#holi-daze

[livinginthefifthdimension]

@inuyashapridemonth

Rin’s father was a traditionalist. He had very little patience for things he considered to be nonsensical or ‘pointless’ and his disapproval was as cold and as cruel as winter itself. Just the other day he’d been up in arms over the concept of decaf coffee. It wasn’t how nature intended it, he’d grumbled, and in the end mom had groaned for him to throw it away if it was such an affront to nature.

And he had.

So when Kohaku told them over dinner that he was bringing home his partner for Christmas all eyes were soon on her. Surely if shy little Kohaku had found love then their lively daughter had come across a lover of her own—and she had. Technically. Technically, Shiori was not her first girlfriend either, but she’d been able to keep it under wraps until that moment.

“Do you have someone special?” Her mother’s dark eyes glittered with excitement at the prospect of a full house that Christmas, which, in turn made it even harder to keep her secret.

“I do.” But she hesitated to say much more. It was only when her father spoke that she wished she’d kept it to herself entirely.

“Invite him over.” He nibbled his chopsticks in that thoughtful way of his. “InuYasha and his brood will be joining us anyway, so it is as good of a time as any.”

Rin stabbed her dinner with her chopsticks, her stomach swirling uncomfortably.

“Yeah. I’ll ask… him.”

Pt 1 of… 🤷🏾‍♀️

[punk-in-docs]

A song of rage and salty waves: part I

— Emperor Geta x reader (Salacia)

— 2.5k words

— Read all parts here: Part I — Part II — Part III — Part IV

Summary; You were raised outside of this Rome. Born into peace. To know of fathomless deep seas, and skies so big, they wrapped around your whole sight. The way that at night all you can smell are lemon trees kissed by salt. The jasmine plants wound around the white walls of the villa. Salacia. And now you are sent to Rome for your father in the Senate. There you will catch the attention of Geta; in all the wrong and darkest of ways— any reblog and comments are greatly appreciated 💙💙💙

TW!! some dub con/ threat/violence/basically forced marriage/forced smut situation/Geta is such a vile human being/Macrinus is villain sorry denzel ily

You’re imprisoned in Rome.

You certainly didn’t come here of your own free will. Your father had tugged you here from Corsica. Employed clever charm with letters and schemes from his high position in the senate.

As the role of your sex; you were born to obey.

He sent you imported silken stolas the colours of cornflowers or lazurite, with gold fibulae at the shoulders. Gem inlaid jewellery, rings to decorate every finger, and earrings the sway. A golden net for your hair. Wheedled you into coming to join him. Sending servants to travel with you and take heed of your every comfort.

He made sure you dined on plump fresh fruit. Seafood of lobsters and crabs. Drank wine so rich dark it looked black.

You despise it. The stone pillars and temples. And gods of old. Eyes watch you everywhere. See you. Follow you.The governing heat and noise and sweaty heaving mass of all forms of life.

You were raised outside of this Rome. Born into peace. To know of fathomless deep seas, and skies so big, they wrapped around your whole sight. The way that at night all you can smell are lemon trees kissed by salt. The jasmine plants wound around the white walls of the villa.

Salacia. The ocean nymph and the being of your name. Crowned with seaweed in your hair. Sea foam dripping off your fingers. Ripped from your home, an isle by the sea, at the whim of another.

Imprisoned here in this cold marble city. A fish out of water. Gasping dry on the shore.

Pulled inland and stolen away. You can’t hear gulls or waves anymore. It sickens you. Heart pangs that throb for home.

When you arrived, pulled back your folded palla down to your shoulders. He welcomed you with open arms and fondness. Wrists linked in gold cuffs. Tugged you to his chest and embraced you warmly. Hissed in your ear - abrasive like harsh sea spray - spies are everywhere.

He needed you close by. For reasons you had yet to fathom.

You dined like spoilt deity’s. Breads and wines, fish, fruits from far regions fattened by the suns heat, and succulent meat roasted in sweet cassia spices on a spit.

