Plea: Escaping Gaza's Allergy Nightmare

I, Haya, suffer from severe allergy to penicillin-derived medications, and my sister, Amal, also suffers from severe allergies to medications from my family such as Paracetamol and Ibuprofen.

These allergies create a deep sense of fear and anxiety for us, as we live in a constant state of tension and fear of anything that may require a visit to the hospital. We fear being given inappropriate medications due to the unavailability of suitable treatments in Gaza because of war or lack of awareness and not informing the doctor of our allergies, which could lead to serious consequences threatening our lives.

MY Father Income

Our dreams are heading towards oblivion in the labyrinth of an uncertain future

My story, along with my siblings, represents a united team of four individuals, three of whom are skilled programmers and one graphic designer. We work as freelancers in the world of freelancing.

As for my younger sister, she is a student studying at the College of Architecture. She has always carried a big dream in her heart, a dream of being part of changing Gaza, of making it more beautiful and better. She looked forward to the day when she would receive her degree and start building this dream. But the beginning of the war changed everything. The destruction of infrastructure and universities cast shadows of despair over her dreams.

When I think of my brother in Belgium, I can't help but feel deep sadness. He has been suffering from unbearable anxiety and insomnia since the outbreak of the war. Sleep eludes him at night, and his physical and mental health collapses under the weight of these heavy burdens, negatively affecting his performance at work. Problems and challenges pile up in front of him without the slightest opportunity for rest.

We all feel psychological pressure and extreme anxiety. The war hasn't been limited to external attacks but has deeply infiltrated our daily lives. We search among the rubble for a little safety and the basic resources for survival. Every day comes with a new challenge that we must overcome.

As we sway amidst the rubble of shattered dreams, our souls wrestle and our hearts beat strongly challenging the ravages of war.

Our parents earnestly seek a way to rescue us from this hell, feeling the heavy responsibility for every moment we spend under the shadows of fear and destruction. They dream of a safe place where they can build for us a better future, filled with security and hope, for we deserve life in all its meanings of comfort and peace.

Perhaps this fundraising campaign represents a light in the midst of darkness, it is indeed the only hope we cling to firmly.

I appeal to the world as a whole to hear my cry and the mournful cry of my family in Gaza. We need the helping hand that reaches out to wipe our tears and build a bridge to safety.

Your donation is not just a donation; it's an opportunity to rebuild life and brighten a better tomorrow. Be part of our hopeful story, for we need your hand to start anew.

The purpose of the fundraising campaign

The goal of this fundraising campaign is to rescue my family - my parents, my siblings, and me - through the Rafah Crossing to Egypt, which currently requires $5000 per person. This campaign is our only chance to stay alive, and I humbly request your assistance at this critical time. I will provide you with a comprehensive breakdown of the expenses, committing to transparency and clarity.

Donate to Emergency: Help Evacuate My Family From GAZA WAR, organized by Ahmed Alshawish

Dear Humanity, I'm Haya from Gaza , from a family of 8 people: my… Ahmed Alshawish needs your support for Emergency: Help Evacuate My Fa

All of our important links are here https://linktr.ee/hayanahed

Verified by :

⭐️ operation olive branch, number 26 on their spreadsheet. (On Master list)

⭐️ Project watermelon,line 249 on their spreadsheet. Or you could see it as number 212 here is the photo for more clear proof

Thank you for your kindness and support.

.جزاكم الله خيراً

yours sincerely;

Haya Alshawish.

[yoyoyo-idk]

"everything is hazy and i can barely remember what i write. i doubt some of the things i use are words. i try to reply to his comments but i am so tired. i am literally dying" vs "litterally the best novel ever. the author is so nice :)"

i cannot believe i thought kdj had a semi normal relationship with someone for a minute.

[sunnami]

❝like the grass wants to grow, i want to run anywhere that you go.❞

summary. 'a tiny butterfly flapping its wings today may lead to a devastating hurricane weeks from now.' or alternatively, it takes six lifetimes for you to find each other.

pairings. poly!marauders+lily x reader.

word count. 8.9k (i tried to keep it short. i really did T-T)

tags. hurt/comfort, fluff, angst, happy ending. reincarnated/regressor!reader. no specific gender described. not proofread, we die like lucerys velaryon.

cws. brief depictions of death and war, themes of mental health and trauma.

note: lmaoao, as per the poll, here is the time-traveler!reader fic! i didn't cry during the angsty parts so it's probably not that bad.

YOU WAKE UP to a familiar weathered stone ceiling, owls softly hooting beyond the curtained windows, sunken in the mattress of a canopy bed with low snoring on either side of you. There’s a wilting candle on your nightstand, alongside an unfastened leather journal—a whiff of spilt ink under your nose. In your limp embrace, is a plush capybara with a turtle attached to its head. The quilt blanket is entangled between your thighs, the early morning breeze flurrying past the exposed stretch of your belly where your oversized granny-square jumper has ridden up.

It’s only then, when you try curling your fingers and wiggling your toes, that you realize that your body feels as though it had been hit by a shrinking charm. 

You sit upright instantly, heart skipping a beat from fright.

No.

You can’t have.

You reach for your brass handheld mirror, tucked away in the bedside drawers. 

There is no way you are this unlucky.

Yet staring back at you, is your eleven-year-old self.

Naturally, you end up screaming in frustration—startling the robins idle on the windowsills and all but waking the entirety of the Gryffindor castle. Prefects burst inside the dormitory, wand at the ready and crust in their eyes, in search of a threat only to find you on the verge of hyperventilating.

Bloody hell. 

Not again! 

Merlin, Morgana and Arthur—you are not going through puberty a sixth time.

“Oh, fuck me,” you mumble defeatedly as you fall back onto the patchwork pillows. Your roommates are gawping at you in horror, the sound of heavy footfalls echoing in the halls outside. 

Months ago, you had heard about the gruesome passing of Dorcas Meadowes—you weren’t necessarily close friends with the girl, despite being sorted in the same House, but you would grieve where grief is due. 

