#aki flesh&bone

[ena-113]

and bam! the homemade blorbo is set free into the internet! *ੈ✩‧₊˚

A young couple prayed at a shrine, as is tradition during the festival. They asked for the chance to have a strong and healthy child.

Meanwhile, at the same time, in a very different place, a group of teenagers stood around a circle drawn in the dirt, fumbling through chants in a language they didn't understand, as is normal for a typical slumber party. Boredom often led to strange activities.

The young couple, universes away, didn't quite specify they were planning for that child to be birthed naturally from the woman. Why should they? It was obvious what they meant, and really, what other way was there?

The teenagers, centuries ahead, didn't even know what they were saying. It was a dead language! And besides, no one thought it would actually work. Beyond maybe the wind blowing a little stronger, what else should they expect to happen?

Screaming. That's what happened. On both ends.

[ena-113]

aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!!!!!!!!!

this is like my favoritest thing ever. also love how this is how i end up introducing my little homemade blorbo to the internet.

the sister agrees, she is absolutely in love with the lil comic. also says you absolutely nailed Rei's characterization and behavior.

a bonus answer as to what she's dreaming of.

it's oranges. im planning on a bit of a gag with oranges. they're how she starts teaching shika "divine tounge", or, yk english.

I plan on publishing her on ao3, not so sure how soon, though I did have a big burst of energy and inspo recently

first person who reblogs this with a picture of their oc and a little blurb ab them, Ill draw ur oc for u (quality not guaranteed)

[claymoresword]

I Choose Her | Stand Alone Series Chapter: 2

Hermione Granger x Slytherin Fem!Reader

Summary: Y/n and Hermione attempt to deal with the emotional and mental turmoil that came after the 'Battle Of Hogwarts' & everything else that led up to it.

Pairing: Hermione x Reader

Wordcount: 1.6k

Warnings: angst, depiction of cutting & self harm, death & violence, a bit of fluff somehow

Note: this one gets pretty graphic so please approach with caution. like stated there is mention of self-harm and a depiction of it so i have indicated that section with asterisks. if that sort of thing is triggering for you please skip and stay safe! but other than that, hope you enjoy. <3

Taglist: @aweidlich @xxsekhmet @poppyflower-22 @cocoyeehaw @blackbirdv98 @arcturusseer @cherryflavoredcoke @js-a-writer @baylegend6 @puta1 @t-wylia @raven-ss @unexpected-character @brocoliisscared @aki-ham @theheartwants-what-itwants

(comment to be added to or removed from the taglist)

You cover your ears, a feeble effort to dull the incessant ringing.

Squinting to find your way through the courtyard, the dust began to make your eyes water. Yet the sting was a welcomed distraction from the near deafening noise that reverberates through the air.

You gaze up at the sky and it only helps to disorient you further.

The sun is out, but there is no light.

“Harry Potter is dead!” A voice dulls the noise, his voice.

The large snake that slithers past your foot makes you recoil, it circles you continuously, as if stalking a prey.

You reach for your wand on instinct, but you find that it is not in your pocket.

Your breath catches in your throat as Voldermort advances towards you. Half of his body deteriorating into dust, yet a spine-chilling grin remained.

You attempt to call for help, but you have seemed to forget how. So instead, you take a frantic scan of your surroundings.

Your stomach turns as you catch sight of a bloodied arm, sticking out of a pile of rubble to your left. You shift closer, motivated by a curiosity that you quickly learn to regret.

What you once thought was rubble, turns out to be a mountain of corpses.

They lay limp and lifeless atop one another, some nearly burnt to ash– others bloodied beyond recognition.

Your schoolmates, reduced to pieces of charred flesh and bone.

The urge to wretch overcomes you again.

“Harry Potter is dead.”

Voldermort's voice again, now only above a whisper, still makes you wince. You followed the arm he has left outstretched, pointing to the highest point of the mountain.

There you spot Harry, laying on the top of the pile, unmoving.

Dead.

The noise that leaves you is involuntary when you notice Ginny pinned underneath him. Then there is Fred, Neville, Seamus– Ron.

All dead.

“No!” You cry out, this time your voice does make it past your lips.

At last, you are able to locate your wand, you retrieve it swiftly as you point it at Voldermort.

His face has changed again. This time he appears to you younger, human.

You are left staggered for a heartbeat, still you continue to aim your wand towards the man standing before you.

“The snake, y/n, you have to kill the snake.” Her voice carries through the courtyard. Hermione's voice.

Still, you can't see her.

You just barely manage to bite back a sob.

Her absence is like a dagger to your chest, twisting relentlessly.

“I will try.” You respond to no one.

The man's head morphs into one of a serpent, and soon, a bright flash of green erupts from the tip of your wand. With a large thud, the man before you drops to the ground.

It leaves you unsettled– killing still feels unnatural, it made you sick, and you vow to always feel that way. To never let it be a part of who you are, you cannot allow it to be.

You stand over the body now only to realize there is a serpent head no longer.

The corpse now bears a resemblance to someone you recognize all too well. A blade twists in your chest again, hacking away at your heart.

Hermione remains motionless as you kneeled over her. Frenzied, you pull her head onto your lap, feeling her pulse.

You did wish to see her, but not like this.

How can a sight you desperately yearned for, so suddenly turn into something you utterly dread?

“No, no. Wake up, my love. Please, wake up.” You beg in anguish, clutching her body close.

She is so cold.

The only bit of warmth you feel comes from the uncontrollable flood of tears that escape your eyes. You cannot sense the dagger anymore, and soon, you cease to feel much of anything.

Your chest– your very being, vacant.

You have killed Hermione, and the last bit of your soul in the process.

-

When you open your eyes again, you are in bed. You wake, alongside the familiar blinding ache in your arm.

All you can hear now is your quickened breathing, and the pounding of your heart as you sit up.

“Shit–” You mutter, clutching your head, your shirt sticking to your frame from sweat.

It wasn't real, only a dream.

The Dark Lord is gone, and you are safe.

Instinctively, you reach for Hermione, only to find the empty space next to you.

Panic sets in once more as you climb out of bed.

It can't be– it was only a nightmare.

“Hermione?” You call out into the darkness, but you receive no response.

You know she is alive. You spent the day with her and you went to bed with her.

It has been that way for weeks, you concede.

That is unless, you've managed to escape one nightmare only to wake up to an equally bleak reality.

The thought makes you shiver, you wrap your arms around yourself as you call out once more.

“Hermione?” You speak slightly louder as you enter the kitchen, still, she is nowhere.

You swallow uncomfortably, rubbing your throat when you realize just how parched you are.

You quickly approach the sink, retrieving a clean glass. “Aguamenti.” You watched silently as water started to fill it.

Soon you throw your head back, entirely emptying its contents.

You attempt to set the now empty glass down but a sudden sharp pain in your arm causes it to slip out of your fingers.

Before you can save it, the glass shatters across the counter.

The sudden noise causes you to flinch, but any shock you experience quickly morphs into pure anger as you observe the dark mark etched in your arm.

Truth be told, after the battle you had expected it to become dormant, obsolete. There is no use for it now that Voldermort is dead. but to your dismay, the effects only got worse and far more agitating.

Still driven by hot rage, you carelessly reach for a piece of glass, clutching it firmly.

Simply desperate to put an end to it all. The wretched memories– the pain and anguish that you carry with you every waking moment it is a result of this symbol in your arm.

***

Without another moment's thought, you run the sharp edge across your skin. You groan at the pain, but a queer sense of relief sets in as you watched the blood trickle down your arm.

The warm, red substance defaces the dark mark, you began to relish in the fact that you could hardly see the symbol now. So you decide to cut again.

You have no intentions to stop until it has been carved out of your arm entirely.

***

Although, you are only allowed to continue for a moment longer. You are caught by surprise when Hermione distrupts your plans. She wretches the piece of glass out of your hand in distress, it makes a loud crash as it lands it in the sink.

“What on earth are you doing?” Your girlfriend exclaims in horror. She immediately grabs a wash towel, quickly placing it over your arm to stifle the bleeding.

You don't respond for a prolonged moment, you can only afford to stare at Hermione. She is safe, she is alive.

You have not harmed her.

“Darling..” Hermione coos, you only realize you are crying when she gently wipes the tears from your cheeks.

“I just wanted it to stop.” Is all you can manage to utter, and your girlfriend's expression only grows more concerned.

She averts her gaze, lifting the towel to inspect your arm. Whereas, you mantain your stare upon Hermione– you cannot bear to acknowledge the damage you've inflicted upon yourself.

“This.. that was not the way to do it. What if you had cut too deep? Please, y/n, you can't do things like that. You frightened me half to death.” Hermione reprimands, her frustration entirely justified.

You nod in resignation, the fact is you weren't thinking, you simply acted, as you always do.

“I'm sorry.” You say with real remorse and Hermione swiftly wraps an arm around you.

She kisses the side of your face, embracing you tightly. The both of you remain like that, without speaking, for a while, simply taking comfort in each other's presence.

“Where were you?” You finally mumble against Hermione's shoulder. She pulls back to look at you properly before speaking.

“I couldn’t sleep, so I went out onto the balcony.” Your girlfriend explains, loosely gesturing to the sliding doors in the distance that remain open.

“I lost track of time because I was reading.” Hermione adds, more sheepishly, and it only makes you smile.

“Of course you were.” You quip.

Your girlfriend shifts her eyes away from yours once again to look at your arm. You observed as she set her bottom lip in between her teeth, always a sign that she was thinking.

“You know, I think it's almost romantic.” You say suddenly, and Hermione blinks at you in confusion.

“What is?” She asks but you don't allow her to ponder on your statement for too long as you reach for her left arm.

You lift it up. It is tough to see under the moonlight, but you could still somewhat make out the scarring on Hermione's forearm.

Her flesh once carved until bloody with the word ‘mudblood’, now fully healed, leaving only a thick scar.

“Now we're the same.” You remark with a smirk, an effort to make light of a otherwise grim situation.

Hermione scoffs, retracting her arm.

“You are an idiot.” She claims, but there is no bite to her words, and you catch a faint smile playing on her lips as she rolls her eyes at you.

“Come on, let's get you cleaned up.” Your girlfriend coaxes, tossing the bloodied wash towel into the sink.

[sseomtada]

being [ruben dias]

your move to Manchester signifies a triumph - the result of nearly a decade of relentless, hard work. However, your sweet victory is quickly turned sour when you reencounter the person you once deeply loved.

a/n: remade secretly only to be back on my bs...here's to praying for me to finish this fic? | 1/??? | 4191 words

This weather was nothing short of an utter atrocity.

It was the kind of bone-chilling freeze that overpowered even your skin's ability to raise its own flesh. Every ounce of energy repurposed instead to turn that evolutionary feature inwards. A futile effort, at least in your case. Even back home in Amadora, you suffered from genetic lack of internal warmth.

