Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Shuuji gave a weak snarl as a stick poked his side, stumbling in that direction on legs shaking with exhaustion.

Step, step, step, follow commands.

He yelped as he stepped on another hot coal, pulling his foot back and teetering.

Step, step, step, hope they are kind.

He was so tired, why not just fall? Even if he hit coals, at least he could stop this never-ending dance.

Step, step, step, no one will explain to such as you.

He crumpled, tensing when the air around him erupted with laughter and excited jeers.

Step, step, step, anticipate what is wanted.

He rolled to his side, trying to curl, kicking a coal out of the way with a whimper. He was just tired, he was just so damn tired, let him sleep—

Step, step, step, you have no worth.

He flinched, then started to flail as hands grabbed him, hauling his fragile form up and dragging him over dirt.

Step, step, step, accept your punishments.

The crackling of the fire grew louder, and Shuuji started to panic. What were they going to do to him?

Step, step, step, do not think.

“Ya damn kitsune take so long to learn,” one of the nue holding him snickered, causing a swooping sensation in Shuuji's stomach as he wondered what was going to happen to him now.

Step, step, step, obey.

Something was shoved roughly on his face, and he twisted, this way, that, trying to get rid of it.

Step, step, step, resistance is a fool’s errand.

“Skewered fox! Skewered fox!” people chanted, echoing cheers.

Shuuji's eyes widened beneath his blindfold as the muzzle clasped behind his head, effectively cementing his jaw shut.

Step, step, step, apologize before you cannot.

“Stay there, fox.”

The hands retreated, leaving Shuuji shivering, helplessly unaware of his surroundings.

Step, step, step, you are not the audience.

His hands, tied behind his back, were suddenly grabbed, wrenching him backwards as something snuck beneath the bindings. Shuuji twisted his head back and forth, trying desperately to see anything, to find some way to escape.

Step, step, step, you are not the director.

He choked on a scream as he was lifted into the air by his bound wrists, pulling abruptly at his shoulder joints, a creaking that stopped with a resounding pop as they dislocated. Shuuji lost track of everything around him, the pain white-hot, all-consuming.

Step, step, step, they want a show.

He came to his senses slowly, realizing how loudly he was whimpering and whining, his blindfold wet from tears.

Step, step, step, so give service, and hope it is enough.

“Enjoy, skewered fox.” Hot breath, acrid scent.

He whined high, all he could do, as hands grabbed his head, turning it before stabbing something into his ear. He jerked, the movement causing another nauseating wave of pain that was only punctuated when his other ear was pierced.

Step, step, step, hope the dance is not near its end.

He couldn’t see, or hear, or smell, or talk.

Step, step, step, and do not falter.

His heart, already hammering, started skipping beats as heat started to grow beneath him.

Step, step, step, you do not want to know the curtain call.

And Shuuji burned.

Chapter Text

Don’t look up.

He shivered where he stood, feeling horribly exposed. It wasn’t that he was undressed, it was the vulnerability, the number of eyes on him, making his skin itch, the knowledge that his inadequacy was on display for all.

“Fully obedient,” the auctioneer was saying. A hand on his shoulder, pressure, and he turned around. His shirt was lifted, showing off scars cuts whip burn marks stupidstupidstupid his back. “Won't need to discipline this one, folks! Entirely docile, even for a little—”

He sucked in a breath as the auctioneer cracked a whip. A second later pain seared across his back, and

Don’t look up.

“—pain! Tough, but knows its place. Unfortunately, it isn’t suited for fine craft, all brawn, no brain. It has a stutter…”

He hadn’t meant to. He really really hadn’t. But his stupid freakish strength and his stupid twitchy hands liked getting him hurt.

People were calling out numbers, numbers that stayed relatively low. Submissive and strong labor wasn’t hard to find. (He was worthless)

The final price came, and the auctioneer called out the number with salesperson enthusiasm.

Don’t look up.

An assistant came up and took the rope tied round his hands—performative, Atsushi wouldn’t try to escape if you gave him the key, a gun, and a million dollars—and led him off stage.

Atsushi stared, wide-eyed, at the body. He could smell it was still warm, watched blood and brain matter ooze from a messy hole. One bang, and the man who haunted his nightmares was… gone.

“Little one?”

He jumped, whipping around to the one who had killed the devil himself. “S-s-s-s-sorry,” he managed, wondering what kind of creature could kill a devil.

The man was tall, dressed traditionally with a mask over his face. When he had entered the room Atsushi had heard the clunks of his geta. It was a strange contrast with the gun in his hand. “How did you end up here, little tiger?” he asked gently, tucking the gun into his sleeve.

Atsushi’s mouth went dry. “W-w-what-t?”

The man just tilted his head. “Does he not want to come out?”

Atsushi was going to throw up. “D-d-don’t understand-d.”

The man was silent for a minute. “Let’s get you out of those first, hmm?” He nodded at Atsushi’s hand.

Atsushi flinched backwards when the man stepped forward, eyes darting to the body. He didn’t want to die, too. Was he next?

“On a smoking treetop…”

He startled at the music, whipping his head around to find himself in the kitchen, at the orphanage.  

“A little kitty rests…”

ȶʊɨɨʍքɖɨʟʀ smiled at him, flecks of rice on his hollow cheeks.

“Unaware of the danger, set upon his forest…”

Chuuya glanced at the clock, scowling. If he doesn’t get back here in the next 10 seconds I will—

Cold fingers slipped over his eyes, an annoying voice trilling, “Guess who~?”

Chuuya whipped around, punching his stupid husband in the stomach. “Where the fuck did you go?” Chuuya had had to walk home alone, and it was Dazai's idea to go out in the first place! … Ok it was Chuuya’s but Dazai needed to go out sometimes!

Dazai, who was doubled over, pouted up at him. “I was being a very good fox! Chuuya should praise me, not abuse me!”

Chuuya was now certain that the rest of the day would be spent fixing whatever shit Dazai had done. “What did you do? If we have to move again—”

“Why do you assume I did something troublesome?” Dazai gasped, hand to his chest, sad eyebrows fully on display.

Chuuya snorted, turning away—he simply couldn’t look at Dazai's sad face without caving and giving in to whatever Dazai wanted—scolding, “You only ever are troublesome.”

“That’s not trueeeee!” Dazai whined, plucking at his sleeve.

“You're literally a creature that was born to be fucking annoying.”

“Chibi’s so mean!”

“Whatever,” Chuuya sighed, glancing out the window, and. And. That was. “Dazai?”

“Yes chibi?”

“Why do I see a tiger?”

“Because there is one?”

A vein started on Chuuya's forehead. “And where did it come from?” he said lowly, turning to face a far too satisfied Dazai.

“I rescued him!”

Chuuya stared at him. Dazai just kept beaming. “Dazai.”

“Yes dear husband?”

“Did you steal this tiger?”

“I wouldn’t call it stealing,” Dazai mused, “the guy didn’t actually own him.”

Has Chuuya ever mentioned how much he fucking hated this rancid fucking fish? “I hate you.”

“I love you too chibi~”

“No, no,” Chuuya repeated firmly. “You don’t get to do this. You can bring every fox in Yokohama to our house, you can invite all the mangy ass crows—”

“They aren’t mangy!” Dazai interjected, offended.