YOUR FIRST LIFE came to an abrupt end at the age of nineteen, in a quaint coffeehouse where the owner knew your name and the baristas wore a sunlit grin everyday. That day, no one had expected for Death Eaters to wreak havoc in Diagon Alley—it could have been anticipated, if only the Ministry was competent during the onset of the war. But with the extensive list of Muggleborn and half-blood casualties after that incident,  Ministry officials had no choice but to restrict certain areas and propose the ‘lesser-breeds’ go into hiding for their safety. This alluded to many families; most condemned to be blood-traitors. 

(There had been fleeting whispers of her dying at the wand of Voldemort himself.) 

Then, you’d woken up in the four walls of your dormitory. The sensation of being ever-so cruelly struck by the killing curse burning in your chest—a scorching fire, yet bitterly cold all the same. You had sobbed wretchedly, curled up in a shuddering ball of tears until your roommates had called for the prefects. It got worse when they tried to console you—you felt everything still. The panicked cries and screams of the wounded ceaselessly echoing in your head.  You remembered the shards of glass sinking into your skin as you dove for cover, Unforgivables apathetically hurled in every direction. 

It was not until Madam Pomfrey administered a Calming Draught and an elixir for dreamless sleep that you finally went out like a light extinguished.

Your second life was relatively longer—you had spent it under the supervision of mind healers at St. Mungo’s, after all. For the next thirty years, you’d been confined to a ward on the fourth floor. (Later, you would share this space with a couple who went by the names of Alice and Frank Longbottom.) Regardless of the bleak walls, it was not so bad. The quilts were warm and the assigned matron, Madam Strout, was kind and fussed over you regularly. While the healers had done everything they could, you continued to struggle with discerning what appeared to be your ‘first life.’ (Which one was your true reality? The first? Or the second?) Eventually, all the poking and prodding wore you down. Your fingertips had bruised and brittled. You could not look over your shoulder in fear of finding a Death Eater staring back at you. Night terrors plagued your dreams. 

(Your parents who had always embraced you with loving arms—they could not look you in the eyes now.) 

Memories bled into newer memories as the days went by. You haunted the corridors with a plagued stare, quickly becoming a woeful canard amongst the residents of the hospital. ‘The hysteric fortune teller,’ they called you. You who spoke of wars and rebellion at the age of twelve—but whose words nobody cared for when Voldemort began rising to power. You who’d gone mad and overwrought. In the end, you believed everyone else. 

(See? It must have been all in your head—a wayward spell that unfortunately damaged your memories.)

You’re unsure of how you died, but perhaps, you were never even alive in the first place. There was only so much Draught of Peace you could take before you inevitably became a soulless, sleep-walking husk of a person.

You woke up in the Gryffindor tower once more—this time, you’re careful enough to smother your cries.   

If you flinched every time Marlene McKinnon coarsely bellowed Dorcas’s name in the middle of the school hallways, or if you averted your gaze at the sight of Alice Fortescue and Frank Longbottom’s intertwined hands—it was nobody’s business but your own. In this life, you kept your head down, breezing through your homework and exams—although you had seen no purpose in it, at this point. Each morning that you woke up, you wondered if this was a favor from the Gods, or a relentless hell so meticulously-crafted for you.  

(But what sins had you committed for them to spit on you as they had done? Surely, you would be granted peace after two deaths.)

You could not tell your family, nor could you ask anyone else in Hogwarts if they remembered fragments of their past lives—for the last time you had done that, you were met with vindictive laughter and cruel gazes. 

(At that moment, you had understood Xenophilius Lovegood a little bit more. You never knew how many sought to trample on the wallflowers of the castle.) 

And so, you’d kept your head down until the end of your time in the castle. You stayed away from Diagon Alley and surrounding areas, and you willed yourself to perfect the art of apparating—a skill you wished that you had learned earlier. 

On the first of November 1981, witches and wizards had come to celebrate the fall of Lord Voldemort—which ultimately meant the death of James and Lily Potter. (You could not come to their funeral the first time around, seeing as you were chained to your hospital mattress that day, inebriated on the third dreamless sleep potion administered to you.) 

Under the eyes of St. Jerome, you laid bouquets of white roses and dahlias on their tombstones. 

“Wherever your souls are now, I hope you find each other and unearth peace,” you whispered to the two names engraved on the slate, hands clasped together as you rested on the grass. The winds had been cold and biting, a testament to the looming winter that would sweep away the tears on their graves. Like Dorcas Meadows, you did not interact much with James and Lily—but more than anyone, you knew how death was no easy enemy to conquer.

(You hoped their orphaned son would live a life that would not take him too early.)

A few months later, you met your demise to a werewolf named Fenrir Greyback. 

As you bled out on the grassfields, you wished for Death to come and take you faster.

When you awakened, it was in the same bed and the same dusty ceiling. 

There was nothing you could do but go back to sleep this time around.

After dying pathetically for a third time, a stubborn part of you wanted to fight back—so you did. 

Unlike your previous lives, you joined the Dueling Club, supervised by Professor Flitwick himself. Your wand work was clumsy and you stumbled on your incantations. You could not lift your wand without remembering a coffee shop laid to ruin and wreckage or the hardened gaze of Greyback as he sank his teeth into your neck. The times were merciless, your dance with Death even more—but you would not die helplessly again. 

As you lay in your bed, muscles aching from dueling practice, you had realized one thing. 

You did not want to stain your hands with the blood of another—having grown tired of the Reaper and his antics. If the Gods would not let you rest, then you would not let them take anyone else. 

After all, you had the stubbornness of a Gryffindor lion. 

For the next six years or so, you devoured your textbooks on charms and healing spells, refining your spellwork until your tongue grew numb and your wrists became sore. When the time came, you followed James Potter, Sirius Black, Remus Lupin, Lily Evans, and many more, in joining the Order of the Phoenix. (Perhaps you should have realized earlier that you all were just wide-eyed children on both sides, forced to partake in a war that should have never been yours to fight.) 

