#but they cut like half of their dialogues from the manga

[no-brain-just-akutagawa]

When Fedya said: "melodies of sadness play in his veins" he meant the bsd fandom after today's episode

Bones why? What have we ever done to you?

[im-still-watching-anime]

i talk sooo much about how much better i think akutagawa looks in the manga but damn if manga techhou isn’t an entirely different character to me from anime tecchou

[poisonf0rest]

Overc*mming Writer's Block 3

𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐈, 𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐈𝐈, 𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐈𝐈𝐈, 𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐈𝐕

♱⋅── zayne x reader

♱⋅── about: Between being in the midst of your medical residency and being an up-and-coming author, it’s safe to say your personal life has been placed on stand-still. That is, until your editor decided that your next novel needed explicit smut scenes. That is, until your mentor and boss ends up striking a deal for you to help with “inspiration” for said novel. That is, until you fuck Zayne four times and your life changes forever. Partially inspired by manga of the same name by Nae Awaji

♱⋅── word count: 10.8k holy

♱⋅── warnings: mdni, smut, bondage, oral, pussydrunk zayne, PRAISE kink, breeding kink, actual sex this time, no more blue balling, nightly rendezvous card

art credit to @/chimmyming on X

“So, you and Dr. Zayne?”

You damn near choke on your salad. Coughing, you place your fork down before turning to glare at Anvi. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

She smiles, as if that was confirmation enough. “I’ve heard a thing or two from hospital gossips—“

“Vi, you are the hospital gossip.”

“—that the cold, yet steaming hot doctor was finally seen accepting the company of someone else. Not to mention at the gala last weekend he was by your side all night long. Or so I was told.” 

Anvi leans in, smiling wide enough to burst her pretty face as you scowl down at your lunch, unable to meet her eyes. Fighting to keep your voice even, you nudge her off, stabbing a carrot. “You’re ridiculous. I’m not involved with Dr. Zayne, he’s too—“ Attentive? Intelligent? God don’t think of him eating you out right now. “He’s not my type.”

You feel your ears burn, but by the grace of some god Anvi doesn’t seem to notice. Pouting she sighs and sinks back into the cafeteria booth. “Aww man, I was really rooting for you, too.”

“Rooting for a nonexistent relationship?” 

Anvi’s about to say something, big doe eyes almost frantically darting between yours before she huffs and shakes her head, something akin to pity tightening her smile.

You raise a brow but she only shrugs, going back to picking at her lunch. “Just as well, a relationship between a resident and her boss would be quite the juicy scandal. Something straight out of a romcom, no?” 

Laughter rips from your chest, the sheer irony of both her words and your reality too much to bear. Anvi’s windshield wiper giggles join your own, and soon the two of you are wheezing under your breath as you get side-eyed by the other surgeons trying to enjoy their lunch. 

Really, whoever your author was had a fucked up sense of humor. 

But the moment is ruined by the buzz of your pager, and you barely say bye to Anvi before you’re rushed to the operating bay. 

As of today, you have two days to finish your manuscript. 

Today's shift was exhausting, but you’ve learned early into your career that writing is a discipline, and as fickle of a muse as inspiration is, a writer cannot simply wait for her to grace you with her presence. Whether you feel like it or not, this book has to get done. 

Besides, what better mindset was there to churn out unhinged shenanigans than when you’re delirious and half-asleep, tucked away in the on-call room? 

Okay, so perhaps not the best place to be, but logically if your shift finished only minutes ago and you had to page in at five AM yet again, you’re better off just staying here rather than driving back to your apartment and all the way back to the hospital again.

Opening your personal laptop, you tab onto your novel's draft, the flashing cursor taunting you as your editor’s comments blur into an overwhelming mess of red. While you’ve worked your way through just about half of her six-thousand comments, that still leaves far too many, especially on your novel’s villain slash love interest as the trope always goes. 

You’re halfway through cutting cringey dialogue on a specific scene, but your thoughts keep drifting. Your conversation with Anvi keeps playing in your mind— romcom, dating, scandal, boss. You suppress the heat rising in your chest, trying to ignore the reality you really don't want to face. 

Zayne is… too much. Too intelligent, too caring, too perfect at catching you off guard.

Shaking your head, you try re-focusing, but between sleep deprivation and the realization that you haven’t actually done anything physical with Zayne for nearly a week, you get far too distracted. 

It’s not that you haven’t seen him since the gala. Far from it, really. Nearly every night if your shifts happen to end around the same time, he offers to drive you home. And when your shifts don’t align, you always make the effort to cook something together, breakfast or dinner, at ungodly hours of the morning or evening. And if neither of those happened, you would watch a movie, at least for a few minutes till one or both of you fell asleep on your ratty couch. 

God, you’re a fool. You can’t help but want him by your side even now, loving the way he reacts to your inappropriate comments, loving the way he scoffs at your jokes, loving the way he notices even the most minute things about you. And yet there’s a distance you can’t explain, a growing space you’re both too afraid to fill.

You close your laptop with a soft sigh, rubbing your eyes as you lay back on the small cot, trying to block out the nagging ache in your chest.

Your phone buzzes from under the cot, and you glance at it absently. You nearly jump at Zayne’s icon flashing on your screen.

grumpy snowman: Under recent developments I’d like to inform you of two things. One, you are banned from the hospital all of tomorrow under strict orders by me. Two, I currently have Mr. Whiskers held hostage, and should you fail to return home by 02:59 I will be forced to perform pulmonary bypass puncture and stop his heart. 

Dumbfounded, you stare at Zayne’s text, blinking in confusion. Did your sleep deprivation just hallucinate a text? Violently shaking your head, you look back at your phone with slightly spinning vision just to confirm that no, this was very much real and Zayne has very much lost it. 

ms. author: Is this a threat?

Another text follows immediately after.

grumpy snowman: Consider it your last chance. Come back and save him, or else... this may as well be his final night. 

An image sends then, your favorite calico cat plushy all tied up with what appears to be Zayne’s tie, dangling the poor thing as though being held hostage. Your gaze lingers for longer than it should on how Zayne’s hands look in the dim lighting of the photo, so busy trailing up the veins on his lithe fingers that you nearly miss his next text. 

grumpy snowman: I’ve already called an Uber. It’s waiting outside. 

You snort into the empty room, rolling to sit up straight.He’s the last person you’d expect to pull this sort of thing. It’s nothing short of ridiculous, but truly you don’t know the last time you’ve smiled this wide, and it’s precisely the distraction you need right now, especially if he’s already gone through the trouble of organizing it all himself. But like you’d go down without a fight. 

ms. author: You’re being ridiculous, you’d never hurt Mr. Whiskers you devil. You don’t have the guts.

His reply is swift, almost immediate.

grumpy snowman: Do I now? Care to test that theory?

You can practically hear the smugness in his text, the playful challenge laced with a quiet but unmistakable sincerity. Your heart gives an unexpected flutter, the weight in your chest easing, if only slightly. Quite a villain, indeed.

You know what Zayne’s doing. He’s not just playing around; he’s pulling you out of your head, out of the self-imposed spiral you’ve yet again been retreating into. You’ve spent the better half of the week in it. 

You bite your lip, considering your options. On one hand, you could brush him off—continue working, ignore the text, but something inside of you craves this attention. Craves his uncharacteristic ridiculousness. Craves the break from your mind that he’s offering.

ms. author: If you harm a single fur on my son’s head I’ll put an end to your tyranny myself.

Zayne doesn’t waste a second, sending only a single warning: Hurry. 

You stand, grabbing your jacket and keys, and only then do you second guess this. The easy, safe choice would be to stay buried in your work, it would be to politely decline and place must-needed distance and formality back. 

But for the first time in a while there’s something you want more than work, and as you slip out of the on-call room, the image of Mr. Whiskers hanging helplessly from Zayne’s tie is enough to pull you out of the hospital.

You push your front door open, the silence of your apartment making the hairs on the back of your neck stand up. The lights are off— odd, considering you could have sworn you left a lamp on. You always do, a force of habit since you live in a slightly less safe area of Linkon. Oh, the things you do for cheaper rent. 

Pausing, your eyes scan the deceptively empty hallway and kitchen. Everything feels still, almost eerie, and your pulse quickens as you take your shoes off, right beside Zayne’s much larger dress shoes, to venture further into your apartment. 

The faintest creak of floorboards makes you freeze. Your heart stutters slightly, the scare making you grip your chest as you whirl around, cursing out your cowardice. You’ve seen worse things wheeled into the ER. Please, get a grip. 

You shake off the nerves just as your phone buzzes in your pocket, breaking the silence once more.

grumpy snowman: You’re cutting it close. Five minutes before Mr. Whiskers meets an untimely demise.

You can't help the amused snort that escapes you, the tension in your body breaking.

ms. author: You really went this far? What now, villain?

The response is almost immediate.

grumpy snowman: It’s a matter of life or death. I hope you're prepared.

Another photo attachment follows—your favorite Christmas blanket thrown over the couch cushions in disarray, the faintest corner of Mr. Whiskers peeking out beneath it. The living room. You shake your head, muttering under your breath about the audacity of smug geniuses with far too much time on their hands.

You make your way to the living room in the dark, you flick on a lamp as you approach the couch. Lifting the blanket to find… nothing but a sticky note.

It reads, in painfully pretty cursive: Nice try, but you’ll have to be quicker.

Another buzz.

grumpy snowman: You fell for that as well? I expected better. Already 02:56, time’s running out.

You scoff, unable to stop yourself from laughing despite the absurdity.

ms. author: Do you even have anything better to do?

grumpy snowman: Not lately. Someone’s been too busy to properly entertain me.

You read it once, twice, and still something in your chest squeezes painfully at that.

Folding up the note, you stare at the text a moment longer before you hear the echoing click of a door. It’s coming from upstairs. 

Another buzz.

grumpy snowman: While you’re lost in thought again, care to explain why you’ve been running yourself into the ground? 

You pause, stalling as you make your way to your stairs.

ms. author: I am writing.

grumpy snowman: Poorly, if you’re overworking. Can’t imagine the tension’s working out if it’s still stuck in your head.

ms. author: Gasp. Excuse you—

Another buzz interrupts, just as you make it to your bedroom door, old wood announcing your arrival with a groan. The culprit has to be just behind it. 

grumpy snowman: 3 minutes remaining. Mr. Whiskers won’t be around much longer.

You can practically feel Zayne’s grin through the phone, and for a brief moment, you’re glad he’s here, even if it’s all in jest. He’s right although you might never admit it; this whole absurd situation—your plushie, the stupid texts, the teasing—has done what no amount of coffee or sleepless daydreaming could.

ms. author: If you harm a single fur on my son’s head, I swear I’ll come for you.

Your hand latches onto your bedroom handle, biting your lip as you pause to type one last jab. 

ms. author: I don’t know why I’m indulging you.

grumpy snowman: Because you love it when I win.

A laugh bursts from your lips before you can stop it. Shaking your head, you push the door open.

Your bedroom is dim, the curtains drawn, but moonlight spills through the dusky purple veils, illuminating the bed.

Perched atop lies Mr. Whiskers, your darling calico plushie sitting in the center, fully unharmed even though his crystalline eyes speak of unimaginable horrors at the hands of his captor. 

Before you can grab him, movement from the corner of the room nearly startles you into jumping halfway across the room. Zayne, leaning against the wall, arms crossed, watches you with a slight upturned grin that makes your stomach twist.

“You’re a horrible villain.” You huff, all but lunging on your bed to hug Mr. Whiskers to your chest like a shield.

His lips twitch into a smile, the bastard, and you can't help but notice how handsome he looks with his hair a little mussed and his glasses slipping down his nose. He doesn’t have his coat or suit jacket on, the sleeves of his shirt rolled up, a sight you haven’t grown tired of.

God, you really have a thing for forearms. Or maybe it’s just a thing for Zayne.

“Since we’re critiquing each other, you’re not much of a hero. Hiding behind a plushie doesn’t exactly inspire confidence.” 

“Confidence isn’t my priority right now.” You clutch Mr. Whiskers tighter, narrowing your eyes. He’s not here to talk about morals and heroism, though. “I’ve been fine. Nothing more than proofreading left… that and a few problem-children scenes.”

“Then consider this me fulfilling my half of the contract,” Zayne says, effortlessly seeing past your usual bullshit. “For someone who claims they’re adequately inspired, you’ve been more distant than usual.”

“I don’t need a lecture.”

“No lecture.” He steps closer, “I just missed you.”

Again, Zayne's words catch you off guard, so blunt they make your chest ache. No empty flattery, no pretty words, simply stated as though they were facts. 

He takes another step forward, and you have to lean back on your elbows— nearly lying back on the bed— to maintain eye contact as he looms above you. 

And then, Zayne drops to his knees before you.

It’s a far more graceful movement than it has any right to be, all six foot something of him kneeling against the foot of your bed as you instinctively make room for him there. Slowly, his hands come up to your thighs, the two of you slotting together with ease.

“Admit it,” Zayne whispers, the sweet, minty heat of his breath caressing your lips as you shiver, leaning closer despite yourself. “This helped.” A wry smile, “and that I make a convincing villain.”

“What’s this, is the doctor Zayne fishing for compliments?”

“I don’t need compliments. I just want you to stop pretending in front of me– no more performances.” 

Heat rises to your face, and your stomach twists. He's too close, he's always too close, but god, why has this domesticity become so natural around him? 

Despite yourself, you look down at his hands again, taking in how easily his scarred palms cup your thighs, the pale contrast of his skin against yours. Lithe, long fingers, and the memory of how well they’ve treated you. You swear he must feel your heart pound where his thumbs brush circles against your inner thighs, your body nothing but responsive for him. 

But if he does, he spares you the embarrassment. Zayne only continues to look up into your face, and just as you begin thinking of equally inappropriate jokes or fun facts to break the silence, Zayne moves closer, his knee pressing between your thighs as the mattress dips to accommodate his weight. 

“Perhaps there is a performance you could help me with, since you’re clearly the expert here.”

You blink, one step behind Zayne’s master plan yet again. “What- help you?”

“Yes. See, I’ve been thinking about my next move as a villain, and…” Before you can even follow Zayne’s words, Mr. Whiskers is yanked from your grasp once more. One hand raises him into the air and the other lunges for your outstretched arms, pinning them to the bed as it creaks and groans under the sudden assault. “I think I’ll take Mr. Whiskers as my captive once again.”

A soft gasp leaves your lips as Zayne shifts above you, his knee grinding up just enough to have you aching between your legs. Everything spins, torn between the desire to rescue Mr. Whiskers and the overwhelming urge to give in, to pull Zayne closer, to finally, finally fuck him yourself.

But before you can decide, the hand pinning your wrists tightens, his thumb rubbing circles as he effortlessly restrains you.

“You’re ridiculous,” you curse, though the tremor in your voice betrays your excitement.

“Ridiculous?” Zayne repeats, arching a brow. “Perhaps you should start taking this seriously, my dear protagonist.” He drops his voice into something rich, dark, and deliciously villainous. The hand that pins you down holds firm, the other dangles your plushie overhead with mocking menace. 

You scoff, though it comes out shakier than intended. “I could write circles around your attempts at being evil.”

“Could you?” Unbuttoning his shirt, Zayne gets only halfway before abandoning it entirely, letting the buttons skew across his chest. He watches with a growing smile as your eyes flutter downward against your better judgment. “Then why don’t you show me.”

Zayne nods to your phone, eyes narrowed from behind his glasses. “Open the doc, show me the scene. Any attempts to rescue the captive will be met with appropriate punishment.” 

The way Zayne looks down at you, waiting—daring— to see if you would make him stop, sends a sinful flutter through your core, ricocheting up your spine. No longer trusting your voice, you nod and feel the pressure loosen ever so slightly on your wrists. 

You only have time to pull your phone out from your scrub’s back pocket before Zayne captures your wrists again, the tie once used on Mr. Whiskers now knotted efficiently right above your wrists. It should be frightening, how easy it is for him to manhandle you, but you feel nothing but painful arousal at that fact.