“—and you can summon all the feral fucking cats, but I draw the line at stealing tigers.”

Chuuya had to draw the line, otherwise a whole new world would open up in Dazai's eyes and the shrine would be littered with panthers and tigers and whatever else the zoo offered.

“They were abusing him!”

Playing on Chuuya's sympathy for animals, bastard. “Then call PETA or something, I don’t know! You can't bring every vaguely feline creature home!”

Dazai scoffed. “They wouldn’t know how to handle him properly.”

“They’re literally made for it!” Chuuya pointed out, exasperated.

“But this is the first one I've seen!” Dazai whined.

That surprised Chuuya so much that he momentarily forgot his annoyance. “You’ve never seen a tiger before?”

“Of course I have,” Dazai said indignantly. Chuuya raised an eyebrow. “Well,” he amended, “I had seen a few back when the gods were still around, but not recently.”

“There were zoos back then?” Chuuya asked doubtfully.

Dazai suddenly had the expression of a mourner. “Of course there were,” he dolefully answered, swaying morosely. “I'm just glad I never ended up in one. I am albino, probably would have been a special exhibit.”

“Heh?” Chuuya was getting more confused the longer this went on. “Why the fuck would they put you in a zoo?”

Dazai hummed, skipping past Chuuya to approach the front door. “Well I'm going to go tend to our lovely guest, don’t forget to be a welcoming shufu~” he sang, his hand waving as it disappeared behind the door.

Oh, no he did not. Chuuya activated tainted, slamming the door open, forgetting entirely about the tiger.

Chapter Text

He was… he thought he was, anyways. He couldn’t discern what he was feeling, whether it was real or just his consciousness trying to create sensation where there was none. Everything was heavy, yet he floated with the weight, shifts around him causing odd rippling sensations across his body.

Right, he was. He had a body. Except, he couldn’t see or hear. He thought he felt himself moving, but it could just as well have been another shift around him.

He was so tired…

Sounds remained indecipherable, merely splots of light on his eyelids, leading him along like a lit pathway. He wanted to follow them, no, he needed to. If he didn’t, bad things would happen. He had to do what they said.

A traitorous part of his mind whispered.

why?

The lights were brighter, the sounds now reverberating in his ears, too loud, too loud. He tried to cover his ears, but the sound wasn’t blunted.

He whined. He wanted to cover his ears—or his eyes. He just wanted to get the light away, the excess sound. It was too much; too bright, too loud.

He felt the ground beneath him, cold and solid. He curled into himself, pain cracking through his body, making him whimper. He didn’t want the pain, he hated it. He just wanted to rest; why couldn’t he rest?

Just a minute…

It was dark, and it was cold. Something was tight around his throat, his mouth trapped shut. He tried to work it off, but it didn’t budge. He chirped sadly through his nose, a quiet plea that for some reason he was sure no one would answer.

He didn’t like that he was feeling more, the cold was uncomfortable, his throat throbbed dully, and his whole body kept experiencing flashes of pain, gone as quick as they came, so potent that they made him gasp, giving full-body flinches. The resulting clanging would resound in his brain, back and forth, back and forth, a piercing noise that took ages to stop.

and then he would wake.

Shuuji shivered, wishing that his chains were heavier. As they were, they rattled with the slightest movement, a clank-clank-clank that was slowly driving him mad.

His eyes drooped, exhausted, but he had to wait, wait for his master to show up. If he was asleep, if he was resting during his punishment, his master would ensure he wished he was still chained to this cold floor.

He had counted the stones of the walls, when he had first woken up, losing track over and over, his mind still closed by death. When he managed to finish counting, he knew that he was well enough to resume his duties, though he doubted he would be relieved of his punishment so soon, after all, it had only been three weeks, time kept by watching the shadows move across the walls, the lines of bars interrupting the sunlight.

In his free time he had constructed and discarded, written and rewritten many apologies and plans to appease his master, to earn forgiveness as soon as possible. Still, it was hard to think with the bubbling remnants of whatever had continuously killed him.

Maybe it was something else, entirely.

He jolted awake, flinching when the movement caused a ruckus of clanking chains, the crack-crack-crack like dozens of nails bouncing between his temples. He whined, unconsciously trying to curl into himself, but it only caused the collar around his throat to go taut, choking him as the noise redoubled.

Gasping, blurry eyes flitting around the empty cell, he tried to stop any movement, holding his breath, waiting for the torment to end. Slowly, agonizingly so, the ringing died down, and he let himself take tiny breaths, blinking away tears.

This wasn’t right, he realized. He shouldn’t be feeling this horrible; he had regained his ability to think, not to mention how long it had been since he had last been killed. He shouldn’t still be feeling so ill. The room shouldn’t be so hard to focus on, his body shouldn’t be running hot and cold at intervals, shouldn’t still be in so much pain. He somehow felt even worse than before having passed out—thank gods that his master hadn’t come to retrieve him whilst he was asleep—and he didn’t know why.

He nearly shook his head trying to clear it, why he was in pain wasn’t relevant. He still had to plan how to appease his master.

It was harder than usual to fall into a state of focus, his attention jumping away from his goal at every turn, leaving him with nothing when he came back, his plan dissipated amongst the chains.

The temperature flashes had gotten worse, sweat dripping sideways down his face, pooling on the ground even as he shivered violently. He could no longer control the trembling, either, and with random twitches adding to the clang-clang-clang of the chains, it felt like the noise was pounding against his very core, vibrating down his vocal chords, curling around his stomach.

He swallowed another mouthful of bile and saliva as it pushed its way up his throat, tears joining the sweat. The nausea rolled through him, accompanied by violent twists of his stomach, making it all the harder not to vomit on himself.

He didn’t know what was wrong, this couldn’t be residual from dying over and over, it had been too long. He kept feeling more and more anxiety that something actually had happened while he was unconscious, but he couldn’t focus long enough to try and think what. Beyond finding out why he hurt so badly still, he still had to plan… something. He couldn’t remember.

His stomach convulsed, and he couldn’t stop it as he pulled against the chains again, the deafening rattles finally forcing vomit from him, choking him on a sob as it burned his throat. It ran down his cheek, acrid and stinging as it fell to the ground, the wet splatter prompting another wave of stomach acid to sear upwards.

Desperately, he tried to get upright, twisting to get his legs under him. The chain around his throat pulled taut, jerking his head down into an awkward position as he hunched, letting loose the acid from his empty stomach. He gasped for air between heaves, choking on sobs as the chains sang their agonizing song, clank-crack-clang, clank-crack-clang, clank-crack-clang.

“Puh… gh…”

His hands were doubling, two sets of chains, two puddles of stomach acid, two locks. He squeezed his eyes shut, willing the world to slow, willing his vision to stabilize. When he opened them again, there was only one puddle, and he hiccoughed a poor laugh. If only he could will the weakness away.

Exhausted, he fell sideways, barely able to wince at the cacophony of chains, uncaring of the vomit undoubtedly soaking his clothes. He could only close his eyes, wishing he were somewhere else.