The First Wizarding War transfigured the years into a blur of mourning, surviving, and fighting in alleys now-bloodied. Even the sun hid behind the clouds, for brothers began turning on one another. You could only find solace in the fact you had kept Dorcas away from Voldemort’s clutches, volunteering to go in her stead during incursions, and Marlene McKinnon alive for another day to see her family.

But for how long could you cheat fate? 

Hours before your death, you found yourself in a forest clearing. The campsite was filled with witches and wizards afflicted with severe hexes and curses—a few of Dumbledore’s best fighters screaming in agony from the Cruciatus. 

There you found Remus Lupin, bruised and worse for wear, attempting to wrap a bandage around his shoulders in an empty tent. 

“You look like you’ve seen better days,” you said in a soft greeting, stepping inside the tent with a forced smile, your collection of potions and jars of herbal pastes jostling in your leather satchel. 

Remus chuckled tiredly. “Haven’t we all?” 

You gently pried the bandage from his trembling hands and maneuvering yourself at his back. You stifled the urge to cry at the sight of his scars—so violently red against his pallid skin. Compared to your previous lives, you had developed a friendship with Remus and his group of bold marauders—a camaraderie as true as it could be in dire times. (And if providence had been kinder, you could have dared to want more than just friendship.) You poured drops of Dittany onto his shallower wounds, murmuring empty words of comfort as he flinched and hissed.

“It’s Peter,” he rasped, abruptly holding onto your wrist as you turned to leave. “He’s been missing for hours. Please. I don’t know what I’d. . . what I’d do if. . . if. . .”

You squeezed his hand. “I’ll find him, Remus. Don’t worry.”

True to your word, you had found Peter at sundown deep within the forest. There was an unsettling quietude that hung in the air as you trudged to his side. He was kneeling on the muddy ground, head hanging low. It’s only then that you noticed the body laying still in his arms. Violent chills slithered down your spine as you recognized the woman in his embrace. 

“Mary!” you cried out, hurrying to them as fast as you could. 

“What happened?” you asked frantically, hands in a desperate search for a pulse. When you were met with no answer, you pressed again more heatedly. “Peter! Look at me!” You gripped his chin, heart hammering in your chest. “You have to tell me what happened! I can’t. . . I can’t help her if I don’t know what hit her.” Droplets of tears fell from your eyes down to Mary’s pale cheeks. “I can’t. . . I need—please. . .”

Bloodshot eyes stared back at you. “I. . . I didn’t want to do it.”

“What?”

“I’m sorry,” he croaked, burying his head into the crook of Mary’s neck. “I was so, so scared.”

“Peter, what are you talking about?” You grimaced impatiently when Peter lifted his gaze—but he was not looking at you, rather behind you.

The answer to your question was a killing curse to the back.

An unseen rustle in the bushes that you should have paid attention to, a cloaked figure darker than any shadow; a Death Eater that’d come to ensnare you in a perfectly-laid trap. 

(Damn it!)

(Damn it all to Hell!)

You awoke to the sound of your screaming and your limbs thrashing in the bed you’ve grown to despise. There was nary a remorse in your body as your roommates wailed at the sight of your nails drawing blood from your arms. Later that morning, the common room would be filled with talks of your faraway gaze and your scratched-up flesh. 

You could not take it anymore.

In your fifth life, you had sought peace—or rather, the most beautiful mockery of it. 

You decided to give up your magic to chase a semblance of normalcy. No more wands, no more moving portraits, no more jinxes and pranks, no more owls and wizard robes. Most of all, no more war. (‘But it did not work like that’, Death laughed.) In this life, you wanted what was denied of you in the previous ones.

A family.

A happy ending.

Bitterly enough, the Gods saw fit to give you only one of the two. 

You married a Muggle, to your parents’ dismay. He was nice and compassionate—a distant contrast to the ongoing turmoil of the wizarding world. But you could not bring yourself to feel guilt. You had been stripped of everything, which included the privilege to die and lay your soul to rest in perpetuity. 

(Who were you, if not a dead man walking?)

Over the years, you would have three children with your husband—three beautiful children born from love, in a world that would not actively seek to take them from you. You raised them all to adulthood, hoping they would not fault you for finding relief at the lack of magic in their veins. Their names were Kinsley, Piper, and Avery—and you had adored every inch of them, from their striking eyes to the tips of their stubby fingers. 

On your deathbed, you were surrounded by your grandchildren and your great-grandchildren. An image you held close to your heart as your vision began to deteriorate. 

Just this once, you prayed to all that would hear. 

Let me die surrounded by my family.

At the age of ninety-one, you drew your final breath.

And when you opened your eyes, you were back in Hogwarts for the sixth time.

TO SIRIUS BLACK, you are a curious little wallflower, albeit a withering one—you who blend among the crowd, with a sad gaze in your eyes and the fretful twisting of your fingers. He doesn’t know why he’s particularly drawn to you—but perhaps he understands, more than anyone, the hesitance of taking up space in fear of punishment for one wrong move. But you look so lost, meandering along the corridors like the ghosts of the castle—but even the spirits seem more alive and colorful than you. 

“What is it that they have taken from you?” Sirius wants to ask. 

(What judgment has fate placed upon you so—for you to cry each morning?) 

There is a raging urge in his veins to reach over and wipe your tears away, but what can he do as a stranger, if not watch powerlessly as you fade into the background? 

His fingers feel like they might fall off if they do not entwine with yours. He wants to offer up his shoulders to carry the burdens that weigh down on a creature as lovely as you. 

There are times when he and the other Gryffindors catch you crying at the long tables of the Great Hall. 

“O-Oh, was I?” Your reply is quiet. Resigned. Sirius has never felt his heart break more than in that moment. You move to weakly swipe at your tears. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to. . .” 

“It’s alright, really,” Lily says, her voice strained, the words lodged in her throat. Under the table, she seeks James’s hand for comfort. (How can someone appear to be so lonely and defeated?) “We all have those days.”

“Yes.” You blink away the fresh tears pricking at your eyes, mindlessly pulling at the threads of your woven bandages, a weary chuckle falling from the cracked skin of your lips. “Except, it seems the days never end for me.”  

