#and then the guy goes ''actually you were supposed to learn that your tastes are only good in moderation''

[rthko]

oh id be interested in your thoughts about the dating apps u use if u have any

Yes, thanks for asking. I could compare the features or benefits of different apps, but on principle I just don't like them. I find them dehumanizing, not because of the sexual aspect but because this is just not how courtship is supposed to work. I mean, if it works for you that's fine, but the unpleasantness of the dating app experience is so near universally agreed upon that Hinge factors it into its own "designed to be deleted" marketing. On any app, no matter the flavor, you're going to burn out. I can't stand having to maintain 10+ friendly conversations at once and fall out of touch with people who under other circumstances I'd get on fine with. The only use of the apps that actually makes sense to me is only going on Grindr when you truly are "looking right now," but when I do that, others online are just aimlessly scrolling like it's Instagram.

Like the relationship between rideshare apps and public transportation, dating apps pose tech "solutions" to problems that they themselves feed into. Don't have gay bars or cruising spaces in your area? Go on the apps. Oh, you do but you're intimated? Go on the apps. Real life isn't tailor made to your tastes? Go on the apps. And sure enough, the bars start closing, you don't get to work on your social skills, rejection still hurts just as much as ever, and foreclosing any possibility of pleasure or even friendship with people who don't fit a pre-determined "type" paints you into a corner. And now that everybody's on the apps, it's not even a gay-specific problem.

Here's the kicker: apps exchange the benefits of actual, embodied interactions for the promise of courtship without conflict, even though this promise is impossible. Hinge can pair you with the non-smoker, LTR-oriented match you're looking for, but you can still discover another deal breaker. Tinder only lets you talk to people who also matched with you, but you can still be rejected. Grindr can deliver bad sex with the guy who had listed the exact "tribe" and position you were looking for. The masculine archetype of a man Scruff sent to your doorstep can turn out to be a total queen. But in real life, you can anticipate not having your expectations met and either roll with the punches or change your mind. You can learn to dish out and take rejection gracefully and still have a nice conversation. You don't have the block button to protect you, but you have a community to look out for each other if something goes awry. And you can totally hit it off with someone who challenges the idea of what your type is and what it means to be sexually compatible.

The surprises and idiosyncrasies of IRL courtship and cruising that the apps try to smooth out and avoid are exactly what make them better. I don't have a utopian view of them, and know that much of the same cruelty, racism, body shaming, and heartbreak are not only possible but frequent offline. But offline, people can't filter what they don't want to see out of existence, and this is a good thing. The apps promise an escape from the cruelty and disappointment of the real world or the "gay scene" only to exacerbate them. I still have my anxieties and to this day I'm no stranger to the Grindr grid, but pushing myself to get out has nearly only been good for me.

[marlenacantswim]

thinking about Freaked (1993) rn. where are my Freaked (1993) fans at? this film to me is like if some guy found a list of all the things i generally like to see in movies and went "ha, so you say, but what if i turned all of them up to eleven and stuffed them into an incredibly cost-ineffective cinematic experience? what then?" and then i genuinely enjoyed it.

[dadsbongos]

i am a sword // i am a shield

word count - 15.8 k // warnings - unhealthy/codependent relationship themes, reader has ego/identity issues, potential dub-con but nothing actually happens, brief mention of animal death, existential crisis, past manipulation/abuse from makima for both of you, also you and denji are both adult-core, and reader is specifically written as a girl, CSM part 2 spoilers!!!

summary - The Rejection Devil gets put on a new mission -- to be Denji's girlfriend so he doesn't blow his cover as a normal guy living a normal life!

In late 1995, you are led into a tall building with a smooth, plain white finish and windows you wouldn’t be able to count even on both hands and feet. You aren’t sure where you were before this, and you can’t be certain why you agreed to trail the red-headed woman downstairs. All you know is that your life - your real life began with that red-headed woman and those winding stairs into the bureau basement. She’s speaking in a voice so silky smooth, you’re compelled to listen even though her words make your head hurt.

“I wasn’t expecting you to be so easy to track down this time. You fight more than this.”

You hug your arms around yourself as the darkness swallows you both whole, a door clicking shut behind your backs and leaving your only route to be following this strange woman. She smells like iron and spoiled milk veiled thinly by cheap vanilla perfume. It makes your nose wrinkle.

“Are you sure I can stay here…?” your eyes drift to the many metal doors lining the cramped basement walkway, “It’s scary down here.”

She giggles, hands clasped behind her back, and doesn’t so much as look at you as she replies, “You’ll be safer here than out there.”

Coming to a delayed pause outside a gaping steel doorway, the woman maintains her straight-lace posture while you hunch into yourself. Coldness wheezes out of the room, and a single twin mattress on the floor with no sheets or pillows laid in the middle, making your arms wind tighter around your midriff. Your beige dress may reach the ankles, but it's still thin - branded together with noncommittal strands that fray at the hem.

“Can I… go home?”

“Where?”

You swallow the lump in your throat and nod silently. Right. There is no home. There is on the mattress she provided, or there is under her mud-stained boot heel. You step into the concrete room - a boxy affair that wouldn’t even hold a bed larger than a twin.

“Good girl,” the woman coos, head tilting sweetly as she lays a hand over the steel door, “And I’ll be back tomorrow to see you again, how does that sound?”

You nod meekly as the door slides shut with a heavy groan and shick.

The woman is not back the next day. Or the one after that. Or even the next five. By the time you see her again and learn her name (Makima, you recall: it tastes like sour cheese coated in sugar on your tongue), there are sixteen shallow tallies on the wall nearest your bed, and blood and rock mix grossly under your index fingernail.

In mid-1998, the debut of Tokyo’s summer showers threatened to kick off overhead.

Swirling, lumpy clouds mask the sun’s golden rays behind a sickly gray - sky darkening as the rumbles of an incoming storm roll under your feet. Yoshida marches ahead of you in confident strides, his familiarity with the building ahead your only savior to navigating Fourth East High School.

“Chainsaw Man really goes here?” you fidget with the unevenly hanging ribbon tied around your collar, “Why? Couldn’t He just avoid high school? I hear it’s terrible…”

“It is,” Yoshida confirms, not so much as looking over his shoulder at you as he guides you to your shoe locker, “But Chainsaw’s supposed to live a normal life now.”

“How would I help with that?” you watch Yoshida’s slender fingers pry open the rectangular metal door to fish out a pair of white lace-up sneakers. He lets them clutter to the floor before tapping the door’s plated number and wandering off to his own cubby, “Isn’t Kishibe His warden now? Why are we getting involved?”

Knowing Kishibe, Chainsaw Man is most likely left to his own devices more often than not. The man called “Mad Dog”, after all, would not be your top choice of fatherly figures, so perhaps Chainsaw Man is better off controlling his own life.

After swapping his own shoes, Yoshida stands where the entrance tile ends and the hall tile begins -- the entrance tiles are slightly darker in shade. Alabaster over pearl. He waits patiently for you to stuff your outside shoes into your locker and slam it shut before continuing down the hall. Teenagers in uniforms just like yours (though, you notice embarrassed, much neater and straighter than yours) are crammed by the walls, clogging staircases, and even looming in open bathroom doorways. So many voices all at once, they hurt your ears when they fight each other over who can draw the most attention. The joke is on them, with so much chatter you can’t pick out even a single conversation.

“Yoshida,” you call timidly from over his shoulder, and he hums - tilting his head just barely in your direction to indicate he’s listening, “How are we helping Him?”

Yoshida pauses in the middle of the corridor and turns to face you, one hand securing the book bag slung over his shoulder and the other in his pants pocket. His cheek meets his shoulder as his eyes flutter from the top of your head to the toe of your shoes, “I’ll show you at lunch. Just know you’re really doing good here.”

“At a high school?”

“For Japan,” he shrugs and turns back around, “Maybe the world.”

You like working with Yoshida more than most other devil hunters. He’s soft-spoken, but not from some unbearable shyness -- and he’s gentle, but not pitying. But even so, Yoshida is as much of a devil hunter as any and that means he selfishly uses what isn’t technically his. Well, technically it is actually.

Your power technically belongs to everybody except you in the name of public safety.

Cringing at your own overuse of the T-word, you slide wordlessly into the seat Yoshida points to as soon as you both enter a classroom. Your new classmates are sparse, and you assume that most of them remain out in the common space to squeeze out as much socializing time as possible. A few eyes follow you, so you flatten the crinkling, wrinkled material of your vest and undershirt with shaking hands. Secretly, you hope the sweat in your palms will slick the material down.

In the desk behind you, Yoshida sits with his cheek resting in his palm. Tired, lidded eyes skip over your withering frame and up to the clock above the teacher’s podium. His foot starts tapping as if he’s already expecting the dismissal bell to ring.

When a gaggle of girls approach and their gaze sticks to you a little longer than you think is appropriate, your hands shiver up to your hair. A terrible fire in your chest urges you to pat and soothe down any untamed strands you may have somehow missed in the mirror. Not that the mirror in your room is one of those great fancy ones you see in movies - the kind that fits the whole wall and never has a bothersome speck - but you think it gets the job done. Apparently, not well enough, you huff bitterly, glaring down at the pleats in your skirt joined by haphazard wrinkles vining down the unfolded sections.

You, still with a hand wound nervously in your hair, twist to look at Yoshida’s lame face, “What’s He like?”

“Hm?” Yoshida drags his dark eyes from the time to your pinched face, “Stupid.”

“Be nice…”

“Well, then he shouldn’t be stupid if he doesn’t want me to call him stupid. And lousy. But pretty. And he likes cats.”

Yoshida grins lazily when you perk up at that, stress lines melting away in favor of raised brows and wide eyes, “Really?”

“Mhm. Has one, too.”

“No way,” you perch both hands on the back of your chair and inch closer, “What’s its name, do you know? Is it black? Or white? Does it have long whiskers?”

“No idea.”

He watches your impressed gape press thinly into a frustrated line, “I thought you knew Him!”

“I do, but I don’t know his cat.”

“Do you think He’ll let me meet His cat?” you lean closer despite your apparent disappointment.

“Definitely,” Yoshida’s grin widens, eyes narrowing up at your buzzing excitement, “Why wouldn’t his girlfriend meet his cat?”

“Huh?” your brows furrow again, but you’re prevented from inquiring further by the attendance bell, your teacher tiredly saddling up to her podium soon after.

You’re going to help Japan (maybe even the world) by being Chainsaw Man’s girlfriend?

The sentiment is so baffling and strange, that you’re almost unable to sit still through class (not that the cause of your distress being sat right behind you helps any).

Yoshida’s standing just after the first ting of the lunch bell, his first curls around the oddly bent collar of your uniform before he’s yanking you up. Your new classmates file out of the room and Yoshida keeps a hand pressed flatly against your spine. He’s practically shoving you down the hall, towards one of the upward staircases.

“Where are we going?”

He sighs quietly into your ear, “Where do you think?”

“What?!” your hands scramble down to where your top is tucked into your skirt waistband, hoping it looks as neat as it did this morning. You trip on one of the step ledges, almost smashing your nose into the floor until Yoshida’s shoving hand grips the back of your vest tightly. He yanks you back into his chest, and you toss your head back to stare into his obsidian eyes, “We’re meeting Him now?!”

“Duh,” he forces you forward once again.

“No way!” you can feel your throat swelling, knees filled with jelly as Yoshida pushes open a heavy metal door. The dark sky greets you above, the rare ribbons of sunlight available reflecting off steel bars.

A lone boy leans against the furthest railing, his hair is tousled and unkempt. A pretty, silky coral that reminds you of the softness of mangoes’ flesh. Long in the back but trimmed at the sides in a way that tells you he might be cutting his own hair. His uniform is unbuttoned, flaps billowing in the wind behind his lax frame.

“Hey, Chainsaw!”

Lone Boy turns, plum bags hang under drowsy, unimpressed copper eyes. He sticks up a peace sign to acknowledge the call and waits silently as you and Yoshida approach his post. Despite the careless stance, he smells strongly of ashed cigarettes and dog fur unsuccessfully obscured by the plastic mimicry of a floral detergent.

Any polite greeting you’d hoped to muster is trapped in the dry cavern of your mouth. Tongue too heavy to form words. Your hands twitch up to the rail and you press your entire weight onto it to alleviate the wobbling in your knees. Yoshida stands at your side, squeezing your shoulder before speaking,

“I wanted to introduce your girlfriend,” he pitches you like those men in polos talk so passionately about whatever product is hottest in sterile white film studios, “And the best part? When it comes to her, you don’t need to keep any secrets ‘cuz she already knows.”

Denji stands straighter, his slumped leg shooting out in attention, “You know I’m Chainsaw Man?”

You nod skittishly.

He tilts his head, “You a fan?”

“Of course!” you chirp, hands squeezing around the rail so tight it burns, “You’re amazing!”

“Good to hear,” he leans closer, coppery eyes igniting with interest, “How’d you know? When’d you find out? What’d you think when you found out?”

“Oh- I’m- !” you reach up, straightening your bowed ribbon and trying to even the strands, “I’m a devil…” you shake your head, “Not as impressive as You, Chainsaw, just the rejection devil…”

His silence is chilling, and the disgust he must be feeling from your claim is starting to rot your insides. A terrible, agonized rot that no amount of blood could heal.

“Sooo,” he places a hand over his shirt - it has his own chainsaw form’s silvery and orange head on it with bubblegum pink characters lining his name, “You think ‘m a big deal, then?”

“You are a big deal!” you lean into him, at least hoping to lap up his body’s warmth if you can’t get his approval, “Huge!”

“Good, then?” Yoshida gives Chainsaw Man a thumbs up, “I’m sure a devil wasn’t your first choice, but a girlfriend’s a girlfriend and she’s nice. Listens. Easily impressed. Plus your big mouth won’t ruin anything.”

Chainsaw Man ignores Yoshida completely, grinning at you through shark’s teeth, “Name’s Denji. I like girls that like me.”

“I’m a girl!” you beam, bouncing on the balls of your feet, “I like you!” you tug sharply on the black ribbon around your neck, “I think you’re the best!”

Denji nods curtly, visibly smug. His posture curves again, all suave and cocky, “What can I call ya?”

Yoshida steps back when you glance at him uncertainly.

“My name?”

“Uh-huh.”

“My name,” you state blandly, blinking at Denji as you try to cobble together sounds and vowels that sound familiar. Makima had a name. Could you have one, too? Angel just went by, well, Angel. Quanxi had a name. So did Princi. You must have a name, right? “I don’t know…”

Yoshida chips in, both hands in his pockets, “Nobody really calls her. If they do, it's just Rejection.”

Denji glares at Yoshida, “That’s shitty.”

Yoshida shrugs, “She’s enrolled as Yoshida, Reiji.”

“I am?”

Denji wrinkles his nose at that before looking back towards you, “Do you like that name?” you shake your head, just slightly enough so you can deny doing it if the only real Yoshida child gets offended, “What do you like?”

“I like fruit…” you twist your hands around the rail, the metal cooling your flushed skin, “And cats.”

“Peaches?”

“I like peaches.”

“Okay, peachy,” he stands straight, and there’s something sweet about the way he smiles at you -- the way his body jitters, like the thrill of being a boyfriend is jumping out of his veins, “We should go out! After school. Today.”

“Okay! Totally!”

You realized quickly that going on a date with Chainsaw Man (Denji, you correct yourself, Denji) meant that you’d be going out without Yoshida when the boy walked straight past you and out the gates without so much as a goodbye. He didn’t even wait for you to change out your shoes before leaving. How nerve-wracking…

Pacing, you wait for Denji to exit Fourth East and tell you where you’re both going for your first official date. You watch the black slip-ons Yoshida shoved at you this morning crease against the floor with every step. You get so entranced by the sight that you don’t notice Denji’s approach until a hand stops you by the arm.

Jumping under the sudden touch, you gasp at the sight of Denji before awkwardly calling, “Hi!”

“Hey,” he drawls out the vowel, releasing his tender grip on your bicep, “So, where d’ya wanna go?”

“Huh?” you tense up - was that a genuine question? - before gnawing your bottom lip unsurely, “I don’t know. I thought you’d know.”

“Is there anywhere you’d wanna go?” Denji starts walking, book bag hanging limply over his shoulder.

You rush to catch up to him, tightly clutching the straps of your own bag in front of you, “I don’t know!”

“Really?” he turns to stare at you, only to find you watching your feet against the pavement with a soldier’s focus. So he looks back up, glaring when a man in suit and tie doesn’t move to the far side of the sidewalk to avoid knocking shoulders with you. The man glares back at Denji, but relents to dodge you, “Anything you’ve always wanted to do?”

“I don’t know…” your brows draw towards the middle of your face in concentration, “I like… Food?”

“Me too,” he murmurs in solidarity, “What about ice cream? There’s a place nearby, and cheap! You can get two soft creams for three hundred yen!”

“Woah!” you don’t know anything about that or how important it actually is to get two servings for three hundred yen, but Denji is excited and that feels like a good enough reason.

“Right?!” his steps quicken, hand circling yours and pulling you along. His hand is warm with rough calluses blooming around his digits, but it feels nice in yours, “And you can combine any two flavors for no extra charge!”

Upon arrival, you are only a little disappointed, but you suppose you probably shouldn’t be. It isn’t like you were genuinely owed your preference, that’s why it was a preference, right? In the same way, you prefer to have control over the heat to your room in the commission basement but don’t.

“Ah, no mango…”

“You like mango?”

“I’ve never had one,” you admit, albeit confusingly following it up with, “It’s my favorite, though.”

“Oh. Okay,” he nods as if filing the information away for later, and you hesitate to ask if he actually cares, “My favorite is the bubblegum. It makes me sick if I eat it too fast, but it’s really sweet,” you nod this time, slowly, “But you like fruit, so you’ll probably want the strawberry one, right?”

You nod faster.

When neither of you steps towards the patiently smiling vendor, Denji leans forward, “Do you want me to order for both of us?”

“Yes!” when you realize how outright eager you sound, you try to quiet yourself down, “Please, that’d be nice.”

Denji gives you a peace sign before taking charge towards the old man behind the open counter.

Upon his return, Denji holds out the small cardstock paper cup to you, a miniature plastic spoon buried into the soft pink mound. Darker red splotches decorate the scoops, sinking to the bottom the longer you take to grasp the treat.

With unsteady hands, you almost knock the soft serve from his fingers before clumsily clutching it with both palms. Sadly, the spoon could not be saved once rattled from its spot; the plastic unceremoniously clattering onto the pavement. Strawberry sweetness splatters onto the toe of your shoe, staining your laces. Your chest fills with the heaviness of dread, the freeze of the ice cream spreading through your hands and all the way down to your wiggly jelly knees. You look up from the grizzly death scene to Denji’s blank face.

You squeeze the cup, strawberry cream teasing to gush over the lip, “I’m sorry.”

Denji shakes his head, orange peel locks flicking wildly. His coppery eyes gaze up at you through his dark lashes, soft around his stare. Suddenly, the cherries of his cheeks brighten up, balled and red with glee, “‘s fine!”

“It is?”

“I have an idea…” his posture straightens and he reaches for his own cup, scooping out hot pink bubblegum and swallowing down the sugar before offering the utensil to you, “We can share!” you reach for the spoon and Denji creeps closer, anxiously rolling his fist as you use the same spoon, “This is our first indirect kiss.”

He swallows down the other woman that briefly flashes through his mind. Instead, he focuses on the way your tongue swipes over your lips to lap up any excess ice cream. You blink up at him and smile before holding out the spoon with a soft, “Sorry…”

Shaking his head again, Denji feels the sparks of excitement spark little fires down every vertebra of his spine, trailing over the rungs of his ribs when he brushes your fingers, “What’re you sorry for?”

“You have to indirectly kiss me every time you want ice cream…”

Denji raises a brow at you, having a spoonful of his treat before passing the plastic back to you, “You’re kind of a downer, huh?”

“Ah,” you cradle your ice cream closer to your chest, “Sorry.”

“Downer, yeah,” he nods to himself, slipping the spoon from your hand - gentle, warm fingertips pressing into your skin again, “I guess if we were both jumpy, it’d get boring,” catching your downcast stare into your liquidy strawberry ice cream, Denji cranes his neck to force eye contact with you. He says nothing, but slides the spoon into your cup.

He’s honestly just glad to be so close to a girl without her trying to kill him. He’d hoped you’d be glad to be here, too.

His eyes follow as you glumly take the spoonhead over your tongue. Denji is consumed by the need to know your every thought, each tissue’s twinge should be beamed into his brain the second it happens. For a moment, he even finds the idea of knowing each other so well to be comforting. Like warm toast smeared with every jelly he can get his hands on.