He was so tired. Everything hurt, but it was nothing compared to the lead in his limbs, the overactivity yet silence of his mind, a cacophony of wordless needs and wants and sounds. He had devolved, at some point, into instincts. At first he fought it, dreading his master finding out that he had broken such a fundamental rule, but as time passed and his body grew heavy, his mind grew weak, foggy – cluttered and blurred.

The chains no longer rattled, he couldn’t move enough for them to shift. He lay beside his puddle of dried vomit, eyes unfocused, occasionally managing a faint yip, a broken call for some release. It wouldn’t come, and he knew that, but to his hindbrain calling for help like an injured kit was the only action left.

A bug was humming. The sound was grating in Shuuji's ears, taunting him. It suddenly stopped, and a moment later he realized it had landed by his vomit. It flitted around, his eyes following it lethargically, the only source of entertainment in this hell.

An unholy screeching broke through the quiet, making Shuuji whine as loudly as he was able, his head shrieking a rejection—too loud, too loud, make it stop—!

“…good. You…”

He belatedly realized someone was in view and pleading yips and chirps immediately spilled from him, unable to think through the sludge in his brain, much less form words. Pleasesorryplease.

The hand against his face, sudden as it was, radiated comfort, and he leaned into it, or, tried to. He couldn’t force his body to move, so he only whimpered again. Pleasestaysorrypleasegood.

“… uuji… punishment…”

The hand vanished, and he keened, high, desperate. Pleasepleasenopleasestaypleaseneedstayplease. He blinked, slow, heavy, as the form shifted, then vanished. He whined again, closing his burning eyes.

Please…

Chapter Text

Shuuji felt a shiver run down his spine at the sight of the god who had come, apparently, to purchase him. All of his instincts were screaming at him, the hairs on the back of his neck and tails standing on end.

“This way, my lord,” Shuuji offered meekly, lowering his head further than it already was as he addressed the god.

Something shifted in the god’s stance, an ever so slight adjustment of weight, of interest. It sent another whirl of fear and anxiety through Shuuji, though he outwardly guided the god to his current master’s room.

He didn’t know why this god in particular was leaving him with a sickly feeling in his stomach, starkly different from most gods he had met. Something about him left him feeling like… like… he wasn’t a slave or prey or a pet to this god, he was something to be broken.

He hid a shiver, but he couldn’t help twisting his ears back to focus on the god, something the god undoubtedly noticed—shit, shit, shit—and would somehow use against him.

“What is your name?”

Shuuji nearly jumped out of his skin at the question, not used to being addressed before having been purchased. His throat bobbed as he tried to bring his voice down from where it would inevitably crack. “Yuki, my lord.”

Before the god even spoke, Shuuji couldn’t help a sharp gasp at the feeling of pain along his back. “Don’t lie to me,” the god spoke lowly, his presence heavy behind Shuuji.

Shuuji stood stock still. His back was still tingling, as though it wasn’t sure if it had been injured. Shuuji couldn’t tell, it had felt so real, but there was no kinetic energy, no wetness from blood or residual rolling waves of magic.

A hand suddenly rested at the back of his neck, eliciting a cut off cry of fear from Shuuji, one he hastily swallowed down. “I'm s—” He gasped as the fingers curled around his throat, the tips brushing his Adam’s apple as it bobbed up and down. “—s-sorry, my l-lord,” he whispered, his whole body trembling. “I d—” The fingers were moving slightly, tightening and loosening as though unsure whether to close, debating it. “Don’t understand,” he whimpered.

“You are not called Yuki, at least not here,” the god growled, his breath was hot against Shuuji's cheek.

Shuuji swallowed, unable to help a whine as the fingers tightened. “It’s- it’s what… master named me, my—” He squeezed his eyes shut as the hand shifted, his throat now pressed against the god’s palm. He could barely finish, “—lord… Please,” he added in a tiny whimper, terror working itself in knots throughout his body. “I'm sorry. Please.”

“I didn’t ask what you were named, I asked what you were called,” the god hissed, and his hand closed around Shuuji's neck.

Shuuji panicked. He scrabbled against the god’s tight grip, kicking desperately, attempting to twist away; it only served to anger the god, fingers squeezing tighter. His franticness picked up, Shuuji pulling at fingers, his mouth opening and closing uselessly.

“Stop fighting me, fox.”

Shuuji shuddered, his clawing stopping as ordered, his hands shaking above the god’s grip. He had stopped, but the instinct to fight kept them hovering, close enough to almost touch, aching to continue trying. His kicking didn’t stop, either, turning, pulling against the hold.

His jaw ached as he was lifted from the ground, then shaken.

“Stop!”

The movement rattled his already muddled head. ‘Stop.’ He couldn’t, he didn’t want to go into a death loop, and this god certainly could put him in one. ‘Stop.’ It hurt, spots obscuring his vision. His thoughts clouded, sound cutting out. ‘Stop.’ He… he had to stop. Just- just stop.

His hands dropped, whether from lack of energy or from his will to do so he couldn’t know, his frenetic movements—twist, flail, fight—coming to a jerking halt. For a moment of awful awareness, he hung from this god’s hand by the throat, his body quivering with the urge to escape, arms twitching to rise before he could force them back down. He squeezed his eyes shut.

The grip loosened, and he took in a tiny breath, spasming as the spots stopped growing. He tried to form words, pleas for relief and mercy, but he couldn’t get enough air for them, stuck desperately sucking in scraps as he mouthed them out.

“Open your eyes,” the god commanded, his voice warping around him.

Shuuji forced open his watering eyes, immediately met with rage-filled umber. The grip loosened again.

“Do not fight me again,” the god commanded.

Shuuji's head could only twitch as he tried to nod, mouthing out, ‘yes, yes, sir, please,’ between attempts at choking in air.

The hold vanished.

He sucked in air as he dropped to the ground, his head colliding with the floor—he couldn’t even feel the pain from it, too busy clawing at his throat, gasping in painful lungfuls of air.

He looked up—don’t keep them waiting—though his thoughts refused to shift from the primal instinct to flee.

He had learnt better, now, anyways.

‘Let’s play, Yukiko!’

The god was still displeased, looking down his nose at Shuuji with annoyance that never bode well.

“I'm,” Shuuji rasped, hands still wrapped loosely around his throat. He winced at the shakiness, at- at everything. He was doing this all wrong, clearly, this god wanted more… respect? He couldn’t tell, but that would hardly matter if the god decided he needed to be punished. Panickily, he shifted into a deep kneeling bow, trying to hide his chest irregularly heaving, his rough coughs. “I'm- very sor-ry, my lord,” he started, and he managed to keep most of the hoarseness out of it. “I don’t- understand.”

“You are stupid, aren’t you?” the god hummed overhead.

Shuuji bit his lip to keep any sound from escaping.

“Aren't you?!” the god shouted, a foot pressing into the back of Shuuji's neck.

“Yes,” he gasped at once, head lowering in an attempt to evade the pressure, his nose pressing into the wood. “Yes, I am stu-pid, m-y lord. Very stupid, yes—I'm sorry. I am- very sorry, my lord, please have mercy.”

The foot lifted, and he wanted to sag in relief. He didn’t, though, it wasn’t over, so he held himself in position, trying to stop the shivers wracking his body.