Miserable environment aside, the move would be worth it. Everything that you’ve done for the past few years - nearly a decade of sleep deprivation, being the brunt bearer of power trips and clinging to the slimmest sliver of rarely presented opportunities - had led to this.

Not the brutalist view spanning the length of your new floor to ceiling living room windows, but what it signified. Growth. The expansion of your firm here, in Manchester.

“Estou exausta…”

You pulled your eyes from the endless clouds to see your right hand, Aki, draped limply over the last of your boxes.

“Careful.” You bent to rip open the tape sealing the one near your feet.

“Oh, sorry.” She blew her overgrown bangs up to no avail. “Am I crushing your precious CB2 ceramics?”

“Actually, you’re slowly sinking onto my very sharp surgical steel kitchen knives.” The box cutter in your hand gestured vaguely to the label beneath her hips.

Aki’s yelp echoed off through the empty loft as she sprang from the impending mockup of a medieval torture method. Your laughter joined in when she grimaced and muttered something threatening to the thick cardboard that remained dent free.

“Thanks for helping me with all this.” You exhaled. “I owe you.”

“We’re even when you think about it.” She fetched a box opener of her own.

Your eyes widened. There was never a moment in your lifelong friendship when she didn’t take up on an IOU card. Not even when she purposefully served a suspension for knocking the lights out of a girl who blew gum into your hair in the fifth grade.

“I mean, you brought me along with you to open Bana. Full executive package, no less.” Aki beamed and then sneered upon unboxing her newfound arch nemeses.

That was true. Since she was the company’s Head of Finance, her immigration to Manchester was completed covered. Housing located right across the hallway, a brand new car of choice and an increase in salary to accommodate for the higher price of living wasn't the worst package to receive.

It didn’t feel like much of a repayment for her efforts when all things were considered. Bana wouldn’t be close to what it was today if it wasn’t for her. Any business was only as successful as how well they manage their finances, an aspect that she can solely and proudly take credit for.

Not to mention that you both would be extremely busy while trying to fully establish this new branch. If anything, she at least deserved the building’s penthouse suite for the headaches bound to come throughout this journey.

“So…is that a pass on the 1982 Bruno Giacosa?” You dangled the proverbial carrot.

Aki didn’t miss a beat, “Don’t be ridiculous.”

Getting ready for your first day at the office never felt this good.

Perhaps it was due to the fact that your first ever job was, understandably, anxiety inducing. Being an intern for a well-known marketing firm wasn’t known to be a glamorous position - the multitude of reasons for that not stopping at being a coffee gopher.

After climbing the ladder to a mid-level position within your previous company, it became painfully obvious that the older leaders had no intention of making room for you soon. To eradicate any dreams of that from your mind, they even outright said it.

That led to your next go at a first day, the start of your own consultancy which would then go on to become Bana. Even though you had established your presence in the marketing world and had a few loyal clients, no amount of seminars you’d attended or books you’d read could’ve prepared you for the monster of a task you’d taken on.

This time felt different. There was always going to be an element of nervousness when stepping into a new venture. Even though this was a new branch on a tree you knew well, there was a lot to learn about operating in a new country and little time to do so.

What you had now, however, allowed you to convert that nervous energy into excitement. Experience, establishment and esteem. Those things among the equally as important trustworthy team behind you left you more confident than anything else that this could potentially only be the beginning.

“There better be a good reason why you’ve got me out early on a morning like this.” Aki’s poor facial muscles have yet to relax since the move it seemed. This time their scrunch was due to storm clouds looming in the distance.

“I think our very lovely AD has something exciting to share.” You nodded to give her the go ahead.

“Ladies, as you know I’ve been working on getting us an in with a certain business through my various sources and I’m happy to report that Bana was among the firms selected to pitch.” Cindy could barely contain her excitement.

Her optimism was infectious and part of the reason you recruited her. Another reason for bringing her into the fold to establish the new office was the insane network she had.

The blonde Londoner was in a similar predicament to you when you were starting out not long aog. Even hungrier, if you admitted it. Her former employer didn’t see the potential she clearly possessed, so you had no problem poaching her from them.

“And do we finally get to know the name of this state secret level business?” Aki leaned forward.

“Nike!” Cindy couldn't hold back any longer.

Even your face dropped at that. Not in the way that one’s expression would if they just found out that they’d been rejected from their dream school. It was something akin to finding out you’d won a fucking Oscar.

Among the celebratory cheers and shimmies, you thanked Cindy greatly for her hard work. And although it was a moment of uncontainable joy, the wheels had already began to turn in your mind.

There was absolutely no room for error if you wanted this pitch to be chosen. Being a newer firm undoubtably going up against major competition, Bana’s proposal had to be more than just that.

It had to be a statement. One that said you were not only a major player in this field, but that you also were to be seen as a direct rival.

You got to delegating tasks quickly. The sooner you got the bare bones of the pitch down, the quicker you could work on perfecting it. Aki was on budgeting as always - pricing presentation materials, researching and pricing the estimated budget for the product rollout for Nike.

Cindy was mostly on recon regarding the target audience. The product being launched was a new pair of their iconic AirMax, so you anticipated her using historical data as a guideline.

You’d have to do a fair bit of research yourself - getting into market research, the brand’s positioning and messaging - all while putting your firm’s spin on where you think Nike is hoping to go with this launch.

It was needless to say that the midnight oil would be burning. You set up a co-working space in the conference room to make communication seamless in brainstorming and building. This was the energy you missed so much, and a more sentimental reason behind your expansion.

Back home in Amadora, Bana was a well oiled machine. With a strong staff beside you, the hands on aspects of marketing were placed on the back burner by your own doing. In order for your employees to grow, you had to let them lead projects of their own and you trusted them to do so.

Now, you were back to inhaling concerning amounts of dry erase marker fumes and getting carpal tunnel from extensive mood boarding. That along with a side of meal deliveries and an equally as hard-working coffee machine made the long hours seemingly fly by.

“I’m so tapped, I need to power down for the day.” Aki stretched her back dramatically.

“Feel free to head out too, Cindy. Get some well deserved rest.” You took a moment of your own to release tension in your neck. “I’m good here for the next few hours.”

She was visibly grateful to be given the go ahead to clock out. From past experiences, you were able to sympathize all too well. You also made a mental note to have a conversation with her regarding working hours. There was never going to be an obligation of staying behind under your watch.

Cindy and Aki neatly organized materials for their return in the morning while you made your way to your office to continue outlining. With all of the research required collected, all you had to do at this point was place the information into their allocated areas.

There were three short raps at your door before you called her in.

“Still being here wasn’t exactly what I meant by rest, Cindy.” You chuckled, not looking away from your monitors.

“I’m on my way out now! Just wanted to bring you over the client mailing list I got from my source a minute ago.” She slid a USB drive onto your desk.

Your brows raised appreciatively, “Thank you, really. I mean it when I say that your presence here is essential and invaluable.”

Cindy waved a hand, her head shaking in time.

“I’m just happy to be helpful. See you tomorrow!”

You bid her goodbye and immediately got to taking a look at the information she left behind. It would be very useful in filling in some gaps you needed to flush out ideas that would attract the goal audience for the new product.

Influencers, Performing Artists, YouTubers…Athletes.

The last of those categories was obviously a given considering the brand. It also wasn’t the first time you’d come across that group in your line of work. This time though, seeing the label suddenly formed a knot in your stomach.

You were brought back to all of the avoidance in the aftermath - everyone in your life completely air-gapping the football world from your path. They did that to protect you, a gesture you still couldn’t bring yourself to thank them for verbally.

The mouse beneath your hot palm slowly shifted as you moved the cursor to click and expand the list. That knot grew to the size of a boulder. It squeezed your insides painfully within and forced a broken little noise past your lips.

One look at the name Ruben Dias was all it took to rattle you to your core.

o passado

At the age of seven, you moved to Portugal.

There wasn’t much you missed about your hometown, or even remembered for that matter. All you knew was that you were eerily calm for a child whose entire life up until that point had been uprooted. It was possible that your serene state of mind came from your mom.

She was all you had in the world. There was virtually no relationship had with her family - the only photograph you ever had with your grandparents was at your christening.

When it came to your dad, she put it as kindly as she could for a kid. You were smart enough to read the inference in her tone and the look on her face in the handful of moments he was brought up. He wasn’t in your life because he didn’t want to be.

Yet still, none of that made you sad or shaped you into a person defined by traumas. You intended to live the life that your mother encouraged you to. Be a kid, climb trees and get dirty, make friends along the way.

And that was just what you did. The first of them being the girl in your class that waved you over to the empty seat beside hers when you transferred. My name’s Akenna, but I hate it so I make everyone call me Aki instead.

She was the only person other than your mom who made you feel safe enough to confide in, just as easy to talk to as it was to listen to her wild recounts of her own life story.

Aki quickly became a regular in your home and you in hers. The giggles and secrets held in the various forts sprawling from your living room to bedroom would stay under lock and key until long after you both passed.

The next person you met would be the one who arguably shaped you the most. Loud shouts and tussling with a ball in the neighborhood park with his siblings was where you met Ruben. His tattered football rolled to your feet that touched the ground after you’d leapt from the swings.

With a weak kick, you returned it. Ruben shook his head in disapproval before he shot it right back at you. Try that again, with the left this time. You didn’t know if it was anger at being challenged by some random kid or genuine hidden talent, but when you hit the ball with your instep, it flew powerfully and directly into his own.

She’s on my team!

Inseparable wasn’t a strong enough word to describe you two. After finding out that you lived only one house down, he would come to your school to walk with you back home. On many of those occasions, Aki was there too. Your mom would be waiting with snacks and a warning, don’t play too long out in the sun, patifes.

Somewhere and somehow along the years, you and Ruben had become so close that it seemed you two were dating. Ivan jokingly asked one day as you were sharing a vanilla ice cream cone, ew, are you boyfriend and girlfriend? Ruben grabbed your hand, laced your fingers with his, and simply said, yes.

And that was that.

As for when you began to realize you loved him, that was harder to pinpoint. Maybe it came once you began to notice how helpful he was to you and your mom.

Ruben was always willing to lend a hand with repairs around your house, even if it meant searching up how-to videos when he thought you weren’t paying attention. Or how he’d go out of his way to walk your mom home when she worked night shifts.

Aki often griped and rolled her eyes at how you two were making her feel like a third wheel. Those complaints were always quickly followed with rebuttals that she’d spent a grand total of fifteen days as a single girl since she was thirteen.

Just make sure my maid of honor dress isn’t fugly at your wedding.

It was all but a given that marriage was pending in the future for you two. Ruben never had eyes for any other girl and you…God, you were terribly devoted to him. Even your posters of Justin Bieber found themselves catching dust in the closet, replaced by a collage of photos you and Ruben had taken together over time.

