artist bakugou gets given a crappy slab of stone that everyone says can’t be used for anything, so out of spite he uses it to carve the most amazing statue he possibly can. unfortunately as he slaves away over his work, he finds himself becoming more and more obsessed with his beautiful stone man…….
PART TWO
Once again I was given permission to write a little blurb from this by @renarenar.
Heads up – this was done independently from the artist. It’s just such a
beautiful idea and I’ve got some… thoughts on it. Cuz y’know me. So
I’ve obviously taken some liberties already, using black marble instead of white due to the obvious distaste that Kirishima has for his hair. Also might be throwing in some enchanted elements in here? Wiki says it’s popular now, but I’m sure at first it was not. And y’know. Whatever. I’m just winging it. Fiction.
It was dark. Everything was dark. It had always been dark as far as could be remembered. Since the beginning, since the creation and beginning. It hadn’t been cold and empty back then. Not when Mother had been there. It had been dark, but warm and full of life and love. But then she had left and they had been alone. So alone. For so long.
Somehow that changed. A small part had been broken off, just a tiny little piece cracked away. It hadn’t hurt, it had been… different. New. It had been broken and crumbled and then it was no longer who they were anymore. It wasn’t where it used to be. Everything was different. The others were gone; the others it was created with were gone. But they had been gone long before. Instead there was a softness that had taken their place. And a jagged sharpness that bit at it, and a grating rough that sanded over it. Waking it. Every caress from the warmth calling it from its slumber. A voice soon vibrated through it its core, and it found a comfort in the sensation. In the things it sang and talked about.
It wasn’t like the old vibrations that were in formal chants and phrases; worshiping Mother. They were intimate noises. Soft sometimes, angry and loud and passionate others. It could feel them down at its core, feeding it in ways the old vibrations never did; teaching it like the others never did.
“What are you?” The vibration asked one day, sharp biting chipping away at its form. “What are you that you have this hold of me?” The biting stopped, the warmth returning soft and delicate rubbing along a gentle ridge. “Are you enchanted like they said?” Something softer, wet, touched it gently. “God what the fuck am I doing?” A harsh boom wheezed and the rough grain returned viciously, slowed, hesitated. “Right here…” The soft warmth returned. “Right here is your scar…” soft and gentle trailing down. “Right over your eye. How did you get that?”
It didn’t know. It didn’t know but it wanted to know. It wanted to feel that warmth again. It wanted to feel the soft wet gentleness. It wanted to hear the sharp hard boom of the vibrations.
Mother, what is this? But Mother wouldn’t answer. Mother had stopped existing long ago when people had stopped coming to her. The last of her worshipers having died.
Goddesses couldn’t exist without someone who believed in them.
“What color would your eyes be?” The vibrations ran along it, into it. It wanted to open up and absorb them, engulf them, wrap the source of the warmth into its core and let it make it feel this way forever.
Could I do that? It wondered as a soft scraping began. Could I feel like this forever?
“Red.” The vibration decided, deep and soft. Warmth brushing at it again where the scraping had been. “Amazing, look at your composition. God what idiots to give something this incredible to me. You’re beautiful. Look at you, my Oni.”
It didn’t understand all the vibrations, but it understood the intent. ‘My Oni’. It felt itself pulsate with something old, something dormant, something magic. It liked that. Is that what I am? Oni?
The vibrations ceased to a deep gasp. Something harsh and grating, a howl, more loud noises.
“Wh-what the fuck was that?!”
What?! What was that?!
“D-did… did you just… did you just glow?”
For a moment all was still. Mother, did I?
Night had somehow over taken him again in his muse inspired madness; his oni was beautiful. Muscular and human, dark and foreign, familiar and enchanting and glimmering and alive- Bakugou took a step back, shaking his head. Maybe his mom was right, maybe he was become too obsessed. Lately he’d been dreaming about him, about his oni. About the oni.
About that night. The night all the red veins had pulsated like a heartbeat. About the sculpture coming alive and returning the obsessive passion with which Bakugou had found himself so dedicated. He stepped back, both eyes nearly done. The red glimmering mineral reflecting the low glow of the lamplight so perfectly it was as though it were watching him.
“God you’re beautiful. Perfect red irises…” He whispered, fingers reaching out, tracing an unfinished forearm partially risen in greeting.
Truly this sculpture was nothing like the others; the kind face, the smile tucking into the corners of full lips, non-intimidating razor teeth barely visible, broad scarred shoulders wrapped delicately in gossamer and silk that cascaded down a perfectly sculpted body that was broader and wider and taller than Bakugou’s could ever hope to be. Each vein, each muscle, each hair perfectly molded. Even going so far as to add pores to the texture of the skin. Never had he been a man of such fine detail, never had he focused on making something so beautiful. Never had he made a piece of work that he had been able to admit he had loved.