You’re still growling out faux protests when Zayne plucks the phone from your hands, his knee keeping your hips firmly pinned against the mattress.

“Ah,” Zayne murmurs, scrolling casually through your doc. “A scene involving betrayal, a chase, and…” He raises a brow. “Passionate accusations of treachery.”

You thrash beneath him, trying to buck off his weight as your face burns in embarrassment. “Enough! You’re supposed to help, not—”

“Not what?” He glances at you briefly, lips pursed in a halfhearted attempt to mask his amusement. “Not put your villain to the test? I’ll admit I might have ulterior motives, but you’ll have to try harder than that.”

Zayne then waves the plushie just out of reach before dangling him on the windowsill for dramatic emphasis.

“I swear to god, if you harm Mr. Whiskers!”

He cuts you off with a chuckle. “Hush. You’ll want to hear this.” 

Zayne clears his throat, the smirk on his lips unmistakable as he picks up where you left off in editing your manuscript. His voice drops into a faux-sinister drawl as he begins to narrate. “‘You can hate me all you want,’ the villain growled, his voice a low, dangerous rumble. ‘But that fire in your eyes only makes me want to break you more.’”

It's horrible, the way he reads the words, the tone and cadence he gives the prose, and worst of all, the way his unblinking gaze remains completely, utterly, fixed on you as he speaks.

“Zayne, please, don’t- this is embarrassing,” you beg to appeal to reason, still writhing against his tie, when you realize his grip against your hips has loosened.

Zayne’s attention is momentarily diverted as he scrolls through the doc, looking for another section to read, and you kick your knee up with a shout, jabbing it into his side as the two of you tumble across the bed. 

Lunging, you manage to grab Mr. Whiskers for all of two seconds before Zayne hauls you up by your bound wrists, forcing you arms above your head as you are pulled back against him. He’s rough, forcing your spine to arch against his chest as you hiss on impact, head thrown back against Zayne’s shoulder. “Ah-ah. What did I say about attempts to rescue the captive?” 

His tone is all mockery, grip iron against your waist even though you can tell he’s still holding himself back. Feeling each hot, ragged breath against the back of your neck, the smell of ambroxan and sandalwood surrounding you. You breathe in deeper, shaking despite yourself.

“Let go of me!”

‘’Close. I believe the actual line was ‘unhand me.’”

Zayne hauls you further up the mattress, hooking your bound wrists onto the post of your bedframe as this new position forces you to face the wall, all while his free hand adjusts his glasses, scanning the next few lines. “‘I’d rather die than let you win!’ she spat, her chest heaving with defiance—” He glances at you with deadpan incredulity. “Why is everyone always heaving in these scenes? Do they all have asthma?”

“You’re the worst,” you hiss, breathless from the struggle. See? Heaving, no asthma involved, just foreplay. 

“And yet…” Zayne’s voice comes closer, and you feel his bare chest once again at your back, “you’re the one who wrote it. I’m simply giving you an immersive experience.”

“Can’t be fully immersive if I have yet to believe you, villain.” Scoffing, you turn around, craning your neck just to glare him in the eyes. “You don’t have what it takes.”

Zayne chuckles, then silence. Forcing your head towards the wall again, you feel him lean down, still out of sight despite the heat radiating off his body, his nose brushing down your bare throat as he spits out the next line.

“Brat.”

You hate how immediately your body responds to that. How you shiver and lean back despite the restraints, how a part of you wants to fight, to keep the act going, because god, the idea of letting Zayne do anything he wants to you is enough to make your head spin.

Zayne’s teeth press against your neck, just below your ear, and you whine, the sound so small and deprived that you instantly bite your tongue and curse yourself for reacting like this.

So then he does it again.

A pitched gasp.

A broken moan.

Each noise he elicits from you is another cruel victory, and when you grind your ass back against Zayne’s increasingly obvious erection, he all but tears your scrubs down your thighs, the cotton of your panties not standing a chance against his desperation. 

In truth, Zayne had never been harder in his life. Did he intentionally pick the most on-the-nose dialogue just to watch you squirm? Perhaps. But he’d be lying if he said seeing you battle against primal desire beneath him, feeling your half-hearted attempts to fight him, accidentally grinding your ass against him with every squirm didn’t make him want to push you even further. 

Every breath came out heavy, chest heaving as he continued his performative reading, large palms alternating between slapping and gently squeezing your ass. 

“You’re greedy,” a kiss against your shoulder, shucking your scrubs down your knees. “Impatient,” another kiss, this time down your spine, throwing your pants across the bedroom. “And utterly disobedient.” 

You’re already stripped bare from the chest down. 

He can't deny the sight of you in such a compromising position is a sight to behold, and the urge to keep reading just to see how far he can push you is intoxicating. Panting, he pauses only to readjust his glasses, foggy and slipping down his nose. 

You, however, are too impatient.

"Zayne, please, you got your point across. You win. Just— ah, just fuck me already."

It's the first time in nearly a week that Zayne gets to hear you ask for him, beg for him, and it's all the reminder he needs for his body to fail him, shuttering against you with a moan of his own. How did he survive so long without this? Without you? 

Your voice rings against his skull, and it’s all he ever wants to hear. Moan his name, beg for him, scream it, call it out, anything. He needs you, irreversibly.

And not just for this.

So instead, Zayne looks back at your doc one last time, reading, “To think this is the city’s great hero. How I’ll enjoy breaking you.”

With a click, your phone turns off, tossed carelessly to the floor with a heavy thud that would have sent you into a panic had Zayne not chosen that exact moment to bite into the soft flesh behind your neck, thumb instantly finding your clit. 

The sensation alone is enough to make you cry, arching further up against the bindings. His hand snakes back around your hip, grounding, just barely brushing against the heat of your cunt, and the way he breathes out a low, half-delirious chuckle at the sound of you panting his name has your core fluttering for more.

"Please, Zayne, please," you whine, and the second the pleas leave your mouth, his thumb presses delicious circles into your neglected bundle of nerves. You whine, loud and needy, the second his fingers sink inside, held up only by Zayne’s arm wrapped around your waist and the tie pinning you against the bed frame. 

“Already begging? I wonder how much more obedient you’ll be after I fuck it all out of you.” And god, Zayne wanted to mock such an obscenely written line just to watch you blush all over, because what sort of villain would actually say such a thing? 

But when he sees you whimper at his words, when you arch so willingly into his punishment, when he feels your heartbeat quicken under his fingertips, he suddenly can’t say he faults any of these romance writers, for he now knows he’d do far worse than any of their cardboard villains. 

Zayne doesn’t even need to read the next line in the doc to know exactly what he’d do next. 

All but falling to the mattress, Zayne pulls your hips up, up until you’re atop his face, sinking his tongue between your folds before dragging all the way up to your clit, sucking with enough tension to make you scream. 

Your hands burn from where they chafe and fight against the tie, bucking violently against Zayne’s face, the cold kiss of his glasses frames making you jolt as he pulls your hips toward him like it’s the last thing keeping him sane.

“No,” Zayne groans between breaths, unable to part with you as he messily kisses your inner thigh before coaxing two fingers inside you with a thrust. “Don’t run. Do not run from me.”

Every scissor of his fingers forces obscene sounds from your cunt, silenced only by Zayne’s mouth and his own muffled praises. Granted, it didn’t matter how loud he was being, not with all of your delirious moans, completely unsuppressed as Zayne’s calculated ministrations took you apart thrust by thrust. 

At least you can remember being thankful that your apartment walls were sound-proofed. Breath ragged, mind spinning, only mindlessly fighting back as you babble, “Wait, you’re so- ah- fuck. Zayne!”

Quite canonically to your villain, Zayne’s hips buck into empty air in time to every thrust of his fingers, imagining it was his cock fucking deep into you instead. It’s a line he’s fantasized about crossing time and time again. 

But that’s where it stops. Fantasy. Because just the thought of it has Zayne groaning into your cunt, the taste and feel of you alone driving him insane, a point of obsession where he cannot allow himself to go any further. He can’t. He can’t, he really shouldn’t. 

He’d never recover, he’d never stop wanting— needing you. He’s addicted enough as is.

Zayne’s shirt had almost fully unbuttoned but his trousers remained, bulging as his cock wept from its prison against his thigh, fabric dark and painfully restraining. The mere friction was too little and overstimulating all at once. Even so, he can’t help but chase the phantom feeling, grinding against nothing as you fall apart above him.

When your shaking thighs finally begin to lock around his jaw, he welcomes the cage, burrowing his face deeper as the strong arch of his nose presses against your throbbing clit. Zayne’s slick fingers are delegated to merely keeping your hips still, his tongue fucking you through your orgasm as his hips follow your same rhythm.

One touch, one touch is all he needs to cum with you, but Zayne refuses to do anything but work you through your high. He swallows the taste of you, open-mouthed and needy, a moan rumbling deep in his chest as you feel it hum through you. 

Gasping, you look down, and immediately you feel your core flutter— the sight enough to have you wishing he was back in between your thighs already.

Zayne’s entire body shakes beneath you, dark hair mused and hands digging into your hips in ways you know will leave half-moon marks. But what has you trembling is the sight of his hazel eyes eclipsed to near black, completely blown out and teary as they try and fail to focus on anything other than your pussy still fluttering above him. Something you can barely see at all, not with the amount of cum that squirted across his glasses, foggy and skewed across his nose as it too glistens with your release. 

It’s an obscene picture you only get for a moment before Zayne chucks his glasses off just to place a closer, deeper set of kisses on your cunt. Practically chasing every buck of your hips, he happily lets you ride his face until your room begins to blur yet again, weightless and utterly fucked. 

You’re panting, vision still coming back in waves as you register Zayne untying your hands, all the while kissing the light bruises that remain. 

And yet you can hardly think of anything other than the fact that he still hasn’t properly fucked you.

“Zayne,” you call, and god, something in your chest squeezes at just how fast he whips his head around, already ducking to meet your eyes as he scans down your face. There’s worry etched into his features, his eyes scanning yours like he’s already bracing for whatever you’ll say next.

“I’m sorry, I knew I should have taken better precautions. If your hands hurt I can get a salve from—”

“Fuck me.”

Silence. 

Zayne blinks, his mouth parting and eyes squinting as though he misheard– or somehow misread–  you.

“What?” he manages, his voice barely above a whisper. 

You sit up on your knees, pulling off your shirt one swift movement so you’re completely naked, then lean forward until your noses nearly touch, his eyes dropping to your breasts. The boldness only shakes him further. “I’m sorry, I can’t let you run away this time. I want—” Reaching your hand out, your fingers trail down Zayne’s bare chest, hardly even pushing for him to fall backward. And for you to follow on top. “I want to do this for you. I want you.”

Zayne’s breath is deceptively steady, and if you couldn't feel the ragged rhythm of his chest, rising and falling as it burns against your palm, you wouldn’t have believed he was affected at all. 

“You don’t-wait- have to—” he starts, but his voice breaks when your fingers trace the curve of his ribs, lips following suit as you place gentle kisses down his sternum, his slender abs, dangerously close to the v-line dipping into his pants that you can’t help but lick, smiling in delight as his words finally fail him. 

“Neither did you. You’re rather stubborn, doctor,” you insist, soft but unwavering. Resting your head against his thigh, you coax his jaw down to look at you, the palm still resting against his chest finding the erratic thrum of his heartbeat beneath your touch. “Let me take care of you for once. Don’t you know good patients listen?”

Zayne huffs a quiet laugh, the sound strained as he looks down at you, right side of his lips curving into a faint smirk despite the way his body seems to ignite at your touch. “Bringing in our professional titles seems a little underhanded, don’t you think?” 

 “Ah, but it got your attention, didn’t it?” You don’t let him stall anyone— already he’s managed to keep this from you for weeks, really it’s a shame you haven’t stripped him earlier— letting your tongue trace the dip of his hip once more, humming as his muscles tense under the sudden attention. 

Greedy, your lips continue to worship every sharp edge and curve of Zayne’s abdomen, hands busy with his buckle until you manage to find a particularly sensitive spot just above his right hip bone. 

All his composure, all his calculated confidence, you want to break it apart until there’s nothing left but Zayne. Just Zayne. 

Zayne inhales sharply, eyes screwing shut as his mouth falls open in a picture of perfect debauchery you want etched into your mind forever. One hand fists into the sheets beside him, the other flying to your hair as your kisses turn to a dizzying mix of licks and nips. Hard enough to mark, you bite into skin, tongue flicking between your teeth, echoing across the room alongside the wet sounds of your mouth at work. 

“Ah, fuck.”

Cursing already? Perhaps this would be easier than you thought, but where’s the fun in that?

You pull back, watching Zayne blink in confusion as his hips twitch up toward your mouth, and you have to force back a laugh as he stares, bewildered, like he can hardly believe the sight in front of him.

His voice comes out huskier than before, low and coated with desire. "Why did you stop?"

You pull back just enough to look up at him, cheek resting on his thigh as you play with his zipper, never looking away from Zayne’s eyes even as they flutter closed in frustration, desperate for more. Tension practically radiates off of him, but you only smile, taking your time as you trail your fingers away from his zipper and bulge, teasing the sensitive edges of his hip and the skin peaking just over the edge of his trousers. 

“Don’t worry, doctor,” you murmur, your voice low and teasing. “I’ll be sure to complete your procedure just as thoroughly as you did on me.” 

Oh, and Zayne must realize how utterly fucked he is, for you won’t be letting him go not until you’ve adequately paid him back for all the times he’s deliberately edged you to the point of tears, all the times he’s reprimanded your attitude, all the sweet punishments you’ve ensured that you’re going to give back to him tenfold. 

But before he can try and sweet-talk his way into mercy, your teeth catch on his zipper, dragging it down as your free hand unlaces his belt, tossing it across the room by the time his bulge presses out from between the metal teeth all on its own.

Achingly hard already, and you haven't even begun.

The fact that you know he’s this hard just from eating you out certainly doesn’t help. 

His boxers are soaking, the obvious bulge only emphasized by the way the damp cotton seems to stick to him, and god does the size of him make your core flutter. 

Maybe next time you’ll get him to come just by eating you out. 

Next time, though.

Without warning, your fingers wrap around his cock, freeing it from the confines of his boxers. A hiss grits out through Zayne’s teeth as his jaw clicks and a vein thrums against his neck from the pressure. 

You're so used to having Zayne above you, between your legs, teasing you senseless as his fingers or tongue bring you to the edge over and over again. And now, here he is. Spread out, and all yours to ravage.

The realization alone has you throbbing, prior orgasm all but forgotten as you feel the want burn between your thighs again.

If only he could see how wet you were already.

How could he not, with the way your hips were rocking against his still-clothed thigh, searching for the friction he wouldn’t give?

And yet, despite your impatience, your eyes never leave Zayne, watching the way his muscles flex as he resists the urge to move, ever obedient for you.

"Good boy," you purr, meaning only to tease him further, but instead of the faux glare or inscrutable comment you were expecting, Zayne tenses beneath you, his cock jumping against your palm. Your eyebrows raise, a breathless giggle betraying your intentions as you lean in closer.

"Oh? Do you like that, baby? Being told just how perfect you are for me?”

You're not sure what's more arousing, the fact that Zayne is practically coming undone at your words, or the fact that he hasn't denied a thing.

God, his body feels hot. The mere praise has a dusky blush racing down his gorgeously sculpted chest all the way to the tips of his ears, his bottom lip tucked between his teeth as he looks down between the two of you, to where you’re still teasing the weeping slit of his dick. He moans before he could even stop himself. Fuck. 

Shivering, Zayne reaches out to grasp your wrist, and for a moment you think he's going to put a stop to your little power trip. But his hand only comes up to guide yours, urging you to pump his cock a bit faster, stopping to put more pressure against the base, and you can't help but smirk knowing he must be truly desperate if he's already rushing you to jerk him off properly. 

"My, my, doctor. I suppose I’m not the only one who’s been holding back.” You click your tongue, a teasing edge to your voice. "Were you really so desperate to feel me around your cock, hmm?"