Lily stays silent. 

Sirius shares a look with Remus from across the table, an unspoken question hanging between the animagus and the werewolf.

How do their voices call out to the one who so faithfully believes that the world has abandoned them?

But Sirius Black is determined and unyielding—what good of a prankster would he be if he could not bring a smile upon your beautiful face? 

He gets his chance during Transfiguration class, when McGonagall instructs the class to pair-up for an activity in turning miniature statues into birds. Predictably, you don’t move a muscle, staring ever-so intently at the sights beyond the classroom windows that you don’t notice the professor observing you worriedly—her lips tightly pressed and her eyes wrinkled with concern. Sirius slams his buttocks onto the wooden chair next to you; the sound of chair legs screeching bounces off the cobblestone walls.

“Hullo, partner.” Sirius grins as he offers you an enthusiastic wave, his dark curls floundering with his energy. He feels the gazes of his best mates boring into his back, but decides to ignore it for now—Remus can live without him for one class. In his mind—a perfectly-reasonable logic for an eleven-year-old, mind you—he figures that you would find class more entertaining if you had the right company. And, Sirius is wonderful company. 

You stare at him with furrowed brows and Sirius wishes nothing more than to bring fire to your eyes. “Partner?” you repeat, a tinge of confusion in your voice—a deafening cadence to his ears, as for once, it is not desolation that laces your words. 

“Partner,” Sirius affirms with a nod of his head, barely paying heed to McGonagall’s directions at the front of the room—but noting the mention of a prize for the pair who would successfully cast the spell for longer than ten minutes. He takes your silence for uncertainty, and replies with a light-hearted scoff—finding the pout on your lips adorable. “I’ll have you know I’m a bloody master at Transfiguration. Not even James could match me in this class—okay, maybe he could, but that’s not important, is it? Point is, with me at your side, Minnie will have no choice but to give us a hundred points!” 

From the frown on your lips, Sirius gathers that you’re unimpressed by him—a first, but not a total setback. 

He seizes the small box of porcelain figurines before you can blink, a wry smile on his face as he wrangles a boastful laugh from his throat. “Ready to have your mind blown? I’ve been practicing this spell since last night. There’s no way I’m getting this wrong.” 

“Oh, I’m Sirius Black, by the way—at your service.” He holds out his hand for you to shake, wondering what your palm would feel like in his. Cold? Warm to touch? Or, perhaps, a perfect fit—just as Lily’s hand feels laced with his?

He doesn’t find the answer to his question. Instead, you draw your wand from your robe pocket, and point the tip of the wood at the earthenware at Sirius’s grasp. 

“Avifors,” you recite delicately—such a flawless incantation that Sirius hears Merlin himself weeping in the depths of his grave. 

The figurine grows feathers and a beak—Sirius and the rest of the students can only watch as the weebill flutters its wings and soars through the roof. 

He’s stupefied. Breathless, one might say. But not because of your little trick—rather, the growing smile on your lips as you watch the bird fly across the room. Your eyes flicker with mischief, and like a man on the edge of a cliff—what is Sirius Black to do, but fall? 

THE END OF YOUR first-year at Hogwarts draws near, and so does the springtime—a coveted season for lily flowers to bloom. The April winds find you out by the lake edge, swinging your legs idly on a marble stone bench where the cypress vines grow along the cracks. Songbirds fly overhead as the daylight glistens on the surface of the Black Lake, a beech tree in the near distance, butterflies dancing past the gnarled trunk. Pollen floats like dust in a cupboard under a staircase. Ducklings waddle after their mother as riverine rabbits scurry on into the tall, purple nettles. On days like this, you find it easier to settle into your new life—but, perhaps, you have your friends to thank for that. 

Yet, as you find yourself wanting to reach out to their outstretched hands, flashes of children with your hair, your eyes, cheekbones whittled to resemble your own, haunt you. Their pure and gentle temperaments, painfully akin to their father’s. You mourn them every day. Their names are forever inscribed in the locket of your soul. (You did not find it fair—you who live again, and they who disappear forever. An existence that would cease to be—all because you fear what awaits you in this life. Why must it be you who should walk this land with a body scarred by wounds no one else can see? Why must it be you who mourns the loss of your family, your friends, and all your loved ones—everyone murdered by the Gods who spit on the five graves with your name written on it? Why? Why?)

Do you dare to live a life without them? Is it fair to deprive them of a chance of being a family while you waste away on the Isles? You may have lived multiple lifetimes, but not once have you been given the answers you seek. 

You will not find happiness without them; it is as you deserve. 

(For why else would Death torment you so if you are seen as innocent in their eyes?)

“How did I know I’d find you here?” A sing-song voice emerges from the trees, and you’ve no need to turn your head—the sound of Lily’s bright cadence is one you’re familiar with. But, somehow, you’ve grown fond of her voice, more acquainted with her smile and laugh than you’ve ever been in the last five lives. (You have to wonder if this friendship is one you’re permitted to enjoy.) Her grin is blinding, more so than the afternoon sun behind her. Lily’s wavy hair falls over her shoulder as she plops down on the empty space beside you. “We didn’t see you at lunch today,” she says, looking ahead, the warmth of her hand inching closer to your own. “I figured you didn’t want a bunch of whiffy boys around.”

Then, she looks around, searching for any prying ears, a stream of giggles falling from her lips. “Although, I must warn you—their pockets are loaded with food stolen from the hall, saying they’d give it to you when you returned to the tower. But I think Minnie caught onto them.” She chortles, a fond gaze in her eyes. 

You hum in thought, a smile unknowingly pulling at your lips. “Thank you, Lily. It’s sweet of you to come and find me.” 

She harrumphs light-heartedly, snootily lifting up her nose. “Don’t get too used to it. We’re only just best friends, after all.”

A silence encompasses the two of you, sitting under the shade, pink fingers shyly intertwined. Lily allows the minutes to flow by like a breeze on the waters, until she stares at you with thick emotions flickering in her emerald eyes. She nibbles on her bottom lip, long lashes kissing her eyelids. “Are. . . Are you alright? Is it one of those days again?”