You say you like him, but you keep apologizing for indirectly kissing him - it’s confusing. A dull buzz began to ache through his head at the mixed signals. Denji is excited every time his turn for the spoon comes around (even now, his hands are rattling with anticipation as he reaches for it). He can’t separate the taste of your saliva from anything else, but the hint of saccharine strawberries is more than enough. He’d never apologize for greedily sucking at the aftertaste of your ice cream if the roles were reversed.

Does this mean he pushed it with the indirect kiss? Should he have just asked for another spoon? Will you let him have a direct kiss anytime soon?

None of those questions shake Denji in his beat-up shoes, which are tearing at the soles, so he decides that if you really hated it -- then you would’ve told him. Besides, Denji got lucky(????) having his first direct and indirect kiss on the same night and not everybody is so fortunate(????).

The women, however, he grimaces just remembering. So instead of focusing on a fuzzying eyepatch and unrecallable (yet unmistakably soft) voice, or hair like consuming embers and too-tight smiles -- Denji turns to you. To your modest displeasure over the flavor, you’d been stuck with over your apparent favorite.

“Are mangoes really your favorite fruit?”

You shrug, slapping the spoon against your melty cream and watching droplets rocket over the cup’s edge, “Even though I haven’t had one, yes. I like the flavoring best of any other fruit. Do you like mangoes?”

“Haven’t had one either. Haven’t had most fruit,” he looks up and notes that the cloudy weather is inappropriate for an ice cream date, but you haven’t said anything against it so he doesn’t either. Then, as he stares into unfolding skies, blue peeking through clearing patches, he tries to recall any fruit he’s had that isn’t a plain apple or grapes. All the fruit he knows about is through artificial recreations, and for some reason that strikes him as unpleasant, “Do you prefer mango over peach?”

It takes a few prolonged, stiff seconds of silence before you snap to the realization that Denji expects a response.

“Mango is…” you twiddle your thumbs, wondering which answer he would rather hear. You aren’t sure, you don’t know which fruit he likes best. Or if he even likes fruit! So you stab your left thumbnail into the pad of your right thumb and decide to give the answer you truly feel, “‘Mango’ is a weird nickname - peach is fine. Peach is actually… cute.”

Denji nods rapidly, you notice he’s standing a little closer than before, “Okay, peachy. I’ll stick to that.”

Azure whistles overhead, downtrodden weather fading away calmly. You wonder what else is left for people to do on dates -- you’re sure they spend time together, but doing what? Denji took you for ice cream because he likes ice cream, does that mean you get to choose the next activity? When does the date end?

Does it ever end? You two are already boyfriend-girlfriend after all.

“What- “ you’re cut off by the sound of Denji’s voice, “When- “

“Sorry,” you wave him off, “Go, you go first.”

Denji purses his lips before drinking the syrupy remains of his aggressively saccharine bubblegum ice cream, he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and stares at the stained base of his cup, “When’d you decide you wanted to be my girlfriend?”

“I didn’t. Yoshida just said I was being reassigned.”

“Oh, so you didn’t know?”

“No.”

You can’t read Denji’s expression at all. It’s all straight except for the smallest downturn of one corner of his lips, “You didn’t know anything about me, did you?”

You shake your head, “I just knew I was going to meet Chainsaw Man. I didn’t know He was you.”

“You’re really only here ‘cuz you knew I was Chainsaw Man?”

Denji shouldn’t be hurt, he knows that was the plan eventually. To catch a fly with honey.

But when you plainly nod, it does hurt. It hurts a lot.

“Well,” you’re itchy all over, uncomfortable because he’s uncomfortable, “I think you’re great.”

“Right…”

Frowning, you hang your head and stare at the floor, “I do.”

You can’t read Denji at all. You’re supposed to placate him and you can’t even do that right. What if he breaks up with you? You’d be far too embarrassed to show your face back at work. The Rejection Devil met a force she could not deflect (seconds later you realize that the irony alone of being rejected as the very devil itself alone might kill you). How humiliating.

Denji’s head flops back limply, the apple of his throat exposed. You’re almost alarmed by the way you want to nibble it. He blinks up at the rolling sky, eyes watering as the sun burns away fitful clouds.

“Denji,” you plea weakly, feeling as small as an ant under his downcast mood, “I like Denji, too.”

His eyes flutter over to you, “You do?”

It feels like an opening - when the battle is at its climax and your opponent’s foolishly left their weak spot unguarded in the adrenaline rush, “Of course, I do. You’re cool when you’re Chainsaw Man, but you’re cool when you’re Denji, too.”

“Really think so?”

“I really do.”

Denji smiles suddenly, and you smile too just because he does, “You free tomorrow after school?”

Of course, you are.

You choose not to point out that keeping him company is what you should be doing after school anyway. Hopefully, he doesn’t consider that fact.

In January of 1996, you meet an imposing man with stitches across his left cheek and a flask tucked haphazardly into his trench coat - the silver glints under sickly fluorescents.

“Timid, but useful, if she can behave without me there,” Makima talks about you like you aren’t standing directly in front of her. She keeps her helix eyes just over your head at all times, “I’m sure she will, but I think you’re the best thing to test her with first.”

The man behind you reeks of booze and womens’ perfume and mold, but somehow it feels less safe than Makima’s more foul stench.

“Quiet one, huh?” as if to begin the ‘test’ early, he pokes you in the back of the neck, “Sure it's a Devil?”

“Positive,” she winks and taps her nose, “I have a good sense about this stuff.”

You don’t want to go anywhere with the man with the stitches. Physical attacks and special abilities from your fellow Devils are things easily deflected by your own power, but Miss Makima has taught you a new lesson:

Words do not bounce off the Rejection Devil.

And the man with the stitches doesn’t smile at you with any kindness.

“Then let’s get to work, yeah?”

You think he’ll actually enjoy finding all the ways around your rejection abilities.

“I thought we were going out today…”

Denji’s been your boyfriend for a measly two days, but he already hates the look of your disappointment. Those glassy eyes and pouting lips, they make him want to chew marbles and swallow. Instead, he scratches at the soft skin on his neck, clawing up red marks from chipped, short nails.

“I wanted to! ‘m just failing… hard. So I need to get my history shit done.”

“I can help!”

“It’ll be boring as hell…“

“No, really,” you hesitate to grab his hand before committing, his cheeks flush at the warm contact, “I could even just watch.”

Life is more boring when Denji isn’t around anyway. You’re mostly just… waiting to see Denji again every time you two part ways. Even the books and journals they supply you with at the commission cannot distract you from how gray and cold your room is now. All you think about is sunshine hair and thick lashes.

“I just don’t- “ you release his hand and look down at your white indoor shoes, “I just thought we would be together longer today. If you want to work by yourself, then- !”

Denji snakes his hand back into yours, shaking his head vigorously, “No way! That sounds terrible.”

“Okay!” you try to smother the elated smile rising to your lips, but it's totally hopeless. You nestle into Denji’s side, using him to navigate the (largely abandoned) halls of North East as he leads you both towards the school library. Your attention drifts to your feet against the floor once again.

Denji pulls his hand slightly behind his back, squishing your body tighter to his, every time someone passes you both, “Why do you do that?”

“Do what?”

“Look at your feet.”

“If I tripped over myself in public, I’d just about die…”

“Makes sense,” he glares at a trio of boys walking down the narrow corridor shoulder-to-shoulder until they break apart to avoid bumping into you.

You remind him of Kobeni for that. He realizes he hasn’t spoken to her in a very long time. He wonders if she’d even appreciate him trying to reach out. Probably not, he concludes; but he likes you better anyway, which is appropriate given the circumstances.

“Why do you…” you hum quietly, contemplating the question as you both arrive at the library. Denji squeezes your hand encouragingly, finding you two a table far off from the rest, “Why did you try using Him to get a girlfriend?”

“We’re the same person,” Denji shrugs before tilting his head and shrugging again, “I dunno. It worked before.”

“Really?”

“Not really,” he isn’t minding his volume as he replies, not like you do. Two other students are holed at tables by themselves, one underclassman debating two books in the nonfiction section, and the librarian at her desk, “Every girl I’ve met before you has tried to kill me…”

“Aw, that’s terrible… You’re not someone I’d kill.”

“,,,”

“Not that I could. But even if I could, then I still wouldn’t.”

Denji nods, a pensive screw overtaking his face, “What if there was a prize? Like. Something really, really cool that you’d get. Would you kill me?”

Instantly, you’re shaking your head, “Never!” you’re still whispering, cautious of irritating others even as your boyfriend drags you into the depths of his ego death, “I’d run away with you if it came to it.”

Iron pools in his mouth. A severed tongue. Soft daisies leave dirt and spit-up trailing over his chin. An ominous choker that stayed on, even when she stripped to go swimming.

“What if I couldn’t run away?” he still has a family after all. Bigger than last time, even. If he had to run away, he wouldn’t.

You frown, “Then I guess I’d have to stay away for good…” then, you settle your head in your hands, palms cupping your cheeks, and Denji has to look away to avoid spilling his guts about how cute he finds that, “Wait, I’m not gonna have to run away am I?!”

The shrewd librarian raises her head only to shush you before burying her nose back into her binder of book logs. Denji flips the old lady off at the same time you mutter an apology.

She takes note of neither act.

It irritates Denji in a way he’s unfamiliar with because more than the urge to be acknowledged is the need for him to know that the woman heard you.

“I really can help, if you want, also.”

“Huh?”

“You said you’re failing,” you point out, leaning forward onto the table by your elbows, “I’m passing everything, so I actually can help. If you want!”

“Seriously? Didn’t you just get here? How’re you already all smart?”

“I just don’t want to fail,” you wave out your hands as though to dismiss any ill-intent, “Not that it’s… I’m not sure how to say it… I don’t think it’s terrible of you to fail, school seems really hard. I just feel sick at the thought of not doing well.”

“Your class is lucky to have you to answer questions, all my classmates are dumbasses,” he bites bitterly.

“Oh, I don’t really answer questions. Yoshida does sometimes, though.”

“Why don’t you?”

“What if I’m wrong one day?”

“Are you ever?”

No, but that doesn’t mean you’ll start raising your hand anytime soon. To distract Denji from this topic, you stretch closer to him over the table and insist on helping him finish his history work. That way, he won’t have to do it in replacement for your date tomorrow.

“Hey. Why d’ya like Chainsaw Man?”

His fiery eyes are all raw, mushy dough. He looks terrible and sad. You want to fix it, whatever or whoever made him this way. You simper sweetly and confidently declare,

“He’s so powerful. He can kill any devil he wants. And so can You, Denji. You’re both so amazing. But I like You best.”

“... I like you, too.”

In February of 1996, you are sent on your first real mission with Kishibe -- Makima stating he was your safest partner option after training together so long.

Your tie is tied too tight, and your pants cinch uncomfortably around your thighs. You can’t maintain any sort of normal breathing pattern and that’s beginning to occupy more brain space than your actual upcoming fight. Mostly, you’re trying to level your heavy breaths so as to avoid irritating Kishibe. Logically, you know him to not be hotheaded and prone to rash lashing out, but the fear of him slicing your chest open lingers there.

Far too soon for your liking, the car lulls to a stop outside the boarded, graffiti’d Love Hotel. Swiftly abandoned by faculty and regulars alike as soon as the Devil made itself known on the fourth floor.

Just remembering the bold letters printed at the top of Kishibe’s briefing report sends a shiver down your spine -- FOUR CIVILIANS DEAD. TWO PUBLIC HUNTERS M.I.A. ONE PRIVATE HUNTER K.I.A.

“Come on,” Kishibe jerks his head towards the building and you trip after him like a newborn puppy.

You follow Kishibe into the Love Hotel and patiently wait for his orders before heading for the top floor. He pauses at the stairs to jerk your body in front of his, shoving you in the back to hurry up the flight as he meanders behind.

“I want you to clear the first floor ahead of me.”

A command, no room to fight back. Not that you would. Following his orders blindly feels more comfortable, anyway.

“You ever get the urge to bite people?” Denji pops the question while watching you peel an orange. The underside of your thumbnail is stained yellowish from the skin you punctured, and some bizarre voice inside him whispers that he should dig the flesh out with his sharpest tooth.

“Hm…” you roll the orange peel into a ball and settle it beside you on the rooftop pavement, seeing as there are no nearby trash cans, “I don’t think so…” you rip the conjoined slices in half and hand the slightly fatter side to Denji, “Maybe when I first met Kishibe. He scared me.”

“Really?” Denji pops one of the juicy slices into his mouth, eyes still trained on your fingers as you carefully squeeze out the brown seeds inside before eating, “I just thought he was a geezer.”

“That’s rude!” you’re trying in vain to keep your lips pressed in a straight line, as if the Mad Dog would apparate at your back and kick you just for laughing.

Denji leans back and chews another slice of the orange, tucking the seeds under his tongue and debating whether or not it’d be a waste to spit them out. He shrugs, “‘s true. He had a flask, too. Definitely thought he was some weirdo.”

“I guess maybe a little…” you hesitantly admit, “He super liked beating me up when we met.”

“Oh, yeah. Like for training?” Denji finishes his half of the orange and settles on swallowing his seeds.

Just as you go to respond, the bell to end lunch rings and Denji is stumbling up to his feet, swiping up the pile of orange skins and your discarded seeds. He offers a hand to help you up and you wonder if it’d be more polite to spare him from the sugary orange blood on your skin.

“My hand- “ you begin, words sudden and jumbled, and you feel shyness suffocate you under his blank stare, “Sticky… it’s sticky with-“

“I know,” he waves his hand out again, “I watched you.”

“You don’t mind…?” you take his hand, earnestly shocked by the quickness with which Denji yanks you off the ground.

And just as Denji opens his mouth, Yoshida is yelling at you both to hurry inside from the doorway to the roof. Denji flips Yoshida off before turning to you, he squeezes the orange in his hand and thinks about the sweetness.

Oranges are better than apples, he thinks, but he can’t find a real reason as to why. The seeds are a hassle, and he’d hate to sit there and peel one, but he liked sharing just half an orange with you more than he liked having an entire apple to himself in Aki’s apartment. He can see the orange juice still glistening on the bow of your lip. His eyes linger there, and he knows you notice because you’re suddenly fidgeting under his gaze.

You wait patiently, eyes flickering down to your shoes before meeting his again. He isn’t sure what that means. So he turns back towards Yoshida and stuffs the boy’s palm with the orange husk before walking you to class in stiff silence.

Your bed is thin and flat against the floor. A bookcase that only reaches your waist is pushed against the opposite wall. You’ve read every book in it twice over. You don’t remember when every empty slot was finally occupied, and you don’t remember the last time you touched one of the books and felt genuine interest.

You do know that you once requested a brand new book from Makima, and she’d refused you so simply you once believed it was a personal slight you’d committed against her. You also once requested a television -- you had it for one week before it was taken away. You never asked why because Makima herself came to oversee your beloved TV’s removal from atop your dusty bookcase (though you doubt you would’ve had the courage to ask even if she was absent).

During that week, however, it was the happiest you’d been since coming to Tokyo.

A lot of what you watched was utter garbage. Contrived plot lines and miscommunication and shallow characters you’d sooner choke out than shake hands with, and it was the most beautiful entertainment you could’ve asked for. What you quickly discovered to be your favorite viewing material was movies made specifically for television. Usually lower budgets and completely unknown actors. A paradise all to yourself.

“That’s it, watch your back,” Makima’s soft voice called when one of the men nearly slammed into your doorway on the way out. She turned to you with a smile, “Anything before I go?”

A prompt, you figure, to ask if you had the courage to demand your stolen present back.

Rather, you shook your head shyly, twiddling your thumbs, “Well, could I maybe get a window…? I’d like to see something other than…” you gesture to the walls around you.

They, too, are covered in a thick layer of cloudy dust.

Makima extended a hand to pat over your head, “No,” she stated as blandly as your room was decorated, “You’re still a security threat.”

Another test. Would you deny it? Would you dredge up the fact that you’d never once reacted with hostility? Would you bare your teeth and try (in vain) to rip her apart?

You nodded solemnly and watched Makima exit.

And your room has remained untouched since.

Denji’s handwriting was a sloppy chicken scratch, often paired with backward or mismatched characters, which was why he asked you to write his reminder note.

YOYOGI PARK ON SATURDAY. 12PM.

And at 12:02 PM, you sit on a picnic table surrounded by tall ginkgo trees with bouncing knees as Denji makes his approach. In one hand, he clutches a plastic bag, logo wide and distressed around a massive bulb shape. In the other, is a knotted tangle of black and red leashes tethering seven wiggling and yappy dogs to his side.

“I didn’t know you had so many dogs,” you hold out your hands for the dogs to sniff and lick before petting over their heads and behind their ears.

“I got a cat, too, but I dunno if she’s allowed in.”

You sit straighter, letting the dogs press their heads into your hands for more attention, “So you do have a cat?!”

He nods, laying the bag on your table with a thud and crinkle before sitting beside you -- thigh firm against thigh and arms brushing, “You’ll meet her eventually.”

Denji leans over the edge of the seat to lift a corner of the table, stapling the leashes into the grass. Even if they weren’t collared, you doubt they’d try running off anyway with each dog avidly jamming itself into both your spaces. Big drooly jaws resting on your lap and paws digging into your calf for even more attention.

“Hey,” Denji whines when he sees the opaque slobber Tiramisu is webbing on your pants, “Off. You’re makin’ her gross.”

“It’s okay,” you insist, tempted to rest your head on Denji’s nearby and tantalizing shoulder as you pet the husky, “I have a lot of these pants in my room.”

“These’re your casual pants?”

“Yeah.”

Denji side-eyes you, but says nothing more about your white button-up and black slacks being ‘casual’.

“If I could have a job, I’d buy you lotsa clothes,” he mutters, “Whatever you wanted,” he’s so quiet you almost feel apologetic for hearing him at all; but before you can suss out a response, he suddenly whirls around in his seat and sticks both hands into the plastic bag, “A mango!”

“A mango?”

“Uh-huh,” he wrestles the fruit free from its plastic confines and rolls it into your hands, holding an arm out in front of you to keep his licking dogs at bay.

“...for me?”

“For you!” he echoes. He’s trying to play everything off casually, but really his hands are moist and vibrating - his gut cramping as he awaits your feedback, “Old man was in Kyushu, so I had him get a souvenir… I hope you like it, he bitched about how expensive it was the whole time I saw him.”

Taiyo no Tamago. Egg of the Sun. Gold leafing into fierce, flaming oranges and reds. You bet that the real slices are even juicer, tastier than faux flavorings.

Between both hands, you gingerly cradle the large mango and feel your mouth watering just as you stare at the fruit.

“Kishibe got it?” you lift the mango towards the blazing sun, inspecting the skin for any damage, “It’s not poisoned, right?”

“Nah,” he squints at the fruit as well, just to be extra sure, “I can try it if you want?”

“Aw, no, it’s- I’ll be okay either way, but I trust you,” Denji watches you pet over the mango like it's a fat kitten curled over your arm. He grins at the sight and doesn’t question it, scared that if he does, then you might stop, “So, does he watch over you?”

“Not really. Sometimes he comes around just to know I'm alive.”

“Do you get lonely when he’s not there?”

His face wrenches sourly at the idea of Kishibe lingering around the apartment, “I got the dogs and Meowy. And a little sister… friend… type living with me,” his eyes dart over you warily, “You’ll probably meet her eventually, so…” he inhales sharply, “It’s, eh, you know, the new Control Devil.”

“She got reincarnated already?” you whisper it, like you’re saying something inappropriate.

“Well,” he winces, “Nayuta’s her own person. Same Devil stuff, but she's nothing like Makima.”

“Sorry! Of course! I didn’t mean it like that…”

Denji feels a pang in his chest at the sight of your cowering frame, consumed by guilt over misspeaking, “Don’t worry ‘bout it. Just didn’t want you freakin’ out when you meet her or anything.”

“I’m nothing compared to Her, I’m not really in the place to freak out.”

Something disturbs Denji so staunchly at the ease with which you say that. He can’t place it, he just knows that the very sentence made his stomach curdle and tie his intestines in knots.

You tilt your head, “Can I ask…?”

“Shoot.”

“Is it… well…” you shake your head, but Denji shakes his back.

“Just ask. Whatever ya wanna know.”

“You said Nayuta is her own person,” his brows furrow but he lets you finish before speaking, “Do you never consider maybe they’re… similar?”

He’s quiet for an unbearable eight seconds before answering casually, “Guess if I thought about it for a long time, I could find ways they’re alike. But I don’t really think about it that long. Nayuta’s my little sister. Makima was…” he shouldn’t say exactly what Makima was to him in front of you, he knows that much about being a boyfriend at least, “Makima. They’re totally different.”