“There you go,” the god hummed, pleasant again. “That wasn’t so hard, now, was it?”

“N-no, my lord,” he whispered. He shuddered, sensing a rise in irritation. “I'm- sorry, my lord,” he said louder, relieved when his voice didn’t betray him.

“You have yet to answer my question, fox.”

Shuuji flinched. “I do not un-derstand, my- lord.” The sense of fury was rising again, and Shuuji cast around for something to deter it. Ah. “I am too stupid, my lord.” His stomach was rolling, his entire being feeling wrong and exposed, but he kept on. “I do not- not understand your question. W-ould you please—” He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to come up with phrasing. “—p-lease explain it so that I may understand what you wish- of me?”

He held his breath, waiting for the gavel to fall.

“Of course.” The god sounded accommodating and kind(?) now, and Shuuji felt the slightest bit of the tension drop from his shoulders. “How does your current master call you, when he wishes you to come to him?”

Shuuji swallowed again, something dark twisting in his heart. “Most often by some in—” He cut himself off. To call it an insult would imply he didn’t deserve to be called as such, which seemed to line up with what made this god mad. “M-aster,” he started again, smothering another coughing fit, “often calls me by many names, but often fox, cunt, white one, or vermin.”

“That wasn’t so difficult, now, was it?”

The sick feeling in his stomach was growing. “No, my lord.”

He swallowed, counting to 3 before going to stand up, but a hand met the top of his head, and he froze halfway, his heart rate picking up again. What had he done wrong? How did he fix it?

The hand caressed the side of his ear, making him shiver, then scratched at the base. Shuuji tried to contain the jolt of revulsion, waiting for the god to finish.

When the god finally brought his heavy hand away, he scraped out, voice pitching wildly, “Th-thank you, my lord.”

There. Shuuji felt a swell of relief at the happy shift in the god’s presence, fighting with the nausea in his stomach. He had to swallow twice to find his voice, barely managing to mumble, “May I lead your lordship to my master?”

“Hurry it up,” Ryota scoffed, most of the goodwill vanishing instantly.

Shuuji bowed low, then started walking again, trying to ignore the gnawing anxiety at have the god behind him, hyper aware of the bruise slowly healing on his neck.

“Tsushima Sh—”

—burns, burns, burns, burns—

                                          —catch his breath, Ryo—

Don’t touch me, don’t touch me, get off—

—^{no, please}—

“—mine, now, Pearl Kitsune.”                                                    

Chapter Text

Shuuji had barely gotten to his new master’s house when one of his ears was grabbed roughly by another kitsune, pulling him down the hallways.

“Where are we going?” he asked tentatively. It wasn’t a god, but this kitsune, a mottled brown four tailed woman, certainly outranked him, both for having two tails more than him and having been here longer.

She tsked, glancing back at him. “To get you presentable, Nanashi[1]. The master doesn’t like scroungy servants.”

“Thank you,” Shuuji whispered, lowering his gaze. That gave him a lot to work with, whether intentional or not, though by the glint in this kitsune’s eyes it had been intentional.

If it was to get presentable, that meant his new master, Ryota, cared about appearance and decorum, though Shuuji already knew about the decorum, phantom fingers caressing his throat as he was pulled down another hallway. The brown-tailed kitsune let go of his ear, switching to his wrist, which he murmured another thank you for.

Calling them scroungy told him that fox-like behavior would be punished, that beyond finding kitsune lower, they as a yokai were revolting. Servants told him that this master liked a pretense of them being there by choice, of them wanting whatever was done to them, and that he was not to refer to himself or others as slaves.

They stopped before a door that the other kitsune gracefully slid open, revealing a small room, filled with baskets and dyed yukata, a cracked mirror directly opposite the door.

“This will be where you keep your brush and such,” she almost snapped, more out of hurry than aggression. She was pointing at one of the baskets, empty in between two baskets filled with various grooming tools. “Sit,” she directed, pointing next at the spot in front of the mirror.

Shuuji sat, twisting around to watch her as she hurried. He wanted to ask, but swallowed the question. The way she was hurrying made him think that she was on some time constraint, and he didn’t want to get himself or her punished. Finally, she came up behind him with a brush and started attacking his hair.

Since leaving Foraask, since being in his previous master’s service for those few short years, Shuuji really hadn’t had to bother with his appearance, so he knew his hair and tails were a mess. “Sorry,” he muttered, watching her sharp eyes in the mirror, focused on her task.

“There's no mud,” she huffed, pulling particularly harshly at a knot.

He almost nodded, barely catching himself. “Can… I ask questions?”

She snorted, but didn’t look angry. Shuuji took this as a good sign.

“Do you know my duties?”

“No,” she said shortly, moving to the other side of his head.

Shuuji gnawed on his cheek, debating. “How is it—” He yelped, his head jerking to the side as she yanked on his hair.

“Very tangled,” she snapped, giving him an angry look in the mirror.

“Sorry,” Shuuji whispered again. Note: no mentions of how life is here, under Ryota. “What are the rules?”

Of course, by that Shuuji meant, ‘what are the rules besides the general ones that apply to all masters?’

“That’s done,” she said, a grin almost flashing across her face in the instant before she moved on to his tails. He winced as she pulled, trying to keep them still. “Just do what you're told. You look like a smart boy, surely you know that.”

She sounded derisive, her eyes focused entirely on his tails.

Shuuji didn’t say anything else, just mulling over her words and picking out any indicators of how best to survive here. All that had been said was pointing to a hazy picture of pretending they were not bound to their master, of a pretense, yet another mask he would need to craft.

“There,” the other said a few minutes later, standing up and hurrying over to the racks holding some more plain yukata. “Stand up,” she ordered, pulling a soft yellow yukata down and holding it up to Shuuji as he scrambled to stand. She squinted, tilting her head, one of her canines poking over her lip as she considered him. Finally, she shook her head, putting it back on the rack and grabbing a warm-tone-leaning blue. This, too, was deemed unfit, so she pulled out a dark blue yukata. She brightened almost instantly, holding it up and smiling in relief. “Put this on.”

Shuuji took it, switching his rather dirty yukata for the new one as she busied herself putting away her brushes.

“I'm done,” he said, and she turned around, looking at him with an appraising eye.

“Yes,” she mumbled, more to herself than to Shuuji. She nodded sharply, then beckoned. He followed silently, keeping his head low as they walked through the halls.

They stopped in front of a well adorned door, kneeling in front of it. Shuuji followed her lead. Her hand paused on the door handle, and she gave him the briefest glance. More, she seemed to be saying, so Shuuji lowered his head to the floor, trying to keep his ears from twisting as the door slid open.

“Master Ryota, I have prepared Nanashi for your inspection,” she said beside him, having lowered her head as soon as the door had been opened.

Inspection?

“You are dismissed, Mami,” the god hummed indifferently.

“Thank you, Master.” Mami shuffled backwards, then stood. Her footsteps padded down the hall.

Shuuji waited, tension strung throughout his body.

“Come here.”

Shuuji swallowed a gasp as he was wrenched forward, tripping a little as his feet took him closer to his new master. He knelt as soon as he could stop, keeping his tails and his ears as low as he could.

