#!500w

--

You can’t even guess what time it is at this point. It feels like a whole ocean of sweat’s been dumped directly onto your body, making your t-shirt stick to you in unflattering places. The blanket’s been kicked just far enough away that you can’t grab a corner with your toes to drag it over your freezing feet. An ache’s started up in your hips and jaw.

You lay there, on your stomach in his futon, and find yourself missing him something fierce.

It’s unbearable, all of a sudden, enough to make you flop yourself over on your side. You need to see him, make sure this isn’t the world’s worst-slash-best wet dream. Naoki’s taken his glasses off. Those stupid pretty eyelashes frame a look in his eyes that says he’s not all in there.

“Shit, man,” you sigh. Naoki blinks rapidly, trying to drag himself back out of his own head. He makes a little “mmh?” noise.

“Us. We made it, what, two weeks?” The ridiculousness of it all makes you snort lightly.

“I’m surprised you let me.” His voice is small, murmured out the side of his mouth and into the pillow. You remember what he’d said, when you’d asked him if he’d moved on to someone new: You really think I’d inflict myself on someone else?

“Get your head outta your ass,” you say, and oh, it comes out so tender. You reach over to unstick a sweat-straightened curl plastered over his temple. Naoki flinches away like he’s expecting you to just sock him in the face, like he’d rather you do that instead. He reminds you, absurdly, of how Lyra used to fuss when you wiped her face off with a washcloth in the mornings.

“It takes two to tango, baby,” and wow, you haven’t called him that in a hot minute. You decide you like the way it rolls off your tongue nice and easy. Not quite how it used to be, no, but still good.

Naoki starts at the word, too, like he was expecting something different a couple minutes after reducing your vocabulary down to his name.

“You’re being too nice to me,” he protests weakly. “It’d—I don’t know. I always imagined you being pissed at me, not—” gesturing at the two of you laying side by side, just left of the way it used to be, “—whatever the fuck I’ve dragged you into this time.”

“Don’t you go actin’ like I can’t think for myself—” you cut yourself off the second you register the snap in your voice. No, no, that’s not how you want it to go.

More careful this time, “I ain’t even mad at you, y’know? Shit, I sure was for the first coupla months, but…” you shrug with one shoulder, shifting the blanket even further towards Naoki’s side.

“It can’t be that simple,” Naoki rasps out.

---

Before the bells have even finished ringing the hour, you’re walking back to the church where you died. One foot in front of the other, you idly consider what would happen if you resisted. Probably nothing. Equally probably, your body that is no longer entirely your body would just keep marching.

It’s a pointless thought exercise. You cross the threshold that still smells of smoke. If you made more effort than was strictly necessary to keep tabs on her before your death, after it, you don’t even have to try. It’s as if one of the strange metal coils of her craft connects the two of you. You’ve never tested how far the tie goes, whether you’d drop dead again if you got too far from her. It’s not something you’d want to do, anyways. You want her where you can see her, feel her.

The light from one of her glowing tomes casts her face in sickly, bloodless-corpse blue. Her fingers go still on the keys.

“Right on time,” she remarks. She sounds satisfied, in a warm way that you’re entirely unequipped to handle. In lieu of a response, you begin to strip off your tunic, followed by the gambeson beneath, then the band over your breasts. There’s a thin, pale scar over the left one, the only visible evidence that you died and were resurrected. She’s turned her head away from you to give some facsimile of modesty, as if she won’t have to look in a moment anyways.

You lower yourself onto her workstation like it’s your second grave—or maybe your first? You have no idea if they’d even buried you before she brought the entire church gasping back to life. She’s put a thin cheesecloth over the metal slab, which does nothing to stop your skin from immediately pebbling.

“Limbs doing alright?” You obligingly wiggle each one, then your fingers and toes. She smiles at you the way a hunter might when their hound performs a particularly well-done point. From one of her countless pockets, she produces a jar of something or other. You at least can tell it’s not blood—the stuff is bright green, and glows softly as she traces runes over your bare torso. Next comes the cord, linked from her tome to your heart. In the privacy of your own mind, this is your least favorite part. Her ritual knife parts your flesh so smoothly that it may as well be water. You feel no pain.

---

You’re sitting in your windowsill with the lights off, and every rustling noise is getting your hopes up. Naoki said he’d show up late at night, but never which night. Waiting up for him has gotten easier. The first night, you were so scared Mama would catch you that you near about puked. Your hair sits heavy under the most boyish hat you own, and your heart sits heavy in your chest. You have to cling to the knowledge that Mama doesn’t treat you right, or else, you’ll start doubting yourself all over again.