You grin at her question, impishly nudging her legs with yours. It’s a gesture you deeply appreciate—befriending you and growing closer to you in ways you imagine are never in your cards. But Lily is only eleven, and you will not act upon your selfishness. (But, maybe—just maybe—you are allowed to relish in their company until you are called once again to your deathbed. In the next life, they might not know your name as they do now, and the revelation frightens you immensely.)

“I’m okay,” you say, a gnawing lie that sounds unconvincing to even your own ears. You stare at the flock of swans diving in the lake. “I was just missing a few friends back home.” You remember the toddlers that you used to call your own—their spittled possessiveness toward anyone who dared to snatch your attention away from them. “I don’t know if they would be happy with me going off on my own adventure,” you say, sparing Lily a knowing look. “They are—erm—Muggles.” 

“Oh.” Lily nods, mulling over your words. “Tuney. . . my sister. She sort of resents me ever since I left for Hogwarts. We live a world apart, and it barely helps that she ignores me during the holidays.” She sighs, averting her gaze elsewhere, a grimace pulling at her mouth. “Sometimes I wonder if all of this was never meant for me. That I was just a fluke. Why do I have magic and not her? Any day now, I expect for McGonagall to come and ask me to pack my bags and head straight home.” 

“But,” says Lily, her eyes resolute and her fire unwavering, “until that day comes, I will enjoy every bit of this world as I can. Tuney will just have to deal with that.” She offers you a mellow smile—a likeness to a kind husband that you had once in a past lifetime. “Besides, I think those who truly love us will understand the paths we must take. Even if it means parting ways for a long time. Your friends will not blame you; they’ll want you to live truly and freely.” 

Her words sink deep into your bones, and you can’t help but let out a hearty laugh. You simper at the confused tilt of her head. “Wise words, Lily Marie Evans. Are you sure you’re only twelve?” 

Lily beams. “Mum likes to tune into the Sunday motivational-talk channels.”

(“The ones we love never really leave us, do they?” Sirius Black will tell you one day, when you’ve bared to him the truth of your lives, and he looks at you no differently than he has before—with all the adoration and fondness of his heart.)

Later, before you and Lily make your way back to the castle, you pick three flowers among the chicory weeds. She stays behind as you kneel by the riverside. For the children you have loved, and will continue to love for eternity. Droplets of tears fall onto the water, joining the floating blue petals. “I’m sorry that I cannot find you as you are,” you whisper, a heavy weight lifting from your shoulders. “But I hope that we meet again in this life, whichever names you may take.” 

(After all, what love is stronger than one that perseveres across endless lifetimes?)

You carry them in your heart—letting cherished memories remain as such. Otherwise, you’ll be chasing what can never be again. It would be an injustice to their names to try and replicate a shallow imitation of them. They deserve more than that—to be treated like a pawn in Death’s game. They were alive and you will honor them befittingly.

You bid them goodbye and allow the tethers of their soul to untangle from your grasp. 

It is the most difficult farewell—and yet, the easiest act of mercy you have ever carried out.

‘THE FLAP OF a butterfly’s wings can evoke a hurricane in the next world over.’ 

This is a phrase you’ve come to be familiar with over the span of your numerous lives. It has never been truer than the moment you step outside the infirmary to find a group of mismatched Gryffindors waiting for you in the halls. Their heads snap in attention at the sound of your footfalls. In an instant, you’re crowded with their questions and worries—but you find it endearing, the way your friends fuss over you. It’s certainly a welcome change from a past spent by your lonesome in the castle. (You only wonder what makes this life so different from the rest? Why is everything changing without you noticing? What will be taken from you for this deviation in time?) 

“How did it go?” James asks, now seventeen and captain of the Quidditch team, wavy tendrils of brown hair swooping over his round glasses. The broad of his chest fills out his red and yellow jumper, crocheted by Lily over the yule break—the five of you, including Peter, Marlene, Mary, and Dorcas, have matching sweaters as well. 

Except, you like to tease them with a jest that Lily made yours with the most love—as no one else had the pattern of a capybara with an apple on its head. 

“Well enough,” you answer, patting his shoulder with a tired smile that reaches your eyes—for how could one not cheer up in the face of James Fleamont Potter? That would be saying the skies do not brighten in the company of the sun. 

By incontestable decree of Poppy Pomfrey, the headstrong matron of the castle, you are required to meet with a mediwitch from St. Mungo’s twice a week, since the start of your fifth-year. Healer Robbins floos to Hogwarts on Wednesdays and Saturdays to check up on your health, physically and mentally. Of course, you don’t divulge anything about your time-traveling dilemmas, lest you end up confined to a hospital ward again for the rest of your years. But you do end up addressing—albeit, begrudgingly—the dried tear stains on your pillowcase every morning, your wayward habit of purposefully missing meals, or your tendency to withdraw yourself from your peers on certain days—which coincidentally happen to be the anniversary dates of your deaths. (If no one would grieve for you, then you’d do it alone.) 

Who’d have thought that healing would be much more tortuous than hurting in the quietude of your room?

But one thing is for certain—this is a suffering you will endure with greed and hunger. 

For today’s session, Healer Robbins suggests you proactively live in the present more—which is easier said than done. 

“Although, she did tell me to stop slouching all the time,” you inform James, scrunching your nose in feigned offense, to which he replies with a hearty chuckle, pulling you into his embrace for a side hug. You burrow your nose in his scent of oakmoss and orris root, a lingering touch of broom polish as well—you feel the warmth of his hand splayed out on your back, and hide your grin into his chest. 

“Well, someone had to tell you,” says Regulus Black with a scoff, arms crossed over his chest, yet no genuine heat in his trenchant eyes. He looks pleased that you return unharmed from your meeting with Healer Robbins. Funnily enough, you’ve no doubt that the famed Black temper would emerge should you utter so much as a single word against the mediwitch. (You like her, though. Some days, Robbins lovingly spiels about her clumsy-footed wife—and in return, you talk about your sad feelings. Eurgh. Talk about a fair exchange.)