A heavy sigh; Shuuji held his breath. “What a mess you make.”

Shuuji flinched downward, wondering frantically if he was supposed to respond. “I'm sorry, Master.”

“Break your wrist,” his master said casually, and Shuuji bit his tongue as his other hand did just that, a crack and a whimper echoing through the room. “You address me as Master Ryota when first addressing me.”

Shuuji cradled his wrist, only giving himself a moment to steady his voice. “Yes, Master Ryota.”

Another sigh. “It’s too bad you are as dumb as you are unique.”

“Yes, Master…” Shuuji hesitated, but Master had said when first saying his name, so… He squeezed his eyes shut, keeping his lips pressed together.

“From now on, you will be known as Pearl.”

Chapter Text

He was propped up against someone, his hair being roughly brushed.

“Stop whining,” a woman’s voice hissed behind him, and he shuddered. Sounds he hadn’t realized he was making hitched. He tried to bite them down, smother them, but it was a slow process.

“Stop!”

He flinched—his body ached so badly, he could barely move, why—in her hold, taking a breath and holding it, eyes squeezed shut. Different master, different rules.

“Finally,” someone else commented, annoyed but distracted. “We don’t need him adding any more to our day.”

The body holding him shifted, the brush in his hair pausing.

“… Sorry, Mami.”

The body shifted back, resuming. “Be a good boy, Pearl,” the woman behind him ordered, and he blinked, long and slow.

“…” His mouth was filled with cotton, he couldn’t get a word out. “…re…”

Hands shifted to his tail, and he had to put all his focus on biting down a needy yip. It felt so nice…

“He's going to melt like putty,” the other person he had heard commented, mean.

“Are you heartless? He's not even 300 yet, Isha,” a new voice, male, whispered. “How can you—”

“Because this stupid albino has made our—”

“Isha!”

The woman stopped. Pearl’s eyes drifted shut, too weary to keep open.

“Day a long one, River,” the woman snided. The sound of shifting, followed by a breeze as someone walked past. “Good job helping the newcomer get settled in, Mami.”

“Of course, I was ever so glad to help you then, Isha,” the woman behind Shuuji said calmly.

A cut off snarl, a gasp, and then a humph. A door slid shut.

The woman stopped brushing his tails, and he stifled a whine, then gasped when his face was grabbed, more out of surprise than pain. His eyes flew open to see Mami glaring at him. “Stop making noises,” she ordered harshly, shaking his head back and forth.

Pearl opened his mouth to apologize, something garbled coming out of it. He winced, trying to shrink into himself.

She let go of his face—it didn’t hurt, despite the firmness of her grip, and he was certain it hadn’t been enough to even bruise—and propped him against a wall. He watched numbly as she started to put away the brushes she had been using.

“Good morning,” she said stiffly. The man across the room glanced at them, then turned back to his own tails he was hastily brushing.

He blinked at her, uncomprehending.

“It’s polite to say it back,” she huffed, not looking at him.

He stared for a moment longer, then shook his head slightly, as much as he was able to. “G… guh…” he rasped, his brain throwing fits as it was corralled into an old cage.

“Hmm?”

“Mrg… Guh-gd mrnng.” He flinched, fear flashing through him as the words came out wrong, squeezing his eyes shut.

No fox noises here, this isn’t Isep, no noises.

A hand tapped his cheek, and he couldn’t help but lean into it, barely managing not to whine, a choked huff of air escaping him.

“Good morning, Mami,” the man’s voice said all of a sudden.

“Good morning, River,” Mami answered plainly.

“Good morning, Pearl,” the man, apparently River, said, not even looking up from his work.

Pearl swallowed, his throat working. “Guhd… murning…” he managed slowly, his mind slowly clearing. No fox noises. Words. Words and manners and behave. “Guhd mornging,” he repeated, his tongue still heavy in his mouth. “R-Rver,” he added. “Guhd morning, Mami.”

It seemed enough, as Mami nodded slightly, something like relief flashing across her face.

“Let’s go, Pearl.”

He shuddered as she lifted him, dread coursing through him. “Mster…?”

She didn’t look at him, her ear flicking slightly. “Don’t be scroungy.”

He would have nodded if he could, but his head was too heavy to move, pressed against her shoulder.

Chapter Text

He shivered, feeling like a raw wire coiled in the center of the room, as his god stared down at him.

“Pearl,” he hummed, and Pearl had to bite down a needy yip at the softness in his voice. Don’t be scroungy.

“M—” he started, voice catching. He flinched hard, swallowing before trying again. “Maas…ter…” He panicked as his voice ran out of strength. Address with name when first speaking. He sucked in air, choking on it in his haste. “R-Rrrota…” He cringed, a shuddering breath escaping him. “S-surry, Mmaster Ro-Ro-Iyo—”

—hand on his neck, hot breath on his ear—

“Surry, ‘lease, sorr…” He didn’t have enough air, he couldn’t get enough air to his lungs to apologize, he was going to be punished because he couldn’t speak properly, gods, he’d just gotten here, he didn’t want to be known as a troublemaker right off the bat!

“Come here, Pearl.”

He shivered, crawling forward. Each time he fell on his face his heart skipped a beat, he needed to obey, he couldn’t- couldn’t—

He reached his master’s feet, stopping and trying to move his limbs into a proper seiza. They felt wrong, gangly yet heavy, too many and too few joints. He almost growled in frustration, barely catching himself.

He flinched then involuntarily melted against a hand that found its way onto his cheek. It was all he could do to beat down a chirr as a thumb stroked his nose, and his mind went blissfully blank.

“Hmm…”

He managed not to yelp as he was pulled- pulled somewhere, it- damn it, he couldn’t focus—

“Aren’t you a good fox?”

He bit his tongue to stop the needy yip and the anxious whine. The praise was good but this- this was wrong, and he couldn’t tell why, but it was wrong and he didn’t like it—

He shuddered as a hand began scratching the base of his ear, a low chuckle making his hair stand on end even as he sagged further into someone’s- his god’s- who was it—

“Let’s see…”

Nausea rolled through him as he was stood up, held there by a large body and a thick arm. They started to move forward, his legs tripping to follow. They were too weak to hold him up by themselves, instead supported by- by-

He didn’t know whether he wanted to throw up or chitter or scream as the world spun around him, or was he spinning? His head pounded as he fell backwards, caught by a thick arm around his waist and a hand in his.

“This is its first time in Ningyou-Sukui training… I truly have found a pearl.”

He wasn’t quite sure where he was.

Around him, people chattered, words blending into each other in an incomprehensible haze. Lights seemed to dance, flickering as shadows moved across them.

He almost chittered when a hand rested against the side of his face, leaning into it.

“Good fox,” a voice hummed, and he vaguely realized his tails were twitching, the closest thing they could do to wagging with his body so heavy.

“This one is new, Ryota.”

The hand left, and he chased after it, his neck craning for a moment before his head fell again.

“You're the same as ever, friend.” Scornful? Disinterested?

A hand he hadn’t noticed tightened around his waist. He blinked slowly, confusion swirling through him.