He had urns of flowers - picked by the servant - placed in every room. Lilies, juniper branches still bearing dark fruit, lavender, oleanders.

Companions join him and he is boastful of you. A nubile creature offered placement at a table of old muddled men. He introduces you to trusted friends and advisors in the senate.

One man in particular takes keen interest as to your recent arrival. His name was Macrinus. Man of information and resources. Dealt in cunning and cruelty though you found him sincerely charming. Your father watched you with a desperate eye.

Macrinus bore a smile so dazzling and blinding it made you dizzy; made think of the sun god. Apollo and his light cast across golden wheat fields. Notes of fine music. He sipped his wine slow, as he learned the flavour of your name. Where you came from. Understanding the rolling sea foam in your veins.

There’s a game to be held at the coliseum. He will have your father as his guest - and you by a very pretty extension. He nods at you; his eyes glimmer like pooled liquid gold in the half lit dark. It almost makes you feel safe.

They dine and drink into the small hours. Yet you slip away.

You watched this awful city out your window that night in your silk dress the colour of night time tidal waves. The air is stale. Carrion to you. Hot. Full of dust and sweat. Here, It smells like mulberry trees and a green garden waiting for blessed rain.

You couldn’t hear the sea. Or your sisters. Your mothers humming as she wove cloth and mended clothes. And you wept.

Salt found in your tears to be your only sacred comfort of home.

~

You are soft to this hard stone city. The coliseum is magnificent. As large as it is those who hold their powerful fists over its rule. Clutched in gold. Fine for the rich. Deadly for the slaves and warriors thrown into the pit at the whim of others. Met with carnivore teeth and sand and death.

The senators, generals, and the rich merchants watch from their perch, up among the gods they serve, presiding in shade and clothed in perfumed silks and jewels. Ladies and men both.

Your hair took hours to fasten in its current coiled style. Plaited and weaved. Your dress is the colour of the softest blue shore. Your servant lavished your arms and fingers in golden finery. A serpent cuff coiled around your arm. Skin draped in lemon oil because it’s the small piece of Corsica you carry here with you. Serenity to push against this place of gore, butchery and death.

You find yourself seated here amongst giants. Macrinus is seated one side. Your father the other. He fondly lays his hand across yours in gentle touch.

His palm is damp. Gold rings wet.

His face looks haggard with age. The lines by his eyes more prominent. Rome is poisoning him. The golden apple just a fingertip shy of his reach. St Bartholomew flayed and stripped of skin piece by piece. Schemes and plots lay thick in his mind like rot. Sweat beads down across his brow and the thinning salt pepper of his hair.

He says something to Macrinus that you’re too absorbed to hear. It’s low. Dragged through a growl. He appears unmoved, with a slow flick of his eyes to you. Watching this finery and loudness devour you. Your eyes so full wide and round. Salt and innocence entwined.

You all rise when the emperors pass by, Geta and Caracalla, who stride in, garbed in gold and cloaks. Come to take their rightful place at the mouth of the box where you are seated.

They are like twin suns to the Roman people. Lion gold hair kissed by fire. They burn and twist and shine with it. Make noises like gold coins that clack when they move. Strung in riches and golden crowns of olive leaves and branches.

Together they make you think of Romulus and Remus. Raised rabid by wolves. And they certainly make an impression. You’ve heard tale of the voracious nature of the blood sport they all but live for. Faces limned in the glory of gore.

The crowd cheers for them. They nod and wave but it appears barbed. The games begin with a wave of applause and a regal hand.

Caracalla twists and casts an eye in your direction. Seeing new meat.

The way you sit sedately and can’t cast your mind into the butchery and violence happening below. The clash of steel. The hollow squelching cries that proceed death. The spill of viscera and the scatter of brain matter from split heads.

Each new gash or split in skin made them smile. The taint of blood. Metallic sour. Spilling of offal and exposed bone.

