#arkwrites

He cackles, thinking you're gonna fight him, but there's no way you plan to battle with how slow you're moving. You'd never hit him!

Instead, curious, he allows you to approach, and his pupils dilate fully and his lips parting as your hand cups his face

I found an old story in my Google Docs from last year that I actually enjoyed re-reading. I might rewrite it one day but as of right now I'm not doing anything with it, so I figured I might as well post it here. I hope y'all enjoy!

I used to bite my nails.

Usually when I say this, people start to reassure me that they do so as well, and that it’s not anything to be ashamed of. What they don’t realise is this: when I say I used to bite them, what I really mean is I used to chew them down into pink stubs, tearing right into the quick, and nibble at the skin around them too. Frankly it’s incredible I didn’t get an infection from that old habit, but my fingers were always red and sore, with a tendency to bleed. But I kept biting. Whenever I was nervous, or agitated, or even just a little absentminded, my teeth would find my fingers and bite them until I physically couldn’t anymore. Then I would feel stupid and insecure for having such a shameful habit.

I used to joke about it, too. Whenever my more fashionable friends commented on their own nail polish, I would feel the need to bring up those little warped gravestones on my fingertips, as if by drawing attention to them they would become less of a burning point of inadequacy for me. I’d go even further and say I took pride in that rather ruinous part of my personality.

One day things changed—or more accurately, I forced the change upon myself. I went out and bought myself a tiny little bottle of black nail polish. That set me on a vague path to recovery, forcing me to consider whether it was worth wasting nail polish just for that momentary relief. It wasn’t an overnight change by any means, and I definitely chewed off more coats than I care to admit (and accidentally consumed more polish than can possibly be good for someone) but it gave my poor hands a chance to heal and made my nails much easier to look at in the process.

Months went by and my nails were now at a decent length for the first time in my life. It may sound trivial to some, but I felt good flaunting my progress, and they looked even better. I had even graduated to various other colours. It feels ironic that on the morning that changed I was painting them black once again. I was just finishing my pinkie finger when my phone rang, almost scaring me into smudging them. I answered knowing full well it would be my mum—nobody else would call when a single text would suffice. Sure enough, I heard the sour notes of her voice greet me. She sounded upset, and since I was unclear on whether I was the cause, I decided to treat her as one treats a landmine.

“Hi, mum.” My voice rose a few notes and I winced, blowing absently on my nails to dry them. “Is something up?”

“I’m just wondering,” I flinched at the accusatory tone—so I was the cause after all, though I’d be lying if I said I knew what I’d actually done, “Why exactly have you been lying to me.”

“Lying about what?” I said, but my mouth was dry and my chest was starting to fill with fear. I began to raise my hand to my mouth.

“Lying about your boyfriend. Or do you not remember? Come clean, Alice, I know you’ve not really been seeing him.”

“No mum,” I mumbled through my fingers, “I told you I stopped.”

I heard her irritable sigh through the phone and felt my ribs tighten. Mum always had liked my boyfriend much better than I had, enough that when we broke up she refused to listen to my reasons and instead insisted we still see each other. I may have told her, aeons ago, that Maybe We’d Try It Out Again, but I certainly hadn’t told her I was seeing him nowadays. She continued to sink her talons of disappointment into my brain with her next words.

“I don’t know why you didn’t stay with him. He was the best you’re ever going to get.” These words made my sore eyes overflow, and I started to sniffle. I don’t remember the rest of that dismal conversation. In all honesty I was just trying to get off the phone as fast as I could, but what I do remember is that when I did put the phone down, I realised that my hand was now free of polish and that my fingertips looked red and wet with spit. I almost howled in outrage—it was just like that woman to take my one good accomplishment and turn it against me.

In the next few weeks, I tried everything to set myself back to rights, but it was all for nought. As my mother’s words played on repeat in my head, my mood sank lower and lower, and my nails seemed to get shorter and shorter. My fingertips started bleeding again. I stopped wanting to show them off.

It all culminated in one particular night. It was raining outside and instead of being out with friends, I was just staring at the wall of my bedroom and biting relentlessly on what remained of my fingers. I could feel the warmth of blood trickling down my hand as I tore into my flesh but I couldn’t stop. My face was numb. Everything was numb, all sensation centred on my hands, as I ripped into them like a starved animal. My breathing sounded weird. My eyes were tearing up. The sensations intensified and I started to pant, sweat dripping down my face. And then…I wrapped my hands around the first bottle of nail polish I could find, and stared at it hatefully. If I hadn’t started painting my nails, I wouldn’t have had the fragile illusion of recovery, and I wouldn’t be stuck in this rut now, feeling so weak and helpless and…and…

Crash.

I don’t allow myself to be around my nail polish anymore. I scrubbed for weeks, but the neon green is never coming out of that wallpaper. I don’t really care anymore though. My fingers are worse than ever and I’m pretty sure one of them is swelling up, but I don’t care about that either.

An unusual type of Yokai, the 'False Kirin' was so named due to its resemblance to records of the mythic beast. Unlike its namesake and ungulate-type body might suggest, the False Kirin are omnivorous, with a heavy focus on meat. They eat small mammals and fish alongside certain plants. They are a matriarchal species, with one female to every herd and strong sexual dimorphism. These herd leaders will mark territory by using her horns, which hold the fire of the sun. This unfortunately can start wildfires, leading to the herd being hunted. Their use of fire has earned them the nickname 'dragon horses'. Despite being carnivorous, they are rarely a threat to humans- in fact, they only attack to defend their young. An adult female is roughly the size of a moose, with the males being significantly smaller. Male False Kirin will battle each other for the herd leaders favor, but it's ultimately up to her who to mate with. The outcome of a rut battle rarely has sway over her decision, and she very well may choose the loser. Males also have less power over fire and will only exert the effort in dire situations. They reside deep in mountains away from frequent travelers.

He surrounds himself with as many people as possible to create the illusion of being adored, because he can't stand the idea of being unloved and alone, but he also knows that most of those people are opportunistic and would leave him if circumstances changed- that they wouldn't have his back at all when it really matters. That they don't genuinely care for him.

Karaku is very aware that these 'friends' are typically using him for sex, to get to his family's wealth (ill-gotten, but we don't talk about that), or social status rather than his actual self. For all his flaws, he is not stupid- in fact Karaku is the most socially intelligent of the 4- and the knowledge of his 'friends' motives does nothing but fuel the cycled fear, of mistrust and self-sabotage, where he desperately craves intimacy and connection but distrusts authenticity.

He doesn't ask permission before letting himself in your house. Not at all, and why should he? You're friends! Friends go to each other's houses! Friends share dinner! Friends... pick your front door open in the wee hours of the night?

Not at home? No worries! He will let himself in anyway. He has that spare key you definitely totally 100% just forgot you gave him. Rummage your cupboards. Fall asleep on your sofa, spread eagle in nothing but his sweats, with a half full bowl of popcorn that's long since tipped over as he snores almost as loud as the television.

You keep changing the locks? That's okay! He agrees that its better for your safety, and he has other ways of slipping in anyway. Of course he won't tell you! That would ruin the fun!

Gosh im sorry, this is such an old ask!

- Got shocked by electricity as a young teen by trying to prevent Urogi from putting a fork in the socket. He saved his dumb, curious little brother, but lost part of his vision.

- became farsighted and now, as an adult, has both normal glasses AND reading glasses

- looks good in both but is self conscious of needed glasses and often just refuses to

- he still squints at what hes reading whether he has his glasses on or not

- his brothers make fun of him because he literally looks like these when he tries to look at their report cards