“Kitsune are too stupid to be useful for much else, P̷̥͗͜u̶͉̗͒r̴̝̒̓i̴̯̍͠s̵̠̿̑ń̷̬͕.”

“They may be, but at least use them for chores. What, do you hire yokai to handle upkeep?”

A harsh, angry laugh had Pearl cringing into the body holding him. A hand found its way into his hair, scratching lightly, and he could barely bite down a purr as he melted again into the body’s hold. His head pounded, his throat dry and his body aching, his stomach nauseous, but the hand on his head felt so nice that it seemed to wipe the rest of it away.

“You show your ignorance too plainly, P̷̥͗͜u̶͉̗͒r̴̝̒̓i̴̯̍͠s̵̠̿̑ń̷̬͕. Besides, I believe—” Someone scratched at the base of his ear, the ear flicking as Pearl pressed against the hand. “—I've found a favorite.”

“Are you going to start kissing them next?”

Pearl winced as the hand twisted, grabbing his ear in a tight grip. Danger. He blinked rapidly, trying to make sense of where he was, what was happening.

“No, unlike you, apparently,” a man- a- a god, his god, his master, snarled, and Pearl flinched, the floaty feeling receding slightly. Danger.

“You're the one with a prettied fox hanging on your arm,” was the growled response.

Pearl wanted to open his mouth and plead for the unknown voice to stop as the grip turned painful, fingernails digging into thin skin. He couldn’t clear his vision, couldn’t hear much besides the voices of the two gods beside him. What was going on? Where was he? What—

He had to stop his breathing to suppress the purr that threatened to escape as the hand returned, gently rubbing the back of his neck.

“There, there, Pearl. P̷̥͗͜u̶͉̗͒r̴̝̒̓i̴̯̍͠s̵̠̿̑ń̷̬͕  is gone now.”

He didn’t understand what that meant, only sinking into the contact, thankful for the distraction.

Everything was alright.

(right?)

Chapter Text

It was another bad day. Dazai lay on his futon, eyes so out of focus they were seeing double.

Chuuya had already gotten up.

Mackerel? A gentle hand shook him. … One of those days, huh? … I love you.

Dazai hadn’t responded to him (why was Chuuya even here, when Dazai was such a shitty lover? A shitty lover, and a shittier person), staring at the edge of their futon. He’d said something or other, then left the room. Dazai had let his eyes slip shut, ignoring the constant pestering of his mind. He left. He left you, he's sick of you. He doesn’t say it but he's getting fed up with this, with your stupid fucking game, dancing on the stage, back and forth and it always comes back to this.

Eyes closed, he listened to the world waking up outside the window. The calling of several species of birds, likely congregated around the bird feeders that Chuuya religiously stocked—humming bird, suet, platform; one was shaped like a traditional house where the fusuma were tan colored chicken wire.

“This is an inari shrine, chibi,” Dazai sighed as Chuuya hammered the posts into the ground. “Any birds that come around will be in danger of getting eaten.” On his shoulder, Fuyu chittered, something amused, something satisfied.

“What about the fucking crows?” Chuuya pointed out, eyebrows raised.

Nearby, one of ‘the fucking crows’ screeched its displeasure at Chuuya's words, ruffling its feathers angrily.

“They're smart enough not to get eaten,” Dazai shrugged, glancing up. Indeed, the crows kept off the ground of the shrine, only coming down to squabble. “Besides, they have enough in number that most foxes leave them alone. It’s not worth the fight.”

“Then tell them to leave the birds alone.”

Dazai put a hand to his chest, apparently shocked and insulted. “Are you assuming I can talk to foxes because I am a kitsune? For shame, Chuuya. Don’t you know there’s a difference between ethnicity and language—EE!” Dazai cut off with a shrill yip.

Chuuya, having used tainted to send a nail like a bullet towards Dazai's head, sniggered as Dazai ducked, sending Fuyu to the ground in a mess of fur and screams.

“Chuuyaaaaaa!”

In the end, Dazai had just put a simple ward around the bird feeders.

Something cold and wet pressed to his cheek. After taking a minute to garnish energy, Dazai cracked an eye open.

Hi Dandelion, he thought, unable—unwilling, useless person, useless partner, useless p-—to open his mouth.

Dandelion was a black fox with a red-yellow undercoat that gave the impression of fire, every shift of her lithe body a crackle in the hearth. She was missing an eye, but, somehow, that only added to the imperial glare she was giving Dazai.

Dazai's lips parted slightly. “So judgmental… Dande…” Too much work, too much air needed to get a sentence out. He closed his eye.

Ever the disappointment. Can't even talk. How pathetic can someone be?

A little growl preceded the sensation of little paws on his pillow, passing his head then turning, curling around it. Dandelion nipped at one of his ears, gnawing on it for a second until it flicked, then huffed and lay her head down.

The sound of wood sliding on wood told Dazai that Chuuya had come back.

“Sweet girl…” Dazai heard him coo, talking to Dandelion. “Good job. Did you bite him?”

A chirp gentle enough to not startle Dazai.  

“Good job,” Chuuya hummed. Porcelain on wood, fabric rustling. Did Dazai care enough to open his eyes? Hmm. Anywhere else, the hyper-observant part of him would have overridden the lethargy, and he’d be halfway across the room. But here? Here, he didn’t mind not knowing exactly what was going on. He simply didn’t care enough.

A hand tapped his cheek, then his hairline. A silent question, can I touch?

Dazai didn’t know. He didn’t know much of anything right now, everything was carried away by the torrent. So useless, so worthless. Chuuya won't leave, he's too loyal, so he stays and takes care of you. Sometimes, Chuuya brushing his tail or scratching his ears would help ground Dazai, give him something he wanted to feel, something that reminded Dazai that things might (not were, Dazai's brain would never be convinced of that and any attempt to convince him would only make it worse) be okay, that he might be.

Other times, it would send him reeling to the past, the touch and the inability to move and the mental confusion too much for him to logic away the panic. Sometimes he would go limp, mind shutting off, all systems offline. Other times, some sort of muscle memory would kick in.

Dazai hadn’t gotten up that morning. Chuuya wasn’t sure what was wrong, wasn’t sure how to help. He and Dazai had deserted the Port Mafia a few months ago, and

“… Osamu?”

Dazai didn’t respond, unfocused eyes pointed at the wall.

Chuuya chewed on his lip for a moment, then an idea came to him. He jumped up, running to the cabinet and grabbing a brush.

Dazai loved having Chuuya brush his tails, though he always startled when Chuuya started. (“’m fine, just… instinct,” he muttered. “You don’t have to—” “I want to,” Dazai  whispered. Something in his eyes made Chuuya's heart ache. “Okay,” he agreed, bringing the brush back. Dazai slowly melted into the repetitive strokes, a purr stuttering as his eyes slipped closed.)

Chuuya sat back down in front of Dazai.  “Dazai, I'm gonna brush your tails, okay?”

Perhaps predictably, Dazai didn’t respond.

Chuuya gently touched the tip of one tail. Dazai's whole body twitched, as usual, but he didn’t protest. Taking that as permission, Chuuya gently started brushing, working his way up one tail before going down the other.