It’s extraordinarily complicated to even put words into describing what Makima meant to him. A lot of things he’s learned were sick, but some things he almost… wants to hold onto.

He definitely shouldn’t say that to you. But it isn’t like he misses her, he misses the comfort of their early days. If you could even label it “their” days. Makima may have been like Nayuta at one point, but he knows Nayuta would never so meticulously stab him in the back. Or the chest. Repeatedly. Miserably, however, he knows that even if she did -- he’d probably still love Nayuta like she were his sister. How he imagines an old dog still craves the warm hands of their human as they fall asleep for the last time.

Dangerously, he wonders if he may one day feel the same for you, smiling as you dig a knife through his chest just because his girlfriend is still holding him.

And when you blink up at him like he’s as delightful as the mango in your hands, he thinks he might.

You beam at Denji before shyly turning your gaze back onto the mango, curling both arms around it. This time with all the tenderness you would a baby and tuck it into your chest.

If Makima and Nayuta are different maybe you are too.

You hope so.

Tsuyu time is finally looking to drag to an end by early July -- with yet another rain storm. Fourth East faculty has very kindly allowed students to stay past the usual close time of 6:00PM due to such harsh winds and lightning raging outside. You hadn’t accounted for this when you asked Denji to accompany you to a bookstore’s summer sale after school. The frustration you feel could boil the falling rainwater with how heated such sudden weather has you.

Impatiently, you and Denji are leaning right side against one of the entry door frames with his chest to your back.

“They’ll be closed by the time the rain lets up…” you grumble.

Denji almost wants to laugh: the first time he sees you act minorly unpleasant is over books.

“There’s always tomorrow,” he’s not sure, actually, “Probably.”

You scowl out at the wretched, amalgamated clouds, “Sale better still be on tomorrow…”

“If not, there's next year.”

In an embarrassing instant, your annoyance wavers. You tilt your head back into Denji’s shoulder to look at him, “You think we’ll be together next year?”

Honestly, he hadn’t meant to imply that. All he meant was that you’ll be able to go next summer whether the sale ended today or not, but when you bat your eyelashes at him all softly he’s compelled to agree to whatever you want.

“Why not?” he shrugs, fighting to keep his arms relaxed at his sides rather than folded over his chest defensively.

Your lips stretch with mirth, a smize following lead, “I want to go with you to the summer sale next year, Denji.”

The confidence of your confession is rattled from you as quickly as it’d appeared.

Until, “Even if we go today?”

His tone is bleeding hope.

“Even if we go today,” and you’re all too merry to confirm.

Denji slides to your left, hands shaking wildly, “Can I- should we?” you quirk a brow at his chopped questions, “Can we kiss?”

“Do you want to kiss me?”

He nods rapidly. You want to kiss him, too. You reach for one of his hands and tug him closer with a much slower nod.

“We can kiss, Denji.”

“Awesome,” he lamely sighs under his breath.

You remain glued against the metal frame, leaving Denji to be the initiator. He’s the more dating-experienced party anyway.

Denji swallows audibly before steeling his nerves and leaning so his lips are just brushing yours. You can feel the hot puffs of air he lets out, and you’re praying he can’t feel yours. Neither of you has shut your eyes yet, weirdly certain that the second you do disaster will strike.

Up close, you can really see everything -- his messy sunset hair, the peeling skin on his lower lip, and the faint red veins peeking around his sclera. His skin is stained dark like pomegranate juice. Finally, he tenses his eyes shut with a wrinkle in his brow and commits. Given how chapped his lips looked, you’re amazed they feel nice against yours at all.

Your eyes flutter shut and you press back.

You don’t dare venture further than the chaste lip-lock before Denji pulls away, leaving a sharp stabbing sensation on your bottom lip in his wake. His low-lidded stare widens as soon as he sees your chin.

“Oh, shit.”

Cupping the aching area, you feel a slickness slowly leaking over your fingers. You dip a finger to your lip and pull back to find a stain darker than pomegranate juice.

“Denji!”

“Sorry, sorry,” he grimaces, reaching up to swipe away the blood spread over your chin.

“You bit me!”

“I know!” (he does a poor job hiding the aggravated trill in his voice there)

His fingers are all smeared with your blood by the time he’s done makeshift mopping up your lower face, and he wipes his hands off on his black school pants. You pull your lip back as if you’d be able to see the trivial wound. The motion tests Denji: wanting to maintain his nurse act, but also wanting to kiss you again.

“It doesn’t hurt anymore…” you twist a hand into your rumpled uniform skirt, “It’s okay. I wasn’t mad, just surprised.”

Forlorn, Denji reaches up to gingerly thumb at the spot he bit -- now swollen and darker than the rest of your lip. Only minutely, but still. His brain can’t compute how small-scale your injury is over the fact that he was the one to cause it in the first place, “I’ll be more gentle next time.”

You nod, face growing hotter the longer Denji touches you so softly, “I trust you.”

The rain thins outside.

“Can I try again?” Denji’s hand slides from your lip to your jaw until he’s tenderly cupping your cheek.

Again, you nod, hoping the shift in movement will get air to cool your melting cheeks.

Puddles are splattered by a few brave students rushing home, and Denji holds onto hope the storm clears fully before the bookstore closes.

By spring of 1996, you’re given your first journal and pen; and in winter of that same year, you finally pluck up the courage to try putting your headache-inducing thoughts to words.

A Devil is more humanoid the more that Devil tolerates humans -- you don’t know where you learned that. Or why you remembered it. It’s just something you’re always certain of, in the exact same way you blink and breathe you are also indistinguishable from a human being. When the both of you met, Makima spent time examining you from head to toe to see if there were any visible tells of your true species.

You aren’t sure why you look the way you do, you don’t like humans. Although, you don’t exactly dislike them either. When you think of people, flailing on swings and cramping grocery store produce sections and knitting warm winter sweaters, you feel only a vague thrumming in your heart at the knowledge that they could send you back to Hell. A primal and innate sensation of spine-tingling fear. If enough people discovered you outside Makima’s care, then you would be back in Hell.

Maybe it’s that fear. Your knowledge of the tipping power scales could be maintaining your flesh and bones. Strangely, you wish you looked more horrific - a gaping, toothy maw and claws in place of hands. Swells of discolored flesh that twitch with each beat of your heart.

You wish you looked appalling. Absolutely ghastly. Maybe then Makima wouldn’t like looking at you so much.

But then, what if you were so scary that Chainsaw wanted to eat you?

While being free of the perpetual motion of death and rebirth in Hell unto Earth and Makima’s inescapable, piercing gaze, you wouldn’t want to face off against Chainsaw. He’s the Hero of Hell, so wouldn’t that make you the villain?

You’d rather be reincarnated and stared at by a million Makimas than be so terrible that the puritor of Hell forced himself to consume you. And he’d be able to -- you’re sure of that, too. Not even your rejection of other Devils’ powers could be so strong as to deny Chainsaw. No, no. He’s far too great.

You think of that figure - one that makes your usual aching thoughts whirl into devastating stabbing pain just trying to remember - covered in Devils’ blood and guts and you feel nervous that perhaps Makima will try finding him too if she reads of him in your journal.

So instead of expressing those thoughts to free your searing skull, you jot down a plain:

Made a new contract today. His name was Yoshida, Hirofumi. He said I was nice for not wanting to eat his body parts as payment :)

“Denji! Over here!”

It's a stubbornly drizzling Tuesday when you’re shouting through the school gates, inky uniforms parting around you like a gentle river flow. Usually, getting your peers to not body check you is terribly difficult, but maybe the authority you carry in a Public Safety suit and tie is more pressing than yourself. While students shelter their heads with small book bags and hands and vests, you’ve got the plastic handle of a black umbrella warmed up in your palm.

Denji tilts his head at your distant frame before suddenly shooting ramrod straight. He rushes out from under the shelter of Fourth East and through the gates to your side - puddles splashing under his quick feet all the way.

“Heard you were out,” Denji ducks under your umbrella, tempted to hook his chin on your shoulder and sap up your body warmth.

“Just a mission,” your hand clenches with the urge to grasp Denji’s, but you take no such initiative, “Sorry I couldn’t tell you myself.”

He shrugs, “‘s fine,” then he sighs shortly, brows scrunching, “Fucker let me sit on the roof for ten minutes before saying anything.”

“Aw, I’m sorry! I told him to let you know in the morning…”

Again, Denji shrugs off your worry -- eyes trailing slowly from the pristine white collar of your shirt down to the smooth black slacks snug around your waist and thighs, “Been awhile since I’ve seen one of those.”

Ironed and fresh and symmetrical black-tie apparel. It seems far too dismal on you, he doesn’t like it. Memories of strawberry blond hair and scorching blue eyes snuffed out, he tries to smother those down as often as possible.

“Oh, I have my school uniform!” you lift a plastic bag up, sealed around more black and white folds, “In case I needed it…”

In case you want me to change -- you don’t add that part. You’re not sure Denji would appreciate the reminder of a power imbalance while you’re dressed like this. You already know that you don’t like thinking about Makima while dressed like this.

He nods, wordlessly sneaking the bag from your grasp to his so he can hold your now free hand, “You look pretty.”

“Really?” you two finally begin walking away from Fourth East and to the same ice cream place he’d taken you on your first date.

“You always look pretty,” Denji doubles down as if it's that easy. As if it's so simple. As if it’s undeniably true, “‘m glad I saw ya. Thought we wouldn’t be able to go out after school.”

“Sorry, again. They’re trying to avoid giving me more work, but I guess this one couldn’t be helped…”

You’re almost nervous Denji picks up on that sentiment of “more”. That “more” means you’re already working, which is mortifying because even if Denji is technically work you don’t want him to think that. You chalk that concern for his feelings up to not wanting him to grow tired of dating you.

But Denji doesn’t make any indication of having noticed, “I guess I’ll have to get used to it: dating the Rejection Devil.”

Now you’re genuinely nervous.

That sentence alone freezes every cell in your body -- heartbeat stilling lethally. Your hands crinkle down your long pant leg before scrunching up the material around your thigh -- ruining the plain smoothness. Desperate to feel something in the spiraling numbness, you stab your teeth into the ripe flesh of your lip, tearing up thin strips of skin. And you chalk this up to a defect in your usual personality.

“Hey, Denji?”

“Hm?”

“When was the last time you called me ‘peach’?”

“I dunno,” he answers honestly before he blinks his brain into action and looks over at you, “I’ll use it more often, if that’s what you’re saying.”

“No, you’re fine, really. I just…” you can feel your chest bump in tune with your heartbeat, so overt and harsh it's causing authentic sparks of pain in your chest, “I’m sorry.”

For what, you can’t be precisely sure. You think, as a general rule to yourself, you’re sorry for everything that he doesn’t like, especially when it comes to everything about yourself.

But he just thinks you’re still stuck on earlier today, “Like I said, I’ll just have to get used to dating the Rejection Devil.”

Despite the two being in one body, you’ve come to learn that Chainsaw Man is Denji, but Denji is not necessarily Chainsaw Man.

While yes, you think Chainsaw Man is great, you think Denji is somehow even greater. It’s almost unfair. The Rejection Devil is okay, but are you? You as in you as in the fleshy, squishy, bloody you? You as in the you with a name you don’t remember (and desperately hopes her government-assigned boyfriend calls her peachy)? You as in the you that likes sugary fruit juice and soft cat fur? Are you okay? Could you one day be great?

Or are you only as useful as the devil you are? Protecting hunters and killing beasts and soothing the lively Denji (and therefore the Chainsaw inside him).

Are you still Denji’s girlfriend because he likes you? Or are you Denji’s girlfriend because he knows you might be the only available option? Could you be great like Denji? Could you be named?

Or is your soul too entwined with the Rejection Devil? Is your soul the Rejection Devil itself? Do you have a soul at all?

You must if you keep coming back. If your birth and death are celebrated and mourned, you must be alive.

Too bad you remember none of that.

If you died now, would Denji mourn?

You know you’d mourn him, but is that your choice?

You know you like Denji, but is that really you? Or is that Rejection Devil admiration spiraling into an infatuation for the Chainsaw and his host?

Does it even matter at all?

“Do you wanna come over after school tomorrow?” Denji asks like it's an afterthought, one he doesn’t even need to look at you for. Maybe he already knows your response.

“Yeah.”

Maybe he’ll grow bored soon. You wouldn’t blame him.

“Yeah!” you repeat it louder this time, hoping to entice a bigger reaction from him (this is the first time you’re going to his apartment after all), “I’d love to!”

He nods, though with a rosier tint to his cheeks than earlier and that’s good enough.

By October of 1997, your second diary was full with one last addition.

The wall closest to your bed has only 273 tallies, and you stare at the dust pooled in the shallow divots when you get bored. With every book read and only the same four walls to stare at until a Devil Hunter came with a contract proposal or a mission -- you were bored more often than not.

In a strange way, you still got excited when you saw Makima because it meant something new was coming. However quickly it would then be stripped away wasn’t even an afterthought.

But you’ve gone a long while since seeing her. You can’t be sure of the days passed with no window or calendar or even clock; you can’t even be sure you’re sleeping at night and awake during the day. Part of you is sick over the ache in your heart the longer you go without seeing Makima, Yoshida, or even Kishibe. As though they’ve all forgotten you exist. You could be locked down here for eternity with no means to die and not a single soul would be bothered to find you. But if they did?

If they found you, would they care?

Would they cry?

You don’t think so. You’re hardly something to cry over.

So does it matter at all that you’re down here? Certainly, a life of nonexistence is better than languishing in a cellar, burdening commission resources with no purpose.

Maybe when Makima finds Chainsaw, she could have him eat you. That would be nice. An honor to be so miserable upon humanity that Chainsaw is left with no choice but to consume the concept of your being. An honor to finally be wiped off this planet.

With a drying pen, you scribble that down.

To be eaten by Lord Chainsaw. That would be freeing.

And after sleeping that night(?), you awake to find Makima blatantly reading out of your journal. When she turns to stare at your crumpled form on the bare mattress, she smiles and reaches over to pat your head. Like an eager puppy, you push up into her touch and don’t dare demand she stop reading.

“You’re a good girl,” she coos down at you.

“I am?” you croak.

“You are,” she stands, snapping the book shut and continuing to smile down at you, “And you have a mission today.”

When Denji notices you curiously eyeing the black slip-ons by the door (which are multiple sizes too small to be his), he’s quick to explain.

“Just Nayuta. She throws her shoes wherever she wants.”

“Okay.”

You hadn’t planned on asking, but you like to imagine that maybe he didn’t want you getting jealous. Then you wonder why you like that so much. Probably because he’s your boyfriend, and you’re meant to.

Before you can spiral, a soft mew nabs all attention. Dogs’ nails clack against the faux wood tiles and you and Denji are quickly surrounded on all fronts by wagging tails and soft fur. Sniffing, happy puppies lick at your hands. You wrinkle your nose at the unadulterated smell of dog and you're hoping Denji doesn’t notice when suddenly a long tail wraps around your ankle. Loudly, you gasp and swoop down -- frightening Denji only a little -- to smooth your hands over the fat white cat’s fur.

“Kitty!” you’re borderline squealing in glee, and Denji shoos his dogs away after giving them their due pets, “So big!” you encourage the feline to pounce onto your lap with quick taps against your thighs.

“Meowy,” Denji clarifies (as if you could forget!), leaning over your shoulder to scritch under the cat’s chin, grinning when she starts purring in your coddling hold.

“I love you, Meowy,” you whisper to the cat, and Denji sits on the floor beside you after figuring the fat cat won’t be moving on from you anytime soon.

You’ve been looking forward to this since you heard about the cat, and somehow all your expectations have been exceeded.

“Didn’t know you liked cats so much, peachy, I woulda introduced you sooner.”

“Cats are so picky,” you keep your voice low as if raising it could startle Meowy off, “When a cat picks you, it feels so nice.”

“You must be a hit with the strays, then. Meowy usually fucks off in the living room instead of hanging by the door.”

You shrug, sluggish and dismal, “I’m not usually allowed out unless it's for school. Or you.”

Denji feels nauseous. His whole chest is tight with this unpleasant curdle. Quickly, he decides that he hates this feeling and wants it eradicated as soon as possible. Subconsciously, he must believe the solution is you because before he can really think about it, he’s lugging you off the floor and towards his room.

He lays you on his bed and falls into your side with Meowy now latched to your chest; purring loudly as you pet her with one hand, and Denji snatches the other. Rather than link his hand with yours like usual, he splays your fingers into his mess of tangerine hair.

Turning your head so your cheek meets the feather plush of his pillow, you find Denji’s eyes boring into yours. You blink at him with your hand limp over the side of his head, “Do you want me to pet you?”

Denji nods, crimson overtaking his cheeks and sweat beading over his palms.

“Okay.”

You card your fingers through his hair, gently prying loose knots apart over your knuckles before tenderly dancing your nails along his scalp. He presses his head closer, cheek now smooshed on your shoulder and eyes flickering shut.

Shakily, he raises an arm and lays it across your stomach, careful to avoid spooking Meowy. You can sense his hesitation in how the weight of his arm is so light it's imperceivable, then you press your hand flat against the back of his head and pet there, too. His arm relaxes, fully settling the weight on your gut.

This feels right.

Crushed and warm.

You’re doing a good job, you think.

You smile at the thought of being so useful and Denji hugs you tighter.

“Can I…” Denji swallows, throat cinching dryly, “I wanna make you feel good.”

“I do feel good.”

“Good good,” he’s quiet now. Voice all raspy and unsure, “I want to do something for you.”

That would be good for Denji too, right? He’ll be happy.

But you’re not sure you want to.

But not wanting to isn’t exactly your job.

Your job is to make Denji happy. So you lift Meowy from your chest with great remorse and watch the cat prattle out of the bedroom, “Okay.”

Sickness unlike the kind before a big fight builds in your stomach. Bloats all the way to your throat as you go limp in bed and allow Denji’s hands to wander. He sits up and untucks your uniform vest and top before gliding under those and resting over your bra.

Denji looks up at you for encouragement and finds a stoic appraisal. Then his eyes drift to your balled fists at your sides, and the lip you’re ravaging between your teeth.

If you had offered this to him -- he’d be on cloud nine, so what’s he done wrong? Denji clears his throat and finds a burning sensation at the back of his eyes, he tries blinking the fire away but it only makes the pain worse. He’s certain that this is what boyfriends and girlfriends do for each other. They bring each other to euphoria and lave one another in attention every night. This kind of service (or rather, the promise of service) was one of a few things that Denji recalled fondly from his days under Makima. Unfiltered affection: nasty and raw and intimate.

But the longer his hands are cupping over your bra, the more defeated you look.

The vicious pain in his chest bites up to his head.

“This isn’t hot at all…” Denji’s hands peel off from your chest to stow in his lap.

You shrink into yourself, shoulders coming to your ears as red-hot shame climbs up your neck, “What?”

“This isn’t hot,” he leans back with his arms outstretched behind him on the mattress. Hotter and hotter the burning grows until it's all wet, stinging heat in his eyes, “You’re not into it…” he looks around his room and tries finding anything out of place (he was sure he made it perfect!). But no, all the posters a girlfriend wouldn’t like are hidden under his bed with the magazines a girlfriend would hate. The blinds are drawn. His door is locked. He sniffles and looks down, hoping you don’t notice the flooding along his lower lashes “What’s wrong? You don’t like me? Ain’t I handsome?”

Inching your shoulders even higher, as if to somehow hide behind them, you frown, “What if you think I look weird naked? Or I make a sound you don’t like? Then you won’t want me anymore…”

Denji scoffs, lips twisting in an almost offended snarl, “You’re my girlfriend! I’ll still want you!”

He’s sure you don’t look or sound weird, but he’s also simultaneously sure that if you do then his loyalty will twist the weirdness into some obscure new fetish.

But you’re shaking your head, what more does he want?

What if he finally does have sex and realizes he never wanted you at all? What good are you doing then?

“We’re hardly a real couple…” his pout is just that, and one of his eyebrows is quirked curiously - he’s totally clueless, “What’s my favorite color?”

“I dunno!” he groans, then shrugging and sitting up straighter, “I know you like mango best even though you’ve only had a single one in your life. And you like staring at your feet when you walk so you don’t trip, which is annoying ‘cuz I gotta make sure nobody runs into you. And you never raise your hand in class even if you know the answer. Which is even more annoying ‘cuz now people think you don’t pay attention, but you’re passing every class,” he frowns a little, “You’re the smartest girl I know,” his frown deepens when you don’t smile like he’d hoped you would, “And you like cats more than dogs.”

“I like your dogs,” you weakly defend.

But he never meant it to be a jab in the first place, “But you like Meowy more.”

“I think we should break up.”

“Oh…”

“Just for a couple days,” your voice is tittering, all soft mush. If he so much as stood up and crossed his arms then you might take the suggestion back, “Three at most… just to see if this is really what you want.”