Hazel eyes narrow at the pure filth behind your words, but you see the furrow between his brows, the way Zayne’s throat bobs as he throws his head back with a choked groan. If he looks so damn pretty now, you wonder what kind of faces he’ll make when he cums. 

“You truly are horrible,” He groans, hesitating, hands clenching into the sheets before they fly up to your waist, gently bucking his hips into your awaiting palm. “Mhm- please.”

You hum, lazily sinking to your stomach so your bare chest presses against his still-clothed thighs. With each stroke you can feel his muscles twitch beneath you, see the way his jaw clenches and unclenches, the way his hand guides yours, tightening and loosening, urging you to go faster, harder.

Your mouth waters, and the urge to taste him is far too tempting to resist. 

Plus, you’ve had enough with denying yourself, and more than enough of Zayne denying himself as well. 

So right as Zayne’s head rolls back against the pillows you rock forward, licking a slow stripe up his dick, up between the gap of your fingers where they grip his base. 

Zayne chokes on his breath, hand immediately tangling in your hair, rough enough that it has you wrenched away with a breathless whine. He groans, words shaking out in breathless huffs, “You, hah- this isn’t, fuck—”

"Ah, ah, pretty boy, let me take care of you, yeah?" You fight to come back to him, smiling as Zayne’s grip immediately loosened, and you kiss his tip in thanks.

Rubbing teasing circles into his thighs, your thumbs then move up, tracing his v-line, addicted to the way his muscles tense under your nails and to the red lines that follow. It makes you want to mark him up more. So you do, with your nails again, then with your teeth and tongue. 

“Look at how- shit- how excited you are for me. So pretty.” You lean forward, pressing wet, messy kisses just below his navel and all around his already sticky thighs, heady and coated in pre-cum. 

Another bite, and you squeeze his balls with just enough pressure as you watch his eyes roll back in time. "I'm going to make this so, so good for you, baby.” 

Zayne all but sobs at that.

Every carefully restrained thought breaks completely at the praise, a raspy moan grinding through his teeth before his jaw falls open with every ragged huff of breath. 

“Mhm that’s it, you’re doing so well,” you say, smiling at the way his cock twitches, violently leaking, pre-cum pooling into your palm and dripping down your wrist. “So pretty, so perfect just for me.”

With one last kiss on Zayne’s tip, your hands steadies itself against his abdomen before you kitten-lick around the tip of his cock, and then greedily shove as much of his throbbing erection as you can down your throat.

Zayne tenses, gasping, and the sound sends a thrill down your spine. You press further, tongue flattening along the underside of his shaft, and fuck he’s so thick you nearly choke, forgetting to breathe in through your nose as the lack of oxygen gets to you embarrassingly fast. 

If only you had some more time to properly adjust, you'd force him to the hilt without a doubt. But patience has never been your virtue. 

You’re already edging yourself with every slow grind of your clit against Zayne’s thigh, and you can feel his desperation in every throb along the underside of his cock in your mouth, letting his tip hit the back of your throat, breaching as deep as you could allow.

Zayne begins to buck forward only to freeze halfway, a low hiss leaving him as his hand twitches against the sheets, knuckles turning white as he fights his own self-restraint as you urge him deeper into your hot mouth. Trying to pull you off him, Zayne’s hand laces through your hair as a warning, large enough to cup the back of your neck entirely, but the action only lets you take him further. 

Then he makes the fatal mistake of looking down at you, locking eyes with your teary gaze as you maintain eye contact before licking up his length, and then swallowing him back down, crying as mascara and drool runs down your chin. His hips stutter upwards, and then he catches the shallow bulge now pressing against the base of your throat. Up and down and back again.

The sight breaks him.

He throws his head back with a whine, and fuck, his sounds thrums against your skull, reverberating through your very being as he snaps, hips bucking wildly into your mouth, his powerful thighs trembling around your head. You’re being used as nothing more than a fucktoy now, hands scrambling for purchase against his abdomen for a semblance of control as you take it.

Fuck, maybe it’s the praise, because you make Zayne want to be greedy with the way you were gagging and choking around him.

The mere feeling of you drooling around his length, the way your moans come out muffled and wet with drool and his slick, like a messy kiss to his cock, has his hips stuttering deeper, arching up into your body until Zayne can practically feel the spark of his orgasm behind his eyes. 

But no, that won't do.

After all, you won’t be satisfied until he’s finally fucking himself inside you tonight. He can’t cum anywhere else. You won’t let him.

And right when you feel his cock go rigid, you tighten your hand around the base, and pull off. 

Heaving, you shakily prop yourself back onto your elbows, Zayne's length glistening with saliva between your bodies, twitching violently and leaking all across his abdomen and your chest from its angry red tip. 

“S’pretty, Zayne.”

Zayne moans, hips chasing after the heat of your mouth, hissing when all he feels is the cold air. He wants to protest, wants to ask for more, but you shush him with a kiss.

Your tongue laps across his skin, tracing the ridges of his abs, lapping the pre-cum and sweat that gathers there. You lick a trail, following the sharp cut of his hips.

"What, is that all you can take?" you ask, a teasing smirk on your face.

Zayne curses, a frown tugging at the corner of his lips. “Depends.” His voice is fucked rough, raw, and you never want him to stop talking. ”Was that the full treatment?” 

You hum, biting the inside of his thigh. He gasps, and it turns into a deep groan when you press an open-mouthed kiss over the forming mark.

“No,” you admit, “You’re not escaping until I get to watch you come undone.”

You smile at the shudder both your words and actions draw, the way his fingers tighten in your hair. “Ah, but not here. In me. I want you to fill me up, baby, make a mess of me. I can take it, I promise. And when you're done, I'm going to ride you until you come again. Sound good, my pretty boy?"

Zayne throws his head back with a moan, eyes squeezed painfully shut as though he can’t decide if this really is real or if a succubus was haunting his dreams to every sinful memory he has of you.

Zayne leans into your touch, following your palm as he nuzzles into you with a huff of hot breath. A little like a kitten in a man's body— a sexy body no doubt— but you wonder, not for the first time, if the reason he always holds back is simply because he was afraid. As you were. Until Zayne came to you, until he showed you what pleasure felt like.

So you take his face in your hands, forcing him to look at you, and then kiss him.

He lunges up to meet you halfway, licking into your mouth, fisting into your hair, breathing in every moan and whimper of his name as he hums it right back. Needy, so damn needy for it. 

You smile through the kiss, grinding up and down his muscular thigh alongside the desperate smashing of mouths. Tongue-heavy, teeth scraping, sucking at the corner of your lips. So fucking hungry for you that he’s practically lifting you right off the mattress with just one arm. 

His mouth distractedly chases down your throat leaving opened-mouth kisses before slotting back against your lips, hot and demanding and urgent. 

“Zayne, ah—” you’re cut off with another kiss, “Mhm, please, need you,” another, Zayne looping two arms around your thighs, hiking your knees up to his shoulders, the stretch burning. “Need you in me, now.”

He moans into your open mouth at those words, eager enough that he chases you up, nearly pinning you beneath him until you break the kiss with a gasp, shoving him back down. Zayne whines at the break of your lips, brows furrowed as his back hits the mattress, trapped under you once again, panting.

"Need you, pretty boy." You whisper against his lips, and it sounds just like a promise. "Please, let me take care of you.”

Zayne takes a shaky breath, nodding, drunk on the praise and readjusts himself against the pillows. He watches, eyes half-lidded, as you straddle his waist. Rough hands find your hips and hold them steady as you settle climbing atop him, the head of his cock rubbing between the folds of your soaked cunt. 

It isn’t lost on you how Zayne can barely stop staring at the slick that trails down your thighs, all of it coating his shaft in slick as your pussy hovers over him, connecting the two of you in wet, sticky strands.

"Like what you see, doctor?"

You lick down the milky column of his neck and Zayne groans, leaning back to grant you access. "You and your smart-ass mouth."

“You love it.”

Ya, he does. He could probably cum just from watching you like this.

Leaning forward, you line his cock up with your entrance, smirking at the way his eyes narrow, heart racing beneath your palms as you balance yourself on his pecks, shamelessly groping them.

"Do you have any idea how many times I've thought about this? How many times I've imagined riding your cock, hearing the sweet noises you make as I make a mess of you?"

Zayne opens his mouth, as if to say something, but whatever it is doesn't matter, not as you guide the swollen red tip of his cock through your folds, thick tip pushing and sliding past your entrance, unable to fit even with your combined slick. Teasing, swollen pussy lips drooling right down onto his leaky head when just a simple nudge of Zayne’s squirming hips would end this torment and have you fucked flush against him— raw.

"Please," he groans, his voice raspy and hoarse, eyes fluttering closed, glassy with lust, "I can't- I can't take this. Please,” a low moan of your name has you delirious, and god, you’d give him anything he’d ask for. “I admit it, I need you. So please.”

Were you more than happy to oblige. 

Lifting yourself all the way up on your knees, you steadily apply more pressure to your entrance, working yourself further and further until you could feel your slick drip down your thighs and his cock, each movement now accompanied by an unholy squelch. You slide his cock over your cunt—back, then forward—stimulating your clit with the head each time he fucks it through your folds, desperate as your movements become rougher and more forced.

Zayne’s cock catches against your entrance once again, and a low, breathy moan escapes his lips. He could feel your cunt finally yield to the pressure of his large, overbearing cock, could feel the way your legs trembled, threatening to give way, and he can't help but wonder if this is how you would look, how you would sound and feel, when he fucked you.

As soon as he feels the flutter of your core against his tip, he knows he’s lost, the head of Zayne’s cock sliding into you with a lewd pop as you both moan. 

"Mhm, yes," you moan, voice a high-pitched keen. "Just- ah, like that."

Zayne bites his lip, fingers digging into your hips, and fuck, after being edged not once but twice today he already feels deliciously overstimulated and close, too close.

So it certainly doesn't help when you rock yourself up onto your knees, then drop yourself all the way back down his shaft, taking him all the way in until his balls slap against your ass.

You even don't wait for either of you to adjust before doing it again, and the velvety hot squeeze of your cunt has Zayne seeing stars.

“Ah, f-fuck, oh, shit. S’good Zayne,“ you coo, "Feels so good, fuck."

You’re dripping down your thighs, gushing around him like a vice as he watches his cock disappear into your cunt with a creamy white ring already at his base. 

It’s all turning Zayne delirious with the way you continue to feed him compliment after compliment. It’s all so much, too much, and a low moan is forced out of Zayne’s chest as he begins rocking his hips up to meet yours, hardly even letting you pull out before bullying his way back into you. 

Fuck, you can feel him everywhere, his cock hitting your cervix, your walls stretched tight around him, a mixture of his and your slick pooling onto his abdomen as you chase your way up and down his length.

But god, what you feel is nothing compared to how absolutely wrecked Zayne looks.

His eyes are screwed shut, chest rising and falling rapidly, the flush from his ears having spread to his gorgeously marked-up chest, his neck, the angry red tip of his cock. His brows are drawn together, jaw clenched, the muscles in his neck and shoulders strained as he holds himself back, every part of him curling up to meet yours and press you down, closer. 

But then he turns away, eyes screwed shut as you feel his tip jerk against your cervix once more. 

No. No, no, no that won’t do.

Zayne has watched you come undone countless times. He’s been a worshiper and witness to pleasures you didn’t think you could feel, and this time, you want him to be the subject of all your adoration. To finally give him back all the love he’s taught you to feel and more. 

So you lean down, cupping Zayne’s cheek with one hand as you continue to ride him. “Look at me, baby. Y-you're so, fuck, so big, Zayne, fuck—” You gasp a sharp breath as he twitches violently inside you at the praise, slurring your words. “Mhm, love your cock so much."

But you doubted he could hear you— fuck, you wouldn’t even be able to tell if Zayne was breathing at this point if it wasn’t for the throbbing of his cock against your walls in time to his erratic heartbeat— because his eyes rolled back into his skull, jaw slack as a silent moan rips from his chest, shuddering down his spine right before his hips snap up into yours, throwing you off balance, pinpointing your g-spot with cruel accuracy as you scream.

Your sounds and babble of praises have him dizzy, eyes half-lidded and hazy as he struggles to focus on your face. It almost looks like he’s about to cry, dark lashes wet with unshed tears. You’d tease him for it, had you the capacity to think at all. But no, each thrust continues to bully into that sweet, spongy spot inside you as you moan, and Zayne’s mouth falls open with a cry of his own.

You chase into it with a kiss, clashing your teeth as you feel his tongue lap against yours, sucking hard. You feel the wrecked, blissed-out smile on your face, breaking away from him just long enough for Zayne to see how ruined and turned on he’s making you.

"Y-you're close, aren't you, my sweet boy?" You ask, the words coming out strained as Zayne fucks up into you. Pumping upwards, it’s like he wasn’t even trying every time his weeping head rams your sensitive spots. Just stuffing you full of his cock he denied you for so long, furious enough to mold you to his very shape. "C'mon, cum for me, Zayne. In me, please–ah."

You pull away even as his lips chase yours, arching your back so that your full weight grinds back on his hips. Zayne all but whimpers at the change in angle, his hands gripping the bed sheets as he tries not to starve off his orgasm. 

"Please, please," he groans, his jaw clenching.

"Look at me, Zayne."

He does, and his pupils are so blown, his eyes nearly black.

"Cum for me, baby," you beg again, grinding down against him as his hand comes up to grope your chest the same moment your palm leaves to cup his balls, and that's all it takes.

Zayne comes, a cry ripped from his throat, his cock throbbing inside of you. You can feel the sheer warmth filling you, his seed spilling out and leaking onto the sheets, and god, there’s so much of it that cum squirts out from between the two of you, splattering up his abs and your thighs. 

He’s trembling, head falling back as his hips jolt and stutter, still fucking up into you as though it can’t bear to part. You’re probably not helping with the way you still rocking on his length, your cunt milking his orgasm, and he can't take it, it's too much, too fucking good, he can't stop, never wants to.

But, fuck, one look at his face, and you already want him to cum again.

Zayne looks like sin, sweat slicking his hair to his forehead, his body writhing and straining as he gasps for breath, his skin shining in the afterglow of his release. The muscles of his neck are taut, veins pulsing and straining, his lips bitten red. He is fucking gorgeous, and the thought that he has done this for you, to you, has another wave of arousal shooting up your spine. 

“You…” Zayne’s brows pinch together, but his voice is low, dangerous. Unyielding. “You didn’t cum.”

“I already did, besides I-I ah, Zayne—!”

You’re cut off by your own pussy, lewd squelching accompanying every brutal thrust Zayne overstimulates the both of you with, bullying his own cum out of you with each rhythmless thrust back in. He plants his feet into the mattress, thrusting his hips up as you claw at his shoulders, chest, the slap of skin on skin ringing in your ears.

“No, that isn’t-” Zayne’s words slur, feverish and mindless as his gaze zero’s in to where the two of you meet, the sound of every wet, messy thrust and the slight bulge he now sees in time to his thrusts. “Not enough. With me. Please, hah, cum with me, love.”

Transfixed, one hand drifts to the bulge at your navel, and before he can stop himself, he grinds the heel of his palm against it. Immediately, overbearing pressure shoots up your spine, a broken scream leaving you as you tremble above him, arching violently forward. 

You try and speak, protests leaving as nothing more than garbled whimpers as you claw at Zayne’s wrist, trying and failing to pry his punishing grip off you. 

He doesn’t relent.

How could he, when you’ve finally given him yourself? When this was everything he’s denied himself and more? 

Fuck control, fuck discipline, fuck holding himself back. Zayne wants you. 

Vision blurry, drool dribbling down the corner of your mouth, your combined cum gushes out of your overfilled pussy and spreads in a lewd little pool beneath you. It’s all you can do to take it, Zayne overstimulating the both of you to insanity, but his hips keep the same punishing rhythm. Two slow, deep thrusts before something snaps and he hammers into you twice. Thrice. Then begins all over. 