He tilts his head like a clever wolf. Eyes darken. His sneer as terrible as a skulls. He leans across and whispers something to his brother with a knock of his arm to gain attention.

Another set of wolfish eyes join the first in hooking to your skin. Silly soft girl. Made of gentle sea breezes and lapping blue waves calm and soft enough to wade in. Pearl shining in moonlight. So watery and weak. So good. Untouchable.

Geta swept his gaze on you from head to toe. Appraising you hungrily through greedy eyes. The beauty of your figure in that soft folds of that stola. The gold that crushed your neck. Broaches at your fair shoulders. Hair glistening and finely arranged.

He liked the way you winced when another sword blow came. The pull of your brows and how you had to look away. He wanted you gathered up in his lap; fingers crushing your jaw as he turned your head; force you to watch as the men cleaved at each other and drew blood. Hacked off limbs. Laugh at your revulsion.

Looking at you sat there; He has an urge to take his dagger, slit that fine silk from your shoulders and bare your real beauty. Grab it off you and snatch your dress down. Spoil himself on your curves. Grab your breasts. He’s sure you’ve tits that even a goddess would envy. He’d reel you in by grabbing your ass that definitely needs a spank and some attention.

You’re even prettier than some of the finest whores he’s had grace his bed. They never kept his interest too long. Too entwined in filth and sin like him; you look pure as a vestal virgin.

He likes that. He wants to pluck it off you and spoil it.

You don’t dare meet his eyes. Of course you don’t. He’s an emperor. He could have you executed for looking at him wrongly. Instead; you wring your hands in your lap and squirm. Close your eyes tighter with every dying wail.

He turns back to the fight. As do you. A gasp flies from your mouth when you draw your eyes to one of the measly soldiers in the arena. Your father left his seat to stand, mouth gaping.

You saw the familiar arrangement of strong limbs. Garbed in warriors clothing. The way his arms shook holding a sword. Inexperienced and struggling. The fight was not fair. The same head of hair that matched your own.

Your oldest brother.

Macrinus grinned. “He’s not my finest fighter. But I wager he’ll be good sport.” He smirks.

Your father turned, cursed the gods, and exploded with venomous rage. Flew for the man with his fists. Grabbed his clothing. You tried to restrain the storm of his temper - but then you’d got that trait from somewhere hadn’t you? - an ocean thrashing wild and free. Terrifying in its rage.

“You promised me.” Your father roared. Spittle flying.

“I never promised to protect your traitor of a son. Let us see if the gods spare him. Yes?” Macrinus commented.

You couldn’t take your eyes from the pit. Nor could your father. He clutched to you like he could barely stand. Weakened and shrinking. Hand a vice on your shoulder. It burned like the sting of sun but you couldn’t shrug him off.

Your brother was meeting with an opponent far larger than he was. A Retiarius. Helmet, trident, dagger and a net.

Of which had currently knocked your brother to the blood dusted dirt. Spearing the trident deep into his thigh. Pinning him to earth like a bug. His cry of pain ringing out. Blood sheeted down one side of his head. His scream is the most horrible thing you’d ever heard.

You can’t help it. Where you’re stood, you cry out. It pours forth from you.

The Retiarius loomed over your bother like a terrible storm cloud. Looking up at the stands for direction. The whole audience cheered and screamed for more.

Geta stood up and the crowd bayed. He sneered at the sight before him. All the power of a god; crammed into a mortal man.

He raised his arm. And hesitated for a moment. Before he smirked. And pointed his thumb right up.

Death.

Your father wailed. The huge lumbering gladiator descended onto your brother. Flinging the net off and cutting his throat in one fast slice. Blood poured and pooled around lifeless eyes. Stained the sand.

Macrinus stood to his feet and clapped along with everyone else. The emperors’ laughed like hyenas at the sight. Blood and pain only made their smiles grow.