“I do, I know I do.”

“I know you want a girlfriend. Do you want me? Me me.”

“‘Course I do,” he sulks, “You’re…” he stops himself, the churning ache in his stomach sensing how displeased you may be with the repeated argument of you’re my girlfriend, “Do you want me?”

You’re silent. He tenses.

“I don’t know if we want each other.”

“I do. I want you. I want to- I haven’t given you anything. I want to give you things. I want to be nice to you, too. I want to make you happy.”

But how could he? You’re a tool, and now you’ve upset him. Are you worthy of being upset over? You aren’t so sure.

You aren’t even certain you have the power to make the call for a break-up. You’re a tool -- you don’t think you’re anything worth crying over.

But Denji is absolutely sure you are. And he knows he wants you, and that feels right because you’re his girlfriend. But curiously, even after you leave and he’s apparently now single, he continues to want you. He wants you so bad that he turns onto his stomach and buries his face in the pillow you laid on, just to see if he can still smell your perfume on it (he can).

In November of 1997, Makima got you a cat.

“You like them, right?”

“I do!” you’d smiled so wide your cheeks hurt, giddily petting your new friend, “Thank you, thank you! I love him!”

That same night, she makes you hold the small, quivering kitten above your head as she takes aim with a single finger. Your words are slurred with spit leaking down both corners of your mouth in your hurry to beg for your friend’s life. Your eyes are squished half-shut, trying to juice all the tears out without cutting Makima from your vision. You choke on your own breath, snot sour on your tongue as you shriek for her mercy.

bang

You don’t remember much else after that. You think you passed out as soon as the wall to your right indented.

You do, however, remember waking up the next morning and weeping into the kitten's soft fur. Hugging the warm, live feline to your chest and praying Makima would die on her next mission (by now, though, you were smarter than to think your prayers had merit). You even feel rebellious enough to engrave the edgy remark in your personal journal.

As repentance, Makima sends you on a month-long mission only days later. When you return, it’s to an empty room -- aside from a note left on stationary you recognize as ripped straight from your journal.

Kitten got sick. :( - Makima

Yoshida is stomping ahead of you the entire way to school the next morning, and you already know he’s fuming. You had hoped that by the time you both reached Fourth East, he would have calmed down; but you’re quickly proven wrong as he storms up to you once you’ve switched shoes at your cubby.

“Are you- !” Yoshida holds both hands over his face, muffling the scream he unleashes, “Are you serious?! You were doing everything right! You two were fine!”

“I’m sorry, I just- I don’t think I should be here… I’m really confused about how I feel all the time. I think I should go back to- “

“You don’t get to decide that,” he hisses, visible eye wide with rage, “You better beg him for another chance, I am not letting you fail this mission just because you’re ‘confused’.”

“I don’t want to beg him,” you stand a little straighter, maintaining fierce eye contact, “I want him to be sure- “

“This isn’t a dorama!”

“Hey, stop yellin’ it's annoying,” a passing voice snaps. The both of you look up to see Denji glaring sharply at Yoshida, “And don’t yell at her at all.”

Yoshida is quiet as Denji stalks off, the latter’s back growing smaller the further into the distance he goes.

“Did you like him?” Yoshida asks, voice returned to his typical lulling forbearance.

“Huh? What does that matter?”

“Shut up,” he commands before redundantly asking again, continuing to stare deep into the direction Denji was headed, “Did you like him?”

Did you?

You did. He was prettier than Yoshida prepared you for. And more considerate, too.

Deep down, you even think that maybe he’s inspired you - regarding you higher than you’d ever taken yourself for. You’ve realized things since dating him: you hate your room at Public Safety, you want to try petting more dogs, you don’t like school, and you really, really hate not having a name.

A real name.

“I think I did… Can I still like him?”

Yoshida groans under his breath before walking off, “Do what feels right!”

“What?!”

Scratch that -- you really hate that cryptic answer above all else!

Despite not having anything else to be tending to, you dawdle around Fourth East more often than not after being dismissed. You prefer wandering around the track twenty times over retiring to bed as soon as you get back to the commission’s basement.

Not even homework can entrap your attention long enough for the days to be less agonizing.

You watch your outdoor sneakers line one after the other along the white paint - you wobble less now that your body’s used to the limited movement. However, the idea of falling onto your side on lap twenty-one is mortifying. So when you’re too busy staring at your feet, you jostle into a body at the starting line. Your head bumping into their chin, their hands gently cupping your arms to keep you upright.

“You should seriously look up when ya walk.”

“Denji!” you cough, clearing the excitement from your tone, “Denji, what’re you…” you stop yourself, fretting over how rude he might think you suddenly are, “Hi.”

“Hi.”

“What are you doing out here?”

“Do you want to see a movie with me?” you open your mouth and Denji watches your lips part before interrupting you, “Don’t overthink it.”

Do you want to watch a movie with him? Yes.

Should you?

Don’t overthink it.

Does it matter? Honestly, what’s even waiting for you at home?

Why shouldn’t you watch a movie with Denji (especially when every nerve in your body is screaming at you to say yes)?

Denji ends up sneaking you two into an R-18-rated horror film. One with a single poster lit up in the theater lobby - blood dripping down a screaming woman’s face and the title in a gaudy, pure hot red. You’re the only ones in the theater, sitting in the middlemost seats Denji could scour. Your hand is bound in his on your shared armrest, warm flesh tangled in warm flesh.

And it’s the worst movie you’ve ever seen.

The main actress has the inflection of a primadonna teenager despite portraying a single mother lawyer, and halfway through you’ve seen more strip teases than blood. Not one of the characters is likable beyond being a slice of dead meat hooked on the end of the killer’s cleaver. You can’t even discern the plot of the movie other than some brick wall villain slashing down a woman and her coworkers.

You earnestly laugh as the woman runs upstairs in the creaky old cabin in the woods rather than out the wide open door. In the corner of your eye, you can see Denji looking at you. You return his stare, giggles still chittering through your teeth at the ridiculously forced story beats.

“Terrible, right?” he doesn’t bother whispering.

But you do, “Horrible,” his eyes flicker down to your lips again, “I love it.”

“Me too.”

It may be your favorite movie of all time.

“I missed you,” you admit, fully ashamed of backtracking a mere day after your decision to break up.

“I missed you, too, peachy,” his voice is unweathered by that shame.

“I don’t know…” you look down at your dark shoes, they fade into the swathing shadowing of the theater, “How can I know this is real? That I really do like you? That this isn’t just because I was told to?”

Away from Fourth East, above your small room in the basement, and throughout the barren offices of Public Safety, the shadow of Makima hangs heavy over everyone. You’re not certain when you started submitting to her, and you’re not sure when you started submitting to everyone she told you to, and you’re especially not sure when submitting to everyone felt comfortable. What you do know is that you are a useful tool for the public. You are a good instrument when devil hunters need assistance, for your technique and regeneration -- on missions and off them. And to keep Denji’s identity hidden, you are to be a sweet, giving, and kind shield.

But you hate all of that. You hate fighting and you hate everyone you work with. You miss movies. And you like Denji.

Is it some late-stage rebellion as the death of Makima truly settles in, or is this who you are?

“How should I know?” Denji mutters, kicking at the plastic back of the seat in front of him, “I don’t care about any of that. I don’t care about devil hunting or who controls who. I choose my life, and I choose to be your boyfriend. If I didn’t like you on our first date, I wouldn’t like you now.”

“What if I change?“

“You can’t change in a way I don’t like,” he frowns when you don’t smile at his declaration, “I just want you because you’re…” nice, weird, interesting, and if he pushes the right buttons you can be lively and loud, “you. I like you. You can’t change in a way I wouldn’t like unless you tried killing me.”

“I would never try to kill you.”

So does it matter if this was chosen for you?

You can like Denji and be with him, or you can like Denji and be away from him. You feel like the second option would be more miserable. So how does it matter, then, that dating Denji was chosen for you? Either way, you like him.

A lot.

You smile, and he copies it, “I like you, Denji. I want to be your girlfriend.”

On the big screen, a woman is being stabbed to death, but Denji eagerly closes towards you as if the projection is completely blank.

“I wanna be your boyfriend!”

A flashlight blinds the both of you suddenly, a stern male voice you briefly mistake for some impossibly higher calling following after, “How old are you two?”

“Eighteen!” Denji flips the man off, one eye cinched shut and the other squinted in a nasty glare, even as he answers honestly.

“Yeah, eighteen!” you copy, grabbing one of Denji’s hands with yours.

The man holds out his palm, flexing his fingers once. Denji scoffs but hands over his student ID with you taking example.

“Hayakawa, Denji… Yoshida, Reiji…”

Reiji. れいじ. It feels as unfamiliar as it sounds.

You almost open your mouth to protest - that’s not my name! before remembering that in the eyes of Fourth East High, it is. You don’t like it.

But you don’t like Rejection, either. You feel bigger than that. You are bigger than that. You like ginkgo trees even without the fall glow, you think mangoes are the best fruit, you like the smell of ashed cigarettes and dog fur, and you think the color orange is prettier than people give it credit for. You wait until the strange guard leaves before voicing,

“I want to change my name,” you continue to whisper although neither of you is paying any attention to the movie.

Denji sticks his legs out, resting them over the back of the seat in front of him, “What to?”

His volume startles you a little before realizing that it doesn’t matter how loud he is; the two of you are alone.

You raise your voice to a normal volume, “No clue yet, but I’m excited to find one…” you smile when Denji does, he tightens his hand in yours, “I wonder if I’ll find one unique or pretty.”

“If it's yours then it’ll be pretty anyway,” there’s a pause, you stare at him and he stares at you. You like how the projection reflects over his pale face, his eyes sparkling from the bright screen. Finally, he speaks again, “You’re really pretty.”

I think I actually love you.

“You’re pretty, too, Denji.”

I think I actually love you, too.

“You should leave Public Safety for real. We can get you real clothes. And you can stay with Meowy all the time when you’re not in school. Nobody will order you around ever again.”

“They’ll try dragging me back,” you doubt that they’d let a Devil -- even one that has no interest in being a Devil -- roam free in Japan on some fluid, lucrative “mission” of dating Denji.

“I’ll fight ‘em off,” he sounds so determined, “I’ll protect you.”

You look back at the movie, you wonder if you and Denji are the only ones to have seen it since it came out.

“Okay,” he brightens up at your agreement, “I’ll live with you. I’ll leave Public Safety.”

Denji lifts your linked hands from the shared armrest and pulls it up, shoving it into the gap between your back supports to yank you closer to his chest. He hooks his chin on the crown of your head and squashes you in a tight embrace like a child would their stuffed bear. He kisses your head, nose dug into your hair. He feels so excited he could burst out of his skin, and the only solution is to keep hugging you as unbearably annoying characters are slaughtered onscreen. To cram the both of you so tight together you’ll explode as one -- that’s the only way he can escape this whole-body buzzing.

Immediately after deciding to live together, Denji made the frightening choice that you should meet his sister. On the way back to his apartment, he’s internally scolding himself for not having introduced you sooner but pushes the nagging feeling away. After all, Nayuta wants what’s best for Denji just like Denji wants what’s best for Nayuta -- if she can feel the same coziness that Denji always does when he’s with you, then she’ll like you. He’s certain of it.

“I told her about you, so… She shouldn’t be weirded out when you meet anyway…” if not for the blush on his face, you could mistake him as being casual about this!

You, however, feel so nervous you’re hunched into your boyfriend’s side and fighting the urge to gag up your lunch.

“What if she hates me?!” you heave, a hand clawing at the unevenly tied ribbon around your neck. It’s somehow too tight and too loose. Simultaneously suffocating and unable to ground you.

“She won’t!”

He’s so sure, he foolishly doesn’t even prepare a backup plan for if she does hate you. Besides, revising house rules to adjust for your incoming presence went well enough -- so how could it not work out now?

By the time Denji’s managed to steer you up to his apartment’s door, your legs are overdone noodles. He knocks twice - brief pause - then three more times, and waits. A caucus of rowdy barks and animated paws on fake hardwood thrum behind the door before a faint click hauls your heartbeat to a stop. As soon as the lock is undone, the door’s hinges squeal open and a little black-haired girl with untrimmed bangs is poking her face through the gap.

Her eyes are electric yellow, burning straight through your skull, with crimson rings around her iris.

“This is her?”

“This is Her,” Denji nods sternly, certainly much more serious than you’ve seen him before.

Nayuta’s stare is just as intimidating as Makima’s was, despite the girl being a grade-schooler. You’re frozen stiff under her gaze, heart thundering so hard you’re absolutely positive that she can hear it even feet away.

Suddenly, she nods, “Okay.”

“Yeah?” Denji’s positively beaming.

“Yeah,” Nayuta shows off a peace sign, receiving one in turn from Denji, “She’s got a nice scent.”

She doesn’t say it, but she thinks you smell like sugary fruit punch and honey.

Terrified of sullying her (apparently positive?) impression of you, you squeak out a childish, “Thank you…?”

Nayuta slinks an arm through the door, careful not to let any of the yipping, jumpy dogs out, and takes hold of you to pull you inside, “Mhm.”

She hugs your arm through the door and into the common space.

That night, Nayuta almost makes you miss Public Safety curfew -- desperately trying to worm you into the cuddle pile of the dogs and Meowy and Denji that they sleep in. You almost feel compelled to break curfew and listen, and not from her own power. As a compromise, you promise to be back the next day and she demands you honor your word before letting Denji walk you to the train station.

After a bite-free kiss from Denji, you’re sitting on the train to the commission’s haunting office building. Alone and warm all at once.

And you have to agree with your boyfriend, Nayuta is nothing like Makima.

In late 1998, you met with Yoshida at your shoe cubby for the last time. A cold breeze of December’s premiere christens the moment.

“It took some help from a senior hunter, but I got your release papers signed,” Yoshida holds up the manilla file in question, “I’m supposed to hold onto them in case you do something they don’t like, but I have a lot of work on my plate already.”

As if you wouldn’t understand, he waves the file around Fourth East’s expansive entrance. Then, he holds the folder out to you, jerking it further when you don’t immediately grab for the thing.

“Are you- ?”

Yoshida cuts you off quickly, “It needs to be renewed every five years, and I’m sure you’re not stupid enough to think there’s no consequences of fucking up. So just live a normal life, okay? Don’t make me and Kishibe regret this.”

Kishibe?

“Kishibe?! Seriously?”

Yoshida shrugs off your question and heads for class, fully intent on dodging any of your future attempts at interrogation.

Fortunately for him, you don’t give chase; too busy giddily reading over the official statement of your release from Public Safety. The final plot to yours and Denji’s journey of moving in together since you’ve had your few possessions sent to his apartment (and due respect to whatever nurturing side Makima had, no matter how selfish in nature, because you genuinely forgot how plain your room could be with no old books or journals).

“Thank you!” you call after the boy, ignoring the odd stares from your peers and holding the folder to your chest as if it may disappear.

Inside on the very top line is a printed line for your taken name. 恣恩 -- Shion -- is slated over the last name spot, preceding the empty bank for your first name. A pen is tucked into the corner of the folder.

Looking up again, you find Yoshida nowhere in sight, but you still whisper after him with a gooey need to express your gratitude, “Thank you.”

“You got it?”

“Yep!” you can tell who’s behind you without needing to turn.

For a reason you cannot discern, that makes you proud of yourself. Knowing Denji so well you can pick his voice from a crowd. You like that. A lot.

Nayuta drearily slips into the tight kitchen space, rubbing crust from her eyes while watching you and Denji stare into a pan. You’re closer to the stove with Denji huddled just over your shoulder.

“Breakfast?” Nayuta meanders over, wrapping her arms around one of yours and burrowing into your side.

“Eggs,” you and Denji answer.

Then you tack on, “And toast.”

She nods sluggishly against your shoulder, lazily blinking as Denji holds the pan for you to scoop the fried egg with one hand. You hold the egg up while Denji scrambles for a plastic black plate with a piece of toast on it. Once the egg is settled onto the bread, Denji holds the plate out for Nayuta.

“You’ve still gotta get ready for school!” Denji calls after her as she moves to the living room.

When you hear no response, you poke your head out to look at the little black-haired girl, being sure to keep your voice gentle as you ask, “Did you hear Denji?”

Nayuta throws up a peace sign, chewing her egg on toast.

“She heard you.”

“Figures.”

Denji yawns and slings both arms around your shoulders just to rest his head against yours -- the motion itself is selfish and monopolizes your entire personal bubble. You return the embrace around his waist and press a kiss against his cheek: soft and warm and pink like peaches. He hums at the affection and squeezes you tighter.

I think I love you

I think I love you, too

Denji almost gathers the courage to say it, but instead settles for, “You skippin’ again, peachy?”

You nod against his cheek, “Think I’ll wash the dogs.”

He snorts, “Your attendance is shit.”

“Oh well…” you think you’ll drop out at this point -- Fourth East is a slough of swamp water unless you’re cutting class with Denji by the track field.

Denji kisses your forehead before leaving to finish putting on his own uniform, “Yeah, oh well.”

He’s certain he’s in love with you. You’re certain you love him back.

On nights when you and Denji aren’t sleeping in his room -- Nayuta has you all holed in hers. You learned quickly that Nayuta was possessive (you expected it, even), what you didn’t pick up on was that her possessiveness spread rapidly to you as well as Denji and the pets. If you and Denji make the mistake of not putting her to bed with enough soothing, she’ll slither her way between your arms.

Like tonight;

You and Denji are laid out first in a loose sweetheart’s cradle, Nayuta flopping onto the wide mat next. She rests perfectly in the middle with both of you throwing an arm around her. Tiramisu will jaunt up behind you while Custard takes Denji’s side, and Meowy will always find a way to settle her weight on your lap or hip. The remaining five dogs will circle your pre-established huddle for the most comfortable spot before sighing into the mattress as well.

Nayuta’s stray hairs tickle your cheek and Denji will carefully card the strands away. It’s a repetitive routine, but a comfortable one.

You had a routine in the basement, too. It was less comfortable.

Much less comfortable.

~~

@ghostlykeyes hopefully i got the depressed:pathetic ratio right!!

[divinehedons]

a place of worship.

pairing: mandal'or!din djarin x f!reader

word count: ~2.7k words

summary: despite the multiple times from which you had made love with the mandal'or, there is always something quite different. like the taste of poison. from dust to divinity, measure for measure.

warnings: this is an explicit, dark fic. minors, DO NOT INTERACT. this is a play on bacchanalia (or at least divinely-induced mania) so expect a complete bastardization of both canon and religious-adjacent imagery. din djarin is possibly (definitely) not a good guy. dubious consent, explicit p-in-v sex, oral (f!receiving), allusions to non-consensual p-in-v, breeding kink

REBLOGS AND COMMENTS MUCH APPRECIATED! Please let me know what you think or if I missed anything!

You still remember the day you first met the keeper of Mandalore. You remember the masked warriors that took you from the comforts of your small home.You remember the rough hands of the armourer who pressed her gloved hands against your lower stomach, as if reading the very pattern of your skin. She takes your pulse, as if incensed by the strong rhythm of your very veins. Her blood is strong. She shall sire the heirs of the Mandal’or.

And that’s how you end up in his bedchambers, scrubbed clean of dirt and grime so much so that you felt your identity rinsed away. So much so that it allowed you to exist within and without. To believe, momentarily, that the consummation of what you didn’t know to be your marriage occurred to someone else, a different version of you.

He was a gentle lover, even back then. When all is said and done, he provided you with a small meal, the gentle touches cleaning you again of spend. He asked you your name. You said it in a whisper, He showed you his scars when you couldn’t stop looking. And, in that warm silence from which all memories exist, you showed your own.

–

You supposed it all changed when he started leaving for battle more often. The weeks of warfare would return him to you: slightly, but unmistakably changed. Sometimes you would hear of him lumbering into his hallowed halls, bearing the heavy weight of his beloved darksaber. You would hear his steps before you actually saw him, pulling you closer with a drunken chuckle.

“How about a kiss for your warrior riduur?” Sometimes you think he truly growls before he takes your lips between his teeth. 

Sometimes you fear he would one day bite your skin clean off. You try to tell him once that it hurt. He responded by truly making your lip bleed, tongue running across the taste of iron and moaning. Even when you squeal, writhe in the pain, it’s almost as if he was looking for a spot that made you cry the most. Then he kisses you again, comforts you, calls you the most beautiful things. Cyari’ka. Light of my life, my sin, my soul.

You have not carried an heir, even if it was your purpose. You were surprised by the kindness when he asked you if you wanted a child in those early days of your marriage. You suppose you should have cowered in fear. And yet, perhaps his kindness has convinced you otherwise. So you ask him to wait. You try and read his features beneath his stormy gaze. But he knows how to mask himself well. He smiles, kissing your forehead.