It’s effortless, the way he bounces your body up and down with one hand, the other remaining pressed against your abdomen, massaging the outline of his dick showing through with every grind forward, rolling your clit between his forefinger and thumb. 

Large hands splay your thighs wider, closer, impossibly stretching you out until all you can feel is Zayne, Zayne, Zayne. You don’t realize you’re chanting his name out loud too. And you never felt more gloriously out of control than when he abruptly jerks his thigh upwards– driving you right along with it– hitting your cervix all at once.

There’s no rhythm. Not anymore. You’re hardly lucid, dropping your full weight down just to meet Zayne’s cock as he pulls you down prone atop of him to catch your mouth in an open kiss as he hits your g-spot again. And again. And again and again and—

“Love,” he all but moans it into your lips, low and broken and oh so addicting. “My love, please.” God, he’s still so painfully hard but the feeling of you fluttering around him, getting tighter each time he calls you love, must be a sort of heaven. “Please– hah, fuck�� cum. Cum all over my cock.”

You whine, surging forward to kiss him again, and he feels it, couldn’t do or think of anything but it as you cum around his cock for the first time. 

Zayne’s eyes open even as you continue to suck and lick into his mouth, brows furrowed and vision blurring, lost in every hot pulse of your walls as they coaxed him further and further in, your release squirting against him as you struggle to drag your hips off him again, pussy sucking his cock in deeper, unwilling to let him go. 

Shaking, his hands find their way back to your hips, settling over the light bruises as he guides you up and down again, startling you as you moan into his lips. 

“Zayne,” you whine his name between kisses, strings of spit snapping between you, Zayne chasing hazily after your mouth before you cup his face in your hands. 

God, the sound of his name on your lips is enough to have him keening, pressing his forehead to yours as his entire body trembles. 

You’re coming again before you even realize it, vision spinning in and out as Zayne continues to fuck you through it. Zayne makes a noise, something between a moan and a whimper, his hips slowing despite himself. 

You're gorgeous, the sight of you atop him, still slurring out compliments, and it's too much, fuck, too fucking much, too fucking perfect, his perfect woman. 

With a final snap of his hips, Zayne comes alongside you. 

His orgasm has him gasping and his entire body bows forward, arms wrapping around your middle as he buries his face in your shoulder, kissing into the tender flesh as he just keeps cumming. 

He can't find the need to hold back this time. Not when the pleasure is so intense that his vision is turning white, not when your cunt is hot and pulsing and clenching around him, not when the praise and encouragement keep pouring out of your lips, whispering into the crook of his neck, "good job, Zayne, such a good boy for me, you did so well, my sweet boy, my love, hah, I love you."

When you finally come down from your high your body is sore and aching, the feeling of his hot cum deep inside making you whine, the sensation so much better than his fingers or toys, so much more warm and full.

Zayne’s arms are wrapped protectively across you, hugging you down atop of him even as his cock remains motionless within you, not an inch of skin untouched as his hands rub careful circles down your spine and thighs. 

You nuzzle closer, whispering more nonsensical praises into Zayne’s hair, raising a shaking arm to comb through it as he still keeps his face tucks into your shoulder, hidden and shaking softly still. 

A shift, and you feel his hot breath on your neck, a sudden drop of wetness against your skin, and you realize with a start that Zayne is crying.

He’s crying. Soft, unrestrained sobs muffle into your shoulder as he tucks you close, burrowing his face into the crook of your neck between breaths. You let him. You curl up as close as you can get onto his lap and then closer still, one hand raking through his hair in gentle reverence as you let him cry.

It is silent, save for the sound of his sobs and his labored breaths.

"I love you, Zayne," you say, as if it was the easiest thing in the world. "You really are perfect, thank you, thank you."

You kiss his forehead, then down his cheek and jaw until he finally relaxes under you. Tracing lazy patterns up and down his chest, you coax him down until he finally raises his eyes to meet yours with a flutter of tear-stained kisses to your palm. 

The first thing you notice is the way his cheeks are flushed, his eyes wavering and hazy. The second is the way his lips are swollen, the marks on his neck and chest blooming darker with each passing minute. The third is how the sweat on his skin is beginning to dry, making his hair stick up in all sorts of directions.

The fourth is the look on his face.

The look on his face is soft, tender, and unsure. Nothing like the infallible surgeon the whole city reveres, or the smart-mouthed mentor you’ve grown to admire and respect. Just Zayne. 

You brush the damp locks away from his eyes, pressing a chaste kiss to his forehead, the tip of his nose, and finally his lips, and he melts, his body falling forward onto you as he curls you into his side, tucking you down onto the bed alongside him.

“Stay with me?” He asks, his voice low, as though afraid to ask. Afraid to know.

Always. 

“You can’t get rid of me that easily.”

[swampjawn]

Dungeon Meshi episode 21, being heavily dialogue-driven, was pretty straightforward animation-wise and let Ryoko Kui's stunning art speak for itself for the most part, but that doesn't mean that there aren't still some GENERALLY-INSIGNIFICANT-DETAILS-TO-SCRUTINIZE-AT-ARGUABLY-UNNECESSARY-LENGTH.

There was a strong emphasis on hands in this episode, particularly the second half, starting with this cut of Laios resting his on the Minotaur's snout.

The animators have taken this simple little panel (on the right) from the manga (btw, people who know more about this than I do, is there a name for this type of panel, which in film would be called an "insert shot"?)

and turned it into this highly detailed tracking shot that heightens the emotional impact of this moment for Laios. It feels very similar to the shot of Kabru bringing a piece of fish to his mouth that introduced him to the series!

The theme comes up again when Laios does a little bit of blair-witching in the corner after being rejected by house-kitty-pilled Izutsumi,

and once again a few seconds later with this added close-up of Marcille's hand when she tries to read the magical aura of the area.

This one clearly makes heavy use of reference footage, to the point that it almost looks rotoscoped until you notice little details like this line that warps unrealistically at the heel of her palm.

But with smooth, realistic motion like this, little details like that are much less important than the overall feeling of authentic shape and movement. This can be seen in a lot of Masaaki Yuasa's work, which often favors consistent motion and more frames over super polished individual drawings. Here's a thematically appropriate cut from Ping Pong for example:

(This one might actually be rotoscoped, I'm not sure)

If you pause on any individual frame, the lines look wobbly and inconsistent, but it comes together as a whole to create something that feels authentic - real.

The heavy detail in the hand anatomy and the way the skin wrinkles around the knuckles in these cuts feels like a hard departure from Studio TRIGGER's signature heavy stylization, but these realistic cuts have popped up here and there since the start of this show, and I think they fit Dungeon Meshi really well! It can be jarring go straight from wacky bombastic cartoonsmanship to realism, but while it is a show about the hungriest hungriest himbo and his family of weirdos, it's also simultaneously a show about anatomy, ecology, and the horrors of the human mindbrain.

This was expanded from an excerpt from this video where I break down the whole episode, so if you want to continue wallowing in the sludge with me, consider checking out the video!

Thanks for reading.

[linkspooky]

Are You Satisfied?

As you might have heard chapter 236 of Jujutsu Kaisen ends with the death of Gojo Satoru. The fandom is making a pretty big deal about it. As someone who predicted from the beginning that Gojo was going to lose against Sukuna, the reaction is fascinating to me. This is perhaps the most controversial chapter of Jujutsu Kaisen I've ever seen. So I've decided to throw my hat into the ring.

The central theme of Jujutsu Kaisen is death, so the death of one of the main characters isn't too surprising, but what does Gojo's death mean for the story? What does it say about his character?

As I said above I am a little bit shocked by the extreme controversy over Gojo's death. Gojo was never going to win the fight in the first place, because Jujutsu Kaisen is a story and the story would be over if he defeated Sukuna. He'd easily be able to take care of Kenjaku afterwards and the main conflcit would be resolved. Would it really be an interesting story if Gojo one shotted the villains while the kids just wathced on Television?

The story is also not about Gojo, it's about the students. Gojo may think he's the protagonist of reality but he's not the protagonist of the story.

Once again, Jujutsu Kaisen is a story and stories have themes. We may grow personally attached to characters, but characters are just narrative tools to convey the themes of a story, no different from prose, dialogue, and art. Characters are a tool to be used well or used poorly, and sometimes yes that means killing them. Whether Gojo's death was naratively satisfying though isn't the purpose of this post though we're only asking what does it mean?

Finally, Jujutsu Kaisen is not only a fictional story, it's specifically a tragedy. Full disclosure, it's a manga about death.

The Protagonist of a Tragedy

So, number one shout out to me for making this post 4 months ago where I called the way Gojo would end the fight.

Excuse me while I fist pump for calling it!

The question on everyone's minds is why does one of the most powerful characters in the manga die offscreen in a pretty humiliating way, cut in half and helpless on the ground just like Kaneki. The reason Gojo didn't get a more heroic (or cooler) death is because we're not reading My Hero Academia, this is not a story about heroes or even a typical Shonen manga it is a tragedy.

In poetics Aristotle defines tragedy as:

"an imitation of an action that is serious, complete, and of a certain magnitude; in language embellished with each kind of artistic ornament, the several kinds being found in separate parts of the play; in the form of action, not of narrative; through pity and fear effecting the proper purgation of these emotions" (51).

To paraphrase a tragedy is about human action, actions characters make in a tragedy often have dire consequences. One of the most common consequences if the reversal of a hero's fortune, a hero of a tragedy usually starts out on top and ends up on the bottom because of the bad choices they make. If in normal shonen manga characters overcome their flaws through effort and persistence, in Jujutsu Kaisen we see characters more often than not lose to their flaws.

The reason I posted that Kaneki panel specifically is because it was a brilliant moment of narrative punishment for Kaneki's central character flaw. Kaneki the hero's main flaw is that he always fights alone, and he constantly makes that same choice over and over again to fight alone. One of the characters helpfully explains it as well.

Stories are primarily about change. If a character doesn't change they're not serving the plot, unless that specifically is the point. People have pointed out how abrupt it is for Gojo to get sealed in Shibuya, get let out, and then immediately die afterwards but that's kind of the point. Gojo made more or less the exact same choice (he asked for Utahime's help for a buff but otherwise fought the entire battle himself). The definition of insanity and what not, why would doing the same thing over and over again net him a different result?

Not only did Gojo choose to fight alone, but as I've been hammering on and on about in previous meta the entire fight Gojo cared more about fighting a strong opponent then he did saving Megumi, the child he was responsible for.

Jujutsu Kaisen is not a typical shonen manga where everything is resolved by beating a strong villain in a fight. That's specifically why I used the Tokyo Ghoul reference, because the reason Kaneki is defeated offscreen like that is because he thought the world worked like a shonen manga. He has a fantasy sequence where he's fighting Juzo in a shonen battle tournament like this is Yu Yu Hakusho right before it snaps back to reality and he's limbless on the ground.

Gojo is a major character in the manga Jujutsu Kaisen, literally "Sorcery Fight" and he is the best sorcerer in the whole world. His entire identity revolves around being a sorcerer. Since he is so good and beloved at what he does, he thinks that everything is resolved by exorcising a curse or defeating a strong opponent. He has basically no identity outside of that. Which is why when he's fighting the possessed body of his student, a person he's been mentoring since childhood his priority is not to save Megumi but to beat a strong opponent. Gojo is a sorcerer, before a human being. That's who he is, that's who he always has been since day one.

I think part of the negative fan reaction comes from fans being really attached to this scene in the manga and deciding Gojo's entire character revolves around being a good mentor figure to children.

Which is just incorrect, Gojo's entire character revolves around being the strongest. On top of that though, Gojo can care about children and also care about being the strongest he can care about multiple things at once and have those things contradict each other because humans are complicated. I'd point out even in this panel where he's stating motivation he's not trying to raise these kids up into being healthy adults, he wants them to be strong Jujutsu Sorcerers. Even when he's raising kids, his intention is to turn them into Jujutsu Sorcerers because everything in Gojo's mind revolves around Jujutsu Sorcery. Gojo does not exist outside of the world of sorcerers. Gojo may be the chosen one but he'd never be able to hold down a job at Mcdonalds.

I think in general readers put more investment in the things characters say out loud, rather than their actions. You can say one thing and do another. I can say "I should never eat sweets again I'm going to improve my diet", and then go and eat ice cream five hours later. Gojo can state out loud his intention to foster children and protect their youths, but then fail to properly do that in the story. Characters are not always what they say they are, that's why they're interesting to interpret. This isn't me calling the readers stupid, just pointing out that Gojo is made up of contradictions. He wants to get rid of the old guard and replace them with something new, but Gojo IS THE OLD GUARD.

If the culling games arc has shown us one thing, it's that ancient sorcerers brought to the modern age do not care that much about human life on an individual level, they are all of them egoists. There's a reason Gojo resembles someone like Sukuna more than he does any other character in the manga. I'm not saying Gojo is exactly like Sukuna, he's far more altruistic and uses his genuinely noble ideals but at the same time Sukuna is a shadow archetype to Gojo he represents Gojo's flaws. The flaws that Gojo succumbs to in tragic fashion.

Which if you believe that Gojo genuinely does love his students, and the ideal he's fighting for is to raise up a better generation and allow them to live out their youths, then Gojo throughout the entire Sukuna fight is acting against those ideals. He cares far more about fighting Sukuna then he does saving Megumi, it's shown over and over again in the battle, Megumi is an afterthought to him. If Gojo care moredefeating the big bad and saving the world is more important than helping a child that Gojo is responsible for then Gojo is acting against his stated principles. Why should Gojo win the fight when he's fighting for all the wrong reasons?

Tragedies are like visual novels, if you make the wrong choice the novel will give you a red flag. If you ignore the red flag then you get locked into the route with the bad ending. Gojo always fights alone. Gojo only ever fights for himself, even if he's using that selfishness in support of a more noble ideal like creating a better generation of sorcerers. If Gojo consecutively makes the same changes then in a tragedy he's not going to be rewarded for it.

Gojo wants the old generation out and the new generation in, but Gojo resembles the old generation too much. Old sorcerers like Hajime and Sukuna respect him, Hajime argues that Gojo being able to fight for his pride is far more important than him living to the end of the battle when Yuta wanted to interfere and help him.

Gojo's death isn't a surprise curve ball that Gege is throwing us for shock value, it's a result of his choices throughout the manga. A manga about change, and the change between generations is not going to punish a character for remaining roughly the same. Of course you might find it disappointing that Gege didn't give Gojo the chance to grow and change and experience a character arc like Megumi or Yuji, but Jujutsu Kaisen is a tragedy, and the way Gojo's arc ended is consistent with what Gege wrote.

Jujutsu Kaisen is not just a tragedy though, it's a manga about death. The manga begins with Yuji's grandfather warning him not to die alone the way that he did. His grandfather's dying words are what motivate Yuji throughout the beginning of the manga as he's searching for a "proper" death.

One of the major themes of Yuji's character is a contemplation of death. He accepts that death is inevitable, so he wants to save them from the gruesome deaths they'd experience if they became victims to curses and allow them to have a more satisfying death. Yuji's grandpa died an unsatisfying death because he died alone in a hospital room. Yuji even tries to make his own death a satisfying one because he believes by dying to seal away Sukuna he'll reduce the total number of casualties to curses.

Jujutsu Kaisen keeps investigating the theme of death and what exactly would make for a satisfying death. At one point it's all but stated that death is the mirror that makes humans analyze their lives.

When Yuji fails to save Junpei from the "unnatural death" it calls into question whether or not his goal of saving people from unsatisfying deaths and the gruesome deaths caused by curses is even feasible. Nanami even says that Yuji might not be able to accomplish his goal and warns him away from the path.

We see repeated unsatifying deaths in the manga, each time someone reflecting on their deaths that they weren't able to get what they wanted out of life. This list comes via @kaibutsushidousha by the way I'm quoting them.