Before you knew what was happening, the palace guards had you and your father surrounded. Hands viced around your arms. Your shoulders. Your father too.

Traitor. He decried. A traitor in the senate. The tarpeian rock.

Just like his now dead son. People’s poised against the glory of Rome. Against Caracalla and Geta. Death to all.

Macrinus spoke harshly to the guards to release you. He backhanded you across your cheek. Your eye felt like it was going to burst. Cheek flamed with fire. Lip cut and bleeding down your chin from his ring.

He then wasted little time in digging his fingers into your finely done hair. Hauled you along screaming. Tears streaming.

Your father could only watch, limbs wrenching forwards in terror to help, as Macrinus marched you across the stands to where they sat.

He threw you to the ground like a feral animal. Tumbled you onto your knees. Skimmed your hands. As you squirmed and cried at your body twisted to his cruelty.

“Your majesties. I have personally uncovered a traitor in your court. Senator Aurelius. Not only was his first born placed in rebellion against Rome. But he himself has been sowing seeds of treason in your senate. I bring you his filthy kin as recompense…” He spat at the Emperors. Releasing your mussed hair to throw you to their feet.

They examined you as one would a creature. Nothing of humanity left. Devoid of any feeling. You crawled slowly to your elbows. Tried to claw away sobs. Raising up but not daring to look at them. You weren’t worthy. You feared them.

Geta was the one who rose slowly to his feet. Coming to stand before you. “We are most grateful for your revelation, Macrinus. You will be rewarded for such loyal service.” Though he spoke to him, his eyes never left you.

You father shouted and cried pleas. They go unheard. He snaps to the guards who hold him. “Silence that treacherous snake-“ he barks. They beat him into submission.

You stay cowering on the ground. In amongst the gritty dirt, and the blood like those slaves and gladiators. That’s how they saw you. That’s how much you were worth. Held in the same regard as the dirt on their shoes.

You feel a ring clad hand tip a finger under your chin. Blood dripping down onto that digit as he made you raise your head to look at him until your neck hurt.

“What is your name, pretty little traitor-“ He sneers. Because that is all you are. They’ve tarred and feathered you with the same brush.

You give it to him through tears that run freely. You give this awful golden haired emperor with dark lecherous eyes your name.

“Salacia.” You cry. Voice watery and cloaked in heavy salty sobs. Lips parted. So soft and pliable. Lovely and ripe and waiting for him. A gift from the gods-

He tilts his head down at you. Looking like some sun gold lion. Showing his canines in a cruel white smile.

“Imprison them. Both.” He smirks.

He thinks he may have them bring him your fathers head on a platter. Strangulation seemed too soft. Too forgiving. He had to make an example of you.

He had a particular way in mind for your fate. He watched you get led away crying as he sucked your sweet blood off his thumb.

You tasted like salt and sea foam

~

Tagging in the hopes this finds its way to the right people—

@indouloureux @trashmouth-richie @atabigail @lunatictardis @waywardrose @ceriseheaven @hillarymurray4 @lurkingprincess @ramona-thorns @joequinnswhore @iliveforotps @eddiesskittle @roosterisdaddy36 @rose-tinted @lluviamg06 @ravensfromvalhalla @fujiihime @youaremyfamiliar @captain-tch @ghosttownwherenoonegoes @svenyves @sammararaven @feralgoblinbabe @groupie-love-71 @andromeda-andromeda @morganamoonstone @gvtosbith @munsonswhore @shenevertricks1831 @hazzaismyreligion @harrys-titties @anaisweird @cinnamoncunt @red-lipstick-bisexual @wheels-of-despair @tvserie-s-world @callmeloverr @ho-for-joequinn-fics @bettyfrommars @rip-quizilla @songforeddiemunson @usedtobecooler @peachesandfiends @littlelioncub43 @heyndrix @babybluebex @blueywrites @joejoequinnquinn @cool-nick-miller @sheneedsrocknroll92 @rehfan @pedgito @dracomaledicte @gamingaquarius @mypoisonedvine @ddejavvu @sharp-and-swift @chaptersleftunwritten

[anne-is-confused]

THE SCREAM I SCRUMPT🤧🤧‼️‼️‼️‼️‼️

[wandering-tides]

OH MY GOD OHMY GOD OHMYGOD!!??!!?!