“Whatever you say, mesh’la.”

He does not tell you how politics goes and so you learn to read between the lines. 

When he falls short of something, he takes– he’d grab you by the arm, press you down to the nearest surface, and sink his half-hard cock between your unprepared walls. He shushes you when you whine. He forces his fingers down your throat when you persist. He does not wait for you to come. He fucks you for his own pleasure, oftentimes leaving you with his seed between your legs as he goes off to distract himself with his ward.

But when he succeeds… you are reminded of the patient man at the night of your wedding. He’ll ask you of your day and chuckle as you redden, flustered to come up with some linear narrative. He makes love so softly and so gently that for a moment you think you finally understand what it was everyone seemed to see in him. He stops from simply being the Mandal’or, the keeper of his realm, the cunningly vicious commander-in-chief. He softens, he turns somewhat human. He asks if you’d let him. Ask as the prickling of his beard tickles the crook of your neck, letting you pull off your own little chemise of your own volition. Ask as he weighs your breasts and suckles on them so needingly. Ask as he prepares you, bringing you orgasm over orgasm with his fingers and tongue before slowly finally fucking up to you.

As he approaches you now, you try and see which hand you will be dealt with. He sees you, picking through the seeds from the gardeners, trying to decide which would be most suitable for the season. And when you see him, you see his playful smirk as he finally disables his weapon, clipping it to his belt before brushing back a few fallen strands of hair.

“Have you eaten, adi’ka?”

Only then do you know. It was a good day.

—

In the more recent weeks, it had become harder to separate your marriage with your duty. No matter how the Mandal’or shielded you, you still heard the whispers. You still saw the dark visors looking towards you– towards your too-empty womb. You swore you heard someone tsk once. Yet what stuck to you the most was when the Armourer herself visited your riduur so early in the morning.

You were barely awake, pretending to have fallen asleep under the sheets whilst the two of them spoke. The air was tense, and you understood why she had come. She had come to deliver an ultimatum.

“We sought for the most viable being to ensure the safety of your bloodline,” she had been saying. “But seeing that it is not the case, perhaps it would be deemed proper to… seek out another.”

“You will do no such thing,” Din finally intercedes, clearly enraged by the suggestion. You hear the sound of breaking glass, a sharp cuss escaping from him. Did his grip on his drink slip, by all means? “The matters of my wedding bed are none of your business. And I will keep it that way.”

You hear the soft sigh of exasperation. One for each of them.

“I hoped for it to be the same. But you are expected to sire heirs. And in avoiding so… you leave an already unstable, rebuilding world into more chaos.”

You stop listening. It is too much. What hurt most was the knowledge that she was right.

Maybe that’s why you let Din take you completely when you woke again.

He fucks up into you with renewed vigor, muscles taut and begging to be released He growls in your ear when he sees your face contort with pleasure just as your consciousness shakes you awake. “Precious girl, you’re so good-” When you kiss him, he kisses back, when you moan, it makes him all the more determined.

Ever since the night you consummated your marriage, that morning was the first time he felt the prickling ironies of the Maker. It felt good, too good to watch you take his seed so willingly. It was a pleasure he never seemed to understand before.

You try to ask him what the matter was but he does not answer. You look into his eyes and you almost see the way he seemed to look into a different plane of reality, opening himself up to complete and utter surrender.

If only you knew where that look of his would lead you… perhaps you would have tried to wake him from his trance. Instead you let him, fucking you all morning until his duties finally tore him away from you.

—

He began to tell you of how mandal’ors have originally conceived their heirs. Generations upon generations, he claimed, were formed in the temple, blessed by the Makers themselves. He talked of it with such passion, such interest, that you saw it so vividly in your head. The mandal’or and their chosen partner, dressed down in nothing but sheer white robes, drinking from the Living Waters of Mandalore. You could imagine the chants as he whispers it to you in bed, a calling for divinity. Nine months later, a strong heir is born into the world, kicking and screaming with divine power in their bones.

All the while, his bad days grew more and more frequent. His turbulent gaze grew more familiar. So did the sting between your legs when you sit with him at dinner. He stopped talking to you, and instead chose to whisper to himself, muttering incoherent languages whenever he thinks you don’t look. He goes on battles more. His advisors tell you he succeeds, violently, at that. You heard whispers of how he slaughtered a warring tribe, done so without hesitation that no one looked him in the eye as they marched home.

He now fucks you with abandon, uncaring if you happen to pass out in the barrage of thrusts one evening, pinning you down so hard you bruised in another.

More than ever, you begin to feel more lonely. It begins to hurt your chest when, month after month, your husband finds that you still bleed, that once again, you have failed to provide him an heir.

Maybe that is why you suddenly succumb.

When you enter your dark bedroom, hearing his mutterings in the dark, you pretend not to hear, sinking into the sheets as you watch him seated on the edge of his side of the bed.

“Do you think it’s possible,” you began, horrified to hear the terror in your voice. “Do you think it’s possible to do it again?” He looks to you, stormy eyes still unweathered as you try to find the right words.”If we went to the temple, dressed in robes, and drank from the living waters… do you think it would still be the same thing?”

You see the light break in his gaze, rooted as he climbs up the bed to kiss you gently. He smirks in the darkness, as if his prey had finally fallen into his trap.

“I’ll make sure of it, mesh’la.”

—

When you both entered the temple, he was in a good mood. He attended to you all morning, brought you food to bed, brushing your hair with his fingers repeatedly as he watches your movements. Perhaps he was waiting for the moment you changed your mind. But you couldn’t. You wouldn’t dare; it’s as if you knew his attitude would change the moment hesitation became apparent. So you smiled, asked him to help you dress, and followed him wherever he went.

Now here you stood, dressed in a thin white robe within the lower levels of the planet. It is quiet, and he is patient with you. It had been so natural, to kneel upon the obsidian banks of the Living Waters, to follow him in prayer, attempting your best to recreate the phonetics of Mando’a. And when you kneeled to cup fluid in your hands, it made sense. The water was cool and sweet to the touch, extinguishing the last embers of hesitation in your chest– and perhaps finally defeating your will, subduing you into the role the world has laid out for you.

It is difficult to describe the feeling of divinity cracking open your mind in submission. You feel pinpricks and shivers against your scalp, an electrifying presence that only grows stronger when Din Djarin presses his lips against the crook of your neck. He is so gentle about it, trailing his hands up and down your trembling torso, whispering pet names into your ear as you fully relax.against his touch.

Perhaps it was Pavlovian. Because whenever he spoke to you in Mando’a, it was like a shared secret, like nothing but the two of you mattered. Mesh’la, cya’re, adi’ka.

You try and respond whenever you can. Riduur, riduur, riduur.

He disrobes you, and the pinpricks of energy seem to follow his fingers wherever they went. “Sometimes I think you’re just divine,” he whispers, making you giggle as his rough beard scratches against the skin of your back, your thighs, the skin of your stomach. He seemed to stop right above where he imagined your womb to be, muttering once again in incomprehensible Mando’a, kissing the skin as you shut your eyes and melt into his touch.

In your hands, my love, you wanted to tell him, I find my devotion.

He lays you on a bed of smoother rocks, leaving himself on top of you, so close that you see that tranced look in his eyes, see how much intense it had been from the last time in the bedroom. You try and make him look at you, but he sees nothing, even with you sprawled, willing and brand new right before him. He focuses his actions on tasting your sweet little cunt, groaning at the feeling of your walls barely letting his tongue in.

“Always so tight for me, pretty girl.” He sounds so different, so distant.

So you shut your eyes. You pretend.

“Give me an heir, Din,” you finally whisper, spreading your legs for him, welcoming him to take. “A beautiful little heir…”

He does not even disrobe himself. But when he kisses you, he silences the doubts in your mind. His hands wander, exploring your skin anew before he finally cups your face gently, making you look at him before he carefully, lovingly fucks the head of his hard cock into your wanting cunt.

The stretch is glorious, comfortable. You feel your slick working to open you up for him. Your moan reverberates from the high walls of the caverns, combined with the feral growl that escapes the man above you. “That’s it. Just like that, cya’re. You like it, don’t you?” You try not to cry, feeling as if your husband had transformed right before your very eyes and you didn’t even know it.

You stare the man you love in the face, the keeper of Mandalore, the warrior divine, the bearer of the darksaber that tore from town after town. He kisses you again, and you try and recognize which parts of him remained the same. He is still Din. He responds to the same name. He kisses you the same way he does on the good days. He sounds the same, he still likes it when you tangle your hands into his hair and mewl needingly into his ear. You’d still follow him anywhere, even if he didn’t ask.

And then you try to recognize where he had changed. His hands pin you too tightly by your shoulders. Up close like this, you finally see the ghoulish dark circles under his eyes. He hasn’t been sleeping. His jaw, permanently locked as a tell of his alertness. It must have been weeks since he had ever felt at peace.

His rough fingers reach down to rub you through an orgasm, pausing to witness the way your body writhed from the pleasures brought about by your hand. He gets to have you this way. Only he gets to have you this way. Only he gave you the pleasure you felt burning through your bones. And it is enough. It is enough as he fucks you through the tidal waves, chasing his own release in a heavenly blend of cries and moans.

By the Maker, he thinks, perhaps You truly did exist. Only You are capable of creating such a glorious act of creation in her.

There is something different when he fills you up there, blessed by the Living Waters of his own planet, the same waters that sanctified him. He bites your lip until it bleeds, thrusting once, twice, before his knees buckle and he is falling into you, dazed and drunken from the very smell of your combined spent.

He makes you promise that you’ll never leave him. “Swear it, adi’ka. Right here where the heirs of Mandalore came into being.”

You promise. You swear.

He kisses you, and you try and pretend that you didn’t notice the way he had begun to force his mouth against yours. Even his kisses are changing too.

[ystrike1]

Cosmetic Game - By Jin Qiu (8/10)

Would you kill 1000 people to have a beautiful face? Not just any beautiful face. The kind of face that can't be faked. A face that can launch a brand or a fairytale. A face that can free you from the consequences of your actions? No? You don't want to? That's ok.

Someone else is willing to do it for you.

Fair warning this is a tragedy and there is very little romance. Our main character Yi Rong is alone in the beginning. She thinks her douche coworker is hot. She has shit taste in men, but she's kind. She's talented. She works hard and she made it into a famous company. Plus, her family isn't rich. Her talent is all her, but she gets used. She never gets rewarded for her own hard work.

Why?

Yi Rong is ugly. She's been bullied pretty badly too, since childhood, so her fighting spirit has been beaten out of her. She does all the work and her charismatic coworkers benefit. She's been working three years straight for the right to attend Paris fashion week. She's actually the number one employee. She's been the number one employee for three years, but she has never gone to Paris.

Her pretty coworker gets to go instead. Li Na is sleeping with the boss. In the beginning we think she's a bitch. A bimbo slut who got plastic surgery to get her way, but she isn't. We learn, through Li Na, that anyone can be a villain. By the end of the story Yi Rong, who starts out as kind, is more evil than she is.

Yi Rong downloads an app, and she's also depressed. Depressed enough to want surgery. She wakes up pretty. The Cosmetic Game app appeals to human greed. The reward is too sweet. The beauty you get looks too good to be true. You get to look better than people who spend their life savings!!! Hooray. Also, people forget that you were ever ugly. With the power of the Cosmetic Game Yi Rong can let go of her pain, and suffering. She can live a normal life, and nobody can say that she changed her looks because of bullying. The world will know that Yi Rong was born pretty.

Her ugly past will be no more.

Yo Rong meets Mooty during this time. He's kind of in charge of the game, but the plot twist is he is the ultimate player. He has been gathering points, and planning, to make her beautiful and happy.

Why?

We find out too late.

She doesn't know who he is, until the end.

The stakes of the game rise quickly. Super quickly. You have to commit crimes to keep your face. You have to kill people to keep your face...and if you lose there's a double penalty. When the Cosmetic Game app fails the memory spell goes away. People forget that you were pretty, BUT they remember certain things that will make your life a living hell.

For example.

She's been in love with him for three years by the way.

Yi Rong flirted with her douche coworker. He loved it when she was pretty, but then she gets scared and she refuses to do a crime task! The app effect wears off and now douche boy remembers being "harassed by an ugly woman" and the coworkers remember him flirting with her.

Which, of course causes him to blow up on her and demand that she stay away from him like she's a bug.

She breaks. People start to die. A cop starts following her. He's handsome. He doesn't love her at first. There's some more weird shit. Cop Guy (he uses a fake name and his real name is symbolic. So, I will be calling him Cop Guy.) is a pure soul who knows Yi Rong is not at fault. She is %100 percent being tortured by an unknown force, so he tries to help her. He's also kinda mystical and he's a super cop or something...idk he's supposed to be the love interest...but he's too...uh...I kinda knew this guy was going to die tragically by his second appearance. So, I couldn't get attached to him.

Yi Rong goes to Paris and she actually gets on the actual runway. She's been earning points. She always looks camera ready. Always. A designer begs her to walk for him. Her face stops traffic, basically. She lives out her dream, and more. She loves fashion and beauty. It never loved her back and now she has it all.

Li Na snaps. She steals Yi Rong's phone and she hacks it to get in. The cops are trying to figure out the Cosmetic Game, and some of the regular characters are smart as well. Li Na unfortunately causes her own death with her snooping. Yi Rong turns into a monster in front of the fashion week crowd after Li Na deletes her points.

Then Mooty sends her a special task.

Blow up the building.

That's the only way to get her beauty points back, so she presses the button.

Around 200 people die. Cop Guy doesn't even recognize her. Yi Rong kinda becomes a chameleon. She becomes whatever trend of beauty is fashionable that day. She becomes a VIP player too. That gives her the right to torture others. She can use her phone to make people ugly. She does it when people piss her off. She also starts to hate old people. She also becomes a manager after her Paris show. She also...starts berating her ugly subordinates.

Yi Rong is trapped. She hates hurting people, but she's so tired of being lonely. Her looks ruined most of her life, and sadly now she knows she can't go back. The game will turn her into a monster if she stops playing.

She is unaware that someone else is earning points for her.

Cop Guy earns her love through a bunch of heroics, but we're here for the plot twist. Who is the yandere? It's Mooty, the ultimate VIP player. He's been playing for half a decade, and he doesn't even use the transformation function. He's been doing evil deeds and saving points, but it's not enough.

A certain task must be done.

Cop Guy has had enough. He saves Yi Rong from a woman who has been trying to murder her. They run through the woods and she confesses her love, because he's cool. Then he saves her life and he gets a nasty scar. By the end he's a mess, but he wants to save people from the Cosmetic Game.

He fools around with it, and he thinks of Yi Rong. He watches her get bullied again, and he decides to make her happy.

Cop Guy fights Mooty. He kills Mooty because he's an ultra special amazing Cop Guy.

Mooty uses the ultimate restart button to stab Cop Guy.

Yi Rong shoots Mooty in a fit of rage, but then she recognizes him. Mooty was a kid runaway. His orphanage didn't treat him well. When he ran off he got beaten and he had to eat trash. Yi Rong became his friend. When he grew up he became an ordinary laborer. He saw Yi Rong, but he knew he couldn't save her. The app came to him first. It's a mystery that never really gets explained by the way.

It's...sad...

He could have said hello. He could have introduced himself. They could have been a happy couple, but Mooty wanted to give her Everything. Also Mooty technically isn't his real name, but he seems to consider it his real name because it's from her.

He lets her shoot him.

He wants it.

That's how he finally gets enough points to gift (1) single person permanent beauty.

He gives it to Yi Rong, and he dies.

Cop Guy also dies.

Yi Rong only loves Cop Guy in the end.

She quits her high end job to become a teacher, to try and atone for the terrible things that happened.

..... really odd ending. Cop Guy was also written really badly. He was like a random psychic superhero...in a horror story....This is a good read. Mooty is a self sacrificing, pining yandere who didn't have the courage to make his love happy...with love. He thought he had to give her Everything, and stay in the shadows. Even though she just wanted someone on her side, so she wouldn't be alone. One hello could have prevented the lonely ending, and the guilt stricken life, Yi Rong has to live with.

[lorillee]

you should think about von karma-edgeworth piano au forever and then talk to me about it forever. nudges your shins with my nose like a small cat hi. hello. hi.

-karmaicperfection

ok thank you for indulging me @karmaicperfection 😭😭😭 i started answering this and then got IMMEDIATELY interrupted for like a good solid hour but anyways. obviously this is like spitballing concepts for an au but i think the easiest way to take this is frankly just . incredibly adjacent to your lie in april (an anime which, if you have not seen, you should absolutely 10000000% go watch because im clinically insane about it and it is quite possibly my most favorite anime other than one piece . speaking of i should rewatch it again soon. anyways) except without the romance (which like. To Be Honest i think ylia would have done better without but WHATEVERRRR i suppose the romance is the hook for the average viewer) and obviously adjusted for character dynamics.

so obviously manfred is like world famous virtuoso classical pianist, born a prodigy baby, got private tutoring from some insanely famous pianist, and never lost a competition - plays always 1000000% to the score and never deviates an inch and to even entertain the idea is nothing short of heretical. since generally competitions are going to be judged by how perfectly the pianist plays, manfred always wins even if somebody else has a more interesting or frankly better interpretation of the piece. the main problem here is how the heck he's supposed to cheat since the thing with piano competitions and performances is like you either know the piece or you dont you cant cheat on that so maybe he's just like bribing the judges to favor perfection as opposed to their personal preference. i think he'd be a huge tchaikovsky & rachmaninoff & chopin kind of guy like tell me the revolutionary is not EXACTLY the kind of thing manfred would be playing (like those ending chords ??? you cannot tell me you cant just see him going absolutely ham)

naturally then gregory is another world famous virtuoso classical pianist, but instead of following the score 1:1 he puts a lot more emphasis on personal interpretation - he's very very popular with the people, but in competitions he's always divisive with the judges since some of them are real sticklers for sticking to the dynamics written on the page while others are more open to whatever he's doing. im thinking his taste probably falls more under beethoven & bach & mozart & chopin. i guess during some competition he somehow finds out that a few of the judges were being bribed & reveals this to the public and the Elevator Incident goes as per canon.

miles is like eight i think at that point so he's been taking piano for a few years but since when youre like eight your hands really arent big enough to be playing anything terribly hard, gregory's influence hasnt been set in stone yet - manfred obviously begins imparting the "The Score Is Absolute" mentality onto him. i think he'd also be a lot more strict on teaching music theory (something admittedly i never actually learned like anything about because i was huuuuuge brat and blatantly refused to do the workbooks my teacher gave me and i guess she just gave up 😭😭😭) than gregory. as far as miles' personal preferences go i think hed like chopin & debussy & tchaikovsky & bach. franziska is obviously also baby prodigy girl - she's absurdly competitive and very much a "practicing 8 hours a day minimum" kind of girl. her preferences are anything loud fast and difficult (1) more fun to play 2) gives her the opportunity to show off 3) much more rewarding upon mastery) so very very much a beethoven & rachmaninoff & chopin kind of girl, but also i think miles would give her an appreciation for slower & more sensitive pieces

anyways so i guess in this au phoenix would also be a WAIT LOLLLL hes already a pianist in canon. sorry the fact that that stupid pub he works in literally has a steinway baby grand in it and all phoenix does is complain about having to play it like. grabs you. throws you to the side. scoot over and let me PLAYYYYYYYYYYY .anwyays. anyways ok this is literally the premise of your lie in april but i guess phoenix was inspired to take up piano after hearing miles play when he was like 7 at some school talent show thing and like keeps tabs on him as he rises through the piano world but is distraught to find out miles has abandoned the art of actual interpretation in favor of sticking religiously to the script and through competitions teaches him the value of making the piece truly yours to impart some actual message and feeling to the audience instead of playing like a robot. of course this au isnt about him so thats like all im going to say on that

wait oh theres a problem here. if manfred kills gregory how in the world does that get resolved . ummmmmmm . hm. ok whatever lets just table that for now its not important. actually objectively the funniest way for this au to go is to give it the exact same amount of murder and melodrama and stakes as in the normal series except everybodys a pianist for some reason. this is incredibly tangential im getting wildly off track here but like klavier has the exact same huge fanbase of hormonal teenage girls except hes just like playing schumann. godot is like a jazz pianist that they keep letting enter into these classical piano competitions for some reason. the detectives are their accompanists? many thoughts. okay side tangent over lets get back to the main point here

franziska's arc in aa2 would probably still be the same re: even after manfred's gone she still sticks rigidly to the dynamics written on the score to the point of technical perfection, but completely lacking in personal emotion & interpretation - phoenix's repeated wins over her not due to his sticking to the score but rather to the brilliancy of his interpretations keep rooting up the beliefs that have been absolutely ingrained into her from birth, and miles helps her realize that to be honest actually having something to say when playing a piece is an artistic improvement over being The Most Accurate To The Score. and now i just want to draw everybody at the piano

[gaym0m]

Okay so l'm really sad cause this girl I have been kinda seeing (and like a lot) is moving states today so imma write that but as Ellie and Beth :) no maggot mommy sorry guys 😭

I'll probably do fluff later.