Five years saw graduations, proms, college acceptances and many, many firsts experienced together. His arms were the only man’s you’d ever laughed in, cried in, slept in. His eyes were the only one’s you saw when you closed your own. His lips were the only thing you wanted to taste on the good and bad days, and everything in between.

So, what happened on September 15th 2017?

To this day, you still had no answers to the why behind that question. Nor could you allow yourself to wrack your brain for them any longer should you want to hold onto your sanity.

As for what. Simply put, it was the worst day of your entire life to date.

On the eve of his debut for Benfica’s first team, an event he’d dreamt of and worked so hard for, one that become just as significant to you by extension, Ruben broke up with you. Over the phone, no less - which added humiliation onto a violent erupting volcano of destructive emotions.

Cold turkey, brutal, cruel. It’s over, don’t contact me, I don’t love you anymore.

There were no warning signs, no moments in retrospect left unturned during your spiral, that could’ve possibly made what you read true. You initially thought it was some sick joke. Maybe one of his teammates had taken his phone. Or perhaps there was some girl that wanted him and was jealous that he was yours, so she decided to play dirty.

It was none of that or the million other scenarios you came up with on you walk over to his home. You came to learn that it was, in fact, not a joke. Ruben meant it when he said he was done with you.

He made that painfully clear as he looked at you standing under the faint glow of the lantern on his front porch through the window. Those eyes you once dreamt of fondly seemingly someone else’s as he drew the curtain and shut off the light.

You don’t recall much of time that passed in the months following that night. Every now and then you’d get flashes - Aki crawling in and out of the bed you temporarily became one with, your mom scooping you up to help you bathe and wash your hair.

It was better that way, you think. A blessing in disguise to not be able to clearly recall the most devastating period of your existence.

When your memory resumed, it always picked up at the same place. You siting with Aki on the steps of an abandoned subway station in total silence.

In your mind, you were there with him years ago when the line was still functioning. The rush of the train brought wind along that rose your hair like lightning was about to strike. Ruben grinned toothily as he smoothed it back, tilting your face upwards.

He said I’d always be home when I was with him. Where am I supposed to go now?

The silence returned even louder following the question that neither of you had the answer to.

Instead, you sat there in it with your best friend and shed the last tears you ever would over Ruben Dias.

o presente

Seven years was a long time.

It came with two college degrees, laser focus and an ability to compartmentalize so strongly that it would terrify artificial intelligence.

Whatever threatened to upend you at the sight of his name was snatched up and contained to be dealt with sometime in the future. You didn’t put literal blood, sweat and tears into your career to let one old wound derail it at such a pivotal moment.

With the same vigor you scrapped up to move on with your life, you poured every ounce of energy you had into absolutely nailing your pitch. Five all nighters, thirty six edits and ten complete run throughs later resulted in Bana being chosen as the firm to brand the newest AirMax.

“I always knew you were a genius, but this project was just,” Aki kissed the air as she took the next left to drive back to your shared building.

“Team effort, Aks.” You mumbled.

The thing about throwing yourself entirely into one project was that when the hard work was done, all the was left was the shit you were avoiding. You could feel it there, gnawing at the back of your head like a mice on a fresh piece of cheese.

“What if we watched an old coming of age movie like we used to on nights like this? Pop out some wine, get in our pj’s…real wild stuff.” She nudged your elbow with hers.

You casted a fond glance at her. Aki would never come outright and say it, but it was her way of checking in with you. The client mailing list was no secret to her since she needed it for the budgeting, so there was no way she missed him being on there.

The mice grew hungrier. Throughout all of your breakdowns and pain, she held all of hers in unselfishly and arguably stupidly. You weren’t the only one who lost someone important to you on that night.

“We do that after product launches. The deal has only just been sealed.” A smile was managed to form on your end.

“Ah…best not jinx it then, huh?” Aki blew a raspberry.

In order to keep her worries at bay this time, something you silently promised to do ever since your senses had returned, you squeezed her arm and doubled down.

“Besides, I haven’t had a proper night’s sleep in nearly three weeks. I think I’ll just go for a short run, take a shower and hibernate.”

She nodded, liking the sound of that plan. You would’ve felt proud of your disarming skills had you not known the real reason for her shoulders relaxing. She was looking forward to having the next two days off more than anyone else.

“Don’t forget to text me when you get back.” Aki stuck out her pinky.

“Always.” You locked yours in tight.

The repetitive beat of your feet meeting the ground had the ability to still your mind nearly as much as pouring yourself into your work did. Left, right, left, right, left. When you added in the accompanying swing of your arms, the constant reminder to keep your breath in control and music that made you feel like you could punch a hole through a wall - you were nothing short of a machine.

It was one of the healthier coping mechanism you’d clung to back home. Every day, you’d take to the streets of the new neighborhood you moved to and then to the track at you university.

You’d gotten so good at it that you were scouted to run for the school’s team. Going pro was never a part of your plan, though. You only accepted the offer because it came with a free ride.

A drop of water hit your face, but it was cold.

Your treads slowed a bit as your eyes turned skyward. The clouds illuminated against a murky purplish background with the warning of distant lightning approaching. You refocused and pumped your legs faster. Fucking Manchester.

In between your songs transitioning, you heard a faint rumble. It made the hairs on the back of your neck stand up, the sound distorted by the headphones muffling your ears playing tricks that twisted the noise to sound partially human.

Whether it was or not, you weren’t trying to stick around to find out. It was late at night and the weather was going to get hellish soon.

From the corner of your eye, you spotted a shadow ripping behind the streetlights - closing in on yours with each meter. Lactic acid built painfully in your muscles as you pushed even harder, breath control thrown to the wind.

It was gaining on you while rain began to fully fall.

Within a matter of seconds, which is all you had, you came to a decision. You were too exhausted from sleep deprivation and being nearly an hour into your run to beat whoever was chasing after you. The only option you had now was to steel your nerves and use the keys in your pocket as a last line of defense.

Your right hand blindly reached down and was met with lint. Terror hadn’t been felt until that very moment. A thousand and one scenarios raced through your mind with you reaching for the ones that would allow you to leave this situation at least narrowly unscathed.

The one you got a firm grip on using the element of surprise to hopefully distract them from whatever intentions they had for an instant. You took one last deep breath before spinning around swiftly and throwing out a fist.

A man in a baseball cap dodged the punch to his credit, albeit not very ideal for you. His balance, however, was in your favor. He slipped on the slick sidewalk and landed flat on his back with a pained groan.

You were the last thing you should’ve been given that you’d been granted an escape - frozen. On your behalf, you would’ve been halfway down the street and barreling towards your building had it not been for the wide eyes staring up at you.

Those eyes…Ruben’s.

[still-breathing-au-p3r]

Shinjiro wakes up to pain.

Everything hurts. There aren’t any flowery comparisons to make, everything just– hurts. His whole body is one long blurry throb. His vision fuzzes into meaningless green static.

His bad shoulder is on fire, his ribcage feels like it’s being pulled open at the sternum, the scar tissue on his side yanks at skin and muscle and nerves whenever he takes a breath. The back of his head aches in time with his pulse. His bones feel bruised.

Coming here with everyone was probably the worst decision he’s ever made. Well…alright, maybe the third worst, but that still doesn’t exactly absolve him.

He’d been completely useless– worse than useless, he’d had to be the one protected, and they’d all gotten captured anyway.

Now all he can do is hang here, trussed up like some poor animal waiting for the knife to turn it into a holy offering. That’s how Ikutsuki sees them– how he’s always seen them, apparently. Meat on the altar.

It’s funny in a sick, disgusting sort of way– as soon as he decides he wants to live again, he just gets killed anyway. He’d even gotten a little time to let it marinate, to let the idea that maybe the future did exist for him really sink in before the punchline dropped. He might even laugh at the irony if he wasn’t in so much pain. Maybe this is exactly what he deserves.

But none of the others do.

“Shinji!” Aki’s voice comes from somewhere on his right. It’s probably obvious how much pain he’s in, but he doubts Aki can be doing much better. It really is just like him to worry about Shinjiro instead of himself. “Are you okay?!”

His jaw is clenched tight enough that his molars grind together and he can’t take a full breath. He wouldn’t be able to answer even if there was a point to it.

Vaguely he hears Kirijo’s voice, calling out to her father. He thinks Kirijo-san’s voice answers, but it’s even fainter. He has no idea what they’re actually saying. How did Kirijo-san get here? Does that question even matter at this point? There are so many voices now. They’re all jumbled together.

“Tch. Fine, I’ll do it myself!” Ikutsuki’s snarl rises above the rest of the noise, because as he speaks the telltale click of a loaded gun sends everything screaming back into focus. Sound and the picture below sharpen so suddenly that he can practically feel them cutting into him.

Aigis has Kirijo-san’s hands pinned behind his back in her iron grip, one hand pointed at his head and poised to fire.

Ikutsuki holds the gun. He aims at Kirijo-san.

Even though he’s not the one staring down the barrel, Shinjiro’s pulse still leaps and his breath goes icy in his lungs. The sudden cold numbs him a little, and the scrap of relief brings even more clarity to his senses.

He kind of wishes it hadn’t.

Everything happens so fast after that.

Kirijo-san shakes Aigis off. Shinjiro doesn’t see the second gun, but he hears it. Two triggers pulled and two bullets fired at the same instant.

Ikutsuki doubles over, clutching his gut.

Kirijo-san collapses.

The gunshots were louder, but it’s the way Kirijo screams for her father that echoes painfully in Shinjiro’s skull.

Ikutsuki demands that Aigis kill them. She marches on his orders, takes aim.

Shinjiro closes his eyes. He hears Aigis open fire.

There’s no hot punch of metal in his flesh, though. Instead, the pressure from the chains around his arms suddenly vanishes and he’s falling–

He isn’t able to catch himself or even brace for the impact, so he lands badly. Hitting the ground forces the air out of his lungs in a single, painful lump. His scars feel like someone’s jammed hot pokers into them and twisted.

He doesn’t think he’s bleeding at least, so that means that nothing’s opened back up. Or if he is bleeding, he can’t feel it. Which is probably worse, actually.

People are yelling. Ikutsuki shouts deranged bullshit between heavy, strained breaths. Amada calls out to Koromaru– Koromaru is here? Since when?

It doesn’t matter. None of that is his priority right now.

Someone grabs him and hefts him up to his feet. Shinjiro knows that grip, recognizes exactly who it is even before his vision swims back into focus. He lays his hand over the one on his shoulder and squeezes. “Aki.”

Once he has Aki’s attention Shinjiro leans his head towards Kirijo– too quickly, apparently. Dizziness overwhelms him for a second and he has to lean hard on Aki to stay standing.

Kirijo kneels beside her father, her hair fallen around her face so her expression is hidden. She presses one hand to the side of his neck while the other pats his cheek, trying to rouse him.

He’s not moving.

Aki’s face pinches the way it always does when he’s upset but doesn’t want it to show. He says nothing, just nods and shifts to take on most of Shinjiro’s weight as he walks him over to Kirijo’s side.