Nanami's a character who chose to work as a sorcerer because he didn't want to evade the responsibility of doing all you can to help people, he wanted to believe he's somewhere where he's needed. He never runs away from responsibility like Mei Mei does so he quite literally works himself to death, living and dying as a sorcerer. Nanami or Gojo's dying hallucination of Nanami even says as much, his death is the result of him choosing to go south and returning to be a sorcerer.

Maki chose revenge against the Zen'in over her sister, and as a result Mai is dead. Maki has all the power in the world now, her revenge complete but she's left with a sense of "now what?" She's as strong as Toji now but she failed to protect her sister, and it's the result of the choices she made. Maki's reflection isn't triumph, it's "I should have chosen to die with her."

Even Yuji himself is robbed of his narrative purpose. The manga began with Yuji saying he wants to choose how he's going to die and he'll die taking out Sukuna with him so he can reduce the number of people killed by curses in the world. Both of those things are thrown in Sukuna's face. Number one the amount of people Yuji can save by permanently killing Sukuna is now a moot point because he let Sukuna rampage in Shibuya.

Number two, Sukuna isn't even in Yuji anymore. To build on what Comun said though, this repeated tragedy has a purpose to it and understanding requires understanding that Jujutsu Kaisen is an existentialist manga. Existentialism is basically a school of philosophy centered around the question of "Why do I exist?"

There's nothing about the invetability of death to make you question why you're alive in the first place. In the myth of Sispyhus, Albert Camus boils down all of philosophy to one question.

"There is but one truly serious philosophical problem, and that is suicide. Judging whether life is or is not worth living amounts to answering the fundamental question of philosophy. "

All of philosophy is should I shoot myself in the head or should I keep living? Everything comes after that question, which is why in Jujutsu Kaisen a lot of the characters motivations revolve around them contemplating death. Sorcerers exist in a world where they can die any moment, and as Gojo says most of them die alone. It might be the nature of sorcery itself that causes so many people to die, not only are they dying because they are trapped in an uncaring system, but the characters themselves aren't really attempting to live outside of it. They live and die as sorcerers, replaceable cogs in the machine.

All of these unsatisfying deaths may just be the result of all these characters making one choice, to live as sorcerers rather than people. Because to exist means to live in the world.

Even in Mechamaru's case, his goal is deeply existentialist by what I defined, all he wants to do is live in the world with everyone else rather than be stuck in his hospital room but his actions contradict that goal. Instead of letting his friends come and visit he's obsessed with the idea of getting a normal body because he feels that's the only way he can exist with everyone else, he makes a deal with the devil, he lies and goes behind their backs. He wasn't living with everyone else in the world and he could have chosen to, he chose wrong and his death is the result of that choice.

Jujutsu Sorcerers aren't living in the world. They're living in a little snowglobe far removed from the world with its own rules, most of them regressive and disconnected from the rest of society. If you define existentialism as just "living in the world' then a lot of these characters aren't, because they only exist in the world of sorcery.

INVISIBLE BUFFY: What are you talking ab- SPIKE: The only reason you're here, is that you're not here. (drinking) INVISIBLE BUFFY: Right. Of course, as usual there's something wrong with Buffy. She came back all wrong. (moving around on the bed) You know, I didn't ask for this to happen to me. SPIKE: Not too put off by it though, are you? (drinking) INVISIBLE BUFFY: No! Maybe because for the first time since ... I'm free. She tosses the sheet aside. Spike looks around, trying to figure out where she's going. INVISIBLE BUFFY: Free of rules and reports ... free of this life. SPIKE: Free of life? Got another name for that. Dead.

Not living in the world with everyone else is the same as being dead.

A lot of these characters either make the choice to act alone, or be a jujutsu sorcerer rather than a person and because of that they die as sorcerers, b/c sorcerers die that's what they do. Mai didn't want to keep living as a hindrance to Maki so she kills herself. Maki didn't want to be anything other than a sorcerer, so her little sister dies and she's not a big sister anymore. Nanami chose to leave his job behind and become a sorcerer again, he dies as one.

Of course I don't think the manga is punishing characters for being too egotistical, but rather too unbalanced. If anything Mai is too selfless and that is why she died, she didn't want to live for herself and chooses self sacrifice for her sister. An unbalance between selfishness or selflessness results in an underdeveloped ego. Jujutsu Kaisen doesn't punish individualism per se, moreso if you're not a fully developed individual you won't last long. Because it's also a manga about growing up in the world, and a person who doesn't have a healthy, mature, well-balanced sense of self is not a grown up.

This twitter user det_critics points out that Gojo (and also Yuki + Yuji's) failures in the manga can be attributed to the fact they don't have real senses of self.

Gojo has an identity crisis as outlined by Geto, "are you Satoru Gojo because you're the strongest, or are you the strongest because you're Satoru Gojo?"

It's a challenge for him to find some reason to live outside of being the strongest, and in tragic fashion Gojo just doesn't find it in time. Gojo lived for fighting others, and proving to himself that he's the strongest, and that's how he dies.

There's something I like to say about narrative punishment in stories. There are two ways to punish a character, you either don't give them what they want, or you give them exactly what they want. This is the latter, Gojo wanted to find someone stronger than him because deep down he believed that nobody could understand him unless they were on his level. He wanted to be surpassed, and that's why he focused on creating stronger young sorcerers, but he never shook himself of the belief that only someone as strong or even stronger than he was could ever be emotionally attached to him so he made a deliberate choice to draw a line between himself and others.

Gojo's essentially gotten what he wanted from that choice in the worst way possible. The student he picked to succeed him Megumi, has his body stolen and kills him. Gojo is surpassed, but it's not by one of his own students it's by an enemy that's not only trying to kill Gojo but is going to massacre his students afterwards.

Gojo's spent his entire life believing that because he's more powerful that makes him inherently different and above others, and being lonely because he himself believed he couldn't relate to ordinary people and he dies like an ordinary person, an unsatisfying death where he wasn't able to bring out Sukuna's best, where he gets unceremoniously cut in half offscreen but yay he's no longer the strongest. He's gotten exactly what he wanted. Megumi is still not saved, Sukuna's probably going to kill more people because Gojo failed to stop him here, but hey at least he stopped to compliment Gojo.

It's empty, but it's empty because of the choices Gojo made in life to just not bother connecting to people or develop any kind of identity besides being a sorcerer. Gojo lives and dies as a sorcerer, and his dying dream is returning to a teenager being surrounded by everyone he was with during his school days, because that's the happiest time in his life. Ironically he was happier before he became the strongest, because that was the only time in his life that he allowed himself to connect to people.

However in the eyes of others, he is someone who has it all. That's why he is always alone. There was no one who could hold the same sentiments and mutually understand him. Geto was the only one who could understand what he was trying to say, and the only one who could communicate well with him.

It's no coincidence Gojo and Geto die exactly a year apart on the same day, if anything I'd say the reasons they die are similiar to at least thematically. They both die because they don't want to live in the world. Geto thinks the world is too corrupt and GOjo doesn't want to be anything other than a sorcerer, both of them fail to adapt.

「 'It's just. . .' It's just that it was what Geto had to do. [...] To someone like him, the reality that the world of sorcerers presented to him was just too cruel. '. . .that in a world like this, I couldn't truly be happy from the bottom of my heart.'」

They can't be happy in a world like this from the bottom of their hearts, so narratively they both die. The things they chose to live for at the end of their life they fail to accomplish, Gojo is no longer the stronget, Geto fails to wipe out mankind or make major changes to the world and they die as normal people unsatisfied because they weren't trying to live in the world and make connections to others. They die almost karmically a year apart because their main connection for both of them, the thing which made them feel connected to the world and other people was each other.

Which is why this panel breaks my heart and is so narratively satisfying because of how unsatisfying it is...

"If you were among those patting my back... then I might've been satisfied."

Gojo reflects that he's not satisfied dying against Sukuna, not because he failed to give him a good enough challenge but because Geto wasn't there to pat him on the back. The one thing that would have satisfied him he couldn't have, because he didn't live to connect to people he lived to be the strongest and he died alone as the strongest. There's just something deeply upsetting about Gojo's dying dream fantasy just him being there talking with all of his dead friends who he never appreciated or connected to properly when he was alive. Knowing that if something had just gone a little differently, that even if he had to die no matter what he could have died happier if Geto was among the people saying goodbye to him because that connection with Geto is what gave his life meaning.

Dazai Osamu: "A life with someone you can say good-bye to is a good life, especially when it hurts so much to say it to them. Am I wrong?" -Bungou Stray Dogs Beast

[diremoone]

ensō (in paradise)

gojo satoru x student! reader — [tffts]

throughout heaven and earth, he alone is the honored one. but he doesn’t want either. he wants his paradise; he wants to be back in the field of lotuses and lilies with the one that treats him like he was never a god, but as if he was always human

w — teacher/student relationship, underage, adult/minor relationship, age gap, mostly Gojo’s POV, implied! slightly chubby reader, minor gore, prose, word vomit in some areas haha, no dialogue except maybe a few lines lmao, ANGST, and JJK manga spoilers for 236

[ ending line divider goes to @/saradika]

Nothing in his life could have ever prepared him for this. No amount of training or mental fortitude could ever prepared him for losing the fight — for defeat — and the aftermath that he knew would ensue. He didn’t like it, but it was what it was.

The only problem? He wasn’t satisfied. 

With this? Never.

Satoru had won. The fight was over. He had bested the King of Curses with his Unlimited Hollow, hollowing out a massive chunk of Shinjuku. The body of the boy that Satoru swore to take back was battered, missing limbs and out of energy and done.

He won.

What went wrong? He doesn’t know. All he knows is that his torso had been suddenly cut, split almost in half with entrails visible for the world to see. To see that he was nothing more than a human— a human playing the part of a god that he was not. He remembers losing feeling below his ribs, the warmth of the fish of blood, then falling, sliding backwards from atop his lower half. He doesn’t like to see that his legs are still standing, that blood coats everything from where he was cut to his knees. He’s sure there’s a puddle gathering beneath the feet his head was separated from. 

All he knows is that he’s dying, and that he won’t be coming back.

He doesn’t need to close his eyes to see Suguru, Nanami, Haibara, and Masamichi in the afterlife. That’s unnecessary, he thinks. They talk in the final moments of the life of Gojo Satoru, in his state of limbo of his soul coming to pass into the pearly gates he knows he doesn’t deserve to go through.

He calls out to his old teacher in the afterlife, yelling at him over the saying that there’ll never be a sorcerer that won’t die with regrets.

Because despite the facade that he doesn’t have any… maybe, just maybe… he has them.

It may have been a worthy fight, a worthy end for Gojo Satoru, the most powerful sorcerer of the modern era, but he wasn’t satisfied. He had regrets (he wouldn’t have called out to his teacher otherwise) about… maybe a few things. Perhaps several. He was supposed to die alone; he was supposed to show Sukuna he understood the magnitude of solitude the King of Curses bore as the strongest; he was supposed to foster a new generation…

Ah… He almost closes his eyes. His students…

Satoru’s voltage had just began to ramp up, his reverse cursed technique back at full force thanks to Black Flash. He had won. Hollow Purple had brought the mighty King of Curses to his knees, no matter the expense to Shinjuku. 

But now, it was too late. It had all been too sudden for even him to comprehend: that he had been cut through by Sukuna’s newly acquired technique. 

Satoru heard his lower half finally hit the ground, inches, centimeters even, from his severed upper. He could feel the blood splatter onto the stumps of his arms, guessing its proximity. 

How was one supposed to fix this? He knew he probably could, even if it did re-exhaust the reverse cursed technique bar he’d just filled back up. That wasn’t a problem, if he could just think hard enough. 

The problem now was fighting the peaceful slow of his heart with the regrets he wasn’t allowed to have; the problem was the fighting the serenity of death with the unsatisfactory, unsatisfied way he was going to leave the planet — leave his fellow peers and students behind. 

His students… A faint hum rumbles from his throat. You.

He can only imagine how you’re feeling, seeing him severed in almost half and a bloody mess. He knows how he would feel if anything like this happened to you. He can’t even imagine it… To flatten the entire landscape, the Earth even, to obliterate everything and everyone on it, would not be enough, nowhere near enough, to satisfy his rage. Because it wouldn’t bring you back.

Nanami was half right. He does use jujutsu as a means to satisfy himself. He is weird; he’ll definitely agree. However, as of just a few months ago, that’s changed. It’s changed because you dropped into his life. It’s changed because you didn’t see him as a god like the rest of jujutsu society. You didn’t revere him, the very pinnacle of sorcery itself, not like Yuuji did. Although he tried at first to get you to see him the same way everyone else did, he quickly gave up. Because it felt nice. For some reason, he didn’t feel like he had to be at the top. Not with you. Yes, he immediately knew how strange it was, but what he didn’t do was question it. And that was something he wouldn’t regret.

“…toru!” 

Satoru didn’t know why he was hearing your voice. The universe granting him one last wish?

He prayed that you weren’t here on the battlefield, here in front of Sukuna. He prayed your voice was nothing more than a figment of his imagination — the overactive brain that made him so childish and hyper. Satoru hoped it was your voice carrying across the wind, across the spiritual plane, because if it wasn’t, he was truly going to hate himself for not getting up. Especially when he knew he could. He just… didn’t want to.

Satoru felt the cold, then a familiar firmness press against the severed portion of his body. His lower half. His legs and partial torso were being put to the rest of his upper body, his arms being connected to remaining stumps.

His hearing was still intact. Muddled just a little bit, like being underwater, but it was coming back to him. 

The first thing he hears clearly is crackling. Like electricity. Like lightning. He knows what’s happening even while he’s dying.

Kashimo must be on the field, he thinks. And he’s surprised he can still think. Because there was a moment earlier where thoughts were thick fog, hazing over his overworked brain to tell him to sleep and get some rest even though it would be the last time his eyes would close. 

Things get clearer; his hearing increases, his thoughts begin to speed up, his vision goes form opaque to crystal, and finally, his sense of touch comes back. 

“Satoru!”

He’s right. Kashimo is on the field, fighting Sukuna. Shoko is also there, along with Yuuta. Both are utilizing their reverse cursed energy to the maximum output. And, to his fear, so are you.

He’s right. You’re on the battlefield as well. It makes his heart sink in upset. You’re helping heal him, too. Out of the three of you, you have the highest output of healing capacity. You match him so well, just with the opposite powers; two sides of the same coin.

Satoru hates the tears running down your cheeks. He hates that your eyes are swollen and puffy and red and that you’re going to have a massive headache come tomorrow. He hates that you’re this sad, this upset, and it’s all because of him. He’d like to rip his own heart out as recompense, but he knows that would only hurt you further.

The only way he could make it better is by healing and getting up off the ground.

Satoru’s going to make it better. He can’t leave you alone and afraid and in this current state that breaks the heart inside his chest that he found out is still human. After all this time, he’s still human. And he still has to thank you for showing him that. 

Heaven with his friends was amazing. Earth with his students and peers was exciting. But that wasn’t enough. You were the paradise that made him feel human, feel something he hasn’t known before. It was new, something more than just fun and exciting, and he wasn’t willing to let that go. Not yet. Not ever.

He can feel his brain pulse with the strain, lifeforce dwindling as he searches and searches and searches and searches and fucking there it is.

Satoru fires up his reverse cursed technique, smoke billowing from his waist and arms, the energy encompassing his broken body. A heavy, soul-shaking thunderclap echos in his ears the second his heart restarts. The suddenly inhale of oxygen almost overwhelms his lungs and he’s alive again.

Shoko and Yuuta’s hands are still on him, unwavering while aiding in the process. You, however, pull away. He knows why. He knows you too well: that you fear your touch might make things worse instead of better. 

Silly girl, he thinks with a smile. You could never hurt me.

Everything hurts. Reverse cursed energy may heal wounds, but scars would still surely remain.

He uses his repaired arms to lift himself off the ground. He whines childishly at the pain, earning a deadpan look from Shoko and a heavy sigh from the second-year, along with a cloth to wipe the blood from the sides of his mouth.