Warnings: angst, cuss words. Kissing? Gonna do 2nd person cause head hurts. R knows guitar in Beth's part. And just owns some in Ellie’s part.

Beth

Knowing Beth since before she started to learn about music and guitars was a joyful ride.

It was even better when you knew how to play the guitar.

Living just a few blocks from eachother's apartment buildings, meant the two of you would meet almost very day

Ellie wasn’t too sure about this at first but you grew on her (and kept her sister out of trouble while she worked which was really good for her)

But it really wasn’t meant to last

Cause if it was I tagged this wrong (I didn’t im sorry)

As soon as Beth was 18 and Ellie had enough money saved, they planned to move. Not only had Ellie found an amazing husband (this is actually a Jay haters group. But I guessss I have to say he’s nice at first), she had her tattoo business up and running.

Ellie had to go to LA for a bigger market

And Beth had to follow, already applying to multiple music schools and being accepted into most of not all

You? Even if you wanted to follow them (god you wanted to follow them so much it make you physically ill) you simply couldn’t.

You loved Beth so so much, how could you not? Her humor, her taste in literally everything, her voice. . . Truly the list goes on.

But you had been accepted to a school across country, full ride (this means tuition and living paid for those not in America 😔✊) and far from home

It was supposed to be a good thing.

You were all achieving your dreams

So why did it feel like you couldn’t breath?

Why did your chest ache and long for something you’d long since given up?

Because love sucks. (Which is why we all obsess over fictional characters)

The day came so much sooner than you were ready.

All three of you shared a teary good bye, but once Ellie had entered the car, Beth’s arms wrapped tightly around you.

Her face sinking into your neck (as it had a thousand times before after a fight with her mom or her mom vs her sister)

It was a quiet plead for comfort.

Comfort that after that day you wouldn’t be able to provide her.

Her tears soaked your shirt and your tears in hers.

No words were spoken, it wasn’t really necessary when you two knew each-other so well.

Too soon, you had to pull away. Tear stained cheeks flushed red, and green eyes looked dull while locking with yours.

Without much of a second thought, you both leaned in.

Finally Sharing the kiss you both (unknowingly) had been longing for.

It wasn’t how you wanted it, and it wasn’t Beth’s happy ending either

But it was a last hurrah, as your two stories broke off into different paths.

It was as comforting as it was painful, with ideas of what could have been.

Ellie

Ellie had always been a sweetheart, despite her mother’s neglect and her forced motherhood towards Beth.

That was something you admired about her from the moment you meet.

Being the same age as her and with little to no real responsibility except to school, you leant her a hand with Beth.

You parents weren’t rich, but they were certainly workaholics and comfortable.

Which meant while you couldn’t just move them into your house, you could certainly drive them around in your car.

Or buy them groceries when Ellie was running low on money.

It still made you laugh at the memory of her swearing up and down that she would pay you back or return the favor while Beth stood behind her quietly mocking her and sending you a playful wink (one which you’d always return with a smirk)

Ellie adored how well you got along with her sister, and just how much you were willing to go out of your way for them.

Even gifting Beth one of your older guitars for her birthday (you can’t remember who was smiling the widest, little Beth with her guitar feeling like a rockstar or Ellie, watching her sister with the warmest blue eyes you’ve ever seen in your life)

Looking back, that’s when you first fell hard for her. Very eyes so warm and welcoming yet so full of love, pain and everything else.

Like two vacuums dragging you in until you couldn’t breath.

In a good way

One of your favorite memories was convincing Ellie to give you a tattoo after watching her practice on fake skin.

She wouldn’t stop saying no until you compromised, if it looked awful when it healed, she owed you a cover up.

Spoiler alert, it definitely wasn’t great.

She did give you that cover up though

And it looked amazing

Almost matching with her beautiful vine design.

But maybe you waited to long

Or you read it all wrong

Because it was a random Tuesday when she dropped the bomb

She meet a guy. . . And she really liked him.

At first it felt like nothing, a stupid fling at best in your mind.

But one date turned to two then three then weeks of dating followed by months.

Yet your stupidly held on to hope.

Years passed, Jay was still in the picture and while you tried to stay sane you could feel yourself quickly deteriorating.

Beth was quick to notice, always offering a sorry smile when you two locked eyes while Ellie and Jay shared a loving moment.

Yet another year passed, one you spent overworked in order to push the tattoo artist out of your head.

A year which Jay spent pulling Ellie deeper and deeper.

The day you found out about their engagement sent you in a quiet spiral.

Just minutes from home, in a bar with shots lined up waiting for you to finish the last four.

Beth found you first, helping you up and home.

She knew she shouldn’t have told you, after all you clearly were struggling.

But she figured now was better than later.

“Ellie and Jay are moving to LA, and I was hired as a guitar technician with a bad going on tour in a month. .”

Talk about two birds one stone.

Your heart shattered further

Tears forming into your eyes and spilling down your cheeks until you had no more tears to give.

You knew better than to even imagine having a chance now.

Beth tried her best to be there for you, but she was also busy with packing and coming to terms with separating from her sister (and mother figure)

Meanwhile you distracted yourself. Pulling even more shifts at work, packing and shipping all your stuff out to NYC.

With no real tears left to cry, teary eyes and long tight hugs were exchanged between you and Ellie.

Her lips pressed to your cheek before she promised to keep in touch.

Then just like that she was gone

And suddenly you had more tears to cry

You had more pain

But you also had acceptance

And a new road ahead, and away from those you loved for so long.

Ahh sorry for the angst, I am depresso buttt i promise fluff tonight or tomorrow. For now send me ask if you’d like lol.

[hwabang]

SKZ Reaction to S/O Celebrating Eid

Genre: Fluff

Warnings: fem!reader, muslim!reader, mentions of food, i included mood boards but if you guys think they’re offensive in some way or don’t like them tell me and i’ll remove them!, if i missed anything let me know!

Author’s Note 1: I was supposed to post this 2 weeks ago on Eid, but I decided to wait it out due to certain events at that time. RIP Moonbin❤️

Author’s Note 2: Yes I am well aware Muslims aren’t supposed to date, and I’m also well aware that Muslim people who do date refrain from it during the month of Ramadan. However this is a reaction, an imagine, and that’s exactly what it is– imagining! So don’t come for me for this, thankssss

Author’s Note 3: Eid Mubarak to those celebrating!❤️☪️

Author’s Note 4: I love doing this Muslim!Reader series. Do you guys wanna see a ‘dating a Desi!Reader’ or something like that? Let me know!

mood boards are mine, gifs are not mine

Bang Chan:

Omg he’s so excited

Chan is especially excited when you show him the matching black outfits you ordered online

He had never worn such clothing before and he was ecstatic that he could share this experience with you

Chan felt absolutely horrible that you didn’t really have a chance to celebrate Eid the proper way in Korea, due to the lack of Muslims here

So he suggested that on the night of Eid, you two would host a dinner at a hall Chan rented out and you’d invite people from JYP, his members, and close idol friends

Chan insisted that you two cook for everyone since he wanted to learn how to make your traditional dishes and other Eid staple foods

What really made your heart tingle was when Chan told you the night before Eid to get up early in the morning because you two were gonna go to the Eid prayer at Seoul Central Mosque

He remembered to vlog the whole day so that this could be posted later on for Muslim STAY; he felt they’d really appreciate it

Chan had so much fun preparing for Eid as much as he did on the actual Eid day

That day he made a mental note that he was going to spend every single Eid with you from now on

AKA Chan decided he’s going to marry you, lucky girl

“Baby you’re home! So I was looking at more recipes, and I found this dish I want to make for the Eid dinner but I wanted to try and make it today so I don’t mess it up later. How’s the taste?”

LeeKnow:

He is determined to make this the best day of your life

And his determine only grows when he’s out with the members one day in Itaewon and sees that there’s a shop selling lots of styles of traditional Eid clothing

Immediately brought you back to the shop the next day and bought you two matching Eid outfits

While you were in the area he took you to a Halal grocery store and you bought ingredients together for dishes you two wanted to make for Eid

Minho decided he’d invite the members over for Eid and feed them the dishes you two would prepare together

He insisted on doing all the cooking since he found YouTube videos he could follow, and he assigned the desserts to you

He’d make sure that when you call your parents, you do a video call so you can show them the outfits you’re wearing

Mainly, he wanted to show off the food you two prepared

You were kinda stuck translating tho sorry

He’d ask if you wanna go to the mosque for the Eid prayer. If you didn’t he’d make sure you didn’t miss the time to pray it at home

But if you wanted to go, he’d drag Jisung along because he thought Jisung could guide him since he lived in Malaysia (Minho was wrong, Jisung was somehow even more confused than Minho)

*you’re on the phone with your mom* “Yeah, jagi, tell her this is comfortable. Oh did you show her the food? Well, show her! I worked hard! Tell her the kebabs were so fun to make but the hardest dish was…”

Changbin:

He goes ALL. OUT.

And I really mean like this guy has your jaw dropping the entire day

This guy plans everything at his parents’ house. Yes, the big rich vibe one.

So first he’d insist that you two go home to wear the outfits he bought for you after you’re done with the Eid prayer at the mosque

Which by the way, his choice when he ordered these made you fall in love with him even more

Anyways, you’d get ready and y’all would pull up to his parents house which had you confused but when you walked in, you guessed it; your jaw dropped

In the house waiting for you two were Changbin’s parents, his sister, the members, some family, and his sister’s close friends ALL DRESSED IN YOUR COUNTRY’S CLOTHES

As you looked around the place you saw that the whole place was decorated top to bottom for Eid

And the dining table was filled with food from your country that he ordered

You all had a blast the entire day and he made sure you showed your parents everything on a video call

And since it’s Changbin, along with your Eidi he also got you a gift; a gold chain with his name written in Arabic

“This is too much? YAH! For you, I’d have all of Korea celebrating Eid in a heartbeat! I could do anything in the world if it was for you!”

Hyunjin:

Your personal photographer. ALL. DAY. LONG.

Literally from the morning since you started getting ready, he had his camera out and was taking candid pictures of you

And all day he was making yo pose, and even took more candids of you just enjoying yourself and slaying in your fit

You guys didn’t go to Eid prayer because you woke up so late you wouldn’t have made it in time, so you prayed at home

But poor baby was so confused; men have to pray in front of women in Islam so he was completely lost and just followed you looking in the mirror

Made sure to post an “Eid Mubarak” on Bubble because he thought the fans would appreciate it

One thing I forgot to mention in the Ramadan post is that the ENTIRE month, Kkami was at Hyunjin’s parents’ house. 

Like girl , that's how much he loves you; he kept his dog away during your holy month.

Hyunjin definitely helped you prepare food for Eid

Although he kinda was like a lost puppy but he followed your instructions quite well!

Would be so surprised with all the flavor bursting in his mouth, he wished every day was Eid

“Jagi, what is this?? Can we eat this every week?”

Han Jisung:

Out of all the members Jisung was the most excited

He spent a couple years in Malaysia so he was there for a couple Ramadans and Eids

So he was feeling quite nostalgic and was really eager to celebrate Eid with you

Jisung was especially excited to choose the Eid outfits online with you

He also made sure you guys were up bright and early for Fajr and stayed up to make it to Eid prayer early

You’d spend some time in the Masjid with all the Muslims surrounding the area or take a walk in Itaewon before heading back to your place where you’d eat delicious food

As for the food, you were making it all the night before Eid and Jisung walked into your place seeing you working so hard. So quite reluctantly, he decide to come help you

He was nervous hed mess the food up but he actually was huge help

Jisung would also remember to go live on YouTube at some point of the day for about an hr so he could celebrate Eid with Muslim STAY

And of course he’d beg Felix or Seungmin to take lots and lots of photos of the two of you because y’all were slaying

“Ooh we look so good! Hey, do you think your mom could send me more of these clothes? Preferably matching with yours hehe..”

Felix:

THE ABSOLUTE SWEETEST

LIKE HE LITERALLY MAKES YOUR HEART MELT THE ENTIRE DAY

Felix spent the entirety of Ramadan memorizing how to recite the Eid prayer so that he could lead you in prayer (bye I’m crying)

He spent hours finding recipes you two could make for Eid

But also spent hours shopping for your Eid fits which he eventually settled on and when they arrived you were shocked because they were SO BEAUTIFUL

You and Felix decided to make little bento boxes for staff and idols at JYP to give out on Eid

So you’d make your traditional foods plus some desserts

Did I mention that he spent time on Pinterest and Instagram looking for Eid couple poses??

Okay well I’m mentioning it now. And he had Seungmin take all the pictures which turned out absolutely perfect

He got all the pictures washed and he made an Eid scrapbook for you two to keep as a keepsake (he’s so romantic)

“Baby should I make cookies?? I have moon and star cookie cutters!”

Seungmin:

Your photographer pt. 2

He forced you to get up early so you wouldn’t miss the Eid prayer at the mosque

You wore your Eid fits to the mosque and had someone take really cute but modest pictures of you two inside the mosque (gave you Nikkah/Katb-al-Kitaab vibes fr)

You asked Seungmin to help you prepare Eid food and he happily agreed

You guys even made cute Eid themed cupcakes to hand out in the JYP building

You would make a video call to back home and Seungmin would be going on and on to your family about how much he learned during Ramadan and all the new things he’s been doing for Eid

Asked Felix to take couple pictures of you two and Felix happily agreed

You wondered what he was gonna do with all these pictures, but your question was answered 2 weeks later

Similar to Felix, Seungmin had the pictures washed out and printed into a beautiful photo album. He sent one copy to your family and had one delivered to your home

He makes this a tradition for every year

“Sweetheart get up, we’ll be late to the prayer. What do you always tell me, that Allah is watching, right? Get up or I throw cold water in your face.”

I.N:

Aw Jeongin is extremely excited to be a part of a different culture

He’s always been so interested in everything about your religion and culture so he’s been waiting so patiently for Eid to come around

He wasn’t gonna get matching outfits until he saw so many TikToks Felix sent him of couples getting matching Eid fits

Felix asked if you and Jeongin were getting matching fits and Jeongin ran to his laptop to order something for you two

He was nervous to pray at the mosque even though he’s prayed with you before, because he heard the Eid prayer was a bit different and he didn’t want to mess up

So you two prayed at home which turned out to be better since it was such an intimate affair

Jeongin was also nervous to help you cook but he helped as he didn’t want all the pressure going on you. 

You guys took all the food to Jeongin’s parent’s house and spent most of the day there.

He was surprised at all the delicious food, so he decided to go live on Instagram to showcase all the delicious food you two made closely to STAY

As a surprise, the night before Eid, Jeongin met up with Felix and they made Eid themed cupcakes together that matched both of your outfits

You fell in love with him even more of course

“You know what, this look is growing on me jagiya. Let’s wear these more often.”

[gettingfrilly]

gimme eddy for 2, 3, 6, 14, 21 & 22!

my boy

2. Favorite canon thing about this character?

TRAUMA >:) And he's an asshole because of his trauma, but also not a villain tho. Media tends to make abused characters either evil 4ever or these heroic saints who would never let something so cruel befall another. In reality, trauma really complicates a person's development and personality, especially prolonged trauma in early childhood when you're supposed to be learning how to form healthy attachments. Some people are genetically predisposed to be resilient to trauma, some go on to continue the cycle of abuse for the rest of their lives, and most fall somewhere in the middle, like Eddy does.

3. Least favorite canon thing about this character?

Canonically attracted to Nazz :/ I'm very attached to my strictly gay Eddy hc lol.

6. What's something you have in common with this character?

I hate being bored so god damn much and I'll die if people stop paying attention to me.

14. Assign a fashion aesthetic to this character.

I know nothing about fashion lol, this is actually something I'm struggling with in the fic I'm writing (chapter one draft is done yippee.) I want to get across that Eddy is a stylish dude who cares a great deal about putting himself together and it's hard to do that when my fashion knowledge is zilch. I once spent an afternoon researching fancy sneakers that were released in 2003 for Eddy to wear in my fic. Would they be Eddy's taste in canon? Fuck if I know. But he's wearing them. So yeah. Closest I can get to describing his aesthetic is butch gay guy who wants to look hip and happening. Probably tries to emulate a lot of stuff that was fashionable in the 70s, but a little more modernized. Maybe. Probably. Guy's a disco queen.

21. If you're a fic writer and have written for this character, what's your favorite thing to do when you're writing for this character? What's something you don't like?

I don't like writing anything it just brings me pain. I only keep writing because the pain of writing is slightly less painful than the pain of not writing.

Other than that, my favorite thing to write Eddy doing is bickering with Double D. I try my best to make his comebacks as witty and quick as they are in the show. I don't like writing Eddy's... thoughts? Or well... doing descriptive imagery in his POV. I typically use 3rd person POV limited, and whenever I'm writing descriptive imagery from Eddy's POV, I feel like my prose is a bit too. Well. Frilly, lol. With some big words Eddy probably doesn't know. And I'm not actually sure if that's okay or not when doing 3rd person limited, because like, Eddy isn't the narrator, I am, but he is the POV, so... bleh. I wish I had a formal education in creative writing. But I had to go and be practical and become a counselor instead.

22. If you're a fic reader, what's something you like in fics when it comes to ths character? Something you don't like?

I loooooove everyone's different interpretations of Eddy's baby queer era. The denial, the disgust, the fear, the drama... so fucking good. Every time I read someone else's take on it, I'm like, aw man, that's how I shoulda done it!

I don't like torture porn with Eddy. Anything that goes into detail about the smack downs Eddy received as a child is booooring to me. We know he got the crap beat out of him, now let's see how it affects him later in life!

ty for giving me so many numbers so I could rant about my boy ;-;

[skylarmoon71]

Lex Luthor (Smallville) - Short Story : Chapter 8 - Final

Learning your feelings were mutual was the best thing. So you aren’t sure why you’re a few feet away from Lex and acting so weird.

It’s not abnormal for you to stop by the mansion. Yet this time you’re distracted. Lex is working casually right across from you.

Before it was easy, but now you know of his feelings. You can offer comfort.

Love.

He’s literally so close.

“Let’s make out.”

The words leave before you can stop them and Lex stops typing. For a second he’s surprised, but that quickly changes to a playful smile.

“Excuse me?”

You groan.

“You don’t get it. I had one boyfriend. One! High school romance was nice and all but this is different. It’s the first time I’ve been this crazy about a guy who isn’t all over me. You older guys sure have a lot of restraint. It’s actually a little irritating.”

Now that you’ve already embarrassed yourself there is no use keeping those thoughts to yourself. Lex is only a few years older, but he’s so mature that sometimes it feels like the gap is much bigger. Possibly another tough part of his upbringing.

Lex chuckles.

“I apologize for not groping you every chance I get. I’ll try to be better.”

You roll your eyes at his sarcasm.

Lex turns his chair, and you think he’s going to tease you again, but there’s a subtle change in his eyes.

“Come here.”

There’s a soft demand behind those words that send a little tingle up your spine. You nod shyly, as you move to his side. He pats his thigh, and you get the message. You slide into his lap, legs slightly straddling him. His hands lay comfortably on either of your thighs and he gives a soft squeeze.

“I didn’t realize I made you so horny.”

You blush and Lex smiles, pulling you in for a kiss before you can retaliate. The perfection of his kiss makes you forget all his snide remarks.

There’s a part of you that can’t imagine that you ever truly disliked this guy. Yes, there was a reason behind it. But it feels like he’s been slowly trying to redeem himself in his own way.

It’s times like this, when he holds you so lovingly that you remind yourself at the end of the day, he’s still a man.

Lex’s hands slide up your back and you whimper softly. This all feels so good. He pulls back for a moment to look at you. Enjoying the breathless expression on your face. The light dust of blush on your cheeks. You were so fiery when he first met you. Ready to put him in his place. The complete change of your views not just on him, but his actions, he can’t help but feel grateful. There were very few people left in Smallville willing to give him a second chance. Yet here you are, an actual empath.

He’s lucky, he knows that.

He also likes that he’s able to get such a soft and caring reaction.

Especially when it’s directed at him.

“I’m sorry I’ve been so distracted. I’ve got a meeting in Tokyo in two weeks and I just need everything to be perfect.”

You nod. It’s understandable. His work is important to him. Especially since he’s been trying to start a clean slate.