It’s best to just disappear and make it a clean cut. It’ll even be good for her, you bet. She needs a life outside of smothering yours.

A bush shakes—just a Ratatta, scurrying across the yard. You’re surprised it’s brave enough to come here. Mama can and will take a broom to anyone and anything that might take a teeny piece of your love.

“Please tell me you’re not your mom,” a voice stage-whispers from that same bush. You near about fall out the window in shock, and you have to bite back a yelp of pain when you hit your head on the top of the sill.

Sure enough, a flashlight beam reveals a slice of Naoki and Suzu, looking stupid as can be, all hunched to the ground. He doesn’t even need the light, not with the full moon shining clear through the trees. City boy, you think fondly to yourself.

“You look ridiculous down there. Now c’mon, before I start losin’ my nerve again.” The second floor of you and Mama’s house is more like a glorified loft, easy to jump from. Naoki comes to stand beneath your window, his long curls pulled back into a ponytail dotted with forest junk. Just the sight of him in the flesh, for the first time in almost a year, is enough to convince you you’re doing the right thing.

Suzu lets out a quiet trill as you toss your cruddy old backpack down, catching the whole thing with her ribbons. You figured it’d be best to travel real light, and your old clothes won’t matter for your plan.

You don’t think about a thing when you follow your bag out the window. You don’t think about Mama one bit.

There the three of you are in the early fall night. You and Naoki size each other up for the barest second before you’re hugging, his face pressed into your ugly white hat.

“What are you wearing?” Naoki whispers against you. His scrawny frame feels like a wall between you and Mama, a door to something better.

“It’s my plan,” you whisper back. “Mama’s gonna be looking for one girl all by herself, yeah? So what if I dressed up as a boy, like you dressed up as your sister when we met? She won’t suspect a thing!”

---

“Sometime this century, weretiger,” Akutagawa spits at you, looking more than a little rabid. “I am not made of glass.”

“You...kind of are?” You say it half to be contrary, half because you know the shape of yourself in the way you can count her bare ribs. Akutagawa’s spidery fingers clutch at the cheap sheets, Rashoumon unspooling from the fabric to snap at you.

“Really? Right now?”

“Lest you forget I am not defenseless.” If Akutagawa weren’t...herself, you might even call her tone petulant. She juts her chin forward, challenging, and the dark fan of her hair shifts on the pillow. Something that could be want stirs in your gut at the sight. The alarmingly pale column of her throat is completely bared to you, and it’s suddenly too much; you need to--

You bite her, feeling the tiger’s teeth—your teeth—elongate and pierce the thin, thin skin. Akutagawa instinctively tenses, and before you know it, you’ve got something more paw than hand pinning her head down. The scent of her blood sits euphoric on your palate, and what can Akutagawa’s skinny limbs do, flailing ineffectually beneath you? You’re seized by the sudden, human urge to pray like this, like salt grinding into your knees on the chapel floor, like the moment before the pain when a brand first touched your skin, like benediction.

Something bright and sharp pierces your own neck—Rashoumon is back in full force, the sheets beneath the two of you completely stripped to give it shape and size. Its teeth grind where yours hold steady, worrying at the flesh as if to remind you that whatever there is between you and Akutagawa, it’s mutual.

You let yourself pull away first. This isn’t a contest, you think dimly, as the tiger roars for you to lap at the blood smeared all over Akutagawa’s bare neck and jutting collarbones. A thin trail has smudged its way down over one of her small breasts, and you can no longer tell yourself you’re the better person.

“Animal,” Akutagawa breathes, punctuating it with another clench of Rashoumon’s hungry jaw. You’re inexorably drawn to the glistening wetness of her lips, how harmless her cruel mouth is compared to yours. Her cheeks are flushed, and her eyes are laser-focused on the blood dripping from your own neck to spatter all over her stomach.

“Are you-- Do you like this?”

“Why Dazai-san has any notion of you being a detective, I’ll never know. If I disliked it, weretiger, I would be gone and you would be dead. It’s truly that simple.” Ignoring the fact that Akutagawa practically moaned that entire speech, the mention of Dazai-san has your hackles back up. Is Akutagawa thinking of her? Does she wish it were Dazai-san marking her in a way that only you can? The thought is unbearable, all of a sudden.

---

Lyra is in your bedroom, for some reason. She’s got the door to the courtyard slid open, and damp, chilly spring air has made its presence known in the room. She’s sitting criss-cross on a cushion, watching her Feraligatr stomp about in the rain.

“Papa said I could come in,” Lyra blurts before you can even open your mouth to ask.