“Knock it off, Gojo.” Shoko lights up another cigarette. She takes a long puff, one that makes his, Yuuta’s, and your sweet and puffy eyes go wide. “You need to recover. Properly, this time. Come back to base. You can fight him again if Kashimo loses.”

His shining blue eyes go to Sukuna and Kashimo. He wants to say something, that he should finish what’s been started. But the second his eyes land on them, his peripheral sees you. Devastated, sweet, upset, lovable little you that just witnessed the near loss of someone who was more than just a teacher to her.

He bites his tongue. He can’t. 

“Okay~”

Satoru is hugged by his students and applauded by the rest once he’s back. Maki, however, true to Maki fashion, punches his chest in worry. It hurts, thanks to her Heavenly Restriction, but he’s glad to feel it. (She’s stronger than Toji, that much he’s almost sure of.)

He doesn’t shower, but cleans up with water and cloth and changes into new clothes, ready sooner rather than later if he’s needed again. Which he doesn’t doubt that he will.

But Satoru wants to rest now. He wants to watch as Kashimo (and maybe his students) take down Sukuna and Kenjaku. He doesn’t want to fight anymore. He does, but he doesn’t. The longer he’s away from the battlefield and by your side, the more he’s tearing away from his desire to fight. He may come when called, but for no reason other than that. Satoru wants to hand the torch off. It’s time. 

He can hear the fight; he doesn’t need to see it. His eyes need rest anyway.

He wants to indulge in the luxury of not being needed. He want to indulge in the paradise of being human, of being content and finally satisfied with something other than being the world’s strongest jujutsu sorcerer. And with you, he can do that. You provide that sanctuary for him. You give him things he never thought were possible for someone like him.

Satoru’s big arms are looped tightly around your waist, holding you close to him. His head is buried into the soft squishiness of your tummy while he rests. It’s his favorite place to be. Your tummy is the perfect pillow to rest his head, a little piece of heaven that grants him rest he doesn’t often come by. It’s warm and soft and cozy and he genuinely doesn’t understand why you don’t like how soft you are.

He hopes you stay soft. As soft as possible anyway. He doesn’t want you hardened, not like him. He wants your heart to stay soft, your hands smooth and stomach plush and comfy so he can feel every day the fruit of his sacrifice of being The Strongest.

As for you, you can’t help but feel like you’re about to explode. Not even an hour ago, the man laying on your lap, your teacher, was drifting into the afterlife, his blood all across the ground and staining his lower half after being cut into two (four, but you can’t bother to think about it any further).

Now, he’s nestled into your tummy with a content grin on his face, using you as a pillow and relaxing as if he hadn’t just fought the fight of his life against the most powerful being in known jujutsu history — like nothing ever happened. Your hands are threaded through his stark white locks, fingertips gently rubbing his scalp to the point where you were sure he was falling asleep.

“Easy,” comes Satoru’s voice. He isn’t asleep. The tone he uses is not his high pitched one; it’s the deep one that he uses on rare occasion, the one that grabs your attention because it’s important. “Stop thinking so much. I’m still here.”

His ethereal blue eyes gaze up at you sweetly, like one would a lover like you’re more than just his student, and you are. They’re filled with such emotion it makes you turn away in embarrassment. You don’t know why he looks at you like you’re the world to him, but he does. It’s because you’re different; they’re filled with love, because he knows in his heart he’s in love. Even if he has to wait a few more years, he knows that you’re it. You’re the one for him.

You’re his paradise, his well-deserved peace and tranquillity. Together with you, he’s at his best.

Behind him on the screen, Kashimo decimates Sukuna further. He’s on his knees, and Yuuta takes over from there. Sukuna’s soul is separated from Megumi’s body, leaving the boy comatose from his own soul being crushed under the weight of Sukuna’s evil. All that’s left is Kenjaku, and Satoru knows he can easily defeat the man holding his late best friend’s body and put an end to the Culling Games once and for all.

Satoru can’t wait until this is all over. He can’t wait to properly bathe in the glory of the peace and serenity of the paradise that he’s never had until now — the paradise he’s more earned. Death hasn’t earned him yet.

Satoru burrows himself deeper into your stomach, curling his legs up on the sofa, making you giggle from being ticklish there. He’ll come if he’s needed. But for now, he’s going to stay behind, and keep you out of harm’s way doing it.

Right here and right now, he’s going to be a selfish little bastard and enjoy the paradise on Earth that Heaven could never have afforded him.

here’s the fix-it fic guys time to take a tylenol and hit the pillow. i have absolutely no shame in giving myself carpal tunnel for this. gojo dead? naw he just gotta wait for backup everything’s fine :’)) also this is a jumbled mess and probably shit that’s the only thing I’ll apologize for bc I kept on getting upset and crying while doing this like 🥲 gojo come back

taglist (for now): — @vagabond-umlaut @heresan @nayrring @satorunin @satoruhour @aeanya @greycaelum (we don’t talk much babe but I thought you’d be okay with me tagging you since you commented on a couple of my works ☺️ and I’m such a huge fan of urs)

[bun-lapin]

Confessions

Summary: Idia confesses his love to you.

A/N: Third one shot finished! I was very sick with a summer cold while I wrote this so I hope everything makes sense. I also got very carried away with the banter and so I had to cut some dialogue to keep it to my desired work length. I hope someday I can share those deleted scenes with you all~!

Confessions series: Rook, Kalim, Idia, Floyd, Vil, Silver, Leona, Trey / AO3

Your steps hit the pale marble flooring with singular purpose. Their crisp echoes spin away from your feet, only to ricochet off of towering columns and scatter up towards a vaulted ceiling. The hallways of Ignihyde are empty and bright, lit up by informational monitors and the mysterious hum of technomancy. The air inside the dormitory is pleasantly cool and feels almost sterilized with its lack of scent. You stride past countless rooms, ignoring the few rare muffled conversations that seep out from under the occasional door.

You stop at a door identical to every other door you’ve passed so far. Reaching out, you briskly knock on the door and announce, “Idia! Open up! I’ve got an emergency!”

A few beats of silence tick by before you hear the sound of reluctant, shuffling feet moving towards you. The door slowly creaks open, just barely wide enough for a single, morose yellow eye and one half of a radiantly pale face to peer out at you.

Wordlessly, you hold up your smartphone for Idia to see. Its current state could be best described in just one word: annihilated.

Idia swings the door open completely and stares down at the remains of your phone in abject horror, sputtering, “What the-! How-? What were you trying to do?! Vaporize your phone or something?!”

Handing over your former communication device, you step into the room and tiredly reply, “Several crucial mistakes were made today. Can you fix it?”

Idia’s face breaks into a wide, smug grin. He closes the bedroom door with a prideful scoff and boasts, “Like that’s even a question. Can I fix it? That’s undeniable! Too EZ. I could fix something like this with both eyes closed and my hands behind my back!”

You make your way over towards a tall bookshelf on the far side of the room and grin back at him, “Well that’s good news for me then! I’ll be over here perusing your manga collection while you get to work.”

Idia sighs wearily as he sets himself down in front of a worktable covered in various tools and hardware. “So business as usual I guess,” he mutters gloomily but from the corner of your eye, you manage to catch sight of the smallest of smiles flashing across his face.

As Idia sets up the necessary materials and begins his assignment, you trace your finger down the length of the bookshelf, scanning titles and making future reading selections. An interestingly named one catches your eye and you carefully retrieve it from its place on the shelf. With today’s selection in hand, you amble over to Idia’s worktable, seat yourself in a comfortable chair next to his, and begin reading.

Several minutes of easy silence pass by, periodically punctuated by the ambient sounds of lightly clicking repair work and the soft turning of pages. The two of you continue your parallel activities in this way for a few more minutes before you suddenly hear a short, quiet laugh from Idia.

You glance up curiously from your reading and ask, “Something funny?”

Idia does not stop or look up from his task but he smiles softly. He admits in a slightly bemused voice, “I was just thinking that this feels nice. This familiar scene, with you reading next to me while I work on a project. I never thought I'd get so comfortable with you barging into my room whenever you wanted."

You raise your eyebrows playfully and ask in a gently teasing tone, “Oh? So does that mean you used to feel uncomfortable with my visits?”

Idia turns his head to face you with an exaggerated look of retroactive disbelief and exclaims, “Understatement of the century! I was definitely super uncomfortable with your interruptions in the beginning and I believe I distinctly remember telling you to never come back on several separate occasions.”

“Yeah but you let me back in every single time afterwards,” you quip back with a self-satisfied grin.

“Well, of course. You wanted to read my manga,” Idia states frankly as he turns back to his work. “I don’t lend out my books to people I don’t know super well. If I don’t know your reading style, then reading my books requires my direct supervision!”

“Well you know my reading style now,” you say gesturing broadly to the careful and considerate way you hold the book you are currently reading. “Do you trust me enough to lend me a book now?”

Idia seems to suddenly freeze at the sound of your last question. With a hand poised elegantly in the air, clutching a small tool, he would look every bit like a beautiful statue if it weren’t for the slight flickering movement of his soft blue hair. Turning with almost excruciating slowness, he takes the book from your hands in a gentle and deliberate action and grabs a nearby bookmark to place inside before finally closing and placing it face down on the table.

Idia turns his chair so that his body is completely facing you but his eyes are cast down and to the side, still on the book. A breath of silence passes between the two of you before he finally speaks in a carefully measured voice.

"I do trust you. I completely and utterly trust you. But I'll never lend you any of my books because I want you to keep reading them here next to me."

Idia turns his head and looks into your eyes. There’s still the ever present, tired hesitation weighing down his brows, but you see something else in his face, never seen before. In his bright yellow eyes shines a fiery determination, fueled by newly realized desire.

You gaze silently into Idia’s eyes, almost hypnotized. An eternity seems to pass by in seconds like this until Idia suddenly throws his pale, thin hands over his face. You blink rapidly in surprise at the abrupt end to the moment. With fingers pressed tightly against his face, Idia’s voice comes out muffled and anxious.

“I need to tell you something really important but it might be kinda cringe? And I don’t think I have the nerve to say it out loud with you looking at me so can you please close your eyes? And also can you promise not to laugh at anything I say?”

Even though Idia can’t see you with his hands completely covering his face, you smile softly at him and state in a reassuring voice, “I promise not to laugh and I’ll close my eyes.”

With your eyes closed tight, you listen to the faint rustling of his clothes as he hesitantly lowers his arms and you hear the slight creaking of his chair, as if he is leaning himself towards you. Suddenly, you feel an ambient warmth on the side of your face and realize Idia has moved in closer to whisper into your ear. A faint feeling like feather softness swipes over your cheek and you think it must be some of Idia’s hair, flickering luxuriously against your skin like incense smoke. When he finally speaks, his voice is a low murmur against your ear.

"When I leave my room, all the whispers I hear behind my back and the stares I see from the corner of my eye... It's like harsh noise and screeching static to me. It’s overwhelming,”

Idia’s voice drops even quieter and you can almost feel his soft breath on your face as he draws a little closer, "But when I'm with you everything goes quiet. When I'm with you I feel safe."

For a few moments, the only sound in the room is the sound of the two of you breathing. The soft sound of air falling up and down weaves over and onto itself almost like calming music. Then Idia lets out a shuddering sigh, the air from his lips brushing over your skin like cool silk, and the silence melts away under his low voice.

"I've been thinking about this a lot lately. Thinking about you. When I open my eyes in the morning, I immediately think of you. When I close my eyes at night, it's your face I see. I think what this all must mean, what I’ve just now realized, is that I love you."

Your eyes fly open in surprise and you whip your head to the side to look at Idia, acting purely on instinct. His face is so close to yours, the tip of his nose almost brushes against yours. His eyes grow wide and bright from shock but he doesn’t pull away from you. Idia opens his mouth but all that comes out is a kind of strangled gasp. You read the question he can’t seem to ask, written all over his pale and unquiet face.

“Do you love me too?”

[nightfurynova1217]

Crazy revelation I just had about Soichiro's death. This occurred to me while writing a Beyond Birthday fic, and specifically having to keep in mind that death does not surprise him. Sure, he doesn't know how it'll happen, but he always knows when.

It's glossed over if not outright cut from the anime, but it's addressed in a blink-and-ya-miss-it way in the manga, that Soichiro was planning to commit suicide after the raid to Mello's base (for those who were unaware of that fact, it's because he believes his involvement in the case is putting his family in danger, as evidenced by Sayu being kidnapped). The reason he doesn't is obviously because he dies before then, because he cut his time in half after making the eye deal with Ryuk, and instead dies via gunshot wounds and the explosion. Soichiro's life was not taken by a death note, his lifespan was not completely cut short "before his time". My point is, his timer ran out.

MISA. HAS. THE. EYES.

Whether or not she would have figured out the exact formula for how long each tick is, or if she would have calculated the exact date and time, she would have at least seen that Soichiro didn't have much time left compared to everyone else. And she ABSOLUTELY would have told Light. A shinigami would never tell a human how much time they have left, or their loved ones, but there's no rule saying a human with the eyes can't. Even if she never calculates the exact time, she'd notice how much it's ticking down per day and could gauge about how much longer he'd have left. If you think she wouldn't, I'd like to point out that this is her future father-in-law. She would have made the effort. Even if for no other reason than to tell her long-term lover and boyfriend (whom she has lived with for nearly five years now, is her literal partner-in-crime, mastermind behind the schemes, and friggin Lord Kira himself), that his father is going to die in roughly X amount of time. Misa lost both her parents. She knows that pain. She would absolutely want to spare Light from it. She can't save him from it completely, she can't prevent Soichiro's death, but she can brace him for it.

All that now to say, it makes me wonder. Did Light know he was more-or-less sending his father to his death on that mission to raid Mello's base and get the death note back? What we see in both the anime and manga, it seems to suggest that he didn't know and it took him completely by surprise. But logically... he would have at least had an idea that it would be soon.

Now with that lens, while in the hospital and his dad is literally dying, it makes his internal dialogue about "how would a normal person react to this" make a lot more sense than that he has to pretend to care that his dad is dying. It's much less a matter of, "Light is a psychopath and doesn't care about anything other than his goals". It's now more like "he knew his dad's death was coming and has already come to terms with it". That's why it's not fazing him. I will concede that he didn't know that this would be how, or again, he knew it'd be soon but not today, so there's that aspect to consider (I bring that up to say that I like to think Light didn't put on a performance when he started crying, I wanna believe that was legit and he was grieving). But I'm totally open for friendly, civil discussion here.

I rewatched and reread the scene in question and, from a meta standpoint, I'm sure that Ohba just forgot and didn't consider that Misa would know he'd die. But from a character standpoint, I think it shifts the perspective on the scene and adds some interesting nuance.

Thoughts?

[atlantis-just-drowned]

Okay I can't fucking take it anymore I need to lay all of the proofs on the table and figure out whether or not I'm actually crazy

This is not a mental health coming out post. Or maybe it is. Who fucking knows. I'm just trying to figure out whatever the fuck is going on with my brain.

I've been running around in circles for more than a year trying to find the truth while simultaneously denying it. Here I'm just going to list it all under the cut once and for all. And then, I don't know, I'll just hope for the best.