Aki lowers him to kneel beside her. He can’t help control the descent and drops too hard, something grinding painfully in his knees. Kirijo doesn’t react to the thud or the hiss he sucks in through his teeth. She doesn’t seem to notice him or Aki at all. Aki hesitates and Shinjiro waves him off to join the rest of the team as they confront Ikutsuki, who’s still shrieking only semi-coherently at them.

He really could have gone the rest of his life without having to see another dead body. Especially not when it belonged to someone he greatly respects. And Kirijo–

She’s no longer searching for a pulse or trying to bring him around.

One hand rests tenderly on her father’s chest, just above the bullet wound. Her eyes are fixed on his face, but it’s anyone’s guess if she’s actually seeing anything right now.

Tears slide silently down her cheeks.

Shinjiro has never seen her cry before.

God. What the hell is he supposed to do?

“My father–” Her voice sounds frailer than he’s ever heard it. He’s not sure if she’s even speaking to him– she isn’t looking at him– but he listens intently anyway. He owes it to her to listen.

“My father once made a promise. He swore he would atone for putting our generation in danger, even if–” She swallows and smooths a wrinkle out of his suit. “Even if it cost him his life. But I–”

Kirijo’s voice splinters into a sob and she buries her face in her palms. “I wanted him to live. I– I became a Persona-user so I– I–”

Shinjiro reaches out and gingerly places a hand on her shoulder. Immediately she turns and collapses against his chest and he can’t tell if the thud of her forehead against his already aching collarbone or the broken-glass wail that she muffles into his coat hurts worse.

He freezes. She’s so distraught that she probably doesn’t even realize what she’s doing.

It’s one sick joke after another tonight, isn’t it. The number of times he’s imagined Kirijo in his arms is, quite frankly, pathetic, but– god, not like this. This couldn’t be further from anything he ever wanted. He feels like such an asshole for even letting his mind drift in that direction, for just sitting here thinking about himself while Kirijo clings to his sleeve and soaks his sweater with her grief. 

Eventually he manages to get himself moving again. He brings his free hand up to her other shoulder, squeezing gently.

“I got you, princess…” he murmurs, so quietly that only she can hear. The only response she can manage is another jagged sob that sounds like it cuts on its way out. 

He’s seen her upset before. He’s seen her dismayed, and furious, and fearful, and devastated.

But he’s never seen her like this. Not lost. Not shattered.

It’s terrifying.

A small eternity later, Aki comes back and crouches beside them, wrapping an arm around Kirijo and pressing his palm against Shinjiro’s back.

Ikutsuki’s finally shut up, it seems like. Distantly, Shinjiro can hear their leader ask Takeba for a quick heal to everyone before the Dark Hour ends. They all need it.

It can’t do much to help with the bullet wounds that have been aggravated by all of tonight’s getting-the-shit-kicked-out-of-him, but still it’s a good thing that he’s still kneeling down when it's his turn. The sheer relief of even just the newest pains finally fading would’ve sent him crashing to the ground.

There’s nothing Takeba can do for Kirijo’s pain, though. There’s nothing any of them can do.

[cielettosa]

AKI HAYAKAWA: A RELUCTANT AND HUMBLE HERO

Chainsaw man manga and anime spoilers!

Aki's introduction into the manga presents him as the epitome of the ostensibly conventional archetype – the composed and proficient senior figure, propelled by the common motif of vengeance. This character archetype, often pervasive in mangas, imbues Aki with an air of familiarity, yet a closer inspection reveals a nuanced departure from the norm.

What sets Aki apart is the stark realism that underpins his pursuit of justice against the formidable entity, Gun Devil. Unlike the fantastical invincibility often attributed to devil hunters in Chainsaw Man, Aki is a manifestation of vulnerability, existing as a fragile entity composed of mortal flesh and bone. The manga underscores the precarious nature of his existence, highlighting the constant specter of mortality that looms over these ostensibly heroic figures.

Aki's yearning for retribution against Gun Devil is not merely a character flaw to be overcome; it is a veritable sentence, an immutable decree shaping his existence. Within the devil hunters, each engagement with supernatural, often immortal adversaries demands a substantial sacrifice. Aki, despite being among the most adept in his vocation, consistently emerges from intense battles profoundly wounded, emphasizing the tangible costs associated with confronting such formidable foes.

The genesis of Aki's descent into vengeance is rooted in the tragic death of his younger brother, a traumatic event for which he assumes culpability. This conscious plunge into darkness becomes the crucible of his unrelenting quest for vengeance. Attempts to extricate him from this moral quagmire prove futile, with even the persistent efforts of figures like Himeno falling short until her own demise. Aki's temporal reality is further compounded by a dwindling life expectancy, reduced to a mere two years after a grueling encounter with Katana-man.

The temporal constraints, however, serve as a mere formality, for Aki's existential depletion had arguably commenced long before his intersection with Denji. The disquiet expressed by Himeno in Chapter 18 is rendered redundant, as Aki had already traversed a substantial distance along the continuum of his personal deterioration. In unraveling the complex layers of Aki's character, Chainsaw Man offers a profound exploration of the human psyche, wherein the pursuit of justice becomes an inexorable force inexorably tethered to the inexorable passage of time.

[aokozaki]

Hearing in retrospect about how P1 and P2 have an overarching storyline with recurring characters really doesn't prepare you for how bare-bones those elements are in P1.

Like, P1 is a really strong story on its own! But P2's use of the recurring elements is less "the continuing adventures of [...]" and moreso them taking elements that were under-explored and fleshing them out.

Like Aki refers to Kandori as her father, and by just teasing out the implications of that, you get the final boss of Innocent Sin. 'Tis neat.

[northwest-cryptid]

My Fem Presenting Aki model is honestly so good right now, I'm so happy with it. I'm gonna just kinda Go Off about it so I'm sorry but...

LOOK HOW CUTE THEY ARE!

Some things I love about this model right out the gate:

They finally have actual high entia wings, which has been a design point of Aki for literally MULTIPLE YEARS now.

I've put in a ton of references to shit I enjoy, like how the Four Directions tattoo I usually wear on my cheek is now the tattoo from XC3 or how one of their eyes literally has the Ouroboros while the other has Aki's original constellations.

Aki now has a mechanical arm, a gift from an old friend.

It also bears the insignia of Aki's old colleague and other half (literally), Cryptid. along with a decal of The Zohar (can you tell I like the entire Xeno-Series?)

As an avid pin collector I also jumped at the chance to throw these on them:

I currently have two main outfits for them. The first being inspired greatly by the look I first drew them in, just very heavily revised.

I still love the original look don't get me wrong, but I've been wanting to experiment with merging Aki's two (masc/fem) on screen appearances with my real life appearance, or at least things I enjoy about it. So I wanted to give Aki something closer to my own hair for once with the darker center part. I'll absolutely give them at least one outfit with a cute messy bob cut though, and yea I'll absolutely bring back their brown hair because brown/black hair goes underappreciated. I also wanted to add in the head wings because I feel like that's the single most glaring aspect of Aki that no one has ever got right and it's one of the main things I love about Aki's design. However I'm really happy with this look as simple as it is.

A minor detail I actually like a lot and could easily "fix" with some quick bone work but kinda refuse to because I think it adds a lot; is that their mechanical hand doesn't articulate in the fingers.

While I could easily just move some bones around in the hands I honestly really like this more as a feature than a bug. Just because I figure someone out there is gonna go "okay but is this just because you don't know how to fix it"

No. It's an intentional feature. I might "fix" it later, but I think it adds a lot of character and makes it feel like a mechanical hand and not just a reskin of an arm.

The second outfit is geared more towards my need to over-design everything I see ever, and it's where most of the stuff shown above is seen.

I basically kit-bashed 3 outfits together and I'm absolutely in love with this absolute mess of an outfit.

I gave them the slight smug expression because I need to be able to be a smug bastard sometimes.

The hair on this outfit is a bit of a nod to an older OC design I have that I do not have any good pictures of but here ya go:

Funny callback haircut to my old Fem-Sona.

I find it kind of ironic that people have gone from He/Him'ing me non-stop to referring to this Aki almost exclusively as "She/Her" and I'm just sitting here like "oh my god it goes both ways" because I accidentally caught myself doing it too, but I digress.

It's very hard for me with how masc presenting I am, to often depict myself in a feminine manner at all and associate it with "me" I typically look at it and go "yea that's a Girl™." So it's been really nice/cool to see Aki like this and kinda point excitedly like "THAT'S ME FUCKER! THAT'S ME!"

I'm just having a very "HER PRONOUNS ARE THEY/THEM" moment lol.

I really do look at this avatar and go "I Think I Hauve Covid" it's so nice. They're so cute and I love existing in this digital flesh.

[dasozelotvonnebenan]

1, 7, and 11 for whoever you'd like!

I let the dice decide and the dice would like Doss, Other Aki and Aerana. :>

1. Your character is now the leader of their species, whatever that looks like for them (Arcane Councilmember, Imperator, Royalty, etc). How do they govern and what sorts of changes would they make if any?

Doss: Government subsided corpse donations (Government gives your next of kin money if they get to have your corpse) and complementary requisition system for necromancers and people who keep pet grubs.

Other Aki: He would find the quickest way to have someone replace him. That really isn't his thing. Not that he could ruin much, the way I think Norn run their society would simply mean people won't listen to him if he makes stupid decisions.

Aerana: Oh boy. Her dream come true. The entire asura society has now become her lab assistants. She has the wealth of rata sum to build, requisition and fabricate everything she ever needs in her studies. For the rest of Tyria she basically becomes Inquest 2 Quest Harder.

7. Do they have any skills or abilities that their class wouldn't normally have/just go about their class differently in some kind of way?

Doss (Harbinger Necro): The Flesh Wurm is now an animated arm. The Bone Fiends is tutle body, walking on skritt tails with two small arms holding guns sticking out the back. The Flesh Golem is a crocodile with Norn legs and arms. He can hold six weapons at once.

Other Aki (Elementalist): He can't actively do anything. He's just always warm when it's cold, and always cool when it's warm. Perfect cuddle temperature in any circumstance. He can walk on water if he doesn't think about it, but the moment he does it consciously he falls in. He can jump really far with wind assist.

Aerana (Tempest Elementalist): Aerana has a very low power past which she loses control and just blasts everything around her with lightning until she collapses from exhaustion and or knocks herself unconscious. And with low level of power I mean like, she can give you static shocks over a few meters, or heat a teapot. With the right focus a little more. But everything we see in the game as combat skills would be an instant air overcharge.

11. How accurate is their reputation/image compared to how they really are?

Doss is known as a good but not exceptional alchemist, whose work is interesting but nothing to write home about. He could be voted average citizen of the month if it weren't for the fact that the average citizen has at least four limbs less than him. This is entirely accurate. He is just some guy.