THEY HAVE MATCHING TATTOOS!!?!!!!

[spicysucculentz]

[itsgonnagetinspiringsoon]

Just finished today's ep and I feel INSANE rn

[bughead-in-the-comics]

Jughead imagines married life with Betty in Holi-Daze into the Future, World of Archie Double Digest #135 (2024).

[jwonsite]

IM LITERALLY DIZZY OH MY LORD LIKE- wons arms😭😭😭😭 his honey skin like they did NOT wash him out oh my LORDDD this is gonna be so so so good

[greyskyflowers]

Did nothing today but listen to Orpheus by Vincent Lima on repeat about a 100 times and daydream about Edwin and Charles

[pan-gya]

August 15th at 12:28pm

Reblogs welcome

[lyraofthestarsss]

Yumeko be like “fuck you” *adds horrifically tragic dialogue in your instrumental breaks*

[honeycherrydohnuts]

on that marge gets a job grind (<- shes trying to get a job)

[all-made-of-stardust]

these motherfuckers knew what the fuck they were doing when they titled the episode “The Sunken Tomb”, prompting all of us who knew to go “oh shit, this is the episode where Vex dies, but also the one where she comes back and Vax makes his vow to the RQ, and at the end of the episode we’ll see all that happen! right?”

and then the episode kept going and they hadn’t found the sarcophagus yet and my dumb ass didn’t even PAY ATTENTION to the timestamp.

and they ended the episode THERE.

like, fuck me, guys, you really had to pull the rug from under us by ending the episode NOT on Vax storming away after he’s made sure his sister is back but on VAX SOBBING OVER HIS SISTER’S DEAD BODY.  like FUCK YOU TOO.

(also it’s fucking brilliant script work on the CR team’s part - what better way to hook in new viewers and those who genuinely don’t know what’s going to happen by ending the first week’s cliffhanger here.  brilliant, outstanding, i’m in so much pain)

[whileiamdying]

Holy Spider: why this Iranian neo-noir is attracting so much controversy

FILM & TV FEATURE

Director Ali Abbasi talks about his new film, Holy Spider – an evocative exploration of misogyny in Iran, which follows the real-life story of early 00s serial killer Saeed Hanaei.

20 January 2023 Text: Nick Chen

Holy Spider seems to have captured a moment. The Persian-language serial-killer thriller, written and directed by Ali Abbasi, is an evocative exploration of misogyny in Iran, and its theatrical release has run in parallel with the country’s protests for women’s rights. However, on a Zoom call from LA in mid-January, the 42-year-old genre-hopper suggests it’s not that simple. “I don’t feel like my movie is a topical movie,” says Abbasi. “It’s not about the plight of Iranian women. It’s not about how bad the government is. It’s a cinematic experience I’m proud of, that I finetuned for many years, and is about something more universal that sometimes gets drowned in the political conversation.

“But I’m happy that every time my movie gets mentioned, the uprising in Iran comes up. It’s such a huge moment. If I can get people’s attention to it, that’s great.”

Though Holy Spider, which was shot in Jordan, resembles an Iran-set Se7en, its lurid, movie-ready plot draws from the real-life case of Saeed Hanaei, a war veteran who murdered 16 women in 2000 and 2001, landing himself the nickname of the “Spider Killer”. As documented by Abbasi’s script, Hanaei’s choice of victim – he sought out sex workers – meant that Mashad’s conservatives considered him to be a local hero.