“That’s fine,” and you don’t think there’s anything too obscene or upsetting out in the open for her to see. Maybe the notebooks full of your own father’s poetry next to the lamp—but she wouldn’t know the significance of those, now would she? You’re constantly trying to wrap your head around the fact that you’re even allowed to call Lyra your daughter. She reminds you so much of Ches when you were kids that it hurts—so open, so eager to trust you with her love.

“I’m worried about Borrel out there.” From where you’re standing, it doesn’t look like Borrel needs much worrying about. She seems to be having a grand old time out there. When you tell Lyra as much, she insists, “Yeah, but she’s an ectotherm, and it’s real chilly out.”

“Nice vocab,” you tell her, honestly impressed. Borrel continues to play in the rain, noticeably unbothered by the cold.

“Professor Elm made me do a buncha research and write a report on which starter I wanted, back… back home.” She sounds almost apologetic when she mentions her home. Your memories of Ches’ old house are coming up on fifteen years old, but you do recall the place being a bit of a dump. You wonder what Lyra thinks of your family’s giant, sprawling complex, if she sees a place for herself here.

“I think your Forretress is out there, too, Daddy.”

You don’t see anything except Borrel having the time of her scaly life until you come right up to the door. The light hits an edge of Kazuko’s metallic shell, most of her bulk hidden under the awning of Tamao’s room across from yours. Her cannons are retracted for the night.

“As long as Borrel doesn’t try to touch her, it should be fine,” you assure Lyra. You tower over her even when you’re both standing, so you sit your bony ass down at a respectful distance.

“Brrr. Lyra, sweet pea, what’ve you got the door open for? It’s freezin’.” Ches is back from wherever he went, shivering despite wearing socks, long pants, and that giant red sweater that makes him look like a Delibird.

“I’m just watchin’ out for Borrel,” she replies dutifully.

“Borrel’s a big, big girl, baby, she can watch herself. C’mon, let’s let me and your daddy get to sleep.”

---

This raw, vulnerable version of Naoki feels like a stranger and achingly familiar, all at the same time. You don’t wanna spook him back into his cracked shell. You wanna take care of him, so bad that it’s something physical, clenching in your heart and rising up your throat.

“Let’s get you outta that pretty head of yours,” you tell him, and do a stupid little Teddiursa crawl across the bed to straddle his waist. His breath leaves in a rush when you sit.

Already not off to the sexiest start. Still, Naoki stares up at you obediently, dark eyes wide. You can’t even tell where his pupil stops and his iris starts. Yeah, you can do this for him.

Nice and slow, you lean down, your forearms bracketing his head for support. You press a kiss to the bow of his upper lip, and he opens right up for you. The warm puff of his breath against your lips is a surrender you want to devour. You keep the kiss soft, meltingly tender, and Naoki whines into your mouth like he doesn’t even know he’s making the noise. You’re getting some kinda cuteness aggression from it, pulling away just a smidge to pepper the rest of his face with even more kisses.

“Oh, you’re gonna be easy for it, huh?” you murmur against his cheek.

Naoki makes a gormless sound like “mughmph”. You suck at the sweet spot under his earlobe. His fingers tug a tentative question against the hem of your shirt. You entertain the idea for a sec, but—

“Sssh, not now, baby. We’re all about you right now.”

“Ches, you don’t have to—”

You pull away to fix him with a look. He’s flushed and skittish and thinking so many thoughts that they’re practically falling out his ears.

“I don’t ‘have’ to, but I want to,” you say firmly. Fuck, you hope that doesn’t just sound like you’re about to go off on a lecture in your Dad Voice. “And if I wanna suck your soul straight out your dick, you’re just gonna have to be a good boy about it, yeah?”

Naoki’s face goes on a whole journey over the course of that sentence. He’s winding up an eye-roll at “suck your soul straight out your dick”, only for it to fall apart into something thunderstruck at “good boy”. Your mouth blooms into a manic grin as he realizes he’s just been caught out. Oh, you have his number now.

“My good boy,” you repeat, lifting your hips so you can start to pull his yukata open at the chest.

“You sound like a nursery school teacher,” is Naoki’s sad attempt at acting like he’s not into it. You kiss the hollow of his throat, his little moan buzzy against your lips.

---

The bar is stuffed to the gills, to the point you’re surprised people are still being ushered in. Judging by the outfits of the clientele, they’re either running a theme night, or Pewter City is the central hub for nerds who want to turn it the fuck up. A few yards to your left, there’s a comically tall girl sticking out from the crowd like an Alolan Exeggutor trying to blend in with a herd of its Kantonian counterparts. She’s nursing a drink that might not even be alcoholic, shoulders hunched like she’s terrified of her skinny frame taking up space. You’re aware you’re just openly checking her out at this point.