For most of my life I've always been experiencing conflicts "with myself", or my "conscience", or whatever I called it. I always felt cut in small parts, like there was something inside of me fighting against me

This has been a recurrent subject in my life. I started writing diaries at 11 years old and ever since then, there has been multiple entries, spread over several years through all of those diaries talking about "the little guys in my head", "the different parts of me", "the other half of me", "me and my conscience", etc, etc etc... I even wrote dialogues between them

I've been through a fair lot of traumas in my childhood. My coping mechanism at the time was to escape in my imagination, to invent worlds were I was someone else, with a different name and different personality, and I lived a different life. I thought there was a door in my wall that let me access to this "other dimension". I had a lot of imaginary friends. Basically I dissociated a lot

This one might be slightly less meaningful but I've had sudden personality/taste changes happening to me more than once through my life. When I was younger I suddenly stopped liking crepes and affirmed I never liked them when I very much did, though I can't remember ever liking the taste. My parents won't ever stop retelling this tale as they swear it happened so out-of-the-blue that they never understood what has happened to me. Later in middle school, I didn't like mangas and found them weird, until I woke up one morning and suddenly I loved them, without transition. It just hit me like a flash. More generally, I never truly felt like I was the same person through all of my life. It's like different me's existed at different periods, in cuts, and got replaced by another me after a while, but are still all existing inside of my head

Those changes can also happen on short periods of times. I'll start feeling weird and disconnected from my body, and behave/talk/walk/write differently from the usual. I had people asking me if I was intoxicated when I was completely sober, because I didn't "seem like myself". I had moments where I suddenly felt like an 8 years old child. I don't always recognize myself in the mirror. My gender change like the weather in a way where it's not mine, but it's like another gender overlaps my own. The pitch of my voice can also change

I never experienced black outs. I've seen people talk about the concept of "grey outs" which I recognize myself in, and more generally there's events or entire periods of my life I can't remember about, or barely, and in a way where I know the facts at an intellectual level but have no distinct, first-person memories of it. But no black outs. I'm always here but different, or floating above my body, but never absent

However, I do experience strong thoughts that aren't my own. Sometimes they're directly addressing to me. It's not voices but like very clear and distinct messages sent through my brain

I don't know where I'm going with this. I feel like an impostor and a bitch for even just talking about it. I know for certain that I don't have DID. As I said, I do not experience black outs and some other symptoms of this disorder, and I do not recognize myself entirely in the experience of DID systems.

Ever since I started giving more place to those 'parts', I started identifying distinct ones, with their own traits, quirks, personalities, vibes, etc. Close friends of mine also identified some of them over time. Some of them always had names that they identified with right away. But most importantly, they all have a "special goal/function/trait" that's specific to them, and for some of them, their origin can be traced way back in my childhood and their influence has been identified at different periods and in different aspects of my life

I came back later to realise I forgot to mention this, but I do experience depersonalisation and/or derealization a lot. I have stronger episodes when experiencing specific things but on a daily basis I'm almost always "not entirely here"

So what am I doing this post for? No fucking idea, honestly. Maybe so that I can't keep pretending like there's nothing happening. Maybe so that the people around me will understand a bit more what's going on with me. Maybe so that someone will tell me I'm not going crazy or faking it. The only thing I know is that if I don't post this now, I'm going to chicken out yet again and never be fucking honest about it. I'm kinda tired of ruminating the problem all alone, and if I don't reach out I'll never trust my own judgement on this issue. So let's just do this and see what happens.

[mikami]

Apologies if this has been asked before but would you regard the anime as a weak adaptation, considering how much vital stuff is just cut out and not explored as much as the manga and with all the extra/changed themes and subtext?

I find it interesting how for some reason it is just considered the definitive version of DN for so many people that it's just common opinion that everything after the timeskip is trash and Mello and Near are bad characters when like ... just read the manga it is objectively better (aside from the music made for the show)

HMMM, tough question.

It's no secret that I don't really find the anime worth discussing when it comes to meta of the series, but I'll also freely acknowledge that "writing super in-depth essays about it" is not actually what most people want out of the stories they read or watch.

I think a successful adaptation needs to properly translate the story to a new medium while also making it engaging to watch in that medium.

In that sense, I think the first arc of the Death Note anime is a very good adaptation!

Death Note is a super text-heavy series and in the face of that, the anime made the right call to cut basically every dialogue in half. The anime is still wordy but it's watchable, and the directing and music manage to make 'people sitting in rooms and rambling' really entertaining. I think condensing the story that way was the biggest challenge in adapting Death Note for television and the first arc did it perfectly. The mystery and think-along aspect is preserved, but it's streamlined for easier watching. It works!

Episode 25 is... a big change and one that I personally hate, but I do see why they rewrote L's character to be more sentimental. They felt they had to evoke more emotions than just 'shock' and they went hard on it in a way that people clearly liked.

It makes manga!L and anime!L vastly different characters, but I'll let it fly under 'adaptational differences'....

The second arc is a bad adaptation.

The streamlining in the first arc is masterfully done so you can still follow along with the logic. The second arc is cut to pieces so thoroughly that there is no way for the viewer to follow character's reasoning - thus cutting out the biggest appeal to Death Note as a whole show.

Everything feels dumb and sudden in the second arc of the anime! Because it is! IT'S SO DUMB IN THE ANIME...

It feels like the anime staff expected from the get-go that the second arc wouldn't be popular without L, thus they allotted less time for it. And then by allotting less time for it, they set it up to fail in a self-fulfilling prophecy. That's just my speculation though...

[pain-in-the-butler]

Season Four review

Last night I finally had time to finish the new anime, and here are my thoughts, because I had at least one or two of those while I watched. I saw the whole thing with my bud @warmmilk-n-honey, whose presence helped to make the whole thing bearable:

I've seen some other people mentioning the lack of animation and the fact that most of the angles were copied straight from the manga, and yeah it's very evident lol... At one point while I was watching there was a thunderstorm, and I just had to marvel at the fact that there was far more movement outside my window than there was on the computer screen -

The episodes felt like they went by really fast and yet nothing really happened during them. It did make it clear that this is probably not an easy arc to adapt to an eleven-episode run, but then it just makes you question the small amount of cut content. Easter episode? When did they decide to get rid of you? Why? It's the Nina curse I swear to god -

Even when action was happening, sometimes it was painfully obvious they were padding for time. I nearly lost my mind during the Midnight Tea Party when Undertaker just ate an entire cupcake in between dialogue. Like, sir, please. You are on television -

The CGI moments were sometimes pretty state-of-the-art but other times really badly executed. Though warmmilk-n-honey did note that the terrible-looking horses are tradition, so thank god for them -

I felt the lack of budget most during the scene where Ciel has to run up to Sebastian and pretend to be excited that Seb elected him to be on the cricket team. He says something like "oh damn people are around, guess I'll have to milk the performance" but there's like two boys in the background and they're not even looking his way?? Guys... -

Some of the background music was fun and I will likely listen to it again on my own time. The opening really won me over too. While I still don't know what was up with the titan, at least the imagery was interesting, and we only ended up skipping it when we were in a hurry because it was fun to watch -

The voice actors did a good job, as far as I could tell. Funimation has definitely made some odd casting choices in terms of accents, but I really felt like the new members of the Japanese cast were giving it their all especially, and it was admittedly pretty fun to have so many familiar voices back in the roles in both languages -

I've always found this arc, especially the second half, to be a weak one, and overall I just thought the execution here worsened it. Goofy faces were made less goofy, flavor text was cut, and Funimation was actually out here changing some lines of dialogue for who knows what reason? Weird vibes -

The last episode was the most fun one by far. Cloverworks finally figured out how to do silly chibis, and they increased the Phantomfam antics in order to pad for time again, but in this instance it actually worked. The teaser at the end was slow-paced too but it was also for a legitimately good reason, so yay. The ambiance in the forest was spooky and quiet. It made me actually excited to see what comes next despite how rough this season was

I can't really say I was too disappointed though because I definitely expected not to be satisfied, you know me, I'm a stinker. I'm still glad the anime exists: the fandom was really out here starving and finally we've been given some juice. But overall I'm gonna give it a 4/10, which I think is actually very generous of me because I don't have a lot of nice things to say. Oh well. Green Witch, here we come

[multitrackdrifting]

mega 1000xRESIST spoilers under the cut *sorry anon I doubt anyone has this game spoiler tagged*

I know the ask is light-hearted but it's funny to throw this perspective into the arena cause even Iris doesn't agree with the way she found herself living her life before she arrived at the point of becoming the most important person in the world.

The premise is like, the most horrible person in the world (demarcated by a very finite scope of a small town in like Canada or some shit) is subject to unimaginable horrors and its interspersed with generational trauma and

You know that meme that's like mean girls in high school go on to be nurses? I'll be real, that meme is genuinely most of the nurses I know besides like 2 people. And here's the interesting part, not all of them fulfill the second half of the meme which is like still being horrible, but just as a nurse. Some decide to try to be better and even feel remorse for how they fell short as people and nobody really ever has to like reckon with how different they are - they are always going to be just that girl that was bitchy to them in high school. That's just how life is going to go

Something interesting about redemption and growing as a person is that not everyone will have it in them to forgive you, and they don't need to either. One of the influences for the game as stated by the director is Koe no Katachi (A Silent Voice) and a lot of people position that manga as like "oh it's trying to say you should forgive or let things slide and x, y, z" as opposed to like the very obvious point that you could just fuck your life up in countless ways and you still have to live, you just have to keep it pushing but people get really caught up on the aesthetics of a story's message more than its substance nowadays so I guess that's just bad literacy.

I feel like on a very basic level it's something that at least requires the audience to somewhat empathise with or understand what it is like to be a migrant. The division between Iris and her actual mother is like that of a westernised migrant child and the parent who cannot fully integrate or reconcile that the reality they live in is the one that they're stuck with. That inability to understand one another across generational lines is like a universal constant, but it's extremely pronounced for migrants - the most inane difference in perspective can't really be reconciled with dialogue because it's almost as if the two parties speak a different language and this inability to understand unless you're like gorging on a wealth of information you probably shouldn't know or need to know to understand a person comes across in a pretty compelling way when you think about the Occupants and how they're an alien force that just siphons all those experiences out from Iris in a very invasive and traumatic way. It's kind of like, who should know this? The player shouldn't, Watcher shouldn't, none of the sisters should relive all of this and yet they do. The life of the allmother is so thoroughly dissected and it's so violating to who Iris is as a person. She doesn't get to keep anything to herself and even though she is the one who "decides" to share what the communion stuff is with the sisters, it's not something she arrived at as a natural conclusion of her like development as a parental figure - she is coerced into it because the occupants have created a situation where she can't really do anything but take the deal of "you can siphon all my experiences, but leave the girls alone". I think that Iris is undoubtedly a "bad person", but she spends longer than an eternity atoning for it - unable to even have a conversation with those she harmed (Jiao), or those she left behind (her parents).

I really like the quote:

"Well now all I have is your picture And the world has come to an end. I promise I will be nicer If you want to come around again."

It really encapsulates the kind of mourning that her parents feel for their homeland. They dream of a world they can't go back to, and while some people are probably going to take issue with the inspiration and foundation of those feelings, those are still feelings that people feel in their raw and chaotic nature. My own parents went through genocide and they basically only travel back to their homeland and the neighbouring countries becuase it's bascially a motivation I can't understand even if I get it on a logical level - like I would think "oh why don't you travel to more new and diverse places, instead of just back there all the time" but they never went to school and they never got to be kids, they just saw everything and everyone annihilated around them, and the world they knew as children is like a place they can't get back. Of course, they can physically go there, but home is not just about the place, but the pillars that made up what home was at that time. It's that disconnect that I will always have because I didn't live through those gruelling days in refugee camps or the knowledge that most of my family tree is suddenly gone. I won't drone on too much about how sad my parents' lives were because they are happy, in their own ways, even if they wished they could have done so many things - I know my mom is genuinely happier nowadays than she has been in a long time.

I think the Jiao Clone faction is important because it covers a pretty important part of like reconciliation and growth - Youngest kind of refuses to reckon with her own difficult feelings while using Jiao Prime to channel those things - seemingly as if Jiao is just a blank slate to dump ones feelings unto and be told "you're a good person, you're okay." The Jiaos are just a subservient second-class that only exist because Youngest decided "hey what if I introduced the issue with creating sentient AI from cyberpunk settings into my world". There's already a shit load of ethical issues with the cloning at large, but the Jiaos are just supposed to be subservient helpers and workers which is like pretty harrowing if you know about how badly the class divide can be in Asia - this is especially apparent in East Asia where they do a pretty damn good job of using propaganda to wash away how bad it is for the lower/working class (see: Korea, Japan, China etc.). I guess it's a bit of a litmust test for the real manipulators among us, like who is really on some "I don't owe anyone shit" mentality that is like equal parts juvenile and equal parts sad. It's like needing a punching bag to make sense of yourself because you're more terrified of being genuinely known and accepted for your flaws so it's easier to just have someone who cannot realistic dissent/deny your whims which is just flat-out weird. It's the kind of ugly insecurity that makes one's soul feel like it is covered in tar, and Youngest, no doubt, probably realizes just how sad it is that even in her rise to power, she genuinely has nothing at all to comfort her other than a wish to return to something she cannot have.

The point of the game isn't really lying in the ethics of each moment or each character's Good Person Points at the end of the day, but the overall point of "who will carry on their memories and their will into the future?" The militant faction (their name escapes me right now) aren't exactly interested in having a dialogue in the marketplace of ideas, they are unequivocally down to exeterminate all traces of the world that was and this kinda thing obviously happens in reality too.

Knower is most definitely a victim herself, but she enables the cruelty around her as a foregone conclusion. If you think of the sisters not just as clones of Iris, but also reflections of things Iris has done it makes sense why she is like that. There's a paradox in embodying all the knowledge (rationality) of a perfect god, and seemingly being bound by ones emotions - the sentimentality of loving the sisters, and still perpetuating unbridled cruelty to Watcher as if it is a necessary means to an end. Even knowing what her motivations are as the player, there's a disconnect between her ability to convey her feelings to them and her intentions in each moment. She is culpable for the things that she does, it just becomes apparent that the world that each sister envisions is so wildly different which is why so many of hte endings are bleak besides the main two (red/blue).

It's kind of like, I understand why you pulled the trigger, but you still fired the gun - you know?

Foregiveness, especially in Asian media is going to be pretty make or break for some people because people are pretty set in their ideas about what reconciliation, growth and reconiliation probably should entail whereas I feel like media from Asia tends to lean on forgiveness being possible no matter what.

Anyway, I know this is like not trying to antagonise me but I wanted to reply with something thoughtful instead of just like playing it off as a joke LOL

If the most cruel and confused girl in the world suddenly became god, I wouldn't expect her to get it right. Shit, I don't think anyone would get it right, that's kind of part of the infinities that exist inside her mind. Reality itself has become such a cruel nightmare that the absurdity of raising and embodying countless clones and how ironically that ties back into the cryptic messages of the story is so damn peak

There is a you (Iris), that remains... (Youngest) and remains (Watcher).

Each of them has their own "original sin" moment, and it's so fucking cathartic how all of that coalesces into the messy truth of one girl's existence. It's ugly, unethical, filled with trauma and loss, and yet, it is all too beautiful, because it is human - this story, to me, is probably of a caliber I would call "generational" and I would not doubt it will get its blow up a few years from now as a cult classic that the mainstream simply let slip by. That's how I feel about it.

Nonetheless, I am glad I am one of the few tens of thousands that have played it.

[skaruresonic]

Unpopular take but the Shadow manga was pretty dissapointing from art wise to how different the characters behave from what we have seen in he older games. I just feel like the manga is getting overly praised because " its not idw or american or flynn therefore its good!' While not looking at the short story critical enough.

...What is there to criticize yet? People have been jumping the gun with assumptions that Black Doom retconned Maria's death when we quite literally don't know that for sure. This is the first issue. Maybe give it some room to breathe first.

I plan on reading the issue in full once I buy it, although not knowing Japanese will hinder my comprehension. I likely won't understand the dialogue, but it's not bad, at least from what few snippets I've seen. Certainly, it's no Tolstoy, but like. Does a manga need to be?

You also have to keep the Shiny New Thing(tm) phenomenon in mind. Lots of us have been asking for a Sonic manga for years and now we finally have one. Everything new will initially receive hype before people reexamine it with a critical eye.

Back when dinosaurs roamed the earth and IDW was just starting out, most of us were, in fact, praising the book and getting hyped for new issues. We weren't yet privy to the steep nosedive it'd take in quality following the metal virus.

---

I just feel like the manga is getting overly praised because " its not idw or american or flynn therefore its good!'