It’s then that it really clicks that he’ll be gone for a while.

You hold on a bit tighter.

“How..how long are you going to be away?”

The thought of him being away brings a sudden stream of loneliness, and Lex takes it all in. He always wanted this. Someone to miss him. To look at him and actually appreciate his presence. Not just his wealth or status. Right now, you see him and that’s all he could ever ask for.

“I’ll be gone for three weeks.”

He replies a bit sullenly. Because it goes both ways. How is he supposed to survive three weeks without seeing your smile or enjoying the sweet taste of your lips that he’s just had the pleasure of experiencing.

“Three weeks..”

You say it with a frown as if you repeat it enough, that simple fact will change. He means to assure you that it won’t be too bad. He’ll call often. The time zone might cause some difficulty, but he doesn’t mind being awake at crazy times if it meant he could just hear your voice every night.

You lean in, and when you leave a kiss right at the back of his ear, he swallows.

“Is there any way I can convince you to stay?”

You sound so innocent, but when he feels the gentle grind of your hip against his, your intentions are clear. His grip tightens, and this time you kiss his neck. Lex closes his eyes.

“Don’t go..”

He groans.

“I-I have to..”

He’s really battling right now, your careful movements against his body are making it hard to focus. Your fingers get busy, and when you start opening the collar of his shirt, he knows he’s in trouble. You just flick the first two buttons. Giving your better access to his neck. This time you bite down softly and he has to fight to keep in the moan.

You’re actually trying to leave a mark on him.

It looks like he’ll have to find a way to keep his resolve. Because if it were up to you, Lex wouldn’t be going anywhere.

Love might be much better than what he expected.

[angelcloves]

As much as I love the idea of Willow and Gus being a key part of the Owl Piece AU...

I feel incredibly bad for their Dad's. At least Perry reported on Eda's near-petrification, so he should have some idea how things went awry? Maybe? I mean, his son and his son's close friend starting a riot would've been pretty hard for him to have missed, lol.

But Gilbert and Harvey?!? As far as they know, Willow went of a field trip... and never came back. Sure, it's possible, even probable that they watched Perry's report on the petrification, but uh... That still wouldn't really be much of a comfort to them. Their daughter is gone and she's probably going to stay gone for months.

Actually, that also goes for Perry. And unlike Willow's fathers, who at least have each other, he doesn't seem to have any other family besides Gus! So poor him too.

Hell, none of them might not even know where their kids are! Unless Eda sent like, a letter to them or something before The Owl Ship set sail.

"Dear, the actual parents of my two newest kids.

So, as you've probably heard, the government tried to put me to death recently. And your kids helped prevent that from happening. Kudos to you guys for raising children with a taste for chaos. But now, not only is the government still after me, but they want a piece of my sister and the kids as well.

But don't worry! My house has the ability to shift into a ship, so we're setting sail for the other side of the world. Of course, everybody knows that there's not supposed to be anything out there, but I figure that the journey there and back again will take long enough that the heat will have died down to the point that we can all resume our usual lives by the time that we do get back.

So don't worry about your kids, I'll look after them as if they were my own! My sister and I may not have magic anymore, but I figure that between the two of us actually let's be real, my apprentice will be doing all of the teaching we can still manage to keep up their magical educations. Plus we can fish for food and they'll have hammocks to sleep in.

Just think of this as them being on an extended field trip! Only one where they'll be learning things that are actually useful, chaperoned by adults who genuinely care about them.

Kindest regards,

The Owl Lady

P.S. I'm so sorry, it wasn't supposed to turn out like this. Why didn't Luz listen to me. Why did Lily have to curse me. Why did Belos decide to go after the kids. This is so wrong wrong wrong wrong...."

consider: souvenir game would go hard

[mikimeiko]

Day 16 - Across Czechia

Feels weird and sad to be leaving Brno. I feel like I've been here forever.

The first part of my train ride goes through the hills north of Brno, and not through the valley directly to the west as I thought it would.

Feels criminal to change trains in Prague and not... stop. Such a beautiful city. But I have been there before and there are so many other cities to see ;_;

The route between Prague and Plzen is very beautiful, especially when it passes near the Český kras, an amazing protected area that I would love to visit in the future.

Finally I find the pretty station that I was looking for... and it's under renovations ;_; Too bad because it looks like it would have been very pretty. Also interesting is the fact that the station building is between two different rail viaducts (I suppose because of two different rail branches). Like in Ostrava! Interesting idea, putting the branching around the station.

Plzen old town is INSANE. Building after building of incredible beauty, colors like there's no tomorrow, friezes and bas-reliefs and paintings. It's like you can't catch a break, behind every corner lies another unexpected beauty, and it's amazing.

There's a giant square with the cathedral in the middle, and it looks like there might be some sort of festival! (Actually there are at least to different festivals + other things around the city... Ok!)

While crossing the river I see the station from a distance and... wow, ok, I didn't realize how insanely opulent the building actually was? Where am I? Why is Plzen so ostentatiously wealthy? (I tried to look up the city's history but it doesn't really explain this... or more likely I'm missing something)

I go check out the festival in the main square but I arrive just in time for the first act to finish, and the second one doesn't start for at least half an hour. Luckily at the beer stand they have the Birell pomelo and grapefruit that I liked so much in Ostrava! Except... It's not the same? I guess there was more than one flavour and I didn't specify. This one is redder and berry flavoured. It's not bad, but it's not my favourite.

Also, there a smaller gazebo for buskers to perform between acts (I guess?) and two guys very 2010s indie.

(I really love that the music starts in the late afternoon. Last year I happened to be in a couple of cities that were having festivals, but the events always started so late that I never got to hear anything - especially with the super early trains I was catching XD)

I finally (?) try the fries cheese with tartar sauce (innabun). It is... fried cheese? It mostly tastes of fried and sauce XD but it fits the mood.

The second act of the night is a cover band, and I was a little sad that I didn't have the chance to discover new musicians, but: it's a rock/pop-rock cover band made up of old men. I love them. Super good energy. Good selection of songs. Yay!

Also. Also! How long has it been since the last time I heard live music that I really liked? When was the last time I went to a concert? Feeling the drums beating inside your body. Your mouth grinning of its own volition when you recognise the song. Being inside a thing that is amorphous but real, part of the crowd and you're not alone even if you're there alone. I want to learn how to play the drums - well a drum at least, I keep forgetting! But it is impossible to forget when you feel it, there. Aaaand it was kinda the perfect situation because there were people but it wasn't crowded, I could slip outside the mass whenever I wanted, leave and come back and leave again. But it was so good! Thank you Plzen for this goodbye-to-czechia gift, and to think I wasn't even supposed to come here!

[citrusreadstoa]

Reading The Hidden Oracle: Chapter 10 (SPOILERS)

"my favorite jam: Alabama Shakes' Rise to the Sun" Just listened to it. Not bad at all. Not my jam, but solid song. Would recommend.

"the way a benevolent queen should look. So definitely not Hera, then." PFFT HAHAHAHA I bet this hippie prophecy lady is the Oracle of Delphi that came before Rachel. She was described as being dressed like a hippie, wasn't she?

"The Maserati morphed into a school bus" Ah, I see Apollo has PTSD from Thalia's driving, too.

So this mauve-clothed guy (He picked a nice color!) is either the son of or legacy of Apollo? Wow, Apollo's descendants really do not have a reputation for turning out great, huh? It sounds like he wants to overthrow his father/ancestor's domains by taking down the Oracle.

"He wore doctor's scrubs with an open ski jacket, the words OKEMO MOUNTAIN stitched on the pocket." So it's confirmed that Will Solace is a fashion nightmare. First "inconspicuous" black clothes to blend in with broad daylight, then shorts and a t-shirt to Tartarus, and now a ski jacket and scrubs. He's not even working in a professional environment. He can wear whatever he wants and he chooses this. Willingly. Pun intended.

"looked as if he'd stepped from the deck of an eighteenth-century whaling vessel" It is two in the morning and this is deliriously funny. Looks like the Sun kids inherited both their dad's questionable fashion sense and his sense of priorities. "I can't even qualify for the Olympics until I'm sixteen!" "My last video got, like, five hundred thousand views in a week. What am I supposed to do?" I'm loving these kids already.

"Crotchkicker McCaffrey" Oh, I like that. That's gonna catch on.

If the mauve guy wants to burn the Oracle and he's not going after Rachel's cave (though he could be going after Rachel herself at the Clarion Academy), then Mauve is probably trying to destroy the actual Delphi place in Greece. I hope Rachel shows up, 'cause it would be a bad kind of ironic to not have the Oracle show up in a book literally called The Hidden Oracle.

"a Ramones T-shirt (bonus points for musical taste)" Gasp, is Nico listening to modern music? "I remember you. Is it Nicholas, son of Hades?" I see now why he goes by Nico. Nicholas Di Angelo just doesn't have the same ring to it. I find it interesting that both Percy and Apollo describe his eyes as resembling broken glass. "There's an aura of death around you--a thick possibility of death." Tact, Nico. Please learn it.

"Would you prefer special guy? Or significant other?" "Significant annoyance, in your case." So this is where the Significant Annoyance thing comes from! It's also good to see that Nico is slowly adapting to the more open environment of showing affection because it would be odd if he were okay with it so quickly.

"We need to talk about the disappearances." We, uh, we need to talk about the what?

Lot's of characters introduced or reintroduced in this chapter. Next chapter's gonna be a huge info dump catch-up on whatever's going on at camp, isn't it? It's basically guaranteed with Chiron around.

[botslayer]

Why (Almost) every member of The Seven is Sympathetic:

Yes I said “Almost” but I want to do this in descending order (With one exception, you’ll guess who quickly). What makes these characters human monsters despite their great power? The only ones I feel no sympathy for at any given point are Translucent and Shockwave. 

Okay they lock him in a cage and he really only wants to get out, but remember that he nearly killed some guy (Hughie) for trying to spy on them as he thought Hughie was a government spy. However, while in that cage, he mentions the idea that normal people are nothing to supes. I believe his exact words in once scene were “You’re nothing but a water balloon full of blood and meat.” So when he dies after bouts of bargaining and bribery, yeah. Fuck ‘im. Shockwave is on the extreme opposite end, he’s given virtually no characterization so his death is basically immaterial to the story and I have no clue what level of scumbag I’m supposed to infer he is.

He takes A-Train’s job (Which he can no longer do due to a medical complication). Big deal. He’s just some guy with super speed and a pawn for Homelander that gets taken out before he can do anything as far as the story goes. He looks cool but he’s a nothing character. (There is also Mister Marathon but we don’t know enough about him for anything relevant yet) The Deep, perhaps ironically this far up, is next.

The Deep has a couple of short scenes where I do sympathize. For example when he tries to help a supermarket lobster only for it to be killed, and then another where he invites a woman into his house. Said woman fingers his gill holes much to his protest and apparent pain while they have sex. Does he deserve that? No. But through all of that, and through joining the Church Of The Collective, he never learns the lesson he should have. He doesn’t actually appear to see what he did as wrong just that it’s inconvenienced him so thoroughly. Not to mention the fact that he’s technically committed bestiality (Albeit the sea life he communicates with seem to express roughly human level intelligence or something he understands as that at least which makes it... less bad, arguably.)  All the same, the irony of The Deep is that he’s a completely shallow person. He’d do what he did to Starlight again if he thought he could get away with it, you can’t change my mind. I think that’s kind of the point though. Given the shows writing, I really don’t think I’m supposed to give a crap if The Deep lives or dies. He’s done one authentically good thing in the whole show and that was at the very end of season 3 with someone else’s prompting. (Although I won’t spoil that) Next, we have Black Noir, The Seven’s resident ninja. Which I want now.

Black Noir is probably a little high up for some of your tastes but I will say that from Deep, it’s a pretty steep drop to Noir. This physically abused and mentally broken assassin is honestly one of my favorite characters even before we got his backstory. His old and new leaders in the teams he was/is in were/are both absolute tyrannical monsters and he’s blindly loyal to a company that likely sees him as little more than an asset. You almost wanna give the guy a hug. Even when he kills someone it’s stiff and robotic. Like he only does it because it’s what he knows how to do. We also know he has either imaginary friends as of season 3, or basically schizophrenic delusions of cartoon characters. One or the other. This still suggests his brain is completely fucked. Especially when you see a chunk of it fell out in Nicaragua.  Noir is ultimately a manifold victim of circumstance that slowly, over time, broke his mind, busted him up, and made him a monster, not because he simply is one, but because he was broken into one. Just like his most recent leader. But we’ll get to him. For now, Lamplighter.

Now, Lamplighter is a bad enough dude, but he feels an all-consuming, soul-crushing guilt. He feels nothing but pain for what he’s done, the thing that broke up The Boys before the show started, killing Grace Mallory’s grandkids. See, he might be a supe and was wrapped up in their wrong doing but he’s committed a great sin and knows its weight full well. His death in season 2 is a release. One that was unfortunate for The Boys but it was for peace. And it’s depressing but I’ll be damned if I don’t understand it and... Sympathize. Rest in peace, Lamplighter. Then there’s Maeve. 

Maeve is a bad person. I don’t care what people say. Maeve is a bad person. But the question we have to ask is “Why?” “Why do you leave a plane full of people to die?” “Why do you enable the monsters around you?” Because she wants to survive. You tell Homelander of all people “No.” You tell him he’s doing something wrong and to give a shit. If you don’t go along with it, you don’t know what he’ll do. And it’s the same with people like Translucent spying on people in the bathroom. She’s so surrounded by this evil by this corruption and forced to smile and wave and pretend she’s happy when she isn’t. She’s the strongest woman in the world and ultimately feels powerless against the corporate scumfucks she works for or Homelander or A-Train, whoever else. She might be able to do damage to the others but not on Noir’s watch, not on Homelander’s. Defineitely not on Vought’s.  She’s been cut off from the woman she loves for years, her approach to being a superhero is completely warped by what’s happened in her tenure, and the only person on God’s Green Earth willing to try and help her actually act on being a good person is Starlight. There’s a good person in Maeve trying to get out and Starlight helped or at least tried to but it’s a constant uphill battle against everything both of them are surrounded by. She gets a happy ending but the road to it is long and painful and honestly it isn’t entirely unearned even if I would have preferred her dying a hero’s death. Speaking of Starlight: HOMELANDER IS NEXT!

What hasn’t been said about Homelander? He’s a scumbag. He’s a manipulative, opportunistic, hateful, evil, egotistical, violent, sociopathic monster and needs to be stopped. But like with Maeve, the question is “Why?” Put Simply: He’s Superman without the Kents. He was denied something people need in their formative years. Love. He was affection and connection starved and taught to be the most effective weapon, not hero, possible. His super strength he only uses for relishing his horrible actions because his lasers do almost anything he needs quicker, even if it results in more collateral. That’s really not his concern because he was raised more or less not to give a shit. They gave a demigod a fullgod as a son and then denied either of them that bond and spoiled the god they made rotten, letting him think he could do whatever he wants.  Homelander, not entirely unlike Noir, is a victim of surroundings. We don’t know what kind of person he could have been if he just had a proper family or at least a father. Vogelbaum certainly wasn’t going to give it to him and he admits that was a mistake. Homelander’s story is a tragedy when you get right down to it. A kind, loving boy forced to endure what could only be called torture just to see what sort of powers he had and then unleashed upon the world with a constant desire to be loved and seen as a hero by the people he’s supposed to work to save and help lead further astray by a combination of the already fucked up superhero culture of the time and his warped psyche. We all want Homelander to die, I think. But I wish I could go back. That I could just help a screaming child get the life he deserved before he became the monster we all know. Up next, we have A-Train.

A-Train is a bad person... Or perhaps was. But do remember the pressure and threat he lives under every day. If he slows down from his records for even a few milliseconds, that’s a few milliseconds someone else can take and use to take his place in the spotlight. Something he, a character from at least an inferably low-money background probably doesn’t want to have happen despite Homelander forcing him to run V everywhere to make “Supervillains” or the idea that Homelander could just, apropos of nothing, decapitate him and face no consequences.  And now, given what happened in season 3, even though we know he’s killed more people than Robin and Popclaw, he knows why the things he’s done are wrong. He understands. He’s learned something approximating a lesson about what he’s put others through and is sorry. He understands at long last why what he’s done over the years is wrong, something he had to learn the hard way and he wants to make up for it all but doesn’t know how. At least he’s trying to use his platform for social issues. For whatever that’s worth. Now we come to the bottom layers, Starlight, Supersonic, and Blindspot.

Starlight, or Annie, is a character who kind of represents the average Superhero fan in my opinion. We see Superheroes as symbols of hope and justice. We see them as moral paragons who, while having flaws, let their good qualities shine through as much as possible not just because they’re good for everyone but because they, themselves, are good. They’re kind, caring, and maybe have just a pinch of an ego or show-offy tendencies.  However as the show goes on we understand how that image is maintained by Vought in this universe through fake exploits in movies, comics, and shows. We learn that Earth’s Most Mighty, The Seven, are almost all monsters of various different kinds the lot of them are managed by a single company that has its fingers in every pie at once. Annie, upon walking in and experiencing all of this first hand, has to adjust to it. She has to learn to play the corporate game which she already kind of does but only in theoretical ways she HAS to flex to stay afloat. She has to learn how to appeal to her supposed team mates and dance around all their bullshit, even Homelander’s. She gets everything she thought she wanted only for it to be a nightmare, and as it turns out, kind of forced on her by her mother.  Annie isn’t a bad person and is probably the best superhero in the show. She doesn’t do what she does because her ego is off the chart or because she’s driven by some abstract agenda. She genuinely wants to help and inspire people with a platform in The Seven. And to the show’s credit it’s not portrayed as a bad thing or superb naivety. She lives in a world of brainwashed people and is kind of one of them. She has to do bad things, even if she doesn’t want to. And that’s the kind of thing that you just feel for.  I don’t really have a segue, but Blindspot.

We don’t know anything about him. Okay, he’s basically Daredevil but other than that, virtually nothing. He’s a good dude though and kind of comes off as another Annie. Hopeful, aspirational, and genuinely wants to do what heroes are said to do and help people, stop criminals, that jargon. Then Homelander ruptures his eardrums. We don’t know what happened to him after that, if he bled out or got taken to some variant of medical area and is recovering but all the same Homelander stole a dream of a kind from him and left an entire secondary layer of crippling him. Blind-deaf people can get through life, yes, but he’s got one hell of a learning curve ahead if he survived and it’s all just a sad sight.  Just short of finally, Supersonic.

Supersoinc is a lightly developed character. He’s an old boyfriend of Starlight’s and we know for a fact he’s not a bad dude. He, like her and Blindspot, kind of embodies a sort of heroic idealism. He’s overcome a crippling drug addiction, he’s cleaned up his act and gotten back in the game, he’s openly displayed a trusting nature toward Starlight and a willingness to help fight Homelander, so much so he tried to recruit A-Train to the cause because he understood it was worth doing. He dies before the right thing can be done which is arguably worse than dying doing the right thing IMO. Now... The one you’ve all been dreading or perhaps sharpening various weapons and farm equipment edges for: Stormfront. 

I’m saying this now: I saved her for last because I know she’s a hard sell. She’s a fucking nazi. Like... There’s virtually nothing else to say. That alone is enough of a reason not to give a shit or relish when horrible things happen to her. She arguably deserves just about everything she gets, key word “arguably,” on that metric alone. Her loss of spotlight and platform and eventual death were good things... But hear me out. This woman was born into a country that had problems. In the years that followed she was indoctrinated into the prevalent, evil ideology, made into a god, and then she outlives... everyone. Her husband, her daughter, lord knows how many friends and other family members. Then she finds a new love, a man who embodies everything her rancid ideology wants. The strength. The power. The lovely blue eyes and blond hair. She’s found the perfect ideal and he’s into her. They’re in love. Homelander loves her so much he introduces her to his son who she tries to indoctrinate into her hateful world view and then that boy does so much damage to her body it’s unreal and her own healing factor can’t keep up with it and she’s left as major burn victim who’s slowly losing control of her body. Not only can she not physically be with the man she loves, she can’t wish a happy birthday anymore because her body is gradually failing her more and more. She can’t wheeze or even blink on command anymore until she kills herself being unable to deal with how, to her own ideological lens, pathetic she is now.  I struggle to feel no sympathy because that’s a lot of shit all at once. Again, happy she’s gone. The world of The Boys is a better place with out her. But just because she’s a terrible person, just because I find her to be awful... I still can't bring myself not to feel some sort of sorry for her. But she’s experiencing terrible, horrible things and I’ll be damned if those don’t engender some variant of empathy of sympathy. You may now flog me if you don’t agree with that stance. Anyway the point of this post was essentially just gushing about how I love this show. All of the characters are properly diverse and interesting even in their scummier behaviors. They know how to make them all uniquely scummy and sympathetic at once... All the ones that matter at least. 