Other Aki: Known for being the best (or second best, depending on the week) friend one could have. Great hugger, great to hug, always down for adventure, but also always down to just sit down and hang out. This is accurate. He and his brother are indeed theatrically competing over who can be the bestest friend.

Aerana: Stylish, dangerously intelligent, easily distracted, slightly mad, ruthless, cold, and vengeful. The first three definitely, the latter three only to outsiders. The madness? Nobody knows, not even her.

[smilemuse]

THE BLUSH DOESN'T GO UNNOTICED ON AN IMMORTAL GAZE. he doesn't say anything but the temptation to take off the mask himself and lather him in affection is calling him. he resists as they aren't acquainted, or at least he's certain the other doesn't remember him from long ago. however, he knows that his features are rather unusual considering he is a fox deity. ❛ they are, ❜ he shrugs as it should be taken as a matter of fact statement. ❛ you can touch them if you like. ❜ he makes the offer so that he can validate that his fox ears are real. the color is a stark contrast to the dark clothes he's sporting, but being an inari the color of his ears & white were pure snow.

denji's reaction to his proposal despite how outlandish it amuses yoshida to no end. the way the other boy's face reddens at the thought of being yoshida's, or even the fact that yoshida himself wants his first kiss as a currency. yoshida truly desires to make denji his, of course he wants the other to fall in love with him naturally. he could handle the stages, however slow they may be. for him, time is nothing but a unit of measurement that changes like the color of trees. yoshida would wait for denji & that much he's certain of.

❛ what issue would i possibly have with you? i'm serious about you.❜ not that being serious meant suddenly popping out of thin air, but he knows it took awhile for him to reveal himself. yoshida had wanted to get to this status within his lineage before coming back to the blonde. yoshida wants the free reigns to do what he likes while also training his next-in-line. ❛ i'm sure you've heard tales of a fox bride, i'm just sticking to those traditions. some can be humans, it's not of unheard of. man or not. ❜ not that yoshida would make his preferences known although the declaration itself should be more telling than what it is.

a smile still graces his hidden lips at denji's statements. ❛ i'll wait until you get out and i'm more than willing to allow you to get to know me. like, i said i want you to fall in love with me.❜ there's a hum from his lips as he reaches out for denji to allow him to know that divinity can exist between flesh & bone. ❛ you can take my mask off, i don't mind revealing myself to you.❜ there's a gentleness to this act, a breeze of cool air that soothes anyone on a hot day. his thumb rubs small circles along the back of denji's hand.

truth be told, yoshida doesn't know a thing about love either.. however, he does know his crush on the other has blossomed into a quiet devotion & the favoritism he's always willing to show within the shrine. aside from denji, the only person he's shown a good side to is aki himself. there is nothing but respect from someone who governs the people of this shrine to making homages to him.

denji's face falls subtly, blush dusting his cheeks as disbelief also settles on his features. he's not used to someone being so bold with him; even at school he doesn't get this much attention unless it's other guys complaining to him about their girlfriends using him as a seat and starting fights. his eyes are wide, searching for something hidden behind the mask beyond the playful lilt the voice behind it seems to give. denji is unsure what to think when he's almost sure he'd never met the other before.

“haah — there's no way those things are actually real,” denji mutters with a tilt of his head, and for once, steps towards the other man to get a closer look. it's embarrassing now, denji notices, how much taller the other man is compared to him. it's the first time he's ever felt small; it definitely doesn't help the blush on his face too, but he can pretend it's not there so as long as it's not acknowledged.

denji is quiet for a moment, taking a generous moment to consider everything. this guy is seriously insane, he concludes. he doesn't know if he should ask for some kind of proof beyond the ears and tail. as for what kind of feats their god should be able to perform, he wouldn't know of either. he's about a good second from telling the guy off for impersonating a god when the name makes him stop. the name yoshida isn't forgotten, but scarce few would refer to the current god by that name. only the priest himself and the caretakers of the shrine know him by this name, or rather the lineage from which the inari come from. denji knew little about the hierarchy, but from what he does know is no one would call him by the family name so casually. maybe there is some proof to his claim.

however all thoughts cease altogether when the big question is answered. denji stares at yoshida for a moment unblinking, face contorting into mortified bewilderment; flustered at the proposition of marriage and having his first kiss stolen away. his face is a furious shade of red, and he can't see anything, but he's pretty damn sure that behind that stupid fucking mask, the bastard has some kind of shit eating grin. “w-what the hell, dude; what's yer issue,” denji hisses, fighting his voice down from his surprised heightened pitch down to normal. “ y-your what? bride????? dude, i'm a man, in case yer dumb mask doesn't make you see well. besides, i'm in school; i can't get married to anyone, and i'm not gunna marry someone i don't even know. i don't even know what your face looks like.”

[ena-113]

so close to publishing first chap of Aki!! ♡☆

naming things is so hard T^T like wdym I need to compress all the vibes into a few words??

[emjiroki]

I love your theme by the way and the header is so cute KJSDNgjer also I copied and pasted the whole list then erased some lmaooo so you have a bit to answer but I hope you don't mind <3

😅 What's a story or scene you've created that you're a smidge

🦅 Do you outline fics or fly by the seat of your pants?

🤗 What advice would you give to new fanfic writers that are just getting started?

💞 Who's your comfort character?

🤩 Who is your favorite character to write?

🤲 Would you please share a snippet of a wip?

🤯 What's a genre you struggle with as a writer (ex. romance, action, etc.)?

💔 Is there a fic of yours that broke your heart?

🤭 Do you have a favorite tag to use when posting your works?

🥰 How do you feel about reader interaction? Are you open to receiving questions about your fics?

I definitely don't mind!!! (Thank you for the compliment on my theme btw! I just LOVE valentines day and all it's pretty colors 🥰)

I'll put this under a cut so it doesn't get too long 💕

😅- well honestly I deleted my cringest story about a year ago and it is now archived somewhere deep in my Google docs. It was a Hawks x Reader x Endeavor fic that was three parts. The title was cringe and the whole thing just wasn't planned out very well

🦅- I try my best to outline! Trying to have some organization helps me keep things in line but most of the time the characters and scenes have a mind of their own, I'm just along for the ride.

🤗- advice I would give would be don't limit yourself! Write whatever you want and don't put yourself in a box. Writing something you enjoy truly is key to having a successful story because you put your all into it. And it's not all numbers, just because something you wrote and posted didn't get a lot of likes does not mean it wasn't good! Don't be discouraged!

💞- oh wow I have so many lol Shoto, Mikey, Enji, AngelDevil and Aki and lots and lots more. (Um also Simon "Ghost" Riley from COD but I don't talk about him that often)

😍- Favorite Character to write is probably Enji. I got labeled as a top Enji writer pretty quickly (and unexpectedly) and he's just fallen into the muse category. I feel alot of freedom writing his character and hopefully don't make him to ooc lol

🤲- Hmmmmm well I guess I could.... Knight Enji WIP it is

 Enji had a direct view of the door to the chapel from where he stood posted to the King's left beside the window, and he thinks he might have been the first to see you in the doorway. It was suddenly very hot underneath his heavy armor and he was thankful that he didn’t need to wear the helmet because he might have fainted. Was that his heart hammering behind his eyes, through his fingers tips, and toes? He was sure he died and somehow made it to heaven, broke down the pearly gate, and clawed his way through the clouds to get a glimpse of the angels as you walked through the held-open doors and seemed to suck the air from the room. The closer you got to the alter the more dry his mouth grew, the more his big hands shook, the more his stomach knotted. The stained glass of the church windows glimmered against your skin. Red, Blue, Green, He traced your features in every color, etching your beauty into his memory as a keepsake forever. He would crave it into his flesh if he could, down to the bone so after he’s dead and gone even the worms would know his devotion.

🤯- Genre I struggle with is any sort of mystery. I really don't know why I can't think of good plot twists to save my life. I usually have to talk out my plots with my husband

💔- an old Levi fic I wrote that I never released and is still archived in my docs. It's bittersweet and I just love him so much it hurts (also Oni's Heart pt 3 after readers been taken and Enji is depressed for a bit. Sad.)

🤭- em writes ✍️ is my go to tag for my fics so I can organize and em talks 👄 is my most often used I think

🥰- I LOVE reader interaction!!!! It makes me so happy! And YES PLEASE ASK ME THINGS! I'm always open to questions! And love discussing characters and plots and stuff! MY INBOX IS ALWAYS OPEN 💕

[whirling-fangs]

Inosuke was not fooled by the stall keeper's swift motion. His eyes caught the droplets that coated his hand, the odd ripple on the water, the stain that formed on the fabric of his clothes as he pressed his burly palm against it.

The fish had been planted right into the boy's net. Inosuke doubted that the kid even realized his own fake luck, feeble as he was, probably unable to spare a single thought for his environment.

Inosuke wanted to scream. He wanted to seize his own catch and fling the fish in the despicable faces of the other boy, his idiot of a father, the cheating old coot, the gawking onlookers. He wanted to yell his rage at all of them, to let out the frustration of an easy win robbed away from him, to evacuate the crushing loneliness that inhabited him, when no one would praise him for his achievements.

He was alone against the entire world.

A cold touch seeped into his shoulder, oozing through fine fabric and sinking right into his bones. His belief immediately corrected, as the most unlikely savior stepped in, wearing that everlasting smile. A smile that would usually freeze Inosuke to the bone as did the contact of his palm, yet it did not quite resonate the same way.

The smell, so pregnant, impossible to ignore, that usually brougt his heart to his lips. That smell meant to cover something else, the stench of ichor, of split flesh and spilled guts, bore a different meaning now.

Inosuke was being rescued.

His hunch confirmed itself as emerald eyes caught motion within the empty waters. A swift slithering, barely a glint, visible only to the most trained of gazes. Inosuke recalled his endless hours spent playing with the koi at the mansion's ponds, the little game he had made to poke them, swat at them, catch them in his hands and proudly bring them back to his mother, as a housecat would bring mice.

The stall keeper's face turned pale as a sheet, replacing the flushed redness that had tinted his cheeks until now. He practically sent the feeble child flying into the bucket with a slap on his back, urging his newly appointed champion to end this miserable game once and for all, and earn him the prize he deserved.

"Wh-whatever! If your brat can't catch that fish, then it's your loss!"

Inosuke could not spare a word in answer to the monster's whispers. His eyes were already trained on the blue fish, its tiny form hardly making any ripples in the bucket, as if it was made of water itself. Emerald eyes followed its trail with the focus of a hawk, his hand slowly approaching the surface, careful not to dip the bottom of the scoop into the waters.

Splash. The scoop disappeared, water sent flying into Aki's eyes in an effort to halt his progress, as Inosuke moved his arm in a great arc to catch the fish from the front.