The support for Hanaei (played with a chilling amiability by Mehdi Bajestani) is particularly sinister as the film’s first half depicts several of the killings from his POV, as well as the façade of a friendly father he presented on the side. So much so, at Cannes, a Guardian critic tweeted, “I hate that I was made to watch this hateful, reprehensible, atrocious motion picture…  I am confident (hopeful?) it will never see the light of day in American theatres.” In actuality, the film was picked up by Neon in the US and MUBI in the UK; it’s also shortlisted as Denmark’s entry for Best International Feature at the Oscars.

Chuckling when I reference the tweet, Abbasi posits that film critics tend to underestimate general audiences, and that they themselves can be narrow-minded. “These people expect something from an Iranian movie,” the director says. “It’s the Nespresso principle. When you go to a festival, you have the cool movie from the US, the edgy movie from Korea, and then the movie about misery told in a metaphorical way that’s heavily censored from Iran. When my movie doesn’t behave like an Iranian movie, they think it’s flawed.”

He continues, “I’ve seen reactions change from Cannes, some from the people who felt the movie was getting pleasure out of women being tortured in close-ups. A few months later, they understood there was a context for it when the uprising in Iran started. Nowadays, I get requests from feminist magazines, and it’s seen as a feminist film.”

After all, the real protagonist of Holy Spider is Arezoo Rahimi, a journalist who tracks down the Spider Killer, even disguising herself as a sex worker to attract his attention. The role is played by Zar Amir Ebrahimi, a casting director for the film who ended up playing the lead when the original actor dropped out at the last moment. While Ebrahimi has prior screen experience – she was a former TV star in Iran who fled the country following the leak of a sex tape – there’s still noticeable grit to a performance that won her the Best Actress prize at Cannes.

‘There’s the DNA of the Islamic Republic in this. The suppression of women and sexuality isn’t a fluke; it’s very much part of the system, and what keeps them going. I think that’s the main reason they’re so angry with us. They look at our movie and see themselves in the mirror. And they don’t like it’

Abbasi himself has a history of bizarre, unconventional films that are oddly watchable despite how their premises read on paper. While Abbasi lived in Iran during the years Holy Spider took place, he went to film school in Denmark, which was where he shot the 2016 slow-burn horror Shelley. However, his breakthrough was 2018’s Border, a Swedish, transgressive, gender-bending romance that toys with prosthetics, trauma, and the endless possibilities of the human body.

Tellingly, Holy Spider thanks two genre titans, Bong Joon-ho and David Lynch, in its end credits. The former, a friend of Abbasi’s, offered feedback on drafts and early cuts; the latter, more of an acquaintance, is a lifelong inspiration. I ask Abbasi to what extent he wanted Holy Spider to be as entertaining as, say, Parasite, when it’s also dealing with real tragedies.

“I don’t do a product,” says Abbasi. “When you do a studio movie, it’s like ice cream. An idea goes through a process of development. Prototypes are tested and tweaked. But my way of working is more intuitive. Do I want it to be entertaining? Yes and no. Because the subject matter is so heavy, it’s important there’s a force against its inertia. I want to give people motivation to wait for the next minute. Some people will find the decisions tasteless, and others vice-versa. It’s something I’m really aware of.”

The Lynch influence is more apparent in the neo-noir lighting of Mashad’s night-time sequences, including a blowjob scene that required a producer to smuggle a prosthetic penis into Jordan. Shortly after the Cannes premiere, Iran’s culture minister Mohammad-Mehdi Esmaeili warned, “If persons from inside Iran are involved with the film Holy Spider, they will surely receive punishment from the Cinema Organisation of Iran.”

“Iran has always been seen as a conservative country,” says Abbasi. “But it’s a country where everything is almost hypersexualised. You’re acutely aware – at least in the heterosexual context – that when you go on a bus, you go to the men’s part or women’s part. You shouldn’t touch women in this way or that way. I worked with women for years without shaking their hand.