When Dazai moved, he was on the third, halfway up. Slowly, so laboriously that it made Chuuya feel like he himself was weighed down by lead in his veins, Dazai tilted his head forward, tucking it to his chest. 

“About time you got up,” Chuuya teased. He looked down at the tail in his hands, wondering if he should finish. It wasn’t like they needed to be brushed—they'd been brushed last night. Before he could decide, Dazai wagged his tails, smacking Chuuya in the face with several tails’ worth of fur.

“Fucker!” Chuuya shouted.

(He hadn’t noticed Dazai's flinch. Later, Dazai disappeared from his bed, leaving Haru with a little lamp of foxfire. It was a message, telling Chuuya he was okay. He came back later that day, eyes red, ears and tails gone. Chuuya learned another thing that day.)

Other times, the shock would push him straight into fight or flight, and he'd hiss and scratch and bite if he could, fighting for some ground, some space to run away. Chuuya would let him go, and half an hour later—enough time for Dazai to calm down—he'd head out to search for him and bring him home.

Today, he simply didn’t know. His brain wouldn’t compute what he would feel if something happened, whatever that thing may be. He was fairly certain someone could point a gun at his knee and his brain wouldn’t process that it would hurt if the gun fired. (His thoughts laughed, dancing around him, linked: useless, worthless, weak.)

“Osamu.”

Oh, gods, he loved when Chuuya called him by his first name. He loved Chuuya. He didn’t deserve Chuuya. Why was Chuuya still here? He was so good, so precious and important, and he was living with Dazai, and damn it maybe no one was good enough for him but Dazai certainly wasn’t.

“No tears, love,” Chuuya said, his words far away, a lighthouse across a raging sea. Gentle fingers wiped beneath his eyes. “I made crab miso, extra salty.”

The words seemed to give his brain permission to smell, and he inhaled the umami scent, breath a little deeper than before.

“That’s it, love.”

You don’t deserve this.

“Right, we’re heading outside,” Chuuya decided. “I'm going to carry you, okay?”

His mind was still refusing to function, but it was moving enough now that he could at least figure out that he desperately wanted touch. He let his eyes drift open, a bowl slowly coming into focus. He blinked a couple times, vision clearing. A small snout was in the corner of his vision, and brilliant orange was beside him. Slowly, he moved his eyes up. Since when was it so hard to move his eyeballs? He couldn’t get them up that far.

Chuuya shifted, then his face was on level with Dazai's. “Hey,” he whispered.

Dazai blinked, long and slow.

You don’t deserve this, you don’t deserve him.

“Any reason?”

No. I have no reason. I'm just a stupid fucking waste of air, an idiot, a thing that would be better off dead. I have no reason except myself, and I. Won't. Change.

Chuuya's eyes were sad, and Dazai wondered if he was reading Dazai's thoughts like words on a page. A fleeting desire to tease him came and went, gone too quickly for Dazai to use it.

“Can I carry you?” Chuuya asked again, still so soft, so patient.

Haven’t I suffered enough? Don’t I deserve something nice?! Why can't I have thi

His vocal chords almost echoed, or so it felt, dusty with disuse, refusing to rise beyond a mumble. “Mm.” It took all the energy he had, his throat bobbing as he forced the hum out. It left him exhausted (pathetic) and he closed his eyes.

Chuuya hummed too, no more words needed as he lifted Dazai. Dandelion chirped, undoubtedly following at Chuuya's feet.

Chuuya carried Dazai through their house, stepping out into the sunlight, sitting down at the steps of the shrine.

Dazai shifted slightly, and Chuuya let him shift, slowly burrowing into his arms. “N’ my tails,” he mumbled, head pressed over Chuuya's heart. Thump, thump, thump. Alive, safe, warm. So very warm…

Chuuya hummed in acknowledgement, waiting until Dazai had settled to wrap his arms around him again.

“Don’t deserve Chuuya,” he admitted, his throat constricting painfully. Tears were soaking Chuuya's haori.

“Idiot mackerel,” Chuuya answered, fond and warm. “It doesn’t matter if you deserve me, you have me.”

Dazai's lip wobbled, and he wrapped his arms tighter around this precious creature that had chosen him.

Maybe I don’t deserve him, but he's here all the same.

“… love Chuuya…”

“Love you too, Osamu…”

Chapter Text

“Shhhh…”

He shook his head, only having enough energy to twitch it sporadically. Wrong. Everything was wrong, he shouldn’t be here, he didn’t want to be here, it was wrongwrongwrongwrong—

“Do you feel the sheets?”

He wanted to run.

“Feel them, Kokitsu.”

Fabric, dragged over his hand. He tried to grab it, his fingers twitching.

“That’s right. It’s night, Kokitsu. The work day is over.”

He didn’t understand what that meant, but he did try to find the sheets again. It was all he knew was real.

“Do you feel the yukata, Kokitsu?”

He frowned, trying to move his limbs, his arm jerking against his side.

“You don’t feel it with your hands, you feel it with your body, Kokitsu.”

He… there- there was fabric against his skin. He still tried to raise his hand to feel it, but this time, instead of barely moving, it swung up and hit him in the face. He didn’t move it, a finger on his eyelid, his nose squished.

The soft voice hummed.

“Can you say goodnight, Kokitsu?”

Could he…? He had forgotten words existed for a moment (or was it longer?), and his tongue felt heavy in his mouth.

“Goodnight, Kokitsu.”

He opened his mouth, but fear snapped it shut again. His eyes flew open as he pulled his hand from his face, struggling to sit upright.

Wrong, it was wrong, he didn’t want to be close to Ryota, he didn’t want to be paraded around like a doll, he didn’t-

“Shhh…”

He snarled, turning his aching head. “Mmg-k-kuh—”

There, mostly hidden by the darkness of the night, was Mami, sitting neatly on her futon. “Goodnight, Kokitsu,” she repeated, then turned away to ready her futon. “I changed you for bed,” she explained, voice a little more curt now. “You ought to lie down and sleep—tomorrow won't come any slower.”

Pearl wasn’t listening, instead trying desperately to remember, well, anything. He felt gross, embarrassed – humiliated. What had happened? And why couldn’t he think?! He fisted the sheet, screwing his eyes tight shut, but he only recalled confusion and dulled pain and—

He gagged, the abrupt movement toppling him over. “N-n-n—” he whimpered, raising uncoordinated arms in an attempt to hold himself. “Nnn.”

Wrong wrong wrong paraded with a collar he didn’t prettied fox on your shoulder no nuzzling into a warm hand

He gagged again, curling loosely into himself, trembling. No no no no, he- he didn’t- what was that? Why- why would a god- why him, he wasn’t—he laughed, a garbled sound, his hands twitching as he tried to lift them to pull at his hair, desperate to feel something, to control it. He hadn’t predicted this. He definitely- definitely hadn’t- he- he thought he was used to the shame, got used to it as a kit, mastered it with Iseps, but he definitely- he really- he hadn’t, not for this- and- and somehow he hadn’t felt this humiliated in his wretched life, this pathetic, this weak and stupid and disgusting—

A harsh hand met his face, startling him. Whatever noise had been exiting his mouth stopped with a hitch, his wet eyes opening to see Mami over him. She was wearing a scowl, lips turned down and eyebrows furrowed, but the only thing reflecting in her eyes was

“The day is over, Kokitsu.”