The deciding factor is her outfit. She’s wearing a bolo tie, and you’ve got to know what kind of lesbian wears a fucking bolo tie to the bar.

“Is this another wedding party, or what?”

The girl takes a moment to register you’re talking to her. It might have something to do with the fact that the top of your head barely clears her shoulder, and that’s in heels. She leans down towards you with the obliging air of someone accustomed to talking to short people.

“Is it a what now?” Her voice is only just strong enough for you to hear as the song playing shifts from some light house to thumping bass.

“A wedding party,” you repeat, louder this time.

“Oh, no! It’s, uh, a conference. Librarians’ conference.”

“No shit?” That explains the outfits, then. “You from Pewter U?”

“Ecruteak City Public Libraries,” she says, sounding distracted. “I—I’m sorry, that’s my supervisor up there.”

You follow the line of her pointed finger to watch an unassuming middle-aged woman absolutely busting her ass out on the raised dance floor. The girl smothers the sweetest little giggle into her drink, the sound bouncing around the cup. You make a show of looking away from the dancing supervisor.

“So, um.” She runs a hand through her mop of short curls, a nervous habit. “Are you from Pewter U, then?”

“Nah, went to U of Hulbury. In Galar? I’m over at the FCMBFR—fuck, that’s a mouthful—nowadays, on field research for modern-born fossil Pokemon.”

This is somehow exactly the right thing to say to pop a cute librarian out of her shell. Her big brown eyes light up like a Yamper ready to chase a ball.

“Really? I was gifted a modern-born Kabuto kind of recently, and I’ve read a couple of papers from you all—I’m kind of a nerd about Rock-types, sorry.”

That admission alone makes you want to pull her down by her stupid bolo tie and kiss her.

“Don’t be,” and you’re aware you’re sliding out of flirt-mode and into the nerd-mode you try not to show girls. Something, something, rock blasts in glass houses.

---

When Howler joined the team, you’d had a sort of...preconceived notion as to what her costume would look like. The obvious answer stares you down while you busk with unblinking button eyes, day after day. She loves Shichi-kun so much, why wouldn’t her desires reflect that in the Metaverse?

No, you think miserably as you leap back with the rest of the group to engage a pack of Shadows. No, Howler couldn’t just transform into a living mascot suit. She has to be the...the...the sexy Halloween party version of Shichi-kun. (You have never been invited to a Halloween party in your life.)

“Chord!” Puppet calls through comms, her voice sounding like it’s coming from underwater. You panic, scrambling for your guitar to riff out a buff for Wonder--

--and you can physically feel Calliope judging you when it lands on Howler instead. On Howler and her stupid skintight suit and puppy paws with squishy beans and you’re just going to crawl into a hole and perish. Wonder and Moko both send questioning looks your way, but they roll with your rhythm easily enough. With your music running lightning-quick through her veins, Howler calls up Aura and completely incinerates the Shadows.

“Awooo!” she cheers. You are down so bad for a girl who says “Awooo” out loud.

“You good?” Wonder asks softly, a hand on your shoulder.

“I’m, uh. I’m fine, I promise. Thanks for checking in, Wonder.”

Of all people, it’s Howler herself who saves you. She shuffles up behind you and tries to tug on one of your useless-but-cool belts. Wonder conveniently vanishes deeper into the gritty tunnels of Mementos, just far enough to be out of hearing range. You should be thankful to have such a supportive friend, you really should.

“Um, Chord?”

“Howler?”

“You’re not mad at me, are you? I feel like you’ve been staring at me, and, um, if I did something to make you angry, I’m really really sorry.” As she speaks, her voice drops in volume. She sounds like she’s about to cry, which would be unbearable for a multitude of reasons.

“No, I’m not mad at all! I was just. Uh, admiring your Thief outfit. From, like, an aesthetic standpoint.”

Howler perks right up, and you remember belatedly she’s a fashion design student. Beneath her shaggy-dog fringe, there’s a light in her eyes now.

“Ohhhh, okay, phew! I was worried… But!” and here, she leans in close enough that your shoulders bump together. “I bet I know which part you like the best!”

This cannot be happening. She’s noticed you staring at her butt like a total creep, and is just too nice to tell you to get lost. You bury your face in your hands, like that’ll put a stop to this trainwreck of a conversation.

“The super-realistic fluffy tail, right?”

“The ta-- Yes! The tail. It does look like a good tail. A good dog tail.”