“But what makes it very charged is that there’s a whole system that wants to intrude on people’s lives. They want to literally control how and who and where you fuck. At the same time, there are a lot of contradictions. Sex outside of marriage is banned and frowned upon, as is prostitution. On the other hand, you have temporary marriage, which is basically state prostitution that happens in religious offices.”

He continues, “There’s the DNA of the Islamic Republic in this. The suppression of women and sexuality isn’t a fluke; it’s very much part of the system, and what keeps them going. I think that’s the main reason they’re so angry with us. They look at our movie, specifically Saeed’s character, and see themselves in the mirror. And they don’t like it.”

Also during the pandemic, Abbasi was a director on HBO’s adaptation of the videogame The Last of Us. Kantemir Balagov, the intended helmer of the pilot, left due to creative differences, and Abbasi commented to IndieWire in May 2022 that “the Hollywood system is a little bit like working in Iran for me. I can’t do it.”

When asked about those remarks now, Abbasi says, “I just saw the first episode, and I think it’s turned out great. I’m happy and proud of working on it. It’s not like I’m negative about it. Coming from Europe, [Hollywood] has strange rules and regulations, and that’s not a secret. There’s a lack of transparency, and everyone’s afraid of tackling controversial subjects. Those things remind me of Iran, absolutely.

“But Iranian cinema is a propaganda machine for a criminal, ruthless, brutal regime. I don’t think that’s where Hollywood is, really.”

Holy Spider is out in UK cinemas on January 20

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[livinginthefifthdimension]

Part 2 of this nameless holidaze fic

@inuyashapridemonth

Rin specifically told Kohaku to stay out of her business.

He’d pulled her aside after dinner, mouthing the word ‘him?’ so that his brother in law’s keen hearing would not alert him to the conversation that needed to be had long before Christmas Day, but Rin had been less than forthcoming. It ‘wasn’t his business’ and therefore he was meant to stand back and watch it all play out.

Honestly? She should have known better.

“You won’t believe who was seen cornering boys and demanding a date before class this morning.”

Kohaku’s friendship with Mayu was a friendship of convenience. They were the youngest in their class, and their last names began with the same three characters when broken down into hiragana. If there were a time when her desk was not behind his—he didn’t remember it.

Either way, Kohaku pretended not to hear.

Mayu dug her pencil into his spine, snickering when he lurched against the hard wooden border of his desk. “Poor Satoru texted me asking for advice because apparently your precious niece demanded that he accompany her to Christmas dinner this year.”

“Did you do the homework? Mr. Houshii is only gonna let you off easy so many times before he calls your mom.”

Just because Mayu resented her younger brother didn’t mean he resented Rin. Perhaps the girl he grew up with viewed him as someone she couldn’t talk to about love—but he’d never act in a way that made him deserving of that verdict. Even if that meant ticking off his best friend.

“Don’t try to change the subject.”

“Then take a hint.”

She snorted. “Sen. Si. Tiveeee.”

When her nagging finally stopped, her chair squeaked. He imagined that she slumped against the desk, her arms outstretched across the wood.

“Honestly? I thought she was gay.”

Kohaku whipped around, his jaw clenched, because if Rin didn’t want them knowing, then they had no right speculating—and met the sparkling indigo of his math teacher’s eyes. His lips quirked upwards, as if he’d say something too personal and inappropriate, but in the end he seemed to think better of it.

“Ikeda,” tapping his blue pen against the clipboard, Miroku’s eyes scanned her empty desk. “Homework?”

She shrank in her seat.

“As much as I love gossip,” he made a show of marking X on his sheet, “perhaps you’d be better off focusing on your own life for now?”

“Yes, sir.”

Miroku drew in a circle to mark Kohaku’s work as completed before continuing down the line.

“When you’d said your uncle taught this class I thought that meant an easy A.” Mayu grumbled. If nothing else, she seemed to forget about Rin for the moment. And for that, Kohaku was eternally grateful.