Among the many divergences in this life, one of them is the unforeseen friendship you have forged with Regulus Arcturus Black. But that story begins with Xenophilius Lovegood, when you stumble upon him in the Forbidden Forest chasing after a family of bowtruckles with a fervid expression and a journal in one hand. You protect him from foul-mouthed Ravenclaws, and he allows you to tag along in his woodland escapades—including a lifelong access to the kitchens beyond curfew. His lack of regard for personal safety is both endearing and maddening, you realize early on. One stormy night, you chase Xenophilius into the forest—he is barefoot, following the Mooncalf hoofprints, as you spit out strings of expletives and mouthfuls of rain. That is where you find Regulus, groaning in pain and carrying a burden that is much too heavy for a fifteen-year-old. 

Then, a year later, they decide to give you a heart-attack when you discover that Pandora and Xenophilius have taken Regulus under their wing—figuratively and literally. And, most of all, romantically.

You’re more speechless than Sirius had been when you catch him one fateful evening.

(“Don’t do it, Sirius Black,” you greet, startling the ebony-haired boy as you step out from the shadows. The common room is silent, save for the crackling embers in the fireplace. You stare at the sixteen-year-old with a vehement resolve, your hands curled into fists. If there is one fixed event you had to live through over and over again, it is the news of Severus Snape being nearly mauled to death by a creature so feared and gruesome. You will not let it happen in this life. His eyes flicker with shame amongst a sea of gray, and he knows that you know about his abhorrent idea of a ‘prank.’ 

You sigh, taking another step forward, hand coming to rest on his tense shoulder. “Let it go, Sirius. It’s not worth it. Bringing someone to harm is never worth it. If he dies, his blood will be on your hands—and you don’t want that, trust me. Be kind to him, Sirius—and even kinder to your brother. The two of you are all each other has.”

“Not true,” Sirius whispers back, almost afraid, his fingers tracing the curve of your cheeks. “I have you, Prongs, Lily, and Rem.”

“And Remus is exactly who we should be with right now,” you reply with a harsh glare. “Not in the common rooms trying to one-up Snape because of some childish rivalry.” With a long sigh and a shake of your head, you push back the dark curls from his face. “The times are cruel, Sirius. We must hold onto what we can.”

His forehead will fall onto your shoulder, and your shirt will be soaked with his tears, but you realize that you will hold him, and all those who’ve captured your heart, until Death himself pries you away from their embrace.) 

But, it all pales in comparison to the horror in Sirius’s eyes when you point at Regulus and Peter, as you utter with absolute conviction, “They are my dearest friends.”

While Peter may have been a traitor in another life, a murderer with blood and guilt staining his hands—he is only a skittish boy in this one. A timid student who hides behind the shadows of his friends. You will not let him go down that path again. The Peter Pettigrew you currently know is a mousy little thing, pun intended, who sneaks in a pouch of sugared jelly worms in the library for you and him to enjoy whilst copying off each other’s Arithmancy homework—you two automatically get perfect marks, seeing as you’ve went through school multiple lifetimes already. Truthfully, when you see him tongue-tied before Mary Macdonald, you can’t envision anything else than a lifeless body and a man apologizing for his sins. But it is hardly fair to condemn Peter for the sins of a life he has not lived—and will never live through, if you have anything to say about. 

A lion protects their pride, and that is what you shall do. Even if it tears you apart in the process. (Healer Robbins won’t be so pleased about that, though.) 

But, perhaps, the most unexpected surprise you’ve received this year is—shockingly—not the news of Dorcas and Marlene dating, and neither is Alice and Frank’s relationship as you have already known that since your first life. It is James, Remus, Lily, and Sirius announcing to the world, with a poorly-written poem for a gnome to recite on Valentine’s Day—courtesy of James Potter himself—that the four of them are in love. In all five lives, that has never happened. Not even Lucius Malfoy can call into question the genuineness of their devotion to one another—and he will not dare to do so in your presence, otherwise he’d find himself at the mercy of you and Narcissa Black.

The four of them are happy as one, and you would die to ensure they stay together until the end of their time. Dark lords be damned. 

An even bigger shock comes when their affection for each other unspokenly extends to you. Not in a manner that equals their rambunctious gestures—because the Marauders don’t do anything half-arsed. (And if they fall in love, they fall without fear.) But in a way that is quiet yet intense, ever-so mindful of your walls—with an intention to break them down slowly and only with your utmost permission. They leave you confused with each day that passes. (You fear that they think you pitiful for having not found a significant other.)

(For months now, your heart is set aflutter just by the sound of their voices—if they look at you as a token charity case, it would tear you apart.) 

Forehead kisses, hand-holding in the corridors, late nights in the kitchen—tipsy on gillywater and the scathe of each other’s touch. Picnics by the lake, bodies intertwined where no one knows where they begin or end. Ventures in the library where not a soul is paying attention to the passages of their textbooks—hushed giggles turning into unrestrained laughter until Madam Pince rounds the corner and has you all thrown out. (How long has it been since you felt so free?) It’s the little things, like your fingers brushing against theirs as you walk side-by-side, or the soft glint in their eyes as they stare at you from across the room—as though you are a jewel to behold. 

It is one thing to know that you are living a life after life—but it is another thing entirely to feel alive when they are nearby. 

You are alive when Remus relaxes on the carpeted floor of the Gryffindor tower, and as you lay on the velvet couch, he draws protection runes on your palm with his finger. When he thinks you’re asleep, he presses a kiss to the back of your hand. When the nights are unbearably long and you find a safe haven in his embrace, and he in yours.

You are alive when James cages you in a bear hug after an intense Quidditch match against Slytherin, limp tendrils of hair clinging to his sweat-soaked skin, pressing a series of fervent kisses to the side of your head until his voice is louder than the cries of victory coming from the cheering stands. 