Hey now, that's not entirely true: I also enjoyed the Schadenfreude of dunking on "Shadow was tortured on the ARK" headcanons. To say nothing of the quality Shadria and that tasty Parasite Eve reference :P

Look, I know I have Shadria goggles strapped on so tight they're practically cutting off circulation to my head, but I feel like that's a little unfair to say considering we've only seen bits and pieces of issue one and have to rely on fan translations to know what's happening on any given page. It's not like we're 15 volumes in and Shadow's done nothing but brood. And just because I wasn't tempering my gushing with "Shadow looks weird in some panels" doesn't mean I wasn't silently thinking the latter. Trying to give the manga the benefit of the doubt here.

When you wander the Fauxteur Desert for years, even cloudy water will look like an oasis. In a series where the majority of fans and creators view the source material with disdain, as something to be mutilated in order to be considered "good," beggars can't be choosers. You have to take whatever Ws you can. It can be simultaneously true that I think the manga is good on its own merits and good because it's better than its contemporaries. One doesn't necessarily negate the other.

Besides, at the risk of sounding massively hypocritical... Is it so bad to feel relieved when you finally get served some decent food in this Chili's and you discover you're not as emotionally broken as everybody says you are? IDW fans gaslight you day in and day out with "you can't read," "you don't understand the characters," "you hate the series," and "you need therapy," and when you find something that brings you joy, for once, amidst the sea of phoned-in spinoffs tha pussyfoot around being faithful to the games at best and regard them with disdain at worst, something that doesn't feel like pulling teeth to read? You realize how full of shit they were.

The Shadow manga is better, objectively speaking. And I don't think it's quite fair to imply that comparisons to IDW should be off the table when we keep getting IDW forced down our throats as the cultural touchstone that defines Sonic, sometimes taking top billing before the games. I had to listen to everyone parrot "Eggman can't plan" as if it were Ohshima-given fact for three and a half years. Certainly, people can handle me going "omg Shadria <3" for a few posts.

The art is better. The blocking is better. The emotional beats land by virtue of being competently executed, instead of thinking we'll be won over by five-paragraph monologues. Sometimes the art carries the story! Wow! Compared to other media where the characters never shut up long enough to let us draw our own conclusions - a problem shared by Archie, IDW, Prime, the films, and Boom - that actually is a lot, all things considered.

And, yes, suffice to say, if fan translations are accurate, the writing is better, if only because it seems to come from a rare place of respecting the source material.

That probably sounds like I have no standards, but you have to realize the bar has been placed in hell and writers continue to cha-cha slide right on under it. IDW has Starline knock Shadow out with a freaking log, whereas in the manga Shadow stops a bullet in midair. I'm sorry I can't shut off my initial gut reaction of "holy shit that was bad ass."

It's not even like he stopped the bullet psychokinetically a la Neo, he caught that shit mid trajectory. Unlike the scene where Shadow gets knocked out with a log, nerfing him in order to hype up an OC, thinking about the logistics of the speed and precision needed to intercept a bullet in such a manner just makes it even cooler.

Good writing is enhanced by the application of thought. It doesn't punish the reader for considering the implications. The writer doesn't tell you to "go read something else" if the narrative disappoints.

This isn't even a contest.

...I know, dude. I'm aware it's not the best thing since sliced bread. It's a serial manga. Not expecting Shakespeare here. I just need it to be relatively faithful to the games and not emit an air of arrogant superciliousness towards the source material.

My standards are incredibly low considering how much higher they could be, and that's because 90% of spinoffs fail at clearing the first bar. If I maintained as stringent a standard as my adoring fans say I do, I'd have absolutely nothing to read lol.

[fushiglow]

Then I guess you're a better person than me, Gojo!!

Because I hate Gege Akutami and I'm *very* angry on your behalf 😃 I’m (sort of) kidding but damn... thoughts on 236 below the cut!!

I held off posting earlier because I felt like going scorched earth on everything jjk. I took some time to clear up some of the translations I wasn't sure about and let the reality sink in, and now I'm ready to talk about this chapter rationally lol.

Firstly, I wanna say that my issue with this chapter isn’t Gojo dying or even the way that he died. I always knew that Gojo dying was likely, but here?? Now???? I've spent all day turning it over in my mind and trying to make it work, but it just won't.

I think Gojo's 'delusion' (daydream? afterlife?) is really beautiful in isolation. Some of the dialogue is really touching and I think it'll benefit from the emotional impact delivered by the full translations. The problem is what follows.

After 235, people were nervous that Gojo hadn't actually won yet. I waited to see what some trusted translators thought of the editor's comment before deciding it was a conclusive win for Gojo, and what I read reassured me that the win would remain intact even if he died at some point over the course of December 24.

In the past couple of chapters, we were told that Sukuna was 'nervous' for the first time in 1000 years and he thought Hollow Purple at close range would be fatal. At the end of 235, Sukuna is looking pretty terrible while Gojo looks fresh as a daisy after fighting in inspiring, inventive ways throughout.

So to find out that, actually, he *hasn't* won and he's been killed by getting cut in half offscreen feels like shock value for the sake of shock value. There have been a few 'shock factor' moments during this fight and they've always bothered me a little, but I could excuse them for the sake of hype building in a weekly manga. However, I never anticipated anything on this level and I'm genuinely so disappointed.

I think this long-awaited fight ending this way cheapens Gojo's character *and* Sukuna's character (and Kashimo's character for that matter!), and ultimately makes the entire thing feel meaningless. 'Meaning' is the thread that has run through Gojo's entire arc, tying him back to Suguru as he sought to build a better world. I always felt certain that Gojo's life and death would have meaning, even if it ended tragically, but I just can't find the meaning in this. I think I understand what Gege was trying to do, but he really didn't sell it for me.

There’s nothing worse than when a story makes you feel stupid for getting invested, and that’s how I’m feeling right now. I find myself wondering, what was the point in bringing Gojo back at all??? Keep him in the box and very little changes in the story, unless it transpires that Gojo 'weakening' Sukuna for the students was his grand purpose after all which... really??

Even worse, I *always* said if it was between Gojo and the students, I wanted Gojo to die. Since 212, getting Megumi back has been my number one priority, but 236 has achieved what I previously thought impossible. I literally don't even want Megumi to come back anymore, because I just can't imagine how he could live with himself after 'killing' Tsumiki and Gojo. It seems kinder for him to die with Sukuna and I *never* thought I would say that.

I'm feeling like a real clown for the meta I posted after 235. I want to take it down because I was so certain that Gojo had won, but I won't because I don't believe my reading of Gojo's character was wrong. I just think my expectations were too high, even though I tried hard to temper them. Even so, telling Megumi about Toji being left to Shoko? Gojo losing and leaving his students to clean up the mess again?? Gojo not even *mentioning* his students in his dying daydream???

It all just feels wrong. Gojo has been turned into nothing more than a plot device at the absolute last second, and maybe it's on me for ever expecting that he would be anything more than that in a series where he isn't the main character, but why bother writing Hidden Inventory then? Why bother getting us invested in this man's story at all?

Right now, I'm feeling like I don't even want to watch tomorrow's episode, but I am interested to see whether Gege can pull this arc off in the long term. I've seen people talking about resurrection theories because of the enlightenment hints and, while I do see the vision, I think Gojo's acceptance of his death and letting go of his regrets can also be read as enlightenment as he escapes the mortal coil once and for all.

Gojo's dying bloody smile shows he's at least happy in his final moments, so my feeling is that Gojo is truly dead and gone. I really want to trust that Gege will make this work, but damn. This is a tragedy.

(Although, if Gojo actually is at peace in death, maybe that's the reason Gege will bring him back. He'll *never* let that man be happy, I swear.)

To end on a positive note, the SatoSugu crumbs were beautiful and teenage Gojo's facial expressions were wonderful. I'm crying again just thinking about the contrast of that last adorable smile with his blank expression on the next page.

I'm dropping all my canonverse WIPs and working exclusively on AU fics for the foreseeable future 😤 I'm gonna give Gojo all the happy endings he deserves!!!

(fuck. poor poor shoko.)

[etrevil]

I just can't get enough of the new episode like, goddamn. I love it.

Cutting to the chase, the back and forth between who's topping the other - Agency and DOA addition - was such a nerve-wracking succession of scenes even as a manga reader. Like, yes I know how this ends, yes I know there isn't much to be worried about,

but then the New Order pilots come into play. And then suddenly, the blondie's bleeding and the cool eyepatch is dead. Okay, I get that: poison, simple. Wait, what do you mean Fyodor did that? Is it still poison? Is it his ability? Is it something else?

-was my first reaction concerning the manga, and the shake of emotions reappeared watching episode six, and I adore it for that.

It threw me onto my toes, kept me up like I was in heels, and I love how Teruko and Tecchou come in with a military vehicle, and Tecchou shouts out his wonderful "setchudai!" while Jouno's probably out there somewhere as a vampire. Can't wait for him to say, "I will put Jouno above justice," because I will froth at the mouth.

Anyways, Ranpo's dialogue was such a delight and stress-inducer to hear. I was so, so worried even after I read the manga. 'cause he sounded so confident before the pilot-escorts got taken care off, and Fukuchi got his hands on the New Order. Are they screwed? Is everything fucked now?

This scene,

did nothing to help, because it's good, beautiful with its colors, and just reminded me how much of a truly dangerous character he is. In prison, yet still aiding his allies for his own means.

And when I was watching the new episode, the line, "If we'd made just one more mistake, we would have lost the One Order," had turned me upside down. I was confused at first. I thought Ranpo would be shakes up, panicking even- but no. He said this with certainty in his voice. And Fukuchi's wide-eyed expression was the cherry on top.

Because this was when I remembered another bastard in prison, aiding his allies for Yokohama's safety:

DAZAI HOLY SHIT, I had literal chills when this scene came up in both the manga and anime. This man really is on par with Fyodor, and I was fooled by their silly little life counseling in mersault.

And gosh, I gotta appreciate how similar yet different these two scenes between Dazai and Fyodor are. Both are looking over their shoulder, but Fyodor stays in his position and half of his face is hidden. Dazai, on the other hand, starts with his back. Then he turns towards us, fully showing his face with that hella pretty smile of his, and these small differences really just make me love how the two are like the antithesis of one another.

Both are labeled demons, and yet one sought out the light and is now doing his best to protect the home he's found from his alike, who wishes to burn the whole world down for his belief.

The cut to the opening song was just, so good.

Anddd I think I'm done... still jumping all over the walls though :D

This ain't an analysis or anything fancy tbh, just me geeking out about bsd episode six (the first half of it) 'cause I love this story so much, and I needed to get this vibrating thought out my head and into readable words.

Might make another one for the episode's second half idk

[retrosofa]

To commemorate Cutie Honey's 50th anniversary, I wanted to post trivia for all 25 episodes. We'll start this week with the first episode: "The Black Claw Grips The Heart."

Screenwriter: Masaki Tsuji

Art Director: Mataharu Urata

Animation Director: Shingo Araki

Director: Tomoharu Katsumata

In the early drafts Honey Kisaragi was originally Honey Tachibana. Honey’s finalized surname name, “Kisaragi” (如月) is a traditional name for February in the Japanese calendar. It refers to the seasonal “changing of clothes.” The name "Honey" comes from the American TV series Honey West.

Honey was voiced by Eiko Masuyama, who would reprise this role a few times over the years, notably in the Re: Cutie Honey audio drama and the Playstation game, Little Witching Mischiefs. She also had a guest spot in Cutey Honey Flash as Dr. Kisaragi’s old friend, Dr. Mitsuko Kanzaki.

St. Chapel Academy is located in Okutama, a mountainous area that’s about an hour and a half away from central Tokyo. St. Chapel itself was most likely inspired or at least named after the real life royal chapel, Sainte-Chapelle in Paris, France. The hymn the students sing during Mass in these early episodes is “Come, Thou Almighty King.”

The freckle-faced girl who stands next to Honey during Mass is her best friend and roommate, Natsuko Aki. Although she’s almost never referred to by her full name but rather “Nat-chan.” Her first name is in reference to natsu or “summer” while aki means “autumn.” In the original manga she is depicted as having pigtails rather than a bob cut and doesn’t have freckles. Natsuko’s anime design was based on an unnamed girl who appeared briefly in the Devilman manga.

Natsuko was voiced by Rihoko Yoshida, who’s best known for voicing the titular character in Majokko Megu-chan, Maria Grace Fried in UFO Robo Grendizer, and Michiru Saotome in Getter Robo. Yoshida would also voice Panther Zora in the 1995 PC-FX video game, Cutey Honey FX. Noriko Watanabe (Sister Jill, Mami) also voiced Natsuko occasionally for whenever Rihoko Yoshida was unavailable.

Honey’s goofy teacher Ms. Alphonne Louis Steinbeck III is based on a male character from Go Nagai’s Kikkai-kun manga. That same Alphonne also served as the basis for Akira Fudo’s teacher in the Devilman TV series. 

Ms. Alphonne was voiced by the late Noriko Tsukase, who had previously voiced Mr. Alphonne’s wife and son in Devilman. Although Ms. Alphonne appears in every other animated Honey series, this is the only version where she is voiced by a woman.

During the early production stages Seiji Hayami was known as Shun Kazami and was described as "falling in love with Honey, despite knowing she’s an android." He would also have a goofy little sister named Zuuko, who would question whether she was really related to her handsome older brother. When the series details were finalized, Seiji became more of a comic relief character and his romantic chemistry with Honey was downplayed. 

Seiji was voiced by Katsuji Mori, who would go on to voice Dr. Kisaragi in Cutie Honey Universe.

Katsuji Mori revealed he had ad-libbed Seiji's lines during Honey's first transformation. Originally, Seiji had no dialogue in that scene.

Honey's motorcyclist form is called "Hurricane Honey" which is possibly an homage to Shotaro Ishinomori's Cyborg 009. The lead character, Joe Shimamura, is sometimes a professional car racer who goes by the nickname "Hurricane Joe."

Seiji refers to Hurricane Honey as kaminari musume (カミナリ娘) which translates to something like “thunder girl.” He’s actually referring to the kaminari zoku (カミナリ族) or “thunder tribes”, Japanese motorcycle gangs who were known for their loud and rowdy modified motorcycles.

Sister Jill is the manager of Panther Claw's Japanese branch and Panther Zora's younger sister. The "Sister" part of her name is likely a reference to a religious sister, circling back to Honey attending a Catholic school. In the original series pitch, she was known as Sister Zora.

Jill is voiced by the late Noriko Watanabe, who also voiced Junpei's girlfriend, Mami.

Black Claw’s name comes from the original series proposal, which described Panther Claw’s soldiers as being color coded. Potential opponents for Honey would’ve included Black Claw, Scarlet Claw, Cobalt Claw and Gold Claw. Each would have possessed a specific skill or element, for example, “Scarlet Claw” would’ve possessed fire powers. For whatever reason the whole color coded aspect was dropped but “Black Claw” was still used as the name for Honey’s first real adversary.

According to Cutey Honey Roman Album published by Tokuma Shoten in 1981, Honey's childhood memories are artificial. They were produced by Dr. Kisaragi because he wanted Honey to have childhood memories like any other human girl.

Dr. Takeshi Kisaragi was originally known as Dr. Seiji Tachibana in the original series proposal. In the original manga Dr. Kisaragi looks noticeably younger, has black hair, no glasses and a goatee instead of a mustache.

Originally, Honey was only going to transform once or twice during the first episode. Tomoharu Katsumata (director for episode one) requested that Honey use all of her main seven forms.

Some of the choreography from Honey and Black Claw’s fight is based on sequences from the Abashiri Family manga, specifically when the lead character Kikunosuke battles against teachers from Paradise Academy.

Junpei is based on Kichiza Abashiri from Go Nagai's The Abashiri Family manga. Kichiza is the youngest son of the Abashiri family and is a master of explosives. Junpei was voiced by Kazuko Sawada.

It’s probably worth noting Honey and Junpei are the only two characters to appear in every episode of Cutie Honey.

We'll take a look at episode two next week!