But here they were, unfinished and obsessed.
In love. Confessing his worries and thoughts and hopes and dreams to a slab of marble that had been deemed unworthy of his peers. Long forgotten was the inadequate wax figurine, melted down for the next project. It wasn’t needed. Bakugou had never used it as his reference, it was as though the marble had used him, guided him.
This is my shape. It told him. Let me use you to set me free.
And so he did. He could feel it flowing through him sometimes, when the light hit it just right and the black sucked him in and the red veins glimmered and the white scars looked like flesh wounds. He could feel the spirit within the marble talking to him, communicating to him. He could feel it brushing against his soul, consuming his emotions. He was embarrassed to admit that he had often imagined it’s form when he-
He closed his eyes, lowering his sandpaper and gathering his thoughts. He was here to sculpt; not let his dick run away with him. Not right now. He was only a few days from being done. He needed to finish this. He could finish this. He had to.
He wasn’t sure why…
It could see? It could see! It’s vision was limited, but it could see. There was no more darkness, no more loneliness. Now there was a face to the vibrations, to the voice. A beautiful red eyed blond haired artist.
Bakugou. The one who had given it shape. The one who had found its body underneath its form. The one who had continued the work that should have happened if Mother had continued her reign as Goddesses should do.
And it loved this Bakugou. It loved these tender touched, these soft wet things it sometimes did when it pressed its mouth softly to an area it had finished before moving to the next. It loved how Bakugou rarely blinked. It loved how Bakugou forgot to eat. It loved how Bakugou wiped the dark dust of its flesh across his own. He loved that the red pulsing of his core across his surface didn’t make his form giver run in fear as it would have in the past.
It loved its Bakugou. It wanted its Bakugou.
Mother… I want to be alive with my Bakugou. I love him.
“Done.” Bakugou threw himself into his chair. “I’m… I’m done.” And he was.
Finally. After months of painstaking, slaving labor. Chiseling and polishing and drilling and waxing each inch of his sculpture by hand he had finally finished his Oni. He narrowed his eyes, tilting his head.
“You’re perfect.” He whispered.
“If you love it so much, marry it.” His peer teased.
“Fuckin would if I could.” He snapped, not taking his gaze from his masterpiece, voice lowered as he locked gazes with the slab of marble that he knew was enchanted. “I would if I could.”
“What the ever loving fuck-?” Bakugou couldn’t believe it.
His eyes darted over the class room, back to the pile of rubble that had been his statue, his beautiful creation. His obsession. His masterpiece. His unhealthy compulsion for months.
“Who-?” His eyes landed on the apron covered in black dust, the mallet tucked into the pocket. The student who wouldn’t stop giving him shit. “You… You-”
The kid spun, grinned wicked and shrugged. “It was an accident.” He sniffed. “It was shitty marble anyway.”
“I’ll kill you.” Bakugou’s voice wasn’t more than a whisper as he strode forward, the others frozen in fear, “I’ll kill you-”
“Students!” Toshinori’s voice rose above the din. “What happened?”
It hurt. What ever was going on, It wasn’t Bakugou. It pounded at him without the gentle care or loving caresses. He felt himself begin to shatter under the pressure.
Mother! He cried out, his core withering as another blow took out his arm. Mother, please, please! Why…? Why?
“I’m sorry for your sculpture, Young Bakugou.” Toshinori mourned beside his student after class. “I know it meant a lot to you. It was the most beautiful piece of work I’d ever seen come out of these class room, my own art included.”
“I just…” Bakugou bit at his lip, fists curled. “I don’t understand. How did I become so-?”
“Remember how I told you it was enchanted?”
Bakugou wiped at his nose, turning his face away to hide his emotion, nodding.
“I’d like to introduce you to someone I found in the garden this morning…”
He was cold. He’d never experienced that before. He had hair, he ran his hands through it. It was black and long. His skin was darker than Bakugou’s. He frowned. He wanted to look just like Bakugou. He flexed his hands. They were strong and large. And warm.
He was wearing clothes and they felt… they felt soft and stiff at the same time. He looked in the mirror again. He still had that scar over his eye. He liked that. He had the smile tucked into the corners of his mouth. He liked that too. His teeth were sharp. He didn’t know how he felt about that. He moved closer to the mirror when the door opened.
“Bakugou!”
“M-my oni-?”
“Kirishima.” He corrected, pulling his form giver into his arms. “I want to be closer.” He whispered, unaware of the discomfort in the room, pulling back just enough to allow his lips to fall onto the ones that would caress every part of his form that had been finished and good.
Marking him loved and complete. Bringing him to life.
PART 1
Published
Toad's Cave 