The greedy man mellows before the sweet offering in their cadence; because the Lord Founder's kimono speaks of wealth and so does the golden lotus ornament holding his hair in place. That hair that has already gathered some attention from men and women alike, for its striking color and odd texture, and because it's very rare to see a blonde person around these parts of the island. And they're preoccupied with that, because the human eye can only see so far, until that geezer bellows with mirth. And Dōma holds his smile - but his lips hide his teeth.

There's a collective gasp at the sheer speed with which that feral boy grabs the fish. His little hands are deft. For a moment, the Lord Founder thinks that all the poor koi he has had to replace because of that child would see their suffering pay off tonight.

That amicable smile falters with the outcome. Penetrating gaze catches the slight motion from that man; and the forged triumph on that frail kid's face. Dōma's lips twitch. It would seem they've landed themselves into an interesting predicament. A human that thinks they can bend the rules against a demon, breaking every karmic law. That same cold glare snaps to the kid's father, who has stepped out of the crowd to partake in his son's blink of glory.

"Look, look, everyone! My son has caught the last one! This is my son!" And he grabs that boney wrist and dangles the kid around, splashing water everywhere as the fish panics in its scoop. There's mixed reactions. Some pairs of eyes are set on the peculiar Lord Founder that stands stiff on the other side of the pond, lips curled in a half-smirk that almost threatens to slip off and reveal a scowl. "Good work, Aki!" Pitiful humans, making fun of him? Now that's unheard of. In the glance exchanged between him and that thieving stall-keeper, it's quite obvious that this has become personal.

Just for that, they are not leaving this stupid festival without Inosuke's fish.

A step closer brings cool, iridescent skin to rest over the fine fabrics the women forced this child in today. The Lord Founder's touch speaks of understanding and acceptance; and the smile that blossoms on his face would distract from the miniscule twitch of his fingers as his palm had hovered over the bucket.

❝ That is alright, little Inosuke. You did your best and you looked like you were having fun to me, so that's all that matters. ❞ This benevolent man cares more about his poor suffering ward than the rewards, after all. Is he not a paradigm of unconditional love? Even when the child's loss has placed him into debt, he places a tender palm upon their shoulder and speaks kind words of encouragement to them.

What a kind-hearted man.

Dōma leans a little closer. Tufts of birch oak white brush over the boy's shoulder. There's the smell of incense and lotus blossom and he winks - with a smile Inosuke might find all too familiar. The smile he gives him when there's a question about jackals screaming in the woods late in the evening around the temple; or what all those pots in the room of Remembrance contain. But this time — for once, it's not about blood.

❝ Besides, I'm sure the people here would agree that your hands are as fast as the river current. ❞ A pause, to slightly tilt their visage towards those people. The audience concurs in silence. Because the topic of a troubled child is uncomfortable for them; to some, it elicits sympathy, while others would prefer to shy away from the notion. The sympathetic ones, Dōma counts on to agree with him and to take his side. The shepherd's crook will pull them swiftly back in line - and make them pliable and groom them into faith.

Because faith and doubt are opposing forces. And right now what he needs from this audience is to be believers.

❝ Hm? Oh— ❞ Thick brows furrow with a sudden discovery as the young man leans over the bucket catches a glimpse of his own reflection in the water. A notion of puzzlement crosses their features, that clawed palm still resting on Inosuke's shoulder, until it parts to point everyone's direction to the pond. ❝ Oy, stall-keeper! What about this one? ❞

There, in the bucket, a blue medaka fish flutters about vividly. Its naturally iridescent scales could have camouflaged it when all other goldfish were so vivid. Its fins sparkled so bright that, if one were to lean very, very close they might have thought it was made of crystal.

❝ That looks like a very fast fish. It's no wonder you children missed it. ❞ Dōma concurs with a pinch of his own chin and a perplexed pout; that almost comes across as a little sardonic. That lanky boy's father has already pushed his way closer to the bucket, peering in to attest - but it's not for their benefit. Because 'Aki' is soon grabbed by the wrist and forced closer to the pond to catch it, before the time runs out. The Lord Founder takes a step back and folds his hands under long sleeves.

"My son will catch this one as well! Show them, Aki!"

[retrocontinuity]

Eat, for this is Her Body: Chainsaw Man and the Doxology of Cannibalism

"One day," Anthony Oliveira writes in "The Year in Apocalypses," [Jesus'] disciples approached their master while he was silent in prayer and made a request: 'Lord, teach us how to pray.'" From here, Jesus teaches them the Lord's Prayer, what the Catholic Church once called "the summary of the whole gospel":

Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name; thy kingdom come; thy will be done on earth as it is in heaven. Give us this day our daily bread; and forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us; and lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil.

Denji is no one's disciple. When we first meet him, he is closer to how Oliveira describes Jesus himself, "homeless, gleaning for food in the field like a sparrow and relying on the kindness of strangers to put him up, . . . a man cheerfully resigned to powerlessness." And so, Denji doesn't need to be taught how to pray. He has always known. Every bone in his body at the opening of Chainsaw Man sings out the Lord's Prayer: "forgive me my debts", "deliver me from evil." And, of course, Denji is intimately familiar with the prayer's most pitiable, most powerful line. It's this line that he cries out to Makima when he rests, Pieta-like, in her arms at the end of the first chapter. It can only be this line, one that Denji might have written himself:

Give me, from this day forward, and for all the rest of my days, daily bread.

Bread runs throughout CSM like a mocking scent that you only fully identify in the last two chapters. It should have been a sign to all of us when the first meal Makima buys for Denji is not bread (but rather a hot dog and udon noodles). It isn't until Denji meets and enters Aki's home that he is seen making a hideously overladen slice of toast for himself, luxuriating in having all the toppings he was denied. The morning after she forces Denji to open the door to Power's death, Makima makes the very breakfast she once promised to serve Denji: eggs, coffee, salad, and sliced bread. But this is a meal that Denji never eats—maybe the only meal in the entire series that he, a survivor of the meanest starvation and poverty, ignores. There is only one other time we see this meal in CSM, and it is subtle, almost off camera, though no less meaningful: in Chapter 53, after Reze's death, as Denji sits down to breakfast once more with Power and Aki.

To revisit CSM's public safety arc is to see all the ways the plot connects itself to food and the act of eating, both appetizing and revolting, both profound and profane. Denji, eating gyoza at a bar for the first time. Denji being forced to swallow barf as he is kissed for the first time. The Fox Devil, who eats indiscriminately and on command, who refuses to return to Aki after being fed something disgusting. A fox that is hunted and transformed into stew. Denji eating sandwiches at Reze's cafe. Aki and Angel eating noodles. A woman sitting down to eat a hamburger for the first time, before she commits mass murder. She is worried she has lost her taste buds, yet she exclaims, "So delicious!" We know, later, that this woman is a liar, that no part of her is what she presents herself to be. Should we take this moment at its face value then? Was Santa Claus simply lucky enough to have preserved her sense of taste? Or was it her one last act of humanity, to recognize that it is not enough just to eat, that man does not live on bread alone, that there must be at least food that is also delicious, that inspires people to get up and dance—even if it means she has to lie about what she can experience?

Food is necessary for survival, and CSM is a story about survival. But CSM is also a story about glimpsing the after. After you know you can keep living, what next? After you are no longer starving, after you have been forced to kill a friend, after you have touched your first boob, after you have been betrayed, what next? After you are tired of eating toast with jam for breakfast, what do you eat next?

The version of the Lord's Prayer we tend to recite asks for "our daily bread." But this, most modern scholars believe, is a mistranslation. The Greek adjective as it appears in the Gospel of Matthew and Luke is "epiousios," which doesn't mean "daily" at all, but rather something too complicated etymologically for me to even begin to parse. The point is that what we ask for in the Lord's Prayer is not just bread for today, but bread for tomorrow. Both the physical bread and the spiritual bread. Bread on this kingdom of earth, and bread that is the kingdom of heaven. Bread to feed our bodies, and bread to feed our souls. The realm of the divine is full of these moments, isn't it? Of two things existing at once, in one.

Denji starts the series asking for daily bread, and ends the public safety arc with Nayuta, Makima's reincarnation, asking him for daily bread. Trash heap Denji, living with his not!dog Pochita, really was just asking for daily bread. A slice to eat for breakfast, maybe even with butter and jam. But he too learns that bread, physical bread, is not enough. Merely to subsist, to eat good food, is an empty life. And what he must give Nayuta is not just bread, as was given to him. Otherwise, he will be trapped in a cycle of creating more Makimas. Instead, he must give her a relationship, a family, a world that Makima was unable to create. He must give her, in Pochita's words, lots of hugs. He must give her, in the words of the Lord's Prayer, epiousios.

To be clear, I am not arguing that CSM is meant to be read through a Catholic lens, and I doubt Fujimoto had all of this in mind when he wrote it (though he must have thought something, given that he drew a very large print of Gustave Dore's "Satan descends upon Earth" in Makima's entranceway!). But there is something primal (primordial?) about the Lord's Prayer. If every reader can understand the horror that the Darkness Devil represents, so too we can understand the intimacy and comfort of the Lord's Prayer. It is, as Oliveira writes, "a simple peasant's mantra for detoxing anxiety." Jesus opens by addressing God as father—not king, not an all-mighty spiritual being, but rather "abba, which is rather closer to 'dad,' and not in the intercultural Greek of his adulthood, but the Aramaic of home and childhood." The Lord's Prayer asks for what we always want, the only thing any of us have ever wanted since leaving the womb as infants: for no bad things to happen, for there to be enough to eat.

Even if what we have to eat is another person.

At the center of the Christian liturgy is the Last Supper, and at the center of the Last Supper is a meal that functions as ritual, abomination, accusation, transubstantiation, paranoia, and an early example of cracking open a cold one with the bros. Here, Jesus shares bread and wine with his disciples and then, as if trying to invent r/creepypasta years before its time, informs them they are actually eating his flesh and blood. This image is so powerful and heretical that the Romans accused early Christians of being cannibals. And why shouldn't they? It's there in the text. "Take, eat. This is my body. This is my blood." Stripped of the grandeur of tradition and ritual, this is downright vampiric. And yet it goes on to become the cornerstone of the Christian faith.

Oliveira begs us to see the Last Supper as a family meal, one shared by Jesus and his found family. "All he is really saying is, 'I hope when you eat together, you remember me.'" It's a good reading, one that moves me to tears, and is the framework through which I see the events of chapter 80. Because Makima is not the first time that Denji "consumes" a friend, and I don't just mean him sucking Power's blood or taking Pochita into himself. When Aki died, he left half his fortune to Denji, who uses it to support himself and Power. They "pigged out on good food," he tells us. This is Aki's symbolic body, through which he provides Denji his daily bread. Eat ice cream and onigiri in remembrance of me.

But it is not how I see the events of chapter 96. Denji does not eat Makima in the context of a feast. He does not partake of her in a communal meal, as Jesus did, among his found family. He eats every bite of Makima alone. Jesus said before his death, "this is my blood, which is shed for many." Yet Denji says to Makima, I alone will absolve you alone of your sins. I alone will bear you alone.