(“Lay back down, James Fleamont Potter,” you command tersely as you push him onto the infirmary bed. You narrow your eyes at the bandages wrapped around his arms and neck, as though it’d personally wronged you. “Don’t even think about getting up,” you quickly add when you notice his droopy eyes staring at the doors—where Sirius, Remus, and Peter have gone off for a night of mischief. With an exaggerated sigh, James will roll his eyes before pulling you into the bed with him.) 

You are alive when Lily scours the Great Hall in the mornings, hair fussed from sleep and her face bare, and when her eyes finally land on you—none misses the way she lights up blindingly, as if she were a poppy flower emerging from the forest floors and all her petals are curling towards the sun. She bounds over to you with a smile that draws everyone in the room to her. And your heart will have no choice but to swell three times its size when Lily falls asleep mid-meal, snoring with her neck bent and a spoon dangling from her mouth. 

You are alive when Sirius dashes across the room to claim you as his Potions partner. He’ll spend the rest of the class with a triumphant grin on his face—sitting on a rickety chair as he lazily admires the view of your backside. And may the Gods help the poor soul who dares to question your work. 

(“See that lovely creature over there?” Sirius will say with a dangerous lilt to his voice, pointing to you who’s quite busy squabbling with Severus and Barty Jr. over frog legs. “They will be the greatest apothecary to ever walk the wizarding world—so watch your tongue, mate.”) 

They are your limbs, the blood in your veins—the ache in your heart. The fires of your soul. And when they are near, you are finally whole. (Healer Robbins certainly won’t like that, either—but this is a thought you shall selfishly keep for yourself.) 

That is why you had come to a decision at the beginning of the year.

“I need to tell you all something,” you say, breaking out of your stupor and finally meeting everyone’s eyes. You meet Sirius’s gaze from where he leans against the wall, his attention on you—and only you. You reckon he notices the way you’re fidgeting nervously with your fingers, gnawing on your lip as you suck in a deep breath. It’s similar to the way he acted when he first told the group about his intentions to run away from his mother. Healer Robbins told you earlier to not dwell on the past—it’s only a thing that time-travelers do, she had said. You suppose there’s no better way to exercise honesty than to tell your loved ones about the secret you have been keeping for the last five lifetimes. You just hope they won’t look at you differently when all is said and done. 

Marlene’s gaze worriedly flickers from you and to the infirmary doors. “Has the mediwitch said something?” 

You shake your head. “There’s something you should know about me.”

Like a badly-written joke, a pack of lions, a snake, and a badger follows you into an empty classroom. They watch with furrowed brows as you cast a silencing charm over the room. You feel the weight of their curiosity as you take a seat in the center, drumming your nails on your lap as everyone moves to do the same. Remus wordlessly takes the seat next to you, as though being by your side is a natural phenomenon—like the shores never straying from the sand. He gives your hand a gentle squeeze and you return his kindness with a weary smile. You look at the protective circle that’s somehow formed around you. Marlene, Dorcas, Mary, Xenophilius, Regulus, Lily and the Marauders. (Since when did you gain a family like this in such a short time?) 

“Where do I even begin?” you ask with a shuddery breath. “It might get a bit intense. . . and sad, and I wouldn’t want to overwhelm you. So it’s okay if you aren’t prepared to take this all in yet. I’d understand.” 

“What one of us goes through, we all go through together,” Dorcas vows with her head high. “It’s not the first time we’ve done this, love,” she says, looking at everyone else in the room. “We’re here for you. Always have been. It’s what friends are for, aren’t they? You taught us that. Let us return the favor now.” 

You laugh wetly, eyes crinkling with gratitude. “I suppose you’re right.” 

There is no time like the present.

And if all goes awry, you probably might just jump out of a window and reset everything. (You wouldn’t, really. This life is precious to you more than anything in the world.)

You close your eyes and draw air into your lungs.

No time like the present.

“When I first died, I was only nineteen.” Despite the pinched expressions and soft gasps, you force the words out. You have to. Otherwise, the tale of your lives will be buried with you forever. This is the first time you have ever said the words aloud. It’s both exhilarating and terrifying. “Death Eaters came to Diagon Alley. It all happened so fast, next thing I knew the killing curse was cast straight at me.” 

Regulus flinches, and you offer him an apologetic grimace. 

“But that wasn’t the end,” you continue amidst their horrified wide-eyes—feeling Remus tighten his hold on your hand. You chuckle bitterly. “If it had been, maybe it all would’ve hurt less. When I woke up, I was back in the Gryffindor tower.” 

“What?” Lily frowns as a shadow is cast over her eyes. “But how?” 

“I wish I knew,” you reply with a lodge in your throat, eyes thick with incoming tears. “I really wish I knew. But I woke up back in Hogwarts. I was alive again. Somehow, someway, I was alive. But I was dying.” You shut your eyes, head craning to the ceilings as you swallow back a sob. “Have you felt what it’s like to be burnt alive? That’s what the killing curse is like. And I feel it everyday. When I told the nurses this, I was sent straight to St. Mungo’s. They could not heal what was not found in my body. They called me mad. And there was nothing I could do but believe them. It was like that until I died on an infirmary bed, leather straps around my wrists and legs, forbidden to leave the ward and feel even the sunlight on my face. I was deemed a threat to the others and myself.” 

Lily beats you to the punch and cries into her hands—the harrowing sound torn from her throat. Mary, with her own stream of tears, pulls Lily into a hug. 

“I-I told you it was ugly,” you say timidly, averting your gaze out of remorse. “We can stop here if you’d like.”

“We’re staying,” says Lily with a guttural edge to her words, eyes quickly growing red. 

“Then, in my third life, I died by a. . . Greyback—it was Greyback who killed me.” You intertwine your fingers with Remus’s, who’s gone ashen from the reveal. “It’s alright.”

“The bloody hell do you mean it’s alright?” James bellows, running a hand through his hair as he tears himself from his seat, chest heaving up and down. “None of this is alright! How could you say that? We. . .We should tell Dumbledore or something—or anyone! This shouldn’t have happened to you—it’s just too cruel. . .” 