He could only stare at her, tears spilling sideways down his face. I don’t want this, he thought desperately. Please, I can't do it.

Pain flashed in Mami’s eyes for the briefest moment. “Master Ryota shelters many exceptional yokai.”

He didn’t respond, nor did Mami ask him to. She helped him under his futon sheet, then swiftly ducked into her own.

Terrified, he refused to close his eyes, despite the exhaustion and pain ripping through his body. Hot, then cold, hot, then cold. Every noise made him jump like he was a kit again, curling tightly into himself.

Hot, then cold…

“No,” he mumbled as Mami brushed his hair, working through nonexistent knots.

“No,” he insisted feebly, shivers wracking through him as Mami helped him into the final layer of a kimono.

“No,” he pleaded as she carried him down halls that he couldn’t keep track of, past other servants with blurred faces.

“Please, no,” he whispered, fear and disgust settling heavy in his gut.

The door slid shut; Mami had gone.

He swallowed hard, willing his tongue to work. “M-mas’er R’ot’-R’ot...a,” he tried to greet, his head pressed to the floor—not that he could lift it if he wanted to.

“Come here already,” the god commanded, and Pearl struggled forward, limbs shaking with the effort, collapsing every couple feet.

He was pulled next to his master as soon as he was close enough, dizziness rushing through his head.

“Just relax, Pearl,” his master hummed, knuckles trailing down Pearl’s nose.

Pearl’s body uncoiled at the command, and he couldn’t help a tiny sob at the action. It turned into a gasp of pain when one of his ears was gripped tightly, the ache resonating off the rest of his sore body, echoing.

No sounds. No sounds.

“It’s too bad that you can't speak like this,” his master hummed, letting go of Pearl’s ear to rub the nape of his neck. Pearl shuddered, biting on his lips to stop himself from whining. “Though, trained up, you might be,” he continued musingly.

The little focus he’d regained the previous night was scattering, leaving Pearl scrabbling for purchase. He was with- with a god? His? And-

They—him and who?—stood, moving- somewhere, he couldn’t tell, damn it, that was bad, everything was bad, but he-

His breath caught as he was pulled closer to a warm body, voices warping around him. Warm, warm and distracting and pulling on his instincts but- but sound bad, no sound, no sound…

He was confused…

Chapter Text

“Shhhh…”

He lay still, hoping the distracting hand would come back, maybe run over his tails or settle heavily on his head. It didn’t belong there (didn’t it?) but the longer without it the more anxious he became, the more a feeling of wrong crawled over his skin.

“The day is over, Kokitsu.”

He tried to maneuver himself closer to the voice, straining his head in its direction. Make the wrong feeling go away, please, please, make it go away, I'm good, I'm good, no sounds, make it go away.

“Can you hear the night crickets sing, Kokitsu?”

No, yes, maybe? Whatever was wanted was his answer. He didn’t chitter when his wandering hand found another warm thing, instead rolling towards it, nuzzling it.

“Like putty,” a voice hissed scathingly.

“Would you take his place tomorrow, Isha? I think he’s feeling quite sick, he might need a day off.”

“… No, I am… rather attached to my own duties.”

“Then kindly see to them. We all have our fair share of work, some more than others.”

The hand wasn’t petting him and the sense of wrongness continued to grow, gnawing at him, and- and he was scared. He pressed his face to the floor, pulling softly at the hand, his ears low in submission. Please, make it go away.

“Listen to the crickets, Kokitsu.”

He tried, tried to ignore the dizziness and pain and just listen. They were there, buried under confusion, but he could hear them. He tried to wag his tails. Did good, did good. Please.

“Can you feel the sheets, Kokitsu?”

His eyebrows furrowed, pain and confusion and concentration mixing unpleasantly. He hadn’t noticed the sheets, hadn’t noticed his body. His fingers slowly curled, and it was giving him a headache but he could, he could feel the sheets.

He nuzzled further into the hand, but it didn’t comfort him anymore, instead making his stomach turn.

“The day is over, Kokitsu.”

The sensation of fully existing again was agonizing. Mami stayed up next to him while he cried.

Her hand never moved.

“St’p…”

Mami ignored him, deftly styling his hair.

He tried again. “S-st’p… b’ing’ me… b’ck.”

Stop bringing me back.

She blinked, glancing up at him.

He tried to meet her gaze, but his own kept jumping about, refusing to stay in place. “A-af’r,” he garbled.

“After?”

He blinked, realizing she was done with his hair. When? And what did she mean after? Oh. “D-don’… lemme…” He couldn’t form the words, couldn’t string a sentence.

Don't wake me up. Let me stay unaware.

She didn’t answer for a long minute. “Are you sure?”

His throat clogged up. Without her to wake him, get him back to a thinking state again, he didn’t know when he would next be aware. He could very well spend the rest of his time here in a state of blind affection to whoever was near him.

He let his eyes slip shut.

“Okay,” she said, and Pearl was certain he didn’t imagine the tightness in her voice. “Now?”

It took him a minute to decipher what she was offering—set him adrift now, with her, instead of Ryota. He supposed it would be less terrifying then. A tear slipped down his cheek. “P’z…”

Please.

“Kokitsu.”

He opened his eyes to find Mami directly in front of him. She looked… so sad…

“You're an amazing boy,” she murmured.

His lip trembled. “S’ared.”

So sad. “Goodnight, Kokitsu.”

He closed his eyes as she leaned forward, their noses touching. He finally broke, unable to stop a single, soft, yip. He cringed—sounds would get anyone in the vicinity in trouble, he didn’t want to get Mami punished—

Chuff.

—and everything was alright with the world.

“It’s nighttime, Kokitsu.” 

He curled around the warm hand, nuzzling it desperately.

“You should sleep, Kokitsu.”

But everything was wrong. He needed the touch to come back, he didn’t like thinking, and when he was pet everything went away—

He choked on a purr as a hand tentatively rested on his cheek. He pressed into it, baring the back of his neck—bad things happened if he didn’t, bad things that hurt and he didn’t like to hurt—as his tails twitched happily.

“Mami…”

Pearl rubbed his face up and down in little increments, relieving nothingness washing through him. Yes, this was good, this was easy. No thinking, no worrying, no fear. Just a warm hand and rules drilled into him like a dog reactions that he couldn’t explain.

“Goodnight, River.”

“… I find myself rather energetic, so I might stay up a while. I’ll take care not to make too much noise.”

The hand was shaking slightly. He pressed his face into it, and when that didn’t stop the trembles he lifted his head laboriously, moving it up until he could clumsily set his neck in the hand. He wagged feebly. Am good. Am good. See?

A sharp breath, something distinctly sad.

“Go to sleep, Mami.”

The fingers weren’t moving anymore.

“Okay.”

The hand gently pulled away, and he chased after it for a moment, unable to really follow. Before he could worry a new hand—masculine no no no no nO—rested on his ears. He quickly bore his neck again, wagging oh so feebly.

“Goodnight, Mami.”

“Goodnight, River. … Goodnight, Kokitsu.”