Denji's Last Supper is a lonely remembrance. He is hoping that no one but him will remember her. He is hoping to wholly consume her, because he loves her. "We love as cannibals," French philosopher and activist Simone Weil wrote. "Beloved beings . . . provide us with comfort, energy, a simulant. They have the same effect on us as a good meal. . . . We love them, then, as food." In fact, Weil believed we cannot love any other way. As humans, we are forever doomed to want to eat the ones we love. In order to escape, we must both be devoured by God and then become food for our fellow human beings. As Alec Irwin writes of Weil's philosophy, "the devouring violence of God must be positively harnessed in order to dismantle the machinery of human cruelty."

If Weil is right and being devoured is transformation, a crucial part of salvation, then in eating Makima, Denji redeems her. He turns her into food to break the cycle of her cruelty. For Makima's power itself is consuming, cannibalistic. She "eats" humans in order to use her power, which remains mysterious like God moving across the face of the earth, leaving only broken corpses as a sign of its presence. So it must be Denji, not Chainsaw Man, who does the consuming. If Pochita had consumed her, as she had always prayed for, then it would simply be another act of violence being enacted. Instead, Denji gives her salvation by turning her into human food—his food.

To Denji, Aki was human, his family, his brother, his friend.  It is Makima he loves as a God and a woman. To him, she is Satan and God, his betrayer and his creator, his salvation and his friends' damnation. So he must take her, consume her, digest her, excrete her, reduce her to nothing, as she once consumed and excreted and reduced him. "I ate her to become one with her." He ate her to become her. There is no truer form of his love than for Denji to take Makima into himself. I use those words purposefully, because this is the rejection of classic cishet PIV penetration, that old hoary chestnut of men inside women. As Don Delillo famously outlines in White Noise, we talk about sex as if women are containers, rooms, elevator lobbies: "He entered me," "I want him inside me," "I took him into myself." Denji and Makima never have physical sex, but this is a consummation, a reversal of roles. We are given the only sex that Shounen Jump will allow us, with Denji taking Makima into himself. She enters him. She is inside him. He is—physically, emotionally, willingly—penetrated by her flesh. She is released inside of him, becoming part of him.

Because the divine is full of moments like this, isn't it? Of two things existing at once, in one. That is the kingdom and the power and the glory. For Makima now lives in that country inhabited by God, where loving and eating are one and the same. For that country is none other than Denji's body.

In conclusion:

Substitute Makima for "God", and the preceding statements are still rigorously accurate.

Further Reading:

Anthony Oliveira's ongoing podcast reading the Gospel of Mark (Patreon exclusive, but I highly recommend, even/especially if you are a heathen like me)

Hannibal (NBC)

Daniel Birnbaum and Anders Olsson, An Interview with Jacques Derrida on the Limits of Digestion

David Farrell Krell, "All You Can't Eat: Derrida's Course, "Rhetorique du Cannibalisme (1990-1991)." Research in Phenomenology, vol. 36, 2006, pp. 130–180. JSTOR, www.jstor.org/stable/24660636. 

Alec Irwin, “Devoured by God: Cannibalism, Mysticism, and Ethics in Simone Weil.” CrossCurrents, vol. 51, no. 2, 2001, pp. 257–272. JSTOR, www.jstor.org/stable/24460795.

[hehebread]

[BKDK] Izuku keeps mentioning a Kacchan to reporters and they think that's his gf

this was a request on twt that i had way too much fun writing. warning for suggestive language!

--

“And is there…. a special person….or a group of people you would like to thank on air today? Anyone who inspired you? Anyone you would attribute your success to? An image of victory per say?”

Izuku’s eyes glimmer as the bright lights of the studio reflect on his irises. “Oh!” He jumps in his seat, his perfectly- coiffed curls bouncing as he nods frantically to the show’s host. “Yes! Yes!” Leaning forward with his hands on his leg, the camera zooms in on his face where the blush is painting his cheeks. “I wouldn’t be the hero I am today if it wasn’t for Kacchan!”

And it’s as if an earthquake alert dropped on the talk show. The host grows this devious grin on his face as he turns to the camera team and says, “Well, well, well, behind every great man is a woman after all.”

Izuku isn’t quite sure why the host is bringing his mother into this since the interview is reaching its end and he has already discussed her influence in detail very early on, but he doesn’t get a chance to ponder.

The host, Yamaguchi-san, leans into Izuku’s space with renowned interest and an interesting glint in his eyes. Izuku feels himself sweating in his oversized maroon-striped suit.

“So, Midoriya-san, Hero Deku, Rising Symbol of Equity and Hope, can you tell us more about … Kacchan?” His voice goes higher at the last syllable, almost sing songs, and Izuku is not sure if he should be worried or not, but he won’t pass an opportunity to gush about Kacchan!

“Ah, Kacchan is very … confident, hardworking, strong, and smart. Kacchan is a hero who knows how to lead a team and perform under pressure, an inspiration to both myself and our entire graduating class, and a”—Izuku can feel the heat rise in his face as he tries to hide in his colour— “a shining star who was closer to me than All Might!”

The host makes a loud ‘AWWW’ noise at the same time as the small audience in the studio. “My, my! Sounds like Kacchan is very important to Hero Deku! Don’t be shy! Tell us more! Is there a physical description to go with your precious person?”

“Ahm!” Izuku fiddles with his fingers as he avoids the gazes on him. There a long beat of silence before he manages to say, “Muscles….Blonde…..Sharp eyes….” With a vague gesture to his middle section, he mumbles, barely audible, “Big, ugh…..” Heart.

“OOOOOOOOOH!” The host goes wild and so does the audience. “So are we talking Hiromi Oshima type big or maybe Rio Natsume, or aaaah Aki Hoshino even ….?”

Izuku feels his ears ring in humiliation as he tries to process what they’re talking about. Something Kacchan has in common with all these beautiful women is his big successful career so Izuku nods. “Yes!” Then, a thought occurs and he rises in his chair. “Even bigger!”

After all, Kacchan’s net worth is higher than these ladies.

“BIGGER?”

“The biggest!”

“Oh my god!” The host is losing his mind now! “And is it … natural? Or did Kacchan get a little help from professionals?”

“No, no, no! Kacchan was a natural ever since we were in school together!” Izuku’s eyes shine with a fire to defend his childhood best friend, no longer trying to hide in his big suit. “No one helped Kacchan get this big!”

“That’s … amazing!” The host shakes his head in both awe and disbelief. “Now we want to see Kacchan in action! When the hero works around the city, defeating villains, does the size get in the way?”

Does Kacchan’s fame get in the way of his work? “Sometimes,” Izuku muses, “But Kacchan never lets the restless and perky nuisances stop him, y’know. With a little shake from his hands, and a few colourful words of wisdoms, nothing gets in the way!” Izuku laughs as he remembers Kacchan’s way of dismissing fans and reporters alike.

“Wow!”

“Of course, there are times where Kacchan’s big firm moulds become springy and hard to control, but I have yet to see an instance where that has been a major issue. ”

Kacchan is still having some adjustment problems with his new hero costume, particularly his grenade mould, but that’s as far as distractions go.

“Does Kacchan not use support?”

“Uhm, only when it’s a dire situation! Sometimes I’m even allowed to provide assistance!”

“You must be very lucky…”

“I am! It feels … exciting and … very special! Kacchan doesn’t trust just anyone, y’know! I can never quite get used to the trust we built together. We are one unit working together.”

“Do you use your hands…. Or something else?”

“Oh, hands! Yes! But anything works really! Whatever Kacchan is comfortable with and needs at the time. Black Whip, combo moves, an iron grip...”

The host furrow his brows and seems to be considering Izuku’s answer before he opens his mouth again. “Uhm, never mind.” He then turns to the camera, smile back on. “Our time is almost running out! Thank you, hero Deku for your time! We look forward to seeing you again in the big screen!”

--

The next day, Izuku wakes up to the headline: Hero Deku And His Mysterious Busty New Girlfriend: The Beautiful and Spunky Kacchan!

He’s doomed

--

He sees Kacchan early the next day.

Having spent the morning talking to tabloids and the host show agents about the misunderstanding and whether or not it was possible to take down the episode at least, Izuku slumps his head on his desk in defeat.

Oh, this is very bad.

He starts thumping his forehead on the wood in sync with the bleeps noises in the phone, already planning his funeral in his head.

Okay, so it seems the suspense around this girlfriend is raking up his popularity, but god, at what cost.

“Nerd, we need to talk.”

Izuku’s soul near flies to the roof at the sound of the door to his office slamming close. Fuckfuckfuck.

Kacchan stands before him with his hand on his hip, teeth snarled and looking ready to tear his flesh open. Oh, this is going to be fun!

After flashing a haughty glare at the glass door to scare away the nosy friends hanging about, Kacchan continues, “About the interview.”

Of course! Yes! His final hour is approaching. “Haahahaha, what about it?” Izuku feels his undershirt cling to his torso, sweat collecting on his face. He directs a shaky hand to a nearby chair. “Feel free to take a seat, Kacchan! You want me to get you anything? Water, tissues, uhm, a knife, a body sized bag, or uhhh, a shovel? I think I have some spare sheets of paper if you’d like to give me a chance to—“

“So…” Kacchan starts.

“PLEASE TELL MY MUM I LOVE HER!”

“…this Kacchan, huh?” Having completely ignored every single word Izuku just said, Kacchan crosses his arms and scowls. “Is she strong? How come I never heard about her before? Since when did you start dating this gravure idol and pro hero, huh?”

“Wha—?”

“So, you just go around giving everyone pretty nicknames now?” Kacchan snorts and his expression darkens before he slams his hands on Izuku’s desk. He looks at Izuku from under his chin, and Izuku swear he can see flames behind his eyes. He growls, “What’s her actual name?”

An alarm bell rings in Izuku’s ears and he stutters, “Ka— Ka— Kat— Katsuko! Bakugan Katsuko…….”

Kacchan’s expression doesn’t change and Izuku feels his heart leap to his throat. God, Kacchan is gonna call his bluff at any minute now. He’s going to reject him then he’s going to break his heart and his bones.

“What’s she like?”

Kacchan shifts forward slightly and Izuku is just know noticing the ample cleavage in clear view. Right there. In front of Izuku’s face. “Uhm. Ah, she’s very, ugh, im- pec— impeccable!! And strong! Muscl— mature!! Breasty too – I mean, pretty! PRETTY!” Izuku bites his tongue then swallows thickly. “Beautiful, actually!” Lifting his gaze to meet Kacchan, he whispers, “Gorgeous. Just the most amazing person in my life.”

Kacchan is staring intently with his sharp red eyes, and Izuku feels his chest swell with confidence he never had before. “Kacchan is my inspiration, and I just … love … Kacchan so much. I wish I had the courage to tell him— um, her that.”

