lots of weird bits of old things i started writing and didn’t finish/left really short????? i don’t expect anyone to read these haha, just for my own safekeeping!

bluh here we go. weird mix of original stuff and a lot of fanfiction

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Born a street cat, die a street cat.

These are the words that Sahna Alden has learned to live by.

As always, he is flanked by the walls of tall, narrow alleys with the pipe in his mouth as his only companion.

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She doesn’t smell great, you notice, taking in a slow, concentrated whiff of the crook where her neck meets her shoulder. She smells like salty sweat and dirt, but there’s something so natural and very her about it that you can’t really bring yourself to dislike the scent.

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It takes Touko a good day or two before she finally solves the puzzle. The mystery of why he’s making his plans so readily available to an enemy.

He’s crying for help.

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“Claus,” he utters at a higher octave as his back collides dully against a concrete wall. He looks left and right, searching for a way around me, but in this narrow hallway, there is no escape. He has reached the dead end.

What is Claus? Is it me? Is it a name for me? I’ve never had a target call me by a name before (villain, demon, monster, but never a name). Does it mean something bad? I am certain it does. After all, I have the vague idea that I am something bad. Maybe even worse than a monster. Maybe “Claus” is a special word for things like me.

He slides down onto the ground, whimpering and cowering more loudly and more desperately as I approach. But even now, all he does is cry that name. Claus, no Claus, please, Claus. I have had enough of it. My objective buzzes—screams—clearly in my mind: finish the job, monster. Finish it. But somewhere within me, a thread of curiosity remains, and I desire to satiate it first.

“Human,” I drone, almost a little taken aback at the sound of my own voice. Verbalizing my own thoughts without prompt is a rare occurrence. “Tell me what ‘Claus’ is.”

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I’m ready, and I’m willing, and I’m prepared to…

His eyes are ablaze.

He’s ready. With a blaster at one side and a clenched fist at the other, he can feel the beginnings of adrenaline setting fire to his mechanical veins. Every system is alert and online. His body is rigid with tension, fear, anticipation. Determination.

He’s willing. Eager, even. He’s been waiting for this. Justice is his nature, and he thinks maybe it’s become a little warped over time.

He’s prepared to die.

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1. Introduction
He’d give you his hand and try to be nice, but he had no name to offer.

4. Dark

He grew up living in the darkest recesses of their prisons, and the very thought of being secluded in the shadows ever again sends him into a fit of panic.

5. Seeking Solace

For so long, he went without a pair of supporting arms, and now that there’s five of them, he finds himself a little overwhelmed sometimes.

6. Break Away

His head was throbbing, his legs were on fire, and his heart was suddenly the heaviest part of his body, but he tore past the front gates and realized that he had finally made his bittersweet getaway.

7. Heaven

Their consciousnesses have melded in a way, and he feels like every now and then that he sees heaven; it’s never something he can quite grasp with his mind’s eye though.

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this one’s long lmao and i guess complete but oh well

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He doesn’t know what’s going through his mind when he leans forward and closes the gap between their faces. Somewhere in the back of his mind, a distant thought ponders unhelpfully, ‘What would your family think about this?’ Well, he knows the answer to that already. They’d disown him without a moment’s hesitation. He’s already shameful enough to them, so what’s one more terrible life decision in the grand scheme of things?

He’s not really sure what he expected her to taste like. It’s bad, of course, and she reeks of her usual rotten musk as well (even more pungently now that he’s so near). Her lips—if the remaining scraps of tissue can even be called lips—are dry and harsh against his skin, and at first, it doesn’t even occur to her to move them. When it does, she moves mechanically, twisting so hard to try to mold her flesh up against his, but it’s nearly as impossible as it is for her to frown. Her deteriorated face muscles simply do not allow her to pucker her battered mouth properly. He doesn’t mind, not too much, and makes due with what she has.

Without really thinking about it, he reaches up to place a clumsy hand on her side and immediately reels back when it connects with her rib cage. Ah, right, not really anything solid to rest on with that side of her body. She makes a small, inarticulate noise at the back of her throat that sounds more worried than anything else as he reaches for the side that’s still mostly intact. He mutters a small, embarrassed apology and makes another valiant attempt at undertaking the endeavor of kissing her. This time she’s a little more prepared and decides to substitute her lack of lip mobility with her tongue. He winces a little when she prods tentatively against his gums because it tastes bitter and coppery, almost as if it were covered in strange blood.

At least blood, he consoles himself, is a taste that contains some semblance of life—unlike the dead and cold scent of her skin—and ultimately, he feels guilty for initiating this kind of intimacy only to be repulsed by it. He tries to push past his bodily senses’ distaste and focus on the essence of just being this close to her. Physicality was never a factor towards his feelings for her in the first place, and the only reason he’s indulging in it now is simply because she isn’t one for words, and he doesn’t know how else to better express these inexorable feelings.

His hands move up and place themselves on either side of her face for lack of anything else better to do. Her face is perhaps the best preserved area of her body—she’s self-conscious about it despite everything, and he knows she tries her hardest to maintain it—and it’s almost soft. Sunken in against her pointed cheek bones, but still comparatively soft. Almost natural aside from the scales of rot around her eye sockets. Curious, he runs a gentle thumb across the green decay and finds that it’s stiff and dry. She makes another vague noise that he’s not sure whether to interpret as contentedness or discomfort. Just to play it safe, he retracts his fingers from the scales and returns to tracing formless pictures against her barely still living skin. He’s only just now registering that she’s started running her one, monstrous hand through his hair. Her claws drag across his skull, maybe breaking skin, but he doesn’t know for sure and he doesn’t care much right now.

Uncertain and inexperienced, he hesitates a bit before moving his mouth to the junction between her jaw and neck. Her skin is dry and thin and pliable, like an old bit of clay stretched out, but evidently her nerves are still very much alive and functioning because she gasps slightly at the new sensation. It’s the most emotional, most human sound he’s ever heard from her, and that alone is enough to encourage him further. He glances up to gauge her expression, and it’s as hard to read as always, but her brows are arched up in a way he’s not used to seeing them. He takes a bit of temperate satisfaction in knowing that he’s able to bring some fresh emotion back into the girl who’s been living such a listless life up until now. He doesn’t know if she’s happy like this—how can he when he’s even sure if he’s happy?—but he entertains the thought of her loving this, loving him, and he thinks about how nice it would be if things were actually that simple.

…

there was more but wow it gets weird

so that’s all folks