“I know,” you acquiesce with a low hang of your head. “I know.”

Sirius exhales jaggedly. “Was that the last of it? Of your. . . your deaths?”

“No.” You stare at him with regret. “In my fourth life, I died in a Death Eater ambush.” 

Xenophilius looks like he might faint any second. 

“But in my fifth life, I met some people in the Muggle world,” you explain, remembering kind eyes and wide smiles, a family made in a home far away from magic and wars. “I loved them dearly. When I thought I was being punished by Gods, they gave me peace. They taught me unconditional love and I. . .” You let the tears drip onto your skirt. “I might never find them again, but I’ll never forget them for as long as I live. It was the only death given to me without pain.”

You watch as Lily’s doe-eyes flicker with realization. Three flowers in a watery grave. 

“And here I am now. The end,” you say, forcing a crooked grin as you brush the dust off your school robes. 

No one moves a muscle for the next few minutes. 

You freeze in fear. 

(Have you upset them? Do they see only a talking corpse now?)

The room is suffocatingly quiet and you can’t bear to see the pity or judgment in their eyes—so you run out of the room as though Death himself was hot on your heels. 

They are right behind you—of course, they are. (Where a part of their soul goes, they will follow.)

“Are you angry?” You quietly ask, wrapping your arms around your waist—afraid to turn around and face them. “I would not blame you if you are.” 

“No, not mad. Never.” Lily falls into place by your side, hovering but never stepping past your erected borders. “Maybe at the circumstances. It’s all so unfair. I’m. . . We’re just upset that you had to live through that all alone. To die over and over. I can’t imagine how much it must have hurt each time.” 

You nod, swallowing the urge to crumble on the floor. “Then you’ll understand why. . . why you and I—all of us—I can’t be with you.”

Remus frowns, stepping forward to reach out to you. “What?” 

“Don’t make this any harder than this has to be, please,” you beg, voice hoarse and hands trembling. 

“What the hell are you talking about?” Sirius presses further, a bitter acid to his words. He looks frightened, almost—guilt instantly pools in your stomach.  

“Don’t you see? Everything is changing!” You exclaim, grateful that you’ve chosen the abandoned corridors of the castle where no one dares to venture on a sunny day. “I can’t protect you if I don’t know what’s to happen next! I’d rather die again than let any of you get hurt.”

“Then don’t!” shouts James, veins straining against his neck, tears of his own glistening within his hazel eyes. “I would rather die than pretend none of what I feel—what we feel—for you isn’t real.” 

“You don’t know what you’re saying, James,” you retort with a sharp scoff. “I’ve no need for a relationship that’s borne from pity or charity.” 

“Pity?” Lily echoes incredulously. “You think I’ve confused love for pity? Is that how low you think of us? After all that we’ve been through?”

“Are you stupid?” Sirius bites back. 

“Excuse me?” you shriek. “Must I spell it out for you? I’m trying to protect you! I am cursed!”

“Not anymore than I am!” Remus bellows with his fists tightly clenched, his canines laid bare and his cheeks lit ablaze. “If you’re cursed, I must be damned. Why can’t you allow yourself the same grace that you’ve given us?” 

You wilt. “I can’t do it, Remus. I just can’t. If I die again, and everything resets—don’t you know how much it will kill me if we start as strangers again?” 

Remus encases you in his warmth, an embrace that promises to keep you safe from all harm. (What good of a monster would he be if he can’t rip apart your fears for you?) “Then we will find you in that life. And every life after that. We’ll use a pensieve, or anything at all—just so we don’t forget.”

You melt in his arms, bathing in his scent of caraway and bergamot. You feel Remus placing a kiss on the crown of your head. “All these things I know. All these lives I’ve lived through. What if I ruin everything in this life?” 

“Then do it,” Lily provokes stubbornly. 

“Ruin me,” James pleads raspingly—a falter in his steps as though he’d get on his knees and beg in an instant just for you to stay with them. “Ruin me as much as you’d like. You would be the most beautiful devastation of my life.” 

And so, you choose them. 

For there was never any other option from the start.

YOU WAKE UP in the dead of the night, sunken in a mattress that is one too small for five people to fit in, leafy vines and fairy lights wrapped around the posters of the bed. Sometime during the night, Lily had thieved the wool blanket for herself. You rest in between her and Sirius, their snores echoing into your ears as the grasshoppers chirp outside. The potted plants will swing from the ceiling as the evening breeze passes by. (You’ll scold James in the morning for leaving the windows open again.) By your feet, is a fat Tabby cat with one eye named Tuna. (Full name: Tuna Belly.) There are moving pictures on the flower-plastered wall, a testament to the life you share—and the life you have fought hard for. Ruffled pillows are strewn across the carpeted floor. Parchments and notes lay askew on the desk table across the room—Remus’s jittery preparation for his first day next week as Hogwarts’s newest professor. 

Remus will catch you wide awake and tuck you into his chest, murmuring, “Rest now. We’ve got an early morning tomorrow for Wormy’s wedding.” 

You’ll hum and relinquish your thoughts for the night, holding onto James hand over Remus’s belly. “I love you,” you’ll whisper. 

Remus will say it back without hesitation—and you know the others feel exactly the same. 

Minutes later, the door will creak open and a tiny shadow will come crawling into the bed, knocking into everyone’s knees and stomach. It’s a little Harry who’s three years old now. He curls under your neck and you will hold him with all the love that six lifetimes can offer and more. 

When you close your eyes, it is a comforting darkness that envelopes you.

(Somewhere in a castle beyond valleys and lakes, locked away in the dusty shelves of Dumbledore’s cupboards, sits a broken Time-Turner that finally stops ticking.)

a/n: i wrote the last 2k words like a woman posessed! LMAO. i have to be at training in 2 hours and i haven't prepared yet. tell me what you thought aaaaa!!!! and yes, your sixth life is your last life so u die happily and in peace mwah mwah. might continue this universe with drabbles, idk. if u spot any mistakes.. ignore it for a bit LMAO, i'll proofread this soon.