“Are you two serious?” Kacchan asks, impassive but there is silent rage hiding behind his words.

Something flashes quickly through Kacchan’s eyes before he narrows them. It takes Izuku a second to recognise that it’s /hurt/ and then he realise what he has just done.

“No, no, no!” Izuku backtracks immediately. “I don’t even know her that well! In fact, she kinda smells and definitely has sweating problem.” Izuku needs to do damage control and come clean NOW. “You know what? I will call her and break up with her right now. Ha ha ha.”

What the hell is he saying? Who is he going to call?

Kacchan stands up while Izuku fumbles with his phone. “Don’t be a dick,” he says, before he heads to the door.

Izuku jumps from his chair and is ready to chase after him when Kacchan stops him. “How big?”

“Huh?”

“You said Bakugan was big.”

Ah, yes, he did. Tragically.

“Um, y’know just…” Izuku motions with his hands like he’s moulding two doughballs, palms up and fingers wiggling because he’s lost control of his life once he accepted his funeral date, but that’s not even happening anymore so what is he doing really.

He then makes am hourglass shape in the air and belatedly realises that he’s just outlining Kacchan’s shape in front of him. Izuku retreats his hands and puts them behind his back in shame.

Kacchan is looking at him funny. Like he’s trying to figure something out.

“Does she shoot aerial bomb or something? Is that a combat-style quirk?”

Izuku blinks.

Kacchan just sneers and turns around.

“Whatever. I’m doing a photoshoot this afternoon. The Sekushī clothing line is dropping a new summer set and they asked me to model.”

“Se- Sekushi?? You mean, like—” Izuku feels his face go impossibly red. “You’re saying that, you’re going to wear, like…..” his voice goes down to a whisper when he says “…..a b-b-b-b-b-bikini?”

“Swimwear,” Kacchan turns to say over his shoulder, “Among other things.”

The sexy smirk he sends Izuku’s way is doing very, very weird things to Izuku’s body and imagination, things too inappropriate to describe in a work setting.

Kacchan leaves but not without offering the most dangerous challenge to Izuku’s mental wellbeing. “Feel free to drop in.”

Oh, he absolutely will.

“Bring Bakugon.”

Oh, he absolutely will not.

Actually….

Maybe, he will.

Kacchan is going to ruin Izuku

[moancores]

𝙸 𝚆𝙰𝙽𝚃 𝚈𝙾𝚄 𝙰𝙳𝙳𝙸𝙲𝚃𝙴𝙳 𝚃𝙾 𝙼𝙴

summary : laying with you i feel like moving clouds high in the sky

pairings : aki hayakawa x fem! reader

caution warnings : smoking (cigarettes), mentions of fingering, a fic without a plot

words : 1.6k

inspiration : cigarette (ft. Tablo, Miso) — offonoff

Aki is cautious, even on his days off, he’s still highly aware of his surroundings and refuses to put his guard down. Paranoia laced his bones like a second skin, flooding his sanity and bathed him in alamort—his colleagues taunting him with obscene mouthfuls, referring to his tension as volatile metallics. He reminds them that it’s always better safe than sorry at the end of a job, his eyes always glazed in wet, insomniac entrapment. Of course, nobody took him seriously until after they were dead.

So in these lunar gold moments, where evening arrived too early, he wandered inside a morphean building with shame and guilt. The inclescent sign that read ‘DECADENCE’ in English flashed against the ebony ink night sky; showing the dense population of Tokyo that they were willing to open their doors for the damned and beautiful. Even inside the crimson illuminated lobby, where only one man sat at the front desk, Aki still kept his guard as he unconsciously created half moon circles into his salt stain palm from the tip of his nails. He nodded his head to the man with cimmerian eyes, who in return smiled at his favorite patron as the man pointed to the ceiling.

See, boy of misfortune that’s laved in bittersweet sickness was rooted to this love hotel for two years now, his feet pierced in magnetic obsession that always had him crawling back. He was a regular, someone the staff knew by name, despite the hatred that calloused him of how easily they spoke his name. It rolled off their tongues like venom and they made it sound harsh—their tone the equivalent of choking of funeral soil. He hated the illusion of their voices and it could be the overwhelming shame that made him hate them, but he can’t shake the feeling that they could be dangerous.

He held his breath as he looked at the man, feeling the apprehension kissed his skin as he melted into a cold sweat, but he understood. That she was waiting for him in the same room that overlooked the same LED sign that promoted the same ramen stall on the same main street. Aki left the same lobby to take the same left turn to the same ricody staircase, climbing the same nine floors up as the warm light bathed him in hues of champagne drip. He ignored the same art pieces that made him feel uncomfortable throughout the years of visiting, traveling down the same narrow hallway where the same wooden floors tripped him up before sighing at the same wooden door. Aki has frequented this room so casually that the owner of the hotel molded an exact replica of the key to this room.

The scent of peonies enveloped him into a serene eumoiriety as a sheen moisture of humidity coaxing his face, the strands of his acantho hair clung to his skin. The room was bare with little to offer besides a bed that was displayed in the center, adorned with the same pale blue sheets that Aki had messied and soiled with his own multitarian elixirs. In the far end of the room, the balcony doors were open to allow the evening winds to consume the fragments of fornication as the sheer curtains swayed against the current of cool zephyrs. Between the alterations of fabric, you stood amidst the foundation of taboos as you leaned your body against the iron railing, looking outwards towards a malice devoured city with half dead people being the buildment of a devil’s desire. Aki blinked as he watched your wet hair sway against the gust clear currents or how the tips of your hair dribbled warm water and pooled beneath you.

Aki pulled out the pack of cigarettes he recently purchased, tapping the cardboard box against his open palm with thunderous shockwaves in the hopes to pack the cigarettes tight. He fumbled with the packaging but he managed to quickly peel away the thin plastic that encased around the box and threw it to the ground; grabbing a cigarette between his fingers that stained his skin in the scent of tobacco and fig before brushing the filter against his bottom lip. Between the billowy curtains and harsh winds, Aki witnessed a scintilla of mist that blew east from your lips and dissipate into the astral atmosphere—the smell of your cheap cigarettes that were laced with poison was pungent. Aki watched, observing how the ash from your cigarette gravitated downwards towards the concrete versus the cherry cola ashtray that was shaped in a heart. He witnessed how your toes curled as you leaned your body down more against the railing, watching you lean further and further downwards until you began to slip.

“Idiot!” Aki cried, his calloused hands gripping your waist as he pulled you down into the depths of your shared room, “You need to be more careful!”

“I was completely fine, Hayakawa-san.” You rolled your eyes, “No need to worry about me.”

Aki lit his cigarette as he inhaled the first cigarette from the last two hours. His lungs inflated with venom that bit his esophagus, the taste of tobacco flowers shoving down his throat in between the bursts of nicotine obsession. He blew the mist from his nose, feeling his airwaves clog in an arcane burn, “I worry about you like I do anyone else.”

“Aweh, you think that highly of me?” You teased, flicking the end of your cigarette off the balcony.

“Don’t push your ego, you’re not that important to me.” Aki argued, “but I refuse to see any more people die in front of me.”

The beige chair in the corner collected the dust and ash shared between them from purgatory evenings, and despite it’s broken appearance, Aki still sat gingerly in his favorite chair. He quickly dragged another puff of his cigarette before welcoming you into his lap and cradling you close into his arms that were strained with catastrophic dolent. He hissed as your body connected with a freshly blue bruise that blotched him in orchids blooming beneath his flesh—before you could apologize, Aki shook his head and told you not to worry about it. You notice how his body heat radiated with nuclear fission and how it burned like a thousand suns, clearly he was overworking himself and his body is unable to keep up with the demands of his mentality. You couldn’t say anything though, knowing that he’ll get upset and excuse his hard work for determination and becoming the savior of a saccharine generation, so instead you encouraged him to smoke. Maybe chain smoking fifteen cigarettes will keep him bound to you a moment longer, distracting his pulsating hate for devils with the taste of attraction.

You grabbed another cigarette from your carton, placing it sweetly between your lips as your head hung off from the arm of your chair. Your hair mimicking cascades of waterfalls as it fails with the downward spiral of gravity, ichor pooling in your head as Aki lit the cigarette dangling between your peach gloss lips with your butane lighter (shaped and molded to resemble a lock and heart) that he found ridiculous. You inhale deeply through your nose, collecting the smoke into your lungs before you allow it to bleed into the atmosphere.

Aki set aside your lighter before returning his hand to the inside of your thigh, knowing that after two packs, while your organs are festering and dying, his long fingers will slip between the hem of your panties and thrust between your love. Deep conversations will fall into malicious silence as the only thing Aki can clearly comprehend is your soft moans echoing into the sky. His fingers buried deep within you in rhythmic depths as he looks outwards into the skyline of his newly acquired city—wondering what devils wandered about in the far corners of Tokyo before questioning what Makima was doing in this very moment. Sometimes, he’ll look at you and picture Makima unraveling beneath him, lips agape with apricot blush dusting her skin.

In his mind, he knew you were beautiful but you’ll never compare to Makima. Honestly, he doesn’t know why he’s so enamored with her but he’s drawn to her like the sun is with supernovas. There’s always something alluring about the mysterious darkness that blanketed over her, making her feel archaic and silver. To Aki, you were the light, something that felt safe yet dangerous. You can melt him, burn him and you could just as easily cremate him like any other fire devil—you were a hindrance to him but he was addicted to you like every cigarette shared amongst you. You brought life into halcyon days, where flowers stretch their long necks to kiss your nectar.

Besides, those are sensations and thoughts for later. You placed the cigarette you’ve kissed between his lips, allowing to suck and nurture on the vile as his spine relaxed further into the beige chair. His thumb swaying small circles into your flesh as he exhaled the taste of rot from the cheap cigarettes you loved so much. His stress induced head felt a tad bit high from the smoke and your touch that the world around him began to circle slowly and sweetly. His heart thrumming in euphoria as he gladly took another drag of your cigarette, cherishing the feeling of light fingertips against his chapped lips as you held the cigarette for him.

Decadence was a hotel he was swore was the gate to hell from his mortal reality, and somehow you lingered in the corrupt realm of the ninth floor as a distraction from the vile and decay he bathed in. Blood and killings were a part of his life just like how breathing, starving and lust was. However, on the ninth floor of a man made hell, you became a calm addiction that Aki craved—numbing the deaths of his buddies, colleagues and friends after a cry, a funeral and sex. The cigarettes shared between you were the conversations of apprehension, loss, pleasure and possible happy endings. The smell of your pastel breathing places him in a corrosive mood and suddenly, he could devour the moon raw.

You placed your fingers against his lips, encouraging him to take another long hit as the tan filter was eaten from the saliva shared between hallowed bodies. “Smoke up a glimpse of heaven.”