[jaehyunzzmilk]

make a wish

pairing: johnjae x reader (incubus angels)

word count: 2.1 k

genre: smut

summary: imagine johnny and jaehyun appearing in your room to satisfy your sexual dreams

notes: hey angels, as promised I'm uploading the first part of this fic I've always wanted to write, first chapter has to be with johnny and why not add my other bias, god gave us two holes for a reason lol next parts will be with other nct members but omg I got so horny while writing this, hope you like it, leave a feedback if you like

warnings: threesome, fingering, oral (male and female receiving), unprotected sex, double penetration, spanking, biting, choking, cum play, anal (female receiving)

"Make A Wish"

You're searching for some books at the occultism part at the library, you're not exactly sure what you're looking for, you just hope to find some answers for the dreams you're having. It was always the same dreams, well not the same story every time but it was always with the same men and at the same place, since you could remember. "Aren't people supposed to have different dreams?"

But the funny thing is, you're not afraid, the dreams are not nightmares, you actually like the feeling. There are these beautiful men, you think they are angels, always the same ones, there's something about them, when they appear in your dreams you get a level of serotonin you don't need anything else, you can feel them touching you, it's like you loved them.

You were almost obsessed with it, to a level where you spent most of your time sleeping trying to dream about it again. Of course you couldn't tell them to any therapist or friend because they would say you were insane, so you decided to do your own research.

While searching over the bookshelves, a word grabs your attention "Incubus".

'These demons crave sex and often attack their victims while they sleep.' You've heard about this before. While reading that quote a flash went through your brain of one of them fucking you, you couldn't remember which one was it, but the fact that you had a better feeling of orgasm from a dream that your real life was exciting. Maybe that was the reason you wanted to dream about it again.

Do you know that feeling when you wake up from a dream and don't remember about it at all? But you know you had the dream, and who it was with. That's how you feel about the demons or angels from your dreams. But the only thing you're sure it's you have to find a way to extend the feelings, enjoy them and ironically be conscious. You want to remember their faces, to talk to them, to fully feel them.

When you get home you prepare tea to start reading your book, you don't want to drink coffee because you want to sleep easily. Reading through the pages you learn that since the old days people experience dreams like the ones you do, for some people it might feel like nightmares, sleep paralysis and some even feel pain, it can last years. Then you learn something called lucid dream, that basically you can have control over your actions. You just wanted to see them again.

Can you induce a lucid dream? You were going to try it. There's a lot of ways to lucid dreaming, a lot of them involved setting up an alarm after you're in an REM phase of your sleep, which is the deepest level of sleep, then staying up for 30 minutes and getting back to sleep again. It was too much work, you were gonna try the easiest way.

Hours later, after reading the book and googling everything about lucid dreaming, you lay down on your bed and you try to remember some of your old dreams, that's what one of the articles says. You try hard to remember details, things you normally don't remember like the smell, the noises, the colour of the walls… And you repeat to yourself "I will dream about them tonight, I will remember my dream"

After about 30 minutes you're impatient, you can't stand to stay still anymore, you try everything but can't fall asleep. You open your eyes and stare at the ceiling then you grab your phone.

[1:00 am]

"- I love when she uses that silk night dress" A voice from the corner of the room says.

"- Look how perfect she is waiting for us!" Another voice says.

The two tall men walk towards your bed. They are tall and beautiful. They wear silk white clothes and have a skin that looks like porcelain.

Did it work? Were you dreaming?

"Are you angels?" You ask and sit down on your bed.

Both of them look at each other and laugh, they are sitting at the tip of the bed now.

"- You're the only angel here princess" The guy on the right says.

They come closer to you.

"- You were waiting for us, right? Did you miss us?"

"Ye-Yes but… Who are you? Can I know your names?" You say afraid you're going to wake up and they will disappear.

"- It's ok princess, we're not going anywhere! My name is Johnny" - He says passing his fingers through your hair.

"- I'm Jaehyun!" He lays on your side.

Gosh, how could they be so beautiful? It seems that you're in control of your actions now. You suddenly get shy and don't know what to do. If it's a dream then why does it feel so real?

"- You called us, right princess? Don't be shy" Jaehyun says and moves his hands up your tights, your whole body shivers with goosebumps.

"- Just relax angel, we'll take care of you, that's why we're here" Johnny says while kissing your neck.

Jaehyun moves his hand up and touches your core with the tip of his fingers.

"- Look Johnny, she's not wearing any panties! She was begging for us to come"

You moan while Jaehyun kisses the other side of your neck. Johnny takes off the shoulder strap from your night dress exposing one of your breasts and he goes down giving wet kisses on your nipple. Jaehyun moves your chin to his direction and kisses you, soft but intense.

"- Tell us what you want princess! Make a wish!" Johnny says, kissing your collarbones and grabbing your boob with his hand.

"I want you, both, all night"

Now Johnny kisses you, and Jaehyun starts to finger you slowly.

"- You have us, wish conceived!" Jaehyun says while taking off your night dress.

"- You're perfect!" Johnny passes his hands through your body and takes off his clothes. He kisses you again and sucks your bottom lip.

When Jaehyun's mouth makes contact with your clit you moan in Johnny's lip. You reach out to Johnny's length and start to move your hands up and down, spreading the precum from the tip to his base. Johnny comes back to sucking your nipple while Jaehyun is eating you out.

"- I want that pretty little mouth around my cock" Johnny says, grabbing your face to his cock. He pushes his length all the way into your mouth making you gag, saliva leaking from the corners of your mouth while you moan and take him all in. Holding your neck with one hand Johnny finds a way to reach your clit with his free hand while Jaehyun is devouring your pussy. Jaehyun's twitching back muscles looked so beautiful with his head between your legs and Johnny making sure he was also pleasuring you while you sucked him.

"- Such a good girl, does it feel good having both of us all for you?" Johnny says, pressing his finger harder on your clit. You pull out Johnny's length from your mouth for a second so you can breathe, your back arches and whole body tense because of how close you are. You give a loud moan when Johnny taps your clit and kisses you again.

"- Are you gonna cum on Jaehyun's mouth angel?" He bites your lower lip.

"Yes... Yes, I'm coming!" You scream in pleasure.

After recovering from your high Jaehyun bites your inner thigh and comes up to kiss you. "Look at how sweet you taste" Jaehyun gives you a deep kiss and Johnny collects your juices with his fingers and puts it in his mouth to also taste you. "- So wet for us!" Johnny says, his eyes get darker and he grabs your neck and kiss it from behind. Johnny grabs your hips and pulls down on his lap, he teases you brushing his cock on your ass.

"- Bend over for me!" Johnny says. You obey and get on all fours, looking up to see Jaehyun's smirking at you. Johnny gives a slap on your ass and you moan in surprise, getting even more wet.

"- Look at me "Jaehyun positions himself in front of your mouth and grabs your neck hard while Johnny enters your pussy with one deep thrust. He fucks you hard and deep while Jaehyun chokes you.

You reach for Jaehyun's dick hard on his stomach and take him in your mouth. You pick up a rhythm, tears coming out of your face from being stuffed with both of their dicks, room filled with the obscene noises of moans and skin slapping. Jaehyun moves his hips deep in your throat making you gag and choke and each one of your moans sends vibrations making him twitch. Jaehyun pulls out for a moment just to tease his tip on your lips, then you deepthroat him again. Johnny's thrusts are getting faster, making you moan into Jaehyn's cock, Johnny is moaning hard as well. "- I'm gonna cum" He digs his nails into your hips and comes hard inside you. At the same time Jaehyun removes himself from your mouth and grabs his dick in his hands "- Me too" he says. With no warning Jaehyun releases into your face making a mess, splashes of cum all over your face. Johnny is still inside you, he pulls your chest against his, holding your boob with your hand and your neck with the other. "- Look at the mess Jaehyun did to your pretty face, you like that don't you?" You push down in his cock and start moving your hips in circle motions "- You're so dirty, are you gonna come for us one more time?" Johnny asks. Johnny holding your weight on him, Jaehyun puts his fingers on your lower ab. "You look so good with Johnny's cook deep in your pussy" Jaehyun teases you while you keep thrusting on Johnny, he puts his hand in your belly, right where Johnny's dick is, then lowers to your clit. "- Cum for us one more time" Jaehyun says. You cum on Johnny's dick, legs shaking and you relapse on your bed.

Johnny and Jaehyun lay on your sides, Jaehyun is facing you and Johnny is behind. Johnny pulls your hair exposing the back of your neck giving you a kiss. "- Are you ready for round 2?" Jaehyun asks, kissing you. He lifts one of your legs, giving an easy access to your core, he teases your pussy lips with his tip, you whine wanting more. Johnny takes the leaking cum from your core to your butt hole, inserting a finger carefully to stretch you out. You squirm to reach Johnny's face and kiss him, rolling your hips to feel Jaehyun's dick brushing against your core and Johnny's fingers on your ass. "- Do you want our cocks filling you up? Can you handle that?" Johnny asks. "-Yes, yes please fuck me, I can take it".

Jaehyun stops the teasing and pulls his whole length into you, then pulls slowly out leaving only the tip inside you, he keeps doing that over and over, the overstimulation in your pussy lips is driving you insane, you whine. "- Sorry, I didn't hear you" Johnny says and slides his cock into your ass, you moan even louder than before with every thrust. The new feeling of pleasure consumes your body, two cocks inside your holes filling you up so good. They were being more gentle, the thrusts were slow but deep. Their hands running all over your body.

"- Fuck, how can you be so tight?" Jaehyun moans "You'll be so full with our cum" you drag your nails into his back. You tilt your head back, resting on Johnny's chest.

"Oh God, I can't hold for much longer!" You scream. Your body and mind are going blank with the overstimulation. Johnny and Jaehyun still thrusting into you, deeper and harder. You squirt on Jaehyun's dick so hard and he climaxes right after you. Jaehyun removes from you and Johnny's thrusts gets messier as he grabs your body with more strength as he is closer to his orgasm, with a few more pounds he releases into you groaning.

You breathe heavily trying to recover. "You did so well, my love!" Johnny says kissing you. Jaehyun helps cleaning you up and softly passes his fingers through your body.

"I don't want you to disappear, please stay with me, only with me!" You lay your head on Jaehyun's chest. "- Don't worry my angel, we are only yours!" Jaehyun says. "Promise?" You look at them. "- Yes baby, we promise!"

"I don't want this dream to end" You say and fall asleep in their arms.

"Find us in your daydream" Johnny whispers.

[skamenglishsubs]

Subtext and Culture, Young Royals, Season 1, Episode 2

Episode 2 picks up the morning day after the initiation party, the girls are having breakfast lunch at their dorm, the boys at theirs, and everyone wants the juicy details about what happened at the party...

Culture: Tell me more, tell me more, did you get very far? Although, it's pretty funny how the roles are reversed, Maddie is all "meh" about it, while Nils tells a different story. Then again, since when do you get together after a blowjob?

Culture: I actually have no idea why Simon is having breakfast at Skogsbacken, since regular schools only cover lunch for students, everyone eats breakfast at home, and then goes to school. Then again, it allows a scene where (Never mind, they're having lunch, thanks @kamand !) Blink and you miss it: Wilhelm casts some nervous glances at Simon after having been called out for disappearing at the party and almost forced to confess to making out with someone.

Culture: I know Felice is trying to put August down, but don't knock a proper Swedish pizza! As much as I like living in the US, they can't fucking make pizzas here, and the first thing I eat every time I go back to Sweden is always a real pizza. With pineapple and shrimp as God intended pizza to be made!

Culture: August is namedropping ski resorts in the Alps, which is where you go skiing in Europe if you have money, although Saint-Martin-de-Belleville is actually near Val Thorens in France, while Verbier is in Switzerland. It does have a three-star restaurant, though. Sweden and Norway have a couple of decent ski resorts, but the Scandinavian mountain chain is simply not as impressive as the Alps.

Subtext: Remember Wilhelm getting up and hurrying to math class in the beginning of the scene? It was so he could grab the other seat next to Simon, because he knows Simon is gonna sit next to Sara, since no-one else does.

Culture: Formally greeting your teacher before class is very uncommon in Sweden, but since Hillerska is all about discipline and tradition, of course they do it. Note that they're again using the formal Swedish title for male teachers, Magister, which in a regular school would be kind of a joke, since teachers and students are on a first-name basis with each other.

Subtext: Wilhelm is exposing how the world works if you have money. At Simon's old school, studying alone would result in good grades, but Hillerska is slightly corrupt and almost expects the students to essentially pay for getting a good grade.

Subtext: Simon is lying to his teacher, he absolutely hasn't talked to his parents about paying for private lessons.

Subtext: No, Sara absolutely does care about what other people think about her, and when she directly tells Felice that she would actually like some friends, that's when Felice gets it and starts making an effort to become real friends with her.

Culture: They're all bilingual at Simon's home, they're all speaking Spanish and Swedish, although Linda has a very noticeable accent to her Swedish. Based on demographics and statistics, the most likely scenario is that Linda immigrated to Sweden from Chile, met Micke, and started a family. In real life, Omar Rudberg was born in Venezuela and grew up in Sweden, while Carmen Gloria Pérez was born in New York, and grew up in Puerto Rico.

Subtext: Remember how I talked in the intro post about how distant social classes know nothing of each other? Ayub and Rosh are either working class or lower middle class like Simon, and since rowing is a typical upper class sport, they know nothing of it, they don't even think of it as a real sport. Unlike football, which is a proper working class sport, they know all about that!

Subtext: Scandinavia has Jantelagen, and everyone there thinks it's uniquely Scandinavian, but all countries have some form of Tall Poppy Syndrome. In this scene, Simon is starting to make a class journey, he started rowing, he started trying to fit in with the other upper-class kids, and getting into a relationship with someone as upper-class as Wilhelm would definitely move him all the way. But going on a journey means leaving things behind, which is why Rosh and Ayub are cutting him down and literally turning their backs on him. They like it in the small town of Bjärstad, why can't he be happy there too? Why is he betraying his roots?

Subtext: This comment from August nicely foreshadows a later episode when August does something traceable on a School computer...

Subtext: What August means is that he's not sure Wilhelm has the same desire to be accultured into the upper class, to play the part of a proper prince, in the same way that he and Erik have accepted their roles and are even enjoying them.

Culture: Although it's impossible to read the name of the medicine, the paper tag on the bottle indicates that it's some kind of prescription medicine. From the conversation with Vincent, we learn that it's some kind of ADHD medication, probably some kind of Dextroamphetamine since those improve athletic ability and cognitive functions in healthy people.

Culture: Birkenstock sandals are associated with hippies in Sweden as well as in many parts of the world, so August is actually saying that the school counselor isn't really part of the same upper-class society as the rest of the staff. And again, his use of the word sosse drives the point home.

Subtext: Consequently, the counselor sees right through August and refuses to immediately prescribe him the medication that he wants...

Subtext: ...even though August tries to both bribe him and threaten him into giving him the medication he wants.

Subtext: A big theme of this episode is class journeys, and in this scene and a previous exercise scene, August gushes about how good a thing that is, how proud he is of Simon for going on one, and spouts some crap about how everyone can make it if they really want to.

Subtext: Thankfully, Madison says what we're all thinking: August is full of shit, life isn't fair, and they're only at the school because they were born into privilege.

Blink and you miss it: After Wilhelm has nervously texted his crush for the first time, he starts to bite his fingernails, but quickly stops himself, because why would he be nervous? He's just texting another boy about rowing practice, there's nothing more to it!

Subtext: Simon's texting game is on point though, he knows exactly what he should write to get Wilhelm to go on a totally-not-a-date with him.

Subtext: In the same way that August couldn't convince the counselor about being sick, I don't think Wilhelm's atrocious acting here convinces August that he's sick either.

Culture: Public transport in the greater Stockholm area - or wherever we're supposed to be - is of course cash-less, and you pay by either charging a special card, or by signing up in their app and buying tickets through there. The point of this scene though is to drive home how Wilhelm has never ever had to take the bus before in his life, and therefore has no idea how it works.

Culture: The totally-not-a-date starts at a Circle K, which in Sweden is just another gas station, but it is actually a Canadian multi-national convenience store corporation. The price of gas is of course posted in kr/l, and 13.98kr/l corresponds to roughly $6/gal.

Subtext: Throughout the totally-not-a-date, Wilhelm is trying to reach for common ground with Simon, trying to show him how he's just a regular guy...

Subtext: ...but then real life intrudes, Wilhelm is recognized by some local girls, who call out to him and run away giggling, which shows how he's not a regular guy, he's going to get recognized wherever he goes.

Culture: Kokt eller grillat, boiled or grilled, are the two ways you can get your hot-dog at pretty much any hot-dog place in Sweden, and ketchup and mustard is always offered. The correct answer to this question is of course grilled, with ketchup and mustard, and this just shows that Wilhelm is a man of culture and good taste. Unfortunately, they were out grilled ones, so they all got boring soggy boiled hot-dogs instead. Is there a metaphor here? I don't know.

Subtext: Again, the show drives home the point that absolutely no-one has a problem with people being gay. Simon is clearly out to Ayub and the rest of his friends, and Ayub immediately picks up on the fact that this is totally a date.

Blink and you miss it: Ayub nudges Simon with his elbow to tell him that he should make a move on Wilhelm.

Culture: What we're looking at is just the local junior/high school football team, Bjärstad, playing a match against some other unnamed junior football team. Since the stakes are super low, the audience basically consists of whichever parents and friends of the players that could be bothered showing up.

Culture: Driving age is 18 in Sweden, and even then getting your own car at that age is extremely uncommon. However, you can easily get a license for a moped when you turn 15, so these are the vehicles of choice for teenagers to get around.

Subtext: August found out about Wilhelm's trip to town, but his main problem with it is that he wants Wilhelm to stop slumming it with lower class people, and to start hanging out with everyone at school instead, so that he can be properly accultured into the upper class. Again, sosse in this context means working class, not socialist.

Subtext: Although Simon felt really great about his first date with Wilhelm, the text message reminds him that Wilhelm isn't a regular person, and that even this innocent little trip generates interest and scrutiny, and can't be posted publicly.

Culture: As everyone should have noticed by now, Madison keeps speaking English, while everyone speaks to her in Swedish, so clearly she understands it. But here she gives her motivation for sticking to English, and that is that she doesn't feel she's good enough at speaking Swedish. Boarding schools like Hillerska attracts international students that have some kind of connection to the country, so a likely scenario is that Madison grew up in the US with a Swedish parent, and she's being sent here to experience Swedish culture and get immersed in the language to learn it better.

Cinematography: This shot of August drives really home all the pressure he is under, he's out of drugs, the headmistress just hinted that he's out of money, and he's literally being weighed down by books and work-out weights.

Subtext: Simon has kept his visits to Micke a secret from Sara, so here he has to intervene to make sure August doesn't accidentally reveal this to her. He also wants to protect his sister, so he's redirecting August's search for drugs onto himself.

Subtext: And on the flipside, Simon isn't really telling his dad that Sara still hates him and really doesn't want to see him, so he's vague when Micke asks about Sara and Linda.

Culture: Finally a bottle of medicine where we can read the label! Unfortunately for Simon, this is Tramadol, an opiate prescribed for pain relief, which is the complete opposite of the kind of drugs August wants.

Subtext: If you haven't figured out yet that this episode is about class journeys, August spells it out for us here. However, the reason he's "congratulating" Simon in front of everybody is because Simon just supplied him with more drugs, so this is his way of thanking him, since he can't really pay him.

Blink and you miss it: For a split second, Wilhelm grabs Simon's leg during the scary scene.

Subtext: The entire dialogue of the movie works as subtext for what's actually going on between Wilhelm and Simon at this point, and Wilhelm is getting a little freaked out by this sneaky display of affection.

Subtext: The movie also puts words on the implications of Wilhelm getting together with a boy, what about having kids in the future? Can you carry on your family name and traditions, or will they die with you?

Lost in translation: The plaque actually says "FEEL YOUR RESPONSIBILITY FOR THE HERITAGE". Even though the plaque means the heritage and legacy of the school itself, Wilhelm is thinking about his legacy, his heritage, and how getting together with Simon would threaten that.

Lost in translation: Wilhelm actually says "jag är inte en..." - "I'm not a..." before he stops himself. So it's not possible that he was trying to say "I'm not gay", because that doesn't work grammatically in Swedish either. He could be trying to say "I'm not a guy like that" or "I'm not a guy who likes guys", that would work.

Cinematography: The framing and silhouetting of this shot is just chef's kiss. The outline of their hair allows us to see who is who, and we can see from their poses that Simon is welcoming a kiss, while Wilhelm is still hesitating.